Tales From A Night Of Chelsea Daggers And Zigger Zaggers

Posted on October 5, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Benfica : 30 September 2025.

History.

Our first home game in this season’s Champions League, er, League phase, pitted us against Benfica, the eagles from Lisbon. Over the years, we had played them on four other occasions. The most memorable? Probably the home leg of our pairing in the 2011/12 Champions League quarter finals, a 2-1 triumph, that followed a 1-0 win in Portugal. We were treated to a Frank Lampard penalty and a blooter from Raul Meireles that night. But that game at Stamford Bridge has perhaps grown more important over the years because of the eventual winning of that competition in Munich. Had we not prevailed in Germany, maybe that game would have slid down in our preferences. Surely the 2013 Europa League Cup final in Amsterdam against Benfica was equally important and memorable, though this unsurprisingly felt a “lesser triumph” when compared to the unequalled joys of the previous year. We won 2-1 in that game, with goals from a trim finish from Fernando Torres and a looping header from Branislav Ivanovic. The last encounter, just over three months ago, took place in Charlotte in the “round of sixteen” of the FIFA Club World Cup, that crazy weather-damaged game that took over four hours to complete. In that one, we eventually won 4-1.

This game, then would be our fifth game against Benfica.

Thus far, four games and four wins.

Players.

The pairing of the two teams made me think back to those players that have played for both. As far as I could remember, I thought that this number stood at six.

There was David Luiz. There was Ramires. There was Raul Meireles. There was Nemanja Matic, who played for us twice either side of a stay in Lisbon. There is now Enzo Fernandez. The first one? None other than Scott Minto, who – mysteriously I thought – decided to leave Chelsea after our first piece of silverware for twenty-six years in 1997.

But I was way out. I have now checked, and it stands at a mighty eleven.

There was Tiago Mendes, who played for us during just one brief league-winning season in 2004/5. There was Maniche, who also had a short-lived stay at Chelsea in another title win in 2005/6.

We had Emerson Thome and Joao Felix.

But also Eduardo Carvalho and Diego Moreira, who were on our books but never played for the first team, and who I had forgotten about completely.

Managers.

The talk throughout the day at work concerned the return of former Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho. I commented that I would probably clap in appreciation of past times but not go so far as to sing his name. We all used to worship him of course. And it’s hard to believe that he was in his prime with us at Stamford Bridge twenty years ago. He was a breath of a fresh air in 2004, our Jose, our leader, and the players thought the world of him. In the second part of those twenty years, his decision to manage Manchester United – understandable, perhaps – and then Tottenham Hotspur – not so – altered my stance on him, but I was interested how I would react to see him in the flesh, in front of the East Stand, once again.

At the Chelsea vs. Benfica game in 2012, we learned of another Benfica / Chelsea managerial link. At half-time in that game, Neil Barnet introduced former Chelsea defender John Mortimore, who managed Benfica over two spells from 1976 to 1987. Mortimore played for Chelsea from 1956 to 1965 and passed away at the age of eighty-six in 2021.

Modern Football – Part One.

My views about this new style approach to the three UEFA competitions have been aired before. I am not a fan of this seemingly endless run of random games against one-off opponents that now form the basis of the Champions League, the Europa League and the Conference League. With teams allocated to a huge league listing and not distinct groups, I think we miss out on so much. What on Earth was wrong with the home and away format, where narratives from one game were likely to carry on to the other? Of course, we all know why. Expanding this phase by two more games – eight compared to six – raises more funds for UEFA and their partners and is likely to safeguard the progression of the larger clubs, who carry more sway in the corridors of UEFA, to later stages. No matter that supporters face additional match-going costs, no matter more games are squeezed in, including an extra “play-off” round in the New Year.

The UEFA mantra has always been “more is more” and I think it is a false approach.

Modern Football – Part Two.

I didn’t like the way that Chelsea season ticket holders – you could argue the most loyal fans – were seemingly bullied into buying Champions League packages of the four home games, with the threat of not being able to buy individual games later. Clubs should not treat their supporters like this. For my seat in the MHU, I had to fork out £212. And although I know that Chelsea used to offer discounted bundles for Champions League games many years ago, at least in those days you knew what the saving was. And your seat was saved for you to buy it on an individual game basis. In 2025, individual game prices were not shared, so I just “hoped” that the £53 per game price was a decent cost-saving.

Modern Football – Part Three.

Although I was yet to knowingly hear it, apparently Chelsea have been playing “Chelsea Dagger” by The Fratellis every time we scored a goal at Stamford Bridge. It’s hard to believe that I had no recollection of this, but I wore it as a badge of honour; that I was so caught up in celebrating, and probably trying to get a few photographs, that I did not hear it. But others had heard it and were up in arms, quite rightly. There is no need for that hideous intrusion that blatantly bludgeons its way into our celebrations. Simply, that isn’t Chelsea. I signed a petition for it to stop during the day.

If you feel the same way, please sign the petition.

https://www.change.org/p/stop-music-being-played-after-chelsea-score-at-stamford-bridge

Pre-Match.

Before joining the chaps at a very quiet “Eight Bells”, I again visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. Some tasty calamari, and a hot and spicey pizza set me up for the evening. The pub was as quiet as I have known it, but we don’t usually visit it on weekdays, preferring instead to drink nearer the ground. PD, Parky and I were joined by Nick the Greek, Salisbury Steve, and Mehul from Berlin via Detroit and India.

At Stamford Bridge, and outside “Kona Kai”, the place was swarming with vloggers. As I passed one bloke with a microphone, I heard him ask a Chelsea fan what he thought of the return of “Jose” with an H.

“You mean Jose” – with a J – “mate” I indignantly barked out.

There were new huge blue neon outlines of our two Champions League trophies on the front of the West Stand, and it re-emphasised that this was, for the first time since that loss to Real Madrid in 2023, indeed a special night, a Champions League night, in SW6.

It was also a muggy night, and I took off my flimsy rain jacket, thus allowing me to smuggle my SLR into Stamford Bridge via Method 65/C for the first time this season.

I was in at 7.45pm.

Teams.

Enzo Maresca chose this starting eleven.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto – Facundo Buonanotte – Alejandro Garnacho

Tyique George

Kick-Off.

Our European take on the approach to games kicked in.

“Our House”, “Parklife”, then fireworks flew off The Shed and the Matthew Harding. Flags were twirled in front of the West Stand, a huge “tifo” of a Chelsea Lion guarding a vast haul of our continental and inter-continental trophies and “Liquidator”. Flames shot into the sky in front of the West Stand, the teams entered the pitch, the Champions League logo, the Champions League anthem.

Chelsea in blue, blue, white, a classic.

Benfica in red, white, red, and a very light and bright red too.

The First-Half.

From the very first minute, the white-shirted Mourinho was serenaded – Jose, with a J – by the Matthew Harding – and I clapped along. I remember once, on one of his returns with Manchester United, I completed avoided looking at him, and it wasn’t even through conscious choice, I had just moved on. This time, it seemed different. I kept glimpsing over and checking on him. He looked well. He has aged better than I have since 2004.

I liked the noise and the atmosphere generated by both sets of fans. Despite my loathing of the new format, this felt special, and it wasn’t only due to Mourinho.

The game got off to a very energetic start. We witnessed a strike from Enzo that flew past a post, but the visitors carried a threat themselves, with them dominating the first ten minutes.

There was a distinct lack of communication between Sanchez and Badiashile, and as they both were lured to attack a high ball, they almost clashed heads. Not long into the game, Sanchez got down to save from Dodi Lukebakio, and the ball rebounded onto a post.

After a quarter of an hour, it seemed like there had been half a dozen decent attacks from Benfica, with a sizeable number of them resulting in efforts on goal. This seemed to be the antithesis of Mourinho football.

On sixteen minutes, Pedro Neto flashed just wide after cutting in from the right.

Just after, on eighteen minutes, Neto tee’d up a cross.

I yelled out “let’s have someone arriving late” – I had Frank Lampard in mind – and a cross to the far post picked out the onrushing Garnacho, who had already teased away menacingly on the Chelsea left. The cross was met by a swipe by Garnacho – I presumed from our perspective that it was a shot on goal – but the ball was diverted into the net by a Benfica defender.

GET IN.

And then my night got worse.

“Chelsea Dagger” was indeed played, and – even worse – I turned around in disgust only to see many many fools behind me gurning away and even joining in.

My heart sank.

I spotted Lee putting his fingers down his throat and I shared his disdain.

Bollocks to that, that ain’t us, that ain’t Chelsea.

I hate modern football.

The rest of the first half was spent trying to cajole the team into putting moves together, and although we tried, it wasn’t particularly effective. I struggled to fathom why Gusto and Neto out on the right were in loads of space, but we often focussed on attacking down our left. Was their right back really that shite?

It always annoys me that probably two least skilful players on the pitch, the two centre-backs, are often given the ball more often than anyone, and that is left to them to start and build moves.

On thirty-nine minutes, Enzo was pelted with various items as he prepared to take a corner in front of the Benfica supporters.

Just after, a Neto free-kick was headed just over by Benoit Badiashile.

Tyrique George went close with a prod late on but the Benfica ‘keeper Anatoliy Trubin easily saved.

The Second-Half.

The second period began tamely, but there was a buzz on fifty-four minutes when Estevao Willian appeared as a substitute for Buonanotte.

Not long after, Garnacho set off on a run over forty yards in front of us and came inside to shoot. Sadly, he shot wildly, and the ball landed somewhere in Patagonia, while we all groaned a thousand groans.

On the hour, two more substitutions.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Joao Pedro for George.

This was a virtual full house, and all parts were full. Even the upper echelons of the West Stand were full. It was from this area – now called West View – that one lone supporter caught my attention.

He stood, and began bellowing “Zigger Zagger”, that old war-cry from the days of yore. He received a decent response too, which surprised me.

“Zigger Zagger, Zigger Zagger.”

“OI OI OI.”

It just caught my imagination. I remembered the good old bad old days when the West Stand seats used to be occupied by hundreds of our – how shall I say? – most noisy and exuberant supporters. These intimidating fellows used to continually bait the away fans on the crumbling north terrace. But they also used to form a heartbeat of noise, a pulse, for the rest of the West Stand, and perhaps the whole stadium. They were a formidable sight and sound, and I used to look up at them from The Benches – the more youthful element – in awe.

I just had this thought of how amazing it would be if Stamford Bridge still had pockets of noise that got up, stood up, and got the whole stadium rocking? Just like, I suspect, we would have imagined Stamford Bridge to be like in the future, a compact and close stadium, manned by a noisy fan base.

If only, eh?

If fucking only.

After the abuse suffered by Enzo in the opposite corner, I was pleased to see the Chelsea support singing his name loudly when he took a few corners down below us. I saw it as a nice bonding moment.

We dominated play for a while, and a Neto cross was headed away, then a cross from Enzo was headed at goal by Estevao but saved.

On eighty minutes, two more substitutions.

Reece James for Gusto.

Josh Acheamponmg for Badiashile.

Then Benfica forced a few chances, and it got a little nervy. Sanchez, up to his old tricks, gathered a shot from a corner but then bowled the ball out directly to a Benfica player.

We howled.

It was odd to hear the away fans singing a song to the tune of “Banana Splits”, as their team threatened late on.

Jamie Gittens seemed to be perfecting the lost art, previously practiced by Jesper Gronkjaer among others, of running for great distances with the ball at his feet but then falling over as soon as he was met with the semblance of a defender’s foot.

In a ridiculous denouement, Joao Pedro was sent off for a high kick in the face of a Benfica player.

For the third game in a row, we finished with ten men.

At least it was so late in the game that Maresca didn’t have any substitutions to get wrong.

It now stood at five wins out of five against Benfica,

Let’s Go Home.

It wasn’t the best quality of games, but we just did enough. And I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. It reminded me of so many fantastic European nights in previous years. And whisper it, but – yes – it was good to see the old fox Mourinho again.

We quickly made our way out of London, but road closures on the M4 from Theale meant that I came home via the A4, another old Roman Road.

Ah well, all roads lead to Frome.

2012

2013

2025

Tales From The Hot Corner

Posted on May 12, 2024 by Chris Axon

Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2024.

Warning : there is a lot of red in this match report.

The Arsenal shellacking was only just two-and-a-half weeks ago, but such has been the sea change in our performances and the collective confidence in our team, that as we approached the final three games of the season, my thoughts could be summed up in just three words.

Three more wins.

If we could win the final two away games at Nottingham Forest and Brighton, plus the final match of the season at home to Bournemouth, then European football would be a strong possibility at Chelsea next season. And, whisper it quietly, but the current campaign would be marked as a success.

With my usual match day companions PD and Parky out in Spain for PD’s eldest son Scott’s Stag Party, this was a very rare solo trip for me. The kick-off in Nottingham was scheduled for 5.30pm and so I had lots of time on my hands. I decided to call in at Bicester en route for a little retail therapy, and as I left my Somerset village at 10.30am, my route to Nottingham was hardly the most direct. My car set off east, past Stonehenge and then up the A34 past Oxford, to Bicester, and beyond. As I drove past the signs for the Kassam Stadium to the south of Oxford, my mind flew back to the summer of 2004, almost twenty years ago, for Jose Mourinho’s first Chelsea game of note. It’s hard to believe that the 2004/5 title season is so long ago.

My companions throughout my day’s driving would be Tracey, Elizabeth and Beth; I had lined up a few CDs to play in the car and I decided to keep it clean and simple.

Three female voices.

Tracey Thorn, Elizabeth Fraser, Beth Gibbons.

The weather was fine, football was on my mind, and it drifted.

I went back to the drive-home from the West Ham game last Sunday. Up at Wembley, my mate Alan was watching his non-league team Bromley take on Solihull Moors to gain promotion to the Football League. Bromley had gone 1-0 up while the West Ham game was being played out, but the game had ended 2-2. We listened to the commentary of the extra-time period as we drove back along the M4. There were no more goals. It would go to penalties. Bromley missed an early effort, but went on to win 4-3. As the winning penalty went in, I punched the air. At the Hungerford exit, I pulled into a lay-by and texted Alan my congratulations. Exit 14 on the M4 will now forever be known as the Bromley exit.

All of these roads, all of these footballing memories, criss-crossing England and criss-crossing in our minds.

On my way under the M4, my mind drifted further and it was no surprise that it flowed back to Bank Holiday Monday when my local team Frome Town played Bristol Manor Farm in the Southern League South Play-Off Final. In the semi-final, we had easily dispatched Mousehole 3-0, and as I made trips to Stamford Bridge for the Tottenham and West Ham games in quick succession, my mind was otherwise full of Frome.

I met up with a few friends for a drink in a couple of establishments before the game. The anticipation was huge. On-line tickets sales had reached 1,000, then 1,400. Originally, I had expected over 1,500 but as the day dawned it appeared that a ridiculous gate of 2,000 might be reached. We got in at 2.30pm, and a quick look up at the Clubhouse End revealed an already buzzing pre-game atmosphere. The sight made me purr.

I watched the red shirts of my home town team in the first-half all alone having lost the other friends in the tumultuous crowd. I positioned myself next to the Ultras in the seated stand behind the eastern goal. Unfortunately, the visitors went ahead on just eleven minutes when Jayden Nielsen, a tormentor from two years ago when Manor Farm won 3-1 at Frome in that year’s semi-final, played in a ball for Ben Bament to tap in. Thankfully, on twenty minutes Matt Smith swung in a perfect corner for captain Sam Teale to head home. The rest of the first-half was a scrappy affair with few chances as the heavens opened.

In the second-half, I met up with my mates under the roof of The Cowshed and Frome turned the screw. Kane Simpson hit the post, James Ollis headed over. Then, Teale was fouled but Zak Drew saw his effort saved by former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. Thankfully, two close-in pokes from Simpson on seventy and seventy-six minutes saw the home team romp to a 3-1 triumph. The gate? An immensely impressive 2,235.

It had been a perfect afternoon. The pre-match nerves gave way to satisfaction, pride and relief. It was my thirty-fifth Frome game of the season, easily my most involved season, and one that I have enjoyed so much. It has provided a lovely alternative to the often cynical brand of football that is played at the top level in England. Non-league football is on the up, and I can’t wait to embark on another season in August when we will re-join the Southern League Premier and meet old foes such as AFC Totton, Dorchester Town, Swindon Supermarine and Winchester City again. We were last at this level in 2019.

