Tag Archives: League Cup Final

Tales From A Long Day

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Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 31 January 2024.

Although our heads seem full of the two domestic cups for the moment, here was a sobering trip back to normality and the league campaign. They really don’t get much tougher than this one.

Liverpool vs. Chelsea.

Gulp.

I was up early, at 5.30am, and I soon found myself outside PD’s house in Frome at seven o’clock. Salisbury Steve had driven up to Frome to join us and, despite being pleased to see Steve, there were a few special words for PD.

“Happy birthday mate.”

It was PD’s sixty-second birthday. I am not sure how that is possible, but it is. It doesn’t seem too long ago that I first met PD on a train home from Cardiff City almost forty years ago.

We left Somerset behind us and soon crossed the border into Wiltshire where I picked up Parky at just after 7.30am. By a twist of fate, the game at Liverpool was on the seventh anniversary of a match that we had attended at Anfield during our championship season of 2016/17. That was a Wednesday too.

And just as we celebrated PD’s fifty-fifth birthday with a famous pub-crawl in central Liverpool in 2017, we were also looking to partake in something similar for his sixty-second birthday. In 2017, we visited four pubs on Dale Street. I had a similar strategy for 2024.

Regardless of the football, we all hoped for a decent time.

There was heavier traffic than usual. However, after stopping for the usual breakfast at Strensham Services between Tewkesbury and Worcester, I was happy with our progress. We didn’t speak too much about the game. I did utter an opinion that most Chelsea supporters, I suspected, would swap a loss at Anfield – “even a heavy loss” – for a triumph in the up-coming League Cup Final.

It was a familiar drive into Liverpool. We crossed over Queens Drive at The Old Swan rather than take a right turn to either Anfield or Goodison and after a few miles, the huge carcass of the former Littlewoods Pools building appeared on our left. This was once an impressive art deco structure but has been abandoned for many years. It is currently awaiting a revamp as a media and studio centre.

We had a little chat about the football pools, and how Littlewoods and Vernons were based in Liverpool, whereas Zetters was based in London.  I was reminded that the former Liverpool Polytechnic was re-named as John Moores University after the first owner of Littlewoods. The buildings of this university dominate the final approach into the city. John Moores was a director and chairman of Everton at various times from 1960 to 1977. His nephew, David Moores, was Liverpool chairman from 1991 to 2010.

One wonders how much pools money was filtered into the support of the city’s two football clubs over the years.

Driving into the city was easy. I easily spotted the two cathedrals. I dropped down the hill but Everton’s new stadium was just out of sight to our right. My route took me close to Walker Art Gallery. In March of last year, on my way home for a short break in Newcastle and Edinburgh, I had dropped into Liverpool’s city centre to visit an exhibition at the Walker Art Gallery about casuals. I spent around ninety minutes, appropriately enough, at the exhibition which detailed the rise and spread of casual subculture, which some say began on Liverpool’s Scotland Road in 1977. Although, the geographical roots are often argued, Merseyside is surely the spiritual home of the casual movement.

I really enjoyed the scope and detail of the exhibition, which I caught during the last few days of its run. Not only were there detailed descriptions of how football and fashion fused together, there were vintage original pieces of clothing from the original era, plus some excellent pieces of art from the football world. I was pleased to see a copy of “The Face” from 1983 that I still own to this day. The exhibition was superb and I loved it. It was right up my Gwladys Street.

I include some photographs.

I then drove within touching distance of Lime Street station, always the scene of much shenanigans in past decades. I remember arriving there for the first time in May 1985 and how I gingerly caught a bus up to Anfield for my very first game in the city. I remember putting on a “Scouse accent” as I paid the driver for my ticket. These were nervous steps for me. Liverpool had a gruesome reputation as being unsafe for away fans, despite the media’s view of the city’s football fans as being cheeky rascals and no more. I remember seeing a Chelsea fan on the bus that I recognised at the time. I have not seen him for years and years so I was pleased to see him at Middlesbrough a few weeks ago. I was pleased that he still goes.

Around that time, Liverpool had been the dominant force in English football since the mid-‘seventies. In those four seasons of First Division football from 1984/85 to 1987/88, I went to every Chelsea game at Anfield. It seemed a massive match in those times.

1984/85 : I travelled up by train from Stoke-on-Trent and watched from a packed away corner as we narrowly lost 4-3. This was a Saturday morning game, with the risk of crowd trouble ruling out a later kick-off. I was surprised how quiet The Kop was.

1985/86 : another trip up by train from Stoke, another morning game, and a fantastic 1-1 draw, with Pat Nevin knocking in a very late equaliser. There were around five hundred Rangers fans in our part of the Kemlyn Road. When the goal went in, at our end, I literally could not move.

1986/87 : another morning game, this time on a Sunday afternoon, and live on TV. A poor performance from us, we lost 0-3. I would later spot myself on the TV coverage on two separate occasions, a big thrill back then.

1987/88 : I travelled up from Somerset for this Sunday game, again on TV, and in a close match we narrowly lost 1-2 despite going ahead in the first-half, the winning goal being scored excruciatingly late.

These four away games have taken on a seminal role in my own Chelsea story. I enjoy so many memories from those four seasons; the players, the songs, the tribalism, the fashions, the real element of danger, the sense of place, the whole nine yards. They seemed huge, they seemed significant, as though I was taking part in some sort of Footballing Zeitgeist.

Sigh.

Back to fucking 2024.

The plan was to leave Dodge at 7am and be parked-up at midday. I pulled in to the car park opposite our Premier Inn at 11.58am.

It’s a good job I work in logistics.

The first two pubs of PD’s birthday pub crawl were revisits from 2017.

“The Vernon.”

