Tag Archives: Kits

Tales From Row D

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Chelsea vs. Luton Town : 25 August 2023.

It’s hard to believe that the home match with newly-promoted Luton Town would only be my fifth Chelsea match against the team from the much-derided town in Bedfordshire. We met plenty of times from the mid-‘seventies to the early ‘nineties, but not many times since.

For some reason, the mention of Luton Town always takes me back to the first day of 1980 and an early kick-off at Kenilworth Road, a frosty pitch, and most of the players wearing trainers. The game was an entertaining 3-3 draw. A more notorious away game had taken place five years earlier, in January 1975, when the two teams eked out a 1-1 draw, but Chelsea fans set fire to the train taking them back to London after the game. I was at neither game.

My first Luton game took place on Saturday 8 May 1982 at the end of a “typical” Chelsea season that saw us over-perform in both domestic cups but under-perform in our Second Division campaign. I travelled up alone, on the train, and remember buying the wonderful Le Coq Sportif pinstriped – and super shiny – home shirt before the game. I watched from The Shed and I recollect Paul Canoville’s home debut, sadly accompanied by boos, and I remember a 1-2 loss and a Clive Walker goal. That season, Luton – in a very fine kit of their own, all white with Adidas stripes in orange – narrowly beat neighbours Watford to the Second Division Championship. There was a deep contrast in styles between these two rivals. Luton played expansive, skilful stuff using a variety of attacking options whereas Watford were “route one” merchants, utilising wingers and tall centre-forwards.

I then saw us play Luton Town at Stamford Bridge on 11 January 1986. I watched with my mate Swan in the East Lower – using complimentary tickets if I am not mistaken – and we won 1-0 via David Speedie.

Next up was the famous FA Cup semi-final in 1994 when two Gavin Peacock goals sent us to an FA Cup Final for the first time in twenty-four years. Kerry Dixon was playing for Luton Town by now and we certainly gave him a full-on reception. Looking back, the win on that day – in my mind – changed our history.

A loss; back to being normal unpredictable Chelsea.

A win; guaranteed European football what with our Cup Final opponents already looking like being crowned League Champions and thus a Champions League place in 1994/95. We would slide into the ECWC, and our profile would be raised, thus enticing Gullit and Hughes the following pre-season.

Lastly, just over eighteen months ago, a first-ever visit for me to the infamously compact stadium of Kenilworth Road where we squeaked a narrow 3-2 FA Cup win on a night when we heard that Roman Abramovich had put the club up for sale. The scorers? Saul Niguez, Timo Werner and Romelu Lukaku.  God, that already seems like three teams ago, doesn’t it?

So, game number five and a Friday flit up the M4 with the usual suspects.

After a decent run out against Liverpool followed by a disappointing performance at West Ham, one phrase was surely uttered by us a few times, and by thousands of others.

…”well, if we can’t beat Luton.”

On paper, this was a run-of-the-mill football match, but not for me. I would be joined by my very good mate JR from Detroit. He was last alongside me at Stamford Bridge, alongside Alan in The Sleepy Hollow, for the PSG home game in March 2016, a 1-2 loss. The last Chelsea game we saw together was in Ann Arbor in July of the same year, a 2-3 loss against Real Madrid, in front of – officially – the largest ever crowd to attend a Chelsea game.

105,826.

I suspect the Moscow Dynamo game exceeded that figure but we will never know.

The last sports fixture that we both attended took place the day after the Real Madrid game; a 11-0 win for his Detroit Tigers against Houston Astros in downtown Detroit.

Seven years ago. Damn, where has the time gone?

I met up with JR just after 5pm, alongside Dan, whose wedding in deepest Cambridgeshire JR is attending with his wife Erin next weekend.

It was lovely to see them both again. The last time I saw Dan was – we think – before the away game in Newcastle in January 2020, before COVID, before the lockdown, before football behind closed doors, before Putin, before the sale, before Clearlake, before “Supermarket Sweep” and another age, or so it seems.

We decamped to “The Butcher’s Hook.”

Some Chelsea young’uns were finishing off that horrible Arsenal chant aimed at Tottenham – “that’s alright”, my arse – in front of a sea of Chelsea-liveried tourists, and then went into “Chelsea Alouette” with all the actions. It seemed like the “So Bar” circa 2006 had moved east a few hundred yards. Dan said he saw an over-protective father cup the ears of his child to protect said junior from the swearing.

This is football, not soft play.

Chelsea World Is A Small World Part One.

At the first Frome Town league game of this season, a fortnight ago, my mates Francis and Tom were checking out the antics of the new club mascot Dodge The Dog. Tom, who is originally from Cambridge and follows Cambridge United, told the story of how his team’s mascot is called Marvin The Moose.

Francis and I immediately recoiled at the name, since there seemed to be little relevance to Cambridge to an animal that inhabits the northern extremities of North America, Scandinavia and Russia. However, Tom told the story of how one Cambridge fan just started bellowing “moose!” during a particular game for no apparent reason, and others latched on to the idea. Oh, I approved of that. Here was a story that seemed totally organic, from within the club’s rank and file, rather than from the imagination of an out-of-touch marketing guru.

Knowing that Dan was a Cambridge United season ticket holder, I happened to share this story with Dan and JR. With a broadening smile, Dan admitted that on occasion, he has dressed up as Marvin The Moose at their home games.

I shared this with Francis, who then shared it with Tom.

There were ripples of football laughter reverberating from London to Frome and to who knows where.

“Moose!”

We called into see Steve, from Somerset, at the programme stall and then Marco at the “CFCUK” stall opposite. Chidge was there too, and JR remembered how he had taken part in a “Chelsea Fancast” from 2011 on the occasion of his first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge. JR’s first ever game here was the West Ham game, the Torres goal, and we remembered that day well. Again, twelve years ago? Oh boy.

We trotted over to “Simmons” where we hoped a few of the usual suspects would congregate. Dan was surprised by the choice of venue.

“This isn’t the sort of bar I’d expect you to frequent, Chris.”

“It’s handy for evening games, being so near the stadium, just a ten-minute walk away.”

We settled down and waited for some troops to arrive. We didn’t have to wait long.

Luke, Aroha, Alan, Daryl, Parky, plus a few more.

The music boomed.

Chelsea World Is A Small World Part Two.

I often speak of my friend Andy from Nuneaton and his daughter Sophie, who sometimes meet us down “The Eight Bells”, and I was especially hoping that they would show up for this pre-match. Andy visited Detroit in 1987 with his Chelsea mate Jonesy – also mentioned herein – and took in a game at old Tiger Stadium. With Daryl and I favouring the New York Yankees over the years, Andy always used to tell us that “his” Detroit Tigers were better even when they weren’t. He always talks about their slugger Kirk Gibson. So, with JR on his way over from Detroit, I wanted to surprise Andy with some Tigers merchandise. To that end, JR picked up a mug and a pair of socks at the airport. I wanted to be able to present Andy with his gifts in the bar. Imagine my joy when I looked over to see Sophie arrive.

Lo and behold, not only did Andy soon appear, but he stood right next to JR at the bar. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I quickly walked over and stood between the two of them.

“JR, this is Andy.”

“Andy!”

“Andy, this is JR. He’s from Detroit.”

“Detroit!”

JR was wearing a Tigers cap, but I am not sure Andy recognised the fine detail. I then explained the back story and soon presented Andy with his gifts. He was well-pleased. It was a lovely moment.

The bar was noisy with a backdrop of classic pre-match music from “the football years”; a little David Bowie, a little Madness, some Oasis, some Blur, a little Specials, even the Frome Town song “A Town Called Malice.”

On his delayed trip from Detroit to Heathrow, JR had suffered the misfortune of his luggage taking a detour to Amsterdam but I could see he was enjoying this.

It was a Friday. The first day of a three-day weekend. The first game of three for me.

Time to relax.

Kinda.

In the midst of this mini-festival of football that was to encompass three stadia and five teams…Chelsea, Luton Town, Yate Town, Frome Town and Larkhall Athletic…there was a hospital appointment for me on the Sunday that was never completely out of my mind. But more of that later.

At about 7.20pm, JR, Dan and I set off for Stamford Bridge. We had, luckily, just missed a heavy downpour that had drenched the streets outside. Dan had managed to get hold of a ticket in the MHU and so he would not be too far away from us.

In we went.

JR met up with PD again, and Al soon joined us.

No surprises that Luton Town brought 3,000 with them. I have only ever met one Luton Town fan in my life – Turin, 2009 – and I wondered if he was in The Shed.

I made sure that JR sat between Alan and little old me. I wanted JR to witness the full “Sleepy Hollow Audio Visual Experience”, and I was especially thinking of the moment – hopefully – when we would take the lead and a certain famous interchange would take place between Alan and I.

JR’s noggin would be right in the middle of it.

The away fans were noisy, as expected. This was, after all, their first top flight visit to SW6 since 31 August 1991. That game, which we won 4-1, was made memorable for marking Vinnie Jones’ debut in Chelsea colours. I can keenly remember where I was that afternoon; near Ashby-de-la-Zouch in Leicestershire on an inter-company sports day, playing five-a-side, and spotting a girl in our team who took part in a few other events. I would go out with Sam on a couple of occasions and I think Vinnie Jones fared better at Chelsea than I did with her, but there you go.

“Park Life” was aired…”Parky Life” more like, I thought, and then the pre-match bullshit started, the flames and all, ending up with a dickhead bellowing into the mic : “make some noise!!!”

Oh do fuck off mate.

Our team lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Sterling – Jackson – Chilwell

Or something like that.

In the Sleepy Hollow –

Chris – JR – Al – PD

Luton were wearing an away kit, all white with a broad vertical orange stripe. New buy Moises Caicedo took a position in our midfield. Former Chelsea player Ross Barkley started his first game for Luton after his spell with Nice. The air was full of drizzle. There were dark storm clouds over the East Stand. I guessed that they had just passed.

The game began with us attacking The Shed as per normal. The away support was on top from the off.

“Come on Lu’on, come on Lu’on.”

JR spoke about the fact that only two of the starting eleven have their own songs; Thiago Silva and Connor Gallagher, with two each.

We were treated to a scintillating run from Raheem Sterling on the right, deep into the heart of the crowded Luton defence and he looked interested from the first kick. There was a fierce shot from Sterling, a volley, that was saved by the Luton ‘keeper. Next, a riser from Enzo outside the box that skimmed the bar.

A rare attack for Luton after a slip by Caicedo but a wild shot flew high past the goal frame.

On seventeen minutes, Sterling ran through the Luton defence with a sublime piece of attacking intent, his weaving taking him away from tackles. At every juncture I thought he had taken it one step too far but he kept the ball close to him throughout. There was a dummy, and then the confident stab home.

The crowd erupted. There was pandemonium behind the goal where Sterling had slotted the ball in. Limbs were flying. The striker ran behind the netting and a few team mates joined in the wild celebrations. Whatever pre-match substances and liquids had been imbibed before the game were being mixed with an adrenalin rush to the head caused by the euphoria of an early goal. We are, after all, goal addicts.

It was pure Shedonism.

Then, our big moment.

I looked behind JR and caught Alan’s eye.

We looked at each other and I suspected that we were both thinking the exact same thing.

Alan paused for a few seconds.

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

Chris : “But not necessarily in the right order.”

Alan burst out laughing. Yes, he had been thinking the same thing. It was our perfect homage to Eric Morecambe.

I turned to JR : “Did you catch that electricity that buzzed past you there mate?”

I am sure that JR didn’t have a clue about our wise words, but he didn’t let on. Alan and I were giggling like schoolkids.

Back to the game.

A Colwill error on the goal-line let in a Luton attacker but the move was stewarded out for a corner. A Barkley near-post header from the resultant corner flew over the bar.

However, we absolutely controlled the first-half. I spotted that Nicolas Jackson often came deep to pick up the ball and run. It was reassuring to see a young forward looking to impact the game. After his far from perfect debut in Stratford, Moises Caicedo settled in nicely and broke up a few rare Luton attacks. At the break, I took a photo of JR alongside Alan and P-Diddy.

JR had put the “D” in Row D.

Kerry Dixon took the mic at half-time and said a few things. Thirty-nine years ago, on Saturday 25 August 1984, it was Kerry’s goal that sent all of us in the Clock End delirious. The clip of that goal always sends shivers down my spine.

The second-half was a far livelier affair. There was a natty one-two between Chilwell and Jackson but with only the ‘keeper to beat, Chilwell just couldn’t trust his right foot and tried to square the ball to Sterling. The pass was intercepted and we all groaned. Next, a neat volley from Jackson that forced a block. We were starting to purr.

A cross from Sterling, a crashing shot from Enzo that smacked the post.

From the away fans :

“Conference Champions, you’ll never sing that.”

Fair play.

Enzo raced on to a pacey through ball but could only hit the side netting.

Jackson swivelled well down below us but hit a strong shot at the ‘keeper.

I turned to JR :

“At long last, it looks like we have a decent young striker to hang our hat on.”

There was a comic interlude that amused us. A ball went off and had to be retrieved by a Luton player. It suddenly dawned on me that there were no ball boys – or girls – along the West Stand touchline. In fact, the stadium’s only five ball boys – or girls – were sat in two groups in front of the Matthew Harding. One group of two, one group of three. And they were adamantly refusing to budge to chase down stray balls. Their insouciance was captivating.

I wondered if their pre-match instructions went something like this.

“OK, the idea is for you five to take your stools and sit equidistantly on the perimeter of the pitch so that balls can be given back to the players as quickly as possible. Is that understood?”

I imagined a sea of blank faces.

Equidistant?

Perimeter?

And then a lone voice…

“Yes fam.”

They hardly moved the entire match, the little buggers.

What made it funnier was that each had “Ball Squad” bibs on.

Ball squad, my arse.

Jackson was running himself into the ground and impressing us all with his industry. He was certainly tenacious. I liked Gusto on the right, rarely a wasted pass.

A bouncing effort from Luton on the hour was gathered well by Robert Sanchez.

We were begging, though, for a second goal. Thankfully on sixty-nine minutes, a move that was beautiful in its simplicity allowed the ball to be moved quickly. Sterling to Caicedo to Gallagher, then to Gusto who sent in a low centre that Sterling swept home easily. He ran over to the far side and Stamford Bridge boomed again.

2-0 and safe, surely?

On seventy-five minutes, a lovely move developed. Enzo scooped a beautiful ball up and over the Luton defence for Sterling to collect. His first-time cross was stabbed home by that man Jackson and we all beamed a huge smile as he raced away.

Three-nil and coasting, the manager brought on three very late subs.

Lesley Uguchukwu for the excellent Jackson.

“We’ll just call you Les” chirped Alan.

Ian Maatsen for Chilwell.

Mason Burstow for Sterling, who was warmly applauded off.

Raheem has been a difficult player to warm to hasn’t he? Let’s hope his fine performance against Luton – yes, I know, it was only Luton – can be replicated over and over again this season.

A late song for our visitors…

“Shit fucking airport, you’re just a shit fucking airport.”

Quite.

At the final whistle, there was a genuine relief of seeing us win a game at Stamford Bridge for the first time since Dortmund in March, a couple of managers ago.

“Enjoyed that.”

Next up, a South-West London derby against AFC Wimbledon in the League Cup on Wednesday.

I am going, as will JR.

See you there.

Tales From The Hollins Suite

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 13 August 2023.

Within the final match report of last season, there were a few references to my first ever Chelsea game. Sadly, during the summer, the Chelsea family lost two players from the team that played Newcastle United on that day back in 1974. The then captain John Hollins passed away on 14 June and Chris Garland passed away on 13 July.

I often used to see John Hollins in the Millennium Hotel on match days at Chelsea as he joined up with some his former team mates before commencing their hospitality roles. He was always very pleasant, always smiling, and I easily imagined his enthusiasm in the dressing room of that fabled Chelsea team in the early ‘seventies, and then when he took over the captaincy from Ron Harris a little later. In that Chelsea team of yore, Hollins was an integral part, alongside perhaps more vaunted names such as Osgood, Hudson, Cooke and Bonetti. I remembered him as a busy midfielder who weighed in with a fair share of goals. In the second ever game that I saw, at home to Tottenham later in 1974, it was his penalty that gave us a narrow 1-0 win.

After relegation in 1975, Holly joined QPR and then Arsenal. It was a big surprise when he returned, aged thirty-seven, in 1983 to add experience to a re-vamped Chelsea team seeking improvement after a dicey flirtation with relegation in 1982/83. His professionalism and personality surely helped that team gain promotion. The 1983/84 is still my favourite ever season and it needs no further explanation nor qualification.

If you were there, like me, you’ll know.

Taking over from John Neal as manager in 1985, Hollins was in charge for the next two-and-a-half seasons, but his skills as manager, rather than as a coach to Neal, were exposed. He was unceremoniously sacked in March 1988.

His one solitary England cap seems unfair and ridiculous. He was an engine in our 1970 and 1971 cup-winning teams and he was a bloody nice man to boot. John Hollins had been in poor health for a few years but still occasionally made trips to Chelsea on match days. He is fifth on the all-time list of appearances and he will always be a legend in my eyes.

Chris Garland joined Chelsea in 1971 just after the Real Madrid cup win and he was an integral part of the first Chelsea team that I can remember watching on TV, alongside a few of the newer signings such as Steve Kember and Bill Garner. It would be easy to say that these were lesser players compared to the golden era, but that would be doing them all a disservice. Garland in particular was an honest and hard-working player, mainly deployed as a wide attacker. As a young boy falling in love with my team, they were all heroes to me. He was transferred on to Leicester City in late 1974 so his part of my Chelsea story was relatively fleeting. He would return, latterly, to Bristol City – a local team to me, my closest league team in fact – and he would go down in City folklore as one of the “Ashton Gate Eight” who tore up their contracts to save the club in 1982. He had been suffering from Parkinson’s Disease for such a long time.

Of that team from 16 March 1974, five players have now sadly passed away; John Phillips, John Hollins, Chris Garland, Peter Houseman and Ian Hutchinson.

May God bless them all.

That gap between the last game of 2022/23 against Newcastle United and the first game of 2023/24 against Liverpool was just eleven weeks. It was almost a “football-free” time for me. There was no trip abroad to watch Chelsea in the US this year. I used to enjoy those expeditions a while ago, but they’re not for me anymore. I only really saw a few bits from the first game – the ludicrous match against Wrexham – and that just about turned my stomach; everybody sat, no singing, a flat atmosphere, and what seemed to be thousands of American couples out on some sort of bizarre “date night.”

Strangely, on a birthday flit up to the North-East in early July, I had been out drinking with my Everton mate Chris – a lovely long session of us putting the footballing world to rights – when we were joined at the last minute by Skoot, the singer from Declan Swans, a Wrexham-based band who regularly appeared in the Wrexham TV Show.

The “Wrexham TV Show”? Yeah, I know. It would never have happened in 1983.

For days after I had “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” invading my brain.

“Less than a mile from the centre of town a famous old stadium crumbling down.”

