Our third match in this season’s UEFA Europa Conference would be a home game against Armenian side Noah. Ever since the draw took place a couple of months ago, I had been flinching at all of the puny puns emanating from everyone concerning the team’s name, but I also knew that it would be remarkable should I not join in at some stage.
I stumbled across a reference that my good friend Alan might appreciate. The day before the game, late on, I messaged him about the imminent game.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark.”
He replied with an emoji of a wide grin.
“It’s All But An Ark Lark” is a Cocteau Twins song from their “Lullabies” EP from October 1982.
You all knew that, right?
On the day of the match, the Thursday, I worked an early shift, finishing at 2pm, and my thoughts centred on Noah being, quite possibly, the worst team that the full Chelsea side might ever play. The 21-0 aggregate score line against Jeunesse Hautcharage in the ECWC in 1971 drifted into my mind a few times too. The scores were 8-0 away and then 13-0 at home and I wondered about comparisons. One of that Luxembourg team wore glasses apparently although there is no truth in the urban myth that one of his team mates only had one arm.
Just as I left the office, I could not resist. I turned to my work colleague Stu and said that Noah’s formation later in the day would be 2-2-2-2-2 and I heard a hollow laugh inside me.
Fackinell.
I collected PD and Parky and we were away.
A couple of days before the game, however, there had been a double strike of sad news.
On the Tuesday, we all heard that Doreen Bruce had passed away. I first met Doreen, a proud wee Scot, out in Kiev in 2019, and our paths crossed on many occasions over the recent past. Doreen was big friends with Aroha and Luke, and they were always seen together. I remember spending some time with Doreen in that square in Porto ahead of the CL Final in 2021. She loved Chelsea and she loved Scotland just as much. I always enjoyed seeing her patriotic posts from Hampden Park and elsewhere. She was a real character, full of bubby energy, and will certainly be missed.
RIP Doreen.
On the Wednesday, we learned that John Dempsey passed away at the age of seventy-eight. He was an old stalwart from our early ‘seventies golden era, was one of Chopper’s “assassins” and was a respected defender. I saw John play in three of the first five Chelsea games that I ever attended, in 1974 and 1975. I remember him winding up some Arsenal fans at half-time in a game at Stamford Bridge a few years back. I also remember him playing alongside Peter Osgood at Philadelphia Fury in the late ‘seventies. I believe he worked for many years with underprivileged children.
RIP John.
The drive up to London was uneventful. While I waited for a pizza at “Koka” on the North End Road, I smiled when I heard “Kiss Of Life” by Sade being played. From Rio de Janeiro in July, to West Ham away in September, to the North End Road in November, this singer is haunting me this season.
I trotted down to “Simmons” and met up with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Luke, Alex from Houston – again – and also my mate Leggo from Bedford, but also from The Benches in 1984.
Ah, 1984.
Just a very quick mention of our next game in that 1984/85 season. On Tuesday 6 November 1984, Chelsea beat Walsall 3-0 in a League Cup Third Round Replay in front of a pretty reasonable 19,502. Keith Jones followed up his brace against Cov with one goal, while David Speedie and Kerry Dixon scored too.
We were joined by some friends from the US; Jesus, Austin, Tim, Hooman, Detroit Bob.
Everyone together. Everyone tacking the Mick. Tons of laughs.
Football, eh?
I loved to hear that Doreen had bequeathed her season ticket to Luke’s little three-year-old son Archie – as featured last season – and Luke had spent a large part of the Wednesday sorting that out. I also loved the fact that Archie has a ticket for the trip to Heidenheim in a few weeks.
We saw the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen. It looked remarkably attack-minded.
Jorgensen
Disasi – Tosin – Badiashile – Veiga
Enzo
George – Nkunku – Joao Felix – Mudryk
Guiu
Although I was inside with a fair few minutes to go before kick-off, it seemed that we had missed a minute of applause in memory of John Dempsey. The teams appeared as the pre-game rituals began in earnest. I could not help but think that the Europa Conference anthem sounded like something that Baltimora may have recorded in around 1985.
The teams stood in silence in memory of those who had perished in the floods in Valencia.
I was pretty impressed with the Armenians’ support; maybe a thousand or so. There were a few multi-coloured Armenian flags dotted around.
