Tales From Much Ado About Nothing

Posted on February 6, 2026 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 3 February 2026.

I was at the end of my own little personal stretch of eight consecutive games in London: four at HQ, one at Charlton, one at Fulham, one at Palace and now this one at Arsenal. During the day, I was asked about my thoughts of the outcome of the League Cup semi-final second leg at the Emirates. I wasn’t sure about guessing a score, but my prediction was that we had a 25% chance of progressing to the final at Wembley. After the first-leg loss, Arsenal would be a tough nut to crack.

Unfortunately, Parky had failed a late fitness test, so just PD accompanied me on this occasion.

We had been given almost six thousand tickets for this game, and I was delighted that Arsenal had not charged us an exorbitant price for tickets. Unlike the £60 for my ticket at Stamford Bridge, I paid just a little over £30 for this one at Arsenal.

The drive east in the afternoon was not easy. I drove through rain and spray on the M4. I had felt tired, at times, during my shift at work, and after getting up at the loony time of 4.30am, I was obviously dreading more tiredness both to and from London, but hopefully not at the game. Only time would tell on that one.

For years and years, we have parked for free on the road adjacent to Barons Court tube station – Margravine Gardens – for aways against Arsenal, Tottenham and West Ham, conveniently just off the A4, but I happened to notice new parking regulations were in place. Free parking used to be available in after 5pm on weekdays, but now it was after 10pm every day. This was a big kick in the teeth.

Here was the first “fackinell” of the day.

What did this mean?

It meant that I had to divert south to where I park for midweek home games, and we then had to walk over half-a-mile to West Brompton tube station. This wouldn’t normally be an issue, but Paul struggles with such distances. And this is yet another example of how the pleasure that comes from a day at the football is slowly being eroded.

However, we made the best of it and stopped off at my favourite restaurant on the North End Road for a couple of pizzas and then continued a rather wet walk to West Brompton. There was a change onto the Piccadilly Line at Earl’s Court, and then the thirty-five minute journey, through thirteen stations, to Arsenal.

I heard occasional shouts of “Carefree” further down the carriages, but the train obviously contained a few Arsenal supporters too. A family of five were positioned to my left and caught my eye. They stood and sat close to PD, and they each wore a different Arsenal replica shirt. I caught PD’s eye and shook my head. You just don’t see that at Chelsea; a whole bloody family kitted out in club shirts. The father even wore his home shirt over a normal sweatshirt – a real sartorial own-goal in my book – and topped it off with a bobble hat. He couldn’t have looked more gormless if he had tried. And talking of replica kits, the three sons were certainly replica kids – absolute spitting images of their parents – but it worried me that their mother and father looked alike too.

Let’s leave that there, eh?

Up through the tight tunnels at Arsenal, and out into a miserable wet North London night. Rather than turn left as we did when we used to visit Highbury, we know turned right and headed up the long stretch of Drayton Park, past an impressive amount of souvenir stands. PD was still struggling with walking. Eventually we turned right towards the stadium, opposite the Drayton Park Arms – still an away pub I believe – just in time for a few young Arsenal and Chelsea to lads take a pop at one another.

The neon colours of the stadium were reflected in the puddles outside and helped create a photogenic, if watery, feel to a smattering of photos that were taken.

We were in quickly, out of the rain, at 7.20pm and took our seats not long after. PD was seated right next to the three seats of “no man’s land” between us and the Arsenal support, while I, thankfully, was further away, and in row eighteen, well under the roof. Those sitting in the first few rows were in for a soaking.

There were many familiar faces dotted around this lower tier. The split was three thousand in the lower, and a further three thousand high up in the top tier to my left. It annoyed me that away season ticket holders were denied choosing the upper tier. I would have loved to have watched the game up there for the first time, as – I am sure – would many.

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

The players were on the pitch going through their pre-match drills. They were wearing a homage to the worst Chelsea kit of all time, the hideous tangerine and graphite monstrosity from the mid-‘nineties, complete with the most hated badge of all time, that nasty Millwall lookalike.

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

The place filled up, and – what a surprise – yet another club has chosen “London Calling” as an intro before the teams stepped foot on the pitch.

We then had to endure the historic “Good old Arsenal” ditty which I always forget about until I hear it at their stadium. It certainly doesn’t have the lasting resonance of the theme from “Z Cars” at Everon nor “Marching on Together” at Leeds, to name but two.

