Tag Archives: Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall

Tales From A Crisp Winter Day

Posted on by
Reply

Chelsea vs. Everton : 13 December 2025.

The three matches that had preceded our home game with Everton had been highly disappointing; a distressing 1-3 loss at Leeds United, an inconceivably dour 0-0 at Bournemouth and a depressing 1-2 defeat at Atalanta.

Disappointing, distressing, dour and depressing.

That’s some indictment, eh?

In such circumstances, I might be forgiven for feeling down before the Everton match.

Not one bit of it. In the latter stages of my day at work on Friday, I suddenly realised that the fatigue of the previous three weeks had evaporated and I suddenly felt energised.

I was, to use one of my favourite sayings, chomping at the bit for the chance to drive to London with a clear head and the opportunity to enjoy a typical Chelsea Saturday.

The three of us were away early. I collected PD at 7am and LP at 7.30am.

The first section of the two-and-a-half-hour drive to London involved Parky regaling us with tales from Turin, Milan and Bergamo. He had attended our match in Italy with Salisbury Steve and Jimmy The Greek and – the football apart – had really enjoyed himself. There were, however, long days involved. On the outbound trip, he stayed awake for thirty-six hours. On the return trip, delays at Turin airport meant he had to sleep at Gatwick on his return.

We also spoke briefly about the 2026 FIFA World Cup, and that is all it deserved. The price of match tickets is obscene, a clear indication of FIFA’s mission to make money from supporters with not a hint of a moral compass. Like the Qatar World Cup of 2022, I strongly suspect that I will not watch a single match. We also spoke about the ridiculous number of games. During that colossal first phase, there will be no edge and no jeopardy. I am getting bored just thinking about all those pointless matches.

As I have said before, FIFA’s mantra is “more is more”.

Well, I shan’t be part of it. If most of the stadia are half-empty, I shan’t be bothered.

I dropped PD and LP near the pub, and they slid off for a quick breakfast at “The River Café” while I backtracked across Fulham to eat at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road.

Two bacon, two sausage, two fried eggs, two hash browns, two black pudding, baked beans, mushrooms, two rounds of toast and a mug of tea.

£11.

I’d include a photo, but you’d only be jealous.

I parked up and caught the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the lads were already getting into a decent sesh. On the short journey from West Brompton to Putney Bridge, with the sun shining gloriously, I had to admit that there is no greater place than London on a crisp Winter Day.

I strode into the boozer at about 11.15am and was happy to see the Normandy Division of Ollie and Jerome sitting alongside the usual suspects. On this day, our ranks would be joined by several from the US.

First up, Michelle from Nashville, who had also visited Italy and met up with the lads in Bergamo. Michelle entertained me with snippets of her post-match stay in Milan; a few days of opera and art, all very agreeable.

Next up was Tom from Laguna Beach in California, a friend of mine since meeting on the old Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2007, and at an away game at West Ham a couple of years later.

Lastly, my friend Natalie from Kansas City arrived with her long-time friend Amy – her first visit to London, and hence Stamford Bridge – and Amy’s two parents Ash and Julie. Natalie’s first-ever match at Stamford Bridge was alongside me to witness that unforgettable 6-0 thumping of Arsenal in 2014. I last saw Natalie at a home game against Southampton in January 2019. We enjoyed a great catch up, and I enjoyed talking to Amy and her parents before their first-ever Chelsea game. I had a few stories to keep them occupied. They absolutely adored the cosiness of “The Eight Bells.”

The five of us said our goodbyes and left for Stamford Bridge at 1.45pm. I took one last photo of Nat, Amy, Julie and Ash on the busy Fulham Road before going our separate ways. I would, however, be seeing Nat at Cardiff the following Tuesday.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 2.15pm.

Those in the Dugout Club had been given blue Father Christmas hats, and some of them were wearing them as they watched the players warming up.

I suppose for £5,000 a ticket, a Santa hat as part of the deal works out to be rather pricey.

Bless.

Right then, what of the team?

I couldn’t argue with Enzo Maresca’s choices on this occasion. It is, I think, what I would have chosen.

Robert Sanchez in goal, and possibly large parts of the penalty area too.

Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella as the full backs, with licence to roam.

Wesley Fofana and Trevoh Chalobah, the centre-back pairing for this game and perhaps others to come if this went well.

Enzo Fernandez and Reece James, the withdrawn midfielders, but able to burst into other areas.

Pedro Neto on the right, Alejandro Garnacho on the left, the Billy-Whizz twins.

Cole Palmer tucked in to the middle, but looking to ghost into areas unmapped by man nor beast.

Joao Pedro to lead the line, or at least to occupy defenders while others harried and carried.

During the day, I had reminded everyone that Everton last beat us in a league game at Stamford Bridge way back in 1994. I was scolded for mentioning it, but I was confident. I bumped into Hersham Bob – no laced-up boots, nor corduroys, alas – who suggested that the returning Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall would get the winner.

“That’s the spirit mate.”

The minutes clicked down.

It was a gorgeous day in Old London Town.

The game started.

“C’mon Chels.”

The first quarter of an hour was quite subdued, with tentative probing from us, and a few more direct bursts from the visitors. Their fans made a fair bit of noise at the start of the game.

On fifteen minutes, Dewsbury-Hall took a knock and had to be substituted. He was replaced by Carlos Alcaraz. I liked the way we clapped him off. He was honest player for us and has fitted in well with the Toffees.

I tried to catch Rob’s eye to let him see me wipe my brow.

“Phew.”

On eighteen minutes, Jack Grealish shimmied and advanced down below us and sent over a cross, but Trevoh Chalobah blocked. Grealish looked a handful in those early stages.

Two minutes later, a shot from Iliman Ndiaye that Robert Sanchez saved through a crowd of players.

A voice from the crowd behind me :

“They look more organised than us.”

At that exact moment – in fact, as I began tapping away those words from a worried spectator on my ‘phone – I looked up to see Wesley Fofana pass to Malo Gusto, who released the ball perfectly between defenders to meet the run of Cole Palmer. His finish was pure Palmer; a cool finish past Jordan Pickford.