There were two Frome Town friendlies – live football is my drug – to pass the time; a keenly-contested 1-1 draw at Dorchester Town, a narrow 0-1 loss at home to Weston-Super-Mare.

My Frome Town mate Fordy, who now works opposite me in the same transport office, reported back on an evening match involving his team Arsenal against AS Monaco at The Emirates. The whole shooting match left him bitterly disappointed and underwhelmed with the whole modern-day football experience.

As the game began, the youth next to him uttered the immortal words : “it’s just like watching FIFA, innit?”

God only knows what I would have said if I had been there.

Fordy was just repulsed by everyone slagging off the Arsenal players and offering virtually no encouragement.

“I know mate. Everyone is a fucking critic these days.”

As the opening game of the new season approached, I found it difficult to keep up with the ins and outs at our beloved club. The “Supermarket Sweep” of the winter transfer window had continued, but with the added fascination of waving goodbye to a host of players who had been – mainly – underperforming for months.

Mason Mount – off you go, you little twerp.

Kai Havertz – thanks for Porto, yeah I know you’re not a false nine, but I grew tired of your lack of effort and your bleak and unsmiling high-cheek boned expression.

N’Golo Kante – I loved you then, I loved you now, safe travels you absolute treasure.

Kalidou Koulibaly – off you go.

Christian Pulisic – Captain America, my arse.

Mateo Kovacic – I liked you until I didn’t, good luck on the City bench.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek – ah, so much potential, but it never worked out after that injury, good luck.

Edouard Mendy – you were like a curate’s egg, my friend, but thanks for Porto and Abu Dhabi. On you go.

Piere-Emerick Aubameyang – who?

Cesar Azpilicueta – Dave, we loved you, and you will always be one of us.

As for the incoming players, time will tell. I have never heard of most of them. But I’ll get to know them over time. I wish them all well.

The overhaul, in fact, reminded me so much of the summer of 1983. I am not so sure that the spending spree of 2023 will be remembered so fondly, but we live in hope.

During the last week of the close-season, my plans for the opener against Liverpool dramatically changed.

Garrett’s Story.

A friend from Tennessee – Garrett – was coming over for his first-ever game at HQ. He had asked me during the summer if I could get him a ticket, but – as it was going to be his first match – I didn’t want to take the risk. I would have felt awful if I couldn’t conjure up a ticket from somewhere. Unfortunately, the US supporter groups’ deadline had come and gone so Garrett was forced to go down the hospitality route.

“Oh bloody hell. Please don’t tell me how much you paid for a ticket.”

We made plans on meeting up. I have never met Garrett in person but he was a fan of the blog and was looking forward immensely to meeting up with the lads that he reads about each week.

Then, a horrible twist. Garrett was hit with a nasty medical condition and couldn’t travel. He immediately cancelled his flight and hotel, but decided to give me his ticket. I was dumbfounded. My mate Glenn – previously unable to find himself a ticket – would have mine and I would watch the game from the middle tier of the West Stand.

On the Saturday, I watched the first Frome Town league game of the season, a dour 0-0 with newly promoted side Cribbs from Bristol; it was red versus blue, the Frome Bloods versus the Bristol Cribbs, boom boom.

Later that day, Garrett was re-admitted to hospital and I wished him well.

The new season was now breathtakingly close.

On the day of the game, I picked-up Parky at PD’s house and then Glenn; all three had been to see a ska band at a local venue the night before. The last of the passengers – he played in that first-ever game in 1974 – was collected at 8am and we were on our way. During the close season, there had been an internet campaign to get a flag for Chopper in The Shed, and the game against Liverpool would mark its debut. T-shirts were produced using the same design and Glenn was sporting it.

It was a perfect trip to London.

The pre-match was typical; a few photos of a waiting Stamford Bridge, then a short hop to Putney Bridge tube and a couple of hours with the usual suspects; The Chuckle Brothers, Salisbury Steve, the Kent Lot, and a guest appearance from the Three Amigos.

All was good with the world.

Almost.

Stephen’s Story.

“Stephen had not enjoyed most of his school year. He had struggled in the autumn and then spring term. He did not know why, but he had been the target for a few of the school bullies. His school work suffered. His parents, Dale and Jane, were so worried about him. Stephen was fourteen, and was on the often troublesome journey through the early teenage years. He was a quiet kid, well-behaved at home, but a little bit of a loner at school. Mac was his best friend, and a fellow Chelsea supporter too. They were like brothers.

At Easter, Stephen’s parents sought some independent counselling for their son, and during the summer term, everyone was elated to see Stephen’s schoolwork improve. In the exams in June, Stephen did well, better than expected.

Dale, decided to reward Stephen with something that he knew that his son would appreciate. One evening when Mac was visiting, Dale sat them both down and talked of a nice surprise. Dale knew how much the two boys loved Chelsea Football Club. By an odd twist, both of the boys’ birthdays were in the same week. Dale explained how proud he was of Stephen’s progress over the past few months, and thanked Mac for his support and friendship too. He had looked ahead to check what Chelsea game was being played around the time of the lads’ fifteenth birthdays in October. Dale was going to buy the lads a ticket apiece for the Chelsea vs. Brentford game.

It would be their first games at Stamford Bridge. Dale had quietly observed the two of them over the past few months and had been impressed with their behaviour. They seemed, to his eyes, more grown up than their peers. Living in Croydon, Dale was sure that they could make their own way in to London by train. He remembered how he used to love going in to London to see bands at around the same age in his youth.

Stephen was overjoyed and gave his father a hug. Mac was lost for words.”

Unfortunately, there will be no Chelsea game for Stephen and Mac. The club took the ludicrous decision over the summer to limit those under sixteen to only be allowed inside Stamford Bridge if they are accompanied by adults over the age of eighteen. We chatted about this in the pub. It’s a horrible, cynical decision.

“When you are in your early teens, you are so keen to dip your toe in the adult world, to test yourself, to grow as a person, be independent. Or at least we did. When I was in my early teens, it was all about football, all about trying to get to a game, either with parents or by yourself, or with mates. It’s one of our rights of passage in Britain. That visceral thrill of doing something a little outside your comfort zone. To join in with something. To be part of it all. To feel like you belong.”

Have I ever mentioned before how I hate modern football?

Glenn spoke of his first game that he saw by himself. It was early September 1981. Chelsea versus Watford. He was just fourteen. I think he travelled up by train from Frome. I remember where I was that afternoon; at an aunt’s wedding, and I remember darting out to my Dad’s car at 4.40pm to hear we had lost 1-3.

The first game I attended alone? August 1981, aged sixteen, a 2-0 win versus Bolton Wanderers.

You remember these things.

You – and Chelsea – against the world.

Priceless memories.

At 2pm, I set off from the pub and took the tube back to Fulham Broadway. By 2.30pm, I was sat at table 44 in the Hollins Suite in the West Stand at Stamford Bridge. How utterly appropriate that I should be in the Hollins Suite. It felt just right.

On the same table as me was Jeff, an Australian from Melbourne, with his two young sons, both wearing half-and-half scarves. They were all Liverpool fans. Alongside me were three quietly spoken people who were clearly of far-Eastern descent. I smiled and I tentatively leaned in.

“Hi, I’m Chris. Where are you from?”

“Colchester.”

They were Chelsea fans.

Completing the table was Dave from King’s Langley, a Watford season ticket holder, who had won the match ticket in a raffle at a London train station. I kept them entertained with a few Chelsea stories. Bizarrely, Dave mentioned that John Barnes’ full debut for Watford was at the game Glenn saw in 1981.

The food was proper poncy stuff. It tasted lovely but didn’t fill me up. I include the photos almost ironically.

There were a few nice “never-seen-before” photos of John Hollins, and a section remembering his stewardship of our 1986 Full Members’ Cup win against Manchester City.

[…new fans Googling “Full Members’ Cup…NOW]

It was, I have to admit, all very pleasant, but absolutely not worth the price.

[…everyone Googling “Chelsea Corporate Hospitality”…NOW]

I checked the programme; up from £3.50 to £4 but down from 84 pages to 52.

Righty-oh.

At least my copy was free.

At about 2.10pm, I made my way into the – padded – seats. I was at the very back row, around eight seats from the wall abutting the Matthew Harding. As the crow flies, Glenn, Clive, Alan and PD were around twenty yards away but I could not see them, nor them me.

My view was a little odd, with the overhang of the next tier cutting out the sky. I couldn’t even see the new signage atop the East Stand nor ol’ Gatling Gun himself.

But this was fine. This was a decent experience. I spotted my lunchtime companions a few rows in front. I had been sharing photos with Garrett throughout the day. I wanted to keep him involved.

I needed to focus now. The view was superb. I ran through the team that Mauricio Pochettino – I am not comfortable with “Poch” just yet, in the same way I was never happy with “Mou” – had selected for his first game :

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill

James – Gallagher – Enzo – Chilwell

Chukwuemeka

Sterling – Jackson

…or something like that.

I was probably the only person in the ground, or the entire fucking world, who spotted three members of the Scottish “Wembley Wizards” team who defeated England 5-1 in 1928.

Hughie Gallacher / Conor Gallagher

Alex Jackson / Nicolas Jackson

Alex James / Reece James

[…everyone Googling “Wembley Wizards”…nah, maybe not]

At the Derby game in 1983, we had four debutants; Kerry Dixon, Joe McLaughlin, Eddie Niedzwiecki, Nigel Spackman.

On opening day forty years later, we also had four; Robert Sanchez, Axel Disasi, Levi Colwill, Nicolas Jackson.

As the build-up was turned up a notch, a few bars of “A Town Called Malice” were heard. This is the pre-match song at Frome Town. I liked the synchronicity.

“…better stop dreaming of the quiet life.”

Indeed. When were things last quiet at Chelsea? Around 1992 I reckon.

The teams entered the pitch.

Flames on the pitch. OK, stop that now. It’s getting tedious.

The floodlights were on. In August. Why?

There has been a change in the positioning of the Chelsea bench since the back end of the last season, and one that I absolutely endorse.

Way back in January 2021 – the Luton Town cup tie, Frank Lampard’s last game – I posted this on Facebook :

“Often thought it odd that the away bench has the best view of the pitch at Stamford Bridge…nearer the half-way line, better sightlines. Also with the home dressing room being on the north side of the tunnel. And what with the northern end being the home end now. Makes no sense to me.”

I was pleased to hear that the new manager spotted this flaw too and switched things over. Top marks.

However, I am not quite so sure about the twenty or so ultra-expensive seats – from £480 – in the new “dugout club” that allows some fans – presumably those with more money than sense – to watch the game from just behind both dugouts. It reeks of baseball and the need for spectators in the US to boast about “great seats” ad nauseam. Twats.

I remember watching one game – only one – from behind a dugout. Back in 1994, our first European game since 1971…I left getting tickets to the last minute, I know not why. Glenn and I watched right behind the Chelsea bench…it was a shocking view. I always remember that the God-fearing Glenn Hoddle saw a Chelsea near-miss, swung around towards the bench and said “Jesus wept.”

Tut tut.

At the centre circle, a minute of applause for John Hollins MBE.

Bless him. And bless Chris Garland too.

Game 1 – 1974.

Game 1,401 – 2023.

Let’s go to work.

Liverpool undoubtedly had the best of the opening spell, of the first twenty and then thirty minutes perhaps. Shots from Jota and Szoboszlai – who? – were pinged towards Robert Sanchez, newly obtained from Brighton, who must now be truly trained in the Chelsea negotiation process, and an effort from Salah smashed against the bar. These were worrying times and I thought Levi Colwill struggled in the first part of the match.

The atmosphere wasn’t great.

“Fields Of Anfield Road” could be heard from the away section opposite me.

The new kit looked decent. I was initially worried when I saw the release on social media; the blue looked too light, too washed out, anaemic. But this looked fine. I really wished that the white stripe under the arms was replicated on the shorts though. That would have completed the look in my mind. I don’t like the bizarre panel on the rear beneath the collar though.

One last gripe. If this shirt was meant to celebrate the silver anniversary of the ECWC triumph of 1997/98, it’s surely a season too late.

Should we not have worn this kit in 2022/23?

I think so.

On eighteen minutes, Salah pushed a ball through our back line and Luis Diaz finished from close in.

Bollocks.

A female Liverpool in front of me shrieked and stood up. Her bloke soon told her to sit down. To be honest, I was pleasantly surprised how involved the “corporate lot” were in our section. There was plenty of clapping and cheering throughout.

Chelsea began to grow into the game. Nicolas Jackson started to get involved, often emerging with the ball from deep, and after good work by Levi Colwill, he fired a “sighter” wide.

Not sure how he wears his shorts, though; like a “Reeves & Mortimer” character maybe.

A “Carefree” sounded in our section.

Things looked over for us when Terence Trent-Alexander-Arnold-D’arby slipped a ball in to that man Salah.

Pre-match, with so many new signings, I secretly thought we might lose heavily.

I texted some mates in the US : “knew we’d get humped.”

Thankfully, VAR came to our rescue; no goal.

I still don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour though. Why would I? I loathe it.

On thirty-two minutes, applause in memory of Josh Hillier, a very distant Chelsea acquaintance, but who was well-loved at Chelsea. He sadly lost his lengthy and hugely brave fight with leukaemia over the summer.

RIP Josh.

Raheem Sterling was – sadly – involved a lot, but usually unable to add to the game. He shot from close in but the effort was thumped away.

After a corner, the ball was eventually crossed in by Colwill and new boy Axel Disasi prodded it in past Alisson Becker.

We were level.

Get in.

The West Stand celebrated wildly.

Axel – great name, great first two letters especially – ran and jumped right in front of Parky and Ludo and Steve in the Shed Lower.

A mere few seconds later, a ball was pushed through to Ben Chilwell who steered himself and the ball around the ‘keeper to score…throughout the move though, I wondered if the scorer was offside. Sadly, after the usual ridiculous wait, the goal as cancelled. A photo that I took of the premature celebrations contained the words “goal and no” – oh the irony.

In the closing minutes, shots were traded. A fine move that slid effortlessly through the red ranks ended with a shot from Nicolas Jackson that just cleared the bar.

I had enjoyed it. Back inside for the smallest meat pie ever. Jeff commented that the momentum had changed in the last part of the first period.

We were, of course, attacking our end in the second-half.

The second period surprised me. Liverpool seemed content to sit back as Chelsea grew and grew. It became a deeply pleasurable experience, watching this new team – the latest in a long line of new teams at Chelsea – push the ball around and work for each other. I was especially pleased to see Enzo Fernandez, in the totemic number eight shirt, skipping past challenges, clipping balls to runners, controlling our forward momentum.

It was a joy.

The Argentinian tandem of Pochettino and Enzo will hopefully evolve further.

Chilwell was having a super game, and the visitors were gifting him so much space down below me. A superb ball from Enzo set Chilwell up but Alisson blocked well at the near stick.

A shot from the strong and surging Jackson. Another save from Alisson.

Some substitutions.

75 minutes : Malo Gusto for James.

Malo Gusto.

Malo Gusto.

My mind deviated. I could not stop thinking of the Morrissey song “Maladjusted” – and as per the introduction to this blog, I can’t resist this…

“I want to start from
Before the beginning
Loot wine, “Be mine, and
Then let’s stay out for the night”
Ride via Parkside
Semi-perilous lives
Jeer the lights in the windows
Of all safe and stable homes
(But wondering then, well what
Could peace of mind be like?)
Anyway do you want to hear
Our story, or not?
As the Fulham Road lights
Stretch and invite into the night.”

80 minutes : Ian Maatsen for Chukwuemeka.

80 minutes : Mykhailo Mudryk for Sterling.

Mudryk wearing number ten, but a winger. Memories of Clive Walker dancing away. I liked the look of Mudryk when he came on. Personally I would play him over Sterling. Mind you, I’d play Parky over Sterling, stick and all.

89 minutes : Ugo Ugochukwu for Chilwell.

I long for the day when Carney and Ugo are on the pitch at the same time.

The Chukle Brothers?

Oh yes. I wonder if Morrissey has a song for them.

I feared the absolute worst when Darwin Nunez shot from distance and a wicked deflection saw the ball spinning towards the goal, scene of many a late winner over the years. Thankfully it dropped just wide of the far post. No Iniesta moment this time.

A chance for Mudryk but he dallied. A last chance for Maatsen but no real contact.

It ended 1-1.

I think everyone was really warmed by this rounded performance by Chelsea against a formidable opponent. This was our seventh draw in a row against Liverpool.

Before the season began, I conservatively predicted a top eight finish.

Maybe we can aim a little higher.

Next up, three away games.

Bemerton Heath Harlequins in Salisbury on Tuesday, Falmouth in the FA Cup on Saturday and West Ham on Sunday.

Oh – and Johnny Fucking Marr in Frome on Wednesday.

2023/24 – let’s have you.

Tales From Our House

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 14 August 2022.

Without any delay, let’s get something out of the way early on. Everyone would have taken a draw from our home match with Tottenham before the game started, right?

Right.

I must have spoken to fifty or more fellow Chelsea fans before the match and all bar two – Mike from New York and King Kenny from West London – agreed with my thoughts.

“I’ll take a draw now.”

Mike, to be fair, didn’t exactly say we’d win but merely answered my statement with a “why not a win?” but Kenny said he fancied us for three points.

We may be Chelsea fans – supporters – but we are also realists. Our play against Everton the previous weekend was off-kilter, a struggle. Tottenham had started the season with a flying win.

“As long as we don’t lose” I kept saying.

I also kept mentioning that our only league defeat at home to Tottenham since early in 1990 took place in the Spring of 2018 – April Fool’s Day, I kid you not – with Antonio Conte in charge of us.

For it to happen again with the same man involved would be horrific.

This was a typical pre-match and one that I won’t hinder you with for long.

There was an early morning start at 6.45am even though the kick-off was at 4.30pm. There then followed a heady spell twixt car and bar with friends from near – PD, four miles – and far – Pete, almost five thousand miles – before I settled into my seat in the Matthew Harding Upper.

My God the heat was ridiculous. On my walk to Stamford Bridge at around 10am, I made sure that I crossed over from the sunny side of the North End Road to avoid the sweltering heat. England’s green and pleasant land had recently been scorched and the temperatures being predicted in London bordered on the scary.

Even more scary was the sight of me in some linen shorts. Thankfully no photographic evidence exists; you are spared.

I loved the “Chelsea Football Club” lettering on the East Stand, mirroring that of the old Leitch stand’s lettering from all those years ago. There is a similar copy on the wall between The Shed and West Lower.

In the pub – “The Eight Bells”, we are creatures of habit – there was a gathering of the clans and some typically boisterous chit chat. Talk veered from memories of last season to thoughts of our chances in 2022/23. I aired a few opinions.

“I reckon we’ll finish between third and fifth.”

“Will be bloody good to see the stadium at full capacity again.”

“Not sure if Tuchel really likes aggressive box to box players like Gallagher.”

“He loves his legion of scurrying and slight attackers. Not so sure he wants a more robust spearhead like Broja.”

The pub became packed and there was a hefty overspill outside. Thankfully, a large fan circulated cold air above our heads. I overdosed on Diet Coke.