The over-eager PA announcer was shouting at his mic for us to “make some noise.”
Oh do shut up, you twat.
The game began with Chelsea attacking The Shed.
However, it was the unfancied visitors who dominated the very early moments of the game. A rapid counter-attack resulted in an effort on goal that Filip Jorgensen did well to save. They followed this up with a couple of corners.
Alongside me, Alan was getting confused.
“This lot only took about fifty to The New Saints.”
“Nah, that was Astana.”
This new-fangled format is succeeding in confusing all of us. I said to Alan that we seem to be remotely connected to teams that our opponents play, but we don’t. On the same night, Heidenheim were at Hearts, yet we won’t play Hearts, nor TNS for that matter.
It’s like some bizarre inter-related family tree, with off-shoots appearing in the unlikeliest of places.
“A Family Tree Of Bastards.”
The visitors threatened again. They definitely had the best of the early attacks.
But Chelsea soon responded, with Joao Felix getting a sniff from Tyrique George on the right.
As is a superstition at European home games, Alan shared out some wine gums.
“Want some Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops, mate?”
As the game developed, we grew stronger.
On twelve minutes, Enzo sent over a firm corner from Parkyville and Tosin was able to steer the ball in with a well-timed header. I was lucky enough to get that one on film.
While we were up and celebrating, the game restarted. I was looking at Alan, expecting him to soon launch our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine.
I had to prompt him.
“What’s that, Al?”
But in no time at all, I looked up to see that Guiu had intercepted a terrible square pass from one Noah defender to another and he had calmly slotted the ball home to make it 2-0.
Fackinell.
Those goals had to be the quickest back-to-back goals in our history surely?
Five minutes later, Enzo again swung in a corner and it was Disasi who smashed it over the line in a virtual carbon copy of our first goal. This was getting silly.
Three minutes later, on just twenty-one minutes, Guiu robbed the ball off a visitor and the ball fell to Enzo, who picked out Joao Felix. He advanced and clipped the ball over the hapless ‘keeper Ognjen Chancharevich.
Blimey.
By now, Alan and I were relaxing and just enjoying the night, with plenty of humorous anecdotes keeping us happy. What a nice time.
Just after the half-hour mark, Mykhailo Mudryk took a pot-shot that was so high and wide of the target that it came down to Earth near the West Stand corner flag, and still stayed on the pitch.
His next effort was much more pleasing. He picked up the ball outside the penalty area, touched the ball forward to set himself, and then unleashed a perfect curler into the top right-hand corner of the goal. I took a photo just as it flew off his boot. What a cracker.
By now, a few folk around me were referencing the 13-0 win over Hautcharage in 1971.
Two minutes later, a counter-attack and the ball was fed to Joao Felix, who picked his way through and slotted home off the leg of a covering white-shirted defender.
I pointed at Lee a few seats away.
“It’s gonna happen. It’s gonna happen.”
We were 6-0 up at half-time, with the away team hopefully weakening in the second-half, when would the goals stop?
In both Hautcharage games in 1971, we were 6-0 up at half-time too.
At half-time, what was everyone thinking?
10-0?
13-0?
14-0?
I said to a few friends that it was a shame that we weren’t playing them over two legs. That 21-0 aggregate score would be in trouble. I am sure it is still the highest aggregate score in UEFA history.
As the second-half began, some substitutions.
Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Guiu.
Cesare Casadei for Enzo.
What did that mean? I wasn’t sure.
The pace slackened in the second-half, but we still dominated the chances. Benoit Badiashile soon volleyed over a cross. The Noah ‘keeper Chancharevich twice foiled Felix, who – along with Mudryk – were the two players that took my eye.
Christopher Nkunku slammed a shot at goal but it clipped the top of the crossbar.
Carney Chukwuemeka for George.
On the sixty-ninth minute, fancy footwork from Felix released Nkunku. His first shot was blocked by the unlucky ‘keeper but the ball came back out for Nkunku to poke home at an angle between defender and post. The blue balloon stayed in his sock. It was no time to take the Mick.
On seventy-six minutes, a rather soft penalty was awarded after Dewsbury-Hall was fouled inside the six-yard box. Nkunku drilled it home.
Chelsea 8 Noah 0.
Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well.
I wondered if we were already promoted from this league.
A rare Noah corner elicited some high-pitched shrieks and much flag-waving from the Armenians in the far corner.
On seventy-nine minutes, debutant Samuel Rak-Sakyi replaced Nkunku.
A few late chances were spurned and so the elusive double figures were not reached. They stay as an elusive target. Were Noah the worst team that I had ever seen us play? Yes, I think so, and I have seen us play Tottenham a few times too, mind.
What a fun night though. I loved it.
It had, indeed, been an Ark Lark.
Dedicated to the memory of John Dempsey who scored against Real Madrid in Athens in 1971 and to the memory of Doreen Bruce who was with us against Manchester City in Porto in 2021, fifty years later.
That bloody concourse. That bloody away end. That bloody announcer. Those bloody anthems. That bloody song. Those bloody scarves. That bloody clock.
A day out on Merseyside, a day out in Liverpool, a day out at Anfield.
And a few other things to talk about too. But let’s do this chronologically; an all-encompassing review of six football matches played over the past forty years.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Good.
First of all, let’s go back to 1984.
The next match featured in my review of the 1984/85 season was the notorious second leg of our Milk Cup tie against Millwall. This took place on the evening of Tuesday 9 October 1984. With me being a student in Stoke-on-Trent, this was always going to be a non-starter. I was nineteen, and yet to see an evening game in London, and I was never going to start with a trip to The Den. Eight years before, I could vividly remember watching the highlights on ITV of the away game at Millwall in the first few weeks of the 1976/77 season. Not only did we lose 0-3, but there was plenty of crowd trouble to boot, pardon the pun. In fact, in the following forty-eight years, many who went to this game have described it as the most horrific experience of their football lives. The mention by a couple of friends of “meat cleavers” should illustrate what Chelsea were up against on that sunny afternoon in “Deep South” all those years ago.
Millwall away? No thanks.
On this particular evening in 1984, I worked away on an essay, disappeared down to the local for a pint and then returned back to the flat to hear that we had drawn 1-1 at The Den. Kerry Dixon scored for us. The gate was just 11,157 and I suspect that 99% of them were blokes and a sizeable percentage were nutters. There has always been talk of this being the most formidable Chelsea “firm” to ever attend an away game and who am I to doubt it. Radio 2 reported no trouble inside the ground but that Robert Isaac, a Chelsea youth player who was on my radar, had been stabbed outside by some Millwall loons. This deeply saddened me.
The story was that he and some friends were confronted by some Millwall lads and were asked to name Millwall’s reserve ‘keeper. None of them could oblige, and Robert was slashed with a knife across his back. He was rushed to hospital and fifty-five stitches were applied. Over the past fifteen years, Robert and I have bumped into each other on a number of occasions and he joined us for a pub-crawl before the 2018 FA Cup Final. He always says that his thick leather jacket saved his life that night. He would go on to play thirteen times for our first team, then a few more for Brighton.
Next up, was a far-less terrifying home game against Watford on Saturday 13 October. I travelled down from Stoke by train and watched from The Benches with my new gang of match-day companions from London and the South-East, all of whom I still keep in contact with. Before the match, none other than Boy George appeared on the pitch and took loads of homophobic abuse from the home crowd. The back-story was that a video was being shot that day for the Culture Club single “The Medal Song” but I have no recollection of this. Maybe I disappeared off to the gents while this took place at half-time. In the video, the band member Mikey Craig – in full Chelsea kit – scores a goal at The Shed End.
We went 1-0 up via the dependable boot of Kerry Dixon, but Watford came back well to lead 3-1 with goals from Richard Jobson, Kenny Jackett and John Barnes, who had a blinder. There was a late consolation goal from the dependable head of Kerry Dixon. The gate of 25,340 contained a miserly four-hundred away fans.
On the following Saturday – 20 March 1984 – Chelsea travelled down to The Dell in Southampton and lost 1-0 to a Steve Moran goal in front of 20,212. Over this weekend, I was back in Frome but did not travel down to the game. Out in town that evening, my diary informs me that I bumped into Glenn who travelled down to Southampton but didn’t get in. I suspect the game was all-ticket, and I had never planned on going. After all, it would have been rude to come back home for the weekend, my family keen to hear of my first month at college, but then to bugger off to Southampton all day on the Saturday. I also bumped into PD during the evening, who also travelled to Southampton, and got in. He said that the away end was packed and that we ought to have won. He told me that there was no trouble inside The Dell, but he was knocked out after the game.
