As I prepared for the trip into South Wales for our League Cup quarter-final at Cardiff City, I was relieved that I had finally caught up with the previous five blogs for games that I had attended. At last!
This was a huge weight off my mind
However, I couldn’t help noting that the viewing figures were significantly lower than average, and I guessed that was mainly due to the delays in publishing these. After the Everton game on the Saturday, I tried to improve my turnaround time and so published that match report in the small hours of Tuesday morning. For me, this is super quick. It usually takes a few days for ideas and themes to ferment. However, despite my relative rapidity, I was rewarded with the lowest viewing figures ever.
Yes, ever.
So, I don’t know.
Like some of Enzo Maresca’s team selections, I couldn’t fathom it.
There have only been two previous match reports involving away games at the Cardiff City Stadium – in 2013/14 and 2018/19 – but in the second one I went into quite considerable depth remembering our match at Ninian Park in March 1984. By a weird twist of fate, the games in 1984 and 2019 both took place on 31 March. The synchronicity was perfect.
I suspect that because the 2018/19 report included a big wedge of nostalgia from that iconic 1983/84 season, and the inevitable mentions of the football hooliganism of the era, it might well have attracted a different demographic compared to my normal readership.
Why do I mention this? It’s because the viewing figures for that match are particularly high. In fact, this game ranks at position number three in my all-time Top Ten views.
Galatasaray vs. Chelsea : 2013/14 – 1,950
Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 2013/14 – 1,882
Cardiff City vs. Chelsea : 2018/19 – 1,678
Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2014/15 – 961
Preston North End vs. Chelsea : 2009/10 – 948
Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2015/16 – 898
Chelsea vs. Manchester City (Part 1) : 2020/21 – 881
Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 2016/17 – 812
Chelsea vs. Manchester City (Part 2 ) : 2020/21 – 775
Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 2018/19 – 767
Despite the falling-off of views over the past few weeks, I am not disheartened one little bit. All the individual game stats that I mention above are via clicks on game specific links that I share on Facebook.
As a comparison, the last five games have these totals.
Burnley vs. Chelsea – 99
Chelsea vs. Arsenal – 84
Leeds United vs. Chelsea – 73
Bournemouth vs. Chelsea – 65
Chelsea vs. Everton – 61
But the good news is that far more people click on my homepage to access the match reports; a huge total of 10,070 in 2025.
This signals to me that most of my readers don’t need individual Facebook reminders to keep in touch.
And I love that.
So, I’m doing OK.
Total clicks – including clicks on photos – are up from 53,888 in 2024 to 84,395 in 2025 so far.
I’m very happy with this.
Thank you.
For the game at Cardiff, I worked 8am to 4pm, and I collected PD and Parky at the latter’s house in Holt at 4.15pm. I envisaged reaching my pre-paid parking spot on Sloper Road, right opposite the away entrance, at around 6pm, but hideously slow-moving traffic in Cardiff itself meant that I wasn’t parked up until 7pm.
I had arranged to hand over a couple of tickets to Brad, a work associate, outside the ground but he was running late too. So, I had some time to kill. While the other two hobbled over to the away end to sort out ticket issues of their own, I joined a long queue at a burger hut just ten yards away. Although it was very convenient geographically, the £5 double cheeseburger and onions was one of the worst ever, but I was starving and gobbled it down regardless.
Needs must and all that.
It was a cold evening, but I was wrapped up warm.
I bumped into loads of mates outside while I waited. It always amazes me that there must be close on six hundred or more that show up at every single domestic away game, no matter where or when. I must know a fair proportion of these. Same faces, game after game; it’s incredible.
I spoke to Dave, who now also pens his own match-day notes.
“A nice little friendly competition, Dave.”
While I was waiting for Brad, the team was announced.
I dubbed it “The B Team plus Moises.”
Jorgensen
Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato
Santos – Caicedo
George – Buonanotte – Gittens
Guiu
Brad and his young son Finley arrived at about 7.30pm.
“Let’s get in.”
I had decided to gamble getting my SLR in, but an over-zealous steward halted my progress. It was 7.45pm. The kick-off was at 8pm.
Not to worry, I walked the two minutes back to the car where, unlike certain managers in our recent past, I had a “Plan B” and replaced my Canon for my Sony “pub camera” and thankfully remembered – just – to swap over the memory card. I made it inside the large concourse and then the seats of the stadium as the teams were doing their “huddles.” While I made my way up the steps to my seat in “Row Z” – two-thirds of the way up – the game kicked-off.
I had left work at 4pm yet still only made it into the game by the skin of my teeth.
Just in time logistics is the name of the game these days.
The home side, flying high and on top of League One, contained such typically “Anglo”-Saxon names such as Trott, Lawlor, Chambers, Wintle, Colwill, Turnbull, Ashford, Davies and Robinson, plus the intriguing Ng.
Chelsea’s list of players sounded ridiculously exotic in comparison.
Cardiff in blue shirts with pinstripes, a memory of that 1984 game, white shorts and blue socks.
Chelsea in white with the green shorts and socks.
I spotted a fair few empty seats in our end. In the row behind me, for example, there were seven empty seats together. It had been a strange away game. For a week or more, there had been spares floating around yet many had not yet received their tickets by matchday and so had to get reprints at the home ticket office. Maybe this persuaded many from travelling.
The home team engineered the first real chance of the game at the end where the 3,200 Chelsea fans were stood. Callum Robinson’s header was thankfully weak.
Soon into the contest, a homophobic chant from the home areas aimed at us.
“Chelsea Rent Boys, you know what you are.”
Tut tut, and tut tut again.
Josh Acheampong arrived late on a tackle on Davies out on the Cardiff left but the referee played the advantage.
On thirteen minutes, a super cross from Tyrique George out on the right-wing raced across the box but nobody was on hand to get a touch.
Just after, a feisty retaliation tackle by Davies on Acheampong resulted in a yellow card.
Half-chances were shared, but no ‘keeper was stretched.
We had started off with a good tempo but soon reverted to type.
Pass, pass, pass, yawn, yawn, yawn.
Chances didn’t inspire much enthusiasm.
George had a shot blocked.
Davies was easily the home team’s biggest threat and an effort from him flew over the bar.
Marc Guiu’s shot from an angle was saved.
Then, a shot from Davies spun off perilously close to the corner flag.
A few songs were aired in our section.
“It’s Salomon!”
Chelsea also aired a very old song about sheep, and I almost split my sides laughing.
On thirty-five minutes, a ridiculously overhit cross from George evaded everyone. Just after a lovely sweeping pass by Moises Caicedo reached Jamie Gittens, but with only one person marking him rather than the usual two, he fluffed his lines with a dreadful touch and the ball embarrassingly spun away for a goal-kick.
On forty-three minutes, Davies was again the danger man as his attempted cross took a deflection and was aiming for the net until Filip Jorgensen reacted s well to push the ball off for a corner at the near post.
Just after, the home team set up a header that was straight at our ‘keeper.
No, not a great half, and Cardiff had edged the number of chances created. Our two wide men were especially poor, and it meant that Guiu was given hardly any ammunition. Facundo Buonanotte looked neat but didn’t set up Guiu with many touches either.
At half-time I spotted Nat with Rob and Martin at the rear of my section so joined them, with me standing in the very back row. I never watch a game at the top level from two different perspectives, so the superstitious part of me was a little concerned.
At the break, Enzo Maresca changed things.
Joao Pedro for Guiu.
Alejandro Garnacho for George.
To accommodate the Argentinian, Gittens disappeared off to the far side – our right – where he had such an ineffective first half. Maybe it was to keep him away from the away fans.
This change brought a little Chelsea pressure at the start of the half. Eight minutes in, a great Buonanotte break set up Garnacho, in the inside-right channel for a change, whose shot was saved by the Cardiff ‘keeper Nathan Trott. A shot from Joao Pedro was blocked just after.
I struggled to understand how or why Cardiff’s Davies was substituted.
We were well on top now.
On fifty-seven minutes, Buonanotte intercepted a poor pass out of defence and ran at the goal. A selfless flick out to Garnacho and the ball was calmly passed into the goal.
GET IN!
The scorer did his trademark celebration, and I just about captured it.
Alan in South London : THTCAUN, isn’t it.
Chris in South Wales : COMLD, look you.
I was so pleased for the scorer; he needed that goal.
The Bluebirds’ support goaded us.
“You only sing when you’re winning.”
A shot from Buonanotte was surely going into the top corner but Trott finger-tipped it over superbly.
On sixty-six minutes, two more changes.
Pedro Neto for Gittens.
Malo Gusto for Buonanotte.
We kept up the continued pressure.
Shots from Gusto, Santos, Caicedo and Neto rattled into the danger zone. Joel Bagan almost ran the ball into his own net as he tried to clear. This was surely one of those fabled games of two-halves, and the Chelsea support were enjoying this second-half onslaught.
But football can be a crazy game and on seventy-five minutes the match took a surprising twist.
An excellent cross from Perry Ng on the Cardiff right, that curled into the penalty box, found the leap of David Turnbull. Chelsea’s defenders had switched off. He was unmarked. He steered it in magnificently, the header beating Jorgensen all ends up. In fact, our ‘keepers’ dive was so late he still hasn’t landed.
Bollocks.
The Cardiff fans livened up now.
The thought of, perhaps, penalties made my heart sink. Thankfully, seven minutes later, in the eighty-second minute, a lovely bout of passing on the edge of the Cardiff box resulted in a low angled drive from Neto, and we were all relieved – no, over-joyed – when the ball crept in at the far stick.
YES!
Soon after, with the home fans silent, we goaded them.
“You only sing when you’re winning.”
There was a slight scare at the other end when a bouncing effort from a Cardiff player ended up on the top of our net.
Just after, a neat ball in from the dominant Garnacho, a turn from Joao Pedro, but another Cardiff block.
The Chelsea choir aired a favourite from fifteen years ago.
“Three Little Birds”.
But the Bluebirds were worried; they doubted if everything was going to be alright.
The gate was announced as 33,027, a fine attendance.
In the third minute of injury-time, a little head tennis out of defence lead to Joao Pedro setting up Garnacho. This time, his right foot steered the ball home. It was another great finish from the Argentinian.
I was so pleased for him. He has been one of the plusses over the past six weeks.
I had enjoyed my time with Nat, Rob and Martin, and won’t be so nervous about changing positions at half-time – “ooh, er, matron” – in the future.
As the home fans made a quick exit, the blue seats of the neat stadium were soon exposed, but the top tier of the surprisingly huge stand to our right looked like a huge flesh wound, a cruel reminder of that insane decision in 2012 by the chairman Vincent Tan to change the Bluebirds’ shirt colour to red.
Outside, I met up with PD and Parky. PD had been sat just behind Paul Merson and his son. Despite his association with lesser clubs, Merse remains a staunch Chelsea supporter, and I bloody loved the idea of him in among the rank and file of our normal support.
We weren’t allowed to move out onto Sloper Road until the area was clear. This took about thirty minutes. This allowed the local police to flush out a mini-army of Stone Island-wearing fooligans to stumble past us. Eventually, we could move. I gave Nat a lift back to her hotel – past Cardiff Castle, past the Christmas lights, lovely stuff – but even this took an age. We reached Nat’s hotel at 11.30pm.
On the way back, the new Severn Bridge was closed and so I drove over the original one, the first time for decades.
I eventually reached home at 1.30am.
It has been a decent little run in this season’s League Cup.
Three trips to Lincoln City, Wolverhampton Wanderers, Cardiff City.
Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 29 October 2025.
On an increasingly cold night in Wolverhampton, we watched Chelsea produce a fine first-half performance but to then self-implode in an increasingly bizarre, and at times comedic, second half. We ended up edging the game in a seven-goal thriller, although it was hardly a bona fide thriller. If anything, it was a black comedy.
A Black Country comedy.
After a decent but lengthy trip up to Lincolnshire for our first battle in this season’s League Cup, we could hardly resist a nice little jaunt into the West Midlands for a tie with Wolves.
I worked a 7am to 3pm shift, and the three usual protagonists were joined by my work colleague Simon. For a while, Simon was a bit of a Jonah on these Chelsea trips; he went winless in around seven trips a while ago. If we lost this one, I wondered if I should leave him up in in the wilds of the Black Country.
Heading north and over the M4, the trusty Sat Nav sent us on a wild goose chase through the back roads of the Southern Cotswolds, apparently avoiding roadworks and delays on the usual M4/M5 route. There was a little drama as Parky had difficulty in locating the email containing the elusive ticket for the evening’s game. Eventually, Simon sorted him out.
My ETA at Broad Street Car Park was around 6.15pm. The journey time of just over three hours would be longer than usual. Oh well, rush hour traffic south of Birmingham can’t be – er – rushed,
At least I was rewarded with some cracking views as I descended from The Cotswolds and into the Severn Vale at Coaley Peak. Then, for a while on the M5, while the others slept, clear blue skies to my west contrasted with wild and towering clouds over the hills to my east, the whole of that section of sky coloured with a lavender wash, but with dark grey brooding clouds in the distance, but then the tops of clouds were searing white, given life by the fading sun.
I wished that I could have stopped on the hard shoulder to take a few photographs.
I quick stop at Frankley Services, and then the slow approach into Wolverhampton through Dudley and Coseley.
The Sat Nav was bang on; I was parked up at 6.15pm. Simon sorted out the relevant parking App, and we then walked the ten minutes to Molineux.
All along I doubted that this game would sell out, despite the cheap ticket prices. We paid just £15 in the away section. I presumed that home areas were similarly priced. We stayed a while in the concourse, chatting to a few loyalists. Simon devoured a Balti Pie; PD supped a hot chocolate. After the Sunderland defeat, nobody was clear what performance was coming from Team Maresca.
I headed into the seats at 7.15pm. I was in row K, the tenth of fourteen in that elongated away tier, towards the Wolves’ South Bank.
The squad were running through their stretches, sprints and drills.
The substitutes were stretching with those elasticated resistance bands on their calves. From a distance, it looked like a load of blokes, hungover after a night on the ale, trying to put their underpants on.
The stadium at this stage was barely a third full. Our section took a while to fill too.
It was getting colder, but my new fleece-lined K-Way jacket was doing me proud.
With ten minutes to kick-off, there was a very half-hearted “Hi Ho Wolverhampton” and I wondered if the crowd would grow any further.
Next, “Firestarter” was played as the flames were set loose in front of us, and it temporally warmed us.
Then an homage to their life president Robert Plant, “Whole Lotta Love” and Kashmir” as kick-off approached. There were gaps everywhere, in the top corners of the main stand opposite, the odd “temporary” seats in the far corner to my left were devoid of people, as was the right-hand side of the ugly two-tier stand to my right.
As the teams appeared, a very odd choice of songs.
“Those Were The Days” by Mary Hopkin.
Ah, Mary Hopkin, my first-ever girlfriend, stop laughing at the back. I remember being exited when I heard that she was from Wales and that we were going to Tenby in South Wales for a family holiday in around 1968 and I wondered if I would meet her. I was only three.
I’m still waiting, Mary.
Now, I’m not sure if this song was meant to reference Wolves’ glory years. If it was, it was a decade out. A song by the Beverley Sisters would have been more apt.
Our team?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Acheampong – Tosin – Hato
Lavia – Santos
Estevao – Buonanotte – Gittens
George
It did not come as much of a surprise that Josh was the only player to retain his place from the Sunderland debacle, squad rotation et al.
At 7.45pm, the game kicked off.
Chelsea, in a crisp all-white kit, attacked the South Bank.
Very soon into the game, the locals teased us.
“We can’t say it, you know what you are.”
Oh boy.
“World Champions, you mean?”
We began well, and after just five minutes, Jamie Gittens picked up a loose ball inside the Wolves half and the ball ran on and into the path of Andrey Santos, who calmly slotted the ball home past Jose Sa.
Santos raced over to celebrate to my left.
Get in.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.
The home team came at us on the occasional break, and their wide men floated in a couple of testing crosses. It was a lively start.
One of the blokes to my left had already claimed that “Tyrique George ain’t a striker” – I knew what he meant, he’s a wide player, and doesn’t have the physicality to lead the line in a traditional way – so imagine the looks he received when a really fine move flowed through our team, and Gittens set up George to push the ball in from close range.