Chelsea fans of a certain vintage often cite 1983/84 as our greatest-ever season. From a Frome perspective, 2023/24 will be hard to beat.

One extra story from Bank Holiday Monday. In the other Southern League Play-Off Final, the Central lot, Bedford Town defeated Waltham Abbey 2-1 in front of 2,052. Bedford are supported by my old Chelsea mate Glenn, aka Leggo, and it was perfect that three lads from the Chelsea Benches in 1983/84 were now celebrating promotions from their three “other” teams forty years later.

A perfect couple of days, no doubt.

After stopping at Bicester for an hour, I made my way up past Silverstone to join the M1 at Northampton. At Leicester Forest Services, I bumped into three good Chelsea mates Rob, Rob and Martin.

Very soon, I had turned towards Nottingham and those eight monstrous cooling towers at Ratcliffe-On-Sour. Their curves were catching the sun perfectly. I drove in over Trent Bridge, past the cricket ground, the floodlights visible, then the stands and lights of the City Ground and Meadow Lane. I was parked up at 4.15pm. Perfect.

On the short walk to the City Ground, I heard a loud roar, so much so that I stupidly wondered if there was a Notts County game taking place. I soon realised that West Ham had equalised Luton’s early goal. The shouts of relief were from Forest fans in various locales near the stadium. I took a few photos; scene setters. Further shouts told of further West Ham goals.

Forest were safe.

By the way, they like their replica shirts at Nottingham Forest. There was bloody red everywhere.

I made my way to the away turnstiles and said hello to a few friends; JD from Ascot, Darren from Crewe, DJ from London, Aroha and Luke from The Eight Bells, Ricky from London, Dave and Colin from South London, Liz and Pete from Camberley, Pam, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, and Stuart from Kilmersdon, just four miles away from me. Dave and Glenn sidled past.

At the security check, my SLR was waved in and I met Jason to collect a spare for Brighton on Wednesday. I was soon inside, in the sun-bleached hot corner, alongside Gary, John and Alan.

“Wish that sun would disappear behind that stand or some clouds, this is going to be a tough watch.”

Despite wearing sunglasses, I would be forever cupping my hand over my eyes at this game.

The team? It was the same one as against West Ham United last Sunday.

Petrovic, Chalobah, Cucarella, Silva, Badiashile, Caicedo, Gallagher, Madueke, Palmer, Mudryk, Jackson.

The home team contained Ola Aina and Callum Hudson-Odoi, former Chelsea youngsters.

The home support – I easily remembered how loud it was last season on New Year’s Day – was booming, especially in the corner of the main stand next to us. This was going to be a rocky game, this.

The teams walked onto the pitch.

Forest in red, white, red, their “Garibaldi” shirts mirrored in the stands. Chelsea in Eton blue.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent.”

The pace was booming.

At 5.30pm, the game started.

This was a warm evening by the banks of the Trent, and that sun made viewing difficult. We were low down too, with a difficult view of the pitch. Yes, a tough watch.

The home team began well and Djordje Petrovic needed to be alert to race out to pluck a lobbed effort from Chris Wood from the air.

On eight minutes, away on the far side, Cole Palmer sent through a ridiculously perfect through-ball for Mykhailo Mudryk to run onto. It was so well played, so delicious, that he did not have to break stride to strike. The ball was tucked in, low, at the far post. I roared but simultaneously chastised myself for not having my camera on hand to snap the goal. I made up for it with a shot of Mudryk’s leap of joy.

Nottingham Forest 0 Chelsea 1.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us naaaa.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Both teams had spells on the ball. On fifteen minutes, Benoit Badiashile attempted to nibble a Forest player as he broke into our half. A free-kick and a booking for Badiashile. Gary was livid. Sadly, we were all livid as the free-kick was floated in and Willie Boly ran through and met the ball with an easy header at the back stick.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 1 Chelsea 1.

The home support roared.

“The reds are staying oop.”

The first-half was an odd forty-five minutes. We enjoyed much of the ball, but did not cause many problems at all. I felt that Thiago Silva reverted to type and hovered with the ball at his feet on too many occasions, and we rarely played the ball quickly. Moises Caicedo found it hard to get going too. His thrust was gone. Too often we passed and passed. Marc Cucarella joined the midfield but the result was that he just helped to clog things up.

The two wingers were frustrating to watch. Mudryk often stood alone on the far side and we often chose not to use him. He needed to be further up field, on the last man, on the lip of the offside trap. With Cucarella off the wing, venturing inside, was he told to resist bombing up the flank? I don’t know. On the right, the left-footed Noni Madueke, was not greatly-used either.

Wingers can be so frustrating to watch. And their role has changed over the years. We are now in the purple period of inverted wingers. I suppose Arjen Robben was our first inverted all those years ago. How he used to love to cut in. Now, we have wingers cutting in to shoot, no longer always aiming a deep cross to hit the leap of a big man in the box. I miss those days.

I used to play as a right-winger in my school days and the idea was always to get around the outside to cross. Coming inside was never an option. I was decent for a few years, and I made my school debut as a ten-year-old in a team of twelve and thirteen years in the Spring of 1976, and played as a right winger for a few seasons. Sometimes I played as a second striker alongside a lad who went on to play one game for Bristol City. But I was happier as a wide player.

I was proud to make the first starting XI of the first team in our inaugural year at Frome College in the 1978/79 season. However, I can remember my report card at the end of that season when I played mainly in the first team but then slid out into the second team at the end for a couple of games. The PE teacher wrote that I had the ability to beat a man and put in a cross, but had virtually no confidence in my ability. I was mortified. I just wished that he had taken me to one side to explain all this to me rather than hanging me out to dry at the end of the school year. After that, I drifted along in the second team, my confidence shot to pieces.

I guess I was the world’s first introverted winger.

The first-half pottered along, and the home fans were still in good voice. They chose to make their feelings known about the rumours of the club moving to a new 50,000 stadium on the city outskirts.

“Stand up for the City Ground.”

“Toton’s a shithole, I want to stay here.”

There were only a few efforts on goal from us. Nicolas Jackson was set up by Palmer but was thwarted. A long range effort was tipped over by the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sells. It felt like Forest had more shots on goal than us in that warm – but tepid – first half. Gallagher was booked for a “nothing” challenge on Hudson-Odoi.

It honestly felt a little like a training game. To our right, a few red and white beach balls had been tossed around during the first-half and it often felt that the players would rather be in Benidorm with PD and Parky. Well, not Benidorm per se, but you get my point. I was a little underwhelmed by it all to be honest.

Chelsea attacked us in the second-half.

Forest clipped the outside of Petrovic’ post with a long range effort but we rallied and seemed more intent to break quickly. Palmer was played in by Caicedo, looking much more involved now, but volleyed high.

Hudson-Odoi, keen to impress no doubt, had looked lively in the first-half, and his cross allowed Morgan Gibbs-White’s header to hit the post. Unbelievably, the rebound was smacked over from beneath the bar by Wood.

Fackinell.

There were substitutions :

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile, with Chalobah moving alongside Silva.

Now it was our turn to hit the woodwork, a free-kick from Palmer and a glancing header from Silva.

So close.

Then, Hudson-Odoi cut in from the left and dropped a fine effort goal wards. It dipped drastically and clunked on top of the bar.

Fackinell.

Not so long after, on seventy-five minutes, the former Chelsea starlet moved inside again onto his right foot – “get closer to him!” – and dinked a really fine effort in at the bottom right-hand corner.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 1.

The home hordes boomed again. These fans were the loudest that we had encountered all season.

Time was running out and those three wins were looking rather optimistic. However, we had played better, faster, more intelligently as the second-half developed with Palmer showing that he is the main orchestrator. At the back, Silva was his cool self.

Two more substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Reece James for Gallagher.

My immediate thoughts : “why bring on Reece with just two games left this season? Let the bugger have a complete rest until August.”

On eighty minutes, the ball was played in to Sterling, who had looked keen and animated since his arrival. A touch to take the ball away from his marker and then a shot – another dink – and the ball hit the net.

YES!

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 2.

There were no celebrations from the scorer. Time was running out.

Just two minutes later, Caicedo splayed a first time ball out to the right where James was free. His clipped and inch perfect cross was headed home with aplomb by Jackson – old school cross, old style header, old school bosh – and the Chelsea end exploded.

GET IN.

Before I knew what was happening, the scorer copied Axel Disasi’s run into the crowd at Crystal Palace. Chelsea fans ran down to the front, limbs were flying, I rather pathetically pointed my camera in the general direction of the melee while boiling over with joy at our ridiculous turnaround.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 3.

As the supporters returned to their seats and as the players slowly walked away, Jackson was yellow-carded, the latest in a long line of silly bookings. I can forgive him that one though.

What a buzz.

The home fans above us and to our right were stunned.

The chances still came as the last few minutes, then injury time, was played out. These chances for both teams gave the game a ridiculously frantic ending.

But we were safe.

Despite the promise of a lap of honour from the Forest players after the game, many home supporters made their way to the exits.

“That’s right. Fuck off home to watch Eurovision” chirped Gary.

On the walk out of the away end, the Chelsea swagger was back. There were laughs with many mates. It had been an odd game, one that had gathered momentum as it wore on, but those scenes down below us in the hot corner when we got the winner will be talked about for ages.

All of a sudden, this difficult season is becoming a lot more palatable. Earlier, supporters complained of feeling distanced from our players.

But bridges are being built.

This feels more and more like our team, our club.

I got back to the waiting car at 8pm after walking alongside hundreds of red-shirted locals muttering away to themselves. I was soon heading towards those large cooling towers.

I put a new Cocteau Twins CD on.

“Feet Like Fins” boomed out as I drove over the bough of a long hill, the evening view ahead, the M1 in the distance, these roads criss-crossing with memories. A car with a “CFC” number plate drove past. I smiled to myself.

God, I love these football trips.

I was on the M1 at 8.30pm. The Sat Nav even took me down the Fosse Way, skirting Coventry, rather than the ultra-boring M42. I decided to extend the evening and so indulged in an hour long stop at “The Bell Inn” at Moreton-In-Marsh for a very very rare pint of lager as I reviewed the day’s activity and post-game reactions on my ’phone.

I eventually reached home at about 12.30am.

Next up, Brighton away on Wednesday.

See you there.

LEVEL EIGHT

LEVEL ONE

Tales From 544 Miles And 40 Years Of Friendship

Posted on April 13, 2024 by Chris Axon

Sheffield United vs. Chelsea : 7 April 2024.

On this weekend of football, there would be the need for extensive travel plans to enable me to make back-to back trips to East Devon and South Yorkshire.

On the Saturday, I drove the seventy miles down to a Devon seaside town where Exmouth Town were up against Frome Town. This particular trip brought back some horrible memories from last season when the home team inflicted a 5-0 defeat on Frome. Frome went into this game in prime position in the league table, hoping for an away win, but also hoping that our rivals Wimborne Town might drop points at home to Paulton Rovers. In blustery conditions, playing on a soft pitch, the game was always going to be a tough one. It did not help when our star player Jon Davies went off early with a nasty injury. However, we soon heard that Wimborne were losing 1-0, and so a cheer went up from the decent away following. The game developed into a scrappy affair in very difficult conditions, and despite some late pressure on the Exmouth rear-guard, a goal was not forthcoming. The match ended goal-less. We were to learn that Wimborne had recovered well to win their game 2-1. Frome Town, however, grimly clung on to top spot, despite being level on points and with the same goal difference as Wimborne. We remained top because we had scored one solitary goal more.

Talk about tight margins…

I was up early, at around 7am, on the Sunday. Again, PD was my only travelling companion for this Chelsea trip, a visit to Bramall Lane for our game against Sheffield United. I picked him up in Frome at 8am. This would be PD’s first-ever visit to Bramall Lane; it would only be my second.

Over the years that I have been watching Chelsea play, our paths haven’t crossed too often.

My only previous visit to Bramall Lane had taken place on Saturday 28 October 2006.

From the date of my first Chelsea game in 1974 to this game thirty-two years later, we had only visited Sheffield United six times.

I travelled-up to the game in 2006 alone but dropped in to see a friend – and Sheffield United supporter – Simon at his house a few miles to the south and west of his team’s home stadium. On that occasion, we went 2-0 up soon into the second-half – goals from Frank Lampard and Michael Ballack – but my abiding memory of the match is how Jose Mourinho didn’t “go for it” in the remainder of the game. It left me a little deflated. Here we were, a team in our pomp, but seemingly happy to be content with a 2-0 win against a team that would be relegated at the season’s end. I remember saying to my match day companions “Ferguson would be urging his United players to score five or six against this lot.”

Our team that day?

Hilario

Ferreira – Carvalho – Terry – Bridge

Ballack – Essien – Lampard

Robben – Drogba – Cole

Petr Cech had been badly injured at the away game at Reading just a fortnight earlier, and Hilario was his replacement. But elsewhere, what a team, eh? At the end of 2006/7 – and despite only losing three league games – we would finish six points behind Manchester United in second place.

We stopped off for a breakfast at Strensham Services at 9.30am. The place was awash with Manchester United supporters en route to Old Trafford for their match with Liverpool. A part of me wanted to ask each and every one of them what they thought of their team’s late capitulation at Stamford Bridge the previous Thursday.

PD mentioned a “Facebook Memory” from forty years ago. On Saturday 7 April 1984, Chelsea walloped Fulham in the old Second Division in front of 31,947. This game is not usually featured as an important game in a season of many important matches, but it remains important to me. This was the afternoon that I first met my Chelsea pal Alan, who has been sitting alongside me at Stamford Bridge in The Sleepy Hollow since 1997 and at away games since 2006. This was perfect timing, since Alan would be attending his first Chelsea away game at Bramall Lane since Luton Town in late December.

Forty years, eh?

From that chance meeting on The Benches in April 1984, we have shared so many amazing Chelsea moments, so much laughter, and our friendship is one that I absolutely treasure. From The Benches in 1984, to the Full Members Cup Final in 1986, to Wembley and then Fulham Broadway in 1997, to nights out in Blackpool, Scarborough and Brighton, to Stuttgart in 2004, to Bolton in 2005, to Depeche Mode at Wembley in 2006, to Moscow in 2008, to Munich in 2012 and Elizabeth Fraser at the Royal Festival Hall a month or so later, to Amsterdam in 2013, to Jerusalem and Bethlehem in 2015 and to New Order in Brixton in the same year, to Baku in 2017, and all points north, south, east and west in between, from “They’ll have to come at us now” to “Come on my little diamonds”, it has been a fucking pleasure.

We were back on the road at 10am and it didn’t seem too long before I had turned off the M1 at Chesterfield – the town’s crooked spire looking quite ridiculous – to approach Sheffield via the A61. I was aware that Sheffield was a city built on hills and I had mentioned to PD that I fully expected us to meet the brink of a hill and then to see the city displayed before us. I was not wrong. The sight of Sheffield down below us in the bright sunshine was splendid. There was a fleeting moment of being excited about visiting a relatively unknown city. I hope that I never stop experiencing those thrills, however mundane it might seem to others.

In the week or so leading up to the game, I had contacted Simon once again. I last saw him at a mutual friend’s mother’s funeral in Rotherham in 2015, but we often chat about the performances of our two teams. A few years ago, Simon embarked on a massive cycle ride – from south to north – and cycled through my home village without either of us realising it. In this recent chat, Simon had recommended the “Golden Lion” on London Road as being “away-fan-friendly” but I didn’t fancy getting there too soon in case this wasn’t the case.

So, my plan had always been to stop off en route to Bramall Lane and to drop into a local pub away from the madding crowd for a while. We did so at “The Abbey” pub at Woodseats, just as the road continued its slow march towards the city centre.

It was midday. We were ridiculously early for the 5.30pm kick-off, but we very content and happy to kill a few hours in this pub before getting closer to the ground. I soon texted Simon to say that we were plotted up at “The Abbey” and – typical – he said that it had been his local when he had lived nearby a few years previously. PD sank some lagers, I sank some “Diet Cokes” and we kept an eye on the events at Ibrox.