Let’s fast forward to 2024. However, before we meet up with PD again, forty years to the exact day since I bumped into him in “The Wheatsheaf” in Frome, I need to talk about two games involving our home town’s football club.
On the Tuesday, I drove up to the river city of Gloucester to watch Frome Town play a league game at Gloucester City. I travelled alone, but met up with some Frome friends at the game, and also Chelsea mates Andrew and Martin who live locally and follow their home city’s team in the same way that I follow Frome. Alas, on a wet night, Frome succumbed to a goal in each half to lose 2-0 in front of a gate of 601. We remained mired in a relegation place, but there have been some signs of late of a little resurgence.
As the week developed, thoughts turned to the first game in a mammoth weekend of football. My friend Josh, from Minneapolis, was over for the game at Anfield on the Sunday but was coming down by train from London to see Frome Town play Poole Town on the Saturday. He travelled down last December for a Frome game and vowed to return. He is, in fact, one of a little army of Chelsea mates in the US who follow Frome – hello JR, hello Steve, hello Jaro, hello Rick, hello the other Josh, hello John, hello Phil, hello Bobster – and there has been one recent addition.
I have met Courtney, from Chicago, at “The Eight Bells” for two Chelsea games over the past three years, and on the Wednesday evening he confirmed that he would be attending the Frome Town vs. Poole Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea double-header too.
However, compared to Josh, his travel plans were far more stressful. He was flying over from Chicago, and was due to arrive in Frankfurt early on Saturday morning. He was then booked on a flight to Manchester, but hoped to swap to a London flight, and then drive down to Frome for the game. If not, he would be forced to land at Manchester at around 10am and then drive to Frome.
I woke on Saturday and soon texted both Americans. Josh was fine, and would arrive at Westbury just before midday, when I would pick him up. Courtney, however, unable to change his onward travel from Frankfurt, had arrived at Manchester at 10.15am.
I gulped.
“Poor bugger.”
With a section of the M4 being shut, I warned him that he would be diverted over The Cotswolds to reach Frome. I contacted a Frome director to reserve him a place in the club car park. It would be touch-and-go for him to make the kick-off. I was able to reserve him a car park place because…roll on drums…Courtney had splendidly sponsored the Frome match. Courtney, Josh and I were going to be wined and dined at the club at half-time, along with my two former school mates, the class of 1978 to 1983, Steve and Francis.
I picked up Josh at Westbury and gave him a little tour of my local village and my local town, including a pint at “The Three Swans” in Frome’s historic town centre. Meanwhile, Courtney was making good time and his ETA was to be around three o’clock. We then met up with Francis, and his mate Tom, at “The Vine Tree” for another quick drink before arriving at the ground a few minutes before kick-off.
It was a stunning day; warm temperatures, blue skies, and what looked like a decent crowd of over 500.
With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made really good time, and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.
The game was a very good one. Alas, the visitors went ahead in the tenth minute when our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips spilled a cross and there was an easy tap-in. However, just before half-time, Matt Wood – whose home kit Josh sponsors – slotted home from just outside the six-yard box from a George Rigg corner.
It was a case of all smiles at half-time as we got stuck into our jacket potatoes and chilli – thanks Louise!
With thoughts of our travel to Merseyside, I asked the two Americans a football teaser.
Q : which current league ground – the top four divisions – is closest to the River Mersey?
The answer follows later.
In the second-half, we decamped to our favourite spot in The Cow Shed, but a weak goal from the visitors gave them a perhaps undeserved 2-1 lead. We kept going, however, and were rewarded with a fantastic equaliser on the ninetieth minute when that man Matt Wood bravely headed in.
Pandemonium in the South Stand!
As match sponsors, we had the vote for Man Of The Match, but it was easy; Josh’s boy Matt Wood.
However, football can be a bastard.
In extra-time, a virtual copy of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips’ spill for the first goal resulted in a third, and winning, goal for the visitors.
This felt like a kick had been administered to the collective solar plexus.
