Tales From The Benches, The Anfield Road And The Sleepy Hollow

Posted on May 7, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 May 2025.

We were in for an alluring climax to the season. With two straight wins in the league on the bounce – not anticipated by me and probably many more – we were right in the thick of it in the scramble for Champions League and Europa League placings. Our next match, our ninth league game in London on the spin, was against newly crowned Champions Liverpool.

While huge parts of our Chelsea nation obsessed about the guard of honour, I shrugged my shoulders; it would all be over in less than ten seconds.

What with the closure of the District Line south to Wimbledon, there was a change of plan for our pre-match. “The Eight Bells” was jettisoned in favour of “The Tommy Tucker”, a mere Ian Hutchinson throw-in from the West Stand forecourt on Moore Park Road. I dropped PD and Parky right outside at just before 11am and then switched back on myself and drove over to my favourite breakfast spot, “The Half Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road. If the other two lads could enjoy a four-hour session, then at least I could enjoy a full English.

I made it inside the pub at around 12.30pm, and the highlight of the time spent inside this busy boozer was the realisation that 1972 Olympic gold medallist Mary Peters was a few yards away. I can well remember watching her hop, skip and jump her way to her a gold in the pentathlon all those years ago.

For Mary Peters and Chelsea Football Club, Munich will always be a special city.

I left the pub earlier than the rest and reached the concourse just as Newcastle United scored a late, VAR-assisted penalty, to equalise at Brighton. Still, not to worry, a draw there did us a favour.

I reached my spot in The Sleepy Hollow, having smuggled my SLR in yet again. Before I settled in my seat, I took the camera out and took a few shots. However, a steward had evidently seen me and rather apologetically said “I have been told to tell you not to take use a professional camera.”

I smiled and replied “OK.”

At the end of the game, I would have taken 127 photos, but it was OK, I don’t get paid for any of the buggers.

I guess I was inside with a good forty-five minutes to go. There seemed to be many more obnoxious half-and-half scarves in the MHU than normal, and I feared the worst. I suspected an infiltration by you-know-who. Way atop our little section of seats, a father sat with his four-year-old son, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt under his jacket. I tut-tutted and tried to find someone else to be annoyed at. I didn’t take long. Sat behind me were four lads, two with half-and-halves, who seemed to be ignoring Chelsea’s pre-match kick-in down below us, instead focussing on the Liverpool players at The Shed End. By now Clive was alongside me, and we suggested to them that they were Liverpool fans. Their reply wasn’t in English, but they seemed to intimate that they were fans of football and soon dispersed. They must have had seats dotted all over the MHU.

The build-up to the match seemed to be rather low key in the stadium. The Liverpool fans were massed in the opposite corner, and one banner caught everyone’s attention.

IMAGINE BEING US.

Righty-oh.

The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. My light rain jacket kept out the chilly gusts.

By some odd twist of fate, forty years ago to the exact day, Chelsea were also pitted against Liverpool, but on that day in 1985 the match was at Anfield. More of that later.

The week before that game, on Saturday 27 April, Chelsea played Tottenham Hotspur at Stamford Bridge.

Let my 1984/85 retrospective recommence.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 27 April 1985.

For all of the big names coming to play us in matches at Stamford Bridge in that return to the topflight, none was bigger than Tottenham. It was the one that was most-eagerly awaited of all. And yet the problems of that era contrived against us. After the near riot at the Chelsea vs. Sunderland Milk Cup semi final on 4 March, there was a full riot at the Luton Town vs. Millwall FA Cup tie on 13 March, and football hooliganism was the talk of the front and back pages. Considering the history of problems between the two teams, the league game with Tottenham was made all-ticket with an 11.30am kick-off.

The result of this, much to my complete sadness, was that this crunch match against our bitter rivals only drew a crowd of 26,310, a figure that I could hardly believe at the time.

Sigh.

I watched from the back row of the West Stand benches with my match day crew and took plenty of photos.

Before the game, as a celebration of our ninetieth birthday – admittedly a month and a half late – we were treated to some police dogs going through some manoeuvres on the pitch (how apt) but also the Red Devil parachute display team, and if I am not mistaken one of them managed to miss the pitch and end up on the West Stand roof. I am sure some wag wondered if the guilty parachutist was Alan Mayes. Some blue and white ballons were set off in front of the Tottenham fans and we all looked on in bewilderment.

“Let’s just get to the game.”

Ski-hats were all the rage in 1984/85 and one photo that I took of Alan, Dave, Rich and Leggo has done the rounds on many football sites over the years.

The match, in the end, wasn’t that special. Tottenham went ahead via Tony Galvin in the first half but a Pat Nevin free kick on seventy-five minutes gave us a share of the points.

A week later, the action took place two-hundred or so miles to the north.

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 4 May 1984.

In 1984/1985, I only went to five away games due to finances, and the visit to Anfield was one of the highlights for sure. Liverpool were European Champions in 1984 and reigning League Champions too. They were in their pomp. Growing up as a child in the ‘seventies, and well before Chelsea fans grew tired of Liverpool’s cries of history, there were few stadia which enthralled me more than Anfield, with The Kop a beguiling wall of noise.

No gangways on The Kop, just bodies. A swaying mass of humanity.

Heading up to Liverpool, on an early-morning train from Stoke, I was excited and a little intimidated too. Catching a bus up to the stadium outside Lime Street was probably the nearest that I came to a footballing “rite of passage” in 1985. I was not conned into believing the media’s take that Scousers were loveable so-and-sos. I knew that Anfield could be a chilling away ground to visit. Famously, there was the “Cockneys Die” graffiti on the approach to Lime Street. My first real memory of Liverpool, the city, on that murky day forty years ago was that I was shocked to see so many shops with blinds, or rather metal shutters, to stave off robberies. It was the first time that I had seen such.

The mean streets of Liverpool? You bet.

I was deposited a few hundred yards from Anfield and took a few photos of the scene that greeted me. The local scallies – flared cords and Puma trainers by the look of it, all very 1985 – were prowling as I took a photograph of the old Kop.

Travelling around on trains during this season from my home in Stoke, I was well aware of the schism taking place in the casual subculture at the time. Sportswear was giving way to a more bohemian look in the north-west – flares were back in for a season or two, muted browns and greens, greys and blues, even tweed and corduroy flares – but this look never caught on in London.

At the time, I always maintained that it was like this :

London football – “look smart.”

Liverpool and Manchester football – “look different.”

I walked past The Kop and took a photo of the Kemlyn Road Stand, complete with newly arrived police horses. You can almost smell the gloom. Note the mast of the SS Great Eastern, which still hosts a fluttering flag on match days to this day.

The turnstiles were housed in a wall which had shards of glass on the top to deter fans from gaining free entry. Note the Chelsea supporters’ coach and the Sergio Tacchini top.

I paid my £2.50 and I was inside at 10.15am.

To complete this pictorial tour of Anfield before the game and to emphasise how bloody early I was on that Saturday morning – it was another 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive drinking and, ergo, hooliganism – there is a photograph of an empty, waiting, expectant Anfield. I guess that the photograph of the Chelsea squad in their suits was taken at an hour or so before kick-off. This is something we never see at games now; a Chelsea team inspecting the pitch before the game. I suspect that for many of the players, this would have been their first visit to Anfield too. Maybe that half-explains it.

My mate Glenn had travelled up with the Yeovil supporters coach for this game and we managed to find each other, and stand together, in the packed away segment at Anfield. My mates Alan, Paul and Swan stood close by. We were packed in like sardines on that terraced section of the Anfield Road that used to meet up with the Kemlyn Road, an odd mix of angles. Memorably, I remember that a lot of Chelsea lads – the firm, no doubt – had purchased seat tickets in the Anfield Road end, mere yards away from us, and a few punches were thrown. Even more memorably, I remember seeing a lad from Frome, Mark – a Liverpool supporter in my year at school – with two others from Frome only yards away in those very same seats.

The look we gave each other was priceless.

I see Mark at lots of Frome Town games to this day.

This was a cracking game. We went behind early on when Ronnie Whelan headed past Eddie Niedzwiecki and we soon conceded two more, both via Steve Nicol. We were 3-0 down after just ten minutes.

Welcome to Anfield.

We then played much better – my diary noted that it was the best we had played all season – and Nigel Spackman scored via a penalty at The Kop. Our fine play continued after the break, and Kerry Dixon slotted home in the six-yard box. Alas, a quick Liverpool break and a cross from their right. Ian Rush stuck out a leg to meet the ball at the near post and the ball looped over Niedzwiecki into the goal. My diary called it an exquisite finish and who am I to argue? I suppose, with hindsight, it was apt for Rush to score a goal at The Kop in my first ever game at Anfield. Writing these words forty years later, takes me right back. I can almost remember the gnawing inevitability of it.

Five minutes later, on about the sixty-fifth minute, Gordon Davies volleyed a low shot into the corner down below us.

Liverpool 4 Chelsea 3.

Wow.

We played so well in the remainder of the match but just couldn’t squeeze a fourth goal. We had outplayed them for a large part of the game. I remember being really surprised that Anfield was so quiet, and The Kop especially. Our little section seemed to be making all of the noise.

“EIO, EIO, EIO, EIO.”

“Ten Men Went To Mow.”

In that cramped, tight enclosure, this was a big moment in my life. I left Anfield exhausted, my throat sore, my brain fizzing with adrenalin, my senses heightened, drained.

We were all forced to take buses to Edge Hill, a train station a few miles out of Lime Street. Once there, I spotted a Chelsea lad that I recognised from Stoke, waiting with the rest of our mob, and preparing their next move, back into the city no doubt.

It took me forever to wait for a train that took me back to Crewe, where I needed to change for Stoke. I was, in fact, one of the last two Chelsea fans to leave Edge Hill that day.

These are some great memories of my first trip to Anfield.

Over the following forty years, I would return twenty-seven more times.

Back to 2025, and this was my fiftieth game against Liverpool at Stamford Bridge.

We lined up with a very strong formation, with the return of Romeo Lavia squeezing Moises Caicedo to right back and keeping Reece James on the bench.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

Liverpool were a mixture of familiar names and not-so-familiar names. I think I can name every single one of their 1985 squad, much less their 2025 version.

There were boos as both teams took to the pitch. I just stood silent with my hands in my pockets.

Within the first thirty seconds, or so it seemed, a pass from deep from Virgil Van Dijk set up Mo Salah. He attacked us from the right before attempting a low cross that was well gathered by Robert Sanchez.

This was a noisy Stamford Bridge, and the game had begun very lively. After just three minutes, we witnessed a beautiful move at pace. Romeo Lavia came away with the ball and slipped it through to Cole Palmer. The easy ball was chosen, outside to Pedro Neto. He advanced and I looked over to see Nicolas Jackson completely unmarked on the far post. However, after moving the ball on a few yards, Neto spotted the Lampardesque run of our current number eight and our Argentinian was able to kill the ball with his left foot and stroke it home with his right foot, past the diving Alisson, and Stamford Bridge went into orbit.

This was an open game, and Madueke’s shot whizzed past the post while Robert Sanchez saved well from Cody Gakpo.

Liverpool enjoyed a little spell around the fifteen-minute mark, but we were able to keep them at bay. I loved how Lavia and Caicedo were controlling the midfield. On twenty-three minutes, a magnificent sliding block from Trevoh Chalobah robbed Liverpool a shot on goal.

As the half-hour approached, I felt we were riding our luck a little as balls bounced into space from defensive blocks and clearances rather than at the feet of the opponents.

On thirty-one minutes, Noni Madueke played a one-two with Marc Cucurella, and his shot was inadvertently blocked by Jackson. The ball ran on to Caicedo, who dropped a lob onto the bar from the byline down near Parkyville.

On forty-one minutes, a snapshot from Neto hit the side netting. Just after, Jackson played in Madueke, who rounded Alisson to score, only for the goal to be chalked off for offside.

By now, the Liverpool lot, despite a flurry at the start, were quiet in their sunny corner of the stadium.

Liverpool did not seem to be creating as many threats as expected, and I was quietly confident at the break that we could hold on for a massive three points. I loved how Neto was playing, out wide, an old-fashioned winger, and Lavia, Caicedo and Enzo were a solid, fluid and combative three when we had the ball. Some of Jackson’s touches were, alas, woeful.

Into the second half, a magnificent burst from Madueke down in front of us – just a joy to watch – but a weak finish from that man Jackson. Just after, Nico slipped in the box. Just after, a fantastic dummy by Madueke out on the line, a little like Jadon Sancho at Palace, but he then gave the ball away cheaply.

Wingers are infuriating buggers, aren’t they?

At the other end, we watched a lovely old-fashioned tussle between Salah and Cucurella on the edge of our box.

Only one winner, there.

“He eats Paella, he drinks Estrella.”

On fifty-six minutes, Palmer shimmied into the right-hand side of the box and sent over a low cross towards Madueke. He touched the ball goalwards, but in the confusion that followed Van Dijk slashed at the ball and it ricocheted off Jarrell Quansah and into the goal, not that I had much of a clue what on Earth was going on. I just saw the net ripple.

It was an odd goal, in that nobody celebrated too quickly, as the spectre of VAR loomed over us all. The build-up to the goal included so many instances of potential VAR “moments” that I think it conditioned our thinking.

To our relief, no VAR, no delay, no problems.

But – VAR 1 Football 0.

Sigh.

Not to worry, we were up 2-0, and I had to ask the lads if they could remember the last time that we had beaten Liverpool in a league game at Stamford Bridge. Nobody could.

On the hour, Jackson worked himself into a great position but selfishly tried to poke the ball in from a very tight angle.

Liverpool, coming out of their shell now, enjoyed some chances. A great diving header from Levi Colwill denied them a shot on goal, and then they wasted a free header from a Salah cross.

On seventy minutes, another great slide from Our Trev denied them a shot. He was enjoying a magnificent game.

Another Liverpool header went wide.

This really was an open game.

On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Nico, who is soon to enrol in the parachute regiment.

More Chelsea chances came and went. A shot from Madueke was blocked, a rasper from Sancho was saved well by Alisson, Palmer wriggled free and somehow hit the post from a ridiculously tight angle.

This was breathless stuff.

Another shot from Palmer, who looked rejuvenated.

“He wants it now.”

On seventy-eight minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Lavia, who had been a revelation.

On eighty-five minutes, a free header from Van Dijk, from an Alexis Mac Allister corner, and they were back in the game.

This caused our hearts to wobble, and as the game continued, we watched with increasing nervous concern. Just after, the next move, Palmer forced another save from Alisson, who was by far the busier ‘keeper.

A fine move, but Neto shot over.

On eighty-eight minutes, Reece James took over from Enzo, who had enjoyed another fantastic match.

The battle continued.

“COME ON CHELS.”

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

Fackinell.

Not to worry, in the very final minute, Liverpool attempted to play the ball out from the back and Caicedo closed down and got to the ball just in front of a defender. The defender, however, got to Caicedo just before the ball.

Penalty.

Cole Palmer stroked it home, his first goal since January.

He ran towards the goal and turned towards the East Stand but I summoned up all of my psycho-kinetic powers to entice him over to us, under The Sleepy Hollow.

It worked.

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

Just after, the final whistle.

Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1.

I spotted two of the four foreign lads sitting close by, full of smiles, and I felt I owed them an apology for thinking that they were Liverpool fans. I gave them the thumbs up. They reciprocated.