Only a quarter of an hour had elapsed.
Get in.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.
Just after, we went close again. A Gittens shot was blocked by Sa, but George was just unable to control the rebound, and the ball went wide.
Gittens was enjoying tons of space on the left, close to us, and a clipped cross caused havoc again.
It was lovely to be so close to Gittens as he continually exploited space on our left. I lost count of the times that he advanced with confidence, teasing their right back.
The lad hadn’t really enjoyed a great start at Chelsea.
Kev sagely commented that the adage of giving everyone one season to settle in at a new club still rings true, and we both hoped that Gittens will go on to find his true form. This first-half performance from him lit up the cold Wolverhampton night.
“Their right back will be having nightmares later on…”
On forty-one minutes, Wolves attempted to play the ball out, but Chelsea were having none of it. Santos stole the ball, and it ran towards Estevao. One touch to control, one touch to cheekily lob the ball over Sa.
Get in.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.
At half-time, the temperature worsened.
As our team took to the pitch at the start of the second period, I experienced a very odd feeling. I quickly glimpsed at them all, in an unfamiliar all white kit, and the players, taken as a whole, suddenly seemed oddly unfamiliar.
This jolted me.
I quickly attributed this to our large squad of mainly young, and relatively new players, and the fact that our team changes so bloody often.
It honestly felt that I hardly knew these players.
A few friends and acquaintances often say they feel no connection to the players in the current squad and here was a similar feeling for me. For a few fleeting moments, it felt that the players were ghosts in my consciousness…
Little did I know then, but for the next forty-five minutes, they played like they were bloody ghosts too.
The home team, with two half-time substitutions, suddenly upped their game, and went close with a cracking volley from Arokodare, who had headed just wide from a Wolves free kick in the closing minutes of the first half.
On forty-seven minutes, Buonanotte gave the ball away cheaply and the ball was worked out to Arokodare – a suspicion of offside? – who swept the ball in from their left.
Wolves 1 Chelsea 3.
Get out.
A succession of petty fouls from us gave Wolves some sort of motivation and they seemed emboldened. We, however, lacked desire and application.
On the hour, Maresca made three substitutions.
Marc Cucurella for Malo Gusto.
Enzo Fernandez for Romeo Lavia.
Liam Delap for Estevao.
As Delap strode onto the pitch, I thought to myself “yeah, we have missed you mate.”
I wondered if we had created a single effort on goal in this half. I thought not.
On seventy-two minutes, George gave away a damn silly foul on a Wolves defender. The defender was about twenty yards away from his own goal line, going nowhere. My message at times like this is always the same.
“Pen him in.”
Those around me were fuming at George too.
One lad said, “if we let in a second, nightmare.”
From the resulting free kick, the ball was knocked forward, and Wolves won a throw on the far side.
Oh great, a long throw.
The ball came in, the ball bobbled off heads and finally dropped for David Moller Wolfe who slammed it low past Joregensen from an angle.
Wolves 2 Chelsea 3.
Get out.
On seventy-six minutes, Pedro Neto replaced George.
Delap received a yellow card for bringing his hands up to push away a marker, and I lambasted him for being so silly.
On eighty-five minutes, Moises Caicedo replaced Buonanotte.
It seemed that the manager had taken too bloody long to realise the paucity of quality in this half and that he chose to bring on our strongest – in every sense of the word – player with just five minutes to go speaks volumes.
A minute later, I watched closely as Delap jumped with his marker, untidily, then elbowed the defender.
A second yellow.
No words.
Ugh.
Down to ten men, again, we were now hanging on in a game that looked done and dusted at the break.
The minutes ticked by.
I admitted to others that “we don’t deserve to win this.”
There was a comment about Halloween coming up soon, and this being a premature horror show.
At that exact moment, Gittens was put through and without a single touch to steady the ball, he lobbed the Wolves ‘keeper with an amazing first-time effort.
Get in, Gittens.
Wolves 2 Chelsea 4.
I looked at Kev and said “that’s just funny” without the merest hint of a celebratory cheer.
As six minutes of extra time was announced on the PA, I was checking my ‘phone and I looked up to see both the ball and Cucurella end up in the net.
They must have scored straight from the kick-off, how I do not know.
Wolves 3 Chelsea 4.
Get out.
What a ramshackle, preposterously bad, comedy-show of a football match.
Fackinell.
As we assembled outside before walking back to the car, it honestly felt like we had lost. I took little pride in this match. It had been, ultimately, a mess of a football game.
It could, of course, have been worse. Also playing during the evening were Frome Town, at home to local rivals Larkhall Athletic. Frome went 1-0 up but eventually lost 1-3. Two losses would have been hard to take.
There were diversions on the way home, too, and it meant that I didn’t reach my house until 1.20am. On that drive back to civilisation, we learned that we had been drawn away again in this competition, at Cardiff City.
There’s nice.
Postscript : when I woke on Thursday morning, it still felt like a loss.
After the long journey to Old Trafford that took up so much of my weekend, I was now faced with another long trip on the following Tuesday. Chelsea were paired with Lincoln City, and instead of hosting them at Stamford Bridge – as is usually the case, it seems – the Footballing Gods had bequeathed upon us a rare gift.
An away game. And a new ground for many.
There was no way I was going to miss this little beauty. I think many felt the same. With the first phase of this season’s Champions League returning us to Munich, Baku and Naples, I noted that Big John was looking forward to Lincoln more. I tended to agree.
With holidays at a premium, I decided to see if I could do this one without using any holiday at all. My plan was to work 6am to 2pm, zip up to Lincoln after work and then return home straight after, but with the added bonus of working a little later on Wednesday and doing a 10am to 6pm shift.
My three passengers were waiting for me in my work car park at 2pm; P-Diddy, Lord Parky and Sir Les, all using a crutch these days.
For one day only, The Chuckle Bus became The Cripple Bus.
My route was simple enough. I would drive over the M4 and soon take the route of the Fosse Way, the old Roman Road that linked Exeter and Lincoln. Its course runs a few miles to the west of my home village, nestled between the Mendip Hills and Salisbury Plain, and it’s always a great pleasure to drive along it. We always use the Fosse Way for away trips to Nottingham and Leicester.
My Sat Nav suggested that the drive from Melksham to Lincoln would be around four hours, but after a slow start getting up to the M4, that time proceeded to increase slowly but surely.
It was a long old slog. It was not helped by a thirty-minute tail-back on the M69 as we neared a short section of the M1. However, once past here, and after by-passing Leicester, it felt that we were finally making progress.
I last drove, for a limited section, along this A46 on the way to Forest last season, but the only other time that I drove in this area was on the way to Hull City in 2008.
My father, however, drove all of the way from Somerset to Grimsby during half-term in the autumn of 1973 to visit some friends, thus preceding my journey on this day by almost fifty-one years. I can vividly remember visiting Lincoln, spotting Sincil Bank stadium as his car drove very close to it, then seeing the impressive cathedral on the horizon.
After Blackpool’s Bloomfield Road – visiting friends in the ‘sixties – Sincil Bank, I think, was only the second football stadium I had ever seen.
I drove past signs of ugly place names like Ratcliffe on the Wreake, Ragdale, Grimston, Stragglethorpe, South Scarle, North Hykeham, Tithby
It’s no surprise that Scunthorpe is in Lincolnshire. Nor Grimsby.
Between 6pm and 7pm, the sun began to fade as we travelled those flat lands of Lincolnshire. To our right, we spotted the new sculpture of a Lancaster Bomber, hovering over a corn field on a slight rise of land. It’s a very impressive structure and commemorates the area’s role as a centrepiece of Bomber Command in the Second World War. Incidentally, my father was a wireless operator in Wellington Bombers, but served in Coastal Command in North Africa in the latter years of the war. He would have loved to see this new piece of public art.
Our route into the city took us around to the west and then in, and we approached Sincil Bank, now LNER stadium, from the north and not the south as in 1973.
The path took us past a very interesting structure, a Victorian grandstand by the side of the road that looked as though it was once allowed spectators to observe military parades or tattoos. The stadium buff inside me sparked to life.
At 7pm, I had found a secure parking spot on the pavement of the aptly named Scorer Street, just a few minutes’ walk from the ground. It was a perfect place, and I was happy.
The trip to Lincoln had taken five hours, but unlike the drive to Manchester, the weather had been nigh perfect, no rain, clear skies, dry roads, and my fellow passengers had provided me with good chat along the way.
As I gathered the troops for a photo with Lincoln Cathedral in the background, none other than Stuart spotted us. He lives three miles from me, and only a mile or so from the Fosse Way itself.
A little canal runs alongside Sincil Bank and oddly gives it the air of a foreign town or city. I half-expected fishermen with those long sturdy poles to suddenly appear.
I managed to get the money shot of the night; the cathedral to the north, so imposing, but with a grafter hawking half-and-half scarves in the foreground. My mission was accomplished; I could relax.
We were ushered along behind the away stand – the Stacey West Stand, named in memory of two Lincoln City fans who sadly perished in the Bradford Fire of 1985 – and as we stood in the queue to get in, there was a gathering of the clans with many familiar faces striding past.
This game really had caught the imagination of the Chelsea populace. Or to be correct, the stadium, if not the game per se.
I had sorted a ticket out for Cookie from Trowbridge, who luckily found himself within driving distance of Lincoln on one of his nights out as a lorry driver, “tramping” from spot to spot. Eventually, his digital ticket was sorted.
In the line to get in, fans were nervously holding their phones, displaying the red digital ticket, nervously hoping that it would not suddenly disappear.
I entered the packed terrace at about 7.20pm with no hint of a security check or bag check. My SLR was back in the car. How annoying.
I took my place in the stand, exactly behind the middle of the goal, row K, seat 73.
For the first ever time, I was able to select an exact seat from a coherent seating plan for this game, as you would do for a flight, and it made me giggle that the first time wasn’t for a game at Wembley, or Stamford Bridge, nor Old Trafford, but little Lincoln City.
Kick-off soon arrived. There was a vibrant atmosphere in the compact stadium which holds around 10,500. There are single-tiered stands on all four sides, but the one to my left, although the highest, was truncated, a little like the main stand at The Valley in days of yore.
Our team?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Hato
Santos – Fernandez
Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho
George
I was frankly amazed that Estevao, pulled off so early at Old Trafford, was not starting. And I wasn’t convinced, again, about Tyrique George leading the line. He seems to have very little physicality. He has wiry skills, but no punch.
So here I was. I had just about timed it all to perfection, it had been a decent drive up, but I seemed a little distant. Perhaps I was missing a pre-match of any description. This all seemed a little one-dimensional.
My body was at the LNER Stadium, but my mind wasn’t fully engaged. Need I be worried? Was this the start of the decline? Was I reading too much into it all? I put it down to the pressures of driving. I had no time to decompress. I hadn’t even been able to walk around the stadium, a real sin on a first visit.
The game began, and the intensity and noise from the home fan really surprised me, but enthused and excited me too. This game obviously meant a lot to the locals.
We are, after all, the World Champions.
“You’re only here for the Chelsea.”
And what a bombardment during that opening period of play, with the red and white striped home team getting in our faces from the off. There were a couple of long bombs from both sidelines, the Lincoln players launching massive throw-ins towards our six-yard box. There was a strong shot from an angle that thundered back off our far post, with the home crowd sure of a goal.
We were up against it here.
Next up, the unconvincing Filip Jorgensen came for a high ball but flattened Wesley Fofana in the process.
Fackinell.
During rare moments of attack, Alejandro Garnacho was chopped to pieces, and then roundly booed by the vociferous supporters in the packed stand to our right. Why was Garnacho being singled out for abuse? I wondered if many of the Lincoln City fans were also Manchester United supporters. After all, many fans follow a smaller club too. It just happened that theirs was Manchester United.
Lincoln were excellent in the first part of the game and never let us settle. We looked, most definitely, like the Southern Softies of past times.
There were homophobic shouts at us from the folk to our right.
Yes, very Man United.
Lincoln caused worry with every throw-in, every free kick, every corner, and our attacks, a little more methodical and patient, ended up going nowhere. To his credit Jamie Gittens did show nice pieces of close skill on the right. On eighteen minutes he wriggled clear and met a fine lofted ball from Enzo but shot over down below us.
A header from a corner bounced narrowly wide of Jorgensen’s goal.
Garnacho and Gittens swapped wings.
Despite our middling performance on the pitch, the away support, around 1,800 of us tightly packed together, were making a decent noise, though was there any real need to goad the home fans with “you’ve won fuck all?”.
They’re Lincoln City, for Gawd’s sake.
The home team tested us with an effort close-in when a corner was headed back into the mixer, and Jorgensen punched thin air, but thankfully the ball bounced away.
Another nice set of skills from Gittens, and his run into the box thrilled us, but he only made the side netting ripple.
Soon after, on forty-three minutes, I missed the apparently ludicrous pass across the defence by Enzo, but I saw their player take the ball off Chalobah and set up Rob Street, who calmly slotted home.
Three-quarters of the place erupted.
We fell silent.
Oh boy.
The celebrations from the stand to our right included the Dambusters, and I am sure I also heard the shrill sound of an air raid siren going off.
Fair play.
At the break, I sat to take the weight off my legs and contemplated a tiring trip home, perhaps after penalties if we managed to get a goal from somewhere.
“Town Called Malice” boomed on the PA, and I shouted back to Minnesota Josh.
“A Frome song…”
It had really been a poor show from us. It was typically slow and ponderous, with few plusses. Enzo had produced a litany of misplaced chips and passes, and I was amazed that he started the game too. As many have said, he looks tired, all played out.
The second period began.
After just two minutes of play, a run from Gittens on the left, and after losing possession the ball bobbled back and into the path of George. With virtually no time to think, and with minimal back lift, he swiped at the ball, and we watched as it lasered its way into the goal, maybe clipping the far post on its way.
It was a thunderbolt.
Did it remind anyone else of Jimmy at Old Trafford in 2000?
Previously underwhelmed and a little distanced, I celebrated the goal wildly.
I was back in the game.
GET IN.
Miraculously, just two minutes later, George played in Facundo Buonanotte who danced his way into the box and adeptly placed the ball into the goal. It was a really fine finish, neat and sure.
More celebrations in the Stacey West Stand.
Get in.
“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”
How would the game go now?
The rest of the match was an odd one. Lincoln City never gave up and we had to be dogged in our defending. Many a robust challenge went in on their players. At times it felt like we thought that we were 3-1 or 4-1 up, as we overplayed it and looked for a fancy move rather than playing it safe.
Changes were made.
59 minutes : Estevao for Garnacho.
71 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo
71 minutes : Pedro Neto for Gittens
71 minutes : Shumaira Mheuka for George
There was an unselfish ball from Estevao to Neto, but the shot was just wide.
We were still singing.
“When the samba rhythm starts to play, dance with me, make me sway, Estevao is running down the wing, scores a goal, makes the Chelsea sing.”
Fackinell, it was like being back on the Copacabana.
Neto passed to Buonanotte but his shot was straight at the ‘keeper.
Then, at the death, on a night that he probably would want to forget, Jorgensen came for a cross, absolutely missed it, but the half-chance was squandered as the ball was knocked over the bar.
Oh boy.
We made it.
At the end, my mate Jason texted to say “Buonanotte has had a good night” and I should really close this match report at this point.
Boo!
Via a rather circuitous route out of the city – due to the partial closure of the A46 – we eventually got away. At one stage, several cars – most undoubtedly Chelsea – were following each other through small Lincolnshire hamlets, villages and country lanes, no doubt following their GPS in the hope of hitting the main road again. On several occasions we found ourselves heading north.
I likened it to those convoys from village churches to wedding receptions when one car takes the lead and others blithely follow on.
Parky piped up “when you turn into your driveway tonight, you’ll have seven cars behind you.”
Thankfully, the A46 was reached, the rain stayed off and I eventually made it home at 2.10am with no cars crawling behind me.
I did not attend the away game in Copenhagen, but I know two Chelsea fans that did. PD and Parky, who I collected at 7am and 7.30am en route to London for the home game with relegation haunted Leicester City, had stayed in Denmark for five days and four nights and had thoroughly enjoyed their stay. I was unable to get time off from work for this game due to staff shortages in the office. On the journey to London, they regaled me with a few stories from the city and the game.