Fackinell.
After the game, we were able to relax a little in the club house and I introduced the lads from the US to our board of directors. It had been a cracking afternoon and it was lovely for a couple of players, and the manager Danny Greaves, to meet Josh and Courtney. Courtney had been pleasantly surprised by the size of the stadium and the quality of the facilities, and he went off to buy a blue and white away shirt from the club shop. At 6pm, with a five hour drive up to his hotel in Liverpool ahead of him, Courtney said his goodbyes.
“See you tomorrow, mate.”
Honestly, it had been a lovely time, one for the ages.
But Sunday was another day, and it soon followed.
I was up at 6am, bright and breezy, and I soon spotted a text from Courtney. He had eventually arrived in Liverpool at 11.20pm after a couple of stops en route. I collected PD from his house and Josh from his hotel at 7am, and I collected Parky in his village at 7.30am.
After following our exploits via this blog since its inception in 2008, Josh has always wanted to join us in The Chuckle Bus for an away game, and here he was, sat next to Parky in the rear seats as I headed due north.
A week or so ago I decided that I would probably call this match report “Tales From The Football Road” because my journey would encompass a section of the M6, which is as near to a genuine and bona fide “football road”, for me anyway, in the UK. We would join the M6 in Birmingham, just as Walsall’s Bescot Stadium appears to the east, and it is the road that I use to take me to Chelsea away games against Everton, Liverpool, Manchester City and Manchester United, but also, historically, against teams such as Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers, Blackpool, Burnley, Wigan Athletic and Preston North End.
I am yet, however, to visit Edgeley Park, the historic home of Stockport County – where Chelsea played our first-ever league game in 1905 – and which is the closest league ground to the River Mersey.
The M6 took on a special importance on this weekend. It was the road that Courtney had taken on Saturday from the airport just south of Manchester to get down to Frome, and the road that he took back to his hotel in Liverpool.
The Football Road.
It certainly was.
As I headed past Bath, I was on the exact same route that Courtney had taken around fourteen hours earlier.
I tried my best to keep Josh entertained.
“You know Peter Gabriel’s song ‘Solsbury Hill’ mate?”
“Yep.”
I gestured outside.
“Well, this is it.”
We headed straight over the M4, into Gloucestershire, through some delightful Cotswold scenery. Thankfully the early rain eventually subsided. At Frocester Hill, the Severn Vale appeared down below. It was a breath-taking sight. Parky spoke about the Severn Bore and watching those that surf it, while I spoke about the river’s tidal range being the second highest in the world, but we then realised that we were becoming Severn bores.
We soon stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McDonalds breakfast at about 8.45am. I then ate up the remainder of the M5, but alas the floodlights of The Hawthorns were hidden by dense fog as the M5 ended and the M6 began.
“2017 and all that.”
As I passed Stoke, I was reminded of 1984 and I told PD that forty years ago to the very day we had chatted in one of Frome’s pubs about that game in Southampton. I asked of his recollections of that game.
He had indeed been knocked out after the game, but by a policeman on horseback. There was no real trouble, but after the match, the local Hampshire constabulary had caused a panic among the crowd leaving The Dell, and PD ended up on the pavement. Our mate Andy spotted him and helped him recover. Later that week, the CID interviewed PD at his house in Frome after many complaints by the public about the behaviour of the local police that day. These were the days when football fans, in general, were viewed as low-life scum by many in the police force and it was considered fair game for them to whack football fans. I remember being thrown against a metal fence at St. James’ Park by a Geordie copper after celebrating a little too enthusiastically after a Chelsea goal earlier in 1984.
I refuelled at Knutsford, then drove over the familiar Thelwall Viaduct. As we drove high above the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal, there was some local history for Josh. I explained how the Manchester cotton mill owners reacted to the higher rates being asked by Liverpool dock owners by forcing the construction of their own waterway, with docks at Salford, and how this heightened that particular inter-city rivalry.
Oh God, I was becoming the Mersey bore, now.
I drove onto the oh-so familiar M62 into Liverpool.
I was parked up, as I was on our last visit to Anfield, in a car park just off Dale Street just before midday, and just in time for the pubs to open. It had taken me exactly five hours to get from my house to the car park on Vernon Street. Above, blue skies and glorious sun. We had enjoyed fantastic pub crawls around Dale Street on PD’s birthday in January 2017 and January 2024, and we were back for more.