This was a lovely day and a lovely match, and perhaps the best performance of the season thus far. We bounced out of Stamford Bridge and I subconsciously found myself singing Chelsea songs on the stretch from the West Stand forecourt to the tube station, just like in the old times.

Tales From The Sun And The Shadows

Posted on April 12, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 6 April 2025.

During this footballing weekend, I would be seeing my fortieth Frome Town game and also my fortieth Chelsea game of this 2024/25 season.

On the Saturday, Frome Town – the Dodge, the Scarlet Runners – were up first. There was a home game at Badgers Hill against Chertsey Town, who were just above the relegation drop zone, while Frome were struggling to get out of it. There have been a whole host of “must-win games” for my hometown team of late, but this really was it; an absolute “must-win game”. We were staring into the abyss, this was the point of no return, and a whole many more drastic cliches.

I met up with a few Frome Town regulars – Sumo, Asa, Trotsky, Francis – at the nearby Frome Cricket Club, and my presence there was intended to facilitate a little good fortune. The last time I visited the Cricket Club was before the successful Play-Off Final win last season. I hoped for a similar outcome.

Trotsky is a Brentford fan and so would be at both of my games over the weekend. We had heard that Chertsey would be bringing two coaches of supporters down to Somerset and so I was hoping that we would see a similar gate to the 659 against Hungerford Town a week earlier. Once inside it was soon apparent that the gate would be considerably less. The sunny and warm weather – usually a boon – had probably enticed potential spectators elsewhere.

We began the game well, full of attacking intent, and managed to get the ball into the goal on two occasions, only for both to be called back for offside. Unfortunately, a defensive slip allowed the visitors to go 1-0 up, and Frome found it difficult to get back into the game. At half-time, I changed ends and watched the second half in front of the clubhouse. Alas, only a small smattering of half-chances were forthcoming and as the atmosphere grew quieter and quieter, the grim realisation of yet another 0-1 loss (our fourth in a row) grew nearer. The elusive goal didn’t materialise. The gate was announced as 490, a mite disappointing if I am honest.

At the final whistle, my little group of friends stood motionless, unable to move.

This one hurt.

Frome Town have four games left: two at home against Dorchester and Totton, two aways at Swindon and Plymouth. Realistically we need to win two of these four to give ourselves even the slightest hope of survival.

We live in hope.

Saturday became Sunday and it was now Chelsea’s turn.

Our game at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was our middle match in a stretch of nine consecutive league games in London. However, our run to the end of the season clearly isn’t easy. In fact, before the game with Tottenham I mentioned to a few mates that – “without being too dramatic, nor negative” – I couldn’t see where we were going to get a win in the remaining games.

And then along came Tottenham, and Tottenham were Tottenham, and it was ever thus.

The kick-off in West London was at 2pm, and I had purchased a “JustPark” space on Oliver Close (the same close as last season if not the same house) from 11am and we envisaged a little pub crawl next to the Thames once again.

There was a lie-in of sorts – I was still up for 7am – and PD was collected at 8am and Lord Parky at 8.30am.

On a sunny morning, we enjoyed the regular route up to London; a McBreakfast at Melksham, up onto the M4, thankfully now free of speeding restrictions east of Reading, and the familiar sights such as Windsor Castle, the planes at Heathrow, the elevated section of the M4, the Wembley Arch to the north.

Everything was going to plan until I drove close to the Brentford stadium on Lionel Road, then took a road parallel to the Thames at Kew, only to find that the only access road to Oliver Close was shut due to road enhancements on Thames Road. My two passengers exited the car and walked on to the nearest pub, “The Bull’s Head”, a few hundred yards to the east. Try as I might to access Oliver Close via another nearby road, I was defeated. Instead, I had to backtrack west, head over Kew Bridge, not once but twice, and then head back the way I had come and up onto the M4 as it became the A4. From here, I drove eastwards for a mile or so and then veered off at the next exit. From here, a mile and half west to my parking spot on Oliver Close. This detour took me around twenty-five minutes, and all because of a closure of no more than twenty-five yards on Thames Road.

I wondered if such a painfully slow approach to my final destination would be mirrored by Chelsea’s attempts to penetrate the Brentford penalty box later.

I reached “The Bull’s Head” at 11.30am. Inside, at the same window seat overlooking the river as last season, my two travel companions were sharing laughs and matchday pints with Salisbury Steve and Southgate Jimmy. I slotted in alongside them and we reminisced on the Tottenham match, while trying to muster up a little enthusiasm for the afternoon’s attraction.

We spent a good hour or so there, then dropped into our main haunt at Brentford, “The Bell & Crown”, which we were visiting for probably the fourth or fifth time. There was a relaxed mix of home and away fans at this pub, but there were no Chelsea colours on show, as is our style. The sun was out, it was getting warmer and warmer.

Bliss.

We chatted to a few mates – Rob, Cal, Cliff, Chidge, Tim – and the general vibe was undoubtedly this :

“Do we have to go to the bloody football? Can’t we just stay here?”

Time was moving on, so we made our way up to the away turnstiles which are hidden away between cramped and towering flats, giving the stadium a claustrophobic and cramped-in feel, and down a few steps. You enter the stadia way below street level.

Again, I decided against a potential row with an over-zealous steward by leaving my SLR at home, instead smuggling in my Sony pub camera inside the stadium by hiding it in the palm of my hand.

Amidst the security checks, I heard this.

“Can I see inside your wallet?”

I was taken aback.

What? What was I hearing? My wallet?

I mouthed “sure” but I was fuming. Where else in the UK would somebody be asked to show the contents of their wallet? While attending a theatre? A cinema? An agricultural show? An art gallery? A shopping mall? A library?

Fackinell.

I joked with a mate “I wish I had a nude photo of his mother inside my wallet…”

I was soon inside the packed concourse. And then something lovely happened. At Stamford Bridge on Thursday, amidst all the photos of the celebrations after the Enzo match winner, there was one fan who dominated the photos of the scene down below me in the first few rows of the MHL. A lad in a yellow Chelsea shirt – the crisp one from 2021/22 – was right next to Enzo, his face a picture of absolute ecstasy.

A friend suggested that I needed to use social media to find him.

Well, within a few seconds of entering the away concourse at Brentford, I found him. I took his email address and promised to send him a selection of images.

Fantastic.

It’s all a bit weird at Brentford. From the concourse, you must ascend a flight of stairs, even to access the lower section of the away corner. I soon found my place alongside John and Gary. We were only a few rows from the corner flag.

Oh God, the sun was bearing down on us in that lower section. Despite wearing some “Ray Bans”, I soon realised that my vantage point for this game was pretty crap, especially considering the shadows underneath the main stand on the far side of the pitch and the dazzling sun elsewhere. We were so low too. I soon decided that I wasn’t going to enjoy the view at this game.

Our team?

It was hardly our first team. It shocked me.

Gusto at right back but James at left back. No Palmer. No Jackson. It took me ages to realise that our shape had been tweaked to allow three in midfield.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – James

Fernandez – Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall

Madueke – Nkunku – Sancho

There was a shared “Hey Jude” and the match began, with – for once – Chelsea attacking us in the first half.

Before we knew it, a chance for Christopher Nkunku from a James free kick on the right, but he arrived late at the far post and his header flew off and towards Oliver Close. It would be our only effort on goal for a while. At the other end, Brentford themselves enjoyed a couple of half-chances. Their front two of Bryan Mbeumo and Yoane Wissa were already up to no good; they needed to be watched those two.

On seven minutes, the away section boomed with a loud “One Man Went To Mow” but the play on the pitch took a while to get going.

Jadon Sancho, down below us, was urged to “skin” his marker but Gary quipped “he couldn’t skin a banana.”

What is it with wingers that won’t outpace their markers these days, one of the greatest sights in football over the years?

Oh yes, of course, stats say that balls crossed from the by-line are less likely to result in goal-scoring chances than balls slowly moved around the periphery of the penalty box ad nauseum until a half yard of space is created. I remembered my journey through Chiswick a few hours earlier as balls were passed to wide men to central defenders, to midfielders, to false nines, to inverted wingers, to hell and back.

Fucksake.

I wasn’t enjoying this at all.

The pitch was a hideous mix of bright sunshine and dark shadows, I was starting to get baked, my proper camera was at home, and Chelsea were boring me fucking rigid.

A few songs that heralded past players were sung.

“It’s Salomon!”

The home team conjured up a few half-chances as Chelsea toiled. A Sanchez error – quelle surprise – but then a great recovery as he spread himself to save from Mikkel Damsgaard. Brentford suddenly looked the livelier. Mbeumo cut inside from the right and should have done better with a shot that he screwed wide. The mood in our section deteriorated.

At one point in the first half, I could hardly believe my eyes as a Chelsea defender in the left back position – was it you Reece? – crossed a ball right across the Chelsea box, a mere five yards from the goal-line, right over the heads of attacking players to a defender on the other side of the box, himself no further than five yards from the goal-line.

Oh my God.

This was terrible to watch.

Two nearby Chelsea supporters, caught up in a prolonged and heated discussion, almost came to blows.

“Will you stop swearing?”

Really? At football? Fackinell.

We bellowed in desperation.

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

Just after, on thirty-four minutes, Noni Madueke took our advice and did so.

The Chelsea choir responded, and it was truly cringeworthy.

“We’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot – we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot.”

Just after, Madueke was clean through – one on one – but was cleanly tackled.

Brentford, from a corner, had a header cleared and it looked like we were hanging on. The frustration on the terraces grew. Many players were picked out for comment, with Nkunku and Sancho the most likely to be chastened. In the middle, by comparison, Moises Caicedo shone like a beacon.

Late on, a James free kick, but a Tosin header was glanced wide with the entire goal at his mercy.

That Madueke effort, I think, was indeed our only shot on target.

Meanwhile, also in West London, Fulham were surprisingly gubbing Liverpool 3-1 at half-time.

Way back in 1985, West London was my focus again.

Exactly forty years ago, on Saturday 6 April 1985, Chelsea played West London neighbours – and Hammersmith & Fulham neighbours – Queens Park Rangers in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I remember this day well. I met up with Glenn in Frome and we got a lift with two lads from Radstock – Terry and Swan – who then drove us to a spot on the A303 where Terry parked his car in a lay-by. We then caught the Yeovil Supporters Coach up to London from there. I visited the now long-gone “The George” pub at the corner of Fulham Road and the North End Road for the very first time. For a few short years – until 1988 – it would become my first Chelsea “local”.

After the hooliganism at the Sunderland game, the West Stand Benches were closed for a few weeks (and the famous concrete slabs were installed) and so we watched in The Shed. Pre-match, I chatted to Alan and Paul, we saw Leggo and Mark, and Dave came down to chat to us too.

All of these lads still go to Chelsea to this day.

I love that.

This was a poor game, and an especially poor first-half. The QPR team, playing in those Dennis the Menace red and black hooped shirts, included three former Chelsea players; Gary Chivers, Steve Wicks and Mike Fillery. Thankfully Kerry Dixon broke down the right at the Shed End in the seventieth minute and cooly finished to give us a slender 1-0 lead. We had to rely on a splendid Eddie Niedzwiecki save, late-on, to secure the three points. The gate was 20,340 but I expected less. As can be seen in the photos, QPR only partially filled two of the four pens in the away end. Their following was no more than 2,000.

By contrast, our away numbers at Loftus Road were embarrassingly more, year after year.

Back to 2025, and changes at the start of the second period.

Enzo Maresca’s odd choice of resting Nicolas Jackson for Thursday’s game in Poland – presumably – lasted just forty-five minutes. He replaced the dismal Nkunku.

Soon into the second period, the move of the match. I loved the way that a runner – Sancho I think – raced outside and took his man out of the picture, allowing Gusto to push on inside. A neat pass, then, to Dewsbury-Hall who found Jackson with a perfect long ball. However, Nico shot just wide.

A corner and a headed chance for Trevoh Chalobah went wide.

It was so difficult to see what on Earth was happening in the dark shadows at the other end. The sun was still beating down. I felt my skin buzzing. This was an uncomfortable watch.

You will note that there are no photographs featured from the second half of this game. In fact, I took very few of the whole match. Maybe the Frome ones compensate a little.

I approved of the Kante song being adapted for Caicedo.

“Moises will win you the ball…”

On the hour, two more widely applauded substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Dewsbury-Hall.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

So much for resting them for Thursday.

These two additions soon combined; Palmer to Neto, a curler palmed away by Mark Flekken in the Bees’ goal. Then, a minute later, another Neto shot at Flekken. James headed at the Brentford ‘keeper from a Neto corner, the ball at a comfortable height for a reflex save. Palmer curled an effort just wide of the post.

After a dire first-half, we were at least creating a few chances.

More Chelsea half-chances, and then a Brentford break. A decent save from Sanchez but offside anyway.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella for James.

Who would be playing on Thursday? It was far from clear.

Just after, from a Chelsea corner, another rapid Brentford break, right through the middle of our defence. Mbeumo lead the charge and passed outside to Wissa. I think we all feared the worst here. Thankfully, the much-maligned Sanchez stuck out a strong arm to parry. It was a fantastic save.

Brentford then enjoyed two clear goalscoring chances.

Keane Lewis-Potter, who sounds like he should be more suited to rain-affected cricket matches, set up Sepp Van Den Berg who attacked the ball inside the six-yard box, but his header miraculously bounced down and over the bar.

Then another near-miss as Wissa headed over.

The game was coming to life in its final minutes.

In the dying moments, up the other end, two late Chelsea chances. Enzo created space but thumped his shot wide. In the last move of the game, and indeed the last kick of the game, Palmer twisted and turned, took aim, but his curling effort floated just over the bar.

From my position, it appeared to be going in.

I was getting ready to jump for joy.

It didn’t. I didn’t.

It ended 0-0.

Miraculously, we ended the day in fourth place, and I can’t explain it.

Can anyone?

40 : FTFC

40 : CFC

40 : 1985

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

Posted on February 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

Chelsea played Wolves on Monday 20 January and here we all were again, assembling at Stamford Bridge a fortnight later for another home game, this time versus our old enemies West Ham United.

I can’t deny it, during the day I was rather non-plussed about the early start for an early shift and the trip up to London for a game on the first day of the working week. I was up at 4.45am and I would not be back until around 1am. We, the fans who use up every spare penny and every spare minute to follow and support our teams, are slaves to TV schedules. And it is really starting to hurt now.

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

But for every negative there is a positive. With no Chelsea game at the weekend, I was able to spin down to Poole in Dorset, birthplace of my maternal grandmother, to see Frome Town play on the Saturday afternoon. It was an easy trip, just an hour-and-a-half, and around seventy Frome fans had made the journey. Despite gloomy grey skies, the threat of rain held off. Unfortunately, the first half was a non-event, a real yawn fest, with no team showing much promise. In truth there was just one worthwhile shot in anger, from Frome’s Albie Hopkins, a curler just wide of the far post.

I remember that before our 0-4 defeat at Bournemouth in 2019, Maurizio Sarri had us training in the morning of the game on that very same pitch.

Thankfully, the second half was much livelier, and much more encouraging from a Frome point of view. The away team were immediately on top, and threatening, with a lot more adventure in our play. On sixty-six minutes, the Poole Town ‘keeper showed “Spin The Wheel Sanchez” tendencies and mistimed his manic attempt to rush out and clear, allowing Hopkins to gather just inside the Poole half and lob a shot towards the unguarded goal. Thankfully it was on target. The Frome faithful in the 564 attendance went doo-lally. We held on for a fine away win, and the current run in the league stood at three wins, two draws and just one loss. I drove back home a very contented fan of The Dodge. The Great Escape was continuing.