Next, a light show…oh please stop this…let’s get to the football.

The teams eventually appeared.

I was surprised how many Chelsea clapped Noni Madueke when the team line-ups were named. Nobody clapped Kepa Arrizabalaga.

Us?

It took a while for me to work it all out. In fact, I needed to see the players on the pitch before I had a chance.

In goal?

Easy, Robert Sanchez.

It then got a little difficult.

It looked like three central defenders.

Wesley Fofana on the right, in front of us, then Trevoh Chalobah in the middle, then Jorrel Hato on the left.

We then had Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella out wide.

OK, that was the easy part. Kinda.

Andrey Santos and Moises Caicedo were playing, holding things together.

It looked like Enzo Fernandez was playing a little higher up the pitch.

But we then had Joao Pedro in attack alongside Liam Delap, but with Delap drifting over to the right wing at every opportunity.

Blimey. A rather unorthodox system, eh?

We dominated the early possession, much to my pleasure, and in the sixth minute, Delap came in from the right but scuffed a snapshot well wide of Kepa’s right-hand post. That the striker then kept to the right flank for the rest of the half certainly caused a stir among the Chelsea faithful.

Arsenal forced a series of corners, and we watched as three of our attackers raced out of the box at the last minute, dragging some Arsenal players with them.

This lad Liam Rosenior certainly has some “left-field” – or maybe “right-field” – ideas that he is not afraid to use.

For a while, there was a commotion above and behind me as some Chelsea lads tried to pin a beautiful blue flag – featuring the 1984 two-tone colours – on the top balcony wall. That kit is synonymous with us at Highbury, and I loved that the flag was being given an airing at Arsenal’s new pad. By now, that top section was crammed full of our supporters, and I noticed that every single seat was being used in my section, a fine showing.

Robert Sanchez palmed away an effort from Piero Hincapie, whoever he is, and Gabriel Martinelli made a mess of the rebound.

The home fans weren’t particularly loud once they had settled down after their warbling to the “North London Forever” dirge before kick-off.

North London forever, you say? Not until 1913, you mean. It took until then for the Woolwich Wanderers to settle.

On twenty-six minutes, Moises Caicedo shot wide, well wide.

Wesley Fofana enjoyed an absolutely top-notch purple patch over ten glorious minutes, heading away, recovering well, tackling, playing it out with calmness personified. Excellent work.

The Chelsea choir asked, “is this a library?” and I wondered if the home support were saving themselves for another corner before they might get excited.

On thirty-three minutes, we were all concerned when Gusto let Martinelli get past him, but he recovered so well and saved the day with a bloody superb tackle.

Chances dried up at either end. Although Chelsea seemed to edge possession, there was a paucity of efforts on goal.

At various times in that first-half, that promised so much but delivered so little, Delap managed to fall over the ball, fall over his legs, fall over his marker’s legs, and sometimes run in the opposite direction to the ball. His continued presence in that position confused me, but I – at least – gave some sort of credit to Rosenior in his attempts to confuse the opposition too.

In the forty-third minute, at last a shot. An effort from Enzo was dramatically punched away by Kepa.

It was 0-0 at the break, and I have to say that the mood within the packed away support was positive. I think that many of us solemnly expected that we might get torn apart, so I think that the fact that were still very much in the tie helped us battle our overall feelings of dread.

The rain still fell as the second half began with Chelsea attacking the two zones of Chelsea support in the Clock End.

In the very first minute, Enzo came over to take a corner right in front of us. The ball dropped in to the near post area and the ball was stabbed at goal, took a deflection, but still went wide.

The game became a little scrappy, with niggling tackles all over the pitch, but the Chelsea support remained loud, giving the team some excellent support. When it got going in both sections it reminded me of our support at an FA Cup tie at Villa a few years ago – Enzo’s finest game in a Chelsea shirt – and at Arsenal on this wet old night the usual Chelsea songs were defiantly sung with passion and, er, gusto.

Joao Pedro was putting in a very strong performance all game, showing some neat touches of skill, and a surprising amount of strength when needed. He is impressing me of late.

Again, we were still in this tie.

A little secret; on the drive up to London, wary of a potentially long night ahead, PD had asked what we would do if we were losing 0-3 at half-time. Would we leave? My response was that we would hang on to the hour mark.