The game against Tottenham would mark our first appearance this season in the latest Nike kit. Again, from a long way off, it looks reasonable, though the collar is nasty. I don’t mind the light blue band halfway up the socks, but it would have been ideal to have a similarly thick white stripe down the shorts. None of us tend to buy replica shirts of course.

“Kids and tourists.”

But PD took a fancy to the alleged third kit that has been doing the rounds.

“What colour is it?” asked Kim.

“Muted beige” I replied.

“Muted beige” repeated Parky “I like that.”

“Like our play at Goodison last Saturday” I muttered.

At around 2pm, we were visited by three or four of London’s constabulary. The OB stay out of our way all season down in deepest Fulham but usually appear for a few minutes against Tottenham and West Ham to check on things. Make of that what you will. One policeman in full regalia was holding court on the next table and I heard him proudly state “now your oligarch has gone, your boys are going to struggle this season.”

He was roundly booed.

“Go on, hop it mate. You’ve outstayed your welcome” I said as he sidled past us.

He was Arsenal apparently. He smiled and exited stage left.

We left for the game at 3.30pm.

PD, Parky, Andy, Sophie and little old me made our way to Putney Bridge tube station and all was well with the world. The bright sunlight and strong shadows of the earlier part of the day had subsided. But everything was still sultry and humid.

This was another two game weekend for me. On Saturday afternoon, a few friends and I assembled to see Frome Town play Evesham United in a first league game of the season. A ninetieth minute winner had given the home town Robins a well-deserved 1-0 win in front of a slightly disappointing crowd of 359.

The weather in Somerset had been red hot. The temperature in London didn’t feel quite so intimidating.

There was a boisterous atmosphere on the Fulham Road. Just past the “CFCUK” stall, I spotted a Tottenham fan wearing a pair of Lonsdale slip-ons.

I smiled.

My pre-match was complete.

I skipped past the bag-check, and thankfully all turnstiles were fully functioning for game one of the home campaign, a rare event these days.

I was inside at around 4pm.

Stamford Bridge looked a picture. No parched earth here. The green sward looked pristine. The kick-off soon approached. I spotted some new graphics on the hotel and apartment walls above The Shed. The players were down on the pitch in our corner going through some pre-match routines and wearing – not training gear – but the new “pre-match gear” which has obviously caused a typical reaction from me.

I am sure a Proper Chels fan in Badgercrack Nebraska will purchase one, to augment his 571 other Chelsea shirts, and then wonder why a trip to SW6 is financially beyond them.

By the way, I could go on, but so many football shirts just don’t look like football shirts these days do they?

Minutes to go before the game was set to begin, we were then treated to flames in front of the East Stand. With that, the supporters in The Shed got going with a Madness-inspired display. I am sure the lads and lasses in The Shed offered us a “House Of Fun” graphic a few years back – I remember drolly commenting that it should be “House Of Pain” for away fans – and here we are again. The Chelsea love affair with the mod revival and Two-Tone era of 1979 to 1982 shows no signs of abating.

A huge banner depicting the “One Step Beyond” line-up – updated to include players and Todd Boehly – surfed over the Upper Tier while “House Of Fun” was hung over the balcony.

After the mention of a China Crisis album from 1982 to accompany my match report from last weekend’s match in Liverpool, here was a single from that very same year featuring in our first game in London a week later.

Music and football. Music and football. Music and football. Music and football.

Suggs will be hosting an evening of personal recollections in Frome in October and I am sure this will become the seventh musical event for me this year that has an echo of 1982. Throughout the coming season if you eat your vegetables and tidy your bedrooms I will be treating you all to a smattering of Chelsea-coloured memories from 1982/83.

A Fortieth Anniversary Special of our Worst Ever Season?

You bet.

Proper Chelsea.

In the MHL, there was a Star-Spangled flag with an image of Todd Boehly.

Really?

Ain’t this going over the top a little?

I wondered if Marc Cucarella might play inside and mark Son Heing-min, hopefully out of the game.

“I’m sorry, Son…”

But instead Reece James was in the back three.

Our line-up?

Edouard Mendy

Reece James – Thiago Silva – Kalidou Koulibaly

Ruben Loftus-Cheek – N’Golo Kante – Jorginho – Marc Cucarella

Mason Mount – Kai Havertz – Raheem Sterling

The first interchange between the two tribes did not take long.

Tottenham : “Antonio – Antonio – Antonio, Antonio, Antonio.”

Chelsea : “You’ve won fuck all.”

One-nil to us.

There was a slight flutter of apprehension when Jorginho lost possession on the half-way line but the resulting Tottenham counter-attack withered in the summer heat.

On eight minutes, a fine move from us and a lovely cross from King Kante that hit the danger area of the six-yard box, but floated past everyone.

I smiled at Al : “Lukaku would have headed that in.”

Many a true word is said in jest and all that bollocks.

The away fans bellowed “Y Army” and I tutted.

Kante, like at Everton, was the early star. He and Loftus-Cheek found lots of space – sorry “pockets of space”, I must remember to use as many shitty buzzwords as possible this season…”pockets of space”, “between the lines”, “transition”, “the press”, “high press”, “trouser press”, “Caxton press”, “recycling”, “game management”, it goes on and on – and balls were whipped into the feet of Sterling and Havertz.

Compared to Everton, here was a much more cohesive way of playing. Tottenham appeared on the back foot after a few early jaunts up field.

Koulibaly shot wide from distance.

“A sighter” I said to Al.

After a quarter of an hour played, I was relieved and happy. This was a fine start.

Havertz tested Hugo Lloris who saved well. From the corner that was taken in front of the rather quiet Tottenham fans, Cucarella sent over a great ball into the middle of the box. Miraculously, it avoided all apart from Koulibaly.

I snapped just as he was adjusting his limbs to volley home. His shot was perfection. My shot wasn’t. The net bulged…we watched aghast, amazed at its execution.

He spun away towards a certain corner flag in front of a certain three thousand and the deja vu was astounding, what with the number 26 on his back.

I remembered a JT scissor kick at the same end and – surely? – a slide on his knees, although not in the same game, right in front of some away fans.

It was some goal, some celebration and some noise.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

This felt good. It felt so good to be 1-0 up against the old enemy. But chances were exchanged. Ryan Sessegnon forced a save from our man Mendy. Koulibaly had his third shot in ten minutes but only troubled those in The Shed Upper.

There was a water break hallway through the first-half. At Frome the previous day, there were two breaks in the second-half.

Tottenham’s fans were dead quiet.

I loved the energy seeping through the team. It really was top stuff. We broke in waves. A shot from the neat swivel-hipped Sterling from the inside-left channel was blocked. Tottenham rarely threatened.

“Al, were we as negative as this under Conte?”

A couple more chances came our way. A riser from Mount. A long cross from Jorginho just evaded the leap from the impressive Loftus-Cheek.

At the break, all was rosy.

My good friend Pete – now Seattle, formerly South London – appeared with his son Calvin, witnessing his first-ever Chelsea game. Both had spent time with a few former Chelsea players before the match and I’d imagine these memories will stay with Calvin forever. They’ll certainly stay with Pete forever.

It was Chelsea Smiles in The Sleepy Hollow at the break.

The second-half began with us attacking the Matthew Harding.

Ten minutes in, I noted that there was a lot more of a physical presence from Havertz in this game. After the 2021 Champions League Final in Porto, he didn’t really push on last season. I am unsure of his best position, as I suspect are many.

Shame I don’t play FIFA; then I’d know.

Sadly, Tottenham’s performance looked a little more co-ordinated. There was a fine stop, down low, from Son that Mendy executed perfectly. A Mount effort narrowly missed the goal, dropping just over the crossbar.

Richarlison appeared for Tottenham. I had forgotten that they had bought him.

The ball was worked to Sterling but his studied approach and footwork didn’t result in an equally fine finish; his shot was blasted high and wide.

On a break, Harry Kane was one-on-one but his shot was tamely scuffed wide.

How we laughed.

Halfway through the second-half – much more evenly contested now – we broke with Havertz rushing past the half-way line. He appeared to be chopped down but the play was waved on. With boos cascading down from the home areas at the loathed Anthony Taylor, Tottenham moved the ball forward. Jorginho made a hash of clearing and the ball fell invitingly to Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg whose low shot evaded a dive from Mendy and crept into the goal’s far corner.

Bollocks.

In front of the benches, all hell broke loose.

(God, that could be a sentence from 1985…)

A substitution : Cesar Azpilicueta for Jorginho, with Dave going into the middle three to allow James to push on as a wing back.

Not long after the switch, we caught Tottenham on the hop and a central Sterling played an absolutely perfectly-weighted ball to James who was steam-rollering in to view to his right. I clicked just as Reece let fly but again my shot didn’t match the player’s. The ball crashed past Lloris.

Pandemonium in South West Six.

Screams of joy from me, just as there was when Frome got the winner on the Saturday but louder and more intense, to a factor of one billion zillion.

GET IN YOU FUCKER.

But then my veins turned to ice to capture the mad celebrations in the opposite corner.

Phew.

We were back on top, 2-1 up and I thought of King Kenny, watching on in the front row of The Shed.

The noise had been decent all afternoon and now Stamford Bridge was on fire.

Some more substitutions followed.

Conor Gallagher for Kante.

Christian Pulisic for Sterling.

Armando Broja for Havertz.

Gallagher looked all action as soon as he entered the field of play. One run to stifle a Tottenham break was textbook. He then set up Mount who fired weakly wide and then shot himself but saw his effort blocked.

Into time added on for stoppages and it all got messy.

There was a delay after a Tottenham effort was deflected high for a corner. The scoreboard flashed “VAR REVIEW POSSIBLE RED CARD VIOLENT PLAY” and all of the 40,000 in Stamford Bridge were none the wiser.

Was it against one of our players? Was it against a Tottenham player? We had no clue. The watching millions at home knew. It’s them that matter, eh?

Anyway, the review was over and play continued. I had a brief worry about us losing our concentration.

On ninety-six minutes, a corner was swung in.

My eyes were steely focussed.

I saw a leap of some players at the near post.

The ball fell away, it fell down, it fell forward, it fell into the goal, my heart sank.

Pre-Match

First-Half

Half-Time

Second-Half

Tales From The Top In The Middle Of England

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Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 20 November 2021.

After the away game on Tyneside, I was going to miss the trip to Malmo, and so my next planned game was going to be Burnley at home. Then, sadly, I tested positive for COVID and was forced into self-isolation for ten days. I was lucky though. My symptoms were similar to a mild head cold, and I was easily able to work from home for a week. I was back into work, and the office, last Monday. The International break could not have happened at a more convenient time.

Instead of Chelsea, two games at Frome Town – the first before I tested positive, the second after I tested negative – gave me my football kick. The home games against Barnstaple Town and Plymouth Parkway were won 9-2 and 1-0, thus cementing my local team’s undefeated position at the top of the Southern League Division One South. When I am either unable or unwilling to attend Chelsea games in the future – I think I know deep down that it is coming – at least I have an exit strategy. But let’s not dwell too much on that right now.

Leicester City – away – was now primed for my first Chelsea game in three weeks.

I set the alarm for 5.45am. Many others throughout the Chelsea Nation had equally early starts. All over Facebook, two words dominated.

“And Leicester.”

The idea was to collect PD at 7.30m, then Parks, and arrive at our usual spot just off Saffron Lane to the south of the King Power Stadium at around 11am.

Obviously I had not seen the two lads for a while. Like me, PD had succumbed to a mild variant of COVID since Newcastle. Parky had experienced a more painful COVID not long after Belfast and was still suffering, a little, from long COVID.

Sadly, Parky had lost his ninety-three-year-old mother last Monday. As I picked him up at 8am, we both shook his hand and offered him words of comfort.

Outside, there was drizzle in the air.

At Melksham, a breakfast, and then the drive straight up the Fosse Way to the middle of England. Although the roads were fringed with autumn colours, there was a grey murkiness outside. The Fosse Way remains my favourite road for an away game, though not on this occasion.

Although this would be my first Chelsea game for three weeks, I was suffering a little with a general malaise. Whether this was born out of my recent COVID attack – a re-focussing on priorities, maybe – I am not sure. In a nutshell, I was not as fired-up as I ought to have been. I just hoped that this feeling would turn out to be a little blip in my love of the game, of Chelsea, of this lifestyle.

I am fifty-six. I have seen over 1,300 Chelsea games. “We’ve won it all” (no, we haven’t). We won the European Cup last May in what turned out to be an emotionally-distanced cake-walk. That experience alone caused my brain to fry.

Clearly I am still struggling to get my pre-lockdown levels of passion, involvement, fanaticism – call it what you will – back.

Sigh.

I guess I am allowed the occasional off-day.

As I ate up the miles I was reminded of a drive up the Fosse Way, with my parents in early 1983, which was surely my most pointless journey ever. I was taking my “A Levels” in the June of that year and had applied to a few colleges, including Sheffield Polytechnic. As part of the process, I had to attend an interview up in South Yorkshire. The problem was that I was miss-firing in all three subjects and I was convinced that I wouldn’t get the necessary grades for a degree course in geography, nor did I particularly want to spend three years in Yorkshire should a miracle happen. The journey took forever. It was a bitterly cold day. The countryside was covered in the remnants of a snowfall. My poor Dad had taken a day off work to ferry me north. I hated every minute of the entire day.

What a waste of a day.

For the record; yeah, I did bomb my “A levels” but took them again in the November with a much better set of results.

1982/83 and 1983/84 were vastly different years for both myself and Chelsea Football Club.

I was parked up in Leicester at 11.05am and there would normally follow a trite remark from me about working in logistics.

I’m not one to disappoint.

It had been a mild start to the day in deepest Somerset, despite the drizzle, but things were a little colder in The Midlands. Not to worry, the fifteen-minute walk north warmed us a little and brought some colour to our cheeks. An elderly Leicester fan spoke to us for a few minutes.

“Chilwell is doing well, ain’t he? I didn’t rate him here.”

We were all soon inside the larger-than-usual concourse underneath the away stand. I spoke to a few friends and was happy to pass on the good news about my recent ill-health. I was getting back into the groove, step by step, fist bump by fist bump, handshake by handshake, smile by smile.

“Leicester away. What else yer gonna do on a Saturday?” or something like that.

We had far from great seats, sadly. Right in the corner, third row, even behind the goal line. One hundred and eighty degrees around the bowl of the stadium my friend Sally – former logistics colleague, I am sure her timings were bang on – was sat in the front row of The Kop, but in the corner too.

I expected a tight game. But hoped for a win.

“Absolute top pre-match analysis, that pal…fucksake.”

Romelu Lukaku was still unable to re-join the fold, but our starting eleven wasn’t half bad.

Mendy

Rudiger – Silva – Chalobah

Chilweel – Kante – Jorginho – James

Hudson-Odoi  – Havertz – Mount

The teams entered the pitch on the far side. Our away kit of yellow-black-yellow was to make an appearance for the first time this season. I found it amazing that the club had decided not to parade it previously; it is not unknown for an away kit to be worn even when there isn’t a clash in colours. As the players lined-up, I spotted the geometric shapes from the blue kit monstrosity mirrored in a chest panel on some black tracksuit tops.

“Now that’s not bad. That I can warm to. Everything in moderation. Less is more.”

Only the previous evening, I had watched a BBC programme about Bridget Rily, a leading light in the Op Art movement in the ‘sixties, and I was – naturally – reminded of the abomination that has currently happened to our home kit, shudder.

Generally speaking, I appreciated the paintings of Op Art – I think all of us at Frome College dabbled in geometric shapes during our art class in 1978/79, “another crap season” – but what place does it have on a fucking football shirt?

Eh? Tell me.

As I watched on Friday, I had stumbled upon with a far more agreeable design. If – and I mean if – an homage to Op Art was of absolute necessity, then why not a simple panel of Zigger Zagger mayhem, but everything else plain? Certainly the shorts needed to remain plain.

Whoever ordained the geometric pattern on the home shorts needs shooting.

So, lo and behold, the panel of slip-sliding squares (the kitchen floor after a night of excessive alcoholic intoxication?) on the plain black top not only met with my approval but had me wondering if I was absolutely in the wrong job.

The game began, and Borussia Dortmund attacked Sally and The Kop.

Despite an early start, the away choir had clearly been on it. Alcohol-inspired community singing rang out from the 3,300 in the expansive away corner; the seats go a long way back at Leicester. There was a little jabbing from both sets of supporters, with our left-back a natural target for the home fans, but then an uppercut onto the chin of the home fans :

“Ben Chilwell’s won a European Cup.”

We began ever so brightly.

And, yeah, the away kit looks fine. Not particularly “Chelsea” but that doesn’t seem to matter one iota these days.

The first chance arose when Jorginho took a quick free-kick from the middle of the pitch. The perfectly-flighted ball out to the left hand side of the penalty box was met by that man Chilwell. A touch to control, but the shot smashed against the top of the cross bar.

“Alonso would’ve volleyed that.”

It was end-to-end stuff in the first ten minutes, with a couple of lightning quick Leicester raids causing us concern, but we were equally strong in our attacking third.

Just on the quarter of an hour, we won a corner in front of Sally on our right.

Alan : “Get your camera out. Rudiger likes corners up here.”

I smiled. Indeed he does. Only on the drive up, we remembered his two headers here in 2020, just before lockdown struck. No surprises that none of us could remember the result up here in 2020/21.

“If a tree falls in a forest, but nobody sees it fall, does it make a sound?”

My camera was poised.

A Chilwell corner. On the money. A leap from Rudi. Click. I watched the ball drop into the net.

“YES.”

We were back, I was back, Rudi was back, Alan was beaming and so was I.

“That’s going in your blog.”

Ha, what joy.

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

Chris : “ Come on my little diamonds.”

I was genuinely worried about this one. The Cup Final had been on my mind. But here we were a goal up already.

I found it odd that during the Chelsea choir’s early chants, the home fans did not respond with one song about the game in May.

“Did it mean nothing to you?”

The hero of that game, Kasper Schmeichel, made a super save from the unlikely boot of N’Golo Kante.

We were rampant.

Callum was clipped just as he was about to ping a shot on goal after cutting in from the left, and Mason Mount dipped the resulting free-kick over the wall but over the bar too.

A rare Leicester attack, and a tap in from Ademola Lookman, but the linesman’s yellow flag soon went up.

I looked over to the Chelsea section next to the home fans. In front, tied to the rails was a flag from Zurich and two from Bulgaria. My good friend Orlin, one of the strong Bulgaria contingent, had called by to say “hi” before the game. I last saw him in Porto, ah Porto. But I also spotted Jonesy, from nearby Nuneaton, in that section too. Over the course of the game, I spotted not only Jonesy, but Andy and Sophie – Porto, ditto – and also The Youth, Neil, Jokka and Chopper, all Nuneaton Chelsea. Good work everyone.

Leicester were nibbling away at us in the first part of the game, but the referee resolutely avoided bookings.