Though I missed that match, I have a few others to describe.
In a match report that will mention Chelsea Football Club’s celebrations of its one-hundred-and-twenty-year anniversary, I will continue my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season, a campaign that took place two-thirds of the way towards that 120 figure.
Saturday 2 March 1985 : Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea.
I would like to apologise for my behaviour on this particular day. For hopefully the only time in my life, I prioritised Tottenham over Chelsea.
That’s hard to read isn’t it? I can assure everyone that it was even harder to write.
With the second-leg of the Milk Cup semi final coming up on the Monday night at Stamford Bridge, I was unable to traipse across to Suffolk for our league match against Ipswich Town. This was all about finances. I simply could not afford two train excursions in three days.
Instead, I took alternative action and decided to attend Stoke City’s home match with Tottenham Hotspur which was to take place only a ten-minute walk away from my flat on Epworth Street near Stoke’s town centre if not city centre. As a student at North Staffs Poly, there was reduced admission in the enclosure in front of the main stand on production of my NUS card and I think this equated to around £2. I could afford that.
I had already watched Stoke on two occasions thus far in 1984/85 – two predictable losses against Watford in the league and versus Luton Town in an FA Cup replay – and on this occasion, Stoke lost 0-1 after stand-in ‘keeper Barry Siddall made a grave error, allowing Garth Crooks to score in the second half. The gate was a decent – for Stoke – 12,552 and I estimated 3,000 away fans. I approved of the fact that the visiting support sang “we hate you Chelsea, we do” as it felt appropriate to feel the animosity from “that lot.”
It was the first time that I had seen “that lot” in the flesh since a horrible 1-3 reverse in November 1978 at Stamford Bridge. I still shudder at the memory of that game.
“We are Tottenham, from The Lane.”
Ugh.
The irony of Garth Crooks grabbing the winner against the Potters was not lost on me. Crooks once lived in Stoke, in Butler Street, just behind the away end, and very close to where I would live for two years until 1987.
Meanwhile, at Portman Road, Chelsea succumbed to a 0-2 defeat against Ipswich, so there is no doubt that I was doubly miserable as I walked home after the match.
Monday 4 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Sunderland.
This was a special day – or evening – for me. Although I had seen Chelsea play a midweek match at Bristol Rovers in 1976, the game against Sunderland was the first time that I would ever see a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. After the aborted trip to London on Wednesday 20 February, this second-leg took place a full nineteen days after the first semi-final at Roker Park.
I attended a couple of morning lectures and then caught a mid-morning train to Euston. I got in at 12.30pm, which seems ridiculously early, but I suspect that I wanted to soak up every minute of the pre-match vibe around Stamford Bridge. I bought double pie-and-mash at the long-gone café on the North End Road and mooched around the local area until 4pm when I made my way to Stamford Bridge. I spotted Alan and Dave. There was already a queue at The Shed turnstiles. I can remember to this day how odd it felt to be at Stamford Bridge in the late afternoon ahead of a game. It was so exciting. I was in my element. It was sunny, it was surprisingly warm.
I was in as early as 5.15pm. The game didn’t start until 7.30pm.
I took my place alongside Al, Dave and the others in the West Stand Benches.
What a buzz.
A lot of Sunderland arrived late. My diary reports that they filled two and a half pens in the North Stand, so my guess was that they had 6,000 at the match. Chelsea filled one section near the West Stand.
The gate was 38,440, and I have read that many travelling Wearsiders were unable to get in to the ground.
Remember we trailed 0-2 from the first game.
The atmosphere was electric, and a breakthrough came after just six minutes. David Speedie smashed home with a cross-shot after being set up by Pat Nevin at the North Stand end. Superb celebrations too. I was hugging everyone.
Sadly, on thirty-six minutes we watched in agony as a Sunderland breakaway took place and former Chelsea player Clive Walker struck to put the visitors 3-1 up on aggregate.
The noise continued into the second half. Sunderland hit the bar. However, there was soon heartbreak. A Chelsea defender made a calamitous error that allowed Walker to nab a second. We were now 4-1 down and virtually out.
This is when Stamford Bridge turned wild. I looked on from my spot in front of the West Stand as the whole stadium boiled over with malevolent venom. Chelsea supporters flooded the pitch, trying to attack the away fans in the North Stand pens, and there was a running battle between police and home supporters. It was utter mayhem.
Incredibly, a policeman was on the pitch and inside the Chelsea penalty area when Colin West scored Sunderland’s third goal of the night. To be truthful, my memory was of a police horse being on the pitch, but maybe the hysteria of the night was making me see things. Then, a Chelsea supporter emerged from the West Stand, raced onto the pitch and tried to attack Clive Walker. Late on, Nevin lobbed the Sunderland ‘keeper to make it 2-3 (2-5) but by then nobody cared.
Speedie then got himself sent off.
I was heartbroken.
I walked back to South Kensington tube – one of the worst walks of my Chelsea life thus far – mainly to avoid West Ham and their ICF, who had been playing an FA Cup tie at Wimbledon, and who would be coming through Fulham Broadway.
I eventually caught the 11.50pm train from Euston and finally reached Stoke at around 2.30am, and I was surprised to see around fifteen Chelsea supporters get off at Stoke station. I got to know a few of them over the next couple of years.
So much for my first-ever midweek game at Stamford Bridge. Even to this day, forty years on, this game is looked upon with shame, and warped pride by others, as an infamous part of our history.
When I awoke the next morning, the events at Stamford Bridge the previous night were on everyone’s lips. In truth, I just wanted to hide.
If ever there was evidence needed of “we’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose” then this was it.
Saturday 9 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Southampton.
I was back in Somerset when this match was played, but did not attend. In truth, I was low after Monday’s events. This weekend was spent “in hibernation” in my local area, and on the Saturday afternoon I went out on a walk around my village. I caught a little of my local football team’s game in the Mid-Somerset League but then returned to my grandparents’ house to hear that we had lost 0-2 at home to Southampton. After the Sunderland game, I had predicted that our gates would plummet. I envisaged 15,000 against Saints. On the day, 15,022 attended. If only our strikers had been as accurate as my gate guestimates.
In truth, the trouble at the Sunderland game would spark an infamous end to the season. There would soon be hooliganism on a grand scale at the Luton Town vs. Millwall game, trouble at the Birmingham City vs. Leeds United game on the last day of the season, in which a young lad was killed, plus the disasters in Bradford and in Brussels.
The later part of 1984/85 would be as dark as it ever got.
Ahead of the game with Leicester City on the Sunday, I drove down to Devon on the Saturday to see Frome Town’s away game at Tiverton Town. This was a first-time visit for me. With both teams entrenched in the bottom of the division, this was a relegation six-pointer. In truth, it wasn’t the best of games on a terribly soft and bumpy pitch. Both teams had few real chances. There was a miss from James Ollis when one-on-one with the Tivvy ‘keeper, but Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips made the save of the season in the last minute to give us a share of the points. There were around fifty Frome Town fans present in the gate of 355.
On the Sunday, we stopped for a breakfast in Chippenham, and I arrived in London in good time. It was the usual pre-match routine. I dropped the lads near The Eight Bells, then parked up opposite The Elephant & Barrel. I walked to West Brompton and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge tube. I squeezed into a seat at our usual table and was able to relax a little.
Jimmy and Ian joined us, and then my friend Michelle from Nashville, who I first met for the very first time in Turin in March 2009. I had picked up some tickets for her at Stamford Bridge for the Juventus away game and we met up so I could had them over. I last saw Michelle, with Parky, in Porto in 2015. Neither of us could possibly believe that it was almost ten years ago. Alas our paths won’t cross in the US in the summer; Michelle will attend the Atlanta game while I am going to the two fixtures in Philadelphia. It was a lovely pre-match, though I am not sure Michelle understood all of our in-jokes, our accents, and our swearing.
There was time for a quick photo-call outside the boozer – Michelle had previously visited it before a Fulham away game – and we then made our way to Fulham Broadway.
It was a sunny day in SW6.
We were inside in good time, and we caught the introductions of some Chelsea legends before the entrance of the two teams.
We would celebrate our actual 120th birthday on the following day, but this was a superb first-course.
Dennis Wise, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink, Kerry Dixon, Ron Harris, Frank Blunstone.
Lovely applause for them all.
The ninety-year-old Frank Blunstone, a young winger in our first Championship during our golden jubilee of 1954/55, was very spritely and it was a joy to see him.
Ron Harris, now eighty, was flanked by his son Mark and his grandson Isaac.
How quickly the time goes. It didn’t seem so long ago that everyone at Chelsea was celebrating our centenary with our second league title, as perfect a piece of symmetry as you will ever see.
I also like the symmetry of me turning sixty in our one-hundred-and-twentieth year.
Anyway, enough of this bollocks.
The two teams emerged.
Us?
Sanchez
Fofana – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku
Neto
The return of Wesley Fofana against his former team. A team full of wingers. A false nine. Nkunku wide left. Square pegs in round holes. Round pegs in square holes. Sanchez in goal. Clive, still injured, at home. My mate Rich alongside PD, Alan and me in a flat back four. Michelle in the Matthew Harding Lower.
Leicester City in a kit the colour of wallpaper paste.
The game began.
In the very first minute of play, Cole Palmer went down after a challenge by Luke Thomas, whoever he is, but the appeals for a penalty were met by stoney silence by the referee.
Soon after, Pedro Neto whipped in a great cross from the right but…um, shouldn’t he have been elsewhere, possibly nearer the goal? Anyway, despite having a team full of wingers, nobody was running into the box to get on the end of the cross.
There was a Leicester attack, but a shot straight at Robert Sanchez.
Soon after, an effort from Palmer went wide, deflected away for a corner. From the ensuing kick, Palmer created space but shot high and wide.
“Oh for two. Here we go again.”
The away fans were shouting out about “football in a library” and the Stamford Bridge thousands responded by…er, doing nothing, not a whisper of a response.
On nineteen minutes, Jadon Sancho was fouled by Victor Kristiansen, whoever he is, and an easy penalty decision this time.
Tellingly, neither Alan nor I moved a muscle.
Sigh.
In our youth – 1984/85 – we would have been up and cheering.
Sadly, Palmer struck the penalty low and the Foxes’ ‘keeper Mads Hermansen – great name – saved well.
Bollocks.
“Oh for three.”
On twenty-five minutes, a mess in the Chelsea box. A cross came in, Sanchez made a hash of his attempts to gather, the ball hit Tosin and looped up onto the bar and Colwill was thankfully able to back-peddle and head away before the lurking Jamie Vardy could strike.
Throughout this all, I heard circus music.
On twenty-seven minutes, Cole was “oh for four.”
After thirty-nine minutes, Moises Caicedo floated a ball from deep into the box towards Marc Cucurella but, stretching, he was unable to finish.
I spoke about Vardy.
“How we could do with him running into the channels, causing havoc, stretching a defence.”
Our play was not so much “quick, quick, slow” as “slow, slow, slower.”
We saw a couple of late half chances from a Caicedo shot and a timid Nkunku header but there were predictable boos at the break.
Pah.
“Palmer has gone into his shell after the penalty miss.”
As the second half began, the sun was still shining but the temperature had dropped. I noted an improvement in tempo, in movement. Down below us, a Cucurella effort was blocked for a corner.
On fifty-one minutes, that man Vardy wriggled in and crashed a shot in from close-range at an angle, but Sanchez had his angles covered and blocked.
Just after, the otherwise energetic and engaged Neto let himself down and crumpled inside the area under the most minimalist of touches from a Leicester player. Everyone around me was quickly irritated by this behaviour. As he laid on the pitch, making out that he was mortally wounded, the shouts of anger boomed out.
I joined in.
“GET UP. GET UP! WE DON’T BELIEVE YOU.”
Bloody cheating footballers.
He limped to his feet and the boos rang out.
On fifty-five minutes, there was a great claim by Sanchez following a low cross from the Leicester right.
An hour had passed and just as we had finished praising Cucurella for his fine aggressive play in all areas of the pitch, I started filming some of the play down below me so I could show a clip of the game to a friend in Azerbaijan. Photos are clearly my thing, and I very rarely do this. On this occasion, luck played its part as I caught the play leading up to a super-clean and super-clinical finish from the man himself.
“Get in Cucurella.”
A great goal, and the three players involved were becoming the main lights in this once mundane match. Neto, despite his painful play-acting, was full of running and tenaciousness. Enzo was a real driving force in this game, trying his best to ignite and inspire. Cucurella was, as ever, full of energy and application.
We were 1-0 up.
Phew.
We had edged our noses in front against a stubborn but hardly threatening Leicester City team.
Alas, on sixty-nine minutes, Cole was 0-5.
Two substitutions on seventy-three minutes.
Tyrique George for Palmer.
Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.
A shot on goal from Enzo was blocked by Conor Coady, who used to be a footballer, and there was a shout for a penalty. VAR dismissed it.
On eighty-eight minutes, Pedro Neto hounded and chased the ball in a display of “top level pressing” and was roundly applauded for it, his redemption complete.
A minute later, a final substitution.
Josh Acheampong for Nkunku.
It had been another afternoon of middling effort matched by disdain from the terraces for this false footballer.
Tyrique George impressed on his cameo appearance and broke well, late on, setting up Enzo but his low drive was blocked well by Hermansen.
It ended 1-0.
This wasn’t a great game, but we had deserved the win. Miraculously it pushed back into the top four.
“How the hell are we the fourth-best team in England?”
Quality-wise, this is a really poor Premier League season.
We headed home. However, this would be a busy week for me as I would be returning to Stamford Bridge the following day and for the Copenhagen return game on the Thursday.
Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 14 February 2025.
Last Saturday, it was a case of “out of the Dripping Pan and into the fire” as Chelsea meekly exited from the FA Cup at the hands of an efficient, but hardly domineering, Brighton team.
As luck – or not – would have it, we were to play them in a league game just seven days later.
A trip to Brighton with three thousand close friends on St. Valentine’s Day?
How romantic.
As Friday approached, a part of me hoped that the management team could re-groove our appetite for creative and effective football during the week, but a larger part of me was resigned to the fact that our malaise would be beyond any quick fix.
I feared a repeat.
At least it wasn’t all about Chelsea on this sporting weekend. After the game at Falmer, I was going to head on to Bexhill-On-Sea to stay the night at my Sleepy Hollow Comrade Clive’s house, in preparation for a flit up to south-west London for Frome Town’s away game at Walton & Hersham at 3pm on the Saturday.
As I left work at 3pm on Friday – a very busy day of work, I had been up since 5.15am – it did not take me too long to realise that of the two football games on the horizon, I was relishing the latter rather more than the former.
During the week, on the Tuesday, there had been another trip to a Frome Town away game. For the second ever time, I made my way to Taunton Town. On a cold night, the visitors started slowly but quickly grew into the game. By the time the half-time whistle blew, a few Frome stalwarts found themselves agreeing with my comment that we had edged the first half.
The domination continued into the second period, and we enjoyed a couple of purple patches where we absolutely dominated the game. Half-way through the second half, we were awarded a penalty, but Albie Hopkins sent a shot low to the goalkeeper’s left that he was able to parry. Unfortunately, Hopkins could not nod in the rebound.
It ended 0-0, but the Frome supporters present were warmed by a very fine performance. The team rose to third-from-bottom.
There is a second part to the away game at Taunton, an addendum. On the way home from work on Thursday, I stopped for some provisions at a petrol station. I was sure that I spotted Albie Hopkins waiting behind me in the queue. I was to find out later that the Frome squad did some gym work that evening. It surely was him, but at the time I wasn’t 100% sure. So, I didn’t say “hello”. As I returned to my car, I wondered how the conversation might have gone.
Me : “You’re Albie, aren’t you?”
Albie : “Yes, mate. Why?”
Me : “Oh, I follow Frome Town. I go to a fair few games.”
And then it dawned on me that my immediate point of reference, since my mind tends to work in straight lines, would have undoubtedly been the game at Taunton on Tuesday.
Oh God, the penalty miss. Good job I stayed schtum.