On sixty-one minutes, we saw Estevao and Cole Palmer appear on the far side, and they replaced Delap and Hato. A bloke in front of me, who had just returned from the loos, asked his mates who had come off.

I leaned forward and replied “Delap came off twice.”

So, was this Rosenior’s game plan? Get Arsenal used to a cumbersome lump on the wing for an hour, then replace him with a spritely wing wizard, and change the shape too, plus the bonus of Cole Palmer?

If this came off, I was ready to doff my non-existent cap.

We increased our possession with the two additions, and in one move we had the agreeable sight of both Palmer and Estevao attacking down the left within yards of each other. A shot from outside the box from Cucurella curled just wide.

If only we could hit the bloody target.

On sixty-four minutes, the best move of the match, but Enzo shot wildly over. This followed nice wing play from Estevao following a perfect pass from Palmer.

Joao Pedro fell after a challenge from Gabriel but it looked like a dive to me.

“Fucking embarrassing”.

The bloke in front agreed.

Arsenal made some quality substitutions of their own; on came Leandro Trossard and Kai Havertz, who was booed by a sizeable proportion of our support.

I whispered “fasten yer seatbelts” to the bloke to my left.

The mercurial Alejandro Garnacho appeared after seventy-five minutes, replacing Santos. He took his position on the left with Estevao flipping over to the right. This was a case of “do or die” now, but Chelsea found it difficult to squeeze the ball through the packed home defence. Too often the ball was played into the middle, expecting too much from Joao Pedro, and our wingers were not utilised as much as I, for one, wanted.

On eighty-one minutes, another Enzo corner and a Fofana flick, just wide.

Then, just after, an Arsenal break but a beautifully timed sliding tackle by Chalobah as Martinelli looked to exploit some space on the right.

I pleaded with Garnacho to run at his defender and make something happen, but I don’t think he ever did. And virtually every time that he chose to cut back and cross, the ball was blocked.

After eighty-seven minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

The game continued, but the Chelsea players still tended to slowly move the ball from player to player with the fans being the only ones showing the right amount of passion. I wondered if it had sunk in that a place at bloody Wembley was at stake here.

On eighty-nine minutes, Enzo shot over again.

Fackinell.

There was frustration everywhere in our ranks, but I was pleased and proud to note that hardly any of us were disappearing early. We would see this out.

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

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

We continued on.

Alas, Arsenal broke on ninety-six minutes, and they had spare men.

I spotted who was free on the right.

“Oh no, Havertz.”

We all watched in agony as he touched the ball past Sanchez and neatly slotted the ball home.

It was, awfully, not unlike a goal he scored one night in Porto.

Bollocks.

The referee blew up, and that was that.

Our travels had taken us to Lincoln, to Wolverhampton, to Cardiff and London, but there was no silverware in the League Cup this season.

With a deep sense of resignation that we never really gave it a go until very late on, we turned and began the slow shuffle towards the exits. I did that thing where I faced away from the pitch, but semi-turned to clap the players as they walked over to our support.

It was a very slow, and wet, walk back to Highbury & Islington tube station. For about fifteen minutes, we did not move an inch as we waited on the Holloway Road.

The Arsenal fans were jubilant and one bloody song kept repeating.

“60 million down the drain, Kai Havertz scores again”

I always remember reading a fan’s reminiscences about walking down the Seven Sisters Road after two consecutive semi-final defeats to Arsenal in the FA Cup in the ‘fifties – it was probably Scott Cheshire, that great Chelsea historian – and how depressed he felt. These were in the days when Chelsea, almost fifty years old, had not won a single thing, and so just imagine how those defeats must have hurt.

This hurt, but it was absolutely nowhere near the same scale of sadness.

At least it meant we could enjoy a first-ever visit to Everton’s new stadium on a Saturday rather than a Tuesday night.

We reached King’s Cross at 11pm, and we eventually got back to West Brompton. I shot off to pick up the car, and collected PD outside the station bang on midnight.

I eventually reached home at 2.20am.

I am never one for hitting the sack straight away; I need to scan my photos to see what I had taken, plus there is the inevitable late-night chit-chat with pals in the U.S.

I fell asleep, eventually, at 3.30am.

4.30am to 3.30am.

Bloody hell, Chelsea.

Tales From Managers, Old And New

Posted on January 18, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 14 January 2026.

As we prepared for Liam Rosenior’s first home game as manager of Chelsea Football Club, I was reminded of another League Cup semi-final against Arsenal almost twenty-eight years ago.