The Setting Sun.

I dropped PD and LP off at “The Eight Bells” at 4.20pm – just two and a quarter hour since leaving Melksham – and then killed some time driving around the back streets of Fulham, waiting for 5pm to arrive and thus enabling me to park for free. On my slow meander, I spotted that some streets south of Lillee Road were marked as being available after 5pm on weekdays, but not on Saturdays, and I was able to park up right outside “The Elephant & Barrel” – formerly “The Rylston” – and this suited me just fine. There was even time for a super photo of one of the main tower blocks of the Clem Atlee Estate, with the setting sun glinting off its windows, and it was all very similar to the shot I took of the sunset and the Empress State Building two weeks earlier.

Fearing tiredness, I did think about grabbing a little sleep in my car, knowing full well that it would be a long night ahead. There was, after all, still three hours to kick-off. But no, my adrenalin was pumping now, and I set off for Stamford Bridge.

A Little Bit Of America.

I needed some sustenance, so stopped off at a new eatery at the bottom end of the North End Road, almost opposite the “Memory Lane Café Ole”.

“Popeyes” has been open a few months and I dived in for the first time. As a frequent visitor to the US over the past three decades or more, I often spotted “Popeyes” chicken restaurants, usually in the South, but I had never once visited. This was my first time, in the deep south of Fulham. It was pretty decent. I chatted to a couple of match-going Chelsea fans. One lad from just outside Dublin had paid £85 for a ticket. Ouch.

I have noted that in addition to “Five Guys” at Fulham Broadway, two other US fast food places have recently opened in the area; “Taco Bell” next to “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and “Wendy’s”, where “The White Hart” pub used to be. Of course, the long-standing “McDonalds” is situated on the North End Road too.

In addition to the US in the boardroom at Stamford Bridge, we now have a few more US restaurants nearby too.

It got me thinking.

In the days of me posting my match reports on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the addition of this little bit of info would probably have triggered a riot of comments and activity. It’s hard to believe that back in the heyday of the CIA from around 2009 to 2012, my posts would often get over a thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get a quarter of that volume.

I darted in to see Mr and Mrs B and Mr and Mrs T in “The Vanston Café” and then took a few “mood shots” of the matchday scene outside Stamford Bridge.

Pre-Match Razzle.

I was inside early at 7.05pm – 1905, a great number – and my good mate Alan was already in. We waited for others to arrive and the announcement of the teams. As usual, we directed a little bit of ire at the idiots watching from behind the cordon down below us as the players – year of the snake shirts, my arse – went through their routines. For the first time for a few months, a DJ was up to her tricks again, in residence in a booth behind these corporate guests.

She opened up with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears from 1985.

1985, eh? More of that later.

The music boomed away, making conversation quite difficult. I gave up talking to Anna. It got worse. We were entertained – or not – by something called “Fan Cam” which featured fans bedecked in Chelsea colours in the East Lower smiling and gurning at the camera, with the images projected on the giant TV screens. I noted one female fan waving a flag with a pole attached. How was she allowed in with that? Ah, maybe it was staged, a plant from inside.

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

Anyway, the whole thing just screamed “America” and I bet the West Ham fans, positioned just yards away, had a few choice adjectives to describe the scene to their right.

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

At 7.50pm, a little bit of normality with “London Calling.”

But then the lights dimmed, and a light show took over. There was also a segment of a heavy metal rock song that seemed to be totally out of place. It screamed America once again, but WWE or NFL, or some other faux sport.

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

The team had been announced an hour previously and the big news was “no Sanchez.” In fact, when Filip Jorgensen’s name was announced, there was noticeable applause. It was a shock that our Trev was dropped.

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

Thankfully, back to normality, the lights on, and a few blasts of “Liquidator.”

Sadly, Clive was not at this game, but it was lovely to be sat alongside Alan again after he missed a couple of matches over recent weeks.

Back in 1985, it was me who was not always present at Chelsea games.

Wigan Athletic Away.

After drawing 2-2 in the third round of the cup, we travelled to Wigan Athletic’s Springfield Park on Saturday 26 January 1985. I did not attend; I was stuck in Stoke, listening for updates on my radio. We demolished Wigan, winning 5-0 with Kerry Dixon getting four and one from David Speedie. The attendance was 9,708. In the next round we were drawn against Millwall at home, with the game set to be played the following Thursday. This was odd. Chelsea and Millwall rarely played each other, yet this would be the third encounter of the season. I doubted if I would attend the game at such short notice.

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

On the Monday after the Saturday, on 28 January, we played our fierce rivals Sheffield Wednesday in the fifth round of the Milk (League) Cup. I did not attend this one either. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. A massive crowd of 36,608 saw an entertaining 1-1 draw with a goal from David Speedie equalising one from Lawrie Madden. Chelsea’s infamous penalty woes of 1984 and 1985 continued as Wednesday ‘keeper Martin Hodge saved one from Kerry Dixon. If that had gone in, Chelsea would have reached our first semi-final of any type since 1972. I listened to the whole game on Radio 2, a real treat. The replay would be just two days later, thus cancelling out the game with Millwall in the other cup on the Thursday.

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

This game took place on Wednesday 30 January. Are you keeping up? This means three games in five days. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. I had a pool game in the local, then came home to listen to the match on the radio. I remember the gut-wrenching feeling of us going 0-3 down in the first half. We quickly scored forty-five seconds into the second half, through Paul Canoville, but for some reason I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by my room-mate and his girl-friend bursting in to tell me that it was 3-3 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Micky Thomas. I could hardly believe them. With that, Canoville scored a fourth to give us a highly improbable 4-3 lead. As we all know, as the song says, in the dying moments, Doug Rougvie fouled a Sheffield Wednesday player in the box and the home team equalised via a Mel Sterland penalty. An extra thirty minutes were played but it it ended 4-4. It remains one of the games that I really feel bad about missing. The gate was 36,505.

The two clubs were such rivals in 1983/84 and 1984/85. Even our gates were well matched.

“Three-nil down, four-three up, Dougie Rougvie fucked it up.”

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

On Saturday 2 February, back to the normalcy of the league campaign and my only ever visit to Filbert Street. This was now our fourth game in just eight days. I caught an early morning train to Derby where I had a while to wait before getting a train to Leicester, arriving at 10.30am. There was a cheap fry up in a cheap café. I embarked on a little tour of the city centre – for the only time, I have not been back since – and made it down to the ground at 11.30am. I decided to buy a £4.50 seat in the side stand rather than stand on the terrace. I can’t over-emphasise the importance or cachet in going in the seats at away games in this era. For some reason, London clubs made a habit of it.

It was the done thing.

I guess it went hand-in-hand with the casual movement at the time. If you had a bit more money to spend – which I didn’t, I was a student – then you always tried to go in the seats. I had done so at Hillsborough in December and I would do it at Stoke later on that season.

Then there was the thrill of singing “One Man Went To Mow” in those seats, sitting until ten, and then thousands getting up en masse and putting on a show for the locals.

Brilliant times.

I circumnavigated the ground and the inevitable photos. I spotted Leggo, Mark and Simon. My mate Glenn from Frome arrived and I had a chat. There was a lot of fighting in the top tier of the double-decker to my left. A home area, Chelsea had obviously infiltrated it. I noted tons of Aquascutum scarves.

So much for sitting at away games. A bloke was in my seat and unwilling to move, so I was forced to stand in the gangway at the back of the slim section of seats.

After just four minutes, Gary Lineker headed home from a corner to give the home team a 1-0 lead. Thankfully, we were awarded a penalty on half-time. The Chelsea fans chanted for the ‘keeper to take the spot-kick after the misses of the past year or so.

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

But not to worry, David Speedie slotted it home. This was an entertaining match. Chelsea bossed the second half, but I also noted that Eddie Niedzwiecki made three stunning saves. It ended 1-1 before a gate of 15,657.

There was a thin police escort, past the rugby ground, back to the station and I saw groups of lads going toe-to-toe in a nearby park. I made it back unscathed, met up with Glenn again, then some other lads, and then a massive Chelsea mob turned up. There was a formidable police presence at the train station. I caught the train back to Derby, arriving just as their special came in from Lincoln. I kept silent.

Next up, two days later, was the Millwall FA Cup tie, but that’s another story.

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

Chelsea attacked the three thousand away fans and Parkyville in the first half.

Soon into the game, fifteen-seconds in fact, there was the first rendition of “Blue Flag – Up Your Arse” from the away support.

Blimey.

That must be a record.

The two sets of fans then traded Lampard chants for a few minutes, and I wondered if I was watching a pantomime.

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

Six minutes in, after a dull start, a little piece of magic from Cole Palmer in the inside-left position, twisting and creating space, but the ball went off for a corner.

On fifteen minutes, a chance for Noni Madueke as he danced in from the right but curled a shot just wide of the magnificently named Alphonse Areola’s far post.

West Ham enjoyed a little spell with Aaron Wan-Bissaka racing past his defender and setting up Jarrod Bowen who forced Jorgensen to block well at the near post. From the corner, Levi Colwill headed out and somebody called Andy Irving shot over. This was a rare attacking phase from the visitors who seemed more than content to sit deep – yeah yeah, low fucking block – and occasionally venture north.

We regained the impetus, but our play was rather slow. On twenty-two minutes, the ball broke for Palmer but he was stretching and the shot was well over. Two minutes later, some nice link-up play and a cross from Reece James but Marc Cucurella headed over.

Just after, a ball out of defence from Tosin towards Nicolas Jackson, but the ball hit him and he fell over.

Shades of classic Dave Mitchell in 1989 when he was put through at The Shed End and the ball hit him on the back of the head.

On the half-hour, a terrible ball from a West Ham player ended up at the feet of Madueke who raced away, deep into the box, and played the ball back to Enzo Fernandez who had supported the attack well. Alas, his rather scuffed shot bobbled past the far post. Enzo often drifted to the right with Cucurella coming in to support the midfield from the left.

But this was far from a great first-half show. My main complaint was the lack of movement from our attacking players. I must have shouted “angles” ten times in that first-half. We also lacked discipline and gave away far too many needless fouls.

On thirty-seven minutes, a Mohammed Kudus shot was saved by Jorgensen, who thankfully was showing none of Sanchez bizarre desire to pass to the opposing team.

On forty minutes, Jadon Sancho leaned back and sent a curler high over the bar. I was tapping away on my phone, recording a few notes to share here, when I looked up to see the end of a West Ham break, a Bowen shot, a West Ham goal.

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

On a night when a win – or draw – would send us back to fourth place, this now became an uphill battle.

We had high hopes in the closing moments of the half when a perfectly positioned free-kick presented Palmer with a fine opportunity to lift the ball over the wall. Alas, although the kick was superbly taken, Areola matched it with an absolutely superb save. There was some late Chelsea pressure late on, but we went in 0-1 down at the break.

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

During the break, I was well aware that the DJ was continuing her ear-drum bashing music show – it began with more Tears For Fears, “Shout”, how appropriate – but I did not spot the sight of those around her in the West Lower grooving and dancing, and seemingly having a whale of a time. This was pointed out to me afterwards.

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

Seriously, what on Earth was that all about? Evidence suggests that – again – people were placed in that area to create false jollity.

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

The ill-discipline of the first half continued into the second, with a silly early foul annoying PD and me alike.

Rather than make some changes at the break, Enzo Maresca chose to wait until the seventh minute of the second period.

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Throughout the match thus far, we were had been – sadly – totally out sung by the knot of West Ham supporters in the far corner. There were the usual songs about Frank Lampard and Stamford Bridge falling down, and the blue flag being pushed somewhere unsightly, but a few new ones too. I looked on with an uncomfortable expression.

West Ham conjured up a couple of chances too, the buggers.

On the hour, at fucking last, a loud and uplifting roar from the home areas.

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

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

Neto had started out on the left but was now shifted to the right. To be honest, from this moment on, he changed the game.

First, however, a wild and lazy shot from Tosin, and we all sighed.

Down in the far corner, the away fans were full of mischief.

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

Well, that should result in your club getting hammered with a fine, lads.

Well done.

Then, a fine Chelsea move on sixty-four minutes. The ball was played intelligently, and it found Neto, teasing his marker Emerson on the right. A cross was clipped into the danger area. Guiu rose but did not connect. Instead, Cucurella on the far post played in Enzo. His shot was blocked but it fell rather nicely to Neto. I watched him. I focussed on his body language. He looked supremely confident and happy to be presented with a real chance. He ate it up.

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

I noted Alan wasn’t celebrating. He was waiting for the malodorous stench of VAR.

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

Neither Alan nor I celebrated. We did not move a muscle.

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

Ten minutes later, with the Stamford Bridge crowd thankfully making a little more noise, a move was worked through to Cucurella down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. He played the ball back to Palmer. He attacked Tomas Soucek and then Wan-Bissaka. Level with the six-yard box, he whipped the ball in. To my pleasure, but also astonishment, the ball found the net, and I only really realised after that the ball had been deflected in off Wan-Bassaka.

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

Soon after, a Tosin header went close, Palmer went just wide. Guiu, full of honest running, was unable to finish after fine play again from Neto.

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were seven minutes of added time and this became a nervy finale, with a mixture of desperate blocks and timely saves assuring us of the three points.

At around 9.55pm, the referee’s whistle pierced the night sky, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a quick getaway. I hot-footed it back to the car, collected PD and LP, and I did not stop once on my return home.

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

Such is life, though; after a night at football, I can never go straight to bed. There are things to review, photos to check, photos to edit, photos to share. I suppose I eventually drifted off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

Next up, the FA Cup and a trip to Sussex by the sea. And, unlike in 1985, there will be no replays.

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From Seven O’Clock On A Sunday Evening

Posted on December 24, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 15 December 2024.

There was much consternation about Chelsea pushing the kick-off time for our West London derby with Brentford back to 7pm. At seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, people should be close to home, going through those sometimes-annoying Sunday evening rituals ahead of a new week of work, school or college. It’s an out-dated expression these days, but Sundays were always days of rest. Football fans – “those who go” – at such a time on Sundays, should at least be well on our way home from a game. With a 4.30pm kick-off common in these days of football being the slave to TV, it is pretty tough to be setting off for home after a game in Liverpool or Manchester at 7pm.

However, at 7pm on a Sunday, football fans should not be rushing to get into a stadium to see the start of a game.

Sigh.

Chelsea deemed that the players needed an extra, say, four hours of rest after their trip to Almaty and the game the previous Thursday. I find this all a bit ridiculous. I am sure that the squad and management travelled on direct flights in style. Did they really require, effectively, four extra hours in bed? I doubt it.

Whatever. 7pm it was.

Ironically, the delayed kick-off worked for me. It meant that when I reached home just before midnight on the Saturday, I did not have to get up too early on the Sunday.

From the cheap seats : “What are you moaning for then?”

Me : “My personal situation doesn’t change the absurdity of it.”

I suppose I got to sleep at about 1.30am. I had, like the returning Chelsea players I suspect, managed to get a lot of sleep on my Azerbaijan Airlines flight home, and I woke at 9am feeling fresh.