The trademark celebration, the run to the corner, lovely.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Just after, Garnacho blasted over from a difficult angle, and then the same player latched onto a risky back-pass by Alcaraz but struck the ball just past the near post with an empty net begging.

By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency.

But then the visitors came again. It made a change for a team to attack us at home. James Tarkowski headed wide, then Ndiaye mishit a pull-back from Jake O’Brien. Then, a ball was rifled across the box by Gana Gueye but nobody was there to meet it. I was just grateful that KDH was off the pitch.

Next up, a skilful run from Grealish resulted in a shot that Sanchez somehow blocked with his shoulder.

We were riding our luck alright.

Just after, Pedro Neto did what Pedro Neto does, and I photographed him sprinting past his hapless marker Vitaliy Mykolenko. He reached the goal-line and played the ball into the path of Malo Gusto who touched it past Pickford.

GET IN.

By this time, Mykolenko was flat on his back, while Gusto slid towards the corner.

Phew.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

“That goal was beautiful.”

At half-time, I spoke to a few friends and acquaintances.

“Just doing enough.”

One replied –

“I think we’ve been diabolical.”

Throughout the first period, the atmosphere was quiet but that’s nothing new these days, eh? Everton were totally quiet.

“1994, lads.”

The second period began and a cross from the quiet Enzo teed up Garnacho at the far post, who was always stretching to connect. My photo of his lunge is almost as poor as his finish. The ball flew wide.

Throughout the first half and into the second half I had been impressed with the excellent play of first Chalobah and then Fofana. On fifty-two minutes, Wesley made a sensational block tackle on an Everton attacker who would have been through on goal.

I immediately thought “Bobby Moore on Jairzinho, 1970”; it was that good.

At last, a stadium-wide chant enveloped Stamford Bridge. It was initiated by the good people of The Shed, but the Matthew Harding soon joined in.

“CAREFREE.”

Garnacho shot over after a lightning break down our left. He was having one of those days.

On fifty-eight minutes, Cole Palmer was substituted, but Maresca went safe with Andrey Santos rather than with Estevao Willian. I approved of the way Palmer’s time on the pitch was managed.

I was impressed with Joao Pedro, who was something of a menace for the Everton defence, and he showed a few instances of great hold-up play.

On the hour, it was Chalobah’s time to shine defensively. He initially lost ground in a chase but recovered so well to make a last-ditch tackle just inside the box.

At The Shed, Sanchez tipped over.

At the Matthew Harding, Santos shot over the bar.

On seventy minutes, Reece James made a mistake in our final third, but that man Fofana recovered well. Just after, Grealish sliced well wide after arriving at the far stick at a free kick.

On sixty-five minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.

On seventy-five minutes, Pickford tipped a Reece James free kick over the bar.

On eighty minutes, Estevao replaced Joao Pedro. Pedro Neto moved inside as a false-nine.

On eighty-six minutes, Ndiaye raced past Fofana and struck a slow shot towards goal. The effort bounced back off the far post. Clalobah then blocked a shot from Alcaraz.

In the first minute of injury-time, a Neto break but Gittens shot weakly over.

The whistle blew.

I had enjoyed this one. It had a little bit of everything. We weren’t at our absolute best, nor not near it, but we showed signs that it might be coming together. At least we stemmed that mini run of awfulness. Everton showed a willingness to attack, and, on another day, they might have returned North with a point or more.

I thought Fofana and Chalobah were excellent.

Here’s an idea, Maresca. Play these two together in all games. Cheers.

Oh, the run. Here it is.

Chelsea vs. Everton : Premier League.

19 August 1995 to 13 December 2025.

Played : 31

Won : 18

Drew : 13

Lost : 0

Oh, and to complete a perfect day, Frome Town won 4-0 at Tavistock in Devon to strengthen our position at the top of the table.

I will see some of you at Cardiff.

Tales From Those Famous Streets

Posted on by
Reply

Chelsea vs. Djurgarden : 8 May 2025.

What of our Europa Conference semi-final second leg against Djurgarden of Sweden?

The build-up had been good. We had secured three consecutive victories in the league versus Fulham, Everton and Liverpool, and beat the Swedes 4-1in the away leg. We were facing a very exciting end to the 2024/25 season, with a European trophy and European places in our sights.

Right after the Djurgarden game at Stamford Bridge, there would be a four-day visit to Newcastle-upon-Tyne for the three of us, our favourite away game of them all. It didn’t take me long to work out that it would be pointless for me to return home to Somerset after the game at The Bridge and then drive north after minimal sleep during the day on Friday, battling heavy traffic all the way. Instead, I decided to plan to set off from Fulham on Thursday night and drive through the night to reach Tyneside in the small hours. PD and Parky were more than happy with this idea.

Once I had completed a 6am to 2pm shift at work on Thursday, after getting up at 4.30am, I collected the two lads from Parky’s house and pointed my car due east.

From the very start of my trip to London, it felt that the game against Djurgarden was a deviation, a bump in the road maybe, on my way to Newcastle.

And that felt strange.

I dropped the lads off at the bottom end of Fulham, after driving down the Fulham Palace Road and Fulham High Street, then edged north up through those famous streets, in our eyes, the streets that lead us to SW6; Fulham Road, Munster Road, Dawes Road, Lillee Road, Rylston Road. I remembered my Aunt Zena, on a visit to Somerset in her ‘eighties in 1994, when she mentioned that she once lived on Estcourt Road, as it met Rylston Road, and I loved the fact that I had a distant familial link to SW6, my faraway playground since 1974.

I popped into “Café Koka” near The Goose and quickly scoffed some tasty prawns and a summer salad.

Here we go :

“Memory Lane Café Number One.”

Chelsea vs. Sheffield Wednesday : Monday 6 May 1985.