At around 2.30pm, I drove the last couple of miles into the city.

Sheffield is not a city that I know too well. There were visits to Hillsborough in 1985, 1986 and in 1996 and that sole match at Bramall Lane in 2006.

In previous editions of these match reports, I have called Sheffield “the forgotten football city” and it still feels to me that this rings true, and probably not just to me. The city’s two clubs are big – if not massive – yet the city has experienced just three Premier League seasons since Sheffield Wednesday dropped out of the top flight in the year 2000; Sheffield United in 2020/21, 2021/22 and now in 2023/24.

Sheffield Wednesday’s last major honour was the League Cup in 1991, their only success since an FA Cup win in 1935 and Sheffield United’s last honour was the Football League Championship in 1925.

It feels like the city is in desperate need of a footballing renaissance.

The brief drive to my parking spot at a local school took me right past the “Golden Lion” pub. Just after 12.45pm, PD got drinks in. The boozer was full of Sheffield United fans, many wearing colours, and the walls were plastered with memorabilia. We zipped into the beer garden where two Chelsea supporters were waiting for my arrival. Tommie Senior and Tommie Junior – aged just four – were over from Los Angeles for a couple of games. I had sorted tickets for them for the Everton game, but they had managed to find tickets by themselves for this game.

We had a good old chat and waited for others to arrive. Deano, Dave and Gary – from Lancashire – joined us, along with a few more semi-familiar Chelsea faces, and then Simon arrived. It was lovely to see him again.

So here we all were; Chelsea fans from the West Country, Chelsea fans from Lancashire, Chelsea fans from California and a Sheffield United fan from Sheffield. It was a fine pre-match.

I explained the lyrics to Tommie of the Sheffield United “hymn” that would undoubtedly be aired during the game. Teaching a guy from Los Angeles about gallons of Magnet, pinches of snuff and greasy chip butties was perhaps one of my most testing conversations of recent seasons.

We set off for the ground in good time. I wanted to circumnavigate the stadium, no doubt like I did with Simon in 2006, and I wanted to take a few photographs of course. We walked across the car park where Yorkshire once played cricket until the main stand, now the Tony Currie Stand, was constructed in 1975. Until then, Bramall Lane was an oddly-lopsided ground, similar to the one at Northampton Town, hosting both cricket and football.

Simon told me that he had recently completed some research for a local website detailing the football heritage of Sheffield. Sheffield FC, located a few miles to the south, are the oldest football club in the entire world that is still in existence. They date from 1857. Nearby Hallam FC is third on that list, formed three years later.

Sheffield has so much football history, though very little recent silverware.

I loved the colours and the architecture at Bramall Lane, the old turnstiles, the angles, the red bricks, the signs and the way it feels like a part of the community. Simon lamented the facilities in The Kop though, where at half time you have to make a decision whether to use the toilets or get some refreshments. The queues are too long to do both.

As we turned a corner we wished each other well and said our goodbyes.

There is always a certain nervousness as I approach the stewards at the away turnstiles, but after I opened up my camera bag, the young lad made a comment that pleased me.

“Ah, a camera. Take some good photos.”

If only this attitude existed elsewhere.

The away concourse was packed, and the youngsters in our support seemed to be on the very cusp of throwing their beer everywhere. I nervously edged my way through, shielding the camera as I went. The 5.30pm kick off – ridiculous, thank you Footballing Gods – had obviously enabled many in our support to get tanked up from late morning.

I soon found our seats near the front. I soon asked a friend to take a photo of Alan and little old me to celebrate our Chelsea anniversary.

Lots of faces nearby. Lots of bevvied-up faces too. Fackinell.

It was obvious from the off that the gate would be several thousand shy of the capacity, a shame. There were swathes of empty seats in The Kop at the other end of the stadium. Bramall Lane is a neat enough stadium, but its single tiered stands on three sides do not give it much of a presence. I wondered if there were plans to enlarge the Tony Currie Stand. The pitch is set back from the pitch and there is certainly room in the car park behind. Our end was the only double-decked stand, but our support was stretched out in the entirety of the lower, and I suspected that it would be difficult to generate much noise.

The team? Thiago Silva returned, but alas there was no Malo Gusto.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher – Palmer

Jackson

The five of us were lined up in Row G as below :

Gal, John, me, Al, PD.

Sheffield United featured the wonderfully-named Bogle and Trusty, and also Brereton, the Chilean international from Stoke.

Bloody hellfire, duck.

The teams entered the pitch and the locals joined in with their hymn.

“You fill up my senses
Like a gallon of Magnet.
Like a packet of Woodbines.
Like a good pinch of snuff.
Like a night out in Sheffield.
Like a greasy chip butty.
Like Sheffield United
Come fill me again.”

With the sun shining above, the game began.

We attacked The Kop and began brightly enough. Noni Madueke made a few forceful runs out wide and at least one took him deep inside the Sheffield United box. I captured our first real shot in anger, one from the raiding Cole Palmer that was blocked.

A new song, but quite irritating too.

“Palmer again, ole, ole. Palmer again, ole, ole. Palmer again, Palmer again. Palmer again, ole, ole.”

6/10.

After just eleven minutes, Conor Gallagher dropped a high ball from a corner on our right into a dangerous area of the box and to our amazement, Silva was completely unmarked and able to calmly side-foot the ball in on the volley.

I forget who it was now, but one of my favourite sporting comments came from somebody who, when talking about cricket, wished that, as a batter, he was able to face his own bowling. On this occasion, such was the lack of resistance, it looked like Chelsea attacking a Chelsea defence.

Sheffield United 0 Chelsea1.

Easy.

Alan : “They’ll have to cum at us naa.”

Chris : “Cum on me little diamunds.”

The away choir rattled the home crowd.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

This seemed odd to me, as I still remember the titanic battles with Sheffield Wednesday back in the mid-‘eighties, and I wasn’t particularly happy that we were now siding with Wednesday. Old habits and all that.

We are a funny bunch, us football fans.

We all hoped to put a stranglehold on the game, but this is still a fragile team. Just like in 2006, we didn’t get at them. If anything, the home team came at us. The sun disappeared behind the clouds and we struggled to shine. Our passing was laboured and there was not enough bite in midfield nor movement in attack.

I was just about to praise the super-cool Silva for effortlessly dealing with an attack a few yards away when the same player inadvertently played a suicide ball to Oli McBurnie. The ball was passed to Senor Brereton but Moises Caicedo was suitably placed to deflect the effort away from Petrovic.

Phew.

The diminutive but busy Gustavo Hamer forced a fine save from Petrovic. The away support sighed with worry.

On the half-hour and with our chances drying up, the home team pounced. That man Hamer played in Bogle, running free, and from an angle he slashed the ball into the net, beating Petrovic easily at the near post.

Sheffield United 1 Chelsea 1.

Oh God.

The Blades in the main stand to our right sharpened their tongues and aimed some vitriol back at us.

“Just like Sheffield, your city is red.”

Righty-oh.

We countered with a few breaks, but it was all so unconvincing. The first-half petered out amidst moans in the away end.

At the break, the woman behind me – who had been slumped with her head in her hands for fifteen minutes, the victim of too many pre-match drinks – summed up the mood in the away end.

She was sick.

Luckily, Gary, John and I – who would have been in the line of fire – were away from the torrent as it cascaded down the terrace steps.

The second-half began and the temperature had noticeably dropped as the evening drew on. Sadly, it was the home team who went for the jugular. I wasn’t sure where Simon was watching the game, but he must have been happy with his team’s showing. They peppered our goal with a few efforts.

We retaliated with a couple of efforts; a header from Silva at a corner, a drive from Madueke.

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

On sixty-six minutes, the relatively quiet Palmer played the ball wide to Madueke and as he drove on and then twisted inside, I prepared my camera for a hopeful money shot. He shot, as did I. The ball fizzed past Ivo Grbic and I snapped away, screaming no doubt, as Madueke ran towards us.

Sheffield United 1 Chelsea 2.

Grbic then saved a good effort from distance from Palmer. A goal then, surely, would have killed the game.

Palmer was replaced by Carney Chukwuemeka.

Later, Madueke was replaced by Mykhailo Mudryk.

On eighty-six minutes, a superb save at full stretch from Petrovic kept a looping header out. It was one of the saves of the season, a magnificent stop.

I had been watching Benoit Badiashile and Cesare Casadei warming up near us on the touchline, but I was shocked to see them brought on so late in the game; Badiashile replaced Cucarella, Casadei replaced Jackson. I guess the idea was to pack our defensive lines full of taller players, but it smacked of desperation from my viewpoint in the away end.

Lo and behold, on ninety-three minutes, a Sheffield United attack did not want to die and a ball was chipped into our box. It was headed away by Enzo but only to a Sheffield United player. His header was flicked on. My sixth-sense easily sensed the equaliser. The ball fell, too easily, at the feet of McBurnie who bundled the ball in from close in.

Sheffield United 2 Chelsea 2.

Bollocks.

The anger in the away end was palpable, yet I am afraid I have seen this all too often to get too down about dropped points.

The referee soon signalled the end of the game.

Not much of a game, not much of a match report.

We stayed in ninth place, just away from everything of note.

PD and I slowly trudged back to the car, and for a while the match-day traffic slowed my immediate progress south. As we crept out of Sheffield, we devoured some home-made sandwiches, and I badly needed that sustenance. The traffic soon cleared, and I made good time on the return leg. I had driven five-hundred and forty-four miles to the games in Exmouth and Sheffield and I soon fell asleep once I reached home at midnight.

We have a rest of eight days now. On Monday 15 April, we reconvene at Stamford Bridge for the visit of Everton. See you there.

Tales From Snow, Sun And Rain

Posted on March 5, 2024 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 2 March 2024.

The week was a busy one. Monday; travel back from London. Tuesday; work and a blog late that evening. Wednesday; an early start for work, the Leeds game, and a late return home. Thursday; work and a catch up on some sleep. Friday; work and a blog in the evening.

Saturday was another day, another football day, and another early start. However, on waking at 6am I was in for a surprise. Without any hint of a warning there was snow outside. I couldn’t immediately tell if the snow was light or heavy, but the snow on the road at the end of my driveway didn’t look too deep. PD and I exchanged texts. I warned him that I might be a little late. The plan had been to call at his house in Frome at 7am. I contemplated changing my route, keeping to busier roads, but as I drove out and through the village, it was clear that the snow was of no risk to myself or my car. In fact, it was starting to melt already. I called at PD’s house at 7.02am. Game on.

The match at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was a case of getting back to normal after the highs and lows – or vice versa – of games in the League Cup and the FA Cup. An away game in West London? What could be more straightforward than that, at least from a planning perspective.

We called for Parky at 7.30am and stopped at the local “McDonalds” in Melksham for sustenance. The trip to London was easy. There was no more snow, with only outbreaks of rain at times, as I made my way up the M4. There was drizzle at Heston Services. I had booked a “JustPark” spot on a private driveway in a cul-de-sac just yards from the River Thames from 10am, and I was parked up at 9.59am. If only the rest of the day could go as well.

This was Chelsea’s fourth match at Brentford’s new stadium and it seems like there have been more visits. Going in to the game, we were unbeaten; two wins and a draw. However, the Bees have had our number at Stamford Bridge in the top flight; three wins out of three visits. Despite them being in the midst of a poor run of form, and now with players missing, nobody expected an easy game. I know two Brentford season ticket holders. One, Chris – from work – was not expecting great things from his team. I could say the same about mine.

I had planned a gentle stroll along the northern bank of the River Thames. At about 10.15am, we found a window booth in “The Bull’s Head”, a quaint and quiet pub that seemed geared up to dining rather than drinking. There has been an inn on this site for over four-hundred years. The young lad serving us our drinks was a Brentford fan and was off to the game later. Outside, the rain. Inside, a few giggles. We were joined by our friends Aroha and Luke at 10.45am.

From there, a very short walk to “The City Barge”, another lovely pub, more open-plan than the first one, dating from the fourteenth century. We reached there at 11.45am and were joined by our friend Ricky. More chit-chat, more laughs. There were not too many football colours on show in these first two pubs.

At 1pm, we walked a couple of hundred yards west to “The Bell & Crown” which we visited on the previous two matches in December 2021 and October 2022. It’s another lovely pub, full of diners, but also football fans – Brentford fans – too. There were many red and white scarves on show. We spotted Cliff and Tim – Chelsea, no colours – enjoying a meal at virtually the same table as in 2022/23. Ricky chatted to me about his take on Brentford fans. Despite growing up in Hammersmith, he has only ever known a couple of them. They are an elusive breed for sure. He likened their support to that of rugby fans. A bit middle-class? A bit quiet? Maybe. I have always been surprised how quiet they are at Brentford.

But this is a great part of the world, a great location for a pre-game pub-crawl. I loved every minute of it. Brentford was quickly becoming one of my favourite away venues. In London, it would rank as number one, ahead of Fulham, Tottenham, Arsenal, Crystal Palace and West Ham – in that order – in the current top flight.

At 2.15pm, we set off for the game.

From the last pub near Kew Bridge to the stadium is only a ten-minute walk. The approach to the away turnstiles takes you along newly-cobbled streets, squeezed in beneath towering apartment blocks, an echo of the new Wembley that I have grown to despise. It’s an odd approach to a football stadium. Once through the first security checks, you plunge down steps to a lower level, then are shuffled along to find a turnstile that has less of a queue. It’s all very tight. The ground is hemmed in by two railway lines and a road. Sound familiar?

I was in at 2.40pm.

I was alongside Pete, John, Gary and Parky in row six of the east stand. We were behind the goal but not far from the corner flag. PD was across the way in the north stand. I saw familiar faces everywhere I looked. Luke and Ricky were in the last row where it rises up at an angle. There are odd angles everywhere at the Gtech. It even sounds like a geometric puzzle.

After hints of rain all day, it was at least dry as kick-off approached. I spotted a fan with a handmade sign that summed up the zeitgeist at Chelsea Football Club perfectly well.

“I don’t want your shirt!! I want you to fight for ours.”

Well said that man.

The team?

2. Disasi.

8. Fernandez.

14. Chalobah.

15. Jackson.

20. Palmer.

21. Chilwell.

23. Gallagher.

25. Caicedo.

26. Colwill.

27. Gusto.

28. Petrovic.

“Hey Jude” – an odd anthem – and the players entered to our left.

There were two team huddles.

Then a moment to reflect on the life of Stan Bowles, who recently passed away after a long battle with dementia at the age of seventy-five. Although he played most of his football at Queens Park Rangers, he also played at Brentford from 1981 to 1984 at a time when Ron Harris was the Brentford first team coach under Fred Callaghan. I saw Bowles play once against Chelsea, a horrific 1-3 home loss in the horrific 1978/79 season. He was some player; the definition of the football maverick of the ‘seventies. He might well be QPR’s most-loved player.

RIP.

The game began and I spent far too much of the early segment of the game trying to work out if Colwill, Chalobah and Disasi were a three at the back with Chilwell and Gusto as wing-backs, or if there was a flat back four with Chilwell in some advanced role that only he knew about.

The game began with Chelsea attacking the west end of the stadium. Chelsea dominated most of the early possession. I had to keep my eyes on the reinstated Ivan Toney, though. A ridiculous number of Chelsea fans had said that they expected him to score against us.

There was a half-chance for Enzo. It ended up going off for a corner. From the resulting cross, Axel Disasi headed on to the top of the net.

There was a rare chance for the home team, that man Toney, but Colwill snuffed it out. But then they improved a little and Yoane Wissa went close on two occasions. Then, from a long free-kick from the Brentford ‘keeper, a knock on and Wissa connected acrobatically. Thankfully, his shot was straight into the arms of Petrovic.

Nicolas Jackson twice found himself in good positions. On one occasion, he attempted one too many step overs and the ball was lost. Later, Conor Gallagher passed to Enzo, who set him up perfectly. Jackson rolled the ball past Mark Flekken in the Brentford goal, but seemed to take forever to decide which foot was best suited to knock the ball in to a waiting – and empty – net. We all groaned as Zanka arrived from nowhere to clear.