When I left Melksham at 3pm on Friday, my projected arrival time at Lewes Railway Station car park was 6.15pm. There would be, just, enough time to meet up with the Mac Lads at “The John Harvey” once again before getting a train down to Falmer. This was the plan.
Unlike Saturday, the Sat Nav suggested the southerly option to the M3 before cutting across county. I was happy with this since I don’t honestly think that I could have stomached another spell of motorway madness for over three hours. I drove past Stonehenge, then onto the A303. I was directed off the M3 and onto the Hogs Back, and then south-easterly through some occasionally narrow and slow-moving back-lanes. On the B2130, I waited a while for a high Luton Van to extricate itself from a lane marked by overhanging trees, potholes and oncoming traffic. We were going so slow that it almost felt like I was taking part in a Chelsea attack. In the earl-evening shadows, I almost expected Robert Sanchez to appear behind me, ghostlike, and tap the rear windscreen, asking for directions out of the penalty box.
Shudder.
All the while, my ETA at Lewes was being pushed back.
Eventually I slotted onto the A27 just north of Hickstead and I had the finish line in my sights. However, the ETA was now 6.45pm, and so I contacted Mac to regrettably let him know that I would be heading off to the game straight away. There would be no pre-match meet-up this time. I drove past the Amex, atop the slight hill at Falmer and dropped down into Lewes. I was lucky to nab one of the last few parking spaces and then caught the train into Falmer. My friends Frances and Steve caught the same one and we muttered our dissatisfaction with last Saturday’s game, while hardly showing much hope for the evening’s re-match.
Yes, it did feel odd to be back at the same stadium so soon since the last game. I can remember two consecutive away games against Stoke City in 2015 – a gap of eleven days – but there were two home matches between those.
I retraced my path up to the entrance to the away end and made my way in.
Soon inside, I bumped into Paul and Andy – both from Brighton – and friends of mine since the ‘eighties. We all gave each other old fashioned looks as if to say, “here we bloody go again.”
The eighties…
Just over forty years ago, on Wednesday 13 February 1985, Chelsea travelled north to face Sunderland in the first leg of the League Cup semi-final. Sunderland had dispatched Crystal Palace, Nottingham Forest, Tottenham Hotspur and finally Watford in previous rounds – no mean feat – but I was confident that we would prevail, especially over two games. However, attending the first semi-final at Roker Park was always going to be a mission impossible for me, a student in Stoke, and I never even contemplated making travel plans for this match.
Looking back on those times, there is a certain regret that I never attended any of the three Sheffield Wednesday ties nor this first Sunderland semi-final.
After a glut of games – six matches in twelve days remember – there had been a blank Saturday before this match because of our elimination from the FA Cup, and so the payers had enjoyed a week away from competitive football.
This was the very first semi-final of any description that I was actively witnessing as a Chelsea supporter. I was a Chelsea fan in 1971 when we beat Tottenham in the same competition, but I was only six, and I have no recollection of being aware of those two matches.
On that day in 1985, I had morning lectures, then caught a bus up to Hanley to see “Blood Simple” at a local cinema. In the evening, I listened to the game on the radio. Our team?
Eddie Niedzwiecki
Colin Lee.
Joey Jones.
Colin Pates.
Joe McLaughlin.
Paul Canoville.
Pat Nevin.
Nigel Spackman.
Kerry Dixon.
John Bumstead.
Mickey Thomas.
Chelsea had a very healthy following up at Sunderland. The gate was 32,440 and we must have had 7,000 in the away section, the open Roker End.
My diary noted that Colin Lee played throughout the game with a heavily bandaged thigh. Alas, Joe McLaughlin went off after just ten minutes and was replaced by Dale Jasper. Sadly, it was not a night to remember for our promising young midfielder. During the first half, the youngster – asked to work alongside Pates in defence – gave away a cheap handball inside our penalty area, and Colin West slammed home the spot kick. Then, in the second-half, Jasper pulled back West and the referee had no option but to award a second penalty. Eddie Niedzwiecki got a hand to it, but West bundled the ball home after it came back off the post.
I remember watching the highlights on TV. I remember how cold it looked. Niedzwiecki played in tracksuit bottoms. Players slipped on the icy surface. Those who went have told me how bitter it was, and there were grim reports concerning the violence outside before and after the game.
Despite the 0-2 reverse, I was wildly optimistic of us turning the tie around in the second game against Sunderland.
As for the second game in 2025 against Brighton, I was inside the away seats with about twenty minutes to go. On Saturday it was seat 73. Tonight, it was seat 93. This meant that, unfortunately, I would be forced to watch much of the action through the goal nets, never an ideal situation. I was alongside Gary, John and Alan, all wearing various bobble hats. It was, again, a cold night.
Our team?
Filip Jorgensen.
Malo Gusto.
Marc Cucurella.
Moises Caicedo.
Trevoh Chalobah.
Levi Colwill.
Pedro Netro.
Enzo Fernandez.
Christopher Nkunku.
Cole Palmer.
Noni Madueke.
On Saturday, we had 5,900. Tonight, it would be 3,000. Again, Chelsea in all black.
The same routine as Saturday; flames, smoke, “Sussex by the Sea.”
At 8pm, the match began. Malo Gusto broke quickly down the right wing in the first two minutes and set up Cole Palmer, square and in a good position. However, his shot was well over. I groaned and wondered if it was a taste of things to come.
Despite many moans throughout the week about our poor performance on the previous Saturday, I was pleased to hear a decent selection of songs coming out of the away end around me in the first ten minutes or so. The Chelsea fans, at least, had started the game well. We had begun the brighter but then the home team had a little spell, and we needed to be on our toes.
On twenty minutes, Noni Madueke raced down the right and played the ball inside to Palmer. Sadly, we witnessed another poor effort; the shot was sliced wide. However, Madueke stayed down having twisted or strained something of importance and after a few minutes of treatment was forced to leave the field of play. He was replaced by Jadon Sancho.
Pedro Neto swapped flanks to accommodate Sancho on the left.
On twenty-two minutes, a beautiful, curved ball from deep from Palmer found Christopher Nkunku but the chance passed by.
Five minutes later, Bart Verbruggen released a rapid punt up field, aimed at the effervescent Kaoru Mitoma, and I immediately sensed danger. I happened to have my SLR to hand and although I did not capture Mitoma’s incredible cushioned first touch, I did capture him just about to spring past Trevoh Chalobah, who was the poor victim of Mitoma’s precise control. We all watched as he spun inside and struck a firm and low shot past Filip Jorgensen into the bottom corner.
Bollocks.
The home crowd roared. I looked over to where Mac was situated but couldn’t see him. He was, no doubt, smiling away.
On the TV replay, we wondered if our ‘keeper could have done better.
But there was one thing that was uppermost in our minds : “why can’t we occasionally hit a long ball like that?”
Ironically, straight after the Brighton goal, Jorgensen did hit a long one up to Neto, but he blasted over.
As the game continued, John reminded me that we had now played over two hours of football with not one single shot on target.
Fackinell.
Another shot from Neto but blocked.
I joked that it was nice of the Chelsea players to play a very high proportion of their passes right in front of us in the away end, venturing further up field on very rare occasions. However, I was bored rigid. This type of football might be statistically advantageous, but it gives nothing to the game as a spectacle.
Football is all about entertainment, right? Well, this rigid and dull conformity in our play does nothing for me.
Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.
No change of pace, no individuality, football for robots.
If this is the future of football, God help each and every one of us.
On thirty-six minutes, a rare attack. There was a fine chip into the box from Nkunku out on the right and then a leap from the otherwise quiet Enzo Fernandez. His header dropped into the goal. This was met with a roar of relief in the away end, only for VAR to rule it out for a push by Fernandez as he jumped for the ball.
On thirty-eight minutes, Brighton advanced down their left flank through Georginio Rutter. His shot was deflected by Levi Colwill onto Jorgensen, who reacted well to save, only for the ball to find Danny Welbeck who then played in Yankuba Minteh. He found a yard of space and pushed the ball past Jorgensen, who was now on his knees.
Bollocks.
On forty minutes, Gusto had another off-target shot.
Our play was getting worse and there was no urgency. Our play wasn’t pass-and-move, it was pass-and-stay-still. I can’t see it catching on.
Just before the break, a load of spectators immediately behind me – about twenty-five perhaps – vacated their seats and I hoped that they would return for the second half.
At half-time, all was doom and gloom as the night got colder still.
However, Noel, who was a couple of rows in front with Gabby, proclaimed that he was still confident.
“That’ll be your toothpaste” I replied.
John, Gary and I were unconsolable.
“Worse than Saturday.”
“It’s worse than Saturday because there has been no fucking reaction to Saturday.”
“Nothing.”
“What has Maresca been telling them all week?”
“Fackinell.”
Thankfully, the supporters re-filled the seats behind me at the start of the second half, but…God…the second period was worse still.
There was a little gallows humour from Gary to keep me sane – “Nkunku has got balloons that have gone past their sell-by date” – but the football on the pitch was truly dreadful.
On fifty-seven minutes, at last a little teaser of skill from the otherwise woeful Palmer. He dropped a ball out to Neto on the right but the resulting cross only found a defensive head.
The end was nigh.
On sixty-three minutes, Brighton recovered the ball and started a move. However, I focused on Levi Colwill who had given the ball away but was now sat on his arse appealing for a foul to be given. I was fuming. Can anyone imagine John Terry or Gary Cahill doing this? The ball was worked out to Minteh. There was a one-two with the always canny Danny Welbeck, and Minteh advanced. My eyes flipped back to Colwill, now slowly jogging back, and I began venting. Before I could blink, Minteh danced past a gathering of Chelsea defenders who were showing the same lackadaisical tendencies as Colwill, and smashed home. One final half-arsed attempt by Colwill involved him lunging at nothing and it made my blood boil.
We were 0-3 down.
Bollocks.
I fumed at Tombsy.
“Did you see Colwill there? Fucking disgrace.”
Way too late, Maresca made three substitutions.
Reece James for Gusto.
Tyrique George for Neto.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.
At least the youngster George added a little late vitality to the game, but by now the away end was decimated. People had left en masse at 0-3 and I warned the lads that I would be off at the eighty-minute mark.
My problem was this. When I am with PD and LP, who both walk with sticks, we are allowed to “fast-track” to the platform at Falmer. Tonight, I was by myself. If I left at the end of the game, I would probably face an hour-long wait. In an ideal world, it would be Chelsea leading 3-0 and I could set off at eighty minutes a happy man.
Alas not. In fact, I left earlier still, on seventy-eight minutes. For only the fifth or sixth time in almost 1,500 games I left early. I felt awful ascending those steps to the exits.
Outside, the night bit me. To keep myself warm, I raced down the slope, and it seemed that my exit strategy was working. There were few people ahead of me.
Thankfully, just as I approached the final ramp at the station, the 2146 train pulled in. By 2153 I was back at Falmer. By 2245 I was back at Clive’s house in Bexhill-On-Sea.
Clive would soon confirm that we had not managed a single shot on target the entire game.
Yes, dear reader, we had been firing blanks on St. Valentine’s Day.
Clive and I endured a typical post-mortem, and it was dominated by negatives.
The only positive was that I was off to see Frome Town the next day.
Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 8 February 2025.
So, two games at Brighton in seven days.
On Saturday 8 February in the Cup.
On Friday 14 February in the League.
Both games at 8pm.
They are a funny side, Brighton, almost as funny as us. We had beaten them 4-2 earlier in the season, and they had lost 0-7 at Nottingham Forest in their last league outing. But on their day, they are capable of much greater things. The two games would be a test of our resolve, and maybe a test of our support too.
For the FA Cup encounter, our support passed with flying colours. I believe that we were originally given 4,000 tickets, but this eventually went up to around 6,000 when it transpired that the home team was having trouble in shifting tickets.
If nothing else, having such a solid away support would be a good experience, a right royal show of strength, and a nod to previous eras when our away support was rock solid.
The travel plans were sorted out, but with a late change. It suddenly dawned on me that I could get an extra game in, at Lewes, while PD and Parky would be getting some beers in at a local pub. For this reason, I set off a little earlier than planned. I called for PD at 11am and I called in for Parky at 11.30am. The plan was to be parked up at Lewes train station at 2.30pm to enable me to attend the Lewes vs. Potters Bar Town game in the Isthmian Premier at 3pm. This is the same level of football that my local team, Frome Town, compete.
At Step Three – level seven – there are four divisions and I include here the average gates too :
Northern Premier / 726
Southern League Premier – Central / 560
Southern League Premier – South / 593
Isthmian Premier / 714
While I would be watching at Lewes, Frome Town would be playing a home game against Sholing. I am far from a ground-hopper, but my interest in watching a game at Lewes was piqued when I purchased the “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” book a few years ago. Of all the stadia within these isles, The Dripping Pan at Lewes was voted top of the pile. It certainly looked a quaint and quirky stadium with plenty of idiosyncratic features, but was it really the very best of the lot? I was about to find out.
The drive down to Sussex was rather boring, with murky weather overhead, and greyness all around me. There was fog early on, but at least the rain was minimal. The route itself did not help; rather than the more picturesque road south to Salisbury and then passing by Southampton and Portsmouth, past Chichester, my Sat Nav took me north to the M4, then around the M25, then down the M23. For once, I didn’t enjoy the drive too much.
I was held up in a little traffic on the M25 and eventually deposited PD and Parky in the centre of Lewes at 2.40pm. I made my way to the train station, but it took more time than I had hoped to get my newly acquired parking app to register my car. While I was cursing modern technology, a ‘phone call from PD.
“What’s the pub called, again?”
They were already lost.
Due to my delay at the car park, and despite The Dripping Pan being only a five-minute walk away, I entered the stadium four minutes late with the home team already 0-1 down.
Fackinell.
I positioned myself on the large – for non-league standards – covered home terrace and got my bearings. It was indeed a quirky stadium, but the overcast weather did not help me to fully appreciate its charms. However, it certainly was different. There were beach huts as sponsor lounges, a viewing area atop a lovely grass bank, a substantial terraced away section, and a plush stand with seats along the side. There was a bar right behind the home end – it resembled a pub – and in the corner I spotted what can only be termed a rockery, with plants and palms. I hope the photos do it all justice.
But I had to think to myself; “the very best in Britain?”
I wasn’t so sure.
I watched from a few viewpoints to get the maximum effect. I spoke to a chap from Stoke, now living nearby, about how much I like the non-league scene these days. On the pitch, the home team equalised just before half-time but then conceded again before the break. However, my mind wasn’t really on this game. My mind was back in Somerset, and alas Frome Town were losing 0-1. The game at Lewes was a slow burner and only really came to life in the last fifteen minutes; the home team equalised with a fine goal, only to concede again in the fourth minute of injury time. Potters Bar Town, cheered on by around fifteen fans and one flag, won 3-2. The gate was 705.
In deepest Somerset, Frome’s fine revival came to a spluttering end, with a demoralising 0-3 home defeat. The gate there was a disappointing 452.
In truth, although my body was at The Dripping Pan, my head was at Badgers Hill throughout the entire afternoon, and it absolutely reminded me that I only tend to really enjoy football these days if I have a vested interest in one of the teams playing.
I met up with PD and LP after the game at “The John Harvey” and the two of them were squeezed in at a table with Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire. I made a point of saying that “the last time I was here, we lost 4-1”, that hideous game two seasons ago when Graham Potter visited his former club and was sent packing. We were well and truly stuffed that day.
“The John Harvey” is a cracking little pub in Lewes town centre, which itself is a cracking little town. We were soon joined by my Brighton mate Mac and his friend Nick. They are both occasional visitors to The Dripping Pan themselves.
I mentioned its place in “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” to the lads, and explained how Stamford Bridge is not featured at all. That’s right, dear reader, our beloved stadium is not even in the top one hundred. However, had the original pre-1993 edition still be in existence, I am sure that it would be in the top ten, such is the love these days of old-school stadia, original sweeping terraces, old stands, crush barriers, and the like.
Nick commented that Stamford Bridge could be a dangerous place to attend a few decades ago. However, the overall listings within the book were not really concerned with past spectator safety but were attributed to architectural significance, history, ambiance and atmosphere.