I travelled down to this game by train on the Bank Holiday Monday. This would be a continuation of our very real rivalry against Sheffield Wednesday which had caught fire the previous season and had continued in the Milk Cup in 1985. Before the game, I took a few photographs of the stadium from the Fulham Road for a change. Needless to say, these have ended up on a few football stadium sites over the years. Chelsea conceded a goal via Mark Smith, but two strikes from Kerry Dixon gave us the share of the points. After the mammoth gates in previous games with Wednesday, I was hugely disappointed that just 17,085 were at this match.

I was feeling a bit weary, so popped into “Café Ole” for a lovely cappuccino.

“Memory Lane Café Number Two.”

Chelsea vs. Luton Town : Wednesday 8 May 1985.

Yes, dear reader, a second game at Stamford Bridge in just three days, the result of many postponements in a very icy winter. I did not attend this game, probably not surprisingly, but Chelsea won 2-0 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Pat Nevin, Sadly, the gate was just 13,789.

What with these stops on the way down the North End Road, I decided there would not be time to pop down to “The Eight Bells”, so I chatted to a few folks outside the ground and made my way in for 7.30pm. On the way in, I took a photo of a Union Jack flying on the Oswald Stoll, on a day that marked the eightieth anniversary of VE Day.

I made the mistake of mentioning to a couple of friends in The Sleepy Hollow that “they don’t seem to have brought many.” With thirty minutes to go to kick-off, there were only around four-hundred away fans in the far corner.

Then, ten minutes later, a very odd thing happened, and it was the precursor to the night’s “entertainment”. Around fifty away fans, lodged in the East Middle suddenly decided to hop over the fence between both stands and join up with the now growing number of Djurgarden supporters on the Shed Upper. I began to wonder how many Swedish supporters would be sitting in the home areas.

I had seen our team being shared on my phone while in the second café, and the presence of young Reggie Walsh was good to see. In a way, the often-maligned manager Enzo Maresca would be hammered for whatever team he picked for this second leg, with the boys already 4-1 up in the tie, our biggest first-leg lead in any semi-final surely?

This was the team he chose.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Badiashile – Acheampong

James – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Walsh – Sancho

George

A quote about “playing all the right players but not necessarily in the right positions” came to mind.

Alan had a lovely story from Stockholm the previous Wednesday. He was staying with Pete in a hotel very close to the stadium, and they heard that the players were going through some training drills in the evening. Pete’s son works for the club in the youth section. Alan managed to get pitch side and took some lovely photos with a few of the players. I knew that Reggie Walsh was a local lad, but Alan told me that he grew up as a kid on Dawes Road, one of the famous streets that I mentioned earlier.

That resonated with me.

He must be our must local lad since Jodie Morris, the North End Road, and Alan Hudson, Upcerne Road.

At ten minutes to eight, the three Chelsea songs boomed out.

“Blue Is The Colour.”

“Parklife.”

“Liquidator.”

By now, I had fully comprehended the scale of the invasion. There were maybe one thousand Djurgarden fans in the West Upper towards The Shed, and around five hundred towards the Matthew Harding. Throughout the night, we spotted hundreds in the East Upper, the East Middle, the West Lower, the West Middle. A conservative guess might well be three thousand in the away allocation and three thousand in the home areas. And they were making a hell of a racket.

I shouted down to JD : “like Tottenham in the West Stand in 1982”.

In a nutshell, this was the biggest show of away supporters that I had ever seen in the home areas at Stamford Bridge. It was, of course, all rather humiliating.

Next, the entrance of the teams, and the Conference League anthem which still reminds me of “Baltimora” by Tarzon Boy, a hit in 1985…don’t ask.

I noticed that there was a small block of Chelsea supporters waving blue and white bar scarves in the middle section of The Shed. At the time, I presumed that these were giveaways from a corporate lounge somewhere in the bowels of the stadium but I would later learn that this was part of a “We Are The Shed” initiative.

With the away fans booming their chants from The Shed and the West Upper, there was a surreal atmosphere to the match, and this was enhanced by the deep purple clouds massing above the East Stand.

The Djurgarden crowd set off a few white flares.

The game began but struggled to come to life. It was a plodding performance from us, no doubt borne out of the first leg result in Sweden.

Jadon Sancho, in a blistering turn of pace down the left, had me excited for more, and a lovely touch by Tyrique George was a joy to see. But these were rare gems on a night that really struggled to get going.

There were chances from George and Keirnan Dewsbury Hall, with Reggie Walsh looking neat and tidy. His playing style reminded me of Billy Gilmour.

The goal on thirty-eight minutes was the highlight of the first half. Tosin Adarabioyo played a long ball to George, who neatly took it under control and quickly moved it forward to Dewsbury-Hall. He tuned inside and adeptly scored via the post.

I think that it is very safe to say that of all the 2,733 Chelsea goals that I have seen scored live, few were celebrated so tepidly.

And there was a very subdued “THTCÅUN / CÖMLD” from Alan and me too.

However, we were now 5-1 up.

The first half continued with an array of half-chances, blocks and easy saves, of which Filip Jorgensen made one, a nice reaction save from a deflected shot.

We were keeping an eye on the other semi-final tie, and both Alan and I preferred Real Betis to Fiorentina.

“Those Italians can be a naughty bunch.”

At the break, Shimmy Mheuka took over from Marc Cucurella and the troops were shuffled around.

On fifty-one minutes, a riser from a Djurgarden player was aimed right at Jorgensen, and then three minutes later there was a shot from the very same place on the pitch that was deflected for a corner. Between these two chances for the visitors, Dewsbury-Hall forced a save with a strong header.

Then, in a lively spell, Jorgensen saved well from a close header, and then George displayed some great skill to create some space but shot wildly over.

A cross from Sancho, but George was unable to finish from close in, but offside anyway. This second half was much improved.

Djurgarden went just wide, and their support took turns to bark out their team name.

The Shed one moment, the West Upper the next.

“DJURGARDEN! DJURGARDEN!”

This riled our support and – at bloody last – Stamford Bridge made some noise.

Another shot for Dewsbury-Hall. I think I counted five efforts from him during the game. He was, surely, our most effective player, there, I said it.

On seventy minutes, Jorgensen tipped over another riser at The Shed End.

Then, two substitutions.