Famous for its sloping floors, it was eerily similar to seven years ago; quiet, save for a few foreign Liverpool fans dotted around. The floor was sloping and so were my two pints of “Estrella”, sloping nicely straight down my neck.

“Thomas Rigby’s.”

We sat at almost the same table as 2017, but – alas – the jovial Evertonian landlord had moved on. It was quieter than seven years ago. A pint of “Prava” and a pint of “Madri” went down very well. We were starting to relax nicely. This was Steve’s first-ever visit to Liverpool. I tried not to bore him to death with intricate details of too many past trips.

“The Saddle.”

This one was right next to pub number two, no more than a ten second walk away. We arrived here just before 3pm so I soon sorted out tickets on my ‘phone for the Aston Villa cup replay which had gone on sale at that time. Fair play to Villa for knocking a further £5 off the cheap price of £25 for Chelsea season ticket holders. The drinks – another “Madri” for me – were going down well.

“Ye Hole In Ye Wall.”

And this pub was right next to pub number three. This is allegedly the oldest pub in Liverpool, dating from 1720. As soon as we walked in, we loved its warmth and cosiness. A special mention of my mate Francis – with us in 2017 – who got a round in, remotely. Top man. We were joined, in the cosy snug, by our friend Kim from California, now Liverpool, who came by to wish PD a “happy birthday” and to enjoy a few laughs. I managed to snag a ticket for Kim for Anfield last year, but we were not so fortunate this season.

“The Denbigh Castle.”

And this was right next to pub number four. It was now 5pm, but the game was still hours away. It seems pointless, now, moaning about it but instead of having evening games at 7.30pm, or 7.45pm, or even 8pm, games are now held on occasion at 8.15pm, as was this one. It’s fucking pathetic. Just another twist of the knife. As if travelling large distances for midweek games isn’t difficult enough.

PD was happy because they sold “Thatchers” in this pub. I am surprised they sell it in Liverpool.

We were joined here by my friend Brij, originally from California but now residing in Boston and working for the NHL Boston Bruins. I first met Brji in Ann Arbor in 2016 ahead of our friendly against Real Madrid (still, officially, our largest ever paid attendance of 105,826) and we have loosely followed each other on Instagram for a while. He recently told me that he was over in Europe on a short break and I was lucky to be able to spirit up a ticket in the away end out of the ether. He was buzzing with excitement. It was great to see him. I was pleased that he shared many of my dislikes of modern sport. I could see that we would get on fine.

“The Tempest On Tithebarn.”

We arrived here around 6pm. This was a modern pub, unlike all the others, and the décor was a little odd. It was strange – or maybe not, in fact – that we had not spoken too much about the game that would be occupying our hearts and minds a few hours later. Another lager. Phew.

“The Railway.”

One final pub, all of a lengthy one-minute walk from the previous one, but still time to lose PD and Parky on the way. The lagers were starting to slosh around a little now. It was 7pm, and the final call of a pub-crawl that had been really enjoyable. This was a lovely old pub with wooden panels and glistening mirrors and beer pumps. This one was a quick visit. I didn’t even take my coat off.

At about 7.20pm, Brij volunteered to sort out an Uber up to Anfield. We waited outside for a few minutes, and thankfully one arrived. We were deposited near The Kop at 7.50pm. Within ten minutes we were inside the away concourse. The five of us were split up. I made it to my seat – 140, Row 18, a decent seat in line with the six-yard box – just after the “YNWA” stuff.

I didn’t fancy bringing my SLR on such a busy afternoon and evening, so my pub camera had to suffice. I didn’t take too many shots.

Neither did Chelsea.

The game began and I did my best to try to work out who was where, how, why and what for.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Sterling – Palmer – Madueke

The game began with us facing The Kop. Behind me was the newly opened top tier of the Anfield Road Stand. Liverpool began strongly, as expected and attacked at will. Petrovic was soon called into action.

In one of our early attacks, Raheem Sterling advanced on the left with a barrage of boos cascading down from The Kop, and his pass inside found the raiding run of Conor Gallagher. He went deep inside the box, but fell. From one hundred yards away, my view was not great. “No penalty” and the game continued.

Liverpool continued their ascendency, their players fleet-footed, ours with boots full of lead. Not long after, Darwin Nunez launched one from well outside the box, our defensive so easily breached, but the hard strike clipped the bar. The same player again slipped through our defensive line after a long ball from deep. His low angled shot from in front of us was thankfully turned onto the far post by Petrovic.

This was just horrible.

Nunez was shooting for fun. We seemed miles off the pace. We found it impossible to build moves. It just wasn’t working.

On twenty-two minutes, Diogo Jota slalomed his way through our defence, past Thiago Silva and Benoit Badiashile, and slammed the ball low past Petrovic.

It was on the cards.

There was, however, the slight hope that VAR might assist our cause with a long check for handball. Nah, the goal stood.

More Liverpool efforts, Petrovic the hero a few times.

In the away end, the minimal singing has stopped. I stood in silence.

On thirty-nine minutes, utter calamity. Moises Caicedo gave up possession cheaply, and Liverpool exploited acres of space on our left. Conor Bradley ran and slotted in at the far post. I sadly captured this one on film. Our hopes were raised a little, but another VAR check did not help us.

Fackinell.

In the closing embers of a dire half, we conceded a penalty after Badiashile coughed rather too loudly at Jota. Thankfully, Nunez slammed the kick against the outside of the post.

It stayed 0-2.

At the break, three substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Chilwell.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

Early in the second-half, a decent break from Gusto down the right and the ball was played deep into the box, rather like a bouncing bomb. Mudryk – who had that crazily optimistic debut at Anfield just over a year ago – fluffed his lines and the ball flew way over.

Bollocks.