Mac remembered a game that he had attended at Stamford Bridge with Nick, as neutrals, back in 1985 against Sheffield Wednesday and I was rather pleased to tell them that I was going to be featuring that very game in my retrospective section of my report for the day’s match.
How’s that for synchronicity?
Let’s head back to February 1985.
Two days after the away game at Leicester City, Chelsea were at home to Millwall in the fourth round of the FA Cup on Monday 4 February. I listened to the match updates on Radio Two and was saddened to hear that we were 0-1 down. Later, the score went to 2-2 with our goals coming from Paul Canoville and Nigel Spackman, but then Millwall went ahead via Steve Lovell. In the eighty-seventh minute, our quite ridiculous penalty woes continued as David Speedie – despite netting from the spot at Filbert Street – blasted way over. We lost 2-3 and were out of the FA Cup. I had hoped for a gate of 24,000 so was probably pleased that 25,148 were at Stamford Bridge that night. The Millwall manager at the time was George Graham. I wonder what happened to him.
The second replay of our Milk Cup quarter final against Sheffield Wednesday at Stamford Bridge took place on Thursday 6 February. On that day, I travelled back to Somerset by train from Stoke after a couple of morning lectures and so I listened in to the game on the radio at home. For those keeping count, Chelsea played six games in just twelve days, as miraculous as that sounds today. The whole radio programme was devoted to our game, a rare occurrence in those days.
The second replay against Sheffield Wednesday was a classic. They went ahead via Gary Shelton on twelve minutes, but we were level when an incredible bit of skill from Pat Nevin allowed him to set up a David Speedie header on thirty minutes. His “scoop” over the wall to himself was magical. Then, in the final minute, a Paul Canoville corner was headed home by the mercurial Mickey Thomas.
At home, in Somerset, I went wild and was close to tears.
For the first time that I could remember, we had reached a semi-final.
After the 25,148 gate on the Monday, Stamford Bridge hosted a crowd of 36,395 on that Wednesday. And that number included Mac and Nick, who went with some Sheffield Wednesday friends, and watched among the Wednesday throng from the north terrace. Mac admitted to me how scared he was that evening. The away end at Stamford Bridge was no easy place to slope away from, especially since there were often Chelsea supporters in other pens in the same end, sharing the same limited exit routes. On many occasions, Chelsea would secretly infiltrate the away pens too.
I never once watched a game from that north terrace; I think it is safe to say that I had my reasons.
There is some TV footage of the baying Stamford Bridge crowd that night, several minutes after the end of the game, showing an ecstatic home crowd staying in the stadium, lording it over the away fans, in their pomp. There are extended shots of fans climbing all over the security fences, pointing and gesticulating at the Wednesday fans –
“WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY, WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY – YOU AIN’T, YOU AIN’T”
Unfortunately, I can only access it via a private Facebook group and so can’t share it here but the venom and vitriol – AND NOISE – generated by those Chelsea fans…I can’t lie, virtually all lads…that night got me all dewy-eyed when I first witnessed it a few years ago. Those noisy days of my youth were spellbinding. I miss them dearly.
In Lewes, in 2025, we had made our way outside and stood with our drinks. It was about 6pm, so Julie and Tim left to catch an early train to the stadium. The closing moments of the England vs. France rugby match was taking place inside the pub and I did my best to show no interest whatsoever.
At around 6.30pm, we said our goodbyes to Mac and Nick – “See you Friday, mate” – and walked back to the station to catch the train to Falmer.
It left at 6.58pm.
I was inside the away end at 7.30pm.
Perfect timing.
The three of us were split up in various areas of the Chelsea support which in this case featured all of one end and wrapped itself around into a couple of sections of the stand along the side. As luck would have it, I was right in front of my usual match-day mate John. As kick-off approached, the away crowd grew and grew, and I was able to spot so many familiar faces. I have never really noticed before, but the seats at the Amex are padded. Nobody sits at away games. I had no real reason to notice before.
As kick-off approached, “Sussex by the Sea” was lustily sung by the home support, which looked to be at around two-thirds capacity. Our tickets were just £25. I have no doubt that the price was the same in the home areas. That’s poor from the Brighton support. On the premise that our extra thousand tickets sold out in just eight minutes, I wondered how many we could have sold in total, despite the problems of a late kick-off on a Saturday evening. Maybe eight thousand? Who knows.
A predictable show of flames and fumes in front of the stand to our right, and then the teams.
Enzo Maresca chose this line up.
Sanchez
Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – Cucarella
Dewsbury-Hall – Caicedo
Neto – Palmer – Sancho
Nkunku
I suppose we had no choice but to wear the black kit, but it couldn’t have been easy picking out teammates in the evening murk.
I spotted that the match balls were a peach colour.
“Yeah, I know.”
The game – “Peachball” anyone? – began.
We attacked the far end and began well. Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall hit the side netting with the game’s first offering. Next, a nice move down the right. The ball was played out to Pedro Neto, who spun behind his marker and accelerated away. He passed to Jadon Sancho, who played the ball to Cole Palmer. Palmer tested Bart Verbruggen with a dipping shot that needed to be palmed over.
“C’mon Chels.”
From the corner that followed, which Palmer took, the ball was played back and square – to be honest I was distracted by something – and by the time I looked up, the ball had been played back into the box by Palmer and somehow ended up in the goal. I roared and fist-pumped, though I wasn’t exactly sure how or why Verbruggen had not dealt with the ball in.
We purred as we witnessed a lovely sliding tackle from Trevoh Chalobah as a Brighton attack found its way inside the box. However, not long after, Brighton attacked our other flank, our right, and Tariq Lamptey was able to cross. This time, Chalobah did not perform so well. His header went to a Brighton player, who set up to Joel Veltman. He curled a short cross into the danger area. Georginio Rutter rose unchallenged – between two defenders – and his well-aimed header dropped into the goal. I was right in line with the header and mumbled “goal” to myself before it had crossed the line.
Yeah, I bloody saw that one clearly enough.
Bollocks.
Twelve minutes had passed, and it was tied 1-1.
Within a few seconds, the stand to my left – I know where Mac sits, I spotted him – boomed “Albion, Albion.”
We noticed Christopher Nkunku coming back to receive a ball from a central defender, way deep, and this was not a one-off. He was playing in the midfield area and we were aghast. As the first half continued, and as we continued to struggle to put anything together, we noted how reluctant Nkunku was to occupy the space usually manned by Nicolas Jackson. I presumed that this was under the instruction of Maresca. With Palmer coming deep as well, we simply did not have much of an attacking threat. Neto, who had begun well, withered away, and Sancho was reluctant to advance. In truth, there was no movement upfront for the wingers to hit quite simply because there was nobody upfront.
It was all very lacklustre and poor. From both sides in fact, but of course we were more concerned about our lack of energy, creativity, drive and football intelligence.
The Chelsea choir, that had begun the game in relatively good form, began to fade.
An odd selection of songs honouring past players was aired.
“That’s why we love Solomon Kalou.”
Jimmy the Greek, who was a few yards ahead of me, turned to me and we both took turns to yell –
“It’s Salomon!”
This was a poor football match. Palmer, our creative force, was quiet and the rest seemed disinterested.
One passage of play summed it all up. A quick ball was played through to Sancho who was probably level with the Brighton penalty box. However, instead of him going on to the front foot and asking questions of his marker, within five seconds the ball was back with Chalobah in our own half.
Fucksake.
Our only notable chance came when Moises Caicedo spotted a rare run from Nkunku. His lofted ball dropped perfectly for a strike on goal, but instead the timid Nkunku hooked the ball over to Palmer whose headed effort lacked, well, everything and dropped lamely over the bar and onto the roof of the net.
Crap.
This was a grey and passionless performance.
Half-time arrived and the away end was numbed by our limp showing thus far. I said to a few mates “can we flip a coin and get it over and done with now?” The night was getting colder, and the football was not warming us up one iota. Sadly, the second period was bloody worse.
Soon into the half, a spirited chant from the away end tried its best to rally the troops.
“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”
How ‘eighties.
We dominated possession but had no idea how to break the home defence down. Sadly, on fifty-seven minutes, Brighton broke quickly via a searching ball from Rutter who found the dangerous Kaoru Mitoma. He played the ball in to Lamptey. His shot was blocked, and I saw players fall as the ball ricocheted around. The ball then ended up being aimed at Mitoma. From my angle, the ball appeared to hit his raised hand, but we all watched in agony as he took the ball down and placed the ball past Robert Sanchez.
Bollocks.
With that, Enzo Fernandez replaced the utterly forgettable Dewsbury-Hall.
Just after, chants for Roman Abramovich, but no chances.
A trio of songs from the Chelsea end.
“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”
“Cam On Chowlsea.”
“Carefree.”
We struggled to create anything. I can only recollect a few shots on goal. An effort from Enzo whizzed past the post. Marc Cucarella – booed by the home crowd from the start – set up Palmer but he was always stretching, and the effort went hopelessly high and wide.
I said to John “we’ve got worse this half.”
On seventy-five minutes, the wingers were changed.
Noni Madueke for Neto.
Tyrique George for Sancho.
The away end was like a morgue in the final portion of the game.
George tried his best, and on ninety-three minutes he turned inside and shot at goal, but the shot sailed over.
As the game drifted to its inevitable conclusion, there was the irony of a firm strike from Enzo being – wait for it – on target but it was saved by Verbruggen, only for the ball to have gone out for a corner in the build-up to the shot in any case. It was a shot on goal that wasn’t.
Oh boy.
The game ended and we were out.
Out of both domestic cups in early February.
There had been no reaction at half-time, and there had been no reaction to Brighton’s second goal.
Shocking.
It was, hand on heart, one of the worst Chelsea performances that I can ever remember seeing. One shot on target during the entire game? Good grief, Enzo Maresca.
As I exited past the padded seats, I wondered if I might need a padded cell in the coming weeks and months. I was aware that a few players were walking towards the away end, but I turned my back to them and left.
We hurriedly made our way back to Lewes, and I drove home. I reached my house just after 2am.
Fackinell.
And on Friday, we go back to the scene of the crime again.
Our third match in this season’s UEFA Europa Conference would be a home game against Armenian side Noah. Ever since the draw took place a couple of months ago, I had been flinching at all of the puny puns emanating from everyone concerning the team’s name, but I also knew that it would be remarkable should I not join in at some stage.
I stumbled across a reference that my good friend Alan might appreciate. The day before the game, late on, I messaged him about the imminent game.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark.”
He replied with an emoji of a wide grin.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark” is a Cocteau Twins song from their “Lullabies” EP from October 1982.
You all knew that, right?
On the day of the match, the Thursday, I worked an early shift, finishing at 2pm, and my thoughts centred on Noah being, quite possibly, the worst team that the full Chelsea side might ever play. The 21-0 aggregate score line against Jeunesse Hautcharage in the ECWC in 1971 drifted into my mind a few times too. The scores were 8-0 away and then 13-0 at home and I wondered about comparisons. One of that Luxembourg team wore glasses apparently although there is no truth in the urban myth that one of his team mates only had one arm.
Just as I left the office, I could not resist. I turned to my work colleague Stu and said that Noah’s formation later in the day would be 2-2-2-2-2 and I heard a hollow laugh inside me.
Fackinell.
I collected PD and Parky and we were away.
A couple of days before the game, however, there had been a double strike of sad news.
On the Tuesday, we all heard that Doreen Bruce had passed away. I first met Doreen, a proud wee Scot, out in Kiev in 2019, and our paths crossed on many occasions over the recent past. Doreen was big friends with Aroha and Luke, and they were always seen together. I remember spending some time with Doreen in that square in Porto ahead of the CL Final in 2021. She loved Chelsea and she loved Scotland just as much. I always enjoyed seeing her patriotic posts from Hampden Park and elsewhere. She was a real character, full of bubby energy, and will certainly be missed.
RIP Doreen.
On the Wednesday, we learned that John Dempsey passed away at the age of seventy-eight. He was an old stalwart from our early ‘seventies golden era, was one of Chopper’s “assassins” and was a respected defender. I saw John play in three of the first five Chelsea games that I ever attended, in 1974 and 1975. I remember him winding up some Arsenal fans at half-time in a game at Stamford Bridge a few years back. I also remember him playing alongside Peter Osgood at Philadelphia Fury in the late ‘seventies. I believe he worked for many years with underprivileged children.
RIP John.
The drive up to London was uneventful. While I waited for a pizza at “Koka” on the North End Road, I smiled when I heard “Kiss Of Life” by Sade being played. From Rio de Janeiro in July, to West Ham away in September, to the North End Road in November, this singer is haunting me this season.
I trotted down to “Simmons” and met up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Luke, Alex from Houston – again – and also my mate Leggo from Bedford, but also from The Benches in 1984.
Ah, 1984.
Just a very quick mention of our next game in that 1984/85 season. On Tuesday 6 November 1984, Chelsea beat Walsall 3-0 in a League Cup Third Round Replay in front of a pretty reasonable 19,502. Keith Jones followed up his brace against Cov with one goal, while David Speedie and Kerry Dixon scored too.
We were joined by some friends from the US; Jesus, Austin, Tim, Hooman, Detroit Bob.
Everyone together. Everyone tacking the Mick. Tons of laughs.
Football, eh?
I loved to hear that Doreen had bequeathed her season ticket to Luke’s little three-year-old son Archie – as featured last season – and Luke had spent a large part of the Wednesday sorting that out. I also loved the fact that Archie has a ticket for the trip to Heidenheim in a few weeks.
We saw the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen. It looked remarkably attack-minded.
Jorgensen
Disasi – Tosin – Badiashile – Veiga
Enzo
George – Nkunku – Joao Felix – Mudryk
Guiu
Although I was inside with a fair few minutes to go before kick-off, it seemed that we had missed a minute of applause in memory of John Dempsey. The teams appeared as the pre-game rituals began in earnest. I could not help but think that the Europa Conference anthem sounded like something that Baltimora may have recorded in around 1985.
The teams stood in silence in memory of those who had perished in the floods in Valencia.
I was pretty impressed with the Armenians’ support; maybe a thousand or so. There were a few multi-coloured Armenian flags dotted around.
The over-eager PA announcer was shouting at his mic for us to “make some noise.”
Oh do shut up, you twat.
The game began with Chelsea attacking The Shed.
However, it was the unfancied visitors who dominated the very early moments of the game. A rapid counter-attack resulted in an effort on goal that Filip Jorgensen did well to save. They followed this up with a couple of corners.
Alongside me, Alan was getting confused.
“This lot only took about fifty to The New Saints.”
“Nah, that was Astana.”
This new-fangled format is succeeding in confusing all of us. I said to Alan that we seem to be remotely connected to teams that our opponents play, but we don’t. On the same night, Heidenheim were at Hearts, yet we won’t play Hearts, nor TNS for that matter.
It’s like some bizarre inter-related family tree, with off-shoots appearing in the unlikeliest of places.
“A Family Tree Of Bastards.”
The visitors threatened again. They definitely had the best of the early attacks.
But Chelsea soon responded, with Joao Felix getting a sniff from Tyrique George on the right.
As is a superstition at European home games, Alan shared out some wine gums.
“Want some Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops, mate?”
As the game developed, we grew stronger.
On twelve minutes, Enzo sent over a firm corner from Parkyville and Tosin was able to steer the ball in with a well-timed header. I was lucky enough to get that one on film.
While we were up and celebrating, the game restarted. I was looking at Alan, expecting him to soon launch our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine.
I had to prompt him.
“What’s that, Al?”
But in no time at all, I looked up to see that Guiu had intercepted a terrible square pass from one Noah defender to another and he had calmly slotted the ball home to make it 2-0.
Fackinell.
Those goals had to be the quickest back-to-back goals in our history surely?
Five minutes later, Enzo again swung in a corner and it was Disasi who smashed it over the line in a virtual carbon copy of our first goal. This was getting silly.
Three minutes later, on just twenty-one minutes, Guiu robbed the ball off a visitor and the ball fell to Enzo, who picked out Joao Felix. He advanced and clipped the ball over the hapless ‘keeper Ognjen Chancharevich.
Blimey.
By now, Alan and I were relaxing and just enjoying the night, with plenty of humorous anecdotes keeping us happy. What a nice time.