I was planning to head up to Chelsea at 1.30pm or so.

No rush.

As I mentioned in the Astana blog, Frome Town had walloped Swindon Supermarine 3-0 at home on the Saturday. This was a huge fillip. It was our second successive league win and the first home win of the season. For the game with Brentford, I was travelling up to Stamford Bridge with my friend Courtney from Chicago. He so enjoyed his first Frome Town game in October that he was back for more. He was more than happy to combine Chelsea and Frome Town again. At 12.30pm we met up for a Sunday Roast at a local pub in a nearby village. This was, officially, Courtney’s first-ever roast on a Sunday in England. The roast beef went down a treat.

At about 1.45pm we set off for Chelsea. The trip up was pretty decent, and we chatted about all things Chelsea and all things Frome.

At around 4.45pm I was just about to park up in the usual place when I spotted new parking signs. We had been warned that new parking charges were coming into effect soon, but no solid date had been announced. I quickly did an about-turn and headed a few blocks north to Charleville Road. Here the parking was free after 5pm, rather than not until 10pm further south, nearer Lillie Road.

There was a short and brisk walk to West Kensington tube to Earls Court. As we changed platforms, I commented to Courtney about me first walking up towards the southbound District Line to Wimbledon in March 1974, over fifty years.

Courtney : “Probably the same steps.”

Chris : “Definitely the same legs.”

We shot through Fulham Broadway, always an odd feeling, and alighted at Putney Bridge. Here, PD and Parky – and a few other usual suspects – had been slurping since around 1pm. The two of them could not wait for my late arrival and, instead, had taken the train up to Paddington. Nothing gets in the way of a pre-match drink-up for these two Herberts. The place wasn’t too busy, and Courtney and I were able to find a quiet corner to sit and chat.

At just after 6pm, there was a call to arms and so Parky, PD, Courtney, Doncaster Paul, Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and little old me set off for Stamford Bridge.

Forty years ago, to the very day, I made my way to Stamford Bridge alone. On Saturday 15 December 1984, Chelsea played Stoke City in Division One. I was now back in Somerset after spending my first term at North Staffs Poly, and it was odd that I was now watching my quasi-hometown team play at The Bridge. I travelled up by train to Paddington and my diary reports that I spent the morning doing what I often did on Chelsea home games. I toured the West End shopping areas – Oxford Street, Bond Street – on the look out for clobber in several shops. For the first time I spotted the “Giorgio Armani” shop on New Bond Street (not Emporio Armani, that came later) and baulked at the price of those delicious pullovers. “Gee2” was nearby, and their pullovers were similar. Alas, I was a mere student and would soon succumb to a cheaper “Robert Klein” rip-off version at a shop in Stoke. I remember that I bumped into my college room-mate Chris on Oxford Street, visiting from his home on Teesside. What a small world.

I remember that I had been talking to a Stoke fan, Tim – he looked like Lou Costello – at that party above a pub before the Sheffield Wednesday away game and he confidently predicted that Stoke would take “a firm” to Stamford Bridge, but I wasn’t confident that he was telling the whole truth. Beer, bravado and bullshit, more like.

I sat with Alan in the West Stand benches.

So much for Tim’s protestations of greatness. Stoke only brought between 75 and 100 fans in a crowd of just 20,534. A Stoke firm? No. Most of them looked infirm. I didn’t see him.

This was a dire match. The suspended David Speedie was sadly missed. Stoke defended and defended. On seventy minutes, Pat Nevin sent over a cross that Gordon Davies reached. Former Manchester City ‘keeper Joe Corrigan, deputising for Peter Fox, saved his header, but Kerry Dixon headed home the rebound. Sadly, a minute later, Paul Dyson slid in and prodded in an equaliser from close range.

It was a poor game on a dull afternoon in London. I returned back to Frome where I went out for a few beers with a mate who had returned from college in Tottenham for the Christmas period. I bumped into Glenn wearing one of those patchwork leather and suede jackets that were becoming a sought-after item, on London’s terraces if not further north, in 1984/85. I would later to succumb to one of those buggers, too.

In 1984/85, Brentford were in the Third Division, and a place at the top table would have been a pipedream. Yet they are an established topflight team these days and were victorious in each of their previous three visits to Stamford Bridge in the Premier League.

But I was confident. Cole Palmer was playing for us, right?

Indeed he was.

Us :

Sanchez.

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Chelsea in blue, Brentford in red and white stripes.

Courtney had taken Clive’s place in The Sleepy hollow.

PD – Alan – Courtney – Chris

What a back four. No inverted full-backs here but no end of wide players though, myself included.

The Ron Harris Derby began.

There was an early header from Nicolas Jackson, and then the game flattened out a little, with slow build-ups from Chelsea in front of a Brentford midfield and defence that defended so deep that the players almost started shouting at each other with South London accents.

After the chill of Almaty, this was a ridiculously mild night in SW6.

There was an angled drive, again from Jackson, beautifully found by Moises Caicedo, as we dominated the ball. Their ‘keeper Mark Flekken blocked the effort. A couple more Chelsea efforts, from Palmer and Madueke emphasised our dominance.

On seventeen minutes, Robert Sanchez had us all worried when he mis-controlled the ball close to his goal line but was able to recover.

All of us pedants in The Sleepy Hollow, if not the entire Matthew Harding, became obsessed with two balls being on the pitch at the same time. A ball sat on the pitch a few yards from the goal-line.

We kept tut-tutting.

“The game should be stopped.”

“If a goal is scored, it really should not count.”

“The lino is not far away. Why can’t he flag the referee?”

“Has no official seen it?”

After a few minutes, a ball boy rose from his seat and picked it up and took it off, accompanied by, possibly, the loudest cheer of the game thus far.

I purred at the unreal close control from Palmer which set up a chance, but it went wide for a corner.

The chances were mounting, but I thought that we were half-a-second slow in our passing half-a-yard slow in our movement. It was too pedestrian.

A block from Colwill thwarted a Brentford effort from Mikkel Damsgaard, whoever he is.

It was mild in the stands too. Oh, modern football. The noise levels were dire.

However, on forty-three minutes, Malo Gusto pushed the ball out to Noni Madueke. He floated a fine ball into the box and Marc Cucarella attacked the ball. He guided a fine header down and in at the far post from the edge of the six-yard-box.

Get in you fucker.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

I silently dedicated the goal to all those fools who left for a half-time drink or slash just before.

At the break, mixed feelings. Happy to be ahead. Not overly happy with our approach play. But winning. Unlike against Stoke in 1984.

There wasn’t too much of a reaction from Brentford, and it was business as usual as the second half began.

It really was all us.

On the hour, a lovely move involving a wriggle and a dribble from our boy Palmer, and then a cross from Jadon Sancho set up the on-rushing Jackson. He could not believe the miss, high, and nor could any of us. Heads were nestled in hands throughout the Matthew Harding in a flash mob homage to “The Scream” by Edvard Munch.

Fackinell.

We kept going. Our chances came but nothing clearcut.

On seventy-two minutes after a little head tennis in our box, the ball was pumped back in and Christian Norgaard, whoever he is, settled himself before volleying at goal.

I knee-jerked a yelp of “goal!” but was utterly amazed by Sanchez’ amazing leap and save. It was magnificent.

On seventy-six minutes, the ball was out to the Brentford right and Cucarella had been sucked in, following the ball. A low cross was met by a stab by Fabio Carvalho and the ball smashed the crossbar before bouncing out, the ball landing right on the line.

Phew.

This was tense stuff now.

Come on Chelsea.

Jackson easily fell inside the box down below us and we groaned. Thankfully, not long after I caught the run from Jackson, released from deep by a lovely ball from Enzo, and snapped as he set himself up to breeze past Ethan Pinnock, and then fire low past Flekken.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Just after, eighty-three minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

He was warmly applauded.

“He’ll miss more than he will score, but what player is any different? He’s a threat.”

Rather than an easy slide into the last moments of the game, we were treated to some typical Chelsea nervousness after a sliding tackle from Tosin missed both ball and player and Bryan Mbeumo on a quick break was able to finish impeccably.

Seven minutes of extra time were signalled and the crowd grumbled. It was seven minutes of hell, but we held on. Cucarella had been as good as anyone. He had my vote for Man of the Match, so it was with some surprise and a little sadness that we learned that he was sent off after the final whistle.

However, second place.

What a bloody fantastic effort.

Tales From Forty Years Apart

Posted on December 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 December 2024.

The Famous Five were back together again for the home game against Aston Villa; I was on the road at 6.30am and by 7.30am my four passengers had been securely collected. I was alongside PD in the front while Glenn, Parky and Ron were squeezed into the back seats. Villa have faltered of late, and I think that the consensus in the car was of quiet optimism.

“If we win this, it would be a great statement of intent. Villa are no mugs. But we can bet them. If we win by three goals, we can rise to second place.”

My voice had begun strongly but tailed off. Deep down I thought that a win involving a margin of three goals might well be beyond us.

I was parked up at around 9.45am on a grey and slightly damp morning in the streets of Fulham. Time was of the essence during this particular pre-match and rather than take my time over a “sit down” breakfast at “Café Ole”, I quickly popped into the McMemory Lane Café further up the North End Road and scoffed a breakfast muffin.

You know what’s coming up, right?

Saturday 24 November 1984.

It was just after midday, and I was out and about in Stoke’s town centre. I can well remember the moment that I spotted a half-time score on a TV in an electronics shop on Church Street. Chelsea were playing against Tottenham at White Hart Lane, and it was an early 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive hooliganism. I saw the scoreline. We were 1-0 up. I bellowed a load “yes” and probably carried out a Stuart Pearson – who? – style fist pump. Being 1-0 up at the home of our most bitter rivals was one to celebrate. The goal came courtesy of Kerry once again, after just five minutes. Alas, Marc Falco – he was loaned to us two years previously, possibly one of our lowest of low points – equalised soon into the second-half for the home team. It left us in eighth place, and in a good state of health before the upcoming game at home to Football League and European Champions Liverpool the following Saturday.

Saturday 1 December 1984.

On the Friday, I had travelled back to Somerset, and on the morning of the game on the Saturday, I travelled up to London from Frome, by myself, by train. I was expecting to see Glenn en route but he was nowhere to be seen. This was to be the first in a double of huge home games in the month of December, with Manchester United visiting a few days after Christmas. There is no doubt that I was super-excited about the game with the red-shirted scousers. My record against them was perfect. Two games, two wins, at Stamford Bridge in 1878 and in 1982.

I got to Stamford Bridge ridiculously early and took in the early atmosphere. The place was excitedly expectant. I took my place on the back row of the West Stand Benches on a cold afternoon, alongside some friends who are mates to this day. A few rows behind us, up in the front rows was none other than Peter Osgood, my all-time hero. It was the first time I had seen The King since a game against Southampton eight years previously. My mate Alan took a photo of me before the game began. I remember I was sporting a pink Lacoste polo and a newly-acquired Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover from menswear shop in Stoke called “Matinique” where I had bumped into the Everton striker Adrin Heath a few weeks previously.

Eventually Glenn appeared after taking a later train from Frome and then Westbury. There was a ‘photo of him too, a picture of 1980’s Casualdom, with a bubble perm and a yellow Pringle.

I was obsessed by how many away fans of the various visiting clubs would show up at Stamford Bridge in 1984/85. There is no doubt at all that our home stadium had a fearsome reputation for away supporters, but I had been impressed with the West Ham following in early September, which must have reached the eight thousand level. Would Liverpool equal it? I wasn’t sure. From memory, they filled two pens, and a third was – as the game approached – mixed between home and away fans. There was a “set to” between the two sets of supporters in this third pen, and I can distinctly remember two things. There were around four thousand Scousers present.

Firstly, Alan – alongside me – said that he had spotted Hicky, the leader of the Chelsea pack, in the heart of the action. Secondly, I remember the Scousers letting off red flares, which hinted at their European history, and which I had never previously seen before at Stamford Bridge. One or two were propelled towards us in the West Stand. Needless to say, my little Kodak camera went into overdrive and captured a few of the red flashes between the two battling factions.

This only heightened the atmosphere. It was a dark afternoon, and the air of malevolence hung over the north terrace as thick as the London fogs of the pre-war years.

Chelsea attacked that same north terrace in the first-half and a move developed down the right, in front of the East Lower. Kerry Dixon raced down the right wing in front of the East Lower and kept going. From memory, he drew the ‘keeper and then slipped it in to put us 1-0 up. Only ten minutes had passed. There was wild and wanton euphoria on The Benches and elsewhere in the stadium too.

Sadly, Jan Molby equalised for Liverpool at The Shed End on twenty-eight minutes.

Thankfully, the second-half went our way with goals from Joe McLaughlin, a towering header just after the break – his first goal for us – and a third from David Speedie on seventy-six minutes giving us a fully deserved 3-1 win.

I was ecstatic.

My record against Liverpool was now an incredible 3-0, in an era when they were the stand-out team in England by a huge margin.

The gate was a huge 40,972. It added to the magnificence of it all.

Altogether now :

“Chelsea Are Back, Hello, Hello.”

On the Friday, in Frome, I had bought a copy of the new Cocteau Twins album “Treasure” and as I walked along the Fulham Road towards South Kensington tube station, to avoid the formidable crowds at Fulham Broadway, I listened to the album on my sub-Sony “Walkman”, an AIWA version. With the night now fallen, and with Christmas lights in the shop windows, with those glorious shimmering sounds providing a scintillating backdrop, I was able to go over the afternoon’s events, and it is a memory that lives with me to this day.

Every time, I hear that album – it is my favourite, my favourite ever – I am immediately transported back to that December evening in London some forty years ago.

And it was exactly forty years ago.

Fast forward to 1 December 2024, and I was back at Stamford Bridge yet again.

My pre-match was predictably busy and I spent it with Glenn and my friend Pete, and his son Calvin – from Seattle – at the hotel where The Shed once stood before meeting up with a smattering of mates from near and far in the “Eight Bells.”

The Normandy Division, headed by Ollie, was in town, and there was a visit from Johnny 12 Teams and his wife Jenni 12 Markets. Tommie from Porthmadog called in and we talked about Brazil. I had watched the final of the Coppa Libertadores on the Saturday night with the Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro game an exact copy of the last game I saw in Rio in July. Botafogo won 3-0 in July and 3-1 in December. They took the last spot in next season’s FFA World Club Cup in the US.

I was pleased that Botafogo won – it was some game – and cheered me up a little. Although I did not attend, Frome lost a “must-win” relegation six-pointer at Marlow earlier that day.

Inside Stamford Bridge, one friend was missing.

Alan, my mate from that day in 1984, was a hundred or so miles away following his other club Bromley in one of their biggest ever matches. They were at Solihull Moors in the Second Round Proper of the FA Cup. Ironically, the tie was against the same team that Bromley had beaten in their play-off final at the end of last season.

I often wonder if I will miss a Chelsea game in favour of a key Frome Town game. That time will come, I am sure.

The minutes passed until kick-off.

I have suffered recent technological nightmares with both my mobile phone and my laptop ceasing to work over the past fortnight. I bought a new ‘phone a week or so ago and upon firing up the wi-fi offered by Chelsea Football Club, I was again dismayed to see that during the set-up to get my new device registered, the list of reasons for my visit to Stamford Bridge included around eight options (such as Commercial Sponsor, Commercial Guest and Banqueting) but there was no mention of football.

It made me want to cry.