The mood in the away end was as sombre as I have known it. Spaces began to appear around me. That passionate, rugged, defiant “fuck’em all” support of decades ago was nowhere to be seen.

On sixty-five minutes, as simple as you like, a long ball from deep by Van Dijk to Bradley. He skipped past Badiashile and slung over a cross. In front of the goal, in front of The Kop, Dominik Szoboszlai leapt up and headed down and in. The whereabouts of our central defenders at the time is not known.

Fackinell.

The home fans in the top tier of the “Annie Road” sang.

“Liverpool, Liverpool – Top Of The League.”

Neighbours in my row departed to pubs, trains and automobiles. There were seven empty seats to my left and five empty seats to my right. Earlier in the evening, I had been concerned that after such a long spell of drinking since just after midday that I might well be slumped asleep in my seat by 9.45pm.

Now, I almost wished that I was.

Carney Chukwuemeka replaced Caicedo.

Caicedo and Fernandez had been awful, just awful.

On seventy-two minutes, Chukwuemeka turned and ran at the Liverpool defence. He passed to Nkunku, who slipped past markers with some nifty footwork and slid the ball in. It was a really fine goal.

Liverpool 3 Chelsea 1.

Our spirits were raised slightly.

A few of us lone souls yelled :

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

But this was ridiculous. If we had gained a point from this game, the team would have deserved to have been jailed.

Nunez hit the bar yet again

On seventy-nine minutes, any silly thought about an unwarranted draw was extinguished when Luis Diaz crept in behind a sleeping Badiashile to sweep in a low cross from Nunez.

Late on, a Chelsea debut for Cesare Casadei who replaced Palmer, and – worryingly – this is the first time that I have mentioned his name.

Sigh.

We gathered together outside and decided to wait a while to hunt down a cab. We walked the short distance to “The Arkles” and drowned our sorrows. This was always an odd pub in that it was an away pub but one that allowed home fans in too. To be honest, there never was any trouble in all the years that I have dropped into it at Anfield. We had a couple more pints, and one was bought for us by a Liverpool fan from my neck of the woods. He came from Gloucestershire I seem to remember. Brij and I chatted away to him. He was friendly enough and slowly but surely the agony of the game slowly subsided. Behind me, Steve, PD and Parky chatted to two Liverpool fans from Ireland. I am sure that we were the only Chelsea fans in there. We did not leave “The Arkles” until almost midnight.

We caught another Uber down to the city centre and at last had a bite to eat. At about 12.45am, we slipped into “Pop World” and had a few nightcaps. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

It wasn’t.

We finally took another cab back to the hotel, and we must have hit the sack at about 2am.

It had been a long day.

WHERE D’YER GET YER TRAINEES?

GOIN THE MATCH.

Tales From ‘Boro In Our Borough

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Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough : 23 January 2024.

My seat for the second leg of the League Cup semi-final against Middlesbrough was in row Q – the rear row all but one – of the Matthew Harding Upper and I was inside with about fifteen minutes to go. There had been a greater queue than normal outside. It was a very mild night in SW6. I was beginning to regret to regret wearing a bulky puffer jacket. Up the other end, in The Shed, were the brightly-coloured visitors from Teesside, around 5,000 of the buggers, their biggest turnout at Stamford Bridge since “that” game in 1988.

While we attempted to overturn a narrow 0-1 deficit from the first leg on this Tuesday night in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, just twenty-four hours later, Fulham would be attempting to overcome a similar result in their semi-final against Liverpool. All of a sudden, our home borough was the centre of attention.

While latecomers took their seats, I remained quietly confident of us advancing to yet another Wembley Cup Final. And – of course – we hoped that Fulham would join us.

On the pitch, the ground staff in matching dark grey puffer jackets of their own prodded away at the wet grass using forks. Then the lights dimmed, and the 1-2 punch occurred.

Firstly, the pulsing electronic beat boomed out of the stadium’s speakers, the strobe lighting began and then the flames flashed into the sky.

Secondly, the “what the fookin’ hell was that?” from the away support.

It was a very colourful away support, with many of the ‘Boro bedecked in red and white scarves and with replica shirts on show under unbuttoned jackets. I remember a similar number of Tottenham fans at our semi-final in 2019, occupying those same two tiers, and with everyone dressed in dark jackets, a large unsavoury mob, almost looking like a European team. This lot were far more brightly attired. There were a few flags dotted around too.

“We Built the World.”

“You Make Me Happy When Skies Are Grey.”

“We Are Boro.”

My Middlesbrough mate Chris texted me :

“You’ll probably win the match, but I’ll be happy if we out-sing you.”

With the players of both teams on the pitch, they then moved to the centre circle and the PA asked us to remember one of our own.

I only ever saw Tommy Baldwin play once for Chelsea. On Saturday 10 October 1974, my second-ever visit to Stamford Bridge, Tommy played against Tottenham in a game that we won 1-0, the goal coming from an early John Hollins penalty.

The Chelsea team that day was : 

  1. John Phillips.
  2. Gary Locke.
  3. Ron Harris.
  4. John Hollins
  5. Micky Droy.
  6. John Dempsey.
  7. Steve Kember
  8. Tommy Baldwin.
  9. Charlie Cooke
  10. Ian Hutchinson
  11. Peter Houseman.

It was also the only time that I saw John Dempsey play. Later that season, Tommy joined Manchester United on loan before drifting away from Stamford Bridge and finishing his career with a few games at Brentford. He had been a stalwart at Chelsea for eight years, playing almost two-hundred games as a bustling midfielder or inside-forward.