Just after the half-hour mark, Mykhailo Mudryk took a pot-shot that was so high and wide of the target that it came down to Earth near the West Stand corner flag, and still stayed on the pitch.
His next effort was much more pleasing. He picked up the ball outside the penalty area, touched the ball forward to set himself, and then unleashed a perfect curler into the top right-hand corner of the goal. I took a photo just as it flew off his boot. What a cracker.
By now, a few folk around me were referencing the 13-0 win over Hautcharage in 1971.
Two minutes later, a counter-attack and the ball was fed to Joao Felix, who picked his way through and slotted home off the leg of a covering white-shirted defender.
I pointed at Lee a few seats away.
“It’s gonna happen. It’s gonna happen.”
We were 6-0 up at half-time, with the away team hopefully weakening in the second-half, when would the goals stop?
In both Hautcharage games in 1971, we were 6-0 up at half-time too.
At half-time, what was everyone thinking?
10-0?
13-0?
14-0?
I said to a few friends that it was a shame that we weren’t playing them over two legs. That 21-0 aggregate score would be in trouble. I am sure it is still the highest aggregate score in UEFA history.
As the second-half began, some substitutions.
Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Guiu.
Cesare Casadei for Enzo.
What did that mean? I wasn’t sure.
The pace slackened in the second-half, but we still dominated the chances. Benoit Badiashile soon volleyed over a cross. The Noah ‘keeper Chancharevich twice foiled Felix, who – along with Mudryk – were the two players that took my eye.
Christopher Nkunku slammed a shot at goal but it clipped the top of the crossbar.
Carney Chukwuemeka for George.
On the sixty-ninth minute, fancy footwork from Felix released Nkunku. His first shot was blocked by the unlucky ‘keeper but the ball came back out for Nkunku to poke home at an angle between defender and post. The blue balloon stayed in his sock. It was no time to take the Mick.
On seventy-six minutes, a rather soft penalty was awarded after Dewsbury-Hall was fouled inside the six-yard box. Nkunku drilled it home.
Chelsea 8 Noah 0.
Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well.
I wondered if we were already promoted from this league.
A rare Noah corner elicited some high-pitched shrieks and much flag-waving from the Armenians in the far corner.
On seventy-nine minutes, debutant Samuel Rak-Sakyi replaced Nkunku.
A few late chances were spurned and so the elusive double figures were not reached. They stay as an elusive target. Were Noah the worst team that I had ever seen us play? Yes, I think so, and I have seen us play Tottenham a few times too, mind.
What a fun night though. I loved it.
It had, indeed, been an Ark Lark.
Dedicated to the memory of John Dempsey who scored against Real Madrid in Athens in 1971 and to the memory of Doreen Bruce who was with us against Manchester City in Porto in 2021, fifty years later.
That bloody concourse. That bloody away end. That bloody announcer. Those bloody anthems. That bloody song. Those bloody scarves. That bloody clock.
A day out on Merseyside, a day out in Liverpool, a day out at Anfield.
And a few other things to talk about too. But let’s do this chronologically; an all-encompassing review of six football matches played over the past forty years.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Good.
First of all, let’s go back to 1984.
The next match featured in my review of the 1984/85 season was the notorious second leg of our Milk Cup tie against Millwall. This took place on the evening of Tuesday 9 October 1984. With me being a student in Stoke-on-Trent, this was always going to be a non-starter. I was nineteen, and yet to see an evening game in London, and I was never going to start with a trip to The Den. Eight years before, I could vividly remember watching the highlights on ITV of the away game at Millwall in the first few weeks of the 1976/77 season. Not only did we lose 0-3, but there was plenty of crowd trouble to boot, pardon the pun. In fact, in the following forty-eight years, many who went to this game have described it as the most horrific experience of their football lives. The mention by a couple of friends of “meat cleavers” should illustrate what Chelsea were up against on that sunny afternoon in “Deep South” all those years ago.
Millwall away? No thanks.
On this particular evening in 1984, I worked away on an essay, disappeared down to the local for a pint and then returned back to the flat to hear that we had drawn 1-1 at The Den. Kerry Dixon scored for us. The gate was just 11,157 and I suspect that 99% of them were blokes and a sizeable percentage were nutters. There has always been talk of this being the most formidable Chelsea “firm” to ever attend an away game and who am I to doubt it. Radio 2 reported no trouble inside the ground but that Robert Isaac, a Chelsea youth player who was on my radar, had been stabbed outside by some Millwall loons. This deeply saddened me.
The story was that he and some friends were confronted by some Millwall lads and were asked to name Millwall’s reserve ‘keeper. None of them could oblige, and Robert was slashed with a knife across his back. He was rushed to hospital and fifty-five stitches were applied. Over the past fifteen years, Robert and I have bumped into each other on a number of occasions and he joined us for a pub-crawl before the 2018 FA Cup Final. He always says that his thick leather jacket saved his life that night. He would go on to play thirteen times for our first team, then a few more for Brighton.
Next up, was a far-less terrifying home game against Watford on Saturday 13 October. I travelled down from Stoke by train and watched from The Benches with my new gang of match-day companions from London and the South-East, all of whom I still keep in contact with. Before the match, none other than Boy George appeared on the pitch and took loads of homophobic abuse from the home crowd. The back-story was that a video was being shot that day for the Culture Club single “The Medal Song” but I have no recollection of this. Maybe I disappeared off to the gents while this took place at half-time. In the video, the band member Mikey Craig – in full Chelsea kit – scores a goal at The Shed End.
We went 1-0 up via the dependable boot of Kerry Dixon, but Watford came back well to lead 3-1 with goals from Richard Jobson, Kenny Jackett and John Barnes, who had a blinder. There was a late consolation goal from the dependable head of Kerry Dixon. The gate of 25,340 contained a miserly four-hundred away fans.
On the following Saturday – 20 March 1984 – Chelsea travelled down to The Dell in Southampton and lost 1-0 to a Steve Moran goal in front of 20,212. Over this weekend, I was back in Frome but did not travel down to the game. Out in town that evening, my diary informs me that I bumped into Glenn who travelled down to Southampton but didn’t get in. I suspect the game was all-ticket, and I had never planned on going. After all, it would have been rude to come back home for the weekend, my family keen to hear of my first month at college, but then to bugger off to Southampton all day on the Saturday. I also bumped into PD during the evening, who also travelled to Southampton, and got in. He said that the away end was packed and that we ought to have won. He told me that there was no trouble inside The Dell, but he was knocked out after the game.
Let’s fast forward to 2024. However, before we meet up with PD again, forty years to the exact day since I bumped into him in “The Wheatsheaf” in Frome, I need to talk about two games involving our home town’s football club.
On the Tuesday, I drove up to the river city of Gloucester to watch Frome Town play a league game at Gloucester City. I travelled alone, but met up with some Frome friends at the game, and also Chelsea mates Andrew and Martin who live locally and follow their home city’s team in the same way that I follow Frome. Alas, on a wet night, Frome succumbed to a goal in each half to lose 2-0 in front of a gate of 601. We remained mired in a relegation place, but there have been some signs of late of a little resurgence.
As the week developed, thoughts turned to the first game in a mammoth weekend of football. My friend Josh, from Minneapolis, was over for the game at Anfield on the Sunday but was coming down by train from London to see Frome Town play Poole Town on the Saturday. He travelled down last December for a Frome game and vowed to return. He is, in fact, one of a little army of Chelsea mates in the US who follow Frome – hello JR, hello Steve, hello Jaro, hello Rick, hello the other Josh, hello John, hello Phil, hello Bobster – and there has been one recent addition.
I have met Courtney, from Chicago, at “The Eight Bells” for two Chelsea games over the past three years, and on the Wednesday evening he confirmed that he would be attending the Frome Town vs. Poole Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea double-header too.
However, compared to Josh, his travel plans were far more stressful. He was flying over from Chicago, and was due to arrive in Frankfurt early on Saturday morning. He was then booked on a flight to Manchester, but hoped to swap to a London flight, and then drive down to Frome for the game. If not, he would be forced to land at Manchester at around 10am and then drive to Frome.
I woke on Saturday and soon texted both Americans. Josh was fine, and would arrive at Westbury just before midday, when I would pick him up. Courtney, however, unable to change his onward travel from Frankfurt, had arrived at Manchester at 10.15am.
I gulped.
“Poor bugger.”
With a section of the M4 being shut, I warned him that he would be diverted over The Cotswolds to reach Frome. I contacted a Frome director to reserve him a place in the club car park. It would be touch-and-go for him to make the kick-off. I was able to reserve him a car park place because…roll on drums…Courtney had splendidly sponsored the Frome match. Courtney, Josh and I were going to be wined and dined at the club at half-time, along with my two former school mates, the class of 1978 to 1983, Steve and Francis.
I picked up Josh at Westbury and gave him a little tour of my local village and my local town, including a pint at “The Three Swans” in Frome’s historic town centre. Meanwhile, Courtney was making good time and his ETA was to be around three o’clock. We then met up with Francis, and his mate Tom, at “The Vine Tree” for another quick drink before arriving at the ground a few minutes before kick-off.
It was a stunning day; warm temperatures, blue skies, and what looked like a decent crowd of over 500.
With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made really good time, and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.
The game was a very good one. Alas, the visitors went ahead in the tenth minute when our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips spilled a cross and there was an easy tap-in. However, just before half-time, Matt Wood – whose home kit Josh sponsors – slotted home from just outside the six-yard box from a George Rigg corner.
It was a case of all smiles at half-time as we got stuck into our jacket potatoes and chilli – thanks Louise!
With thoughts of our travel to Merseyside, I asked the two Americans a football teaser.
Q : which current league ground – the top four divisions – is closest to the River Mersey?
The answer follows later.
In the second-half, we decamped to our favourite spot in The Cow Shed, but a weak goal from the visitors gave them a perhaps undeserved 2-1 lead. We kept going, however, and were rewarded with a fantastic equaliser on the ninetieth minute when that man Matt Wood bravely headed in.
Pandemonium in the South Stand!
As match sponsors, we had the vote for Man Of The Match, but it was easy; Josh’s boy Matt Wood.
However, football can be a bastard.
In extra-time, a virtual copy of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips’ spill for the first goal resulted in a third, and winning, goal for the visitors.
This felt like a kick had been administered to the collective solar plexus.
Fackinell.
After the game, we were able to relax a little in the club house and I introduced the lads from the US to our board of directors. It had been a cracking afternoon and it was lovely for a couple of players, and the manager Danny Greaves, to meet Josh and Courtney. Courtney had been pleasantly surprised by the size of the stadium and the quality of the facilities, and he went off to buy a blue and white away shirt from the club shop. At 6pm, with a five hour drive up to his hotel in Liverpool ahead of him, Courtney said his goodbyes.
“See you tomorrow, mate.”
Honestly, it had been a lovely time, one for the ages.
But Sunday was another day, and it soon followed.
I was up at 6am, bright and breezy, and I soon spotted a text from Courtney. He had eventually arrived in Liverpool at 11.20pm after a couple of stops en route. I collected PD from his house and Josh from his hotel at 7am, and I collected Parky in his village at 7.30am.
After following our exploits via this blog since its inception in 2008, Josh has always wanted to join us in The Chuckle Bus for an away game, and here he was, sat next to Parky in the rear seats as I headed due north.
A week or so ago I decided that I would probably call this match report “Tales From The Football Road” because my journey would encompass a section of the M6, which is as near to a genuine and bona fide “football road”, for me anyway, in the UK. We would join the M6 in Birmingham, just as Walsall’s Bescot Stadium appears to the east, and it is the road that I use to take me to Chelsea away games against Everton, Liverpool, Manchester City and Manchester United, but also, historically, against teams such as Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers, Blackpool, Burnley, Wigan Athletic and Preston North End.
I am yet, however, to visit Edgeley Park, the historic home of Stockport County – where Chelsea played our first-ever league game in 1905 – and which is the closest league ground to the River Mersey.
The M6 took on a special importance on this weekend. It was the road that Courtney had taken on Saturday from the airport just south of Manchester to get down to Frome, and the road that he took back to his hotel in Liverpool.
The Football Road.
It certainly was.
As I headed past Bath, I was on the exact same route that Courtney had taken around fourteen hours earlier.
I tried my best to keep Josh entertained.
“You know Peter Gabriel’s song ‘Solsbury Hill’ mate?”
“Yep.”
I gestured outside.
“Well, this is it.”
We headed straight over the M4, into Gloucestershire, through some delightful Cotswold scenery. Thankfully the early rain eventually subsided. At Frocester Hill, the Severn Vale appeared down below. It was a breath-taking sight. Parky spoke about the Severn Bore and watching those that surf it, while I spoke about the river’s tidal range being the second highest in the world, but we then realised that we were becoming Severn bores.
We soon stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McDonalds breakfast at about 8.45am. I then ate up the remainder of the M5, but alas the floodlights of The Hawthorns were hidden by dense fog as the M5 ended and the M6 began.
“2017 and all that.”
As I passed Stoke, I was reminded of 1984 and I told PD that forty years ago to the very day we had chatted in one of Frome’s pubs about that game in Southampton. I asked of his recollections of that game.
He had indeed been knocked out after the game, but by a policeman on horseback. There was no real trouble, but after the match, the local Hampshire constabulary had caused a panic among the crowd leaving The Dell, and PD ended up on the pavement. Our mate Andy spotted him and helped him recover. Later that week, the CID interviewed PD at his house in Frome after many complaints by the public about the behaviour of the local police that day. These were the days when football fans, in general, were viewed as low-life scum by many in the police force and it was considered fair game for them to whack football fans. I remember being thrown against a metal fence at St. James’ Park by a Geordie copper after celebrating a little too enthusiastically after a Chelsea goal earlier in 1984.
I refuelled at Knutsford, then drove over the familiar Thelwall Viaduct. As we drove high above the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal, there was some local history for Josh. I explained how the Manchester cotton mill owners reacted to the higher rates being asked by Liverpool dock owners by forcing the construction of their own waterway, with docks at Salford, and how this heightened that particular inter-city rivalry.
Oh God, I was becoming the Mersey bore, now.
I drove onto the oh-so familiar M62 into Liverpool.
I was parked up, as I was on our last visit to Anfield, in a car park just off Dale Street just before midday, and just in time for the pubs to open. It had taken me exactly five hours to get from my house to the car park on Vernon Street. Above, blue skies and glorious sun. We had enjoyed fantastic pub crawls around Dale Street on PD’s birthday in January 2017 and January 2024, and we were back for more.
“Ye Hole In Ye Wall”.
This is rumoured to be Liverpool’s oldest pub, built in 1726. I treated myself to the first of two lagers for a change and it wasn’t long to wait for Courtney to arrive. I must admit, he looked rather tired, but he soon livened up.
“The Vernon Arms”.
Our third visit, the famous sloping floor, a chat with some local Liverpool fans at the next table, no animosity, all gentle banter. Josh recounted the story of the two of us having a drink in a bar opposite Yankee Stadium in 2012 for the PSG friendly, and meeting three young women who had brought little plastic bags of trimmed celery with them, having heard about it being a Chelsea “thing” yet completely unaware of “that” song and its full content.
“The Rose & Crown”.
A first visit, a little more chat with some Liverpool supporters, and we saw a late Kilmarnock goal defeat Rangers on the TV.
We needed to get ourselves parked-up, so I headed up to Goodison Park, via a slow drive-past Everton’s new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. We could only really see the shiny roof as there was a high wall blocking our view. I have been tracking its progress since I called by before our first away game in 2022/23. There are several old warehouses close by that we earmarked to be used for hotels in the near future. The stadium should revitalise that stretch of the river.
The Mersey played a little part in my family history.
I had spoken to Josh and Courtney about how my great great grandparents had left Somerset for a new life in Philadelphia in 1854. They boarded the maiden voyage of the SS City of Philadelphia from Liverpool, but it was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September, though – unlike the Titanic – no lives were lost. The Whites were to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.
Maybe next season, should Everton stay up, I will gaze out at the River Mersey from near the away end of the new stadium and think wistfully back to 1854.
“The Abbey”.