This one took place at Stamford Bridge too. And it was also the first home game for another new manager, Gianluca Vialli.

After a 0-2 loss in the league at Highbury on 8 February 1998, chairman Ken Bates dispensed with manager Ruud Gullit – despite the Dutchman securing our first silverware in twenty-six years the preceding May – and installed the Vialli as player-manager on 12 February. As fate would have it, Vialli’s first game in charge of his old teammates was against Arsenal on 18 February in a League Cup second leg after we lost the first game at Highbury 1-2.

Before the game, in the dressing room, Vialli arranged for the players to toast each other with glasses of champagne, and on a very memorable night goals from Mark Hughes, Roberto di Matteo and Dan Petrescu gave us a wild 3-1 win and a 4-3 triumph on aggregate. It was a bloody fantastic night.

I was confident that there would be no champagne in 2026; isotonic sports drinks were more likely.

We met Arsenal in the 2017/18 semi-finals too; a dull 0-0 at Chelsea was followed by a meek 1-2 loss at Arsenal.

What would happen in 2026? I, for one, was not too confident.

This was a standard midweek trip to Stamford Bridge for me. After I dropped my two fellow travellers off at “The Eight Bells”, I visited “Koka” restaurant on the North End Road. The waitress asked me if I had any allergies, and I wondered if I should have replied :

“Yeah, I fucking hate Tottenham.”

A bowl of French onion soup and a peperoni pizza later, I was on my way to West Brompton and then Putney Bridge.

During the day, I had messaged my friend Mark – a Chelsea supporter from nearby Westbury who I first met on the day we beat Leeds United 5-0 back in 1984 – and who is now the chairman of Westbury United. While Chelsea would be playing Arsenal, the re-arranged Frome Town vs. Westbury United game would be taking place over one-hundred miles to the west. I wished him “all the best for tonight” but was surprised to hear that he would be at Stamford Bridge instead.

As I walked into the pub, Mark was with Parky and PD, who he has known since around 1979, and I sat myself down for a good old chat about Chelsea and the non-league scene on the Somerset and Wiltshire border. It is an odd quirk that I am good friends with both clubs’ chairmen; even more that they are both Chelsea.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 7.20pm, and I was suffering with a recently acquired sore throat. There would be no singing at all for me on this night in SW6.

We had heard that Arsenal had the whole Shed End, but I soon spotted that there was a “no-go” area towards the left-hand side of the stand. This immediately confused me. I then presumed that Arsenal had not been given the rumoured 6,000, more like 4,500, and that Chelsea fans – 1,500 of us – were sat in the area usual reserved for away fans. It seemed odd and looked even odder.

We have had some strange sights over the years at Stamford Bridge since the renovations began in 1993. We have had away fans positioned in the East Upper. We have had away fans in the East Lower. We have had away fans in the uncovered West Stand. We have even had away fans in the Matthew Harding Lower. And of course, away fans in the Shed End. But this was the first time I could ever remember Chelsea fans in the away section of The Shed.

As I waited for the game to begin, I spotted a few visitors from The Shed who were unable to take up their usual seats due to the Arsenal invasion and were now sat in the Matthew Harding Upper. I spotted Long Tall Pete, then Cliff, then Martin from Glocester. Again, it was odd seeing unfamiliar faces in this section. Parky and Salisbury Steve, two other Shedenders, were in the tier below.

The team that Rosenior had picked surprised us.

Sanchez

Acheampong – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Neto

Guiu

Several big names were out; we presumed injured.

On the Monday, we had sadly learned that former player and manager Eddie McCreadie had passed away at the age of eighty-five. Eddie stopped playing for Chelsea just before I began going to games, but he was a key member of the 1970 and 1971 cup winning teams in Manchester and Athens. I remembered him more as an intelligent manager, galvanising a team of mainly youngsters to gain promotion in 1977 after the desolation of relegation in 1975. That he failed to agree on a deal at Stamford Bridge in the summer of 1977 is always seen as a massive failure by the club at the time. In an era when Chelsea did not sign a single new player in 1975, 1976 and 1977 – are you listening, Clearlake? – the eventual success of McCreadie’s youngsters were testament to his prowess in nurturing young talent.