Trevoh Chalobah for Reece James, Genesis Antwi for Sancho.

Not long after, Josh Acheampong shot just over after a fine assist from Antwi. Late on, a shot from distance from Walsh, who I was glad to see got the full ninety minutes, and then one final effort from Gusto, over.

In previous years, in 1998, in 2008, in 2012, in 2013, in 2019, in 2021, there were massive celebrations on reaching a UEFA Final.

Not so in 2025.

This is a weird competition this one, and it had been, undoubtedly, a so-so game.

But we’re on our way to Wroclaw, to play Real Betis, and I am sure we will have a blast.

As I walked along Dawes Road, I could hear the booming noise of the Djurgarden support way back at Fulham Broadway, and I silently commended them for their ingenuity and fanaticism but can’t wait to hear what the club say about this massive breach of security.

I would not be surprised to hear that many tickets were sold via our co-owner’s company.

If so, that’s bloody shameful.

I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long drive to Tyneside.

“Memory Lane Café Number One.”

Tales From The Cheap Seats

Posted on by
Reply

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen : 13 March 2025.

The home game against Leicester City was to be followed by three more trips to London for me in the following week. There would be two more Chelsea matches, but also a drive up to London on the one-hundred-and-twentieth anniversary of the formation of the club on Friday 10 March 1905.

Unbeknown to me, it seems that the club must have sent emails out asking for nominations to attend a stadium tour in the evening of Monday 10 March to mark the moment, and to my great surprise and pleasure I had been selected as one of the chosen few, or rather one of the chosen one-hundred-and-twenty.

I am still unaware who nominated me.

If it is you…THANK YOU SO MUCH.

It was a great evening.

I met up with my good friend Luke in the “Butcher’s Hook” where the club was formed all those years ago, and we chatted to other lads that I know, the brothers Dan and Eddie. Our tour was the last of the night, beginning at 6.30pm and ending at 8pm.

Ninety minutes, how fitting.

This would be the fifth stadium tour that I have attended; the others were in 1997 with a bunch of fellow fans including Glenn and Alan, a solo tour in around 2005, a tour with a friend from the US in 2016 and a tour with a friend from Germany later the same year.

The highlight was the chance to meet up, albeit briefly, with club legends Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink and Carlo Cudicini. There was the chance for photos, but I couldn’t really say too much to Jimmy and Carlo due to the lack of time.

To Carlo : “The last time I spoke to you was in Beijing in 2017.”

To Jimmy : “You know what, even though you played for Leeds, you’re not a bad bloke.”

There was plenty of laughter, plenty of smiles and giggles, and I loved it that Jimmy’s perfect hat-trick against Tottenham was mentioned a few times. In some ways, the star of the show was the Stamford Bridge pitch itself, bathing under self-tanning ultra-violet lights on a cold Spring evening. Knowing my obsessional desire to photograph Stamford Bridge as often as possible, in as many different circumstances as possible, it is quite likely that I would have driven up from Somerset just to take photos of the pink pitch and the large structures hovering over it.

I include those photos here along with a few others from that night. It was lovely to see a few people that I knew on the three tours. A special mention to Annette and Mark, pictured, who often act as my un-paid spell-checkers on this blog.

Before we disappeared into the home dressing room, the tour stopped by the Chelsea bench. A few of us sat in what is now “the dug-out club” and we spoke about the ludicrous price that the club charges spectators to sit in these twenty or so seats. For the two games against Liverpool and Manchester United, still to come this season, each seat costs a mammoth £12,995.

That’s correct.

It’s not a miss-print.

£12,995.

There have been many words of disdain written about this over the past few months. And this is no surprise. The bizarre thing is that these seats offer really crap views of the pitch. The Perspex tunnel roof, for example, obliterates much of the pitch at The Shed End.

But I have fostered a different opinion of late.

These tickets are clearly aimed at VIPs and the super-wealthy (though, perhaps, the mentally unstable too) and it could be argued that a few years ago VIPs might well be gifted match tickets dependent upon their status. Now, there is an alternative. And if the club can sell such shite tickets – and it’s only twenty of them after all – for such a ridiculous amount of money, then fair play to them.

In an ideal world, the monies raised – £259,900 per game! – would be used to offset the price of match tickets for the rank and file, but I am not naïve enough to believe this will always be the case.

To be honest, this “dug-out club” malarkey is a sign that the suits at Chelsea don’t really understand the differences between sports in the US and the UK, or at least baseball and football. At a baseball game, 95% of the important stuff – the pitcher versus batter duel, the base-running, the infield action – takes place in front of the dug-out and in front of home plate. Over there, seats in these areas are justifiably the most expensive. In football, having seats so low down is not really seen as a positive.

That said, despite all of the talk of the club charging extortionate amounts for some tickets at Stamford Bridge, the cost of my ticket for the game against Copenhagen on the Thursday was just £34, a decent enough figure if I am honest.

For this game I was accompanied by just Parky, with PD unable to attend. I picked him up from his village at 2.15pm and I made really good time. I parked up at my usual spot, dipped into “Koka” on the North End Road for a pepperoni pizza and then headed down from West Brompton to Putney Bridge to meet up with Michelle, Parky, Jimmy, Nick, Steve, Andy and Kim once more.

The pre-match in “The Eight Bells” was, as always, a laugh.

I had some good news for them. At long last, I had witnessed a home league win for Frome Town this season. On the Tuesday, in a tight and scrappy game, an Archie Ferris goal on eighty-seven minutes gifted Frome a huge 1-0 win against Hanwell Town from West London. The crowd was 335. In goal for the visitors was Sam Beasant, son of Dave.

A spare spot was available in “The Sleepy Hollow” and so Michelle sat next to Alan and me. Alas, Clive was absent in addition to PD. Alan had met Michelle before; on that trip to Porto almost ten years ago.

I soon spotted that Copenhagen had not taken the full three thousand allocation. This was our third tie against this team. We had played them in 1998/99 and 2010/11 too.  Out of interest, I had pulled up the blog report for the game in March 2011 – “Tales From The Return Of Jesper Gronkjaer” – and I was amused to read this :

The most memorable moments of the entire night’s football involved the banter between the two sets of fans. Again, fair play to the Danes. In superb English, they goaded us with –

“Can you hear the Chelsea sing? I can’t hear a fucking thing.”

“Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning.”

The MH responded with a classic of our own –

“Speak fucking Danish, why don’t you speak fucking Danish?”

As kick-off in 2025 approached, we checked our team.

Jorgensen

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Acheampong

Caicedo – Fernandez

George – Dewsbury-Hall – Sancho

Neto

I was worried about this match. We were 2-1 up from the first leg but if we were to concede early, there was a good chance that both the team and the support would implode on a horrible nervy night.

At the kick-off, the two-and-a-half thousand away fans were bouncing wildly, and I suspected that they would prove to be the stars of the show.

Unlike Copenhagen’s vivid pink away shirts of 2011, this time they were wearing the opposite of our colours.

Chelsea : blue / blue / white.

Copenhagen : white / white / blue.

As the game got going, I became fascinated by the lack of spectators in the East Middle. Apart from a hundred lonely souls dotted around, the whole tier was empty. Never mind the dug-out club, Chelsea had royally messed-up with the pricing structure for that part of the ground, although the middle sections of the West Stand were not full either.

Bloody hell Chelsea.

No shirt sponsor.

A whole tier empty.

Sort it out.

Down on the pitch, my fears were real. There were two early Copenhagen attacks in the first five minutes and then on twelve minutes Josh Acheampong made a timely block on a shot from a Copenhagen attacker. The Chelsea youngster had begun well and would often drift inside during the first half.

Pedro Neto was put through, but their ‘keeper Diant Ramaj burst out to almost the halfway line to clear. This was one of our few attacks thus far, and we were really struggling to create anything.

After half-an-hour, I struggled to remember a single shot on goal, on target or off.

This was dire.

Football is meant to entertain us.

On thirty-six minutes, a nice piece of skill from Tyrique George brought the stadium to life – “fackinell, some skill” – but his touch to Sancho was just a little too hard.

On forty-two minutes, Alan realised that he had neglected to open his “lucky European” wine gums, and as Michelle and I tucked in, Moises Caicedo, as steady as anyone this season, won the ball and played in Neto. He tumbled over inside the box, but no penalty.

For a moment, I wondered if the “Maynards” were going to have an immediate effect.

From the away fans, shades of 2011.

“Is this a library?”

“You’re shit and you know you are.”

There was no witty riposte this time.

We were funnier fourteen years ago.

Well, this was as shocking a game as I had witnessed for years. We all agreed; not one effort on goal.

The boos at half-time seemed – as much as it hurts to say it – par for the course.

Enzo Maresca made two substitutions at the break.

Marc Cucurella for Acheampong, slightly harsh I felt.

Cole Palmer for Enzo, deserved.

On forty-seven minutes – REJOICE – an effort on goal, from Trevoh Chalobah after some typically fine play from Palmer. Then, a shot from Jadon Sancho.

Bloody hell.

“Smelling salts please nurse.”

On fifty minutes, a break down the other end and I yelled out “two spare at the far post” and a cross from their left hit one of them, but the effort was clawed away by Filip Jorgensen.

Ugh.

Just after, some tenacious play by Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall, played in initially by Palmer, enabled him to force his way past some defenders and he did well to persevere and flash the ball in at an angle.

We celebrated the unlikely scorer and the fact that we were now 3-1 up in the tie.

Time to relax?

I think so.

However, the goal that they conceded seemed to inspire the visiting Danes even more. Their show of support during the evening really was sensational.

There was a loud song for Cucurella, who was pleasing everyone with some tenacious play of his own.

We had little bits of the game, but nothing to set the pulses racing. There was a nice move and a shot from Palmer that was swept wide.

On sixty-five minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Sancho.

On seventy-six minutes, a Palmer free kick down below us but an easy save for Ramaj.

On seventy-nine minutes, Reece James for Caicedo (“for you, Michelle” as he had not appeared versus Leicester City).

Late on, another shot for Palmer, this one blocked too.

A very late sub, and a debut.

Genesis Antwi for Neto.

At the death of a poor match, there was a close-in effort for the visitors that was blasted high into the Shed Upper and then there was one last effort from Palmer that was saved by Ramaj.

It finished 1-0 to Chelsea.

The gate was 35,820, and oh those empty seats.

A Celebration Of 120 Years

Chelsea vs. FC Copenhagen

Tales From The Top Of The Conference League

Posted on by
1

Chelsea vs. Shamrock Rovers : 19 December 2024.

This UEFA Conference League campaign had been a long-drawn-out affair this autumn and winter, yet it was coming to a halt at an alarming rate with two final games in just eight days.

However, after the excitement and adventure with the Astana game in Almaty, the home game a week later against Shamrock Rovers was a far more humdrum proposition.

Was I excited about this game? No. Definitely not. Foreign trips aside, the Conference League is not the most loved of competitions. It has the feel of a European Simod Cup.

There was another cup competition that I was involved with on the Tuesday between the Brentford and Shamrock Rovers games. My local club Frome Town visited nearby Bath City in the Somerset Premier Cup and won 2-0, the club’s third win in a row. There is a new-found optimism racing through the club at the moment and long may it continue.

Thursday, and Europe, soon came around. I worked from 6am to 2pm and then drove to London with PD and Parky. For the first time that I can remember, we decided to visit “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. There had been a few rumours flying around about the visiting supporters from Dublin and elsewhere. This set of fans had been known to sing a few sectarian songs, and there was talk of Chelsea fans with a loyalist viewpoint making a stand. Would things be a bit tasty around the ground as the game approached? I wasn’t sure.

I dropped the lads off near the pub and then headed up to Charleville Road, where I knew that there would be free parking from 5pm. Just a few moments after, I slowly navigated myself around four or five police horses, waiting by the side of the road, and I wondered if the predicted police presence would include police horses to try to keep the peace.