I liked the look of Jorginho, pushing the ball on as quickly as he could. Right from the off, Thiago Silva looked so cool, so calm, and his class immediately shone. Our passing was quicker and more incisive than is often the case. Our cross-field switches were inch-perfect. Havertz looked lively, Callum too. We were simply on top, in control, playing some gorgeous stuff.

Just before the half-hour mark, the ball was won on our right and pushed inside to Kante. He was allowed so much space and so simply did what anyone would; he advanced, and advanced, and advanced.

I watched as he took a swipe at the ball with his left foot. I’ll be honest, I did not immediately react. I – for some reason – thought the ball had drifted past the post and hit a supporting stanchion.  But no, the roars of the away fans told me that he had hit the target.

Fackinell.

I spoke to Gal : “Best we have played all season.”

We eased off a little as the break approached, but the singing certainly didn’t. Nobody can accuse us lot of only singing one song.

So many positive comments at the break. Lovely.

Brendan Rodgers made two substitutions at the break, and on came Maddison and Iheanacho. Edouard Mendy, not needed for most of the first-half, made a low save from Maddison, but the Chelsea attack were soon causing problems again. Hudson-Odoi did well and squirmed into the box before setting up Chilwell. Schmeichel made a magnificent save.

On the hour, Callum shaped well but curled one over the bar.

A double substitution from our manager.

Hakim Ziyech for Mount, Christian Pulisic for Havertz.

Mason had been one of our quietest performers I thought. Havertz had impressed. I was a little cautious.

…”mmm, two key players…the game ain’t won yet.”

The home team became a little stronger, and we had to rely on another stunning leap and save from our ‘keeper to foil a rising drive from Daniel Amartey. The home team dominated for a short period, but we were always a threat. The substitute Pulisic looked lively and went close from fellow substitute Ziyech’s cross. Both subs looked keen, looked energised, what do I know about football?

On seventy-one minutes, a wonderful quick break, with Leicester scampering around us, found Ziyech down in front of us on the right. A deft movement past a defender and the ball was played into space. Pulisic arrived with perfect timing and prodded the ball in.

3-0, game over.

Sadly, Jorginho was injured – replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek, what a bench – and as he walked past us in the north-west corner, he was serenaded by all.

“That’s the World Footballer Of The Year, there, Gal.”

Those sorry days of Sarri are well behind him, and us, right?

Incredibly, we hit the back of the net on three further occasions late in the game, but the goals scored by Hudson-Odoi, Pulisic and James were all – rightly – chalked off for offside.

There was still time for another cracking save from our man Mendy.

I have commented of late that, despite our fine run of results, we seem to be several steps away from our potential. Well, this game hinted at that level. It reminded me of a game at Fulham in November 2004 when everything clicked and we began to seriously think about a league title.

It was a decent drive home, and we were cheered – to the point of laughter – at Manchester United’s 4-1 defeat at Watford.

Good old Claudio, eh? Loved at Chelsea, loved at Leicester and maybe Watford too.

We have a busy week ahead.

Juventus and Manchester United.

Do they get any bigger?

I will see some of you there.

Valerie Jayne Crespin : 24 April 1929 to 15 November 2021.

Goal One : Rudi’s Leap.

Goal Two : N’Goalo.

Goal Three : Teamwork.

Tales From The Arsenal Petri Dish

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 22 August 2021.

One weekend. One game on Saturday. One game on Sunday. An FA Cup game on Saturday. A Premier League game on Sunday. Two local derbies. One in Somerset. One in London. One four miles away. One a hundred and fifteen miles away.

Football was back.

This was my first footballing double-header in ages, and one which I was – of course – relishing. At work on the Friday, I could hardly believe my own ears as I repeatedly told colleagues that I really fancied us – “us” as in Chelsea, not Frome Town – to do really well at The Emirates and I genuinely meant it. Whisper it, but I even told a couple that I half-expected us to pump a fair few goals into Arsenal. This sort of over-confidence is rare, especially before an away game and especially at a ground where we haven’t always had it our own way in recent times.

It was with a beautiful feeling that I woke on Saturday morning with a near perfect football weekend ahead of me.

First up, a Frome Town vs. Paulton Rovers FA Cup Preliminary Round game. Last weekend, while I was at Chelsea, a local company sponsored the town’s league opener at home to Highworth Town by giving away free tickets to anybody who fancied it. A fantastic crowd of 867 duly attended; it was the fifth highest league crowd in Frome Town’s one hundred and seventeen year history and I was a little annoyed that I could not be part of it. A 1-0 win followed. I had arranged to meet up with a couple of old school friends for the FA Cup game against the local rivals from Paulton. We were treated to a very entertaining game of football. Frome went ahead with a sublime volley from Rex Mannings early in the game. Yet Paulton moved the ball well and came back into the match with a virtual carbon copy of Marcos Alonso’s sublime free-kick against Palace last weekend. The only difference was that the Frome ‘keeper made an effort to save it. Frome then dug in, and found a new resilience to win the game with two late goals from Jon Davies and James Ollis. The gate was a healthy 398. I even bumped into Glenn at the final whistle; he had strolled in late on after seeing another game across the road.

“See you tomorrow at ten.”

“Tomorrow” duly arrived. I collected PD and Glenn in Frome and set off for London. Unfortunately, Parky had contracted COVID19, quite possibly while at Stamford Bridge the previous weekend, and so was unable to attend. It was Glenn who picked up his ticket. I saw Parky briefly – at distance – during the week to collect the match ticket and the old soldier had been hit hard. But he was improving slightly as the week passed. I had both a Lateral Flow and a PCR Test early in the week; both negative, I was fine.

We were parked up at Barons Court tube station in West London at around 12.30pm. The classic green-tiled interior of the booking hall welcomed us. We always park here for Chelsea away games as its just off the A4. I remarked to PD that we didn’t always have great memories of walking up those steps after away games at West Ham, Arsenal and Tottenham. But I was still supremely confident. And it didn’t even worry me, which was worrying in itself.

Was this just because the returning hero Romelu Lukaku was set to play his first game for Chelsea since his move back to SW6 from Inter? Yes and no. We are already a decent team, but his presence should round off the team very nicely. It would, hopefully, banish the nerds into blathering on about “false nines” into the wilderness for a few seasons too. Bonus.

I saw Lukaku play a handful of times – four starts plus a handful of substitute appearances – in his first spell with the club. His last appearance was as a substitute against Aston Villa on a midweek game in early 2013/14. I chose just one photo to accompany that match report, as was my way in those days (it was in fact the first-ever fresh match report on this site) and it was of him, shielding the ball below me.

I last got up-close and personal with him three weeks later before a league game at Goodison Park. I happened to be outside the main entrance as he arrived in his car after going on loan at the club and I shook his hand and said “have a great season here, then come back to us next season, God bless you.”

He must have misunderstood my sense of urgency.

The three of us joined up with Alan, Gary and Daryl in “The Euston Flyer” not far from St. Pancras. I was gasping so treated myself to one refreshing “Peroni” before getting back onto some “Diet Pepsi”. I felt a bit awkward admitting to the lads that I fancied us strongly later in the day. It was, no doubt, a most un-Chelseaesque feeling. The Southampton versus Manchester United game was on TV. A huge cheer met the Saints’ goal, a lesser cheer for the equaliser. It was Glenn’s first meeting with the three lads from London since Everton at home in March of last year. There were a few Chelsea faces that I recognised in the boozer, conveniently placed before the short hop up to The Emirates.

I wanted to visit Highbury and take a few photos of the old Arsenal Stadium, so excused myself and left at around 3.15pm. Alas, this didn’t go to plan.

I alighted at Highbury & Islington tube and walked up the Holloway Road, but instead of diverting towards Highbury I made the mistake of heading towards The Emirates first – like a moth to a flame – which was a bit silly really. I was soon entrenched in a line at the slope behind the Clock End entrance and soon realised that to visit Highbury, I would have to go back out and then return again, and I wasn’t keen on two security checks.

“Maybe next time.”

We were kept waiting for twenty minutes. I didn’t particularly enjoy being among the replica-kitted Arsenal fans, but I kept quiet and waited in turn for a security pat down. Unlike Chelsea, there was no COVID19 passport check required and, after getting a body check with a scanner, I avoided eye-contact with the team at the “bag check” tables behind and waltzed in through.

Outside The Emirates, as it curves towards the away turnstiles, I could not help but notice that the signage on the stadium wall now looks really faded. Everything is a light pink and not a strong red. Those images of the interlinked Arsenal players seemed lacklustre. It was as if the Arsenal shirts had been washed in the wrong type of detergent. Inside the stadium, even the famously padded seats looked faded too.

The faded glory of a once proud club?

I hoped so.

Of course hardly anyone was wearing face coverings. On the London Underground, a good 95% of passengers were wearing masks. At the football, it was less than 5%.

I looked out at the undulating top tier and the middle tiers awaiting to be filled, then the gentle slope of the bottom tier and wondered about the safety of it all. Was The Emirates a giant petri dish in disguise? How safe were we? Only time would tell.

I bumped into loads and loads. This was the first proper domestic away since Bournemouth in February 2020. Everyone was greeting each other like long lost friends, which is of course exactly what we all were.

I was down in row six, in line with the six-yard box alongside PD, Gary and Alan. This was my fifteenth visit to The Emirates; I have seen every one of our league appearances at the new place, excepting the 2020/21 fixture of course. It must hurt many of those who, unlike me, never miss a game, to have their records blown to smithereens the past year and a half.

Damn you COVID.

We had heard that many Arsenal tickets had not been sold. There were gaps, but not swathes.

The rain that had been expected was thankfully nowhere to be seen. All three of us had left rain jackets in the car.

Our team was announced and it did not surprise me to see Lukaku in and Timo Werner out. A few raised eyebrows at Marcos Alonso in, though.

Edouard

Antonio – Andreas – Dave

Marcos – Jorgi – Mateo – Reece

Kai – Romelu – Mase

Happy with that. Kante on the bench.

Arsenal’s team consisted of a few names that, due to my abandonment of TV football in 2020/21 could easily have been the names of TV repairmen, taxi drivers and hair-dressers. I fucking hoped that they would be playing like them too.

Pre-match, a few Chelsea warm ups from the terrace to get the vocal chords warmed up. Nothing from Arsenal.

Arsenal in an apparent nod to their 1998/99 kit – but looking a little too “Ajax” for my liking – and Chelsea in their Charlie Cairoli hand-me-downs of all blue.

Arsenal, as always, attacked the Clock End in the first-half and were first out of the traps but a shot from Emile Smith-Rowe, the chartered accountant, was easily dealt with by our man Mendy.

Sadly, the gentle rake of the lower tier and the fact that I am a proud short-arse meant that my view of the game was not great at all. I hardly saw any of the action down our right. I saw a lot of the backs of heads, but bugger all else. Only when the ball was in the other two-thirds of the pitch did I see enough. I felt a bit disjointed. At least the rain was holding off.

On a quarter of an hour, the ball was played into Lukaku who touched the ball back to Mateo Kovacic. He then spread the ball out to Reece James and we sensed danger. All eyes were on the wide man, but I suspect that the viewing millions at home were more likely tuned to the run into the box of Lukaku. The ball was played into the six-yard box to perfection and, amidst a bewildered group of window dressers, sous chefs and car mechanics, Lukaku struck.

One-nil to the European Champions.

GETINYOUBASTARDS.

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

Chris : “come on my little diamonds.”

The Chelsea crowd went berserk. Unable to focus on the celebrating players, I turned the camera on us. One image is of a beautiful gurning, exhilarated, beatific, orgasmic mess of humanity.

Ah, the joy of football.

It was back.

With no Chelsea goals in his first period with us, it was our new target man’s first Chelsea goal.

“Romu, Romelu, Romu, Romelu, Romu, Romelu, Romelu Lukaku.”

It is not known what Mateja Kezman nor Fernando Torres were thinking at that exact moment in time.

A header from Lukaku dropped over the bar.

Up the other end, the dance trio Xhaka, Saka and Lokonga combined but Mendy was not troubled.

We were dominating the game and the home fans knew it. The little group next to the away contingent behind the goal were trying to make some noise, but only when a ball was pushed through for the cycle courier to race on did the home crowd make any sustainable racket. Kieran Tierney in front of me seemed to have a lot of the ball but our defence was well marshalled. Efforts on our goal were at a minimum.

On thirty-four minutes, a magnificent move that started on our left but finished on our right, with Reece James free and in space and able to crash the ball past chat show host Leno.

The Chelsea 2 The Arsenal 0.

Magnificent.

I had silly visions of 3-0, 4-0, 5-0.

At that stage it did look possible.

Sadly, in the last ten minutes of the half, the heavens opened. We remained in place, in defiance of the weather. I just had a T-shirt on. I tucked my camera away. I remained stood, and prayed for a respite.

James tangled with Saka. No penalty.

We were playing so well.

But the clouds were darkening overhead and Arsenal’s supporters must have been immersed in the gloom.

“Champions of Europe. We know what we are.”

The rain continued to fall throughout the half-time break and at the start of the second-half. We grimly stood on duty, and at least we were buoyed by a sterling performance from our team. The two goal scorers under Chelsea on the scoreboard were matched by two bookings for Arsenal.

“And when we win the league again, we’ll sing this song all night.”

A fine strike from Saka was tipped over by Mendy. It was his first real test. Were Arsenal equipped for a comeback? They only occasionally hinted that it might be possible.

Lukaku played the ball back to Mason but his shot was dragged wide.

On the hour, head tennis in our box and Holding the sixth-form tuck shop supervisor headed over, though I only saw it on the replay.

A third Arsenal booking, a swipe at the marauding Lukaku.

The rain stopped.

Kante for Kovacic.

The entire Arsenal support : “Fackinell.”

With a quarter of an hour to play, Mount slipped the ball in to a central Lukaku. It was a perfect ball. The striker headed at goal but Leno adjusted so well to tip the ball onto the bar.

A third goal would not have flattered us.

Ziyech for Mount.

Havertz went close.

“The silky German is just what we need. He won Chelsea the Champions League.”

Werner for Havertz.

We saw the game out. Arsenal just missed a cutting edge. They hardly created anything of note. Our lads were excellent and my positive pre-match thoughts were justified. I really enjoyed the physicality of Lukaku. The modern game seems to be drifting inexorably to a “non-contact” sport so there is something gratifying, something that stirs the senses and galvanises emotion, about a good old-fashioned one-on-one battle. It used to happen in midfield in days gone by. Now it tends to be a very rare event. Shades of Drogba and Costa? Oh yes.

We said our goodbyes, and the three from Frome slowly wandered down the Holloway Road before diving into our usual Chinese for a bite to eat.

The drive home was blissful. It was a joy to be back on the road after such a lovely away day.

I pulled in to my drive at just after 10.45pm, and saw the very last of Ian Wright – I think – and his damning assessment of Arsenal’s woes on “MOTD2.”

Next up, another cracking away game.

Liverpool away. Ah, these away days are the best. The absolute best.

Herbert And Some Herberts.

Guns.

Super Dave.

Cross.

Head.

Joy.

Reflections.

Storm Clouds Above.

The Clock End.

Hands.

Out.

Marcos In The Rain.

A Shot Saved.

Serious Business.

Late on Sunday night, I cheekily posted on “Facebook” :

“Catch Us If You Can.”

side note : sadly, the petri dish at Arsenal yielded two further victims to COVID19. Two of my featured pals succumbed to the virus since Sunday and another has lost his voice. I have taken a Lateral Flow Test, and await the result of a PCR too.

Fingers crossed. See you at Anfield? I hope so.

Tales From A Love Story

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Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 14 August 2021.

I don’t think it is too far-fetched to say that there have been few games – few occasions, few spectacles – in the history of Stamford Bridge that have matched our game against Crystal Palace on Saturday 14 August 2021. Sure, the first league games back at the old ground after the Great War and the Second World War must have been emotional affairs. And let’s not forget the gate of more than 100,000 against Moscow Dynamo in 1945 that unofficially signalled the start of a return to football in peaceful times. But this one was different. Everton at home in the early spring of 2020 seemed so distant and never in the history of English football has there ever been such a period of uncertainty and sadness.

Coming not long after my operation in October of last year, the twin games against Leeds United and Krasnodar were out of the question for me in my high-risk state. And I wasn’t really tempted by the home game against Leicester City in May either; I know that many were, and those that went thoroughly enjoyed it. But I wanted my first game back at HQ to be alongside all of my mates, all of my pals, and in a full house. Back with a vengeance, back to normality, back to life.

I returned from Belfast late on the Thursday and battled fatigue in my one day at work – Friday the thirteenth seemed wholly appropriate – but when I woke on Saturday morning, Belfast was still dominating my every thought. It felt as though it hadn’t worked its way out of my system just yet. Belfast was Chelsea game number 1,300 for me and I secretly wished that game number 1,301 wasn’t until the Sunday.

But beggars can’t be choosers, and a Saturday game it was.

I awoke at 6am, ahead of the alarm.

My first task of the new league season was to fill up the fuel tank of my car in a nearby village. As I walked into the shop to pay, I easily spotted a woman who I went to school with as a child. She was – if I am not mistaken – the first girl to ever give me a kiss, possibly when I was around seven years of age, and – again if my memory serves me correctly – this momentous occasion took place on the village recreation ground, in the long grass, no more than a quarter of a mile from where I am typing these notes. I see her around occasionally. I am sure she has forgotten all about me and I can’t say I blame her. The petrol station was, ironically, in the village of my first-ever girlfriend – summer 1982, aged seventeen – and as I set off on the trip to London I smirked about these romantic incursions into the day of me reacquainting myself with the love of my life.

I collected P-Diddy at 7.30am and I collected L-Parky at 8am.

Up the A303, into London, parked up near Queen’s Club at 10.15am.

Bosh.

For those regular readers, my pre-match routine for the opening league game of 2021/22 followed a familiar pattern. We started at “The Eight Bells” at the bottom end of the Fulham Road – Dave from Northamptonshire and Deano from Lancashire soon joined us – before we all decamped to “Simmon’s” at the bottom of the North End Road to join forces with Alan, Gary, Daryl, Ed, Andy and Sophie.

It was the first time that I had seen Alan since that Everton game nigh-on eighteen months ago. I sat alongside him and it felt so good.

On the walk to the second of the two pubs, I had briefly called by the CFCUK stall to say a few words to Marco. On that fateful day in October – with me in the emergency ward at a hospital in Bath – it was Marco, himself having recently suffered heart problems, that kept me going with a series of text messages. We shook each other’s hands and wished each other well. It was super to see him.

I am not going to comment every week on the clown’s clothing that Chelsea Football Club has decided to dress players in this season, but on the walk to the ground it did dawn on me that the 2020/21 shirt – the one that we wore in Porto – was hardly a Chelsea royal blue at all. It just seemed darker than it should be and rather muted with no vibrancy. It never really dawned on me before. I hardly saw anyone wearing this shirt in my home area this past season, and I don’t think I really noticed it in Porto, but it really jarred when I saw it on this particular day.

Maybe next year, we’ll get a clean and crisp royal blue shirt.