I often used to see Tommy Baldwin meeting up with other former players as they congregated together before darting off to engage in hospitality activities on match days. Unfortunately, Tommy had been unwell for quite a while and on Monday we heard that he had sadly passed away. He was seventy-eight. Tommy Baldwin was nicknamed “The Sponge” for reasons that were sometimes debated. There are those that said that it was because of his ability to soak up pressure, attack after attack, in his midfield role. But I suspect that those that knew him better, knew that this was a name derived from his ability to drink. I had read through the detailed obituary that appeared on the Chelsea website on Monday evening; it was a fine summation of his time as a footballer in Chelsea colours and illustrated his often-under-appreciated role in that most revered of Chelsea teams.

Although his name was not widely known outside SW6 circles – unlike Bonetti, Osgood, Cooke, Harris, Hollins, Hudson et al – his role in the functioning of the team was acknowledged by us all. He was as no footballing Corporal Sponge.

While his image appeared in black and white on the two TV screens, both sets of supporters applauded in his memory.

Rest In Peace Tommy Baldwin, The Leader Of The Team.

I scanned our team.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Chilwell

Palmer – Caicedo – Fernandez

Sterling – Broja – Mudryk

We attacked the Middlesbrough fans in the first-half. They were, unsurprisingly, noisy.

“That’s why we sing this song for the ‘Boro all night long.”

For the first ten minutes or so, it seemed like a seamless continuation from the game on Teesside a fortnight ago. They were sat back and we took forever to move the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, while the movement upfront was almost non-existent. A few pumps up field from deep did not hit targets.

There were a couple of worrying signs early on. Raheem Sterling was ball-watching during a ‘Boro attack, leaving his wide man ridiculously free but thankfully the ball stayed on the opposite side. Then, after getting sucked inside, Ben Chilwell had to race back – and across – like an express train as we were embarrassingly cut open down our left.

But we enjoyed a couple of efforts in this period; one from Mykhailo Mudrk, one from Chilwell.

Djordje Petrovic got down well to save to his right.

On fifteen minutes, a swish move down our right involving Cole Palmer and Raheem Sterling set up Armando Broja. From my seat, I could not see the fine detail, but only the ball ending up in the net. We would soon find out that Johnny Howson had stuck out a leg and had scored the goal for us. But, I did not celebrate. Such is the spectre of VAR these days – even when it is not being used – that my celebrations were dulled. Of course, there was no flag, no nothing. The goal stood. It came at just the right time because the supporters in the Matthew Harding were starting to get a little agitated and nervous.

Phew.

The tie was tied.

The rest of the first-half, unlike in Middlesbrough, certainly went to plan.

On twenty-eight minutes, some solid play between Sterling and Axel Disasi down the right set up a chance for Broja. His shot was blocked by a defender but Enzo Fernandez was on hand to slam the ball in. A slide into the corner from Enzo. I could celebrate that one.

Eight minutes later, Disasi broke up an attack with a superb tackle and passed to Sterling. As Sterling, who had enjoyed a mixed opening period, raced on, so did Disasi. Sterling played the ball back to our rampaging defender and his low finish put us 3-0 up. There was another slide into the corner.

“That makes up for the chances we missed in the first-half two weeks ago.”

It was all Chelsea now.

Some were singing “We’re Going To Wembley” but I resisted. It was a little too soon for me.

Middlesbrough tried to keep their shape but they suddenly looked tired.

Despite the away fans dominating the night for most of the first-half – the twin staples of “your support is fooking shit” and “shall we sing a song for you?” were often heard – they were silent now.

On forty-two minutes, Palmer pick-pocketed a Middlesbrough defender and casually, and coolly, swept the ball in to the net.

Chelsea 4 Middlesbrough.

Now I could join in…

“Que Sera Sera.”

It had been an excellent half. After that slow start, we had grown as the game progressed. Petrovic had made the one save when he was needed. It was a joy to see Chilwell patrolling the left flank, and just inside him Levi Colwill looked a steady centre-back. We had been treated to two trademark sliding tackles from Silva. Disasi had enjoyed his best half for ages. In midfield, Enzo and Palmer created a few chances with their intelligent play and Moises Caicedo – not the easiest player to appreciate – was very solid. Broja was steady if not spectacular. Sterling was back on his game. The only negative was Mudryk, as perplexing as ever, a mixture of breath-taking speed mixed with jaw-dropping slowness of thought.

But we were happy at the break.

Fackinell.

At half-time, Nonu Madueke replaced Mudryk.

“It’s probably for the best.”

The second-half began and I wasn’t quite sure how to behave. Did I want us to rampage away and score four more or conserve ourselves for the FA Cup game on Friday? In truth, we controlled the game without causing too much further damage to the scoresheet nor the away team’s morale.

On the hour, for the first real time, the whole crowd sang as one.

“CAREFREE.”

That’s more like it.

Some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chilwell.

Conor Gallagher for Broja.

On seventy-seven minutes, Gallagher played in Palmer down below me, who did not bother with the burden of an additional touch and – as cool as you like – side-footed the ball in. Soon after, a blue flare was thrown onto the pitch from the MHL. It made for a great photo opportunity if nothing else.

On eighty-one minutes, Gallagher passed to Madueke, who shimmied and danced past a marker before slamming the ball at goal. The shot took a large deflection.

Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 0.

I was impressed that the away fans had been singing in the build up to the sixth goal and continued doing so when the goal came and for a while after too. Fair play to them. The biggest compliment that I can give them is that they reminded me of us when we were in our hey-day.

There was even time for a late debut.

Leo Casteldine – “player number 54 where are you?” – replaced Sterling.

I am unsure if we were being intentionally ironic, but we sang :

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

Middlesbrough had two late goals; one annulled for offside but one stood, a fine low effort by Morgan Rogers.

At the whistle, Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 1.

I quickly gathered my stuff and headed out.