By this time, The Bloke Behind Me was annoying me with his constant berating of Jackson. It all got too tiresome, too tedious, too much.

There was bright sunlight now, with shadows appearing as the players danced in front of us. I wish I had brought my Ray Bans which had been stupidly discarded inside my car. Our hands shielded the sun instead.

On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful cross from the effervescent and bubbly Malo Gusto was met by the leap of Jackson, and I watched with a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction as the ball was headed down and in.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

After a few seconds of manic yelping, I quietly and silently turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and held a forefinger in front of my pursed lips.

The Bloke Behind Me smiled.

Brentford 0 Chelsea 1.

Phew.

The away section, all standing of course, roared – a la “Chelsea Agro” – a new chant.

“Malo Gusto. Malo Gusto. Hello. Hello.”

The heavens opened and we were treated to a wet end to the half, fans and players alike, despite the sun still shining. A metaphor for our season, our recent seasons maybe?

To annoy The Bloke Behind Me further, in the closing moments of the first period Jackson came in from the wing but could only force a save from Flekken.

It had been a decent-enough half. Gusto was the undoubted star, but Moises Caicedo had put in another solid shift. But it was no more than that; decent enough. We had tons of the ball, but we were not always linking in the right players at the right time. The home team were limited to a few testing breakaways.

The second-half began with Chelsea trying to attack the eastern end, where our 1,800 supporters were stood. However, our old problem of conceding soon after the break came back to haunt us. Just five minutes after the re-start, a ball was lumped into the box. It fell at the feet of Sergio Reguilon, who took a heavy touch.

“That could go anywhere.”

The Chelsea defenders were slow to react and Mads Roerslev rushed in to slam the ball home.

Bollocks.

Brentford 1 Chelsea 1.

Just after, we gave away possession way too easily and Vitaly Janelt had time to painstakingly shoot at goal. It hit the base of a post. Phew.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

The rain came again. But the sun stayed too. I sheltered my camera with my hand.

On the hour, that man Gusto raided down the right and found Cole Palmer. His side-footed effort had us dreaming and then squirming. It rolled a few yards past the post.

Fackinell.

Brentford peppered our goal via two efforts from Wissa and Reguilon. Our game was falling apart. On sixty-nine minutes, Reguilon was given far too much space out on the Brentford left and was allowed to cross. From a bouncing ball, Wissa scissor-kicked with great grace and the ball crashed into the net.

Brentford 2 Chelsea 1.

Oh bloody hell.

On seventy minutes, a tirade of negative noise from the Chelsea section.

“Roman Abramovich.”

“Boehly – You’re A Cunt.”

“Fuck Off Mauricio.”

“Jose Mourinho.”

I grimaced in silence. I suspect that I was not alone. There is a time for protest, but what became of the notion of turning up at Chelsea games and endeavouring, how bad the performance, to get behind the club and its players? I have mentioned this over the years and I have no qualms in mentioning it again.

“Players play. Managers manage. Supporters support.”

Isn’t that right? Please tell me otherwise.

We can moan like fuck in internet chat rooms, on forums, in pubs and bars, in coaches and cars, and we can bring placards to Stamford Bridge and prod them at directors and we can remonstrate and demonstrate before and after games, but – please – lets honour those ninety minutes as being the sacred time in which we try our hardest to support our players.

In the snow. In the sun. In the rain.

Fair weather. Foul weather.

Good times. Bad times.

On the pitch, we continued to struggle.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Chilwell seemed unwilling to close a player down, thus allowing a cross from the Brentford right. The ball was inch perfect. Reguilon rose between two defenders but his strong header hit the post.

I am bloody fed up of writing the names Reguilon and Wissa.

The beleaguered manager made some changes.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

Raheem Sterling for Colwill.

I liked the look of Sterling straight away. He posed questions that others were not keen to ask. Chances for Gallagher and Palmer. With eighty-three minutes gone and from a short corner – Mudryk to Palmer – the ball was looped in to perfection.

I saw two blue shirts jump. This was a goal. It had to be. Disasi crashed it in.

Yes.

Brentford 2 Chelsea 2.

Yes!

Almost ironically, the Chelsea crowd uttered a current favourite.

“Cus Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be Alright.”

Oh boy.

Chances continued – Sterling came so close after a twisting run into the six yard box – but the game soon ran out of time.

We met up in the away concourse and hobbled back to the car. We all shared the same opinions about everything.

“Fair result.”

“Poor game.”

“Two poor teams.”

My route up onto the M4 from the parking spot took me right underneath those towering blocks next to the away entrance, along that very same narrow road that we had walked along three hours previously. I was on the west-bound M4 in very good time – a quick exit is another reason why I like going to Brentford – and I was back home by 8pm, a very early finish for a change.

A wait now, but there is an anniversary of sorts on Monday 11 March.

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

See you there.

Tales From Our Tenth League Cup Final

Posted on February 27, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 25 February 2024.

We just weren’t good enough were we?

This was always my fear. Despite a resurgence in our play over the past month – high points at Villa, the second-half at Palace and at City – there was still a niggling doubt that whatever team was selected to play at Wembley, the players just could not be trusted to drag us over the line. And despite Liverpool players falling by the wayside with injuries as the final approached, I had a fear that there would not be enough in our locker – nous, determination, skill – to give us a much-needed win.

All of our deficiencies – and a few of our positives – were discussed at length as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky and drove up to the M4 at Chippenham. As I approached Junction 17 I made my views clear.

“Right, that’s enough about the game today. Let’s not talk any more about it. Let’s enjoy the day ahead.”

I was up just after 5.45am. I had collected the two Frome lads at 7am and Parky in Holt at 7.30am. By 9.30am, we were tucking into our breakfasts at “The Half Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road. At 10am, I pulled up outside “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge and PD shouted out to Salisbury Steve, who was just about to disappear inside as the front doors were opened, to get a round in. For the third League Cup Final in a row, we were staying the night at the Premier Inn opposite, and I soon parked the car outside. We were hoping that this would be third time lucky. Against Manchester City in 2019 and against Liverpool in 2022, we had narrowly lost on penalties.

On the Saturday, I had watched Frome Town obtain a relatively easy 3-1 win at home to Tavistock to nudge themselves into pole position in the table. As the beers started to flow, I never felt confident that Chelsea would follow up Frome’s win to give me a perfect weekend. Mark, now living in Spain, and his son Luca, still in The Netherlands, joined us and the laughter roared around the pub. We tried not to think too much about the football.

This would be Chelsea Football Club’s tenth League Cup Final.

Our first final took place four months before I was born in March 1965, when we defeated Leicester City over two legs. In 1972, we infamously lost 1-2 to Stoke City at Wembley and I have no recollection of the game. We had to wait ages for the next one; a 2-0 triumph against Middlesbrough at old Wembley in 1998 after extra-time. Next up was a match in Cardiff at the Millennium Stadium against Liverpool in 2005; we narrowly edged it 3-2 after extra time. Two years later, at the same venue, a 2-1 triumph against Arsenal. In 2008, the 2-1 loss to Tottenham Hotspur, after extra-time, at the new Wembley Stadium. In 2015, we comfortably defeated the same opponent 2-0. Then, the two tight losses in 2019 to Manchester City (0-0 after extra-time, losing 3-4 on penalties) and in 2022 to Liverpool (0-0 after extra-time, losing 10-11 on penalties).

A potted history of us in nine previous League Cup Finals does not tell the entire story of course.

1965 : there are numerous stories about Eddie McCreadie’s apparently masterful solo run up the middle of the park before sliding the ball past the ‘keeper. It was only our second piece of silverware in sixty years.

1972 : “Blue Is The Colour” was released specifically for this game and I used to get such a thrill listening to it on the radio for years after. An Osgood goal for Chelsea, but George bloody Eastham gave Stoke their sole trophy in 161 years.

1998 : the first-part of a Cup Double that season and another Wembley goal from Roberto di Matteo. The good times were returning to Stamford Bridge.

2005 : the first Mourinho season and the first Mourinho silverware. In an enthralling match, we went behind early on after John Arne Riise belted one in from distance. A Steven Gerrard own goal levelled it and two late goals from Mateja Kezman and Didier Drogba gave us a huge win. Mourinho was sent-off for his “shush” but we did not care less. It was the first game that I had seen Chelsea play in an enclosed stadium.

2007 : two more Didier Drogba goals gave us a win after Theo Walcott scored early for Arsenal. The game that Cesc Fabregas was pelted with celery at a corner and the game where John Terry was knocked unconscious by a boot to his head.

2008 : we went ahead through Didier Drogba, but Tottenham levelled with a Dimitar Berbatov penalty before Jonathan Woodgate headed Tottenham in front. Our support that day was the worst that I can ever remember. It was one of my all-time lows as a Chelsea follower.

2015 : this was a tough game for me, coming just three days after my mother’s passing. Goals from John Terry and Diego Costa gave us a relatively easy win.

2019 : a decent performance and great support from the Chelsea crowd. This was the day that Kepa notoriously humiliated Maurizio Sarri by not following instructions to be substituted by Wily Caballero.

2022 : this could have gone either way, but a ridiculously long penalty shootout went against us when Cesar Azpilicueta missed the only penalty out of twenty-two.

Going in to the 2024 Final, our record was won 5 and lost 4.

At 12.45pm, we caught a District Line tube up to Paddington and changed trains to get ourselves over to Marylebone. Here, the ever-reliable Jason handed over a spare ticket to me that would then be passed to Glenn. Just as we were about to hop on a train to Wembley Stadium, the call went out that a few of the lads that we know from Westbury and Trowbridge were in the “Sports Bar.” The drinking continued.

“What football?”

We eventually caught a train at about 2.15pm to Wembley.

We bumped into many familiar faces at Marylebone, on the train, at the station, on the march to the turnstiles.

I remember my first visit to the old Wembley, in around 1972 or 1973, on the back of a visit to see my grandfather’s older brother in Southall. There was no game. I just wanted to see Wembley, beguiled by either the 1972 or 1973 FA Cup Finals. We parked just off “Wembley Way” – actually Olympic Way – and I remember being mightily impressed as I saw the twin towers for the first time. The stadium was at the top of a slight rise in the land, with its own added embankments and steps giving it an air of importance. It stood alone, not encumbered by any buildings nearby, only the London sky above it. It exuded a great sense of place.

Wembley in 2024 is much different. Bleak flats and hotels take up every spare square yard of space, from the walk up to the stadium from Wembley Park Station, right up to the immediate surrounds of the stadium itself. I don’t suffer from claustrophobia and I am glad I don’t. At Wembley, between the bland stadium walls and the oppressive bleak apartment buildings I would be surely panting with anxiety.

It is a horrible stadium. I hate it.

Regular readers of these tales will know only too well how we struggle to get in to Wembley in time. At 2.50pm, I was still in the queue. Once inside, an escalator was not working, delaying me further. I eventually made it in at around 3.05pm.

Sigh.

Our seats were in row thirty-eight, just a few from the very back of the highest part of the stadium. We were virtually on the half-way line. My calves were aching. God knows how much pain PD and Parky were in.

A quick check of the team. As expected, the same as against Manchester City.

Petrovic.

Gusto – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

Everyone was stood. PJ and Brian – from the pre-match pub at City last weekend – were right behind us along with Feisal and Martin. We would find out later that Gary, Daryl, Ed and Clive were a few seats in front.

These seats only cost £41. Decent.

Liverpool had the best of the very early part of the game and we looked stretched at times. They enjoyed the first real chance when Axel Diasi allowed Luis Diaz a shot but Djordje Petrovic was equal to it.

There wasn’t a great deal of noise thus far. But I always try to look for clues to see which support is more “up for it.” My first observation wasn’t good. On the upper balcony wall, to my left – our unlucky East End – there were red banners everywhere. To my right – the West End, us – the same balcony between the Club Wembley tier and the upper tier was almost completely devoid of Chelsea flags and banners.

Ugh. An early lead to The Scousers.

As the game continued, neither sets of fans were particularly noisy. Were nerves to blame? It couldn’t have been due to the lack of alcohol. Maybe the game needed to ignite to fully engage the supporters and their voices.

Chelsea began to grow into the game and on twenty minutes, a Conor Gallagher cross from the right was played in to Raheem Sterling. There was a heavy touch and the ball eventually found Cole Palmer. His stab at goal was from close-in but the Liverpool ‘keeper Kelleher saved well. Nicolas Jackson’s follow-up was blocked too.

On the half-hour mark, Palmer padded the ball forward to Jackson who moved the ball square to Jackson. His grass-cutter cross to the far post – towards Sterling – was perfection and as our often-maligned striker prodded home, I turned to PD and we both screamed at each other like fools.

Alas.

VAR.

The goal was disallowed. Offside.

Bollocks.

Liverpool’s Gakpo headed against the base of Petrovic’ near post.

The game had taken a while but it was warming up. However, still not much noise, and virtually nothing from our end to the right. There were a few half-hearted chants from our section – “Three Little Birds” is a difficult one to get going in the huge spaces of the upper tier at Wembley – and the noise did not build.

Just before the half-time break, I spotted many red seats in the Chelsea end, the lure of a pint or a pee too strong for many. In contrast, there were hardly any empty seats in the Liveroool end. Advantage still to Liverpool. Bollocks.

When the whistle sounded, I disappeared downstairs and hoped that I would be able to conquer the north face of the Eiger on my return. I made it, but it seemed that we had lost PJ and Feisal to frostbite.

The second-half began and we began to probe the Liverpool defence more often. Gallagher set up Enzo but the Argentinian managed to get his tango feet tangled up and the chance went begging. At the other end, Petrovic punched clear from Elliott.

On the hour, a long cross from the Liverpool left was met by a leap from Van Dijk. The ball nestled in the net. We groaned. In the Liverpool end to our left, red flares were ignited, a horrible reminder of a scene at the end of the 2022 FA Cup Final.

After what seemed like an age, VAR was summoned.

No goal.

Christopher Nkunku replaced Sterling.

The game increased in quality and intensity. Chances were exchanged.

A Gallagher corner dropped into the six-yard box. Levi Colwill headed it on but Disasi made a mess of the final touch. Kelleher was able to jump unchallenged to claim. From my vantage point it seemed impossible that we had not edged ahead.

Gakpo blazed over.

Everyone was still stood. Everyone in the stadium. You have to marvel at us football fans’ ability to stand for hours and hours.

There was a nice interchange between Gusto and Caicedo that set up the silky skills of Palmer. His touch inside to Gallagher was flicked on and we were exasperated when his effort came back off the far post.

Fackinell.

Gomez at Petrovic. An easy save.

Caicedo to Gusto, but a searching ball was just too long for Nkunku at the far post.

Gallagher was given another chance, set up by Palmer, but with just Kelleher to beat there was a lame finish.

Fackinell.

We still created chances. A fine ball by Enzo out to Jackson who did well to hold the ball up. He played it back to Gallagher who blazed over.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Jackson.

Another attack, with bodies in the box, Kelleher saved at point blank range from Nkunku.

Oh my bloody goodness.

At ninety-minutes it was 0-0.

“We have been here before Liverpool, we have been here before.”

There was no time to pause, no time to think, the game began again. Or rather, it didn’t for us. All of the momentum that we had built in the last quarter of the game seemed to disappear as the night grew colder.

Noni Madueke for Gallagher. What? Answers on a postcard.

Trevoh Chalobah for Chilwell.

Liverpool came again, with a few efforts on our goal. We had Petrovic to thank once more. His had been a fine performance. There was a hugely impressive “Allez Allez Allez” from the red corner to my left. It was the loudest noise of the entire match. I looked over at the blue corner to my right. I heard nothing. I just saw a few blue flags being waved in the far corner. As far as responses go, it was almost fucking laughable.

Where has our support gone? It was excellent in 2019 against City. This, in 2024, was even worse than the 2008 debacle against Tottenham. It makes me so sad.

At half-time in extra-time, I suspect we all feared penalties once again.

The second period soon came and we watched as Chelsea grew weaker. The minutes ticked by. Our new additions did not add anything to the team. Mudryk frustrated us in the way only he can do. We looked tired. I felt tired.

Penalties surely.