Don’t hold your breath.

As far as I could see, nothing had changed too much along the walk to Stamford Bridge, and I noticed that most fans were not wearing face-coverings outside the stadium. My bag was checked, I bumped into a few friends, my COVID19 passport was inspected outside the Matthew Harding and I joined that oh-so familiar queue before using a new style ticket-scanning machine and then…pause for effect…through the turnstiles…click, click, click…and I was in.

I ascended the six flights of stairs to the MHU, keeping to the left – my superstition – as always.

Inside the stand. I was home.

Phew.

Greeting me was Clive, who has taken Glenn’s season ticket.

Glenn finally decided to give it up after twenty-four seasons. But Glenn hasn’t given up completely; he will still go to a game every month or so, depending upon his working patterns and availability of tickets. I have known Clive since around 2003, so he is a familiar face. I last saw him at a New Order gig in Bristol in July 2019.

With the new rail seating in The Shed, everything looked bluer.

I spent a few minutes or more chatting to various folk in The Sleepy Hollow who I had obviously missed the previous year and a half. Albert, who sits directly in front of me, shared an opinion which had great resonance with me. He too has been a ST holder since 1997.

“This football club has been a massive part of my life. But last season, I didn’t really care. Sometimes I’d be watching us play on TV and I would switch channels at half-time but instead of watching our game again, I’d continue to watch the new programme.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

I knew of many season ticket holders who hardly watched us on TV.

It just wasn’t the same.

The teams were announced.

No Romelu Lukaku. Not yet.

Mendy

Chalobah – Christensen – Rudiger

Dave – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Mount – Werner – Pulisic

“Park Life” sounded on the PA. There were no crowd-surfing banners due to COVID19. The players, Chelsea in blue, Crystal Palace in Villareal yellow, entered the pitch but instead of walking over to the West Stand – a Chelsea trademark that I have grown to love – they stood on this occasion in front of the East Stand.

And then the two teams linked arms and stood on the centre circle. We were asked to silently remember those who had lost their lives during the global pandemic. On the TV screen around twenty-five names were listed, in groups of four, of Chelsea supporters who had passed away. At the end, a fleeting phrase flickered onto the screen and then faded as quickly as it had appeared.

BLUES FOREVER

One of the Chelsea supporters was Scott La Pointe. I first met Scott in Charlotte in North Carolina in 2015 when, along with his wife and two children, they joined in with some lovely pre and post-match socialising around the game with PSG. His young son Alex memorably entertained the troops with his endearing version of “Zigger Zagger”. It was clear that Scott was a family man who dearly loved both his family and Chelsea. I met up with them all, and many other from the Detroit supporters group of which Scott was a proud member, at Ann Arbor in Michigan the following summer. The game against Real Madrid – to this day the largest official crowd at any Chelsea game anywhere – must have been so special for Scott’s family. It was like a home game for them all. Sadly, not so long after this game, Scott was diagnosed with ALS / Motor Neurone Disease. Scott battled the disease with great strength and great dignity. This was painful for me since one of my Godparents, my uncle Gerald, died from the same disease in around 1988. Scott held out for Christmas 2020 and – amazingly – for the 2021 European Cup Final in Porto too. He watched from his bed in his house in the Detroit suburbs. I often messaged him on Facebook. His last message to me was on the day after the final.

“I really didn’t think I would be here to see yesterday’s match. I can’t tell you how excited I was for them to win. I love your pictures that you posted. Every time the camera went to the crowd, Jamie and I were looking for you. Cheers my friend!”

Scott sadly passed away not long after his forty-third birthday.

He will live on in the memory of all those who knew him.

He was loved by all.

Scott La Pointe : 6 June 1978 to 22 June 2021.

There were a few empty seats dotted about, but not many. The immediate build-up to the game against Patrick Viera’s Crystal Palace was somewhat overshadowed by the very late announcement that some season ticket-holders would not be able to watch from their usual seat in the MHL due to delays in the rail seating. The club must have known there was going to be a risk of this when they sold all other available seats. Surely they should have kept some to one side just in case.

Insert a comment about Chelsea being a well-run football club here :

Before the game began, we heard that Manchester United had walloped Leeds 5-1 at Old Trafford. My mind immediately raced back to forty years ago, opening day 1981, when Leeds lost 5-1 at newly promoted Swansea City, a result that was wildly celebrated at Stamford Bridge as I saw us beat Bolton 2-0. It was the first game that I had ever travelled to independently.

Forty bloody years ago.

Altogether now everybody : “Fackinell.”

Kudos, by the way, to our benign neighbours Brentford on their fine – very fine – 2-0 win against Arsenal the previous night. Fantastic stuff.

We began positively and absolutely dominated possession. Having not seen Palace play for much of the past eighteen months – I found myself not even bothering with “MOTD” in the latter part of last season – I hardly recognised anyone in the Palace team, which was well changed anyway from the last time I had clapped eyes on them. Former Chelsea prospect Mark Guehi took up a position in their defence. I had seen both of his appearances in our colours in the League Cup of 2019/20.

The crowd was in a boisterous and jubilant mood. The time for venom and heated passion will come against more hated rivals.

There was intelligent use of space and we always seemed to have a spare man to stretch the Palace defence. Chances for Dave and Christian Pulisic hinted at a game of goals. There was a further chance from Mateo Kovacic.

There was a succession of corners from our left with Mason Mount pumping the ball in but with mixed results.

Just as we found an attack being thwarted by a foul on Mount just outside the box, I overheard Alan and Clive in a general discussion about a few players. I memorably heard Al say “Alonso worries me” and I silently smiled as I saw the Spaniard place the ball in readiness for a shot on goal.

“Bloody hell Al, that’s tempting fate. This is Alonso territory.”

With that, I snapped as the ball was whipped up and over the wall, curving perfectly away from Vicente Guaita. I saw the spinning ball, through my lens, nestling in the goal. The ‘keeper did not bother moving.

I jumped to my feet – GET IN – and smiled at Alan.

One-nil to the European Champions.

“THTCAUN.”

“COMLD.”

The noise levels then hit stratospheric levels.

On my feet – “Champions Of Europe. We Know What We Are.”

We were back.

And this was perfect Chelsea weather. Memories of opening day wins in recent years against too many teams to mention.

We seemed to be missing an aerial threat in the Palace box, but no doubt the returning Lukaku would remedy that ailment.

A free-kick from Mason hit the wall, but we extended our lead just before the break. A fine move, with Dave setting up Mount with a fine return pass, which lead to the ball being sent low into the box. The ‘keeper got something on the cross but the ball fell to Pulisic, who twisted his body to prod the ball home.

Two-nil to the European Champions.

A late chance for Timo Werner hit the side-netting and we went into the break well on top. In fact, up to the point of our second goal, I could only remember one very rare Crystal Palace attack that soon fizzled out down below me in the area of the pitch that I will forever call Hazardous.

Never could I remember such a dominant first-half performance or rather such a poor opponent (edit : the first-half against Everton in 2016 was exceptional, but Everton were not so woeful as Palace, surely?)

In the back of my mind I was hoping for at least two more goals – maybe more – in the second-half. A trademark volley from Alonso went close.

I noted that – strangely – the song of the night in Belfast, the Belinda Carlisle ditty, was noticeable by its absence in the Stamford Bridge sun. Its time will come again I am sure.

A very rare attack was easily stubbed out by the Chelsea defence. They really were poor. I loved the way that the midfield pairing of Jorginho and Kovacic kept things ticking over in the middle of the park. Werner was in his usual “one step forward, two steps back” mode, looking great one minute and then mediocre the next. Pulisic twisted and turned. He needs a run of games, but I have a feeling that Tuchel is going to rotate a few players behind Lukaku this season. It will be interesting to see how Havertz develops. I really have my eye on him.

Just before the hour, the ball was played to Trevoh Chalobah. He had space to run into, and maybe buoyed by the home crowd chanting “shoooot”, he let fly with a sweet and low rocket. I managed to capture this goal too. The shot was aimed to perfection, just clipping the base of the far post before nestling inside the net.

3-0.

Magnificent.

I also caught the players hugging the excited youngster.

Joyous scenes, eh?

I remember my mate Tom, in his home city of Minneapolis for the Milan game in 2016, coming up with the “He’s Chalobah!” (as in “He fell over!”) chant for Trevoh’s brother Nathaniel.

Let’s get it going again.

I was hoping for more goals but the manager – still without a song, in truth we hardly know him – made some substitutions.

James for Dave.

Havertz for Pulisic.

Emerson for Alonso.

A rare Palace attack on goal – the only one? – from the old warhorse Christian Benteke was easily saved by our man Mendy.

The game ended 3-0.

It was a fine performance, hardly any negatives, but it was only Palace.

I’d score myself 7/10; not as overblown with emotion as others, but I did join in with a fair few songs. I think the football came second to seeing everyone again on this particular day. I am sure that football is still trying to win its way back into my heart if I am honest. But I am equally sure that this will improve with each game and I am bloody sure that I will soon be back to my March 2020 groove before long.

I just need a couple of tough away games to sort myself out and to get myself focused.

What’s that I hear you say?

Arsenal away and then Liverpool away?

OK. Let’s go. Mow those fucking meadows.

The Sleepy Hollow : Season 2021/22 – Chris, Alan, Clive, PD & Gary.

Tales From One Billy Gilmour And One Decent Scouser

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 3 March 2020.

In the pubs beforehand, there was not one Chelsea fan that I spoke to who thought that we would be victorious in the game with Liverpool.

“They’re so far ahead in the league that they can afford to play their first team, rather than rest players.”

“They’re light years ahead of us.”

“We’ll be lucky to get naught.”

“Expectation level is nine below zero.”

“Could be another Bayern.”

But complete and total negativity was not the order of the evening.

There were a couple of pluses.

In “The Goose”, Parky, PD and I chatted to some of the lads from our home area. Does anyone recollect the story of Sir Les, and a few others, getting stuck in a lift before a home game before Christmas? They were stuck in there for virtually the entire first-half. Well, I am pleased to report that Chelsea rewarded these fans with a corporate style package for the Everton home game which is coming up in Sunday.

Well done Chelsea Football Club.

There was also some good work from the club regarding the pricing of this FA Cup fifth round tie with Liverpool. Initially, as with previous seasons, it was announced that all FA Cup ties would be priced at £30. When Liverpool came out of the hat, the club decided to up the tickets to £40. There was an immediate uproar and the Chelsea Supporters Trust, alongside the original Supporters Club I believe, soon petitioned the club to re-think. Within twenty-four hours, there was a statement to the effect of the club getting it wrong and the price returning to the £30 level.

Well done again Chelsea Football Club.

We made our way down to Simmons to chat with the others. It wasn’t as busy as I had expected. As I waited for friends to arrive, I spotted that the 1970 replay – often a favourite at “Simmons” – was being replayed on the TV screens. It is still the fifth most viewed TV programme in the UK, ever.

That’s right. Ever.

During the few days leading up to the evening’s game, it dawned on me that the last time we played Liverpool at home in the cup was the famous 1997 game. Many of my generation mention the 1978 third round win – 4-2 – when an average Chelsea side surprisingly defeated the then European Champions. I was not at that game, but can remember the joy of hearing about our win as the news came through on the TV. Next up, in the story of games in the cup at Stamford Bridge between the two teams, was the equally memorable 2-0 win in 1982. Chelsea were a Second Division team that season, and Liverpool were again European Champions. I was at that one. And I have detailed that game on here before. It was seismic. What an afternoon.

Next up was a fourth round tie in 1985/86 that we lost 2-1 which is probably best remembered for Kerry Dixon injuring himself and, probably, not quite being the same player ever again.

It’s worth noting that we haven’t played at Anfield in the FA Cup for decades.

The last time was in 1966.

Then came the fourth round tie on Sunday 26 January 1997.

It is a game that evokes wonderful memories among most Chelsea supporters; it was a real “coming of age” moment for club, team and fans alike. Chelsea, under new manager Ruud Gullit, were still finding our collective feet under the talisman and Dutch legend. During the league in 1996/97, we had lost 5-1 at Anfield in the autumn but a Roberto di Matteo strike gave us a deserved 1-0 on New Year’s Day. In October we had suffered the sadness of the loss of Matthew Harding. We were winning more than we were losing, but by no great margin. Liverpool were a better team than us in 1996/97. They would go on to finish fourth, we were to finish sixth. We had easily defeated First Division West Brom at home in the third round.

We – Glenn, my mate Russ and little old me – watched the Liverpool game unfold from the last few rows of the Matthew Harding Lower. It was a terrible view to be honest, the overhang meant that we watched the game through a letterbox.

Chelsea started with Gianfranco Zola and Gianluca Vialli up front. We played with Scott Minto and Dan Petrescu as wing backs. Liverpool fielded players such as David James, Jamie Redknapp, John Barnes, Steve McManaman, Robbie Fowler and Stan Collymore. They were a tough team. But, with us having the home advantage, it was evenly matched. Or so we thought. With Liverpool attacking the temporary seats in The Shed in the first-half they soon galloped to a 2-0 lead after just twenty-one minutes. I think it was McManaman who missed an easy chance to make it 3-0. Chelsea were out of it, and the atmosphere in Stamford Bridge had quietened severely after the early promise.

It was as flat as I had ever experienced.

At half-time, Gullit replaced Scott Minto with Mark Hughes, went to a 4/3/3 formation, and Sparky proved to be the catalyst that sparked a revolution. He turned and smashed a long range effort in on fifty-minutes.

“Game on.”

Then Gianfranco Zola slammed in an equaliser eight minutes later.

The atmosphere was red hot by then.

Despite the gate being just 27,950, the place was booming.

Gianluca Vialli scored on sixty-three and seventy-six minutes – euphoria – and we ended up as 4-2 winners. Liverpool, their fans all along the East Lower in those days, did not know what had hit them.

I would later watch that second-half on grainy VHS again and again and again.

Up until that point, my two favourite Chelsea games – out of the then total of two hundred and sixty-five – were the FA Cup games in 1982 and 1997.

Lovely memories.

That win over Liverpool in 1997 gave us confidence and with further games against Leicester City at home (I went), Pompey away (I couldn’t get tickets) and Wimbledon in the semi-final at Highbury (I was there) we marched triumphantly towards Wembley for the 1997 FA Cup Final with Middlesbrough. And through it all, Matthew Harding’s presence was with us all.

Heady and emotional moments?

You bet.

My friend John, a lecturer at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, arrived at about 6.30pm. I last saw him at Ann Arbor for the Real Madrid game in 2016. He was visiting London, Liverpool and Manchester for a few days with some students who were on a “Soccer: Media, Art & Society” course that would go towards their various degrees.

“Soccer: Media, Art & Society.”

Yeah, I know. What a course. Where can I sign up? It sure beat the “Cultural Geography” and “Transport Geography” sub-courses I took at North Staffs Poly from 1984 to 1987.

John was keen for me to talk to his six students – three lads, three lasses – for a few minutes about football, its heady sub-culture, its fads and fancies. I enjoyed it, though I can’t see myself as a lecturer in the near future, not without a bit more practice anyway, and not without a script.

I briefly mentioned the story of my grandfather attending a match at Stamford Bridge, and how I genuinely think it could well have been the 1920 FA Cup Final, one hundred years ago this year.

I hoped that the atmosphere would be good for them on this night in SW6. I always remember a League Cup semi-final in 2015 between the two teams and the noise was sensational all night. I hoped for a repeat. Apart from John, who comes over every season, this was the students’ first ever game at The Bridge.

At about 7.15pm, I downed the last of my two small bottles of “Staropramen” and headed off to Stamford Bridge.

There were six thousand Scousers in the area, though I was yet to see one of them. I guess they were doing their drinking in the West End and Earl’s Court.

Alan and I soon realised that the place was taking an age to fill up. There were yawning gaps everywhere. Even with ten minutes to go, we wondered if the paranoia over the Corona Virus had deterred many from travelling into The Smoke.

“Chelsea will be the death of me.”

The team news came through.

Arrizabalaga

Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Zouma – Alonso

Gilmour – Kovacic – Barkley

Willian – Giroud – Pedro

So, Kepa back in, an enforced change in personnel, a rather aged front three, and a start for young Billy Gilmour.

Like the 1997 game, this was live on BBC1.

I spoke to a few friends close by in that period before the pre-match rituals kick in and, again, nobody was hopeful.

Nobody.

Within the last few minutes, the place suddenly filled to capacity.

There was more 2020-style pre-match nonsense. The lights dimmed, almost darkness, fireworks, the teams appeared.

Blues vs. Reds.

South vs. North.

Chelsea vs. Liverpool.

(In the slightly off-kilter parlance of the modern day: “Chels vs. Red Scouse.”)

As the floodlights returned to full strength, I spotted white socks. As the tracksuit tops were taken off, I spotted the dogs’ dinner of the normal 2019/20 kit. Where was the promised 1970 kit, the beautifully understated blue with yellow trim?

Where the fuck was it?

My heart sank.

It seems that Chelsea Football Club – two steps forward, one step back – had been less than truthful about our 1970 kit.

Who thought that we would be wearing it throughout this season’s FA Cup campaign?

Everyone?

Yeah, thought so.

What a fucking disgrace.

So, this season – three kits, and one kit to be worn just once.

I only bought the shorts, and I am yet to wear them, but I felt for those significant others who bought the range. They shot off the shelves, didn’t they?

And, the sad thing is, I was really looking forward to seeing us in that kit once again.

I vented on “Facebook.”

And here are a few responses :

Michelle : So wrong I’m sure it was marketed as an FA Cup kit ! The club have taken the fans for mugs yet again,

Lottinho : Absolute joke. Pathetic on the club. Strictly for £££.

Karn : It’s bollocks. Still, glad I bought it though – lovely shirt.

Alex : As predictable as it is disappointing

Kelvin : So cynical how Chelsea avoided making that clear when they were marketing it.

Jake :  All about the money, mate. That was a class kit

Lee : Utter bastards

The game began.

Liverpool were an instant reminder of another team in all red from last Tuesday. I silently shuddered. The away team, with a heady handful of familiar players but also a couple of unfamiliar ones, began the livelier and moved the ball in and around our defence. There was an early, relatively easy, save from Kepa following a strike from Sadio Mane. But at the other end, The Shed, Willian drove at the defence and forced a good save from Adrian in front of the Liverpool hordes.

They had their usual assortment of flags, including one of Bill Shankly who – I cannot lie – I used to love to hear talk about football was I was a mere sprog.

The game heated up.

A Willian corner from our left was glanced on my Dave, and the ball spun wide. Only on the TV replay were we able to see how close both Olivier Giroud and Antonio Rudiger got to adding a decisive touch.

Liverpool, despite their large numbers, were relatively quiet and it surprised me.

We enjoyed a great little spell. Ross Barkley thumped centrally at goal, but Adrian saved.

A lovely flowing move, instigated by the poise of young Billy Gilmour, cruising through a pack of red shirts before coolly releasing Pedro, resulted in a fierce shot from Willian, but Adrian was again able to save well.

“Gilmour. Excellent there, Al.”