“Blue Day” from 1997 blasted out on the PA. As I headed down the multiple flights of stairs at the rear of the stand, I heard the sweet voice of Doris Day. It did not compute. The opening bars just made me think of “that” Leeds song.

I then got it.

“Que sera sera.

Whatever will be, will be.

We’re going to Wem-ber-lee.

Que sera, sera.”

On the Fulham Road, there was some boisterous behaviour, some name-calling, some gesturing, some punches, some arrests.

Outside the town hall, I spotted a female ‘Boro fan, arm in arm with her man – to possibly stop herself from falling over – who pointed at two Chelsea women and shouted “Chelsea Rent Girls!”

Well, I had never heard that one before.

We got back to the car and set off for home at 10.30pm. I would be home by 1am. We hoped that the little brothers from Craven Cottage would do the business in the other semi-final, but our business in our borough was over for a few days.

Next up, Aston Villa in the other cup on Friday.

See you there.

Postscript 1 :

There was a regret that I didn’t hear Tommy Baldwin’s song during the game. Admitedly it is best suited for pre-match beers in the pub or concourse, but we always used to sing it at games.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’re the Fulham Road supporters and we’re louder than The Kop.”

Postscript 2 :

Nice to see my two friends Annette and Mark featured in the evening’s programme. They sometimes act as my unpaid spell-checkers.

Tales From Ironopolis

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Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea : 9 January 2024.

In the build up to our League Cup semi-final first leg at the Riverside Stadium, I had read somewhere that Chelsea had won every single one of the previous nine games against Middlesbrough, encompassing both venues and across all competitions. From February 2007 to March 2022, Chelsea had won them all.

Gulp.

In this most fragile of seasons, this is surely an an expected reaction.

Gulp.

Surely if there was a record waiting to be broken, here it was. This would be a misfiring Chelsea team playing at a hostile venue on a midweek night in the North-East against a team looking for revenge after fifteen years of hurt.

I did a little more research, but of a more personal nature. From May 1988 to March 2022, I had seen Chelsea play twenty-three times against Middlesbrough and – yes, you have surely guessed it – I was yet to see us lose against them across all venues and competitions.

Played : 23

Won : 20

Drew : 3

Lost : 0

Another gulp.

Should I even bother going to Teesside?

The ironic thing here is that the very first of these twenty-three matches on Saturday 28 May 1988, even though we won the game 1-0, still feels like a loss to this day; we had lost the Football League Division One Play-Off first leg 2-0 and so were relegated after the second leg. It was, undoubtedly, one of the worst days in our history and probably my worst Chelsea day of them all.

In the immediate aftermath of that day, however, Chelsea wreaked havoc on the fortunes of Middlesbrough Football Club with revenge in many forms; a Zenith Data Systems Cup win at Wembley in 1990, an FA Cup victory at Wembley in 1997 and a League Cup win at Wembley in 1998.

The game in 1998, when the League Cup was called the Coca-Cola Cup, was our last game against ‘Boro in the competition that now carries the title the Carabao Cup. Middlesbrough had been relegated to the second tier at the end of the previous season, but still had some decent enough players such as Paul Merson, Mark Schwarzer, Paul Gascoigne, Gianluca Festa, Nigel Pearson and Andy Townsend.

Pre-match was spent in The Globe on Baker Street. I remember being nervous before the game. I feared that Middlesbrough would be driven by revenge for the 1997 FA Cup Final loss against us. I need not have worried. We watched the game in the same corner of Wembley as the previous year’s FA Cup Final against the same opponents, though in a higher position in the enclosure. The Chelsea team, managed by Gianluca Vialli in a cool light grey suit with a big-knotted tie, lined up as below.

De Goey

Sinclair – Duberry – Leboeuf – Le Saux

Petrescu – Newton – Wise – Di Matteo

Hughes – Zola

Chelsea dominated the game, but Middlesbrough held on to a 0-0 score line in the regular ninety minutes. Thankfully, in the first period of extra time, Frank Sinclair became an unlikely Wembley hero, heading home a cross that Gianfranco Zola hooked back from the bye-line. In the second period of extra-time, I caught Zola’s low corner on film just before it was tucked home by Roberto di Matteo.

It always felt odd that after waiting twenty-seven years for a domestic trophy, we won at Wembley twice within ten months but against the same opponent and with the same score line.

That day at Wembley, almost twenty-six years ago now, is sometimes lost amongst our plethora of trophy wins but it was another important stepping stone as we continued to chip away at other clubs in that era.

Great times.

And well-loved players too.

I loved the team from that era.

Didn’t we look young. Not a grey hair in sight. And get this; six-year old Ed is now a father.

Gulp.

With a place in this season’s League Cup Final up for grabs, we soon made the conscious decision to stay the night once we had been drawn against Middlesbrough. I haven’t always attended the away legs of League Cup semi-finals due to various reasons, but there was no way I was going to miss this one. This competition probably represented our only realistic chance of silverware in 2023/24. I booked two days off work and then sorted out some accommodation in nearby Stockton-on-Tees.

I collected PD at 8am and Lord Parky at 8.30am. This was going to be a long old day. We stopped off a few times en route. Thankfully the clouds overhead did not result in much rain. I was happy to see clear blue skies after we drove past Sheffield. I arrived on Teesside at 2.15pm.

Our check-in time on Sheraton Park was at 3pm. There was just time for the first beer of the day at “The Horse & Jockey” on the Durham Road. We dropped our bags off and took a cab into Stockton-on-Tees. As luck would have it, our friend Simon – and my work colleague – was up in Stockton-on-Tees with work, overseeing the installation of some office furniture for a few days. He was able to nab a ticket in the away end. He joined us in “The Thomas Sheraton” pub in the centre of the town, which was once a courthouse but has now been “Wetherspooned”.