We visited this pub in the August of 2021 before a creditable 1-1 at Anfield, and I joined the lads in the cramped bar. Again, PD and Parky were talking to some locals. There was a quick chat with Tommie from Portmadoc about Rio de Janeiro, and then Josh and I met up with Courtney at the Dixie Dean statue at about 3.15pm.
We did a quick circuit of the old lady. This was their first-ever trip to Merseyside, and with this being Goodison’s last-ever season, it was only right that we circumnavigated the old place. I rattled off what seemed like a hundred different Goodison stories all at once and it is no surprise. I simply adore the place. You may have noticed.
Time was moving on and we needed to get our three arses up the hill of Stanley Park to Anfield. The wind was blowing now, but thankfully there was no rain.
Tommie’s brother, a staunch Evertonian, calls Anfield “Castle Greyskull” and as we approached it I could see his point.
Anfield used to be very similar to Goodison, nestled in among tight streets on all four sides. Now, because it has been able to expand, all of those adjacent houses have gone, and it sits atop the hill like a gloomy grey aircraft hangar, its two new and huge stands looming over everything. Goodison seems quaint and charismatic in comparison.
As we made our way towards the stadium, we could hear the music booming out from what I presumed was Anfield’s “fan zone”, which thankfully we have been spared at Chelsea.
“Stevie Heighway on the wing…”
Those bloody anthems.
Outside the away end, I passed over spares to Deano and I was inside at around 4.10pm. Despite the massive increase to the bulk of this newly-improved stand – the old “Annie Road” as the scallies called it – the concourse tucked behind the away end is still the same size, still cramped.
I took my place alongside John, Gary and Alan. A few familiar faces nearby, but lots of new faces too. The sun was high above The Kop and I wanted it to soon drop below the huge main stand. That bloody flag with the six European Cups made its way down the Centenary Stand, or whatever it is called these days. To my right, the humungous main stand, not one seat empty.
Fackinell.
“The Fields Of Anfield Road” again.
The entrance of the teams.
Scarves held aloft.
“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Those bloody scarves.
A barrage of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea” but this was lost against the pumped tannoyed muzak of an Anfield game day, Gerry Marsden and all.
A minute of applause in memory of Peter Cormack, a player from my youth, a decent player.
Right, the team.
A big shock that Reece James was starting and Malo Gusto was shunted over to the left to keep an eye on Mo Salah, who now looked nothing like Mo Salah. Romeo Lavia in with Moises Caicedo, a strong midfield duo, er pivot. Pivot, right? That’s what all the nerds call it, right?
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Tosin – James
Lavia – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Going into the game, I was confident, but was not that confident to think of a win. A draw would make me a happy man.
Being back in that bloody away end took me back to January when we were shellacked 4-1, and if Darwin Nunez hadn’t hit the woodwork on multiple occasions it would have been much worse.
It seemed odd not to see Jurgen Klopp stood in front of the Liverpool bench.
The game began and to my pleasant surprise we seemed to have most of the ball. But the home support, above us especially, were warbling out their old favourite :
“Fuck off Chelsea FC. You ain’t got no history.”
I chuckled to myself about their use of a double-negative.
Very early on, Liverpool broke and Tosin tangled with Diogo Jota just inside our half. The referee brandished a yellow, and I was so thankful that there was a Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, alongside the play, thus nullifying the threat of a straight red.
On eighteen minutes, Cody Gakpo was given the ball on a plate after a typical bit of madness from Robert Sanchez but his snapshot was hit right back into the arms of our worrying ‘keeper.
After a quarter of the match, it wasn’t much of a game, but we were still dominating most of the ball. Jadon Sancho on the left was often in space but did not use the ball wisely. Noni Madueke was more direct on the right. Cole Palmer was a peripheral figure. I liked the pairing of Caicedo and Lavia from the off, strong and resourceful.
It seemed like both teams were sounding each other out.
Salah went down in the box, but no penalty. Phew.
It was lovely to see Reece James patrolling the right-hand side of our defence and he slotted in well, showing some sublime early touches.
On twenty-nine minutes, Salah broke in from the right. I yelled at our defender to keep him outside. He came inside and shot. The ball hit Colwill but fell at the feet of Curtis Jones and Colwill made an attempt to nick the ball.
Penalty.
“Bollocks.”
Salah swept it in from the spot.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 0.
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
Two minutes later, more menace from Salah as he crossed and Gakpo arrived late at the far post to prod home. Thankfully, Salah was adjudged to have crept offside. Phew.
The ball was pushed through by Caicedo to Jackson who wasted no time before smashing it high against the angle of near post and bar.
It was our first real attempt.
A couple of half-chances at either end.
At least we weren’t being over-run and over-powered like last season. This seemed like a slightly reticent Liverpool team.
In the closing moments of the first-half, as Sanchez rushed out to block from Jones, we were utterly amazed to see a penalty awarded, along with a yellow for our ‘keeper.
“That was just a normal block tackle, surely?”
VAR was called in.
No penalty. No yellow.
Very late on, Madueke broke down the right, Palmer withdrew to give himself some space and Madueke angled the ball to him. Was this the moment? Well, it was a moment but not the moment. Palmer’s shot glided just over the bar.
“Bollocks.”
The droll low burr of the Anfield announcer George Sephton, a presence at their games since 1971, introduced a younger and more excitable colleague to talk through a junior penalty-kick competition at The Kop at half-time. Sephton’s voice certainly evokes some memories. David James then saved a twice-taken penalty kick from a young Liverpool fan. The crowd booed. The announcer was in shock.
“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve just ruined that lad’s day.”
At the break, Pedro Neto came on for Sancho. My goodness, we certainly have options out wide. Soon into the second-half, just three minutes in, Caicedo picked out the run of Jackson and played a perfect ball through. Jackson advanced and calmly slotted past Kelleher. The away end erupted, but our joy was soon quelled by an offside flag. We waited for a VAR decision and, thankfully, it went our way. Jackson had stalled his run just right.
Goal.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.
With that, Jackson led a charge from the half-way line down to the Annie Road and the players celebrated wildly, while I hoped for a couple of decent shots with my pub camera.
Sadly, just three minutes later, a cross from Salah on the Liverpool right, caught the entire Chelsea defence out. The ball was swept right into a wide corridor of uncertainty, and the impressive Curtis Jones was able to take a touch and then prod the ball past Sanchez. I looked at the linesman in the far right corner but there was no flag.
“Bollocks.”
Liverpool 2 Chelsea 1.
On fifty-two minutes, three changes.
Renato Veiga for James.
Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.
Benoit Badiashile for Tosin.
“Were they preparing those subs before the goal, John?”
“Think so, mate.”
I was surprised to see Lavia being replaced. He had played well. Perhaps this was a precautionary measure.
There was a very loud “allez allez”.
It’s odd that we hear “YNWA” before games at Anfield, but never during the actual games themselves these days. When did that stop?
We had more of the possession as Liverpool seemed happy to soak it all up, but there were only quarter-chances from a Madueke shot from an angle and a Palmer free-kick.
I sensed that the home support was worried though; they seemed quiet and nervous.
The away support got behind the boys with our loudest chant of the game thus far, a fine rendition of “Amazing Grace – the Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” version.
I remember surging and strong runs through the middle from Caicedo, plus energy and directness from Neto on our left. Palmer was, alas, a passenger for much of the second-half. Neto’s effort trundled wide of a post.
On seventy-six minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Madueke, and Neto swapped wings. His play deteriorated on the right.
Palmer lobbed a free-kick into the Liverpool six-yard box but Veiga headed over from a good position.
We still kept going. I could not fault our application, even if the attack lacked real bite.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
My attention was drawn to the twin clocks that sit above the corner flags at The Kop.
Those bloody clocks.
I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time gazing up at those simple blocks of electric lights and I have done for years.
The extra-time ticked down, the time ticked away.
Nkunku almost touched the ball home, from a Neto cross, just a few yards to our left.
At the other end, Diaz picked up the ball and advanced.
“Don’t let him dance into the box.”
Thankfully his shot tantalisingly flew high and wide.
In the last second of the game, a shot from Malo Gusto was blocked and the referee blew.
Fackinell.
This had been my twenty-eighth visit to Anfield, and my record is relegation-form.
Won : 5
Drew : 8
Lost : 15
For : 28
Against : 45
I caught site of Courtney as we gathered together in the concourse. I am sure his weekend had felt just like a dream. He was to make his own way to Crewe and then catch a train down to London where he was working on the Monday and Tuesday.
I wished him a safe journey and thanked him for Saturday.
I didn’t envy his travel. Mind you, I didn’t envy mine. I still had around two-hundred miles to drive on this Sunday evening.
I stopped a couple of times to refuel – me, not the car – and I dropped off the lads before getting in at 12.30am. I was, of course, repeating Courtney’s breakneck mission on Saturday morning.
This football road.
Unfortunately, our football weekend had resulted in two defeats, but it had been a cracker.
There was international football ahead for Josh, and others in the coming week, with a trip to Athens for our game at Panathinaikos on Thursday.
I had an international game lined up too.
Merthyr Town vs. Frome Town next Saturday, ahead of Chelsea vs. Newcastle United next Sunday.
The game against Barrow in the League Cup was the first of four home matches at Stamford Bridge in just thirteen days. Not wishing to denigrate this competition, but it is probably the last of our priorities this season. I know that the Europa Conference is – well – the Europa Conference, but it offers European, and Central Asian, travel, and it is a UEFA competition after all. The League Cup – or whatever name it gives itself these days – is familiar to us, whereas the Europa Conference is something different. Should we win it this season – our UEFA coefficient alone suggests we might – then maybe it would go back down the pecking order until UEFA invents yet another competition for also-rans across Europe.
There is a competition, though, that is well down my list of priorities this season for Chelsea Football Club. The English Football League Trophy is a cup that began life as the Associate Members Cup in 1983/84, and it had a number of sponsors over the years. It was the Freight Rover, it was the Leyland DAF, it was the Auto Windscreens, it was all sorts. It was once the Johnstone Paint Trophy, the one that Southampton sang about us not winning.
The English Football League Trophy is a competition for clubs in the two divisions of the English Football League. The name rather gives this away, right? But, it’s not. Since 2016/17, sixteen U21 teams from the Premiership and the Championship have been invited to take part too. There was an initial backlash against this, since it could stop smaller clubs from enjoying a day out at Wembley, and I agreed wholeheartedly with this statement. I decided to boycott the tournament even if it meant not seeing a Chelsea team at local stadia such as Forest Green Rovers, Exeter City and Bristol Rovers. Would I go to the final at Wembley if Chelsea U21s were to reach it? No.
I am just dead against the notion of U21 teams being in this competition.
That said, I did find it ridiculous that Chelsea were playing Barrow in the League Cup on the very same evening that Chelsea U21s were at Bromley in the English Football League Trophy. I knew of many Chelsea mates who were going to Bromley – “new ground” – rather than attend the first team match at Stamford Bridge, yet how easy could it have been to plan these two games on different nights? Surely, Chelsea could have played Barrow last week. It’s not as if the team from the Cumbrian coast were playing European football.
Sometimes modern football does not make any sense at all.
I was up at 4.45am and worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I set off for London with just PD and Parky. When I drove past Junction 14 of the M4 and saw the signs for the nearby town of Hungerford, another football competition flitted into my mind. Later that evening, my local team Frome Town would visit Hungerford Town in a league game. It was a match that I would have attended had it not been for the game at Stamford Bridge. At the weekend, Hungerford beat Plymouth Parkway 9-3 at home, while Frome Town lost 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville. I would be girding my loins for score updates as the evening wore on. In a nutshell, I was far from hopeful.
We landed in London at 5pm, and I shot off to get some food down my neck. The “Efes” restaurant – Turkish – on the corner of Lillee Road and the North End Road has been garnering some decent reviews of late so I gave it a shot. While I leisurely ate a lamb shish kebab plus the usual garnishes, I spotted plenty of Chelsea fans in the restaurant and three sets of parents with children.
PD soon called.
“McGettigans is closed. We’re at ‘Simmons’ and it’s £4 a pint.”
I slowly walked down the North End Road, but despite a couple of coffees on the drive to London, I was feeling so tired, so groggy. I decided to dip into “Café Ole”- close to the pie and mash shop in 1984 – and downed a cappuccino with a double-shot. I was soon buzzing. Phew.
This place has served as the “Memory Lane Café” in past match reports, so let’s use it again. Forty years ago, my mind was focussed on beginning a new life in Stoke-on-Trent as a human geography undergraduate at North Staffs Poly. I had buggered up my “A Levels” in June 1983, re-took them in November 1983, and managed to get a place at Stoke. When Chelsea played at Luton Town in a Division One fixture on Saturday 22 September 1984, I was at home in Somerset, recuperating after a heavy session in Frome the night before when I gathered together a few friends as they gave me a boozy send-off. My parents would drive me up to Staffordshire on the Sunday.
My diary reiterates my memories of that night. I was being bought drinks right, left and centre and when I reached home, I fell out of the car. Oh, I had bumped into Glenn – now sporting a perm – who told me that he was off to Luton on the Saturday. My diary tells me that I got up late on the Saturday, much the worse for wear, and that although I listened to Radio 2 all afternoon, there was no score update from Kenilworth Road until the end of the game.
It ended 0-0, as did I if my memory is correct.
I crossed the road and joined PD and Parky at the high tables in “Simmons” which has been given a bit of a makeover since our last visit. There is more space, more neon, a better feel. I said a quick hello to “Mr. Pink” – Chris always wears a lucky pink polo at away games – but the place was generally quiet, nothing like it used to be on midweek games a few years back. I like it though. It’s convenient. For some reason, blue and white balloons were dotted around the bar. Were the owners secret Nkunku fans?
Outside, the weather was dry but muggy. At the end of Fulham Broadway, an electronic sign helpfully stated “Please Keep To Your Left Our Right” and I thought “thanks for that, big help, I was going to tunnel beneath it.”
I was inside at about 7.15pm for the 7.45pm kick-off.
Barrow, eh?
It takes me right back, way back to around 1970 or 1971, just as I was starting to watch football on TV and learn more and more about the game, the players, the teams, the league tables. I can distinctly remember poring over the league tables of my grandfather’s Sunday Express and examining all of the various football teams that plied their trade in the four divisions of the Football League. Some of the names used to fill me with wonder and a desire to learn about them, especially all those that were unfamiliar to me as a Chelsea fan, used to hearing only about the bigger teams in the First Division. I found some of the names beguiling.
Crewe Alexandra.
Sheffield Wednesday.
Aston Villa.
Port Vale.
Halifax Town.
Workington.
Southport.
Stockport County.
Barrow.
Chester.
Chesterfield.
Rochdale.
Bury.
I wondered where all these places were. Were they all up north? These were all new to me. Ironically, Barrow were relegated out of the Football League – or rather voted out – at the end of the 1971/72 season and I can distinctly remember this taking place. They would not return to the Football League again until 2021.
PD and I were sat together in The Sleepy Hollow. Being both a Bromley and a Chelsea season ticket holder, there was no surprises as to where Alan was.
It looked a pretty healthy crowd for hardly a game with much of a “pull”. Stamford Bridge wasn’t full but it wasn’t far off. Around 2,500 away fans had travelled down from Barrow-in-Furness. Ironically, we know a loyal Chelsea fan – hello Gary – who lives in Barrow yet still travels down to Chelsea as a season ticket holder. It’s a solid six-hour drive.
Us?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Veiga
Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall
Neto – Felix – Mudryk
Nkunku
It was Cesare Casadei’s first start.
Barrow were in waspish yellow and black hoops, though I immediately felt it strange that the referee was in all black, since – from the rear – the Barrow players were in all black too. Very odd.
To their credit, the away team began the livelier.
With our attacking options though, it did not surprise anyone when we went ahead on just eight minutes. Renato Veiga slammed a ball towards Joao Felix who adroitly flicked the ball over some dawdling defenders for Christopher Nkunku to drill the ball home.
Chelsea 1 Barrow 0.
The players celebrated in front of Parkyville.
There was an attack from Barrow, and a shot was slammed over, but Chelsea continued to dominate. On fifteen minutes, a neat flick from Pedro Neto set up Malo Gusto. I shouted out some advice to him – keep it high – but he chose to ignore me and he drilled a low ball towards Nkunku at the near post. It was too far away for me to truly admire the finish, but the ball ended up in the back of the net.