With just two minutes remaining, a Liverpool corner. I found myself momentarily gazing over at the lower tier opposite, the Chelsea section. Everyone was still stood. I looked back just in time to see the ball fly into the net from another Van Dijk header.

There were red flares again at Wembley Stadium.

Tales From Home And Away

Posted on January 14, 2023 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 12 January 2023.

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

It often used to be like this.

Sore throats after football.

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

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

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

Top fucking marks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Koulibaly

Dave – Kovacic – Zakaria – Hall

Mount – Havertz – Felix

Chelsea in those crappy Tottenham navy socks. Why?

Willian was starting for the home team.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Willian wheeled away but did not celebrate. Top man.

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

I looked depressed, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

Right, 1982/83, let’s go.

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

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

We were level.

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

The Chelsea choir were suddenly in a playful mood.

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

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

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

Yes, a straight red.

A debut to remember for Joao Felix.

Collective brains whirled back forty years.

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

Al : “Yes mate, Carlisle away.”

A little later.

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

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

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

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

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

The vitriol aimed at Kepa was intense.

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

A Roman thumb, if you will.

“Roman Abramovich. Roman Abramovich.”

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

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

“We want our Chelsea back.”

I wondered which Chelsea this was.

The 1905 to 1954 Chelsea that won fuck all?

The 1971 to 1996 Chelsea that won fuck all?

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

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

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

On seventy-nine minutes, Graham Potter changed things.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chalobah.

Conor Gallagher for Kovacic.

Marc Cucarella for Hall.

Then, just after.

Hakim Ziyech for Mount.

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

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

The final whistle blew.

Fulham 2 Chelsea 1.

I had sadly been right all along.

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

“You’re not fit to wear the shirt.”

I was inwardly grimacing.

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

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

To boo or not to boo?

To clap or not to clap?

Answers on a postcard.

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

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

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

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

Our eventual fate in 2022/23 is not certain.

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

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

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

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

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

4.45am to 3am.

It had been a fucking long day.

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

See you there.

Tales From A Proper To Do

Posted on February 24, 2020 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 22 February 2020.

This had every chance to be a perfect day. After the gloom and the negativity and the cloud of depression after the Manchester United home game the previous Monday, here was Tottenham at home, the old enemy, a chance to get back into the saddle – players and supporters alike – and to cement our position in the all-important top four, or top five, if the City “thing” takes its proper course.

Yes, Tottenham is high risk, but revenge certainly was in the air. The whole club felt aggrieved after the VAR-inspired debacle against United, and – I was feeling quite gung-ho – here was a fantastic chance to get some sort of revenge against, well, everything.

Yes, it was Tottenham. Year on year our biggest home game in my book. But they were depleted. Kane was out, Son was out, Eriksen was no more, I was not unduly worried. I was worried, for sure, about Bayern Munich on the following Tuesday (the third of three blockbuster home games in just nine days) but that would take care of itself.

That Tottenham were now managed by Jose Mourinho seemed to be a lot less important than it should have been. A couple of days before the game, a fleeting vision of our former manager came into my head and then quickly left with little fuss, no concern. We are all over him now. He is an afterthought.

The week came and went. The days after Manchester United took its toll. I was not in a great place, football-wise. Eventually, I wrote the Manchester United blog on the Thursday night after putting it off for at least one evening. It became a cathartic experience. I shared my thoughts as honestly as I could. It must have struck a chord because it became one of my highest-viewed blogs.

Thank you.

I was up early. I was travelling alone to London. The other three Chuckle Brothers were driving up in a separate car. My good friend Jaro from Washington DC, mentioned in the Newcastle United and Aston Villa home games this season, had adeptly coerced his employer to let him work in London for a couple of days to enable him to take in both the Tottenham and Bayern Munich games. I had sorted his Bayern ticket, the Tottenham one needed a little work, but was quickly sorted too. While I was getting ridiculously excited about Buenos Aires the past month, Jaro was imitating me, but he was obsessing about London. I wanted to extend the time I was to spend with Jaro on his trip and we highlighted the Chelsea Supporters’ Trust meeting after the game as a good way of adding to his SW6 adventure. I then decided on the Wednesday to book a hotel so I really could spend some quality time with him, and relax and have a few beers throughout the day. There was a room available in Jaro’s hotel. The perfect day was coming together.

Hence the two Chuckle Busses.

I left my home village at 7am. PD left Frome at 7am too, and we would all meet up four hours later. It did feel odd driving to London for football alone. But it made for a pleasant change. I sped over Salisbury Plain, some music adding to the sense of freedom. Not all of my musical choices are appreciated by the other Chuckle Brothers, cough cough. I was parked up at Barons Court bang on time at 9.20am. Within twenty minutes I walked into the hotel just off Earl’s Court Road, no more than two minutes from the tube station.

At just after 10am, we walked into “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge. My good pal Dave – “Benches 1984” – was already there and supping a pint. It was his first visit to this homely little boozer and he immediately fell in love with it. I did the introductions between Jaro and Dave – Warsaw, now DC, and St. Albans, now Northampton – and we shared some laughs.

Three or four Old Bill walked in – there had been a similar presence before the West Ham game back in November – and twenty minutes later some of our faces walked in too. Drinks were ordered, and they stood outside, mobile phones at the ready.

Tottenham, it seemed, were in town.

At about 11.15am, we caught the District Line train up to Fulham Broadway and the three of us dipped into “Simmons” to tie up with The Chuckle Brothers and a few more familiar faces. Jaro recognised a few from his last trip in December.

I spoke to Rob, the pal who walked out on Monday night with fifteen minutes to go. We just hoped that there would not be – please God, no – a repeat against Tottenham.

Beers were quickly quaffed. It was time to head up to the game. It was mild outside. Walking past Fulham Broadway, we heard the clop of police horses heading up towards the North End Road where we heard on the grapevine there had been a stand-off involving a little mob of Tottenham outside “The Goose.”

Outside the West Stand, I took a photo of a smiling Jaro. The holocaust memorial was hanging to the right of the main entrance; quite striking.

Jaro peeled off to go into The Shed Upper.

I was inside the Matthew Harding with a nice fifteen minutes or so to go.

The team?

Frank had decided to repeat the formation that worked so well at Tottenham in December. In came, especially, Marcos Alonso.

Caballero

Azpilicueta – Chistensen – Rudiger

James – Kovacic – Jorginho – Alonso

Barkley – Mount

Giroud

Tottenham’s team included several players who meant absolutely nothing to me.

The teams emerged. Both teams were wearing blue tracksuits, but these were peeled off to reveal Chelsea royal blue shirts and Tottenham lily-livered white shirts.

The “six trophies” flag was passed over the heads of those in The Shed Upper, close to where Jaro would be watching.

The game kicked-off.

A little cat-and-mouse, a low shot from an angle by Lucas Moura – “I recognise him” – was easily saved by Big Willy. Chelsea began to grow. A shot from Mount was saved by Hugo Lloris. Ross Barkley had impressed in the first few forays and a strong shot from him was met with a lovely and warm round of applause.

“Come on Chelsea.”

After fifteen minutes, with Chelsea definitely the stronger, Jorginho worked the ball beautifully to Olivier Giroud. His shot, inside the box, drew a low save from Lloris with his feet. The ball rebounded to Ross Barkley. His shot dambustered against the post, and – we were all on edge now – the ball rebounded out once more. Again, it fell at a Chelsea player’s feet. Olivier Giroud touched it once to control it and then smashed it heavenly home.

Shot, save, shot, post, shot, goal.

GETINYOUFUCKINGBASTARD.

Yes.

Noise, and then some.

In 1974, my second-ever Chelsea game and my first ever Chelsea vs. Tottenham game, we went 1-0 up early on via a John Hollins penalty. Jaro’s first-ever Chelsea vs. Tottenham game had started similarly.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

We quipped about VAR…”shall we wait?”

Nah.

Definite goal.

We smiled.

It had the feel of Kerry at Highbury in 1984 about it. Everyone up, then up, then up again.

For once, the scorer forgot about the protocol of running to the corners – definitely a Chelsea thing – and Giroud fell on the floor as he headed towards the Chelsea bench. He was swamped by his team mates. Click, click, click.

Such joy, such noise.

I needed to be with Rob, who was sitting five yards away. I raced up the steps…gave him a hug and said.

“That goal was kosher, mate.”

At that exact moment, the stadium groaned and we saw…dumbstruck…that the goal was being reviewed for a possible offside.

We were both silenced. No words.

I leaned on the crush barrier at the base of the steps, my head bowed, Rob alongside me, almost a mirror image. Oh my bloody God.

After a few seconds…agonising seconds…THIS IS NOT FOOTBALL…the goal stood.

I hate…well, you know the rest.

A magnificent shot from Marcos Alonso almost made it two-nil. We were running at Tottenham with one Willy in and one Willy out. We were creating danger and finding gaps. Mason Mount was the catalyst, a great show of aggressiveness and determination. I liked Barkley and Kovacic too. Giroud was leading the line well. At times, I felt Reece James was not used enough. He often had tons of space.

The noise was alright. Not 2000 levels, nor 2010, but not bad.

“Quietest I have known Tottenham, Al.”

Tottenham had one or two chances, and from a quick corner, Davidson Sanchez’ back-header looped up and Caballero did ever so well to back pedal and tip over the bar. There was a last chance for the away team as Caballero got his angles wrong but the ball just bounced past the far post.

But we were well on top at the break.

The second-half began. And how. It was a dream re-start.

Giroud headed on to a raiding Mason Mount. My camera was in my hand. I captured his jinking run, and his lay-off to Ross Barkley. I oddly captured the ball, all by itself, on its way to the trusted left boot of none other than Marcos Alonso.

His shot.

My shot.

His goal.

Our goal.

GET IN.

The lovely jump – “I thank you” – by Alonso was followed by him getting mobbed by all.

“Scenes.”

Beautiful.

It felt that Marcos Alonso should never leave us, even if he only plays two games a season until he is fifty years old. Where can I sign that petition?

Just after the goal, Ross Barkley turned on a sixpence down below us and walloped a great effort towards the goal that Lloris did well to block high under the bar.

We were purring.

Good times.

But modern football is modern football and VAR will not go away.

Well, dear reader, I have a semi-apology. Just in the same way that I never clearly saw the Harry Maguire incident on Monday – ironically in the same part of the pitch – I did not really see the horrific challenge by Giovani Lo Celso on Dave. I saw the tackle, but not the fine detail. Others – ha – had a much clearer view.

VAR was signalled, no red card, I didn’t know how to react. The game continued.

This was a lovely game, and a nice atmosphere, everyone happy with our general play and with Mason Mount really doing well. Despite the face mask hinting at a need to be a little cautious, I thought Andreas Christensen had a very fine game indeed. Top marks.

A couple of friends were to text me later – during the course of the game – that the VAR team at Stockley Park admitted to getting the red card call wrong which I would find laughable if it wasn’t so sad.

Fucking hell.

Chaos theory.

Stop the world I want to get off.

Tammy Abraham replaced the excellent Olivier Giroud on seventy-one minutes. Soon after, Willian replaced Barkley. Both received fine applause as they left the pitch.

Mason looked exhausted, and we thought he might be replaced. With that, he had a lovely burst of energy and laid a pass on a plate for Tammy, only six yards out, but his touch was not robust enough. Lloris easily saved. He later went close himself, but just ran out of steam.

Next, a trademark swipe of a free-kick from Marcos Alonso, now revelling in this game. His beautiful effort smacked the crossbar. The whole goal frame shook.

Tottenham did have a fair run of the ball in the last twenty minutes, but never looked like being able to do anything with it. Their late consolation – a poor excuse of a goal, a Lamela shot that limply hit Antonio Rudiger’s leg to trickle past Caballero – gave the game a little edge, but we held on.

So, this season –

Tottenham Hotspur 0 Chelsea 2

Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 1

Franktastic.

Walking out, I posted on “Facebook” with a nod to Tottenham’s “Audere est Facere” motto.

“To do is to beat Tottenham.”

Bollocks to daring, we just do it.

Year after fucking year.

At the Peter Osgood statue, I met up with Jaro, who had clearly enjoyed the most perfect of experiences.

“Enjoy this mate. Soak it all up. These moments don’t come by too often. Let’s go get a beer.”

We retired to “The Atlas” and attended the CST meeting. Sadly, the representatives from the Metropolitan Police – who had been pencilled in for a Q&A session regarding the policing of Stamford Bridge – were ironically “otherwise engaged”.

Well it was Chelsea Tottenham, after all.

What a to do.

We stayed for a while, we chatted to a few good folk, then headed into town for some more “Peroni.”

It had, indeed, been a perfect day.

Tales From A Lilywhite Christmas Present

Posted on December 25, 2019 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2019.

On the drive to London, PD and I were not confident at all about our chances of drawing, let alone winning, at Tottenham Hotspur’s glistening new stadium, that they have decided to name – showing amazing intuition and originality – the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. We were on a dismal little run of games and “that lot” had – heaven knows how – managed to score goals for fun under their new manager Jose Mourinho, picking up wins in most of the games under his tutelage.

The signs did not look good.

I had spent the previous afternoon at Badgers Hill watching a Betvictor Southern League Division One South game between Frome Town and Thatcham Town. I had met up with a pal in the town centre, bustling with Christmas shoppers, for a pre-match drink and had assembled at the Frome ground with close on four hundred others for a top of the table clash, pitting my local team against the team in second place. Despite blustery and difficult conditions, Frome Town flew into a deserved 2-0 lead at the break, but the recent rain had left areas of mud all over the pitch. With around twenty minutes remaining, a crunching tackle took place in a particularly sticky and dangerous patch of mud, for which the word quagmire could well have been invented, and the referee brandished a yellow card, and had no real option but to abandon the game.

It was the first game in my match-going life that had been abandoned during play.

My mind had whirred into gear :

“…mmm, I wonder if I will be wishing for an abandonment at Tottenham tomorrow?”

Deep down, I wondered if the abandonment was a foretaste of gloomier things on the Sunday.

Some more bad news; Parky was unable to come with us. Not only was he unwell, his village was unreachable, isolated by flooded country lanes. So, a double whammy.

As I drove towards Stonehenge I saw a tailback and wondered if my finely-tuned journey to London was about to be disrupted and that the gloom would continue. There were police cars ahead.

“What’s this PD? Hunt saboteurs?”

No, I was quickly reminded of the date. The Winter Solstice. Within a minute or so, we were flagged through by the police as they then returned to their task of funneling the revellers away from their designated car park.

I continued on.

At least the weather was fine. The roads were clear. There was a hint of winter sun. I was grasping at positives.

“Should be a clear drive in, mate.”

PD and I chatted about the Champions League draw, and our plans for getting to Munich. I won’t bore everyone this far out, but it will be a carbon copy of 2012; flights from Bristol to Prague, a night in Prague, coach to and from Prague to Munich, a night in Munich. That’s still three months away. It will take ages to finally arrive. But it is a lovely “gift” at the end of a potentially cold winter spell.

At around 10.45am, we stopped for a bite to eat at a “Greggs” on the A303, and then I drove straight in to London, the roads ridiculously clear of traffic. At midday – exactly as I had planned – we were parked-up outside Barons Court tube station.

Inside my head : “at least this was a perfect start to the day.”

We made our way in to town. Throughout all the years of going to Tottenham, there has never been a set routine. I know that a lot mob up at Liverpool Street at “The Hamilton Hall” or “Railway Tavern” but on the one occasion that I did that, it did not look an awful lot of fun; packed pubs, loons chanting, the OB filming everyone. Not for me.

I had other plans.

We had a few hours to kill.

Leading up to my planning for this game, I remembered a pub crawl that I had sorted for the lads for our home game with Manchester City last season; it was centered on Whitehall. Sadly, I was too ill to attend, so the pub crawl never happened. Bearing in mind that we won – against all odds – that day, the superstitious part of me decided to have another stab at it.

So, from 12.30pm to around 2.45pm, PD and I visited “The Clarence”, “The Old Shades”, “The Silver Cross” and “Walkers of Whitehall”, all of which are within one hundred yards of each other. It was a lovely and relaxing time, away from the madness of Liverpool Street.