Sheraton Park. Thomas Sheraton. What is it with Thomas Sheraton in Stockton-on-Tees? It turns out that he was a famous eighteenth century furniture designer. How apt. We spent a couple of hours in this second pub and then popped around the corner into “The Hoptimist” – another apt setting, we were nothing but optimists on this cold night in Smoggy Land –  before getting a cab into Middlesbrough. We joined up with Salisbury Steve, Salisbury Simon and Salisbury Sam in “Barracuda” for our fourth port of call of the evening. We didn’t stay too long here. There were a few Chelsea supporters dotted around. A few songs of defiance.

At 7.15pm, jackets were fastened and we set off. The walk, we hoped, would not take too long. The stadium was about a mile away. We marched under a railway bridge, then took a turn past some swish new buildings – Middlesbrough College – with the wind biting as it skimmed off the nearby River Tees. The blue of the Transporter Bridge was just a few hundred yards away. Signs to inspire the students were dotted around.

“Great ideas begin in Middlesbrough.”

I hoped that this was one of them. I needed convincing.

“Where alchemists were born below Cleveland’s hills. A giant blue dragonfly across the Tees reminds us every night. We built the world. Every metropolis came from Ironopolis.”

The local steelworks was once huge. The ICI plant towards the North Sea was huge too. Those days are gone now. The local Smoggies can only imagine the times when heavy industry in Ironopolis was the norm.

The stadium appeared across one final void of water. Time was ticking.

We all got in with about five minutes to go. It would appear that we had just missed the pre-game mosaics, no doubt resplendent with matching “Pigbag” soundtrack.

I took my place in the stand alongside Ian, a lad that I have got to know over the past few years and who is my “go-to” source for any extra tickets that I might need. I am sure many of you know him. He is soon off to the Ivory Coast for the Africa Cup of Nations. It would be the first time that we would be watching a game side-by-side.

The first thing that caught my eye was our colours.

“Fucking Tottenham kit.”

Chelsea in navy blue.

Sigh.

Our 2024 team to play Middlesbrough?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Gallagher – Sterling

Palmer

This was only my sixth visit to the Riverside Stadium. It is a big regret that I never saw us play at Ayresome Park. This was an unwelcoming a place as any according to most reports, snuggled alongside terraced houses and with ambushes aplenty from streets and alleys alike. But I wish I had gone. Ian told me that his first visit was the 2-7 loss in early 1979, a game that marked the return of Peter Osgood from Philadelphia Fury.

The game began. We attacked the end to our right. The home fans were immediately loud and hostile. We were all stood, of course, but after a flurry of Chelsea songs and chants, we soon quietened down.

I thought that our shape was often a 4/3/3 with Gallagher alongside Enzo and Caicedo.

An early mistake by Levi Colwill on the far side let in a ‘Boro attacker but thankfully Djordje Petrovic easily gathered.

Ian and I had a side-conversation about the way football is going these days and we briefly touched on the almost inevitable moment when we might be forced to give it all up. We admitted that I was lucky in that I have Frome Town.

“You seem to enjoy it more” said Ian.

Gulp.

The game struggled to find any pattern and despite dominating possession, we struggled to link our play. There was little invention, nor penetration. Everything was so damned sluggish. At last a chance for Cole Palmer, playing as a false-nine, but his low effort from just outside the box did not really bother the home ‘keeper.

The home fans to our left roared at us.

“Your support is fucking shit.”

The noise in our section was indeed embarrassingly quiet.

More of the same followed. Lots of ineffectual Chelsea keep-ball, resolute Middlesbrough defending, an occasional break from them. Our noise still didn’t materialise. I sang more than some, but less than others. I think the poor show on the pitch sucked the life out of us. And yet that is no real excuse. We should have been much more involved.

A chance! An errant back-pass was intercepted by Palmer but he slid the ball inches wide when we were all expecting a goal.

On thirty-seven minutes, a long ball from Middlesbrough caught us sleeping. Isaiah Jones, who I remember from the FA Cup game in 2022 at the same stadium, won the race to slide a ball back from the goal-line and Hayden Hackney prodded the ball in from close range.

The home support boomed.

Both Ian and I noticed that the PA guy described Hackney’s goal as “Middlesbrough’s first goal” – the cheeky blighter.

A long shot from Moises Caicedo went just wide. A shot from outside the box from Enzo was spilled by the ‘Boro ‘keeper, but to our absolute horror, Palmer knocked the ball over from right under the bar. There was still time for another Palmer miss; a fine ball in from Caicedo, but after turning inside, Palmer finished tamely at the ‘keeper.

There were virtually no pluses points from that awful first half. Middlesbrough were compact and aggressively ate up any space that we might have hit. Our play was ponderous and poor.

Many many grumbles at half-time.

PD did not like that we played with no physical focus in attack; I wonder why Mauricio Pochettino chose to leave Armando Broja on our bench?

That said, I was still hopeful – if not too confident – that we would get a goal in the second-half.

It was virtually all one-way traffic in the second period. The Chelsea choir were still waiting for inspiration. A cross from Enzo, a tame header from Noni Madueke but an easy save for Glover.

On the hour, I noted our first really loud and coherent chant of the entire game.

“Hello, hello – we are the Chelsea boys.”

I snapped to capture a low effort from an off-balance Conor Gallagher.

A double substitution soon after.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

Armando Broja for Madueke.

I grew frustrated with Mudryk, too easily sucked in to the middle when his true value is to surely stay out wide to either stretch the defence out or to exploit the space. We had almost constant possession in the final half-an-hour. But our play kept going around in ever-decreasing circles. We lacked a cutting edge as we have done for what seems like years.

A shot from the disappointing Sterling curled high and wide.