Chelsea 2 Barrow 0.
“Nice to see Gusto took my advice, PD.”
PD laughed.
It was the equivalent of me falling out of my father’s car forty years ago.
Chelsea continued in the ascendency and Barrow’s focus now seemed to involve sitting back and trying to limit further damage. There was one blistering run from Mykhailo Mudryk down the left, but he again promised much, but delivered little.
On the half-hour mark, Gusto was upended centrally. My immediate reaction was that the free-kick was too central. PD agreed.
“We need Zola here.”
I need not have worried. Felix waited until the wall was set – much buggering about from both sets of players and the referee – and then dipped a floater over and around the western edges of Barrow’s wall and we watched as the ball cannoned in off the post, but off the Barrow ‘keeper too.
I lept to my feet, but many stayed sat. How odd.
Chelsea 3 Barrow 0.
The rest of the first half didn’t result in anyone rising to their feet, apart from those going off to the loos. Caicedei looked solid, though was reticent to turn, and always seemed to choose the soft option of a backward pass. No doubt the stats men loved it. All of this backward passing makes for a hideously dull form of football though.
There was a shot from the much-derided Benoit Badiashile, but that was about it.
At the break, my focus was away from Stamford Bridge. In other games, Bromley were losing 1-2 and it was 0-0 at Hungerford.
Enzo Maresca replaced Gusto with Ben Chilwell – welcome back, Chilly – with the defence shifting around to accommodate him. A header from Dewsbury-Hall did not threaten the Barrow goal.
On forty-eight minutes, Nkunku played in a raiding Mudryk and we all wondered what would happen. Thankfully he didn’t trip, nor sky a shot over the bar, but he played the ball intelligently square to Neto who steadily turned the ball in.
Chelsea 4 Barrow 0.
I am sure that more people stood for that one.
We often had a spare man down below us, and that man was usually Mudryk. He sprinted ahead and set up Dewsbury-Hall, but his shot was saved well by the Barrow ‘keeper.
It annoyed me to hear the MHL, presumably full of a vastly different set of fans than usual for this game, to take the piss out of the Barrow ‘keeper as he took goal kicks in this second-half. In fact, the “Ooooooooooooooooh! You’re shit! Aaaaaarrrrrgggggh!” has not been heard at Chelsea since, probably, the late ‘eighties. Come on, we were playing Barrow, not a London rival.
I said to Anna “I’m surprised the idiots in the MHL aren’t taking the piss out of Barrow for not winning the Champions League.”
For the purists, I always remembered it as a plain “Ooooooooh, you’re shit!” at Chelsea. Other teams’ supporters extended it. There, that’s told you.
Down at the other end, a dipping free-kick was well saved by the scrambling Filip Jorgensen at the near post.
The away fans were making lots of noise, as expected. This was their biggest away game for a while.
“You’ve seen the Barrow, now fuck off home” was the only chant I could decipher, though.
Just after the hour, a double substitution.
Josh Acheampong for Disasi.
Tyrique George for Neto.
This was my first sighting of the young winger. After a little Barrow spell, George was presented with a golden chance to mark his Stamford Bridge debut with a goal, but he rolled a shot well wide of the far post.
With a quarter of an hour to go, the Barrow ‘keeper dawdled and was pick-pocketed by Nkunku and steered the ball into an empty net. The French striker, who offers a different skill-set to Nicolas Jackson, thus gained a well-deserved hat-trick. Alas, no money shot this week; I couldn’t focus my camera in time for his blue balloon celebration.
Just after, more changes.
Carney Chukwuemeka for the excellent Joao Felix.
Marc Guiu for the clinical Nkunku.
There were a couple of late chances, including a good strike from Carney, but as the final whistle beckoned, my football focus soon switched from London SW6 to Berkshire.
In Hungerford, it was still 0-0.
Come on Frome!
Meanwhile, over in Bromley, the Chelsea U21s narrowly squeaked it 3-2 with Harvey Vale getting two.
At the end of the match, I made a quick getaway and strode purposefully down the Fulham Road. I kept checking the Frome score on my ‘phone which had dramatically dwindled down to 2% and then 1% charge.
85 minutes : 0-0.
90 minutes : 0-0.
96 minutes : 0-0.
98 minutes : 0-0
With that, the final score of 0-0 flashed up and my ‘phone died.
I smiled.
“GET IN.”
It wrapped-up a decent night out. We ran through the options of a preferred opponent in the next round. With a nod to 1984, I fancied Stoke City away.
I didn’t stop on the way home; I left Normand Road at 10.02pm and I pulled up at my house at 12.06am. Two hours and four minutes. A record surely?
This was always my fear. Despite a resurgence in our play over the past month – high points at Villa, the second-half at Palace and at City – there was still a niggling doubt that whatever team was selected to play at Wembley, the players just could not be trusted to drag us over the line. And despite Liverpool players falling by the wayside with injuries as the final approached, I had a fear that there would not be enough in our locker – nous, determination, skill – to give us a much-needed win.
All of our deficiencies – and a few of our positives – were discussed at length as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky and drove up to the M4 at Chippenham. As I approached Junction 17 I made my views clear.
“Right, that’s enough about the game today. Let’s not talk any more about it. Let’s enjoy the day ahead.”
I was up just after 5.45am. I had collected the two Frome lads at 7am and Parky in Holt at 7.30am. By 9.30am, we were tucking into our breakfasts at “The Half Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road. At 10am, I pulled up outside “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge and PD shouted out to Salisbury Steve, who was just about to disappear inside as the front doors were opened, to get a round in. For the third League Cup Final in a row, we were staying the night at the Premier Inn opposite, and I soon parked the car outside. We were hoping that this would be third time lucky. Against Manchester City in 2019 and against Liverpool in 2022, we had narrowly lost on penalties.
On the Saturday, I had watched Frome Town obtain a relatively easy 3-1 win at home to Tavistock to nudge themselves into pole position in the table. As the beers started to flow, I never felt confident that Chelsea would follow up Frome’s win to give me a perfect weekend. Mark, now living in Spain, and his son Luca, still in The Netherlands, joined us and the laughter roared around the pub. We tried not to think too much about the football.
This would be Chelsea Football Club’s tenth League Cup Final.
Our first final took place four months before I was born in March 1965, when we defeated Leicester City over two legs. In 1972, we infamously lost 1-2 to Stoke City at Wembley and I have no recollection of the game. We had to wait ages for the next one; a 2-0 triumph against Middlesbrough at old Wembley in 1998 after extra-time. Next up was a match in Cardiff at the Millennium Stadium against Liverpool in 2005; we narrowly edged it 3-2 after extra time. Two years later, at the same venue, a 2-1 triumph against Arsenal. In 2008, the 2-1 loss to Tottenham Hotspur, after extra-time, at the new Wembley Stadium. In 2015, we comfortably defeated the same opponent 2-0. Then, the two tight losses in 2019 to Manchester City (0-0 after extra-time, losing 3-4 on penalties) and in 2022 to Liverpool (0-0 after extra-time, losing 10-11 on penalties).
A potted history of us in nine previous League Cup Finals does not tell the entire story of course.
1965 : there are numerous stories about Eddie McCreadie’s apparently masterful solo run up the middle of the park before sliding the ball past the ‘keeper. It was only our second piece of silverware in sixty years.
1972 : “Blue Is The Colour” was released specifically for this game and I used to get such a thrill listening to it on the radio for years after. An Osgood goal for Chelsea, but George bloody Eastham gave Stoke their sole trophy in 161 years.
1998 : the first-part of a Cup Double that season and another Wembley goal from Roberto di Matteo. The good times were returning to Stamford Bridge.
2005 : the first Mourinho season and the first Mourinho silverware. In an enthralling match, we went behind early on after John Arne Riise belted one in from distance. A Steven Gerrard own goal levelled it and two late goals from Mateja Kezman and Didier Drogba gave us a huge win. Mourinho was sent-off for his “shush” but we did not care less. It was the first game that I had seen Chelsea play in an enclosed stadium.
2007 : two more Didier Drogba goals gave us a win after Theo Walcott scored early for Arsenal. The game that Cesc Fabregas was pelted with celery at a corner and the game where John Terry was knocked unconscious by a boot to his head.
2008 : we went ahead through Didier Drogba, but Tottenham levelled with a Dimitar Berbatov penalty before Jonathan Woodgate headed Tottenham in front. Our support that day was the worst that I can ever remember. It was one of my all-time lows as a Chelsea follower.
2015 : this was a tough game for me, coming just three days after my mother’s passing. Goals from John Terry and Diego Costa gave us a relatively easy win.
2019 : a decent performance and great support from the Chelsea crowd. This was the day that Kepa notoriously humiliated Maurizio Sarri by not following instructions to be substituted by Wily Caballero.
2022 : this could have gone either way, but a ridiculously long penalty shootout went against us when Cesar Azpilicueta missed the only penalty out of twenty-two.
Going in to the 2024 Final, our record was won 5 and lost 4.
At 12.45pm, we caught a District Line tube up to Paddington and changed trains to get ourselves over to Marylebone. Here, the ever-reliable Jason handed over a spare ticket to me that would then be passed to Glenn. Just as we were about to hop on a train to Wembley Stadium, the call went out that a few of the lads that we know from Westbury and Trowbridge were in the “Sports Bar.” The drinking continued.
“What football?”
We eventually caught a train at about 2.15pm to Wembley.
We bumped into many familiar faces at Marylebone, on the train, at the station, on the march to the turnstiles.
I remember my first visit to the old Wembley, in around 1972 or 1973, on the back of a visit to see my grandfather’s older brother in Southall. There was no game. I just wanted to see Wembley, beguiled by either the 1972 or 1973 FA Cup Finals. We parked just off “Wembley Way” – actually Olympic Way – and I remember being mightily impressed as I saw the twin towers for the first time. The stadium was at the top of a slight rise in the land, with its own added embankments and steps giving it an air of importance. It stood alone, not encumbered by any buildings nearby, only the London sky above it. It exuded a great sense of place.
Wembley in 2024 is much different. Bleak flats and hotels take up every spare square yard of space, from the walk up to the stadium from Wembley Park Station, right up to the immediate surrounds of the stadium itself. I don’t suffer from claustrophobia and I am glad I don’t. At Wembley, between the bland stadium walls and the oppressive bleak apartment buildings I would be surely panting with anxiety.
It is a horrible stadium. I hate it.
Regular readers of these tales will know only too well how we struggle to get in to Wembley in time. At 2.50pm, I was still in the queue. Once inside, an escalator was not working, delaying me further. I eventually made it in at around 3.05pm.
Sigh.
Our seats were in row thirty-eight, just a few from the very back of the highest part of the stadium. We were virtually on the half-way line. My calves were aching. God knows how much pain PD and Parky were in.
A quick check of the team. As expected, the same as against Manchester City.
Petrovic.
Gusto – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell
Caicedo – Enzo
Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling
Jackson
Everyone was stood. PJ and Brian – from the pre-match pub at City last weekend – were right behind us along with Feisal and Martin. We would find out later that Gary, Daryl, Ed and Clive were a few seats in front.
These seats only cost £41. Decent.
Liverpool had the best of the very early part of the game and we looked stretched at times. They enjoyed the first real chance when Axel Diasi allowed Luis Diaz a shot but Djordje Petrovic was equal to it.
There wasn’t a great deal of noise thus far. But I always try to look for clues to see which support is more “up for it.” My first observation wasn’t good. On the upper balcony wall, to my left – our unlucky East End – there were red banners everywhere. To my right – the West End, us – the same balcony between the Club Wembley tier and the upper tier was almost completely devoid of Chelsea flags and banners.
Ugh. An early lead to The Scousers.
As the game continued, neither sets of fans were particularly noisy. Were nerves to blame? It couldn’t have been due to the lack of alcohol. Maybe the game needed to ignite to fully engage the supporters and their voices.
Chelsea began to grow into the game and on twenty minutes, a Conor Gallagher cross from the right was played in to Raheem Sterling. There was a heavy touch and the ball eventually found Cole Palmer. His stab at goal was from close-in but the Liverpool ‘keeper Kelleher saved well. Nicolas Jackson’s follow-up was blocked too.
On the half-hour mark, Palmer padded the ball forward to Jackson who moved the ball square to Jackson. His grass-cutter cross to the far post – towards Sterling – was perfection and as our often-maligned striker prodded home, I turned to PD and we both screamed at each other like fools.
Alas.
VAR.
The goal was disallowed. Offside.
Bollocks.
Liverpool’s Gakpo headed against the base of Petrovic’ near post.
The game had taken a while but it was warming up. However, still not much noise, and virtually nothing from our end to the right. There were a few half-hearted chants from our section – “Three Little Birds” is a difficult one to get going in the huge spaces of the upper tier at Wembley – and the noise did not build.
Just before the half-time break, I spotted many red seats in the Chelsea end, the lure of a pint or a pee too strong for many. In contrast, there were hardly any empty seats in the Liveroool end. Advantage still to Liverpool. Bollocks.
When the whistle sounded, I disappeared downstairs and hoped that I would be able to conquer the north face of the Eiger on my return. I made it, but it seemed that we had lost PJ and Feisal to frostbite.
The second-half began and we began to probe the Liverpool defence more often. Gallagher set up Enzo but the Argentinian managed to get his tango feet tangled up and the chance went begging. At the other end, Petrovic punched clear from Elliott.
On the hour, a long cross from the Liverpool left was met by a leap from Van Dijk. The ball nestled in the net. We groaned. In the Liverpool end to our left, red flares were ignited, a horrible reminder of a scene at the end of the 2022 FA Cup Final.
After what seemed like an age, VAR was summoned.
No goal.
Christopher Nkunku replaced Sterling.
The game increased in quality and intensity. Chances were exchanged.
A Gallagher corner dropped into the six-yard box. Levi Colwill headed it on but Disasi made a mess of the final touch. Kelleher was able to jump unchallenged to claim. From my vantage point it seemed impossible that we had not edged ahead.
Gakpo blazed over.
Everyone was still stood. Everyone in the stadium. You have to marvel at us football fans’ ability to stand for hours and hours.
There was a nice interchange between Gusto and Caicedo that set up the silky skills of Palmer. His touch inside to Gallagher was flicked on and we were exasperated when his effort came back off the far post.
Fackinell.
Gomez at Petrovic. An easy save.
Caicedo to Gusto, but a searching ball was just too long for Nkunku at the far post.
Gallagher was given another chance, set up by Palmer, but with just Kelleher to beat there was a lame finish.
Fackinell.
We still created chances. A fine ball by Enzo out to Jackson who did well to hold the ball up. He played it back to Gallagher who blazed over.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Jackson.
Another attack, with bodies in the box, Kelleher saved at point blank range from Nkunku.
Oh my bloody goodness.
At ninety-minutes it was 0-0.
“We have been here before Liverpool, we have been here before.”
There was no time to pause, no time to think, the game began again. Or rather, it didn’t for us. All of the momentum that we had built in the last quarter of the game seemed to disappear as the night grew colder.
Noni Madueke for Gallagher. What? Answers on a postcard.
Trevoh Chalobah for Chilwell.
Liverpool came again, with a few efforts on our goal. We had Petrovic to thank once more. His had been a fine performance. There was a hugely impressive “Allez Allez Allez” from the red corner to my left. It was the loudest noise of the entire match. I looked over at the blue corner to my right. I heard nothing. I just saw a few blue flags being waved in the far corner. As far as responses go, it was almost fucking laughable.
Where has our support gone? It was excellent in 2019 against City. This, in 2024, was even worse than the 2008 debacle against Tottenham. It makes me so sad.
At half-time in extra-time, I suspect we all feared penalties once again.
The second period soon came and we watched as Chelsea grew weaker. The minutes ticked by. Our new additions did not add anything to the team. Mudryk frustrated us in the way only he can do. We looked tired. I felt tired.
Penalties surely.
With just two minutes remaining, a Liverpool corner. I found myself momentarily gazing over at the lower tier opposite, the Chelsea section. Everyone was still stood. I looked back just in time to see the ball fly into the net from another Van Dijk header.
CHELSEA/esque 