We toasted absent friends – not just Parky, there were friends that had missed out on tickets for this, the most sought-after away game in years and years – and chatted about European games past, European games present and European games future.

One thing struck me.

“Still not seen any Tottenham fans, nor Chelsea fans for that matter.”

London would be full of 61,000 match-goers, but we had seen not one of them the entire day, or at least nobody sporting club favours, more to the point.

As we walked from one glorious boozer to the next, pub two to pub three – a full six yards – PD moaned.

“I do wish you wouldn’t make me walk so far between pubs, Chris.”

Our drinking over – I was mixing my drinks, lagers and cokes, the designated driver – we moved on. We walked to Charing Cross station and then caught the Northern Line to Tottenham Court Road. From there, the Central Line to Liverpool Street.

“Still no Tottenham. Still no Chelsea.”

At Liverpool Street, up on the concourse, I looked around and saw a familiar face.

Les from Melksham, but no club colours of course.

We hopped onto the 3.30pm train with only a few seconds to spare.

Perfect timing.

On the train – at last a few Tottenham scarves – we sat with Les and some Chelsea mates, no colours. We ran through the team.

“Three at the back, then.”

“Alonso.”

“Mason.”

This train seemed to take forever.

At just before 4pm, it slowed and we pulled into White Hart Lane station, which – in order to cope with an extra 25,000 match-goers every fortnight – had undergone a fine upgrade.

In the distance, high above the shop fronts on the High Road, a first glimpse of the steel and glass of their new gaff.

We approached the stadium, time moving on now, ten past four, but realised that there was no noticeable signage for away fans. We were shooed north, through a supermarket car park – ambush anyone? – and out on to Northumberland Park. Another glimpse of the outer shell of the stadium, and then the approach to the away section. But here, it seemed that the planners had realised way too late that the away turnstiles were several feet higher than pavement level, resulting in some short steep steps being required to lift fans the final few yards.

An odd arrangement. I have no doubt that the Tottenham stadium is better than the Arsenal one, but it certainly seems cramped. There is not the space nor sense of space that you encounter at The Emirates.

Amid all of this rush to get in, I needed to collect tickets for future games.

Twenty past four.

Thankfully, I spotted one friend – “three for Southampton” – right at the top of the steps from the pavement.

Perfect.

I spotted lines of stewards all lined up, patting people down, and with tables for bag searches too. I had no time for that. I gazed into the distance, avoided eye-contact and shimmied past about eight stewards, with body swerves that JPR Williams would have been proud. Not one single search. Get in. I flashed my ticket against the sensor and I was inside.

The first person that I saw in our cramped concourse was the other friend – “Brighton away” – and I was sorted.

A double dose of “perfect.”

Twenty-five minutes past four.

Chelsea were banging on the metallic panels of the concourse, kicking up a mighty fine racket. I needed to use the little boys’ room. Rush, rush, rush.

Phew.

As I entered the seating bowl, I saw the Chelsea players break from the line-up and race over to us.

Chelsea in all blue. Love those red, white and blue socks.

We had made it.

Two minutes to go.

Perfect.

More positivity.

Initial thoughts about the stadium?

Impressive.

They have obviously learned from Arsenal’s mistakes (seats too far from the pitch, a shallow rake in the lower tier, corporate tiers that get in the way of a continuous wall of noise) and – bloody hell – that single tier at the South End reaches high into the sky. It is very impressive.

(A note to the fools who still blather on about a similar single tiered Shed End at a revamped Stamford Bridge – where are we going to get the room to do that, then?)

I really do not know why the place isn’t still called White Hart Lane though. If anything, the new stadium is nearer the street by the same name by a good fifty yards.

Naming rights, I guess.

I Hate Modern Football Part 519.

Everyone – apart from Parky – was in, and the 3,000 away fans in our section around the north-east corner flag seemed more.

We were ready.

But first, a moment to remember a hero from 1966, Martin Peters, who sadly passed away the previous day. I am not old enough to remember Peters as a West Ham player, but I certainly remember him as a Tottenham player alongside Chivers, Gilzean, England, Jennings and all. He is a strong link to my childhood, so he is another one will who be sadly missed.

There was warm applause from both sets of fans.

RIP.

The game began, and how.

In the first two minutes it was all Chelsea, in the first five minutes it was all Chelsea, in the first ten minutes it was all Chelsea.

It was as if we were the home team.

And I’ll say this. I was expecting great things from the wall of support from the opposite end – after all, they hate us right? – but the lack of noise from the Tottenham fans really surprised me. They had been right on it at Wembley in 2008, and at virtually every game at the old White Hart Lane around that era, but this was a very poor show.

On the pitch, everyone shone, confidently passing to each other, with the wide full-backs stretching play nicely. There were a couple of half-chances from us and yet nothing from Tottenham. From my lowly position – row seven – I did not have a great view of our attacks down the left, but it was from this area that provided some early cheer.

A corner played short by Willian to Kovacic was returned to him. The Brazilian received the ball, fleet-footed it into space and in prime territory, curled a shot (I was right behind the course of the ball once again) past Paulo Gazzaniga into the goal in front of seventeen thousand of the fuckers.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Just before the goal, a fan had tapped me on the back to tell me that Andy from Trowbridge had spotted me; he had prime seats above the exit to my right. I seized the moment and snapped Andy’s euphoric celebrations.

And then it was time for me to smile, to scream, to celebrate.

Good on you, Willian.

Braziliant.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Phew.

This was a dream start.

We continued on in the same vein for the next portion of the game; always in control, always looking to puncture the Tottenham defence with incisive passing, always determined to halt any approach by the home team. We had chances throughout that first-half, with Tammy looking vibrant, but they had to wait for their first one.

On the half-hour, Harry Kane skied a chance from close in, and not long after Son Hueng Min walloped a shot high too, though from a tighter angle.

The three defenders looked in control and relaxed. This might not be our standard formation for much of the remainder of this season but here it worked a treat.

Tomori. Zouma. Rudiger.

“Young, gifted and at the back.” (…thanks for the inspiration John Drewitt, the cheque is in the post.)

Tottenham – damn, another cliché – really were chasing shadows.

They were simply not in it.

At all.

Chelsea were in fine voice. One song dominated.

“We’ve got Super Frankie Lampard. He knows exactly what we need. Tomori at the back. Tammy in attack. Chelsea’s gonna win the Champions League.”

And it repeated and repeated. I am sure the watching millions heard it on TV because it was deathly silent in all of the 58,000 seats of the home areas.

Another tried an tested chant was aired :

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

On the balcony walls between the tiers, electronic messages flashed.

“THE GAME IS ABOUT GLORY.”

Snigger snigger.

“THIS IS MY CLUB, MY ONE AND ONLY CLUB.”

Yes, and you are fucking welcome to it.

“COME ON YOU SPURS.”

Fuck off you Spurs.

There was a worrying moment when Kepa hesitated to reach a ball into the box and he was clattered by Moussa Sissoko. Just after, there was a kerfuffle involving Kovacic, Kane, Rudiger, Zouma and Delle Ali. It was clear that tensions were rising.

Over on the far touchline, Frank Lampard was the more animated of the two managers by far, constantly cajoling and encouraging his players whereas Jose Mourinho looked unresponsive.

Some in the Chelsea end roared “Fuck off Mourinho” but that chant was not for me.

Forty-five minutes were up, but the first-half was far from finished. Willian lobbed the ball in to the box but the Tottenham ‘keeper bizarrely, and dangerously, chose to claim the ball with a ridiculously high challenge (reminiscent of Schumacher versus Battiston in 1982) and almost decapitated Alonso. For reasons known only to the referee Anthony Taylor, he awarded a free-kick to Tottenham.

We were rightly incandescent with anger.

“His legs were up before Alonso even got close. For fuck sake.”

Then, VAR.

I made a pact with myself – as did Alan, two seats along – not to cheer if the decision went our way.

VAR – penalty.

All eyes on Willian. A halt in his run, but his shot was to the ‘keeper’s left as was the first goal.

GET IN.

What a half of football.

The referee blew up and the Chelsea faithful roared. It had been, make no mistake, a beautiful half of football. At half-time, as I gleefully trotted through the away seats and out to the concourse, shaking hands with a few, and hugging a few more, and I can rarely remember such a joyous bunch at half-time anywhere. And it was great to see a few old stagers present – you know who you are – who had managed to beg, steal or borrow to get in.

Good times.

On the way up in the car, we had highlighted Son as probably Tottenham’s most influential player, but Christian Eriksen was surely not far behind. It was a surprise that Mourinho had not picked him to start, but he replaced Eric Dier as the second-half began.

There were two early attempts on goal from Tammy, and as the game continued it was the away team who still dominated.

Inside my head : “bloody hell, we can do this.”

Willian was bundled off the pitch, and found himself way below the pitch behind the goal. Just like at Old Trafford, there is a marked “fall-off” from the pitch to the surrounds of the stands. I was reminded that there was a retractable NFL – another reason to hate the twats – pitch under the grass pitch for football at this new stadium.

Inside my head : “and below that, a fucking full size circus ring.”

At around the hour mark, my visibility not great, I was vaguely aware of the “coming together” of Son and Rudiger down on the Spurs left. I honestly did not see anything, and perhaps my mind was elsewhere.

Out of nowhere, VAR became involved. Nobody around me really knew what was going on. The TV screen displayed “possible violent conduct” but we were clueless. After a good minute or so, probably more, came the message :

“Decision Red Card. Violent Conduct.”

And Taylor brandished the red to Son.

Oh my days.

Could life get any better?

In the aftermath of this incident, we spotted a few Tottenham fans getting up from their seats and it appeared that they were doing one of three things :

Heading off to try one of the craft ales on sale at the “Moustachioed & Bearded Hipster” bar.

Heading off to buy some Christmas presents at one of the ninety-seven retail outlets at the new stadium.

Heading home.

I suspect the latter, don’t you?

There were a couple of long announcements about “racist chanting” on the PA, but I did not think that this was in any way related to any one incident that had just taken place. I only learned about this while heading back in to London long after the game had finished. For the record, there was only a barely audible “Y” word at the end of the “Barcelona, Real Madrid” chant from the Chelsea contingent, most people deciding not to join in, and many deciding to “sssshhhhh.”

The game continued. It was eleven against ten, we were 2-0 up at the home of our bitterest rivals on our first-ever visit to their new gaff.

Oh, and our Frank was having the best of it against a formerly-loved, but now derided, manager.

“We used to love you Jose, but you’re a bit of a twat really aren’t you?”

Although there was not the high quality of the first-half, everywhere I looked there were sublime performances. Kante was his usual self, winning virtually all the 50/50 battles. One strong run was the stuff of legend. Mount ran and ran and ran, his energy just fantastic. Willian was sublime, the man of the match by far. One piece of control on the far side was worth the admission money alone. Special praise for Marcos Alonso too, a game that reminded me of his special role in 2016/17. I loved the spirited Azpilicueta too. I admired how he stretched – and reached – for a high ball that was going off for a throw-in, thus keeping the ball “live.”

Inside my head : “if I had tried that, I would have sprained seven different muscles, two of which weren’t even mine.”

Jorginho for Kovacic.

A Kante swipe from distance went close.

Reece James for Azpilicueta.

Michy Batshuayi for Abraham.

Fresh legs.

We dominated still. Tottenham were now launching balls high from deep.

“Hoof.”

Or “Huth” to be more precise. Remember Mourinho playing him upfront a few times? I think we should have seen that as a warning sign way back in 2005.

Eight minutes of added time were signalled.

Oh boy.

There was still time for a couple of lightning breaks – Willian usually involved – and Michy went close with a left-footed strike from outside the box. At the other end, the stadium now full of empty seats, Kane – who? – forced Kepa to make his very first save of the entire game.

I watched as the referee blew up and a forest of Chelsea arms flew into the air.

There was a little lull…a feeling of “I can’t believe this” permeated the mild North London air, and then the players and managers walked over towards us. I clambered up on to my seat (I noted that there are horizontal retaining bars above the back of each seat, almost paving the way – I suppose – for safe standing…well done Tottenham) and waited. I then photographed the frenzy of smiles, laughs, hugs and fist punches.

Then, ridiculously, the Tottenham PA chose to play the de facto Christmas song from my childhood (I can vividly remember sitting around the lunch table at my primary school in December 1973 when Slade’s “Merry Christmas Everybody” took over the number one slot).

“Are you hanging up a stocking on your wall?
It’s the time that every Santa has a ball.
Does he ride a red-nosed reindeer?
Does a ton-up on his sleigh?
Do the fairies keep him sober for a day?

So here it is, Merry Xmas.
Everybody’s having fun.
Look to the future now.
It’s only just begun.”

It wasn’t quite ten thousand Jocks singing “Rocking All Over The World” at half-time at Wembley in 1996, but it felt good enough.

What a giggle.

Frank was a picture. Look at the evidence below.

No words.

Outside, PD and I darted into “Sam’s Chicken” on the High Road to let the crowds subside. The food warmed us, and the dead man’s stare of many a Tottenham fan made me giggle some more.

We had not let them play, and they had been oh-so poor. It was a lovely Christmas present from them on our first-ever visit to their new home.

We caught a train back to Liverpool Street at about 7.30pm. Who should scuttle past me on the platform but Dan Levene? I would soon learn about the “racist chanting” and I wondered what spin he would put on it all.

Inside the train compartment, I spotted the actor Matthew Horne who plays Gavin in the excellent “Gavin & Stacey” comedy series on the BBC. He is a Tottenham fan in the show and I knew that he was a Tottenham fan in real life too. He was with his girlfriend so I left him alone. He was, oddly, combining a white and navy bar scarf with a Stone Island jacket.

Inside my head : “typical Tottenham.”

I overheard him say :

“We just didn’t show up today.”

That raised a giggle too.

After changing tube lines a few times, we eventually reached Barons Court at 9pm. It was a quiet but peaceful ride home and we reached Frome at 11pm.

It was, after all the initial worry, a bloody perfect day out.

Next up, Southampton at home on Boxing Day.

See you in the pub. Don’t be late.

Tales From This Football Life

Posted on August 13, 2019 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 11 August 2019.

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Exactly one year after our first league game of last season, we were on the road to a northern city once again. On the eleventh day of August in 2018, we assembled in Huddersfield for new manager Maurizio Sarri’s opener. That day felt like a huge step into the wide unknown, and a step outside of our comfort zone. It was meant to be intoxicating and different, with a new system, new players and a new approach. It wasn’t a bad day out at all to be honest. It was an easy win. At the end of that game though, I noted that the new manager did not walk over to us at the end of the game. I was to learn later that it was one of his many quirks and superstitions to never enter the pitch on game day.

What an odd fellow he was.

But one thing is for certain. If somebody had suggested that come the opening league game of the following season – and despite a third place finish, a domestic cup final appearance and a Europa League win – Frank Lampard would be our manager, there would have been widespread surprise and disbelief.

But this is football these days. Or, rather, this is Chelsea these days. Nothing is for certain, nothing seems constant, nothing seems ordinary.

Yes, dear reader, season 2019/20 was upon us with our beloved and admired former midfielder in charge and the general consensus within the Chelsea Nation was that it was time for the nonsense to stop. We just wanted a period of stability within the club. We wanted Frank Lampard to oversee a calm period. The transfer ban meant that for a year or so, we would have to look within ourselves – in more ways than one – and promote from our ranks. Again, the consensus was that we were OK with that, not that we had any choice.

Pre-season had been completed; seven games all told. I had managed to get to two of them; the wins in Dublin and Reading. My season opener against St. Pat’s was a full four weeks ago but it had felt like a short close season and time had soon passed.

The season was now upon us.

We were on our way.

It was going to be, inevitably, a long day on the road in support of The Great Unpredictables. I had woken one minute before my alarm clock at 7.30am – I suppose this loosely means that I was ready – and I collected PD and Glenn at 9.30am, and Parky at 10am. The first part of the journey was not devoted to football, but rather an update on various health issues that have affected the four of us, and some of our loved ones, over the summer. Thankfully, news was generally upbeat. Of the four of us inside The Chuckle Bus, I was able to report – perhaps – the healthiest news. I have been on a diet of late and am pleased with my progress.