In the last minute, Alfie Gilchrist replaced Disasi.

At the final whistle, boos from many in our section, but I was just numb.

I posted on Facebook that “I walked in merry. I am sober now.”

It was a terrible performance, on and off the pitch. It was, if I am truthful, the quietest Chelsea away support that I can ever remember being part of. That’s rotten. That it was for a cup semi-final makes it even more horrible.

We mumbled and grumbled to a few mates as we made our way outside.

“Blame me lads. I knew that my unbeaten run against this lot would end tonight.”

The night was cold, but a bacon cheeseburger – with onions – soon warmed me up. I liked it so much that I bought a second one.

We met up with Simon and caught a cab back to our respective digs and called it a night.

At least Frome won.

1998.

2024.

In memory of David Dicken, father of Chris, grandfather of Michael, who sadly passed away in 2023.

This photograph is from the Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea game on 20 October 2007.

Rest In Peace.

Tales From Under A Blue And Yellow Arch

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 27 February 2022.

My alarm sounded at 5.45am on the day of the League Cup Final. With all of the recent news from Ukraine that had sadly dominated everyone’s thoughts, I think it is safe to say that I was not wholly ready for the game at Wembley against Liverpool. I wasn’t particularly focussed. Far from it. The horrific scenes from Ukraine – and the national capital of Kiev specifically, a city that I had visited only three years ago with Chelsea – had dominated my thoughts for the previous few days. Football seemed a frivolous pursuit. In fact, my thoughts about the game were quite similar to those that I had felt for the 2015 League Cup Final against Tottenham. Just three days previously, I had lost my dear mother.

On both occasions, my mind was elsewhere, way elsewhere.

On that Sunday seven years ago, we travelled up to London by train. In 2022, we travelled up by car. I collected PD at 7am and Parky not long after. It would be our third drive to London in nine days, but only the second to involve a game.

Last Tuesday, the three of us had arrived in London at our usual parking space on Normand Road at around 5.45pm for the Champions League game against Lille, but PD – who had been feeling ropey during the last thirty-minutes of his drive to London – suddenly felt very ill indeed. He felt sick, experienced hot sweats but was also shaking with the cold too. Without too much thought, I knew we had to get him home. I jumped into the driving seat of his car and drove us back west. Our stay in London had lasted five minutes. Thankfully, PD improved a little on the drive home. By the time I eventually reached my house, the game at Stamford Bridge was approaching half-time. Our eventual two-nil win was met with a little indifference from me. I was more concerned about PD.

Bizarrely, this followed on from my “ghost” trip to London for the Plymouth Argyle game in which I didn’t go in. Two trips to SW6 but no football. My next game at Chelsea is against Newcastle United in a couple of weeks. I hope I make it to my seat.

We had decided to stay over in London. The Premier Inn near Putney Bridge would be our home for the Sunday night. From 10am until about 3pm, we knocked back some ciders and lagers in three local boozers; “The Eight Bells”, “The King’s Arms” and “The Golden Lion”. In the last pub, we bumped into the former Chelsea midfielder Alan Hudson, himself a participant in a League Cup final for Chelsea against Stoke City, almost fifty years ago to the day.

We were adamant that we would arrive on time for this match at Wembley. However, the tube line between Putney Bridge and Earl’s Court wasn’t operating. Instead, we bit the bullet and cabbed it – past Stamford Bridge – to Marylebone Station. It was no surprise to see a few stragglers, a few familiar faces, outside the sports bar as we exited the taxi. We soon squeezed onto the 3.45pm train to Wembley Park. What should have been a twelve-minute journey, took nearer thirty. Our carriage was full of Chelsea, including a couple of lads from home. All eyes were on the clock. Suffice to say, we again struggled to get into Wembley on time.

The game was due to start at 4.30pm.

We made our way around to the eastern end. At least there was no queue and a minimal security check. On the way in, a Scouser in his twenties squeezed-in behind Parky as he scanned his ticket. Old habits die hard, I guess. I uttered two choice words to him as we all ascended the escalator.

Time was against me.

Race, race, race.

I managed to reach my seat while the players of both teams were taking the knee.

Despite my alarm waking me at 5.45am, I was in with just five seconds to spare.

Bloody hell.

We had heard that Romelu Lukaku wasn’t chosen in the starting eleven while we were on the train. No surprise really. It would have been my choice too.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Rudiger

Alonso – Kante – Kovacic – Azpilicueta

Mount – Havertz – Pulisic

I had consistently said to Chelsea mates, old school friends, work colleagues and the like that I expected us to lose this. Although our two league meetings were even games and hotly contested, it felt like we have gone off the boil of late. In fact, in Abu Dhabi I had prioritised the FIFA World Club Cup over this one. The Chelsea fans that I shared this with agreed with me.

The match began. Chelsea attacked the Scousers who were located in our usual end, an end that tends to be a “lucky” one for us.

The game was a cracker, eh?

On so many occasions, our recent Cup Final appearances at Wembley have tended to be dull affairs. But here was a contest that was at last an open and entertaining match for one and all.

It was a wild start to the game. Christian Pulisic was fed in by Dave. His snap shot was too close to the Liverpool ‘keeper with the unpronounceable first name. The chance went begging.

Liverpool then attacked at will. On one occasion, Mo Salah was closely marked by four Chelsea defenders. All eyes were on him, but elsewhere Liverpool were a threat.