As luck would have it, there was a parking space right outside an Italian restaurant – “AperiPasta” – and I killed two birds with one stone and wolfed down a beautiful slab of lasagne in no time at all.

From there, West Kensington was just a few minutes away. By 6pm, I was getting off the train at Putney Bridge and I was met by around twenty Irish fans, including one chap in full leprechaun get-up.

O’Fackinell.

I was soon in the pub with the usual suspects. We all noted one by-product of the possible threat of trouble before the game; we were served our tipples in plastic glasses. Ugh.

This was a skeleton crew on this night; just Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek, PD, Lord Parky and little old me.

At 7pm, we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway. As I strode along the Fulgham Road, Steve and Parky dipped into “Bruschetta” where they briefly met Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink as a function came to an end. There was a noticeably strong police presence. I spotted a few hoolie-types lurking in the shadows, but things seemed pretty normal.

Inside at around 7.40pm, all present and correct sir!

The usual away following at Stamford Bridge is capped at 3,000 but there were gaps in the left half of The Shed. I think that the police had asked for a slight reduction in tickets going to the Dublin club. I fully expected a few Irish fans to be dotted around the usual home areas of Stamford Bridge. This was, as daft as it seems, the first competitive football match between Chelsea and a team from the Republic of Ireland. If the rumour-mill was to be believed, we were in for a re-enactment of the Battle of the Boyne in SW6 on this particular night.

There were many green and white flags on the balcony between both tiers in The Shed.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Disasi – Veiga – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Casadei

Madueke – Nkunku – George

Guiu

With the colours of the competition being green, the away fans must have felt at home. The game began at 8pm and there was a quick rendition from the Matthew Harding Lower of a Rangers’ song about “buying a flute” but, after that, I heard nothing of a similar note from both sets of fans.

As we waited to take a corner in front of their fans, toilet rolls bizarrely cascaded down from the top tier. Play was held up for a few minutes.

Thinking : “This lot are from Dublin, not the Bogside, right?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all us.

We probed and probed, but the defending was deep and resolute. A shock, then, on fourteen minutes, as Dylan Watts sent a low cross into our six-yard box from the left, right into the cliched corridor of uncertainty, but Johnny Kenny was unable to turn it in. An offside flag was raised, anyway.

A volley at the back stick from Noni Madueke, but a poor connection.

On twenty-two minutes, a lofted ball into space from Marc Cucarella was aimed at Tyrique George. The Rovers defender Darragh Burns panicked and headed the ball back to their ‘keeper but the pass was awry. A stooping header from Mark Guiu gave us a 1-0 lead and the longest-ever “THTCAUN / COMLD” – full of Dublin accents and choice phrases – was enacted between Alan and me.

“Their defender will be having nightmares about that.”

However, the visitors attacked straight after, and Jorgensen saved magnificently from a Kenny volley. From the corner that followed, Markus Poom smacked the ball home, via a deflection off Cesare Casadei.

The buggers celebrated wildly down below us.

Bollocks.

On thirty-three minutes, in virtually the same location as the first poorly aimed back pass by Burns, we were treated to another, this time via Daniel Cleary. The ball was intercepted by Guiu, and from a tight angle, he steered the ball home.

There was a daisy-cutter from Cesare Casadei from outside the box that the Shamrock ‘keeper Leon Pohls just about saved after sprawling to his left. It almost seemed odd to see a Chelsea player shoot from a long way out. We don’t seem to do that these days, and it doesn’t seem right.

On forty minutes, Cucarella played in Christopher Nkunku, but a great tackle thwarted the striker. However, the ball ran to Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall who calmly slotted home.

In the third minute of added time, Madueke sent over a cross from the right – not unlike the one to Cucarella on Sunday – and I caught the header from Guiu on film. It nestled nicely in the net.

At the break, Chelsea 4 Shamrock Rovers 1.

“Can we declare and bugger off home now, please?”

Enzo Maresca replaced Madueke with Harvey Vale at half-time.

I thought that Nkunku had been relatively quiet in the first-half but he showed a lot more life in the first ten minutes of the second period.

But the pace, not surprisingly, then dropped and the game seemed like a training game.

On fifty-eight minutes, Dewsbury-Hall played square to Nkunku who pushed the ball forward to Cucarella. He took a touch to his right – to his right, I repeat – and I snapped my shutter as he slotted the ball past the Shamrock ‘keeper. I captured his slide into the far corner. Job well and truly done.

On fifty-nine minutes, two more changes.

Harrison Murray-Campbell, a debutant, replaced Axel Disasi.

Joao Felix replaced Guiu, lots of applause.

Felix screwed a shot wide and there were a few more half-chances, but the evening’s entertainment was done, although the stadium honoured the final scorer with a rollicking good rendition of “his” song.

“He eats Paella. He drinks Estrella. His hair’s fuckin’ massive.”

This man is truly loved.

Redemption is a magical thing.

George was a bit disappointing – the phrase “flattering to deceive” seems appropriate – and the game petered out. There was time for one final change on eighty-three minutes with Dewsbury-Hall replaced by Sam Rak-Sakyi.

At the end of this odd autumnal tour of Europe – and Asia – Chelsea finished top of the Conference League table; first out of thirty-two teams, played six, won six, with twenty-six goals scored, and four points clear.

Can we have the trophy now please?

Tales From More, More, More

Posted on by
Reply

Chelsea vs. Gent : 3 October 2024.

I love Thursday Night Football.

I always have.

For those of us that live miles away from Stamford Bridge, travelling to and from games can be tiresome affairs, especially those that take place during the week. But I always love the fact that no matter how late games finish on Thursday nights – shall we talk about extra-time and penalties that might extend the night even further, shall I mention the penalties against Eintracht Frankfurt in 2019? – there is the lovely knowledge that I only have to struggle with work on Friday, for one day only. Then, the glorious respite of the weekend, especially since there are no games on Saturdays after European games these days.

Contrast this with a Monday night league game, and the sure knowledge that my sleeping patterns won’t recover for a few days. On a personal level, Monday night games are just horrible.