I always remember hearing the story of how he went on a mazy eighty-yard dribble in the home leg of the League Cup Final in 1965 and scoring past Gordon Banks in the Leicester City goal. The game had been tied at 2-2 after Chelsea went 1-0 up, then 2-1 up but the away team equalized on both occasions. This wondergoal from McCreadie won the game, and ultimately the tie, since the return leg finished 0-0.

But he will always be remembered for 1970, above all.

I absolutely think that the 1970 FA Cup winners are still regarded as the most-loved of all our teams, despite the glories of the past twenty-five years.

Peter Bonetti
Ron Harris
Eddie McCreadie
John Hollins
John Dempsey
David Webb
Tommy Baldwin
Charlie Cooke
Peter Osgood
Ian Hutchinson
Peter Houseman

Sadly, just three of this cherished team remain with us; Ron Harris, David Webb, Charlie Cooke.

Before the game, there was a respectful moment of applause in memory of Eddie McCreadie.

REST IN PEACE

Kepa was booed as his name was announced and I shook my head. He was, after all, part of the team that saw us embarrass his current team 5-1 in Baku. I am sure others rolled their eyes when they heard that.

Soon into the game, we had already witnessed a long throw into the mixer from Declan Rice from down below us, and soon after I snapped as the same player dropped a corner into the six-yard box.

The action seemed to go into slow-motion. I saw Sanchez rise, I saw Sanchez flap at air, I saw the ball drop onto the head of Ben White, I saw the ball squeeze in past an Arsenal player on the line.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 1.

Maybe there had been champagne pre-match, and Sanchez had drunk more than his share.

I slumped into my seat, with the back of my head nestling in the palms of my hands, crestfallen and silent. I don’t think I moved for the best part of a minute. The Arsenal players – I call them “the robots”, and they don’t deserve capital letters – swarmed together and very soon the Arsenal lot in The Shed began singing.

“Set piece again.

Ole, ole.

Set piece again.

Ole, ole.

Set piece again, set piece again.

Set piece again, ole ole.”

Was this tiresome chant a replacement of the equally shite “1-0 to the Arsenal”?

No, because that was soon aired too.

Bloody hell.

Ten minutes had passed, we were 1-0 down to the Woolwich Wanderers, they had scored via a set piece, and we had already been treated to pieces of kamikaze distribution from Sanchez.

“This could be a long night, this.”

However, Enzo rattled a powerful drive at Kepa, and we all hoped for more.

A strong run from Viktor Gyokeres into the box, trading paces with Trevoh Chalobah, allowed him to wriggle free and create space but his shot was deflected away for a corner. There was something in that old-fashioned contest that somehow warmed me; two players in a good-old duel, a real blast from the past.

I noticed that every seat in the house was occupied, and where there are usually empty seats in most areas, this night Stamford Bridge looked crammed. I have to say that the £60 ticket for this game shocked a lot of us; until recently the club has charged significantly less for League Cup games, even semis. We wondered how much the away ticket would cost. It was odd that the away game was not yet on sale; the first instance I could ever remember of this happening. On the way up, we wondered what the likelihood of purchasing a second-leg ticket would be if we were trailing 0-3 from this game.

The consensus was this :

“3-0 down. £60 a pop. Won’t get home until 2.30am. Let someone else have our tickets.”

Estevao looked lively as we tried to get back into the game. The best move of our match came on twenty-seven minutes as Enzo set up Joao Pedro but his low cross bobbled across the six-yard box but there was nobody close in to finish.

Leandro Trossard weaved his way into the box down below us, but his shot was blocked.

At the other end, Enzo played in Estevao who forced a fine save from Kepa at his near post.

Arsenal were plainly a well-oiled machine with players who knew how their system worked. Chelsea kept battling away, but without a great deal of penetration.

On thirty-nine minutes, William Saliba dropped a shot on the roof of Sanchez’ net.

Two bookings followed for Estevao and Cucurella, and the first half ended.

At half-time, no changes from Rosenior, and I was quietly expecting another half of decent possession but no final product. Marc Guiu had not had a sniff.

During the break, I was relieved to hear that Sam Heal had given Frome Town a 1-0 lead against Westbury. A healthy gate of 814 would soon be announced

The second half began, and after just four minutes, the action switched to the West Stand touchline. Pedro Neto lost the ball to Bukayo Saka, Cucurella fell and tried to recover, and raced back trying to track Saka, but the ball was played outside to the free man White, racing on the overlap, nobody tracking him. I know that Neto usually does this; not on this occasion. The ball was fired in low, and from over one hundred yards away, it was not clear to me how it had evaded Sanchez. Gyokeres had the simplest task.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 2.