It can be a sobering experience to watch Chelsea at Wembley. At home games, I have managed to get acclimatised to periods of quiet in The Sleepy Hollow. It’s not an ideal scenario but I’m used to it by now. Not many of the fifty or so spectators who sit near me get too involved. They have their moments, but these seem more fleeting as the years go by. At away games, it’s a different story. A far more uplifting experience. There’s nothing like cheering the team on in a packed and exuberant away section. At Wembley – and this has happened on far too many occasions for my liking – I soon get exasperated by those nearby who don’t support the team. Two lads in their early thirties alongside Parky were a case in point. No singing, no encouragement, no clapping. It was the same story with a couple in front. Nothing.

I couldn’t resist a loud “song sheets are available.”

Thankfully, a good group of singers to my left restored my faith in humanity.

Down below me, Mane headed well-wide from Alexander-Arnold. It felt like Liverpool were dominating much of the first twenty minutes, thirty minutes, but we managed the occasional counter-thrust. At no stage did I feel we would buckle to their attacks.

On the half-hour, we witnessed an amazing double-save from Edouard Mendy. First, a low shot from Keita was parried by a dive, and our ‘keeper then managed to reconfigure the neutrons, protons and electrons in his body to readjust his limbs and deflect Mane’s close-range effort over the bar. There were immediate memories of Jim Montgomery in the 1973 FA Cup Final.

It was a breath-taking piece of football.

The atmosphere, despite some good quality fare being played out on the Wembley pitch, was a little underwhelming. The Liverpool anthems “You’ll never walk alone” and “The fields of Anfield Road” occasionally boomed from the western end. “Carefree” was our main reply. In the big spaces of Wembley, it’s difficult to generate anything more intricate. The Mendy song, as an example, didn’t stand a chance.

Kai Havertz played in Pulisic, but his finish was again too close to Kelleher. A rising shot from Dave didn’t threaten the Irish ‘keeper either.

Chelsea were breaking nicely, with good mobility and a sense of freedom, and Havertz played in Mount just as the first-half was closing. His prod at goal was rather poor and the ball was sent wide. From a central position near the penalty spot, he really should have done better.

No goals at the break.

“Happy with that. Playing much better than I had predicted.”

The second-half began with Chelsea playing towards us in the eastern end of Wembley. A fantastic ball from Pulisic found the equally excellent run from Mount. The whole world seemed to stop. From inside the box, one on one with the ‘keeper, Mount struck.

The ball rebounded off the near post.

Fackinell.

Dave was injured, but on came Reece James to huge applause.

Another injury occurred when Keita and Trevoh Chalobah clashed in the middle of the pitch. From my vantage point high in the top tier, I had no real view of the incident. But Chalobah stayed down the longest.

The atmosphere was better now. Our end was showing some kind of unity.

“And it’s super Chelsea.”

A terrible clearance from Mendy allowed Liverpool to break in acres of space. The ball was worked to Salah who clipped the ball past the onrushing ‘keeper, trying to atone for his mistake. Thankfully, the reassuring figure of Thiago Silva appeared and hacked the ball away.

Not long after, a quickly-taken free-kick was pumped towards the area past our far post. A Liverpool header back across goal was headed in.

Ugh.

The Liverpool end roared.

There were red flares. They had scored the all-important first goal.

Our end was silent.

But then, after what seemed like an age, we saw that VAR was being called upon.

No goal.

Why? Was the first header from an offside position? Who knows.

A double substitution on seventy-three minutes.

Timo Werner for Pulisic.

Romelu Lukaku for Mount.

At around this time, the announcer at Wembley did something that I have never witnessed at a game in the UK before; he effectively did an in-game commercial for Carabao. Well, you can imagine my reaction.

Fackinell.

A cracking save by Mendy from Diaz drew more applause from our end. This was a really open game. Kante and Kovacic covered so much ground in our midfield. Alonso was always looking to stretch Liverpool’s right flank. Our defensive three rarely looked troubled. A ball was lobbed into the inside-left channel for Werner to attack. His fine cross was headed in by Havertz but – after a nano-second – we realised that an offside flag was raised.

Another magnificent save from Mendy kept us in it; a towering leap from Van Dijk was followed by a downward header but a stretching save kept it out.

Inside my head : “Mendy man of the match so far.”

Right at the death, Alonso did so well to shake off attention and rifle in a cross towards the near post but a shake of the leg from Lukaku and a flick was parried by Kelleher.

We had been standing for an hour and three quarters. We would be standing for thirty minutes more.

Extra time.

A magnificent ball in the channel from the excellent Chalobah found Lukaku, who advanced, stopped, settled himself and tucked the ball home.

We screamed. But then, the grim realisation that a flag had been waved.

Bollocks.

For Lukaku to score right in front of the Scousers would have been utterly perfect.

The night had fallen now, and the underside of the Wembley roof was picked out in yellow and blue in a show of solidarity with the people of Ukraine. The arch was yellow and blue too.

The game entered its final fifteen minutes.

My legs were aching and my throat was parched.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

A precise move involving Lukaku and Alonso in a tight area on our left allowed our much-maligned Spaniard to drill a pass to Havertz. His neat finish was soon flagged for offside too.

“God. Three times.”

Late on, Kepa replaced Mendy, a repeat of Belfast in August.

The game continued to its conclusion.

0-0.

The dreaded penalties. I didn’t like it that they were to be taken at their end.

“Munich was the other end though. And Belfast.”

“I fancy our chances here, Paul.”

There then ensued the best part of fifteen minutes of more drama. Pure drama? Maybe. They were all fantastic penalties to be honest. The agony continued after no misses in ten attempts. We went to sudden death. Kick after kick.

It went to 10-10.

Time for the two ‘keepers.

Alas, it was not to be.

Kelleher : hit.

Kepa : miss.

We fell silent once again.

The arch turned red.

We returned to Marylebone, then back to Fulham. Our last four domestic Cup Finals have ended in defeat now. I can hardly believe it.

Next up, Luton away in the cup that matters. I’ll see some of you there.