On this particular Thursday night, Chelsea were to embark on a new European journey, but it wasn’t one that I was completely happy with. Not only were we to take part in the fourth edition of UEFA’s newest baby the “Conference League”, but this was to be the first season that all UEFA competitions were to take the form of a “league” format in the autumn period.

The common view among football fanciers was that this was all an attempt to see off the continued rumours about certain European heavyweights – “Super Clubs”, their words not mine – needing a Super League for them to guarantee huge revenue streams. However, I haven’t met a single football supporter who is in favour of this new format. I know we are often seen as misty-eyed sentimental traditionalists, but the old system seemed to be a decent way to approach pan-European competitions.

The three UEFA competitions are basically three divisions of thirty-two teams.

More. More. More.

Before I continue with the events of this particular Thursday night, a quick mention of a Saturday in 1984 in my retrospective from forty years ago.

On Saturday 28 September 1984, Chelsea were at home to Leicester City in the old First Division. I was newly-arrived in Stoke and had survived “Freshers’ Week”. Originally, my first visit to Stamford Bridge was going to be the Watford match on 13 October, but as I walked past Stoke train station late on the Friday night, I decided there and then to get up early on the Saturday and get myself down to Stamford Bridge. I had attended the “Freshers Ball” that night – the main band was H2O, hit song “I Dream To Sleep” – but a planned liaison with Gill, an Everton fan, never materialised and so I needed to cheer myself up.

A Saturday in London with Chelsea was a quick and easy remedy.

This trip was a new experience for me, but the journey would be repeated on many occasions over the next three seasons. I was happily surprised that the fare was just £8. This felt knew and exciting. The route took me through Tamworth, Rugby, Milton Keynes and Watford. I made my way across London from Euston – “spotted a load of casuals, probably Arsenal going to Coventry” – to Stamford Bridge and took my position alongside new mates Alan, Mark and Leggo. I didn’t take my camera to this game, but I remember a nasty green away kit being worn by Leicester City. Chelsea easily won 3-0 with two goals from Kerry Dixon and one from Pat Nevin. The gate was just 18,521. I caught the 6.10pm train back to Stoke from Euston and got back to Stoke at 8.30pm, this time via Birmingham and Wolverhampton.

A new pattern to my football life had emerged.

Fast forward to 2024 and just PD and travelled up from the west of England for this game. After I demolished a pizza on the North End Road I joined up with him at “Simmons” just after 6pm. We were joined by Rob from Hersham, Luke from Ruislip and Andy from Los Angeles, who was en route to Munich for the Oktoberfest.

There was time to reminisce about Munich in 2012 – I kipped in Andy’s hotel room for a few hours after that most momentous of Saturday nights – but we also chatted a little about this new UEFA competition. I must admit that it was derided when it first started in 2021 – “a ridiculous competition for also-rans” – and even more so after West Ham won it in 2023, and ludicrously declared themselves “Champions of Europe” for a while, without the merest hint of irony, but the view of us Chelsea fans back in May when United won the FA Cup, thus pushing into this competition, was to embrace it, to enjoy some foreign travel again and to bloody well win it.

Wroclaw here we come? Hopefully.

With Andy in town there was also talk of the FIFA World Club Cup competition which is set to take place in twelve stadia in the US in June and July next summer. I am keen to go, as is my mate Glenn; it would be my twentieth visit to the US and it would celebrate my sixtieth birthday – a nice present to myself, no?

The strong rumour was that all games would be held on the East Coast, to satisfy European TV audiences and to keep travel, both by players and supporters, to a minimum. Alas, last week, the full list of venues was announced and only eight venues could really be classed as East Coast. In addition to games in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, DC, North Carolina, Georgia and Florida, there are also games in Tennessee, Ohio, Washington and California.

I just hope that FIFA does the right thing and keeps each of the first stage groups to as tight a geographical area as possible. As an example, I would be more than happy with three games in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and DC, or Tennessee, North Carolina and Georgia. At a push, three games in Florida, but God help us all in those stratospheric temperatures.

But I am not confident. There is no doubt that FIFA will want to ensure that fans all over the US will get a chance to see as many teams as possible, so I fully expect a taxing and expensive three-game set that might even see us play in Seattle, then Orlando, then Los Angeles. In such circumstances, I might just go for two games rather than all three.

The two West Coast venues, it seems, have been included for the benefit of the US’ sole team, thus far, from Seattle, who have been promised three home games, which seems unfair. Why should they be given home advantage? Well, it’s not too hard to work out.

Thirty of the thirty-two teams have qualified through debatable selection criteria and are awaiting the final two competitors. I see that the 2024 Coppa Libertadores winner is one of the final two places up for grabs along with a second US team. The draw is in December. Glenn and I will be on tenterhooks awaiting news.

There are some cracking teams from South America lined-up to attend; Chelsea vs. Boca Juniors or Chelsea vs. Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, anyone?

Of course, many are mocking this expanded competition and I can understand why. Extra games for an already-exhausted set of players and the risk of injury, plus talk of a money grab by FIFA and all of its murky corporate partners.

More football. More games. More sponsors. More TV. More money. More everything.

More. More More.

Back in my youth, this competition was a plain and simple one; European Cup Winner vs. Coppa Libertadores winner, one match in Tokyo, and that was that. It was then expanded to eight teams when it was held in Brazil in 2000. It then didn’t take place again until 2005, and since then has been held in Japan, the Arabian Peninsula and Morocco. Bizarrely, and I cannot understand this, there is still going to be an annual FIFA Intercontinental Cup held annually too.

More. More. More.

When will it stop?

I had seen a few Gent fans, dressed in blue and white, pottering down the North End Road earlier, and we saw more on the walk to the ground. I was inside at about 7.30pm ahead of the 8pm kick-off. We had seen the team in the pub. It was a completely different team that had played so well against Brighton on Saturday.

Jorgensen.

Disasi – Badiashile – Tosin – Veiga

Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall

Neto – Felix – Mudryk

Nkunku

A B Team? Yes, evidently so, and a pretty decent one, we hoped.