And then we spoke about the football.

Many words were shared.

My take was this :

“Happy with the ‘keeper. Not sure about the defence, especially now that Luiz has gone. That might be a big loss. He’s experienced and a good presence. But – let’s be frank, or even Frank – if he didn’t want to fight to retain his place, then he is best away. We are over stacked in midfield. Some real talents there. Especially if Ross and Ruben step up. But our attack worries me. Not sure about either of the three central strikers. Giroud is half a striker. Michy is half a striker. Tammy is half a striker. Real worries exist.”

Somerset, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Worcestershire.

There were periods of rain, periods of cloud, brief periods of sun.

Stupidly, I hadn’t packed a light rain jacket, only a thick coat from last season remained in my boot. I was horrified by my tactical naivety.

We glossed over the games so far. Typical heavy wins for City and Liverpool. A late, horrible, win for Tottenham. I hoped that Arsenal, never good travellers, might come unstuck at the day’s early game at Newcastle.

Staffordshire, Cheshire, Lancashire.

We recalled the horror show which had unfolded at West Ham; the VAR crimes on football, the frustration of ecstasy being denied, the ersatz pleasure of applauding an electronic decision, the mess of it all.

Fucking hell.

There had been delays en route, but this is nothing new on the M5 and M6. As with the previous two visits to Old Trafford, we called into The Beehive, just off junction nineteen of the M6. Waiting for us to arrive, at just gone 2pm, was my old college mate Rick, from nearby Northwich, and a long time United season ticket holder. It was a pleasure to see him once more. Since graduating in 1987 and going our separate ways, it was only the fourth time that we had seen each other, but it is always lovely to see a face from the past. We chatted about our summers, our thoughts on the immediate season, and about mutual friends from those grainy days in Stoke-on-Trent in the mid-‘eighties.

“To be honest, we were glad to see the back of Mourinho in the end.”

And we knew exactly how Rick felt.

I mentioned to Rick how the highlight of my summer was a weekend flit over to Italy three weeks ago, primarily to meet up with my oldest friend in the whole wide world Mario, who was visiting his father in the town on the Italian Riviera where I first met him in 1975. Mario has appeared within these reports over the years as an endearing token of how football can add so much to our lives through the people that we meet along the way. People are mistaken if they think that football is just about tactics, players, formations, counter-attacks, transition, blocks, presses and assists.

Football is about people. It’s about the fans. The ones we meet. The ones who provide humour and laughter. The ones who provide comfort and support. The ones that you just love meeting again and again.

It’s true with Rick. It’s true with Mario.

In Diano Marina, it was magical to step inside Mario’s family home for the first time since 1988, and to meet his father Franco – now a ridiculously healthy and busy eighty-four-year-old, but still suffering as a long time Genoa fan – for the first time since then. Since those days of my youth, I had met Mario, and stayed at his house, for the Bayer Leverkusen Champions League game in 2011, and then again in 2016 when we toured Stamford Bridge in the morning and saw Leverkusen win 1-0 against Tottenham in the evening.

What memories.

I met up with his wife Gabi, and their football-mad boys Ruben, Nelson and Valentin. They reminded me of us in 1979,1980,1981…absolutely smitten with football, the teams, the players, the history, the colours, the fans.

In Diano Marina, I walked on the section of beach where Mario and I first kicked a ball to each other in 1975, and we re-created a photograph from that summer in his father’s garden, which abuts the Mediterranean Sea, and with a ball always close by.

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What memories.

And we thought of potential Champions League match-ups in 2019/20 involving Chelsea, Bayer Leverkusen (Mario and two of his sons are season ticket holders, Ruben the lone Borussia Dortmund fan) and Juventus (Mario is a long time Juve fan, he had a ticket for Heysel, it is a story told before) and we thought of return visits to London and Leverkusen.

What memories waiting to happen.

This football life is a wonderful thing, eh?

At just after 3pm, we said our goodbyes and set off in our two cars. As the driver, no beers, no Peronis, I wanted to be fresh. There were still clouds overhead. I prayed for no rain, but the forecast was gloomy.

The new A556 link road zoomed us onto the M56, and I found myself navigating the familiar Manchester Orbital once more. At about 3.45pm, we were parked up at the usual garage off Gorse Hill Park. This would be my twenty-fifth visit to Manchester United with Chelsea. In all of the previous twenty-four, I had seen us win just five games; 1985/86, 1986/87, 2004/5, 2009/10 and 2012/13.

We had whispered it among ourselves within the first hour or so of the day’s journey.

“Of course, we could get walloped here.”

There were nods, silent nods.

“Bloody hell, be happy with a draw.”

The rain was holding off. The others had light jackets, I just wore a sombre black Benetton – how ‘eighties – polo.

We were soon at Old Trafford, and the same old approach to the famous stadium. Some United fans aired a new song.

“Harry Maguire. Harry Maguire. He fucked off Leicester for Manchester. His head’s fookin’ massive.”

We dived inside pretty sharpish amid taunts of “Chelsea Rent Boys.”

There were handshakes and nods of acknowledgement with many of the travelling three thousand. I immediately sensed a noisier crowd, a far more enlivened crowd, a happier crowd. The Frank Lampard effect? Oh yes.

We heard the team.

“Mason Mount in, big game for him.”

On the way up in the car, Glenn had asked me who I would start up front.

“I’ll trust Frank, but Giroud has the experience for places like this. I’d start him.”

But it was Tammy.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Christensen – Zouma – Emerson

Jorginho – Kovacic

Pedro – Mount – Barkley

Abraham

It was lovely to see Alan and Gary again. The away club was back together for another season of sunshine and smiles, rain and agony. I stopped to chat to a few in the away quadrant. Our seats were in a similar spot to last season.

Neil Barnett breezed past.

“I’m happy with the team.”

The rain was holding off. Old Trafford looked the same, apart from one or two new banners.

“Every single one of us loves Alex Ferguson.”

I chatted to JD, who had posted on Facebook earlier that he was a little underwhelmed by it all. He aired a few of my pet peeves – VAR, the farce of Baku, a support base that is full of irksome divs – and I tended to agree with him.

I commented :

“When they announced Frank as the manager, I got a proper buzz, but that seems to have worn off a bit. It’s all the other shite that goes with it.”

But JD is a good man and his humour will see him through.

As kick-off time approached, our section was full of support of the new manager but one song dominated, a song from our last visit.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

United were back to their usual white shorts this season, but with a muted red shirt.

Our kit? You know the story. Shudder.

The game began and as usual we attacked the Stretford End. It soon dawned on me that United were doing the defending, they were letting us dominate. How different from days gone by when the midfield would be a warzone, with tackles flying in, and attacks jumping to life when advantage had been gained. United let us play. And we looked good. We played coherently with confidence. After only four of five minutes, a corner was not cleared and Tammy received the ball, spun nicely and unleashed a waist-high drive which bounced back in to play off the far post with De Gea beaten.

The away end “ooooohed.”

A Kurt Zouma error allowed Martial a shot on goal but the effort did not bother Kepa.

We were bossing the game. Barkley looked at ease. Kovacic was winning the ball and moving it on. We definitely had the advantage. A cross from Dave, a shot from Mason Mount. It was going well.

Then, on eighteen minutes, Jorginho swiped at a United attacker but play was moved on, and with Rashford advancing at pace into the box – and with me fearing the worst – a horrible lunge from Zouma gave the referee no option but to award a penalty.

Rashford struck it high past Kepa.

We were 1-0 down.

Bollocks.

We hadn’t allowed the United cheers to subside before we got behind the team, though.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

More of that all season long please.

United, strengthened in spirit and desire after the goal, now dominated for a little spell, though they did not create too much of note.

But Zouma looked at sixes and sevens. He looked clumsy and awkward, like me in front of a woman. His limbs don’t seem to be programmed correctly. The fans around me noticed it too. But we kept the support up.

“One-nil and you still don’t sing.”

It is a mystery how United have the most vociferous away support of any in the top flight yet their home games at Old Trafford tend not to fizz these days. The quietness even shocked me. I almost wanted the bastards to make some noise.

United had the ball in the net a second time though every man and woman in the stadium surely realised that the player was a few yards offside. But on came the VAR review and a huddle of sweaty nerdicians in Stockley Park got to work.

“Offside.”

Thanks for that.

I hate modern football.

Mount chose to pass rather than shoot and there was little weep of frustration. But we kept attacking. A shot from Barkley drew a messy save from De Gea and the rebound was not cleared. Jorginho’s follow-up effort was blocked for a corner. The best chance of the closing moments fell to an unmarked Emerson, who picked up a cross by Jorginho that just evaded the leap of Mount. His swipe hit the same post as Tammy’s effort in the first five minutes.

It was, clearly, one of those halves.

At the break, the mood in the camp was positive.

“How are we losing?” was a common question asked.

I certainly had few complaints, though if I was to be picky, I would look at our A to Z.

Tammy Abraham – I wanted him to move his marker more, be more cunning, be more devilish, be stronger.

Kurt Zouma – I wanted him to look more relaxed, to trust himself more, to look more at ease, to gel.

For old times’ sake, The Baku Half-Time Moaners club was revived as I chatted to Welsh Kev, though to be truthful we had little to moan about. On my way back to my seat, I stated the bloody obvious.

“Next goal is massive.”

There were no changes at the break.

Overhead, the clouds were classic Mancunian. November in August. Tupperware skies.

I commented to Alan :

“Those clouds have more rain in them and this game has more goals in it.”

The second-half began mildly, with no team dominating. Our chances were rare.

On fifty-eight minutes, Christian Pulisic replaced Ross Barkley, who had enjoyed a mixed game and was certainly starting to tire. Pulisic, from Hershey in Pennsylvania, is touted for great things. I have only seen highlights of him, I do not have the time to endlessly gorge on football, but he looks the business. If he can make that tract of land down the left wing his own in the same way that Eden Hazard did from 2012 to 2019, we will all be very happy.

Sadly, on sixty-seven minutes – and with Tammy pole-axed in United’s box – a very quick counter resulted in our defenders scampering around like chickens having glimpsed the pointed ears and bushy tail of a fox enter their coop. A cross from the right from the boot of Andreas Pereira was inch-perfect, but Dave will be unhappy that Martial reached the ball before him. He poked it past Kepa.

We were now 2-0 down.

No way back? Nah. We looked out of it.

Bollocks.

Olivier Giroud replaced Tammy.

Just a couple of minutes later, we were 3-0 down. I must admit that I missed the long pass out of defence from Paul Pogba which lead to Rashford running unhindered through our defence and poking the ball past a hapless Kepa. In the split second that my mind wandered, I found myself looking at the horrific Chelsea tattoo on the shin of a nearby supporter but don’t worry my concentration levels will increase as I get match fit. I saw the neat finish alright. Fuck it.

The United fans went doolally.

There is a problem at Old Trafford. From the curve of the away section, spectators have an unimpeded view of the home supporters down below us, especially in the paddock in front of the old main stand. Their faces were of delirium. They were bloody loving it. I felt ill.

Our little prince N’Golo Kante replaced Jorginho with twenty minutes remaining and I guess that Lampard just wanted to give him “minutes.”

Lo and behold, despite our best efforts to stem the tide and to, maybe just maybe, grab a goal ourselves, the fates contrived against us, and just after an odd moment. Jose Mourinho must’ve been spotted in a TV studio because a sizeable proportion of the United support in the nearby main stand and “Stretty” spotted him and serenaded him

“Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho.”

Now, that was an odd sensation.

With that, United broke – supremely well – and Pogba ran and ran and ran. His cute pass to substitute Daniel James set the debutant up, though he needed two bites of the cherry.

A deflection hindered Kepa and we were 4-0 down.

Fackinell.

My mind spun.

“That’s my biggest defeat up here.”

“The biggest loss to them since the 1994 FA Cup Final.”

“Our biggest opening day loss in memory.”

But most of the Chelsea support stayed to clap the boys off. Frank Lampard approached and clapped us too. He had looked the part the entire game, suited and elegant in the technical area, although he did retire up to the seated area in the stand at 3-0.

The four of us regrouped and began the walk back to the car, up the famous forecourt, where I watched one United lad swagger across, smile wide, and bounce right into the middle of us. I half expected someone to get a clump, but there was no “afters.”

There was the usual “Hollow Hollow Hollow” and yet more “Chelsea Rent Boys” schoolyard chants. We kept together, kept our heads down, looked after each other, moving slowly out.

A few United fans, talking among themselves, said that they had been lucky to get four. I had to agree. It didn’t feel like a 4-0 throughout the match, although at the end I felt it certainly did.

Crossing the main road, I spoke about our attacking options.

“I’m not sure Frank knows who is his best striker. I hope he soon decides. If it is Tammy, then he needs time to embed himself in the team, to work with his team mates, to know when to move, to know when to go.”

The game – yes, I know it is only the first one – worried me.

“I just don’t think we’ll score enough goals this season.”

We walked past supporters’ coaches headed for North Wales, for Fife, for Devon.

In the car, we heard Frank Lampard speak intelligently, with clarity, with a little humility, with calmness.

I expected nothing less really, but it was wonderful to hear someone talk so much sense.

Stuck in traffic, I posted a selfie of the four of us in my car, smiles wide and defiant.

“Oh Chelsea We Love You.”

It ended up getting a lot of likes.

The drive home went well, maybe those tedious trips south after games at Manchester United are a thing of the past.

I was back home at 11.30pm, a little bruised, but still proud to have been at Old Trafford.

Where else would I have rather been?

Nowhere.

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Tales From The United Colours Of Football

Posted on April 30, 2019 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 28 April 2019.

There was definitely a different vibe going into the away game at Old Trafford compared to the match at Anfield a fortnight earlier. For the Liverpool game, it was all about damage limitation. With hindsight, a draw was a rather fanciful hope. Along with Manchester City, Liverpool have been head and shoulders ahead of the pack this season. A loss against Klopp’s team was almost inevitable. But an away game against Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s miss-firing team was an entirely different proposition. Due to our lack of potency in front of goal, I was still pragmatic / pessimistic (delete where appropriate) about us scoring, so my prediction was a 0-0 draw. But this was a result that was far more difficult to call. On the drive up in the car – I won’t bore everyone into the early stages of rigor mortis, our drive up to Manchester United takes the same form as always – I explained my thoughts to P Diddy and L Parky.

“Hey, this could be a game where we play well and lose, or it could be a game where we play crap and win. We could lose three-nil or we could win three-nil.”

This was a familiar drive north indeed.

I was parked up at the usual place, a twenty-minute walk away from the famous crossroads on the Chester Road, where the match day experience at Old Trafford starts to crackle and to ignite. “The Bishop Blaize” pub, the row of take-aways, the Red Devils and Lou Macari fish and chip shops, the coming together of United fans from all parts of the city, the north-west, the United Kingdom, Europe and the world, the “Trafford” pub, the lights of the Lancashire Cricket Ground, the fanzine sellers, the off-licences, the match-day routines.

As I looked over at the “Trafford” pub, I was reminded of a few scenes set in and around Old Trafford during the film “Charlie Bubbles” that featured the recently departed actor Albert Finney – a local boy made good both in this film and in real life – and I remembered that the mock Tudor beams, still visible in 2019, were able to be spotted in the film too.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfFTeiV_ti4

This piece of film is from a match day in October 1966, and depicts the walk to Old Trafford – along what is now Sir Matt Busby Way – that Finney and his son took, ending up with a walk across the forecourt. The three of us were taking this exact same route in 2019. There is something warming about that. That the match featured fleetingly in the film was our away game at Old Trafford makes the clip even more poignant.

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I am adamant that Albert Finney was on the pitch before a United vs. Chelsea game in relatively recent times. Maybe the 2-2 FA Cup game a few seasons ago.

This would be my twenty-fourth away game at Old Trafford with Chelsea. That’s one more than the twenty-three that I have made with Chelsea to Anfield. But there have been two FA Cup semi-final visits too, against Liverpool in 2006 and Blackburn Rovers in 2007. On both of these occasions, we were in the Stretford End, mirroring the location of our support in the 1970 FA Cup Final replay. It is not known which end was Chelsea in the Khaki Cup Final of 1915.