Where has it all gone wrong, Chowlsea?

Fackinell.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The game began at 1.30pm. It soon became apparent that Moises Caicedo pushed up and inside when we had the ball, and there was all sorts of fluidity going on at the top end of the pitch. It was enough for me to do to exactly work it all out.

The three of us regulars in The Sleepy Hollow – PD, Clive and yours truly – were joined by a lad from Los Angeles (his debut at Stamford Bridge) and a young woman from New York (her second visit) and as the game began, we tried our best to make them feel at home, but we warned them about the usual flurry of swearing.

The three thousand Villa fans were in decent voice and there was an early song honouring the well-loved Gary Shaw, who recently passed away.

I noticed that a few Sleepy Hollow regulars had arrived a little late, but I had to commend them as they arrived just in time to see us play the ball out to Marc Cucarella on the edge of the box who then whipped in a fine cross towards the near post. Nicolas Jackson was on hand to prod the ball in past Emiliano Martinez.

Chelsea 1 Villa 0.

Get in.

Just seven minutes had passed.

The visitors seemed happy to soak up the early pressure, but we were tested by a break away down below us in the inside-left channel by Ollie Watkins. Fearing danger, I yelled out “stay with him Fofana” but this is the exact opposite of what our French defender did. He appeared to trip over an imaginary leg, and Watkins left him for dead. We were oh-so thankful of Robert Sanchez’ alert block, his legs spread wide.

I thought to myself that Watkins would thrive in our team, but then immediately chastised myself for coveting a neighbour’s ox when we had Jackson within our midst, a very decent young player in his own right.

There were decent performances throughout our team as the first-half continued. The two wingers Pedro Neto and Jadon Sancho caught the eye, but Neto had more end product.

There was that rare sighting of an indirect free-kick well inside the opposing penalty box, but Cole Palmer’s effort was saved by Martinez, and Romeo Lavia’s follow-up was unsurprisingly blocked.

Sanchez gets some stick from us regarding his poor distribution, but Martinez made a howler himself, passing the ball straight to Jackson. Surely a goal here? Alas not, the ball would not sit up for a clean finish, and Martinez was saved blushes. This was not the only example of sloppy defensive play from the visitors.

On thirty-seven minutes, we won the ball in midfield via the twin powers of Caicedo – currently becoming one of my favourites – and Lavia. The ball was played to Enzo, and then to Palmer. Our Mancunian maestro, the stray dog, pushed the ball on to Enzo who had found space. A quick assessment of the moment, and Enzo despatched a low shot with unerring precision and the ball flew past his Argentinian teammate in the Shed End goal.

Chelsea 2 Villa 0.

How we celebrated. And how Enzo, the captain today, celebrated too, sliding into Parkyville and ending up lying still on the turf. He was soon mobbed by his teammates.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC.”

Oh we were all very happy at half-time.

Villa, I think, had been poor, and had rarely threatened. At times we had purred.

Clive spotted a change between the sticks for Villa. On came Robin Olsen for Martinez. We continued along similar lines as the first-half.

I had a little think back to the game at Leicester City the previous weekend. I realised how the dynamic of support had changed over the two matches. At Leicester, all three-thousand of us in that tight corner, all standing, in it together, out-numbered, grateful for anything, happy with any attack away from home, bellowing songs of support.

And now, in the comfort of home, sat, arms crossed, offering polite encouragement, almost as if we needed to be entertained.

There was a glorious tackle that Enzo won before steadying himself to play in Jackson, who ran on but sadly squandered the chance.

On the hour, the injured Fofana gave way to Benoit Badiashile.

Villa made changes themselves.

The quality of play dropped a little and we didn’t dominate quite as much.

Ross Barkley came on as sub and received a warm reception. He soon made his presence felt with a close-in header that Colwill did ever so well to head off the line.

I am sure that I wasn’t the only one begging for one more goal. Despite playing the far more impressive football, at 2-0, I was never content.

Another chance for Jackson, and one for Sancho too.

On seventy-one minutes, Enzo Maresca made a double-swap.

Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

I spoke to Max, from LA :

“You’re not missing out on any of our stars here, mate, they are all playing today.”

The game continued on, and I still begged for one more goal. The mercurial Palmer was involved as the game reached the last section and had one or two shots blocked.

On eighty-three minutes, a free-kick was taken quickly by Palmer out to Madueke, who returned the ball. Palmer took a touch, and although he was seemingly hemmed in by a gaggle of Villains, his firm strike at goal was perfectly despatched, its curve and its trajectory utterly beautiful.

It’s a good job he works in ballistics.

Chelsea 3 Villa 0.

Not only was the goal a stunning creation, the post-goal celebrations were magnificent too, and it made me tingle to see everyone so happy down below us.

One last change.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

This was a lovely performance from us, and one which solidified our place within the top echelons of the table. A special word for Marc Cucarella. What a fine performance; determined, aggressive, but never out of control, what a player. I loved his succession of headed clearances atv the back post in the second-half.

This whole performance suggested that we are on track for a very fine season.

Everyone was happy.

We scurried back to the car, and we learned that we were locked in at second place with Arsenal, who were marginally – alphabetically – ahead of us. I began the long drive home. We heard that Liverpool won 2-0 at home to Manchester City, and we all said nothing.

Nothing at all.

Alan, in the Midlands, had enjoyed a fantastic day. His Bromley had won 2-1 and were, thus, in the draw for the FA Cup Third Round, where they could possibly draw us.

Happy times for Al.

After dropping off my four passengers, I knew I had to recreate a scene, of sorts, from forty years ago to the day.

A Cocteau Twins compilation was set up in my car and I turned it on. I had to skip one song, but there they were; three consecutive songs from “Teasure.”

“Beatrix.”

“Ivo.”

“Otterley.”

It was the perfect end to a fine day.

Next up, a quick jaunt down to Southampton.

See you there.

1 DECEMBER 1984

1 DECEMBER 2024

Tales From Stretford

Posted on November 6, 2024 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 3 November 2024.

“It’s time the tale were told.”

This was another footballing double-header of a weekend, involving two away days, five-hundred and twenty miles in the hot-seat and almost fifteen hours of driving.

On Saturday, Sholing vs. Frome Town in the Southern Premier League South.

On Sunday, Manchester United vs. Chelsea in the FA Premier League.

Before all of this, in the office on Monday, there was a shriek of dismay from yours truly on hearing that Erik ten Hag had just been sacked by Manchester United. The four – four! – United fans in the office were a lot happier. How we all wanted the Dutch manager to still be in charge for our game on the Sunday. Alas, it was not to be.

I had a grand day out down on the south coast at Sholing. Despite going down to ten men when Matt Wood was sent-off, the Frome Town team played so well, with new signing Archie Ferris adding some physicality to the attack and loan-returnee Rex Mannings playing his best game since his move from Chippenham Town. The home team missed a penalty in the second-half, and then in the last ten minutes, substitute Curtis Hutson crashed a dipping shot from well outside the box to send the thirty away fans delirious. Alas, in the ninety-fifth minute, the home team poked home an equaliser. Frome are still mired in a relegation dogfight but the month of November contains matches against teams that we might well be able to get some wins against.

My match-going pal at Chelsea, Alan, had a football-double-header too, and one which needs a mention. Very early on Saturday morning, Alan left his house in order to catch the Bromley supporters coach up to Rochdale to the north of Manchester. The two teams played an enthralling FA Cup tie. Bromley went 2-0 up early on, but were losing 3-2 as injury-time began. Two goals in the ninety-first and ninety-second minutes gave Al’s team a wonderful 4-3 victory. While I was driving home to Frome, Al was heading back to London.

And on the Sunday, both of us would be heading north to Manchester.

This would be my twenty-ninth United vs. Chelsea match at Old Trafford. It is my most visited away venue. Alas, my record in these games is as similarly shocking as on my trips to Anfield.

Won – 5

Drew – 9

Lost – 14

The reading is more depressing when you consider that on my first two trips to Old Trafford in 1986, we won both times. This means that over the last twenty-six personal visits to Old Trafford, Chelsea recorded just three wins.

Gulp.

Alan and myself would be with each other on the Sunday in the away enclosure at Old Trafford, and we were sitting alongside each other at Stamford Bridge forty years ago to the exact day too.

On Saturday 3 November 1984, I travelled down by train from Stoke for the home game with Coventry City, back in the days when the Sky Blues were an absolute fixture in the top flight. They played football at the highest level from 1967/68 to 2001/02 without a break.

On that day, I took a 0920 train down to Euston, arriving at 1130, and noted lots of casuals milling about. In those days, Euston was a battle ground for various firms – all without colours – and it could be a dicey moment walking over the concourse and down into the underground. Nobody wore team kits in those days, but many went for the small metal badges which were all the rage. You wore these as the only outward sign of which club you were with.

These were magnificent times for this burgeoning yet undercover football sub-culture.

It was simple but smart; an expensive pullover – it was changing that autumn from pastels to muted colours – and a polo shirt. Mid-blue jeans – a change from the light blue ones of the summer – and then Adidas, Diadora or Nike trainers. This was “the look” in the autumn of 1984.

I took my camera to the game for the first time since the West Ham game in September and took a pre-match photo of my mates Leggo, Stamford and Alan on the Benches, not too far from where I saw my first game ten years earlier.

When I aired this photo on a Chelsea Eighties page on “Facebook” a while ago, the lad who is looking at the camera beyond my three mates got in touch. He was surprised to see his face. He got in touch and the rest is history. Incidentally, the lad to the left holding the match programme is Leggo, or Glenn, and he has recently retired. I will be meeting him before the Noah game on Thursday.

Chelsea began well, but the visitors were 2-0 after half-an-hour. They had an unlikely trio upfront of Bob Latchford, Cyrille Regis and Peter Barnes, all of whom had starred at other clubs. However, Chelsea soon hit back, scoring via a Kerry Dixon far-post header. Just before half-time, a Pat Nevin cross, a Dixon header, and Keith Jones touched in the equaliser.

We had to wait twenty-five minutes into the second-half for a further breakthrough; a goal from David Speedie. Then Kerry made it 4-2. At this stage, many left to queue up at the ticket office for Tottenham away tickets. I remained on the deserted Benches to see Kerry break through to make it 5-2 and then Keith Jones stabbed a loose ball in to make it 6-2.

It had been a great game, with Pat Nevin in imperious form. The win was much-needed after a dip in our form. The gate was 17,306, a bit better than my 16,000 prediction before the game. My diary tells me that I counted just one hundred away fans.

On the previous Wednesday, Chelsea had drawn 2-2 at Fellows Park against Walsall in the League Cup. Although it was just down the road from Stoke, I didn’t attend. I wasn’t yet ready for my first-ever midweek game. There were goals from Colin Lee and Pat Nevin in front of 11,102, and there was a fair bit of trouble, as we called it in those days, I seem to remember.

Forty years later, I had collected Glenn at 10am, and Parky at 10.30am on the way to Manchester. PD was missing this away day; instead he was in Cyprus at his son Scott’s wedding. We stopped for drinks at Strensham, but as I neared Birmingham, I was warned of heavy traffic ahead and so took a detour through the Black Country. I re-joined the M6 just north of where the current day Walsall play at the Bescot Stadium. The pre-match plan was to stop at the Tabley Interchange for a Sunday Roast, but with people to meet from 3pm, time was running away from us. Glenn shared out some Somerset Pasties and we had these on the hoof.

Spinning around the M60, I could not resist singing a few lines from a couple of Smiths songs, just before we hit the traffic that was backed up at the exit for Stretford.

Old Trafford is a conundrum. It’s in Stretford, which is part of the metropolitan borough of Trafford in Greater Manchester, but it isn’t in Manchester, the actual city.

Confused?

Talk to Carlos Tevez.

After five-and-a half hours, I eventually arrived and I was parked up at just after 3.15pm. We walked through the familiar Gorse Hill Park and out onto the Chester Road, the heady smell of autumn leaves underfoot.

This is indeed a well-trodden journey.

Soon we were close.

The acrid punch of vinegar on chips at the take-aways near the crossroads leading to Sir Matt Busby Way. The fanzine sellers. The half-and-half scarves. The grafters. The match day colours. It was all so bloody familiar.

I met up with Aleksey, originally from Moscow, now from Houston, and in the UK on a work trip to Aberdeen and other locales. He will be adding to the game at Old Trafford with a game on Thursday at Chelsea, a game at Frome on Saturday, and – maybe – a game at Chelsea on Sunday. He’s a keen follower of this blog – “thanks mate” – and it was good to see him again.

With me leaving at 10am, it was a ploy to have a lie-in, to have a little rest before the drive north, and the timings had been pretty decent. On the way in, I had admitted to Glenn and Parky that “it’s nice to be able to take our time strolling up to Old Trafford. Not rushing. Well, not Aleksey. He’s from Moscow.”

Next up, I had to hand over some tickets to Deano, who had not yet arrived. This gave me a twenty-minute window of opportunity to do a complete circuit of Old Trafford, probably for the first-ever time.

I took a shot of the Holy Trinity statue of Charlton, Best and Law as it faced the Matt Busby statue under the megastore and the East Stand, which used to house the away paddock in days gone by.

Next, a photo of the Alex Ferguson statue under the huge stand that bears his name. This used to be the United Road stand, the one that was so modern when it appeared in the mid-sixties, the one featured in the Albert Finney film “Charlie Bubbles”, and featuring a game against Chelsea in 1967. The original United Road is long-gone now. I once drove along it around twenty years ago. The transformation on this side of the ground has been phenomenal. It seems like a different place now, a modern monolith to the United brand.

Then, I aimed myself towards the Stretford End. My recollections of this stand from the two FA Cup semis in 2006 and 2007 are scant, but it’s a really horrible structure, faced by a vast car park, not unlike the feel of a San Siro, but without the architectural merit. Great blocks of black, grey and red, as if designed by a Lego enthusiast. There even appear to be huge handles on the stand, maybe to lift the end up and deposit it elsewhere in the vicinity if a threatened new stadium ever gets built. Then, a puzzle for me. I didn’t know that there was a statue outside the Stretty, as the home fans call it, and I didn’t recognise the figure depicted on a plinth. I got closer. It was Jimmy Murphy, a name I remember from the immediate aftermath of the horrors of 1958.

I wondered if any of the four United fans in the office were aware of this statue.

I was annoyed that it caught me unawares.

Then, the last leg, through the oddly-named Munich Tunnel, underneath the oldest stand from the original 1910 structure. There were chants of “Chelsea Rent Boys”, how boring.

I caught up with Deano at around 4pm, just after a United fan had aimed another “Rent Boy” chant our way and just after said United fan was marched away from the ground by two stewards.

United fans jostled past us, occasionally shouting derogatory words.

I thought to myself how so many United fans look like Syd Little.

I queued up underneath the Munich Clock, and was inside at around 4.15pm after a slow and rigorous security check. SLRs are banned at OT, as are all cameras, but I won that battle.

I soon met up with Alan, looking remarkably chipper after his three out of four weekend coach trips from hell. Alan was stood next to Gary. John was further along, next to me. To my left were Little Andy and Big Colin. Glenn was a few yards away in the row behind me. Parky was ten rows behind me.