This was turning, early, into some game. It had all of our full and undivided attention. I wondered what John was making of it in the West Upper.

After twelve minutes, I leaned over towards PD.

“Open game, innit?”

There was a reassuring nod of agreement from him and also Alan alongside me.

Barely after me commenting, the game stepped up a gear. Attempting to play the ball out of defence, we put pressure on the wall of red. Barkley forced a slip and the ball fell to Willian. His optimistic shot flew at Adrian, but whereas just thirty seconds before he had saved well, this time the ball bounced off him, and flew into the goal.

GET IN.

Willian danced away and in front of the livid Liverpudlians.

Livid Liverpudlians. Is there any other type?

Stamford Bridge was bouncing. What joy.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds, la.”

Could we make it three out of three in the FA Cup against reigning European Champions?

1978, 1982 and 2020?

We were going to give it our best shot by the looks of it.

The game continued to thrill, and we could – ever so slightly – begin to enjoy it all with that slender lead.

Gilmour, getting into it, tackling hard, kept the ball alive and helped win a free-kick after a foul on Ross Barkley. A fine effort from Marcos Alonso sailed narrowly wide.

On around twenty minutes, pure pinball in the Chelsea box as shot after shot tested Kepa. A double save, a save, another save. All within a few seconds. It was dramatic and glorious stuff, though in the light of day two of the shots were hit straight at him.

What a game.

Mane, the biggest Liverpool threat by some margin, wriggled through our defence like a little eel and forced another excellent save from Kepa who was, dramatically, the centre of attention. Williams made a poor effort to connect with the rebounded shot. We had survived another scare.

A lot of the standard Chelsea and Liverpool songs were getting aired towards the end of the first-period and it absolutely added to the occasion.

“Fuck off Chelsea FC, you ain’t got no history.”

“Steve Gerrard Gerrard, he slipped on his fucking arse.”

There was gutsy defending from our players, and this was turning into a rather old-fashioned game of football with a lovely balance of cut and thrust, raw energy and honest attacks. Pedro was as involved as anyone, and after a few early miss-fires, was causing all sorts of problems. Giroud was a one man battling-ram. But the undoubted star of the first-half was young Billy Gilmour. Billy the kid was everywhere. An absolutely stunning performance.

Mateo Kovacic was injured, to be replaced on forty-two minutes by the fresh legs of Mason Mount.

Liverpool, after a string start, were visibly starting to become less of a threat.

As the first-half came to a close, I had a question for Alan.

“Wasn’t Lalana in the Teletubbies”?

At the break, all was well with the world. Previously worried faces had changed. There was a lovely buzz in the air.

On Saturday 24 April 1920, on this very same site, if not this very same stadium – but certainly one which was in situ for the 1982 game, those lovely packed terraces – my grandfather stood on the great slug of the West terrace with his old school friend Ted Knapton alongside him. It was half-time, and the score between the two teams – Aston Villa, who he favoured, and Huddersfield Town – was 0-0. It had been an exhilarating game of football for my grandfather, though the spectacle of seeing fifty-thousand spectators in one sports ground had proved to be the one abiding memory that he would take away with him.

Fifty thousand people.

And virtually all were men, and so many had fought in the Great War.

My grandfather was twenty-five years old. He silently gazed out at the main stand on the far side, the open terraces behind each goal, and looked behind him at row after row of fellows in caps and hats, some with the colourful favours of the two competing teams. A claret and blue rosette here. A light blue hat there.

Fifty-thousand men.

It struck home.

My grandfather had just that week spotted a local girl, a few years younger than him, who was beginning work in the manor house of his home village. She was a young cook, with a lovely smile, and had caught his eye.

My grandfather was a rather quiet man. He looked out at all those faces. He did not speak to his friend Ted, but he – at Stamford Bridge on Cup Final day 1920 – had decided that the stadium, indeed the whole of England was full of men, and the thought of one of them asking the young cook out before he had a chance to utter a shy “hello” ate away at him.

He had survived the Great War. He lived in a great village and now this great spectacle had stirred him in a way that he had not expected.

“You had better get your act together, Ted Draper. On Monday at lunch time, I think I will ask Blanche if she would like to accompany her to next weekend’s village dance. I can’t be second in that race.”

Almost one hundred years later, the players of Chelsea and Liverpool reappeared on the pitch. Could our lively form continue into the second-half? We bloody hoped so, but there was another enforced change early on. Willian, injured – oh our bloody injury list – was replaced by Jorginho, and there was a shift of Mason Mount out wide.

The game continued with the same noisy support cascading down from the stands. The Matthew Harding seemed particularly up for it, no doubt aided by some interlopers from The Shed who had been displaced by the northern hordes. The game had lost little of its attraction in the first half. On the hour, a fine cross field ball from Dave opened up the Liverpool defence but Mount was scythed down. I honestly thought that the position of the resulting free-kick would be too central, too flat. But to my surprise, Mason dug one out. Sadly, the fine effort bounced on top of Adrian’s bar.

So close.

On the hour, too, a loud and beautiful chant was aired for the very first time.

“One Billy Gilmour. There’s only one Billy Gilmour.”

Just three minutes later, with Chelsea defending, Pedro – bless him – nipped in to win the ball and Giroud jumped so well to move it on. The ball fell at the feet of Ross Barkley, still in his own half. I reached for my camera.

“Here we go.”

I sensed a huge chance.

Barkley ran on, and on, and with Pedro in acres to his right, I half-expected a slide rule pass. But he kept running, despite being chased by two defenders, and with one recovering defender goal side. He kept going. A shimmy, a shot – CLICK.

Adrian was beaten.

A goal.

Oh get in you bastard.

I was full of smiles, but clicked away. I had only recently mentioned to Alan that “I bet Barkley would love to score tonight.”

His slide was euphoric.

Up the fucking Toffees, up the fucking Chelsea.

Chelsea 2 Liverpool 0.

Just beautiful. The goal had come at just the right time. Liverpool had been clawing their way back into it a little.

Another lovely chant was bellowed from the lungs of the Matthew Harding Lower.

“One decent Scouser. There’s only one decent Scouser. One decent Scouser.”

Bliss.

Incredibly, from a Liverpool corner, Rudiger headed strongly out and Pedro – bless him – picked up the pieces, and his little legs went into overdrive. I reached for my camera once more.

“Here we go.”

His legs pumped away, but as he ate up the ground I sensed he was tiring. His shot, after a long run, lacked placement and Adrian easily saved.

In the last segment of the match, with Liverpool fading, Giroud capped a very fine performance indeed by forcing himself to reach a lovely pass from Dave, strongly fighting off challenges, but Adrian was able to touch the effort onto the bar and down.

Liverpool were chasing a lost cause now. Late substitutions Firmino and Salah added nothing.

It was Chelsea who finished the stronger, with shots from Mount and Giroud continuing to test Adrian. Gilmour had a quieter second-half, but one dribble late on made us all so happy.

“One Billy Gilmour.”

Indeed.

Reece James replaced the fantastic Giroud in the final few minutes.

The final whistle signalled the end.

“One Step Beyond.”

It had been a game for the ages.

As we bundled down the steps, and onto the Fulham Road, everything was fine in our world.

Into the last eight we went.

Yet another FA Cup appearance? It’s a possibility.

In 1920, the FA Cup Final stayed at 0-0, and Aston Villa – much to my grandfather’s approval – won 1-0 in extra-time with a goal from Billy Kirton.

However, as my dear grandfather Ted Draper travelled back by train with his pal that evening, back to beautiful and bucolic Somerset, he had another match on his mind.

On the Monday, he met with his new love, and nervously chatted.

He would later marry Blanche in the summer of 1925. My mother Esme would arrive in 1930, and the rest, as they say in Liverpool, is history.

Tales From The Minerva

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Hull City vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2020.

The third game in eight days was another away day in the North of England. After gliding past Nottingham Forest in the third round of the FA Cup, we were drawn against Hull City who are enjoying – or not – a middling season in The Championship.

On my four previous visits to Kingston upon Hull, I had driven up and back from each and every one of them on the day of the game. But it’s a tough, tough ask. It’s around a ten-hour return trip by car. For this game we decided to stay the Saturday night. As the weekend quickly approached, the trip took over my thoughts. There was plenty to keep me pleasantly occupied.

I needed to plan a pub crawl, probably based around the marina. On my last visit to Hull during the 2016/17 season – the match report was titled “Tales From A Day Of Sobriety” – I had left Parky and PD in a large “Spoons” in the city centre, while I pottered off on a little walk around the city centre and the marina. I spotted a few pubs and I made a mental note of their whereabouts. I hoped for a larger, more expansive, tour this time around.  There would be no sobriety on this visit.

I was also looking forward – with a kind of schoolboy giddiness – to seeing us in our beautiful blue and yellow FA kit once again.

And there was the matter of the hotel that I had booked. I had sorted out some digs close to City’s KCOM Stadium for the princely sum of £29 for two rooms. I was intrigued, for the want of a better word, how that would pan out.

The game? That would take care of itself.

Let’s go to Hull.

My alarm was set for 4.30am on Saturday morning and I woke a few minutes ahead of it. After a strong coffee, I was ready. This was going to be another long day, but it would be a day that we live for. I fuelled up nearby and collected the father-and-son combination of P-Diddy Daddy-O and Scott at 6am.

Everything was dark until we stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McBreakfast at 7.30am. From then on, the day slowly broke. I made excellent time and the morning flew past. I rarely drive up the M1 for football and I was enjoying the change of scene. After passing East Midlands Airport on the A42, I spotted the familiar cooling towers to the east at Ratcliffe on Soar as I joined the M1 and these signalled, to me anyway, that my journey to “The North” was in full flow. There would be cooling towers-a-plenty on the road to Hull.

Unlike the M6 to the west of the midlands which is predominantly flat, the M1 undulates as it takes everyone north. It’s not a photogenic road. For miles upon mile, the motorway is flanked by huge distribution warehouses, retail parks, the flattened hills of former coal-mining areas, and cooling towers. Past Mansfield, past Chesterfield. Signposts for the footballing cities of Sheffield and Leeds.

There were bittersweet memories of my second and third visits to see Chelsea play at Hull City.

In January 2014 – my match report was titled “Tales From A Road Less Travelled” – I collected friends Andy, Alan and Seb in the midlands en route – and headed up to Hull. The game resulted in a standard 2-0 win for Chelsea, but marks the last game that I attended before my mother became incapacitated through rheumatism. By the time of the next visit in March 2015, barely a year later, my mother had sadly passed away and it was my first away game since her death. On that visit, a 3-2 win on our way to a title, I felt rather numbed by everything. I called that one “Tales From The Beautiful North” and it summed up my melancholy mood. It was a delicate, tender blue day. Memories, no doubt, raced back to the half-term holiday of October 1973 when I first visited Hull with my parents, a day trip from visiting friends in Grimsby, a ferry over the Humber from New Holland, the huge bridge far from completed.

Bridges and elevated sections took us over the rivers which would eventually drift into The Humber. We veered off onto the M18. As we hit the M62, my eyes focussed on the far horizon in several directions. A bleak vista was dominated by cooling towers and wind turbines. It all started to resemble a bleak scene from a sci-fi film.

The winds howl over these flat lands.

Another bridge took us over the wonderfully named River Ouse. Out and away, Hull was not too far now. I drove on past the huge Humber Bridge, the World’s longest until 1998, and I was soon on Clive Sullivan Way, named after a rugby league icon.

In the pub on Tuesday, my pal Tim from Bristol spoke of his last visit to Hull in 2016. If anyone remembers, it was our first game of the long unbeaten run, win after win after win. But on that day, just as he reached the city’s inner suburbs, he spotted a rag and bone man, with cart and horse, like a latter day “Steptoe & Son.” He then spotted a bare-chested man riding a horse through the streets.

Bloody hell, a real city on the edge.

As I drove through the surprisingly wide streets of Hull, I found myself behind a van carrying scrap. I half expected Dublin-style horses to gallop past.

Welcome to Hull.

At around 10.30am we had reached base camp, our hotel on Anlaby Road.

Well. What can I say? It was a pub, with rooms, but hardly worthy of a single star, not so much a hotel as a notel. I soon posted my thoughts on “Facebook.”

“Well, our £7.50 a night hotel has lived down to expectations.”

Much banter followed.

We booked in, and at 11am the barman poured the first pints of the day for us. Friends much further south were yet to set off. You can’t say that we aren’t keen.

There was a little chat with a couple of locals. The pub had openened at 10am, one silent chap was already on his second or third pint. Another grisly local warned us –

“There was some fighting in town last night, Chelsea.”

But we ignored him.

I fiddled with my camera bag, making sure my match ticket was secure.

He looked over and said :

“Ha, is that your first-aid kit?”

Now that made me laugh. All part of the spice of life, eh? Indeed, the place was starting to grow on me.

Like a fungus.

Outside, I took a photo of PD and Scott in front of a chalkboard of the week’s coming attractions, blank apart from karaoke on Sunday. I was just surprised that karaoke was spelled correctly.

At about 11.45am we caught a cab into town.

The cab driver was gruff.

“I fucking hate Chelsea.”

I feared that he might be a Leeds United fan. But no, far from it. In spite of a northern accent, he was from Fulham, a Fulham fan, but living in Hull for forty years. I felt that life had dealt him a tough hand of cards. From the cosmopolitan bustling city of London to the dustbowl of Kingston upon Hull, until recently one of the UK’s forgotten cities.

“I go and watch City a bit. It’s sold out today, isn’t it? Only £12.”

I was warming to him now, it’s funny how football can break down barriers.

We dropped into the second of the day’s seven pubs. It was a familiar haunt. We had visited “The Admiral Of The Humber” in 2015 and 2016. PD was hoping to spot a local that he had chatted to on both occasions. In 2016, there was a funny anecdote.

The Hull City fan had spoken about a visit of Newcastle United, when the very same pub was mobbed by visiting Geordies. They very soon started singing a song, aimed at him, based on the fact that his grey beard and glasses made him resemble an infamous person in Britain’s recent past.

“One Harold Shipman, there’s only one Harold Shipman.”

He smiled as he re-told the story of how he remonstrated with them, and how this resulted in the Geordies buying him drink after drink.

“I love that about football, the banter” he joked.

Alas, no Harold Shipman this time. A couple of Chelsea supporters dropped in, but it was mainly “locals only.” It was a lovely Saturday afternoon mixture of football lads in designer gear, scarfers, a chap in a Dukla Prague away kit, and a table full of overly-made up middle-aged women that do lunch, dinner, tea, an evening meal and breakfast if you ask them nicely.

The three of us were now getting stuck into our second and third pints and the laughter was booming. We chatted about our hotel.

Chris : “I was a bit concerned when all the windows in your room were wide open. I wondered if it meant that the room needed some fresh air. That it would have been otherwise musty.”

PD : “That was to let the rats out.”

Chris : “No, that was to let them in.”

On a wall inside the pub, getting busier and busier now, was a copy of The Housemartins’ “Hull 0 London 4” album.

As the jokes continued, PD and Scott were grinning themselves to death.

At 1pm, we hopped into another cab to embark on the next stage of the pub crawl.

“The Minerva” was to be the highlight of the day and we stayed a good hour. On rather a different scale, it reminded me of The Flatiron Building in New York; a squeezed building, triangular in shape, it sat right on the quayside looking across the river to Lincolnshire. As soon as we arrived, three fellow Chelsea supporters arrived too, faces familiar, names unknown. The pub was a joy. Little rooms, a couple of snugs, a good selection of ales and lagers, antique décor, and it looked like it served excellent food too. The further you went away from the tip of the building, more rooms kept appearing. On a wall was a framed copy of one of Spencer Tunick’s “Sea of Hull” photo shoots which kick-started Hull’s year as the UK’s “City of Culture” in 2017.

I just thought everybody was blue with the cold in Hull.

I could have stayed in “The Minerva” for hours. But I wanted to pack as much in as possible. We still had a few more to visit; “The Barrow Boys”, “The Humber Dock”, “Bar 82” and lastly a real ale pub called “Furley” where I bumped into Kev who sits around ten feet away from me in “The Sleepy Hollow.”

Phew. Seven stops on this pub crawl. It was just right. Perfect even. Friendly locals, no trouble, what it is all about. The pubs and bars on the cobbled streets near the marina were excellent.

“Hull on Earth?”

No.

Or, as the locals would have pronounced it : “nurrrr.”

I like Kingston upon Hull. There, I said it.

Time was moving on now, so we hopped in to a cab, which took us back along the same Anlaby Road that our hotel was on, from the city centre, past The Admiral Of The Humber, and it deposited us a few hundred yards to the south of the KCOM Stadium. Night was falling, and there was a rush to get inside for kick-off.

Surely this was football to a tee. I had awoken at 4.30am and yet thirteen hours later I was rushing to get in on time.

But get in on time I did.

Just in time.

Have I mentioned that I work in logistics?

The stadium was packed, a full-house. I half expected to see swathes of empty seats in our end, with tickets purchased – just £12 remember – for loyalty points alone. A great show of support, four thousand strong.

Frank Lampard chose this starting eleven :

Caballero

Azpilicueta – Tomori – Zouma – Alonso

Barkley – Kovacic – Mount

Hudson-Odoi – Batshuayi – Pedro

I like Hull City’s stadium. I like the rising roof, and the blue lighting of the metal at the rear of the lower deck. For the first time since my first visit I was positioned towards the main stand. On that day in 2008, I celebrated my seven-hundredth Chelsea game with a pre-match “Nando’s” – still my only ever visit – and I detailed the day in “Tales From The Roman Road”. On that Wednesday, I travelled along two roman roads to Hull, the Fosse Way and then Ermine Street. It was fortuitous that I did as many Chelsea missed the kick-off due to traffic problems on the M1. The detail of the match was scant.

“What a goal from Frank – I amazingly captured this on film…just beautiful. A great start. However, Hull did well not to capitulate and had a fair share of the ball in that first period. Cousin hit the post, Cech made a few good stops. We had a few chances too, of course, but the usual suspects didn’t appear to be playing too well. We were begging for a second goal.

At the break, I handed out a few doughnuts to the boys – the Game 700 Meal overspill.

A much better team performance in the second-half. Hull gave Frank too much space and I thought he ran the game. He has been great this season. All of the first-half under performers stepped up in the second 45 – Anelka after his goal especially…the chances came and went…one miss from Malouda especially. However, it ended up 3-0 with the much-maligned Frenchman touching home.

I couldn’t understand a lot of the Hull songs to be honest. You had to admire their cheek, though, because they serenaded us with a song about fucking off back to our shit hole. The cheeky young whippersnappers.”

So, back to 2020.

The Chelsea team lined up in all white and it annoyed me. Was the limited colour clash of Hull City amber socks and Chelsea yellow socks enough to enforce a change? Or were Chelsea beholden to play in the second kit at least once in this cup run? Either way, I was not impressed. The home team were kitted-out in amber, black, amber, but with tigerish stripes on the top section of the shirts, how Cincinnati Bengals.