2007 A

For the 2006 game, with Chelsea looking likely to dominate English football for a while, we produced stickers which were applied with liberal abandon on anything that we could find.

2006 A

I always rate the London derby with Tottenham as the biggest home game of the season, but I make our annual trip to Old Trafford as our biggest away game.

We have certainly had some history in this famous old stadium, certainly 1915 and 1970, but in recent years too.

Here are some moments from the previous ten league visits.

2008/09

Five minutes later I was on the forecourt, scene of much ‘naughtiness’ in days of yore. The new ‘United Trinity’ statue of Best / Law / Charlton was the new focal point. It’s a splendid statue actually, facing the one of Matt Busby, beneath the Manchester United sign on the East Stand. As I took a couple of photos, I noted one middle-aged bloke say ‘who is the bald one?’ I had great pleasure in answering him.

2009/10

And then it happened. A through ball from Kalou, the other sub, and Drogba was offside…but no flag…

”Go on my son.”

Drogba slammed the ball towards Van der Sar and the net rippled. Is there a more beautiful sight in football? That was it. We exploded. I screamed, then jumped up onto my seat and ended up in the row in front. Gary ended up two rows in front. I screamed and shouted “it was offside, it was offside – you beauty!”

The consensus was that, yes, Didi was offside, but we couldn’t care.

2010/11

I texted a curt “well done” to four United friends from back home at the final whistle and I was soon out on the forecourt, battling the gentle slope and the crowing United fans alike. Parky had been delayed in his exit; he had said that two United fans – not from England – had somehow got tickets in the away seats and had unzipped their jackets at the end of the game to reveal red shirts. A punch in the face from an enraged Chelsea fan was the response.

Not big, not clever, but totally understandable.

2011/12

A few years back, you would see banners which said “Exeter Reds”, “Devon Reds”, “Dublin Reds” and “Malta Reds” at away games. Today, it seems that you are now more likely to see “Urmston Reds”, “Salford Reds”, Sale Reds and “Clayton Reds.” It’s as if they are reclaiming Mancunia as their own. There always used to be a certain amount of “niggle” among local United fans and their fans from elsewhere in the UK. This is certainly true of Liverpool, too. There is a notion that out-of-town United fans are the glory hunters, forever besmirching the name of Manchester United. It was United who invented the derogatory nickname “day-trippers” which described the out-of-towners arriving en masse at Old Trafford, buying United paraphernalia and not really “getting” what United is about.

2012/13

Inside Old Trafford, we took our seats in row 24, in the side section where the 500 or so away season-ticket holders were allocated. There were familiar faces everywhere. Sadly, I soon spotted a section of around four-hundred seats in the away section which had not been sold. I have never known us not to sell our three thousand seats at Old Trafford ever before. It made me angry.

“The fcuking seats are fcuking red.
The fcuking fans are home instead.
The fcuking seats are full of air.
The fcuking seats are fcuking spare.”

2013/14

It didn’t take long for me to find my gaze centered on the twin figures of Jose Mourinho and David Moyes. Not long into the game, we sung Jose’s name and he flapped a quick wave of acknowledgement. A torrent of abuse from the Stretford End – “Fuck Off Mourinho” – was met by a wave too. Mourinho, hands in pockets, relaxed, was clearly revelling in the moment. He was on centre-stage at Old Trafford, enjoying the limelight, loving the drama. Moyes, in comparison, looked stiff and awkward. It can’t be easy for Moyes to have to face the mammoth north stand, with fifteen feet high letters denoting Sir Alex Ferguson, at every home game. I noted that Mourinho chose to wear a neat grey pullover with his Hackett suit; a style much favoured by Roberto di Matteo last season. The urbane Mourinho, like so many Europeans, can carry off the pullover and suit combination, but I often think that Englishmen wearing the same seem to resemble sweaty librarians or train spotters with personal hygiene deficiencies. Just think Sam Allardyce.

2014/15

Hazard was clean in on goal, but De Gea was able to save. The Chelsea choir looked away disconsolately, but roared the team on as a corner was rewarded. I held my camera still and waited for the ball to reach the box. In a flash, I saw Didier Drogba leap, virtually untroubled, at the near post. I clicked. The ball crashed into the net and the three-thousand Chelsea fans in the south-east corner screamed in ecstasy. I was knocked sideways, then backwards and I clung on to the chap next to me, not wanting to fall back and injure myself. If the goal was a virtual carbon copy of Didier’s leap and header in Munich, then so too were the celebrations. This time, though, I managed to keep hold of my glasses. The scenes were of pandemonium; away goals in big games are celebrated like no other. I steadied myself just in time to witness Didier and his team mates celebrating wildly in front of us. Euphoria.

I had one thought : “Munichesque.”

2015/16

We were simply over-run and out-paced and out-played. From Alan’s seemingly reassuring words about a rather reasonable start, it seemed that all of that pent-up angst and anger about their inability to play expansive and thrilling football in “the United way” was being unleashed, and for my eyes especially. Ivanovic, so often the culprit in this car-crash of a football season – but seemingly improved of late – was back to his infuriating form of August and September, allowing Anthony Martial a ridiculous amount of space, then seemed unwilling to challenge. Martial struck a low shot against Courtois’ near post and we watched as it spun across the six-yard box. Thankfully there were no United attackers in the vicinity. The home team continued to dominate, and Rooney shot from distance. Chelsea’s attacking presence was sadly lacking. Our breaks soon petered out. I wondered how on Earth John Terry had forced a save from De Gea while I was still outside in the Manchester night.

2016/17

I soon thought about the two men in charge of the respective teams. Compared to the sour-faced Mourinho – with that dismissive smirk never far away these days – our manager is a picture of positivity and light. Indeed, with Mourinho – totally unlovable at United – now ensconced at Old Trafford, I could not help come to a quick conclusion about our former boss.

He was looking for a job, and then he found a job, and heaven knows he’s miserable now.

2017/18

Beyond “The Bishop Blaize” pub, and hovering over the red brick terraced houses of Stretford were the glistening silver-grey roof supports of Old Trafford, and it took my breath away. Yes, I have seen it all before, but the sunlight made the cold steel so much sharper and it just looked other-worldly. We turned left at the gaggle of chip shops and onto Sir Matt Busby Way. It is such an inconspicuous approach to one of the world’s foremost football stadia.

“United We Stand. New issue. Out today.”

“Yer matchday scarf. Ten pound yer matchday scarf.”

Burgers with onions, burgers without, the noise of a match day, grafters, those old red, white and black bar scarves, selfies in front of the stadium, the Munich Clock, hot dogs, programme sellers, winter jackets, red and white United ski-hats, the Holy Trinity statue, scarves, the megastore, three policemen keeping an eye on things from their raised platform by the executive car park, accents from Ireland, fanzines, the well-heeled making their way to the corporate lounges, the guttural shout of “Red Army”, foreign accents, northern faces, northern scowls, North Face jackets, the occasional dash of blue.

Back to 2018/19…

On this day, thoughts were not only concerned with our game at Old Trafford. I was keeping a close watch on the City game at Burnley. Thank God for Sergio Aguero’s single strike. It was just what I wanted to see. Arsenal, meanwhile, were beating Spurs at their own game, contriving to lose 3-0 at Leicester City. This was opening up ever-so nicely for us. A loss for Tottenham on Saturday, a loss for Arsenal on Sunday. A win – a possibility – at Old Trafford would surely make us favourites for a top four finish.

Perfect.

While Parky and PD made their way in to the stadium, topping up the three pints they enjoyed at a pub just off the M6 an hour earlier, I had my usual walk around the forecourt. There was an image of Juan Mata high above the statue of Sir Matt Busby. I still fidget nervously when I see him in United red.

The entrance to the away turnstiles was now cordoned off with a barrier of solid United red separating us from the home fans. It was not too dissimilar to those red, white and black United bar scarves from the ‘seventies.

MU14 (3)

A quick security pat down – no cameras at Old Trafford these days, my phone would have to suffice – and I was in. Up into the crowded bar, I had one thought on my mind.

“Is City still 1-0?”

“Yep.”

“Good, good.”

It was clear that we had a full house of three-thousand away fans. There were no gaps. There was no need for a 2013-style John Cooper Clarke rage about unused seats.

I bumped into Harry and Paul, both living in Yorkshire now, and there was a slight worry that Burnley had equalised. There is a photograph of myself on the internet with them, with my smile as broad as a Cheshire cat, as I had just heard that City had indeed managed to hold on to a narrow 1-0 win.

One away club regular was sadly missing. There was no Alan alongside Parky, Gal and myself. I soon texted him a “get well soon.”

The team was announced earlier, of course, and I was surprised that Eden Hazard was not being deployed as a false nine.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Luiz – Alonso

Jorginho

Kante – Kovacic

Willian – Higuain – Hazard

United’s team included the three former blues; Juan, Nemanja and Romelu.

Everywhere filled up. It was to be another massive attendance at Old Trafford. But things were subdued. These must be testing times for the United faithful; a false-dawn under the new manager perhaps, and that awful sense of betrayal, wanting City to win every game they play.

Oh well. Fuck’em.

The teams came onto the pitch from the corner and it was the first time that I have seen United this season in their black shorts. They opted for the more traditional white ones at both home games. It doesn’t look right. I have no idea why United took the decision to change it. Chit chat about kits came to the fore in recent days. There was a leaked image – as yet unconfirmed – of a truly horrific kit for Chelsea next season. I am sure everyone has seen it. It’s garbage. But it got a few of us thinking. Going into the fiftieth anniversary of the iconic 1970 FA Cup win at Old Trafford, it would be nice to honour that occasion with a one-season only kit of royal blue with yellow trim, including yellow socks.

1970 is, after all, the catalyst for many of us.

But, here is the thing. I bet that there was not one single mention of the fiftieth anniversary of that tumultuous win against Leeds United in any of the brainstorming sessions at Nike over the past few months.

Anyway.

Khaki. Black shorts. Yellow socks.

It was time for the united colours of football in 2019 to get us all excited.

United – a blurring of red and black,

Chelsea – royal blue and white.

The game began.

First thoughts? Their side is huge. Our midfield is tiny. And United got off to a flier. Lukaku looked ready to run past a stagnant defence but Rudiger recovered to challenge and Kepa saved well. It seemed to be all United. They carved open a chance on eleven minutes, with Lukaku again involved. His dink towards Luke Shaw always looked like causing us trouble. His pass across the box was slammed home. Only when I was returning home a few hours later did I learn that it was scored by Juan Mata, on his birthday too. My eyes, I am sure, would have dropped to the floor immediately after the goal had rippled the Stretford End goal nets. The song that kept going for ages and ages at our FA Cup game in January – which I had not heard, really, at that juncture – was repeated.

“Ole’s at the wheel.

Tell me how good does it feel?

We’ve got Sanchez and Pogba and Fred.

Marcus Rashford – he’s manc born and bred.

Duh du, du du du du du

The greatest of English football.

We’ve won it all.”

Fackinell.

The noise coming from the Chelsea section was good, though. We always raise our game at Old Trafford. The team, slowly, tried to get a foothold in the match. As ever, it was the tireless energy of N’Golo Kante and the ability to spin out of danger of Eden Hazard which were our main positives. A foul on Hazard resulted in a Willian free-kick but the chance was wasted. We had more of the ball, but could not do a great deal with it. We howled with displeasure when Hazard played the ball out to Gonzalo Higuain out on the right wing, with the entire pitch in his sight, but he was offside.

“Fucksake.”

I looked down at my feet again.

We attempted a few long-range efforts and a few half-chances came and went. But De Gea was untested. After a shaky start, with a few silly and mistimed tackles, Dave was warming to the task in hand. He stayed limpet-like close to opponents as many United attackers tested him. Alonso was putting in a good shift on the other flank, too. As the game developed, I could not help but think that this was a sub-par game in terms of quality, especially compared to some of the other mighty tussles between the two teams in this part of Manchester over the past twenty years.

A lot is made of modern football and the atmosphere getting worse and worse with every season. I have made that point on numerous occasions. Here was a case in point. Over seventy-thousand United fans, yet only a section in the far corner of our stand were really bothering. Nothing at all from the side stands, nor – awful this, really – from the Stretford End, which, by now, is a pale shadow of its former self. It is United’s “home end” in name only.

There was the singing-by numbers chant from us – “Just like London, your city is blue” – but that didn’t get much of a reaction.

They didn’t like this one though :

“Just like the Scousers, you live in the past.”

This riled them up a bit, and for a few moments, the noise was electric as three thousand away fans shouted “Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” to the United fans above us. This was bloody fantastic. Both sets of fans going for it.

It was – briefly, so briefly – life-affirming stuff.

Passionate, loud, venomous.

“Come on Chelsea.”

Gary, meanwhile, had a new twist.

“Just like the Scousers, you live in Norway.”

Surprisingly, United didn’t take the game to us. Only a few efforts rained in on our goal. It was a humdrum game being played under light clouds. The hot weather of the previous weekend was nowhere to be seen. It was a day for jackets and jeans. The referee Martin Atkinson was not reacting to many rugged United tackles. The noise levels in our section were raised at every such occasion. Higuain was offside again.

A look to the skies this time.

With not much time remaining in a poor half, the ball bounced out to Rudiger, some thirty-five yards out. His body shape quickly cheered me.

I screamed “hit it.”

He hit it alright. The ball kept low and De Gea could only clumsily parry it. The ball bounced out to Alonso, who touched the ball past the clumsy United ‘keeper. We watched as it agonisingly bounced in off the far post.

We went fucking doolally.

MU40

My name is Chris Axon and I am a goal addict.

It was just a perfect time to score. Tim, Julie, Brian and Kev – the oft-mentioned “Bristol lot” – were stood behind us, and had parked-up near the cricket ground. They ended up watching the last few overs of the Lancashire vs. Leicestershire game (they got in for free, not sure how that works, county cricket is an odd affair) and I had to make a comment about De Gea.

“If he was playing cricket, you wouldn’t put him in the slips, would you?”

I sensed that we had taken the wind out of United’s sails. We hoped for just one more Chelsea goal as the referee signalled the start of the second period.

We bossed the opening moments. Even Mateo Kovacic, poor in the first period, looked a better player. Kepa was rarely forced into action. There were bookings for Willian and Kovacic. But then a rash challenge on a United player by Kovacic made me wonder if Sarri would take him off.

“He’s lucky to stay on, Gal.”

But then Rudiger went down, and it was Christensen who came on.

Although the second-half was a much better performance – we honestly dominated, easily – it was also a frustrating one. Higuain was offside three or four more times. He was having a ‘mare. There was one moment, soon into the second-half when he broke over the half-way line, but it looked like he was running in treacle. Hazard was twisting and turning and getting into good positions, but how we missed a late-arriving midfielder – no names, no pack drill – to finish it all off. Too often the ball ended up at the feet of Kante or Willian, both who seemed shot shy.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek came on for Kovacic. But his first few touches were heavy. His shot, later in the game, cleared the Stretford End crossbar by an embarrassing amount. Pedro then replaced Willian. We still controlled most of the ball. Pedro shot wildly over too. But United had the best chance for the winner. Thankfully, Pedro was ideally placed on the goal-line – shades of Ashley Cole in Naples – to head away an effort from Rojo.

The referee signalled a ludicrous seven extra minutes. There was still time for Higuain to fluff his lines at the death.

I looked down at my trainers one last time.

At the final whistle, there was a massive cheer from the away end. It was a priceless point.

The natives were quiet on the walk over the forecourt and onto Sir Matt Busby Way. A few gobby United fans – no more than two or three – were doing their level best to antagonise the Chelsea fans walking cheek by jowl alongside. I heard one Chelsea fan whisper “stick together” but it never really looked like kicking-off. Parky, PD and little old me kept silent.

In the end, the two United youths threw a couple of wayward punches and were soon smothered by a few policemen.

Out on the Chester Road, the United fans were very subdued.

We made a very clean and quick getaway.

“Job done boys, job done.”

On the long drive home, both PD and Parky caught some sleep, no doubt dreaming of German beer and German food ahead of their trip to Eintracht Frankfurt on Wednesday. I am sure I saw them dribbling.

As for me, my next one is on Sunday against Watford.

See you there.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

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