I took a phot of Alan – with Glenn – to go with the photo of him forty years earlier. Back in 1984, it was either a Burberry scarf or an Aquascutum scarf on the terraces of England. I always favoured the latter. I bought one in 1985 and it lasted five years until it was stolen in Italy. I bought another one ten years ago. Alan sported his Aquasutum scarf, a nod to the fact that, in the long game, Aquascutum has remained at the top of the pile, whereas Burberry never really recovered from its nadir in the post Brit-Pop era.

The sky was grey and it marched the cold grey steel of the roof supports above us all.

Old Trafford, what have you got in store for me this time?

With ten minutes to go “This Is The One” by the Stone Roses gave way to “Take Me Home” by John Denver.

Not an easy segue, that one.

Oh well, maybe a lot of match-going Mancunians think they have the gait and swagger and street cool of Ian Brown, whereas in reality so many of United’s match-day support resemble John Denver, and Syd Little.

“Take me home, United Road, to the place I belong. To Old Trafford. To see United. Take me home, United Road.”

The teams appeared.

We were as expected, the line-up the same as against Newcastle a week earlier.

Sanchez, Gusto, James, Chilwell, Fofana, Lavia, Caicedo, Madueke, Palmer, Neto, Jackson.

The noise was getting ramped up.

“Take me home, United Road.”

The game began, and as per usual we attacked the Stretford End in the first-half. I had to laugh when after just four minutes, Cole Palmer – the hometown anti-hero – attempted a very similar pass to Pedro Neto that had us all so enthralled last week, but a covering defender stuck out a leg to rob us of a repeat.

I thought we began well, and we had more of the ball than United. Palmer was involved early, but there was a poor cross from him. Just after Moises Caicedo robbed the ball in midfield and played in Palmer, who had a free run on goal, but dithered a little, and Matthijs de Ligt was able to block.

On fourteen minutes, Noni Madueke rose to meet Palmer’s corner at the near post, and his header crashed against the bar – though, in reality, it was difficult to tell in the Stretford gloom – and Levi Colwill slashed at the rebound but it hit the side-netting.

The natives were quiet, and the three-thousand away fans had a dig.

There was an error from Andre Onana at the other end but we blazed over. Then, Robert Sanchez came dramatically at a cross, punching the ball away in a “Superman Pose.” Half-chances came and went. Marcus Rashford over-dribbled into the penalty box. After a swift move from United, Sanchez saved well, but there was a suspicion of offside anyway.

Nicolas Jackson, quiet thus far, was in on goal but there was a heavy touch. Palmer was next up, but after carrying the ball for an age, he too was reluctant to shoot. Eventually his effort was blocked.

But we were in this. Being in it at Old Trafford is half the battle.

I loved the way Caicedo and Romeo Lavia were playing. Caicedo breaking things up, showing dogged tenacity, nicking balls, moving up. Lavia eating up space, rangy, a presence, quick.

There was another surreal touch from Palmer on the half-way line, another pass to himself, the audacity of the kid. He was then wiped out by a reckless challenge by Manuel Ugarte, whoever he is.

Pedro Neto, good in parts, was then taken out with a horrible tackle from Diogo Dalot.

Just before half-time, Bruno Fernandes smacked over a deep cross to the back stick from the left wing, only for Rashford to volley against the bar, and over. Most worrying of all, Reece James had not tracked him. The experiment with the captain at left-back had generally left us scratching our noggins.

During the half, my little self-contained unit of Andy to my left and John to my right had talked through our play and, despite a massive reluctance to strike on goal, were relatively happy with our play. With United under a new manager – albeit the interim Ruud van Nistelrooy – we were worried about conceding early and getting the home support roaring.

That never happened.

Yet elsewhere, others evidently thought we had been poor. It’s odd how this sometimes happens at games. At games, you are caught up in the moment, in the actuality of everything, and I think that the first feeling is the need for survival at big venues like United or Liverpool or City. I think that I sometimes get too positive, too early, and then stick with that mindset. At Old Trafford, at half-time, I was content. John was happy, I was happy. Clearly others weren’t.

At the break, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Marc Cucarella. Reece James stayed in the same small strip of Greater Manchester but on the right and not the left.

The inverted full-back nerds were probably having a field day in TV land.

Ten minutes in, a ball was hoofed high into the air, and the entire stadium, not least the players, had the same thought; that ball was going off for a throw-in. The ball came down, from high, and the ball was given to Palmer, who spread the ball out to the left to Neto. He pushed on before smacking a low shot just past Onana’s far post.

The Chelsea support groaned.

But the volume was definitely turned up a notch.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

On sixty-four minutes, we heard the Stretford End – together, loud – for the very first time. There had been a few “Viva John Terrys” and a few “Three In A Row” chants from the chorus to our right, but the Stretford End had been so quiet. Now they spoke.

“U – N – I – T – E – D, United are the team for me.”

At last.

With that, Alejandro Garnacho shot straight at Sanchez, right in front of them.

On seventy minutes, John and I had a little chat.

Chris : “Think it’ll be 0-0.”

John : “Yeah. Or we’ll let them in.”

At that exact moment, Casemiro dropped a long ball at the feet of Rasmus Hojlund. He took a touch to his right, Sanchez dived at him, it looked a penalty all day long.”

The referee, who had let so much go, often in our favour, pointed at the spot.

The horrible twat Fernandes easily slotted home.

There were two quick substitutions, too quick for me to immediately notice.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the disappointing Madueke.

Enzo Fernandez for the tiring Lavia.

I took a photo of Palmer waiting to take a corner on seventy-four minutes. I had a little idea I shared with John.

“Instead of everyone breaking and the ball going down the ‘keepers throat, why not let the players break towards goal but then pump it into the gap for Caicedo to head in?”

The ball came across. An unknown United defender headed it out. The ball fell towards Caicedo. He didn’t waste any time. He volleyed. The ball thankfully stayed low. The ball crept in at the far post.

Perfect.

Our end exploded.

Rarely have so many made so many ridiculous limb movements. I punched the air. I roared. I punched big Col in the stomach a few times.

Unable to snap the players celebrating on the far side, I turned the camera on us.

Faces of unfettered joy.

Get in.

The noise was all Chelsea now.

Next, a ball out to Garnacho, at an angle, who couldn’t get the right strike on the ball, and it flashed over the bar. It reminded me so much of a late Ole Gunnar Solskjaer equaliser from almost the same position, the same angle of strike, in the autumn of 1997.

A few moments later, Enzo skied a shot over the bar after being set up by Jackson, who surprisingly -I think – stayed on for the whole game.

A reckless challenge by Lisandro Martinez – nice Butthead haircut, mate – on Palmer towards the end of the game raised our temperatures, and we could hardly believe that a red was not issued.

In the closing moments, Fernandes fired ridiculously high into the Stretford End.

The 1-1 draw was a fair result. The consensus as we headed up the slope of the forecourt was that this was a poor United team – probably the poorest that I have seen in decades – and with a little more attacking verve we could have nicked it. I loved Moises Caicedo, now emerging as a real crowd favourite, who was my man of the match even before the goal. A mention for the tireless running of Pedro Neto. And a mention of a typically energetic and spirited performance by Marc Cucarella in the second-half.

Cucarella is the yin to Palmer’s yang.

These two approach the game with different temperaments and energy, but they are all part of this emerging Chelsea team.

Is it good enough?

I don’t know, and we certainly won’t be able to make any decision on Thursday when the B-List take on Noah.

I wolfed down the best football burger ever, a bacon-cheeseburger with onions, pure Mancunian heaven, and we reached the car at 7pm. The traffic was worse than usual as we exited out. I didn’t reach the M6 until 7.40pm. Not to worry, I made steady progress and via a couple of stops, I was home at just before midnight.

See you on Thursday.

OUTSIDE

INSIDE

GET IN YOU BASTARD

FORTY YEARS AGO

3 NOVEMBER 1984

3 NOVEMBER 2024

Tales From More, More, More

Posted on October 6, 2024 by Chris Axon

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.

Tales From The Maverick

Posted on October 1, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2024.

A three o’clock kick-off on a Saturday. It just seems right, doesn’t it?

This just seemed like a normal “back to life, back to reality” game of football. By 7.30am, I had picked up Paul and Parky and we were on our way up to London. Games against Brighton of late have been interesting affairs what with the number of players and personnel that have switched from one club to the other in recent seasons. This would be a tight game, not an easy one to predict, but the actual football was not dominating my mind as I drove East. On this day, there would be meet ups with two people from Nashville in Tennessee and two and a half people from the Czech Republic, and I was looking forward to that as much as the match that would follow.

This was a busy spell for us at Stamford Bridge; four home games in thirteen days, almost a thousand miles of driving for me, some early starts, some late finishes.

First, though, a trip back in time as I continue my retrospective of the events from the 1984/85 season. On Wednesday 26 September, I was newly-arrived in the city of Stoke-on-Trent, and was finding my feet at North Staffs Poly. On that particular day, there was administration stuff to be done, but I also showed up for trials for the college football team. I hadn’t played football of any type for a couple of years – I remember playing for the Lower Sixth at Frome College, but not the Upper Sixth, did 1982/83 totally drain my love of football? – and I remember being over-awed by the numbers that had shown up for the practice. From memory, I played OK, but soon decided that it would be a miracle to break into any of the teams, so I decided there and then to forget it. I was only nineteen, but hanging up my boots meant that I could concentrate on the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club.

That evening, way down in London, Chelsea played Millwall in the first leg of an early round of the League Cup. We won 3-1, with Kerry Dixon getting a brace and the former Chelsea defender Micky Nutton putting into his own net. The gate was only 19,912 but it wasn’t a bad figure for the time. I have no doubt that just as many would have been scared off with the threat of trouble as would have been enticed to the game for trouble. This match did not have the notoriety of the return leg. In fact, I am not sure if any off-the-pitch stuff took place at all on this night in deepest SW6.

I was parked up in deepest SW6 forty years later at around 10am. On the way to meet the lads, there was a points failure further south, so I had to walk the last mile from Parsons Green. At around 10.30am I walked into “The River Café” for the first time this season. A gaggle of Chelsea lads that I know were sat at one table. Behind, in the corner, was my Albion friend Mac, who partly resides in the Czech Republic and partly in Brighton. I first met Mac in a sports bar in Manhattan in 2013 and we have become good friends over the years. I loved hearing about Mac’s travels last season with Brighton in Europe, the club’s first-ever European campaign. I must admit that they had superb cities to visit; Marseille, Amsterdam, Athens in the group phase – two wins and a draw – and then Rome. You never forget your first time; in 1994/95, I had Jablonec via Prague, Vienna and Zaragoza. I devoured a Full English, and we then flitted around the corner to meet up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, and my friends David and Nate from Nashville in “The Eight Bells.”

I have met David before but this was the first time that I would see his son Nate. This was Nate’s second visit to Stamford Bridge; the first time coincided with Rafa Benitez’ first game in charge against Manchester City in 2012. Nate has suffered with a brain tumour for many years and the 2012 visit was arranged by the “Make A Wish Foundation” and he met Roman Abramovich and a few first-team players. There have been worrying relapses over the years, and so it was a real pleasure to finally meet him in person, and to welcome him to the pub. I remember seeing a video message that Levi Colwill sent Nate during the summer. The power of football to bring happiness should not be overlooked.

Our mate Dave – we would sit next to each other on The Benches as 1984/85 developed – showed up for a pint and a chat, and then Mac’s mate Barry arrived too. Barry had recently seen Billy Gilmour’s Napoli debut away to Cagliari. Mac told the lovely story about how he appeared as an extra, playing a footballer, in the 2001 film “Mean Machine” starring ex-Chelsea player Vinnie Jones. Both Brighton fans were a little unsure how their team would fare at Stamford Bridge. I think we all expected a tight one.

David and Nate got the call from someone at Chelsea to make their way to Stamford Bridge and I believe they were to meet the players as they arrived. I wished them well, and they bounced out with smiles on their faces.

Soon to arrive were brother and sister George and Anetta from Zlin in the Czech Republic. I first met George in Vienna for the Rapid friendly in 2016 and we have bumped into each other a few times over the years, the last time in Salzburg two years ago. Anetta is studying law at university in Bratislava, and this was her first visit to the UK, to England, to London, to a game at Chelsea.

We checked the team as it was announced at around 1.45pm.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Delayed by an extra round of drinks and crowds on a packed tube, I sadly arrived a minute or so after the game began.

Chelsea in blue, Albion in a rather nice “old school” all-yellow.

I quickly took off two layers of jackets. The weather was magnificent.

I sat alongside Clive and we found ourselves catching-up as the first few minutes of play took place down below us. All of a sudden, a turn of pace from Kaoru Mitoma caused concern. After a poor touch by Moises Caicedo put Levi Colwill under pressure to hack the ball away, the ball ballooned up into the air, and Robert Sanchez raced enthusiastically out to try to punch the ball away. However, a strong leap by Georginio Rutter ensured that it was his touch that counted. The ball was headed towards goal and in.

Marc Cucarella and the scorer lay prone in the box, and I suppose we hoped forlornly for a free-kick against our defender, but there was nothing. Only seven minutes had passed.

Chelsea 0 Brighton 1.

There was a song emanating out from the three-thousand away fans that sounded an awful lot like “There’s only one Morgan Stanley” but I think the heat had got to me. I know football is all about finance these days, but surely the away fans weren’t singing the praises of investment bankers.

There was a fine cross from Noni Madueke just after the Brighton goal but nobody was on hand to tuck the ball in. Then another run and cross from Jadon Sancho, on his home debut, that was easily gathered by the Brighton ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen. At the other end, a cross from Danny Welbeck was deflected at goal and Sanchez did well to save.

When Colwill went for a header, I had a Thiago Silva flashback. I mentioned his number 6 shirt to Clive, and Clive said that he had experienced a Thiago Silva flashback too. The sun really was getting to us.

On twenty minutes, a fine flowing move; Colwill to Enzo to Cole Palmer. He dragged the ball ahead of himself and advanced. He was one on one with the ‘keeper. He shot low, we were already up to celebrate, but the ball agonisingly hit the base of the right-hand post. Just after, Palmer tucked the ball in past Verbruggen but the flag was raised for an off-side – and although it looked offside, we celebrated that one too.

Drat.

Thankfully, on twenty-one minutes, Adam Webster lost possession and the ball was played unselfishly across the box by Nicolas Jackson to Palmer. The finish was perfect, with Palmer hardly moving a muscle to stroke the ball home in a way that Jimmy Greaves would have admired.

Now I celebrated.

Get in.

Chelsea 1 Brighton 1.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Next, we plundered Brighton’s ridiculously high defensive line as the ball was pushed through by Enzo to Jackson to Madueke. He advanced and squared to Sancho, who finished with aplomb. Alas, a raised flag and VAR was called into action. We presumed Sancho, but it was Madueke who was offside by the smallest margin on the half-way line.

This was manic stuff.

And yet the noise around Stamford Bridge wasn’t boiling over.

On twenty-eight minutes, Palmer sent a high bomb over to Sancho, who drifted in from the left after a neat pass from Enzo and was bundled over in the box. It looked a clear penalty from one hundred yards away, cough, cough.

Cole Palmer, cool-hand Luke, the ball was knocked home.

Chelsea 2 Brighton 1.

Our noses were in front.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Mac and Barry were watching from the front row of the away seats in The Shed and I un-knowingly caught their faces on film as the scorer wheeled away.

In the very next move, another high line was breached as Madueke raced away. He was clipped by Pervis Estupinan and a free-kick was rewarded, some thirty yards out.