The visitors began singing about Wembley.

Eight minutes into the second period, the new manager made two substitutions.

Benoit Badiashile replaced Acheampong, while Alejandro Garnacho replaced Guiu.

We approached the hour mark, and we seemed to be more direct, more cohesive.

On fifty-seven minutes, a poor Arsenal clearance failed to clear their half. It annoyed me that the bloke behind me was quick to berate Enzo, but as he spoke his words of disgust, Enzo chased down the ball from one player and then continued to fight for the ball, not once but twice. The ball broke to Joao Pedro who set up Neto on the right. The ball was crossed to the far post, where Garnacho waited. The ball bounced, he chested it down, then lashed it in from an angle. I was impressed with this finish.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 2.

Game on.

Garnacho soon realised it was no time to sit his arse on an advertising board and raced back towards his own goal.

Arsenal had been singing along constantly all game, but it was now our turn. Stamford Bridge was engulfed in a deluge of vibrant noise.

Heart-warming stuff.

We created a few half-chances, with Estevao and Garnacho causing problems.

Sadly, on seventy minutes, Saka initiated a move on the right, and the ball was neatly played between Mikel Merino and Gyokeres. Fine footwork from Martin Zubimendi inside our box allowed him to create space and fire home, high into the net.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 3.

The Gooners went into orbit.

On seventy-five minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Fofana.

I wasn’t particularly confident about anything.

“It’s going to be a long quarter of an hour.”

An Estevao shot was blocked. At the other end, Sanchez denied Merino with a stunning piece of goalkeeping, flinging out a leg, and stopping a goal-bound shot with his boot.

From the corner, Gabriel headed a cross down and up and over the bar.

Fackinell.

On eighty-one minutes, our last two changes.

Tosin Adarabioyo for Cucurella.

Shim Mheuka for Joao Pedro.

…also Kai Havertz made an appearance, and Porto 2021 seemed such a long time ago.

Estevao enjoyed a fantastic run down the right, forcing a corner. Neto delivered the ball in, and it was flicked on towards Garnacho, again at the back stick. An instinctive finish, but well controlled, and we were overjoyed to see the net ripple.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 3.

Garnacho again raced back to his half; no time for celebration fripperies.

The last ten minutes of the game were played out, and half-chances came and went. PD set off early to begin the slow walk to the car. No more goals ensued, and as I joined the masses attempting to vacate The Sleepy Hollow, tempers were raging among a few players down on the pitch.

Out into the night, I muttered to myself:

“Now I’ll have to fork out for a ticket for the bloody second-leg.”

I met up with the chaps. We were pragmatic. We hadn’t played brilliantly but we never gave up.

“The tie is still alive.”

After a predictable detour down the A4 from Hungerford to Melksham, I eventually reached home at around 1.45am.

At least Frome won.

Tales From Row Z And The Back Row

Posted on December 18, 2025 by Chris Axon

Cardiff City vs. Chelsea : 16 December 2025.

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.

Where next?

Tales From A Black Country Comedy

Posted on November 4, 2025 by Chris Axon

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.

A 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.

Tales From Lincolnshire

Posted on September 26, 2025 by Chris Axon

Lincoln City vs. Chelsea : 23 September 2025.

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.

It had been another epic night on the road.

The next round?

We all fancied Port Vale away.

Tales From The History Book

Posted on March 15, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 9 March 2025.

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 120^th 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.

More of all that later.

Really, though, fourth place?

Chelsea vs. Sunderland

Tiverton Town vs. Frome Town

Chelsea vs. Leicester City

The Goal

Tales From A Night Of Firing Blanks

Posted on February 17, 2025 by Chris Axon

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.

1985 : Chelsea

2025 : Frome Town

Tales From The Dripping Pan And The Amex

Posted on February 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

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.

See you there.

The Dripping Pan

The Amex

1985

Tales From An Ark Lark

Posted on November 14, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Noah : 7 November 2024.

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.

Donna, Rachel, Charlotte, Doreen, Aroha.

Tales From The Football Road

Posted on October 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 20 October 2024.

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.”

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.

I can’t wait for either.

See you in the pub.

The Football Road : The Southern End