The lights soon dimmed and the players appeared. Whereas UEFA has chosen blue as the brand colour of the Champions League and red as the colour of the Europa league, it seems that green is the chosen colour of the Europa Conference. A green and black banner was waved on the centre-circle as the players lined up. The three-thousand fans held their scarves aloft.

The game began.

I spoke to Al about Eidur Dudjohnsen’s son, Andri, who was leading the Gent line.

I also spoke to Al about the possibility of Christopher Nkunku’s blue balloons making an appearance, and we wondered if I could shoehorn the phrase “balloons and Walloons” into this match report.

Soon into the game, it seemed that the entire Gent support was engaged in their version of “the bouncy” and it looked an impressive sight. Their support didn’t seem to have an “ultra” element, but just a noisy support with replica shirts and scarves, and a desire to sing.

Ten minutes in, it was all us. We had enjoyed a couple of early efforts as Al and I caught up with a few things; I had not seen him for a while.

On twelve minutes, Mykailo Mudryk was able to choose his moment in front of Parkyville and dolloped a long cross onto the head of the on-rushing Renato Veiga who finished with aplomb, heading down and past the Gent ‘keeper.

Chelsea 1 Gent 0.

Fifteen minutes in, it was all us.

“Have they even touched the ball in our half yet?”

There was a delightful flick from Joao Felix, in the Cole Palmer “creator” spot, but Nkunku stumbled as he tried to reach the ball.

A Pedro Neto run was captured on film – snap, snap, snap, snap –  but the resultant shot from Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall was snatched, and my photo was blurred, so it didn’t make the cut.

We dominated still, but it was all a bit laboured. On the half-hour, Gent enjoyed a rare attack and an effort from the Archie Brown, an English export flourishing in Europe. Gent then had a tidy little spell. During one attack, I was fuming that two attackers were let free on our right.

The boy Gudjohnsen shot at goal from an angle after a neat move but it flashed over.

Our play became laboured. I toyed with the notion of this modern type of football – passing to oblivion, waiting for a chink in the deep-lying defence’s armour – being dropped into our football-going experience of twenty-five years ago. I suspect that it would have been booed relentlessly.

But progress is progress, eh?

It became a time for reflection. This actually didn’t seem much like a European game at all. The days of two-legged knock-out ties in the autumn – God, how exciting was Zizkov at home in 1994? – are long gone, but even the closeness of a four-team group of recent times, with home-and-away games, little histories being made, little rivalries developing, back stories, duels, seemed a darned sight better than this. The 2024 version of a European tie lacked intensity and drama and the competition, at least this huge first phase, seemed fuzzy and bloated.

More. More. More.

We felt that this whole first phase lacked a focus, a goal, a point. We were, after all, playing six apparently random teams, and in the biggest division, thirty-two teams, of all time. Both Al and I were struggling with the concept if it all. We kept referring to “our group” but of course there was no group, no group at all. The only common thing linking our six opponents was that two of them have a shamrock on their badge. How soon would this damned league table make any sense at all? Was the common denominator now to simply win as many games as possible? In closed groups, teams could play the system and budget for away draws against teams on the premise of beating them at home. Yet in this competition, there seemed to be no similar strategy.

In a nutshell, there would be no return leg in Gent.

Oh boy.

The “randomness” of the fixtures ate away at me too. One team could get top-ranking teams in each of the six pots, whereas another team could get drawn against low-ranking teams in each of the pots.

That would be a large discrepancy, no?

It just seemed wrong.

The atmosphere around me seemed a little quiet after a noisy start to the game.

Ho hum.

At the end of the half-time break, I disappeared to turn my bike around. While otherwise occupied, I heard a roar.

“Bloody hell, there was only one team on the pitch when I left my seat.”

Neto had blasted one in from close range apparently.

Chelsea 2 Gent 0.

Sadly, on fifty minutes, after a Gent corner, Gudjohnsen’s cross was flung into our box. There were five Chelsea defenders protecting the near post. Sadly, the unmarked Tsuyoshi Watanabe, along with four other Gent players, were at the rear post. He headed into Filip Jorgensen’s net. There were groans. It was a very sloppy goal to concede.

Chelsea 2 Gent 1.

With that, the away fans turned the away section into a Barry Manilow concert by turning on their phone torches. Memories of Napoli in 2012.

“That is embarrassing. That is embarrassing” sang the Matthew Harding.

The game became much more of a spectacle in the second-half, and the Stamford Bridge crowd became noisier.

On sixty-three minutes, the ball was played in from down below us and after the ball was kept alive, it eventually rolled out to Nkunku who smacked it home.

Chelsea 3 Gent 1.

He raced towards me, and was joined by his team mates.

Smiles all around.

He reached into his sock, I think, for the blue balloon and if only Gent was in the southern part of Belgium and not in the Flemish-speaking part, I could have used a geographically precise pun.

Instead, the home areas of Stamford Bridge decided to have a laugh en masse. Out came the mobile phones, out came the torches.

A nice giggle.

This was followed by a booming “CAREFREE.”

That’s more like it.

On seventy minutes, the light-footed Felix played in Nkunku, but a sliding tackle robbed him of a shot. The ball rolled nicely to Dewsbury-Hall, who slammed it in.

Chelsea 4 Gent 1.

A slide into our corner and smiles-aplenty from Dewsbury-Hall.

Time for some substitutions on eighty minutes.

Tyrique George for Neto.

Marc Guiu for Nkunku.

Axel Disasi ended up in the net after both he and Benoit Badiashile could not quite connect from a cross from Neto.

In the last few moments of the game, Gent were given far too much space down our left and the ball was easily played in for Omri Gandelman to smack home.

Chelsea 4 Gent 2.

By this time, orange jacketed stewards had been crowded around the gap between the home and away fans in the Shed Lower. What exactly was going on down there?

There was one last chance for Gent, but the toe-poke from outside the box flew over.

I thought to myself “you’re no Ronaldinho, mate.”

It had been, I think, an odd game, for more than one reason.

I met PD back at the car and I made good time on the drive west. I made it home at 12.45am.

Next up, Nottingham Forest at 2pm on Sunday.

See you there.