Chelsea were attacking the opposite end in the first-half. We were all stood, of course. As always. On just six minutes, a great ball out by Mateo Kovacic found Dave in acres of space. He quickly pumped in a cross, possibly over-hit, but it fell for Mason Mount to stab at goal. It rebounded out and Michy Batshuayi, lurking nicely, was on hand to follow up. A deflected shot gave the Hull City ‘keeper George Long no chance.

It was our first real attack.

Get in.

Alan, no more than ten rows in front of me : “THTCAUN.”

Some incisive passing from Kovacic set up good chances for Ross Barkley and Mason Mount, but Long was able to pull off two fine blocks. There had been an earlier half-chance for Michy. Callum was involved on the right, Pedro not so much on the left. But throughout much of the first-half it was the Chelsea story of the season; more passing than required, less shooting than required.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, sideways, sideways, sideways, sideways.

It was as if we were attempting to crabwalk.

Even so, we were on top. Not exactly coasting, but looking the more likely to score the next goal. Just before the whistle for half-time, a deep cross from Marcos Alonso was chested down by Dave who then shot at Long in the Hull goal but he pulled off another fine save.

Around me – despite us winning – I had endured voices of discontent during that first-half. And where we could, and should, have been cheering the boys on, there were periods of quietness in our ranks. Sometimes there is hot and cold in our support, often during the same game.

Hot and cold.

Noise and quiet.

Stillness and mayhem.

Frost and fire.

It would be nice to be warmed constantly by our support during every single game. For every fine pass to be applauded as loudly as ever wayward pass is booed.

“Yeah right.”

Me, looking at my phone at halftime: “COMLD.”

Sorry Alan. Better late than never.

The second-half began, and the home team came out of their shells a little. They had offered a few attacks in the first-half but not a great deal. In the second period they looked a little livelier. They definitely had the edge of the opening period. Jarrod Bowen, who reminded me of “Eriksen from Tottenham but not much longer”, was a threat and he raced on to a through ball before punching a shot just over Caballero’s bar.

Our play had deteriorated. Not much bite, not much ingenuity. Shot-shy.

Just after an hour, Barkley steadied himself before sending over a deep free-kick. Fikayo Tomori, who had formed a steady relationship again with Kurt Zouma, rose unhindered at the far post to head down, a perfect finish, past Long. My photos of the free-kick and the header are not great, but at least I was on hand to snap away as the players celebrated just yards away from me.

There is always a great fascination to see the body language of our players as they celebrate together. Smiles, hugs, knowing winks, loving looks. I must confess I go overboard at such moments, but these photographs take care of themselves really.

Time for some substitutions.

Billy Gilmour for Our Callum.

Willian for Our Mason.

Fine work from Willian, and a reverse pass to Pedro, but the winger edged it just past the far post. The same player finished weakly from the other side of the penalty area.

With twelve minutes remaining, I captured the free-kick by substitute Kamil Grosicki that hit our wall and ballooned up and into our goal.

Bollocks.

With me unable to watch a potential replay in ten days’ time, I was grimly aware that another Hull City goal would cause me grief for more than one reason. After cheaply giving the ball away, Bowen fed Grosicki but his shot was thankfully wide.

Tariq Lamptey replaced Pedro late on. We survived an even later home corner.

Hull 1 London 2.

Phew.

The soft Southerners, thankfully, had not been a soft touch.

Into Round Five we went.

We took our time exiting the stadium. Out onto Anlaby Road once more, and we walked past our hotel on the search for nosebag. A Greek restaurant was fully-booked, but I soon spotted the sign for “Tandoor Mahal.”

Perfect.

I was on the “Diet Cokes” now – my Sunday morning drive on my mind – but we settled in and enjoyed a lovely meal.

Prawn puri, lamb dhansak, boiled rice and peshwari naan.

I filled my boots. It was one of the best curries that I have eaten for a while. Top marks.

On the adjacent table was Lee, a Hull City supporter of around the same vintage as little old me, and we spent ages talking – lamenting – how football has changed over the past thirty years. We soon found that we had so many things in common. He was with his young daughter, and he really wanted to stay out with us, but after an elongated leaving ceremony he reluctantly said “cheerio.”

He wanted me to mention him in this blog.

So, there you go Lee. See you next time.

At about 10pm, we wandered back to our digs, passing some locals, who we engaged in some witty banter as is our wont.

“Where are you off lads”?

“Back to our hotel.”

“Oh no. It’s not The Carlton is it”?

“Oh yes.”

“Oh God.”

There was time for one last nightcap at the hotel before bed. Next to us at the bar were three Chelsea fans; a young couple from Birmingham and a chap from Stafford. I was, at last, comforted that other Chelsea supporters had chosen the same hotel as us.

It had been a long day. At just before 11pm, I called it a night. Anlaby Road had treated us well.

Next up, an away day – up the Fosse Way once more – to Leicester City.

I will see you there.

Featured album :

“Eden” : Everything But The Girl 1984.

 

Tales From Three Generations

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Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 5 January 2020.

On the train back to Lewes on New Year’s Day, after our 1-1 draw at Brighton, Glenn set me a question to consider.

“Who did we play in the first game of the last decade, then?”

It got me thinking.

“2009/10, the double season…mmm, I don’t think it was an away game…”

It took me a few seconds, but the memory of the day – if not the opposition – soon came to me.

“I know. I can remember. We were at home in the FA Cup on Saturday 3 January. It was my mother’s eightieth birthday, and we had stayed at the hotel at Stamford Bridge on the Saturday night. Can’t remember the opposition, though.”

It was Watford and we won 5-0. And it would be my mother’s last visit to Stamford Bridge.

On this day of our game with Nottingham Forest, a day when Chelsea Football Club would be looking back fifty years to our first ever F. A. Cup win in 1970, it seemed right that I would be looking back ten years to a game in the F. A. Cup too. Season 2009/10 was my second full campaign of these match reports and here are a few notes from that lovely day.

“Mum has been to Chelsea many times before and I guess she has been to The Bridge around twenty-five times…mainly in the 1974 to 1979 period, when Dad would drive us up from Somerset twice per season. Mum also went to games at Bristol Rovers, Bristol City and Swindon Town. The last game that Mum saw at Chelsea was the Birmingham match in 2005, our centenary championship. Happy memories.

I peered out of our hotel room down at the old Shed wall, the winter sun lighting up the South London horizon beyond. A few fans were already clutching Megastore bags.

With the cold weather showing no signs of letting up, we sat in the hotel foyer / bar area from 11am to 2.15pm. It was a lovely time. The place gradually filled-up with Chelsea fans. My two mates Glenn and Parky arrived at about 11.30am and we sat in a cosy corner with Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti, chatting about all sorts. Peter was there with his daughter and grand-son. We spoke about our shoddy form of late, but we didn’t let it spoil our time.

We left the hotel, coats buttoned, scarves on. We battled against the crowd. The 6,000 away fans were out in force. The weather was brutal, but Mum wasn’t complaining. There was the usual ten-minute wait to get inside the MHU. We managed to take the lift up to the top tier. Mum is in good health, but six flights of stairs is too much (sometimes for me). Once inside the stadium, it didn’t seem so cold. A full Shed End of away fans, but only three paltry flags. They didn’t make much noise. No balloons.

The big surprise that Anelka wasn’t playing and I wasn’t sure of the formation…was it not a “Christmas Tree” (with Malouda and Joe behind Sturridge)? To be honest, after three early goals, I was far from caring…whatever formation it was, it was definitely working. What attacking options down the left with Ashley and Zhirkov and Malouda. I was very pleased that Sturridge scored his first goal for us, but the other two goals were scrappy. Not to worry – coasting. I think I counted just two Watford shots in the entire first-half.

At half-time, more congratulatory handshakes and kisses for my mother. Anna brought us some coffees and Russ gave some mince pies. It was a lovely feeling for Mum to meet my match day mates.

Loads more Chelsea pressure in the second period and what a strike from Frank – especially for Mum. I was really impressed with the cool finish from Sturridge for his second goal…very nice. We all thought it a shame that Carlo took the lad off when he was “on” for his hat-trick.

The Chelsea support was quiet and were only really roused after each goal.

I was so pleased when I glimpsed Mum singing along to “Chelsea, Chelsea” to the tune of “Amazing Grace.” How sweet the sound. She could teach a few JCLs a lesson or two.

Carlo made a few substitutions but it stayed at five. I shan’t make any further comments about our performance because – after all – it was only Watford. I was impressed with Sturridge and Zhirkov. JT seemed intent on going on more mazy runs in the attacking third. Maybe he’s a frustrated striker. I’m convinced that one day he’ll score a goal of the season contender from forty yards. Towards the end, our former left-back Jon Harley (he of the scuttling runs) came on as a Watford substitute and was given one of the noisiest songs of the game. That was a nice touch. The “referee has added on a further five minutes” announcement was met with frost-bitten groans.

We walked back to the car, stopping off for a good old-fashioned plate of pie and chips and a mug of tea on the North End Road. We eventually thawed out. On the drive back home to Somerset, we listened to the FA Cup draw and I was elated that we face an away jaunt to Preston. At last a new stadium to visit (well, actually a very old stadium, but a first-time visit for me.)”

So, 1970, 2010 and 2020 linked already.

But there is more.

Going back to the notes for the game with Everton last season, played on the one-hundredth anniversary of the cessation of hostilities in the First World War, I introduced the story of my mother’s father, my grandfather, and his link to Stamford Bridge.

“My grandfather was a good sportsman. He played football for Mells and Vobster United and cricket for Mells. I remembered the black and white photographs of both sides, taken in around 1925, on display in a bedroom when I was a child. He was, apparently, the star of the cricket team, and after studying the scorebooks from that era – priceless items – I can vouch for this. However, a family friend would not be afraid to tell me that he had a mean temper on a cricket pitch. Quiet off the pitch, a bit of a demon on it. A familiar story for many I suppose.

For all of his adventures on both football and cricket pitches, though, there is one sporting story involving my grandfather that I have been enchanted about for decades. Once I chose Chelsea as my team in 1970, I can remember my grandfather telling me that he once visited Stamford Bridge with his great friend – and fellow Mells sportsman – Ted Knapton. It was, I am pretty convinced, the only football stadium that he ever visited.

My grandfather, however many times I pressed him, could not remember the teams involved though. But I know that he said he favoured Aston Villa – possibly a first love – as a child, and then latterly Newcastle United – through a friend. And I have often wondered if the two Teds, because of their association with Mells football, were gifted tickets for the 1920 FA Cup Final at Stamford Bridge between Villa and Huddersfield Town.

I am no detective, but that might be the answer.

Heaven knows, I have visualised his visit to Stamford Bridge in the ‘twenties so many times.

In later years, whenever I stood on The Shed, as part of that unhindered mass of terrace that originally swept all around the stadium, including the small paddock in front of the old East Stand, I had a wonderful feeling of being a physical part of the history of the club. Of a link with the past. I miss that terrace. It was immense, in more ways than one.

I wonder if my grandad stood here.”

I like the fact that, in addition to the club’s official celebration of the 1970 victory in 2020, I am going to be having my own private centenary celebration of 1920 too. This was the first of three consecutive years that our beloved Stamford Bridge was chosen to host the final tie of the Football Association Challenge Cup.

So, 1920, 1970, 2010 and 2020 all linked-up now.

I love the fact that I am the third generation of my family to have seen football at Stamford Bridge.

That feels just perfect.

As last season progressed, we were gifted three home ties in the F. A. Cup and so I was able to add to my flight of fancy concerning my grandfather. I include these below, taken out of the Nottingham Forest, Sheffield Wednesday and Manchester United match reports.

“My grandfather, being careful not to walk into the onrushing crowds as he picked his way along the pavement from the Walham Green tube station to the main entrance of Stamford Bridge, was approached on several occasions by Cockney ticket touts, offering the chance to watch from the main stand. His ticket, and that of his friend Ted, had been given their general admission tickets by the Somerset Football Association in lieu of their role in the running of their local team Mells and Vobster United, for whom they had both played for a few seasons. My grandfather’s brother Christopher also played both sports for the village. My grandfather wondered how the touts had managed to get their hands on these tickets. It was a surprise to him. This was his first football match, and he was simply unaware that such tickets would be available.

“No thank you. We have tickets.”

“OK governor. You want to sell them to me?”

This confused and surely bemused my grandfather. He thought to himself, simplistically, “how would we get in without tickets?” and he paused for a while with a look on his face which probably was more serious than it really should have been.

“No. No thanks. No – they are ours.”

His long-time pal chipped in :

“We’ve come from Somerset for this match. Why would we give them to you?” “

“On the Fulham Road, as I stopped for a bite to eat at the al fresco café, I looked up at a tablet of stone containg words that commemorated a visit by the Duchess of Wessex to the Oswald Stoll buildings – for ex-servicemen – in 2009. It mentioned a respect for the “fortitude and resilience” of those soldiers of both World Wars. I looked up and saw the sepia figures – “ghosts” – of Ted Draper and Ted Knapton marching purposefully towards Stamford Bridge for the 1920 FA Cup Final.”

“Almost one hundred years ago, on Cup Final day 1920, my father Ted Draper and his long-time friend Ted Knapton made the slow ascent up the damp terraced steps – being jostled by other fans, some drunk already – at the rear of the great slug of terracing on the West side of Stamford Bridge. The air was expectant ahead of the Aston Villa vs. Huddersfield Town tie. It would be the only professional football match that my grandfather would ever attend. He had remembered, as a ten-year-old boy living in Somerset, how he had been astounded when told by others that a mighty crowd of 67,000 had attended a game at Stamford Bridge in Chelsea’s first-ever season in 1905/06. It confused him. How did a new club such as Chelsea suddenly have 67,000 supporters? And for a Second Division game too. It was an unheard of figure at the time and was the talk of the schoolyard for many a day. It had captured the imagination, wildly, of my dear grandfather. The visitors on that day in April 1906 were Manchester United and it was a promotion-decider of sorts. My grandfather was convinced that the vast number of spectators had been Chelsea fans, since Manchester was such a long way north, but how was it possible for so many to be lured to the new stadium? Chelsea had mainly played to crowds in the mid-teens throughout that inaugural campaign after that first-ever game at Stockport County. It was one of the biggest league crowds that England had ever seen, although FA Cup Final attendances at Crystal Palace sometimes reached six-figures. Apart from being a fan of the sport, my grandfather soon realised how magnificent it would be to part of such a spectacle and for many years he had daydreamed about being in a similar sized crowd.

In April 1920, he had his wish.”

We sometimes moan, as Chelsea fans, that we always seem to end up playing the same old teams in European competitions, and this often seems to occur in domestic cups too. This annoyance came to light when, for the second successive year, we were drawn at home to Nottingham Forest in the third round of the F. A. Cup. And, taking the biscuit this, the game would be played exactly one year later.

2018/19 : FA Cup Round Three – Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest, 5 January 2019

2019/20 : FA Cup Round Three – Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest, 5 January 2020.

Talk about Groundhog Day.

Additionally, we played the Tricky Trees at home in the League Cup in 2017/18 too.

We were in the boozer at just after 11am. Inside “The Famous Three Kings” at West Kensington, all was quiet. The pub – a first visit for us this season – has had a recent re-fit, and it’s to our approval. There was a familiar clink of glasses as Parky, PD and I sat on the high bench seats and waited for others to arrive.

“Cheers.”

Dave from Wellingborough – one of the lads that I used to sit with on The Benches in 1984 and 1985 – soon arrived and it was a pleasure to see him again. Ironically, we bumped into each other for the first time in years at the F.A. Cup away game at Norwich almost two years’ ago. There was positive talk of our form so far this season, and there was talk of the special commemorative kit that Chelsea are using on this – hopefully long – F. A. Cup run this season. It is an almost exact replica of the blue, blue, yellow of the 1970 replay, and we all agreed that it looks the Mutt’s Nuts.

For those who don’t know (and I know many do, so please bear with me), the reason for the yellow trim is because both Chelsea and Leeds United played in white socks. In the first game at Wembley, Leeds were forced to wear the odd choice of Lancastrian red socks as we kept to the white. In the replay it was our turn to change; in came the yellow. To be honest, it could have been easy for us just to don some yellow socks, so fair play to the club for opting for matching yellow trim on the shirt and socks too. The kit re-surfaced for the 1972 League Cup Final too – minus the two blue rings on the socks – but has not been seen since.

Writing in these reports in the Spring of last season, I commented :

“Chit chat about kits came to the fore in recent days. There was a leaked image – as yet unconfirmed – of a truly horrific kit for Chelsea next season. I am sure everyone has seen it. It’s garbage. But it got a few of us thinking. Going into the fiftieth anniversary of the iconic 1970 FA Cup win at Old Trafford, it would be nice to honour that occasion with a one-season only kit of royal blue with yellow trim, including yellow socks.”

Looking back, I liked the fact that our kit in 1996/97 came with a little yellow trim for the first time ever. And we know how that season ended-up; our first silverware for twenty-six years, our first FA Cup since 1970.

We found ourselves talking about European trips. Dave mentioned an away game in Copenhagen in 1998. After the game, at the airport, he was feeling a little worse for wear, and was choosing some items for breakfast at the airport departure lounge. The cashier tallied up his purchases and he found himself a few “krone” short and so shouted over to a mate to see if he had any spare.

Dave heard a voice behind him.

“How much do you want mate? I’ll sort you out.”

Dave looked around and it was none other than Peter Osgood.

Just beautiful.

It seemed that 1970 was going to dominate the day. As if anyone needs reminding, my love of Chelsea Football Club began in April or May 1970, and I am wondering how many more bloody anniversaries will make an appearance in this edition.

Here’s one more.

In May 2000, we beat Aston Villa 1-0 to win the last-ever F. A. Cup Final at the old Wembley Stadium, and we will soon celebrate the anniversary of that triumph. Oh, and guess what? We played Forest at home in the Cup that season too.

Andy and Kim – the Kent lot – arrived unannounced, and the laughter was upped a few notches. They are off to Newcastle in a fortnight, like us, but were looking for tickets. I was glad to be able to assist with the search.

We caught the 28 bus down the North End Road and joined up with Alan and Gary in a very quiet “Simmons”.

Glenn, back in Frome, texted me :

“Chelsea – 9 changes, Forest – 10 changes.”

I replied :

“Chuckle Brothers – 1 change.”

There was just time for a last bottle of “Peroni” and we were off to the game. It was a mild day. We walked ahead of a few Forest fans, who were mulling over the inevitability of the changes announced by the Forest manager. Sadly, it is all about the Premier League these days, and promotion to it. But they seemed to have a “whatever will be will be” attitude. We hoped that our “B Team” would be better than Forest’s.

I bought three copies of the commemorative programme for friends, and caught the lift – like in 2010 – with PD, who struggles with stairs these days.

With not long to go to kick-off we were in. Alan and Gary were down in The Shed Upper for a change and I soon spotted them in row six. So, just PD and little old me in The Sleepy Hollow. There was a mix of usual season ticket holders and new faces which was good to see. I noted a smattering of children nearby which is a very rare sight in The Sleepy Hollow.