We waited. Palmer placed the ball on the turf. I pulled my camera up, and waited some more. Palmer advanced and swung his boot at the ball. I followed the trajectory of the curve. It looked perfect. It was perfect.

Chelsea 3 Brighton 1.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Usually in these circumstances I pump the air with my fist as a bare minimum, and occasionally jump up onto the plinth to my left, shouting wildly. This time I stayed completely still and completely silent. I was in awe. It was, undoubtedly, one of the finest free-kick strikes that I had ever seen live. The rest of Stamford Bridge celebrated wildly. I just smiled, blissful, contented. I had witnessed greatness.

Thankfully for Mac and Barry, Palmer chose to celebrate in Parkyville.

“You’re not singing anymore” bellowed the home support.

At the other end, Jack Hinshelwood went close.

On thirty-four minutes, while I was vigorously tapping some “in game” notes onto my ‘phone, I looked up to see Sanchez play a suicidal pass out to Caicedo, and Carlos Baleba intercepted and struck.

Chelsea 3 Brighton 2.

Bizarrely, the away fans sang “you’re not singing anymore”, even though they were losing. Oh well, it made a change from investment banks.

This was frantic and manic.

Although a different type of game completely, the first-half reminded me a little of the Everton game under Conte in the autumn of 2016, one of the greatest first-halves of all time.

There were chances for both teams. Sanchez saved well from Baleba, another high bomb from Palmer – intuitive, natural – set up Madueke who raced through but hit the side netting.

All of a sudden, the hype about this team seemed centered on fact and not fantasy. Maybe this would be the game that I would fall in love properly with Chelsea again after a few years of worry and concern as the club seemed to drift inexplicably away from me.

Clive and I spoke about Palmer being a real throwback, a ‘seventies maverick, in the guise of Stan Bowles, Alan Hudson, Tony Currie, Rodney Marsh. The lad is so loose-limbed, so relaxed, on a different planet, a different pitch, a different level, a different time-zone. Just as we were talking about a couple of other ‘seventies players, Verbruggen copied Sanchez and loosely played a ball out of defence. Enzo capitalised, pushed the ball to Sancho, who rolled in Palmer. As easy as you like, with virtually no back-lift, the ball was dispatched into the net ‘twixt post and ‘keeper.

Chelsea 4 Brighton 2.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

Late on in a ridiculously entertaining half, Sanchez got down well to save from Welbeck.

PD : “It could end up 6-6.”

At half-time, there was a ludicrous feeling of “I don’t believe it” in the seats around me. Admit it, we all wanted a few more goals, right?

The second-half continued with a similar theme. Palmer played a ball in to Jackson who shot at Verbruggen from an angle. Then, another crazy first-time bomb, so high, from Palmer was played perfectly into the path of Jackson, who brought the ball down faultlessly. He rounded Verbruggen but his shot on goal was too central and Adam Webster cleared off the line.

A volley from Palmer flew over.

Palmer set up Madueke, but his low cross was cleared.

More goalkeeping hari-kari, another Verbruggen faux-pas, and the ball fell for Palmer. He settled himself, I prepared to celebrate once again, but the shot rolled past the far post.

What?

Palmer set up Jackson once again – a slide-rule pass into acres of space – but a last minute challenge by Lewis Dunk robbed the striker of a shot on goal.

A headed goal by Cucarella – who had displayed no end of resolute defending all game – was ruled offside.

A substitution.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

Neto found himself in acres of space in the right and set up Jackson, who again failed.

More substitutions.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Sancho.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Sadly, the game declined in quality as it continued. However, Brighton never really threatened too much in the second-half but some of our defensive decisions were poor, and there was this lingering doubt about us conceding a third.

At the final whistle, relief, but lots of joy too.

Anetta had loved her first game alongside George, watching in the Matthew Harding Lower. And we were to learn that Nate met up with Levi Colwill at the end of the game, and the defender presented him with his match-worn shirt.

As we drove home, the bright sun ahead, we were very content with the team’s progress. Sadly, Arsenal had dug out a late win, and Liverpool had triumphed too, but Manchester City dropped points.

Whisper it, but we are in the mix.

Next up, KAA Gent at home on Thursday.

See you there.

Chelsea and Brighton & Hove Albion.

Chelsea vs. Brighton & Hove Albion.

RIP Lee Marskell

Dedicated to the memory of Lee, who lost his brave fight on the day of this game. Back in the days of the Chelsea In America bulletin board in around 2006 to 2008, when I first penned ad hoc match reports as VINCI PER NOI, there were a few other English supporters who shared opinions too. Mark Coden, Jon Doyle – “Jon In Slough”- and “mad lee” always brought vivid tales to the party.

I last saw Lee at Tottenham last November. We stood together as our beloved team won 4-1. It is a memory I will always treasure.

Tales From Highbury 1984 & Molineux 2024

Posted on August 29, 2024 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 25 August 2024.

I was in the midst of a very busy spell of football. After the Chelsea game at home to Servette on Thursday, I drove to the outer reaches of London on Saturday to see Frome Town gain a very creditable 1-1 draw at Chertsey Town. There would be another Frome Town game, a home match with county rivals Taunton Town on Bank Holiday Monday, but sandwiched in between the two Frome games was Chelsea’s first away fixture of the season at Molineux, the home of Wolverhampton Wanderers.

I picked up PD at 9am and I picked up Parky at 9.20am.

However, I cannot lie; my mind had been full of a game that had taken place some forty years ago to the very day. I had woken at 7am, but I soon spotted that two friends – well done Stu, well done JD – had already shared thoughts on the monumental events of Saturday 25 August 1984 on “Facebook.”

On this day, Chelsea played our first game in the top flight of English football in over five years. Adrift in the Second Division, at times it looked like we would never return. But return we did. And how.

My post on “Facebook” ran like this :

“My Dad dropped me off at Bath Spa station. The train to Paddington with lads from Trowbridge. A pink Lacoste polo, light blue Levis, Nike Wimbledon Supremes. Chelsea everywhere on the tube. Lads on parade. Out into the sun at Arsenal. The queue at the turnstiles. Like sardines in a tin on the Clock End terrace. An 11.30am kick-off. The noise. The togetherness. The madness of Kerry’s goal.

The greatest domestic away game in our history.

Chelsea are back. Chelsea are back. Hello. Hello.”

PD and Parky were there too, though their memories were scant. In my pre-amble to this season, I remarked that I might float some memories from previous seasons into this 2024/25 campaign, but there is no way that I could resist some heavy thoughts about the Arsenal game from forty-years ago.

However, this game was so immense, so historic, so huge that a whole book has already been devoted to it. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of the match in 2009, “Chelsea Here, Chelsea There” was published and I was lucky enough to contribute a few words.

Compared to the timid atmosphere at games these days, both PD and I – as we neared Birmingham – both admitted that “modern football is shit.”

Wolves away 2024 may not be Arsenal away 1984, but I was still relishing it all. If I was to methodically rank all of the Premier League stadia that I have visited by various criteria, I am sure that Wolves’ Molineux stadium would be in the upper quartile. If I took into consideration each away stadium’s location, its design, its sense of place – effectively how unique it is – its quirkiness, its atmosphere, its accessibility, its history, I am positive that Molineux would score pretty high. Before the season began I quickly listed my favourite top flight venues and my least liked.

Favourites?

Everton, Brentford, Fulham, Brighton, Wolves, Newcastle.

Least liked?

West Ham, Manchester City, Southampton, Arsenal.

I first visited Wolverhampton while on a train journey to Stoke in the summer of 1984 – the greatest summer ever in case you are not aware – and I am sure I did my best to locate the floodlight pylons of Molineux on that journey, which was a game we all played in those days.

I like that Molineux is close to the city centre, even though it is difficult to find pubs close to the stadium, and I like the old gold colour scheme. I like that it is virtually on the same spot as the old Molineux with its cranked main stand, huge South Bank and the stand with the multi-spanned roof. Now that really was a stadium with a sense of place, like many were in the early years of football stadium construction.

We were parked up at the nearby Broad Street Car Park at 12.30pm and were soon hobbling down to the stadium. The other two shot off for a pre-match drink while I had a look around. I liked the eventual refit of Molineux in the early ‘nineties – it took ages, from 1979 in fact – but I am not too sure that the large and ugly North Stand adds to its charm. For the first time I walked past the Billy Wright statue outside the main entrance and up the steady slope towards the city centre. From here, it’s possible to get a real sense of how the original stadium utilised the natural slope of the land. Even know the North Bank is just built on earth.

I could not help but notice the various shades of yellow / gold / orange that Wolves have used over the years, as evidenced by some of the replica shirts being worn by the home fans. I can’t help but think that the club needs to nail down that old gold variant’s pantone reference and nail it against a brick wall somewhere.

On the same subject, our home kit colour seems to be a little “off” this season. More of that maybe later.

There was a slight “stand-off” with a steward – “a camera?” – but I was in.

Inside, there was talk of “Arsenal 1984” just as much as “Wolves 2024” and I liked that my “Facebook” post elicited some responses regarding the sartorial choices of the day.

Ian : “Ellesse polo, Lois light jeans, Nike Wimbledons.”

Timmy : “Benetton polo, light blue Kappa pullover, blue jeans, Nike Wimbledons.”

Jimmy : “Light blue Tacchini top.”

It is my biggest regret that my camera – I took it to Ashton Gate – was not with me at Highbury in 1984.

Unlike the sun-drenched terraces of Arsenal forty-years ago, it was lukewarm and wet in the moments leading up to kick-off at Molineux. It didn’t seem five minutes ago that I was tut-tutting at the divs wearing blue and white Santa hats on Christmas Eve and the awful signage on the North Bank balcony :

“Our Loving Devotion Guides Our Lifelong Dream.”

Fireworks in front of us. I captured a shot of the flames creating “A Big W” – and the second “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” reference of the new season. Ominous? We’ll see.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mydryk

Jackson

Or something like that.

I spotted the number six on the back of Levi Colwill and momentarily thought of Thiago Silva.

If only, eh?

For some reason, Noni Madueke was violently booed during his first touches on the far side. We began well, and Madueke ran deep before forcing a save from Jose Sa. The incoming corner was headed on at the near post – snap! – and Nicolas Jackson was loitering at the far post to head in. Barely two minutes had elapsed.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

On nine minutes, there was a leap from a Wolves player – Yerson Mosquera – with Colwill beaten, but the ball flew over. That should have levelled it. We played the ball out wide in the opening quarter but Mykhailo Mudryk in front of us in the Steve Bull Lower flattered to deceive. He was full of promise, but not much else.

A fine save from Sanchez on twelve minutes. With both teams attacking at will, this was a lively encounter. At times our midfield was woefully by-passed.

Jackson was looking a handful, but sometimes to himself.

We heard on the terrace grapevine that Madueke had been disparaging towards the city of Wolverhampton on social media, hence the boos from the locals. He obviously wasn’t sharing my placing of Wolverhampton in any upper quartile of anything.

There was a ridiculously delayed offside decision after Matheus Cunha had scored. There were shots on goal at both ends. Madueke was proving to be a real threat on the right unlike Mydruk on the left.

It was breathless stuff.

On twenty-six minutes Mr. Pink arrived next to me with his “lucky away” Pink polo shirt, shades of me at Highbury in 1984. With that, we lost possession, the ball broke to Rayan Ait-Nouri and he crossed for Cunha to sweep the ball past Robert Sanchez.

“So much for your lucky shirt!”

The play continued to go end-to-end. With me placed near the half-way line, my head was moving as quickly as a spectator on Centre-Court at Wimbledon.

On forty-one minutes, a great Wolves move found Cunha but we were indebted to a lunge from Colwill to deflect the shot onto the bar.

On forty-four minutes, a quick kick from Sanchez found the raiding Jackson in the inside-left channel. One touch from him, a beautiful flick with the outside of his foot as the ball bounced up, played in the supporting Cole Palmer. Again, the ball bounced nicely and Palmer expertly lobbed Sa with an exquisite finish. Watching the ball bounce into the goal was a heavenly moment. I love occasional long balls to keep the defenders on their toes and this move was magnificent.

Sanchez – Jackson – Palmer – BOSH.

Amazingly, the home team equalised deep into extra-time when a free-kick was played into our six-yard box and Strand Larsen, who looks sixteen, poked a leg out and steered the ball in.

It was a mad first-half.

At the break, I was sat relaxing when I recognised the intro to one of my favourite songs. I called over to Alan.

“Johnny Marr.”

True enough, here we were, in 2024 and here was a lovely echo of 1984.

“That’s easy money, that’s easy money.”

It had been an eventful first-half, plenty of attacking intent but some dreadful defensive decisions too. I turned to Gal and said “it’ll finish 5-5.”

At the break, Enzo Maresca replaced the lack-lustre Mudryk with Pedro Neto. I was expecting a barrage of boos, but I didn’t detect much animosity.

Very soon into the second period, Jackson passed to Palmer and there was a short pass outside to Madueke got us all excited. I luckily had my camera to my eyes and it suddenly dawned on me how close to goal he was. He shuffled the ball inside onto his left foot – no surprises – and shot at goal. There was a slight deflection off Ait-Nouri but we watched as the ball hit the back of the net.

Madueke’s run to the away support was joyful and I tried my best to take a few shots through a forest of arms and hands.

The game became scrappy and, despite the lead, it is always difficult to orchestrate any chanting and singing in that long elongated lower tier at Wolves.

However, on fifty-eight minutes, we witnessed an almost exact copy of Madueke’s first goal. Caicedo nicked a ball away from a Wolves midfielder and passed to Palmer, who in turn pushed the ball on to that man Noni. This time he chose to shoot, through the legs of Sa, with his right foot.

Get in.

More lovely celebrations, a slide this time.

Palmer himself went close, striking the outside of Sa’s post after breaking into the box after a ball from Jackson.

On sixty-three minutes, again a Palmer to Madueke moment, and an almost exact copy of the fourth goal. Enzo won a loose ball, Jackson prodded it to Palmer. You know the rest. Palmer to Madueke, a right footed thump low into the goal.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 5.

Noni raced away, picked up a spare ball to signify his hat-trick, and wallowed in the warm applause from the away faithful.

I reminded Gal of my 5-5 prediction.

But I also spoke about our memorable 5-2 win in the first month of the Lampard reign in 2019, almost five years ago, and I also remembered a 5-0 win under Claudio Ranieri in my first-ever visit to Molineux in 2003.

A substitution on 68 minutes :

Joao Felix for Jackson.

“Don’t get sent off this time.”

A substitution on 76 minutes :

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.

Wolves thought they had scored with a finely struck volley from Mario Lemina but it was disallowed for an offside in the build-up. It has to be said that the Wolves support was so quiet in that second-half.

I loved the way that Neto hugged the left touch-line. He raced through and smashed a shot against Sa’s post. On eighty minutes, he out-strode his markers beautifully and dragged the ball back for Felix to smash in.

Bloody hell.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 6.

Two substitutions on 83 minutes :

Christopher Nkunku for Palmer.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

At the end of the game, I tried to remember how many times I had seen Chelsea score six away from home.