It usually resembles a SAGA day trip.

1920 returned to my thoughts.

He was inside Stamford Bridge now, and the enormity of it all hit home. The closeness of everything. The colours of the rosettes. The clamour for attention of the programme sellers, official and otherwise. The sellers of iced lemonade, of ginger beer, of cigarette salesmen. The shouts of the crowd. The Birmingham accents. The Yorkshire dialect. The smoke. The Londoners and the spivs, the touts, the brashness of the city. The musty aroma of overcoats. Caps, bonnets and hats. The swell of the crowd. The bands marching before the game. The huge advertisements adorning every spare inch of space, on hoardings at the back of the huge curve of the terrace, and on the backs of the houses on the Fulham Road. The appearance of the teams. The surge of those on the terrace as a chance goes close. The unstable nature of the terrace beneath the feet, of wooden risers and of mud and cinders. The clouds of dust. Pockets of cigarette smoke drifting over the spectators. The trees in Brompton Cemetery. The smoke rising from chimneys. The wounded Chelsea pensioners – that vivid splash of red – watching from the side of the pitch in antiquated wheelchairs, some without limbs, some without sight. My grandfather, wistful, lost for a moment, a flashback to Amiens or Ypres or Valenciennes.

“There but for the grace of God, go I.”

Forest had 3,000, the same as last season.

The teams entered the pitch – yellow flames, how in keeping – with Chelsea wearing blue trackie tops over the shirts. But the yellow trim looked magnificent. Off came the tops, and we all fell in love with the iconic 1970 Chelsea kit all over again.

It was, quite simply, stunning.

It was a vision in blue and yellow.

Everything was beautiful. The old style crest, the very subtle sponsorship branding in blue, the yellow stripe on the shorts, the shade of yellow, the two blue stripes on the socks, even the font of the numbers. Oh, and the lack of players’ names?  Superb.

Not sure of the little yellow tab at the rear of the colour, though.

The team lined-up as below.

Caballero

James – Tomori – Christensen – Emerson

Jorginho – Barkley – Kovacic

Pedro – Batshuayi – Hudson-Odoi

Chelsea in blue and yellow, Forest in red and white.

They were soon singing “Champions of Europe, we won it two times.”

At 2.01pm, the game kicked-off.

For a change, we were attacking the North Stand in the first period. How ‘seventies.

“Come on Chelsea.”

In the first few minutes, Callum and Reece were dribbling down the right wing and I was dribbling all over my top as I looked on with awe at the amazing kit on show. I wasn’t paying attention, but PD was purring as Reece sent over a tantalising cross.

Before we knew it, Callum was played in by Pedro after a lovely interchange of play and found himself in the inside right channel, though with noticeably more space than in recent league games. He cut inside, picked his spot and rifled low past the Forest ‘keeper. After only six minutes, we were on our way to Wembley.

GET IN.

Very soon, a text from The Shed appeared on my dog and bone.

“THTCAUN.”

I replied.

“COMLD.”

We were all over Forest, and two more excellent crosses from the increasingly trustworthy boot of James caused panic in the Forest six-yard box. Alas, despite the lead, the atmosphere was unsurprisingly wank, and – like last season – the away fans were asking us if Stamford Bridge was a building in which books could be temporarily loaned out and then returned free-of-charge.

We had no reply really.

At least nobody retorted with “you’re just a shit Derby County.”

Ah, Derby. Because of last season, there was a largely indecipherable ditty about Our Frank and his former charges throughout the first half, but it is not worth any more comment.

Michael Dawson was booed by some in the home support, all very tedious.

Against the run of play, Forest were awarded a penalty when Fikayo Tomori was adjudged to have fouled a Forest striker. The tedious VAR was called into action and, lo and behold, no penalty but an offside instead.

“FUCK VAR” shouted Forest and I wholeheartedly agreed.

A shot from Tomori, a shot from Pedro, a shot from Barkley, a shot from Michy Batshuayi. Our chances were piling up. Behind, Jorginho the prompter was having a fine game. On around the half-hour mark, a lovely move set up a shot for Our Callum which was only half-saved by the ‘keeper and Ross Barkley was on hand to tap in with almost an involuntary action. Ross had already wasted a few early moments of possession, irritating some, so perhaps if he had time to think about his finish he might not have fared quite so well. We immediately stood up and applauded and, as I snapped away, there was no thought of a VAR involvement. It looked a perfectly sound goal to us in The Sleepy Hollow. Ross celebrated with his team mates below.

VAR?

No offside, well on. Goal.

“Surely it’s safe now, PD. Mind you, we were 2-0 up against Bradford City in 2015.”

Another cross from Reece, but a glancing header from Michy was sent just wide of the post. We had totally dominated the first-half, and it had been a breeze.

At the break, as I had predicted, we were treated to the appearance of five of the 1970 twelve.

Ron Harris.

Marvin Hinton.

Tommy Baldwin.

John Dempsey.

John Hollins.

Of course, sadly Peter Osgood, Peter Houseman and Ian Hutchinson are no longer with us, and Peter Bonetti is very poorly. PD made the point that it was a shame that there was no 1970 goalkeeping kit on show. Bearing in mind that The Cat is struggling with his health it would be a lovely gesture if this can be remedied. A “Bonetti kit” – green cotton gloves, too – with proceeds going to his medical requirements. It would sell I am sure. Over to you, Chelsea.

Of the remaining players, Eddie McCreadie and Charlie Cooke are in the US, and David Webb – the maverick – never seems to be invited to these sort of occasions, a real shame.

The second-half began. There was not quite the same drive and intensity as the first-half and I got the distinct impression that Forest were looking at this as some sort of training exercise. We created a few chances, though, with a header from Barkley after a fine dribble and cross from Hudson-Odoi grazing the post below Alan and Gary in The Shed.

From a Forest free-kick down below us, Ryan Yates rose in the six yard box to head home but, as he taunted us as he celebrated, the flag was raised for offside, which VAR upheld.

The crowd went mild.

Still the atmosphere was poor. Only a rousing “Stand Up If You Hate Tottenham” chant on the hour united the whole stadium. But that’s another chant that is over-worked these days.

Oh how the Forest fans loved it when Mason Mount – Derby County last season – replaced Kovacic on seventy minutes. He was roundly booed every time he received the ball. There was also an appearance for Tariq Lampty replacing Pedro, who might have been playing his last game for us if his clapping of all four stands was anything to go by. Lampteys number “48” took up the entire back of his shirt.

The game dwindled a little, but it was still Chelsea who dominated throughout. Late efforts from Batshuayi, Emerson and Hudson-Odoi did not increase the score. But this was as easy a win as I can remember.

Groundhog Day again, even the scores were the same.

2018/19 : FA Cup Round Three – 5 January 2019.

Chelsea 2 Nottingham Forest 0.

2019/20 : FA Cup Round Three – 5 January 2020.

Chelsea 2 Nottingham Forest 0.

Frank Lampard soon raced on to the pitch to thank us, but by then my mind was elsewhere, and I was pondering what sandwich to buy on the walk back to the car, and which away venues were up for grabs in the next round.

And I wondered what next as this homage to 1970 continues on in to the next stage; sideburns for the players, perhaps?

On the drive home, or at home, I found out that this was our twenty-second successive advancement into the Fourth Round. Now that is some achievement (the less said about what happened in 1998, when we were F. A. Cup holders, the better.)

Wembley – here we come?

It would be nice. We certainly like our fiftieth anniversaries and our centenaries at Chelsea.

Next up, we have a run of the mill league encounter at home to Burnley next Saturday. Before that game, I might even pop into the Megastore to purchase a pair of blue and yellow shorts for an Argentinian summer.

I have some missionary work to do in Buenos Aires.

 

Tales From Sunshine And Schadenfreude

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Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 12 May 2019.

It seemed quite apt that Chelsea Football Club should end its domestic travels in 2018/19 in a city in the East Midlands which is situated on the River Soar, with a population of 330,000, which hosts cricket, rugby and football teams and is home to the world’s largest crisp factory. Where else could we end up? Our visits to away cities throughout the league campaign, chronologically listed, mirrored the words of a certain song.

“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea: Huddersfield, Newcastle, London, Southampton, Burnley, London, Wolverhampton, Brighton, Watford, London, London, Bournemouth, Manchester, London, Liverpool, Cardiff, Liverpool, Manchester and Leicester.”

This season, although certainly not the most-loved, has zipped past at a ridiculous rate of knots. Our first game in the sun of West Yorkshire seemed only recent and it seemed implausible that this one was the final game of the season. But game thirty-eight it was. With qualification to next season’s Champions League assured, the game at Leicester City took on a much more relaxed air than we had expected. I collected PD at just after eight o’clock and LP at just after eight-thirty. It was a stunning Sunday morning; not a hint of a cloud, the sun out, and a fine chilled-out air of relaxed anticipation. After travels north, east, south and west, the league fixture list had saved me – possibly – the best to last.

A three-hour drive along the Fosse Way, the old Roman road – straight as a die, from Exeter to Lincoln – is always a treat for me. It didn’t let me down. I thoroughly enjoyed the undulating road as we swept past quintessentially English place names on our way through the Cotswolds.

Stanton St. Quentin, Malmesbury, Cirencester, Ampney Crucis, Bourton-on-the-Water, Upper Slaughter, Stow-on-the-Wold, Moreton-in-Marsh, Stretton-on-Fosse.

We had breakfasted at Melksham. We stopped for a drink in “The Star” at Moreton-in-Marsh. After heading off the Fosse, and after skirting the lost football city of Coventry, through Warwickshire and into Leicestershire, we stopped at another pub “The Hinckley Night” on the outskirts of the town with the same name.

It was quite apt that I had chosen the Fosse Way as our route. Way back in the mists of time, Leicester City were first known as Leicester Fosse.

At about 2pm, after our breaks for sustenance – we watched a little of the Old Firm game at the second pub – I was parked-up. There were clouds in the sky, and we all decided to take jackets “just in case.” Leicester City’s stadium is a mile to the north of the Leicestershire cricket ground and half a mile to the south of Leicester Tigers rugby stadium. While PD and LP popped inside for a top-up, I circumnavigated the stadium, which lies just a couple of hundred yards to the south of their old Filbert Street ground. This old stadium was ridiculously lop-sided with two large stands on adjacent sides and two minuscule ones opposite.

I took in the pre-match atmosphere. This was only my fifth visit to the new place. I was on holiday in the US at the time of our first visit in the FA Cup campaign of 2003/4 and I have missed the two recent cup fixtures too. It’s a relatively neat, yet overwhelmingly bland stadium, with no real distinguishing features. “King Power” is everywhere. On the rear of the north stand is a large image of their former chairman, Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha, who so sadly perished in the helicopter crash at the stadium last October.

I took the usual smattering of photographs. Their new shirt – laced with gold Adidas stripes rather than white – looked neat and tidy.

Inside the stadium, and into the concourse, I soon spotted a few mates.

A standard greeting was “going to Baku?”

I gulped down a soft-drink – no alcohol at all for me on this day – and met up with Alan and Gary in the seats. Bringing a jacket, I soon realised, was being over-cautious. The sun was relentless. I wasn’t the only person who had over-dressed. My jacket was placed on my seat.

The teams soon appeared.

A hand-written banner was held up in the away end:

EDEN HAZARD BLEEDS BLUE.

CHELSEA IS YOUR HOME.

We were in all yellow, and it brought back memories of our huge 3-1 win in 2014/15 when the Fabregas song stole the show. I remembered, too, how the Morata song was a strong memory of last season’s league game. With what has happened since – another song, another place – it is actually hard to believe that fans were singing the “y” word so forcefully and loudly only twenty months ago. Leicester City had reverted to an old-style blue / white / blue. It did look like a neat kit.

Our team?

Caballero

Zappacosta – Azpilicueta – Luiz – Alonso

Jorginho

Loftus-Cheek – Barkley

Pedro – Higuain – Willian

I had a look around at those in the away end. For some reason, there seemed to be a disproportionately high number of old replica shirts on show; many more than usual. I even spotted a Chelsea Collection number from 1986/87. I only saw two of the 2019/20 shirts.

Our game began.

And so did all the others.

Three games stole the show; Brighton vs. Manchester City, Liverpool vs. Wolves and Tottenham vs. Everton.

Ross Barkley went close within the first few minutes, after a good ball from Jorginho, but his shot hit Schmeichel. It was a chance that promised good things, but was a false dawn. The home fans to my left – I was only a matter of a few feet from them, were noisy as hell in that first part of the game. They sang of their former owner.

“Vichai had a dream.

To build our football team.

He came from Thailand and now he’s one of our own.

We play from the back.

We counter attack.

“Champions of England.”

You made us sing that.”

Indeed, they do counter-attack. And we smother the ball and pass to ourselves to oblivion. It was a massive difference in style between the two teams. Leicester broke at pace with Jamie Vardy and Youri Tielemans looking useful. We passed the ball here there and everywhere, but did not create too much.

Liverpool went, unsurprisingly, a goal up at Anfield.

Then, a score flash which made us groan.

Brighton had taken the lead at home to City. Then, just as I was passing on the news to a few close friends, a noticeable cheer in the Chelsea end. My spirits were raised.

City had equalised.

On the pitch, there was lots of square passes, with little quality penetration. The banter in the stands was proving to be more entertaining. The Leicester fans alongside us had sung about Eden Hazard leaving for Madrid.

We retorted “He’s won more than you.”

There were schoolyard taunts from them. Then came the killer blow, loud and with venom :

“Eden Hazard. He won it for you.”

Fair play, the Leicester lot clapped that. I winked at a few of them, a “thumbs up” here and there.

Ha.

In the other game of interest, Tottenham had scored a very early goal against Everton. We needed to match that to finish above them. But we had to rely on the out-of-sorts Gonzalo Higuain. He slammed one shot wide of the post on the half-hour mark.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

A Vardy header from a free-kick forced a save from Willy Caballero.

The bloke behind me then cheered me : “City have got a second.”

Phew.

In the closing moments of the first-period, a slip from David Luiz allowed Vardy to race on but his ball through to Tielemans was overhit and the chance went begging.

Then, right before the whistle, Higuain missed from only a few yards out, his brain doing the waltz, his feet doing the samba.

“Fackinell.”

Leicester City 0 Chelsea 0

Brighton 1 Manchester City 2

Liverpool 1 Wolves 0

Tottenham 1 Everton 0

Things were going our way in the title hunt, but not our way in our more local battle with Tottenham.

At the break, I bumped into Alex and Reece.

“Would you keep Sarri, Chris?”

Oh God. Me on the spot. Yes, I would.

“I have never warmed to the bloke. He is so one-dimensional. But has he got his own players to play his system? Not yet. I am full of doubt, but give him a full pre-season, give him time. We have the chance to finish top three. We have reached two cup finals. We would have taken that in August. In February we would have for sure.”

The lads were in agreement, with reservations.

“What do we know, we’re not experts.”

But – oh – the football has been so poor at times this season. It has proven one thing; Chelsea supporters want to be entertained. It is in our DNA.

Neal 1983/84

Gullit 1996/97

Mourinho 2004/5

Ancelotti 2009/10

Conte 2016/17

The best I have known…

The second-half began and my forehead was starting to burn up. Parky arrived back from the bar.

“You haven’t missed anything, mate.”

If the first-half was tepid, the second-half was turgid. Chances – real gilt-edged chances – were so rare. A Leicester volley did not hit the target. Barkley shot wide.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass – but without the movement from the players to allow the passes to hurt the tight Leicester defence. Elsewhere, goals were being scored. Manchester City went 3-1 up and eventually 4-1 up, and Liverpool scored a second. The title was City’s.

I hummed “Blue Moon” to myself.

The away end was loving it. We were loving it even more when Everton equalised. And then – to a chorus of “it’s happened again” – we heard that Everton had gone 2-1 up. This was turning into a fantastic afternoon despite the poor game taking place before my very eyes. The noise from the home fans had long since subsided.

There had been, on sixty minutes – and while a player was getting treatment – a minute of appreciation, with white scarves being held aloft by the Leicester supporters in memory of their former chairman. Many Chelsea fans joined in. Good stuff.

Eden Hazard replaced Willian.

His last game in England? Almost certainly.

Mateo Kovacic replaced Barkley.

Olivier Giroud replaced the lackluster and lazy Higuain.

Tottenham scored a second.

Our game petered out.

A Chelsea draw and a Tottenham draw.

“As you were.”

I did not wait around too long to make a move. I saw a few players walking over. There were several – eight? ten? – fans with cardboard signs asking for shirts. There were a few adults among them. One sign was eight-foot long.

I hate modern football.

Outside, I shook hands with many.

“Have a good summer.”

“See you in Baku.”

I don’t think we will sell remotely close to our allotted 5,800 in Azerbaijan. But at least I was cheered to speak to a few that were going. I just have this dread of Arsenal heavily outnumbering us. Of my closest one-hundred Chelsea mates, maybe only fifteen are going. It is a sign of the absurdity of UEFA choosing such a host city. But that is a story for another day.

Outside, I chatted briefly to Long Tall Pete and Liz. We all loved the fact that both Chelsea and Tottenham drew. It was pure comedy gold. All that Tottenham had to do, with hindsight, was to win a home game against Everton and the twats would have finished above us. To think that they were being touted as possible title contenders at Christmas…

Third in a two-horse race in 2015/16.

Fourth in a three-horse race in 2018/19.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

Back in the car, it was time to drive south, and complete this story of our 2018/19 league campaign. Huge respect to PD for attending all thirty-eight games, I think for the second time in three seasons. I ended up missing two, the back-to-back games at Wolves and at home to City.

It has been, as the saying goes, emotional. But it has also been excruciating at times. There have only been rare games where I have been genuinely entertained. It has been a grueling slog. I have watched as supporters splinter into pro-Sarri and anti-Sarri factions. I have struggled with it all. I have struggled with this new type of football. I have become bored reading the never-ending appraisals of how – I hate this word, I rarely use it – “Sarribal” is meant to work.

I have lost count of the many deeply earnest and wordy explanations of “Sarribal” on social media that I have studied over the past year. All of a sudden “regista” is a buzz word. After virtually all of these appraisals, I have been so tempted to write “I bet you are fun at parties.” I see a worrying new sub-section of Chelsea followers who are not died-in-the-wool supporters in the most basic sense of the word, but critics and self-appointed “experts.”

Football, to me, is about passion, involvement, support, belligerence, suffering, humour, laughs, beers, a shared kin-ship, a devotion to the cause. And maybe some trophies thrown in for good measure.

OK, rant over, as the kids say.

We stopped at the pub in Hinckley for some nosebag. I continued enjoying the drive home, the spring colours fading as the sun dipped.

Cirencester, Malmesbury, Chippenham, Melksham, Bradford-on-Avon, Frome…home. Just in time to tune in to the highlights on “MOTD2.” Old habits die hard.

I will see some of you next season.

I will see some of you in Baku.

Cheers.

The Star, Moreton-in-Marsh, Gloucestershire & The Hinckley Knight, Hinckley, Leicestershire.