This was only the fourth time :

21 August 2010 : Wigan Athletic 0 Chelsea 6

30 August 2014 : Everton 3 Chelsea 6

9 April 2022 : Southampton 0 Chelsea 6

25 August 2024 : Wolverhampton Wanderers 2 Chelsea 6

On the walk out of the stadium, the younger element was full of noise, and I let them cheer. These are still odd times for us Chelsea fans. I think it helped that all of the starting eleven at Wolverhampton were players from the previous season, not new. I think it helped me get behind the team a little more. The bond between players and supporters is a delicate thing but it was strengthened on this performance.

No European travels for me this week. I am having a rest. See you in the pub on Sunday.

Tales From Memory Lane Café

Posted on December 28, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 27 December 2023.

The drive up to London had been horrible. Due to traffic congestion throughout the journey, and not helped by persistent rain, it took four hours rather than the usual three. I had set off from my house at 10.30am, then collected the three others, but wasn’t parked up on Mulgrave Road until 2.30pm.

We were in town for the delayed Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace game, pushed forward a further day from Boxing Day. As I battled the rain and spray I was able to tell the chaps all about the game that I had seen on Boxing Day, the local derby between Frome Town and Melksham Town. It was a mad but deeply enjoyable encounter that resulted in two players from each side being sent off, plus the visiting Melksham manager too, and a 2-2 draw in front an attendance of 696, the highest home league gate of the[i] season. It had it all. I was breathless at the end of it. Proper football.

I made my way down the North End Road, the rain almost stopped, and decided to call in for an all-day breakfast at “Café Olé” for the second time this season. As I sat at the table, I tuned in to the café’s wi-fi to put out a post on “Facebook.” I wanted to detail what was happening exactly forty years ago to the day.

On 27 December 1983, we played a game against Portsmouth at Stamford Bridge. I uploaded a couple of photos with a little narrative. I then realised that it was in this same café back in November before the Manchester City game, in the exact same café, the exact same table even, that I had detailed a similar “forty years ago” moment on “Facebook.”

So, 1983/84.

For my generation it’s everybody’s favourite season, and I will be dipping in to its reach seam of memories occasionally during this campaign. I originally wrote about that season in greater depth during my 2008/9 match reports on its silver anniversary. There will be a few more “memory dips” this season. Let’s go back in time…

I travelled up with my parents…they had seats in the East Lower, but I had decided to get in amongst the boisterous and noisy supporters in The Benches, for the first time in fact since my first ever game in 1974. Up until that point, all of my games that season had been in The Shed, but both Glenn ( who was staying in London with his grandparents ) and myself fancied a change. Portsmouth, newly-promoted and with Mark Hateley and Alan Biley upfront, would bring a good following to The Bridge and we were both looking forward to some banter with the away fans on that huge slug of terrace to our left.

And – it would give us a chance to get in amongst the trendies.

Yep – December 1983 against Pompey was when I was brought fully up to speed with the football fashions of the time. Both Glenn and myself had entered the season completely oblivious to the movement which had been developing, unbeknown to us, in the main football cities since 1977.

Since then, many books have been written and many magazine articles devoted to this vibrant sub-culture; ”the thing with no name” one Manc has called it…but I can only describe it from my perspective.

Most youth trends are music based. God knows, Britain in 1983 had many; there had been the Mod revival of 1979, skinheads, suedeheads and two-tone / ska boys and girls were in abundance, the punks were still around from 1977, there were those into heavy metal with their long hair and denim, the Goths were around, there was rockabilly, psychobilly, soul boys ( definitely a London phenomenon )…then we had the lighter end of it all – the new romantics, with girls – and boys – who dressed like make-up was going out of fashion…hip hop was making inroads from across the Atlantic too.

But – as Glenn and myself were to find out over the remaining months of that most seminal of footy seasons, here was a movement which was solely based around what young people wore to football. It was a tantalisingly “underground” movement – that’s what made it so amazing to us. None of my friends back in Frome would be clued up about it for years and years.

The season was fermenting most beautifully; not only were Chelsea playing some great football, I was also going to more games – and now this.

“What – a totally new way of dressing up, based on football? Yes, please. Where do I sign up?”

There’s no point trying to reinvent history – up until December 1983, I really had no clue, though Glenn had met some casuals on an away day to Carlisle I believe. However – looking back – I guess by some kind of fashion fluke, I could have been mistaken for a football trendy. I have a photo of myself, taken on holiday in the summer of 1981 in Italy with my two Italian pals Tullio and Mario with me wearing a polo shirt, cords and a pair of Dunlop Green Flash. If I squint and avoid the glaring mistakes, I guess I could be mistaken for a football trendy. But I’d really have to squint hard. The horrible bog standard English schoolboy haircut gave it away. If I had been in the know, I would have realised that The Wedge was the way forward. There are people in their forties who coolly claim that the whole movement, the whole football thing, began with The Wedge in Liverpool in 1977. Who am I to argue? However, during the summer of 1983, I had helped myself to a great new haircut…before it the standard fringe and hair over the ears…we all had this haircut. Horrible it was. But, I decided to change all that…get a side-parting and sort myself out. Without really knowing it, my transformation from clueless fan to wedged-up trendy was beginning.

So – The Benches 1983 – a crisp sunny winter morning, my first Chelsea Xmas game and Glenn and myself clocking all of the hitherto unnoticed fashions of the time.

Why were those lads only wearing light blue jeans, many with side splits over their trainers? Look at all those pastel-coloured jumpers. They’re either “Pringle” ( small lion rampant, how Chelsea ) or “Lyle & Scott” ( yellow eagle ). I had only ever heard of “Slazenger. Why are all the trainers either “Nike” or “Puma” or “Adidas”? Wait, what are they? “Diadora”? Never seen them before.

Then the hairstyles…those side-partings, those huge flopping fringes, the famous flick… lads with hands in pockets, posing, walking up and down the Benches like a catwalk…what is that badge…a crocodile? And another! What is that?

John McEnroe’s “Sergio Tacchini” and Bjorn Borg’s “Fila”. Desert boots. Scarfs. Ski-jackets. Bright colours. Swagger.

Glenn and myself were hooked. Funny – at the time, it really was the cult with no name. Glenn called them “trendies”, quite correctly as it happens…but the cult was never really sure of itself…I would learn later – after much research – that “the football trendies” were known as “casuals”, “scallies”, “perries”, “dressers” and “trendies” depending where you were in the UK.

And here’s the thing – it was all about football; the terraces, the away games, the specials, the buzz, the noise, the colour, the lifestyle.

Chelsea versus Pompey at Xmas 1983 opened my eyes. The game ended 2-2 and has almost gone down in casual folklore. Pompey always seemed to have a photographer in their 6.57 firm and there are a few from the north terrace that day in circulation. Kerry Dixon infamously missed two penalties during the match but the one abiding memory is of a lone Pompey fan sauntering in, high on the terrace, hanging on to a fence, gesturing to us down below and wearing a pink pullover.

My diary from that day records our words to him as ”who’s the poser in the pink?” but this has since changed in popular culture to “the wanker in the pink”, as featured in a line within John King’s “The Football Factory.”

Several years ago, I chanced finding a photo from the game – both teams were wearing exquisite Le Coq Sportif kits – showing Kerry going up for a header with the West Stand in the background. I wondered if I might be spotted in the crowd. I zoomed in and found myself, way right, almost out of shot. I loved seeing myself from all those years ago, complete with floppy wedge. I include it here. I don’t like including photos on this site that aren’t mine but I make exception on this occasion. I include a few photos from Fulham Broadway of the Pompey mob, the North Stand – which, alas, I never stepped foot on – and the game.

Ah the memories.

Back to 2023.

I soon found myself catching a train from that same southbound platform at Fulham Broadway to join up with the lads at “The Eight Bells.” There was just time to take a couple of photos of the old station exits, including the ancillary one that was only used on match days. It bypassed the booking hall and went straight from platform to street level in a steep ascent. I had taken an outside shot too, to complete the picture. It’s an almost forgotten and un-noticed feature of the old station that I am sure 90% of current match-goers simply do not notice. That and the old Shed wall; that’s all that’s left from my first visit to Chelsea in 1974.

I reached the pub at about 3.45pm. Glenn, my mate from beside me on The Benches in 1983, was with Parky, PD and Salisbury Steve in “The Eight Bells” with some German lads who have featured in these tales before. Ben used to work for a company on the Swiss border that I used to contact for onward shipping of our furniture. He has visited Chelsea a number of times; the last time in 2019. He was with Jens and Walt, who we had met before, plus another chap called Michael. Everyone was getting on famously, despite the barmaid mischievously putting a couple of “WW2” films on the pub TV for their viewing pleasure. They were howling with laughter. Kyden originally from Kent, but now living in Florida called by for a drink and a chat. The pub wasn’t too busy. We rarely, if ever, visit this pub for an evening game. Top marks to Salisbury Steve who was first in at 11.30am. That’s pretty keen for a 7.30pm kick-off, eh?

I was shocked, and saddened, to see a huge poster advertising a PSG club shop in London on the northbound platform as I alighted at Fulham Broadway. There are no words.

I was inside Stamford Bridge very early at about 6.30pm. I waited for the troops to arrive. For a team that has seemed to have had our number on occasion recently, I was staggered to read that we had won our last dozen games against the Stripey Nigels in all competitions; I hoped it would be unlucky thirteen for them.

Nobody, though, seemed confident.

Our team was announced, and there was a full first team debut for Christopher Nkunku.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Colwill

Caicedo – Gallagher

Maatsen – Nkunku – Mudryk

Jackson

…”or something like that.”

Ben, Jens and Michael were around fifteen yards away to my right but Walt was down in The Shed. There was the usual “lightshow and flames bollocks” before the teams entered the pitch.

At 7.30pm, the game started and Crystal Palace began brightly attacking the Matthew Harding. They enjoyed a couple of efforts on our goal.

“Colwill is too tall for a full-back.”

On eight minutes, we were treated to a magnificent turn of pace from Mykhailo Mudryk who slotted a perfect pass through for Ian Maatsen. It ran away from him a little but he poked a toe at it as the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson raced out. Sadly, a Palace defender recovered to clear from just a few yards out.

On thirteen minutes, a very fine move carved Palace open. A majestic turn / drag-back from Malo Gusto had the crowd purring and the right-back then set off up field. A little fortune saw the ball continue to Nkunku, who had two stabs at getting the ball between two defenders into Gusto, who had ridiculously continued his run from the inside-right channel to the inside-left channel. His perfect low cross was pushed home by Mudryk.

GET IN.

We roared but he seemed subdued. There was no trademark Chelsea run to the corners. The central celebration seemed odd.

Not long after, a terrible pass from Nicolas Jackson – intended for Nkunku I think, but it hit a Palace player – did his cause no good whatsoever, but thankfully the move that followed fizzled out.

On twenty-one minutes, Mudryk was in on goal after good passing from Caicedo and Jackson but Henderson saved well. There was a roller from Jackson across the goal but wide of the far post. Next, at last some consierable styrength and doggedness from the currently maligned Jackson who battled off the challenges of two Palace defenders and set up Nkunku, who was not able to get a shot away.

This was decent stuff from Chelsea.

Pass the smelling salts, nurse.

And it was reassuring to hear genuinely positive reactions from the crowd. Stamford Bridge was clearly not a riot of noise, but there was warm applause from our surprisingly intricate and pleasing passing movements.

A pass from Gusto to Maatsen, but wide.

In the last ten minutes of the half, the game died a little. The frustrations from the crowd returned. Nkunku seemed peripheral now. Maatsen looked out of place out wide, often afraid to take his man on, too often happy to play the ball back. I spotted how slow Moises Caicedo is with the ball.

“Seen treacle move quicker.”

For all of Conor Gallagher’s energy, we missed a playmaker.

“Oh please exploit the spaces out wide.”

What I’d give for someone to loft a ball into those wide open spaces for a willing wide man to attack.

A sturdy tackle on Maatsen by Chris Richards released the ball for Palace. A deep cross towards the far post from Jordan Ayew always looked like causing us grief. Michael Olise, lively in the half-thus far, was scandalously unmarked and he had time to chest the ball down and smack past Djordje Petrovic at the near post. Caicedo had lost his concentration. Terrible defending.

It was 1-1 at the break.

So, moans at half-time. The relative positivity from the first half-hour had evaporated. It seemed to be the same old Chelsea of 2023/24.

One step forward, several steps back – and sideways.

In the first minute of the second period, I spotted how easy it was for the Palace attackers to roll off our defenders.

After a few more minutes of toil, I said to PD “there is nothing unexpected about our play.” All of it was without invention, without a spark, all of it in front of the defensive lines.

On fifty-three minutes, a Palace free-kick went just wide.

“We could lose this, boys.”

I looked over at the Germans; at least they were still awake.

Benoit Badiashile – he had impressed me at the end of last season, but has played poorly of late – allowed Jean-Philippe Mateta to roll off him and break. Badiashile and also Disasi raced after him but could not stop a shot on goal. Petrovic saved well at the near post.

A debut for Romeo Lavia on the hour, replacing the really poor Maatsen. Thiago Silva replaced Colwill at the same time.

Gallagher pushed up, Lavia sat alongside Caicedo and immediately looked more mobile and interested than his new midfield partner.

On sixty-six minutes, Gusto was so tenacious to stop a rapid break. Whisper it, but a few of us would not be unhappy if Gusto replaced Reece James in the long-term. We love Reece but his play has stalled for a while. He is so injury-prone and is too quiet for a captain. Gusto was enjoying a really excellent game.

More substitutions with twenty to go.

Noni Madueke for Nkunku.

Armando Broja for Mydryk.

More than a few supporters : “how is Jackson still on the pitch?”

Jackson then missed a one-on-one. Gallagher prodded the ball centrally – a great ball actually, one we had been missing – but the young striker fluffed his lines and his shot faded wide. Jackson fell into the netting and probably wished that the goal would swallow him up. Shortly after, we thought there was redemption.

A cross from Silva was deflected but Jackson pounced at the far post.

A roar.

We celebrated wildly.

He celebrated wildly down below.

He slid.

He crossed himself.

He closed his eyes.

He pointed to the sky.

He was mobbed by team mates.

I took some half-decent photos.

Then, after about a minute or so, to my disbelieving eyes : VAR.

Silence in my brain, sadness in my heart.

I was still stood, but slumped back against my seat.

No goal.

Oh do fuck off.

A save from Olise by Petrovic after an error by Silva.

Broja rippled the side-netting.

Late on, Madueke – who had looked lively – fell just inside the box after a corner. There had been a challenge, but I did not really see it. I could not judge its severity. With Madueke down, Palace broke with four against one. The referee played on. I screamed expletives. I’m good at that. That chance thankfully passed, but then VAR was signalled. I am tired of VAR now. I didn’t applaud nor cheer.

Eventually, a penalty was given.

Again, no cheer from me.

Jackson took the ball. Gallagher took the ball. Then Madueke, the fouled, took the ball. He looked confident. A staggered run-up. I clicked.

Goal.

I cheered now alright.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Eighty-nine minutes had passed.

Bloody hell.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

One last substitution.

Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

The young lad certainly made a strong impression in his first fleeting minutes as a first-team player. There was the “gee-ing up” of team mates, at least one crunching tackle, and much running around like a man possessed.

Alfie. Alf. Welcome to the show, son.

There was just time for one last save from Petrovic, again down low at the near post, again from Olise.

It finished 2-1, a well-won victory if not an easy one.

We rose to tenth place. It is, I think, where we will be come May.

Next up, an away game at Luton Town and a visit to the Oak Road End once again. I will see some of the lucky ones there.

1983