“Ye Hole In Ye Wall”.
This is rumoured to be Liverpool’s oldest pub, built in 1726. I treated myself to the first of two lagers for a change and it wasn’t long to wait for Courtney to arrive. I must admit, he looked rather tired, but he soon livened up.
“The Vernon Arms”.
Our third visit, the famous sloping floor, a chat with some local Liverpool fans at the next table, no animosity, all gentle banter. Josh recounted the story of the two of us having a drink in a bar opposite Yankee Stadium in 2012 for the PSG friendly, and meeting three young women who had brought little plastic bags of trimmed celery with them, having heard about it being a Chelsea “thing” yet completely unaware of “that” song and its full content.
“The Rose & Crown”.
A first visit, a little more chat with some Liverpool supporters, and we saw a late Kilmarnock goal defeat Rangers on the TV.
We needed to get ourselves parked-up, so I headed up to Goodison Park, via a slow drive-past Everton’s new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. We could only really see the shiny roof as there was a high wall blocking our view. I have been tracking its progress since I called by before our first away game in 2022/23. There are several old warehouses close by that we earmarked to be used for hotels in the near future. The stadium should revitalise that stretch of the river.
The Mersey played a little part in my family history.
I had spoken to Josh and Courtney about how my great great grandparents had left Somerset for a new life in Philadelphia in 1854. They boarded the maiden voyage of the SS City of Philadelphia from Liverpool, but it was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September, though – unlike the Titanic – no lives were lost. The Whites were to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.
Maybe next season, should Everton stay up, I will gaze out at the River Mersey from near the away end of the new stadium and think wistfully back to 1854.
“The Abbey”.
We visited this pub in the August of 2021 before a creditable 1-1 at Anfield, and I joined the lads in the cramped bar. Again, PD and Parky were talking to some locals. There was a quick chat with Tommie from Portmadoc about Rio de Janeiro, and then Josh and I met up with Courtney at the Dixie Dean statue at about 3.15pm.
We did a quick circuit of the old lady. This was their first-ever trip to Merseyside, and with this being Goodison’s last-ever season, it was only right that we circumnavigated the old place. I rattled off what seemed like a hundred different Goodison stories all at once and it is no surprise. I simply adore the place. You may have noticed.
Time was moving on and we needed to get our three arses up the hill of Stanley Park to Anfield. The wind was blowing now, but thankfully there was no rain.
Tommie’s brother, a staunch Evertonian, calls Anfield “Castle Greyskull” and as we approached it I could see his point.
Anfield used to be very similar to Goodison, nestled in among tight streets on all four sides. Now, because it has been able to expand, all of those adjacent houses have gone, and it sits atop the hill like a gloomy grey aircraft hangar, its two new and huge stands looming over everything. Goodison seems quaint and charismatic in comparison.
As we made our way towards the stadium, we could hear the music booming out from what I presumed was Anfield’s “fan zone”, which thankfully we have been spared at Chelsea.
“Stevie Heighway on the wing…”
Those bloody anthems.
Outside the away end, I passed over spares to Deano and I was inside at around 4.10pm. Despite the massive increase to the bulk of this newly-improved stand – the old “Annie Road” as the scallies called it – the concourse tucked behind the away end is still the same size, still cramped.
I took my place alongside John, Gary and Alan. A few familiar faces nearby, but lots of new faces too. The sun was high above The Kop and I wanted it to soon drop below the huge main stand. That bloody flag with the six European Cups made its way down the Centenary Stand, or whatever it is called these days. To my right, the humungous main stand, not one seat empty.
Fackinell.
“The Fields Of Anfield Road” again.
The entrance of the teams.
Scarves held aloft.
“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Those bloody scarves.
A barrage of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea” but this was lost against the pumped tannoyed muzak of an Anfield game day, Gerry Marsden and all.
A minute of applause in memory of Peter Cormack, a player from my youth, a decent player.
Right, the team.
A big shock that Reece James was starting and Malo Gusto was shunted over to the left to keep an eye on Mo Salah, who now looked nothing like Mo Salah. Romeo Lavia in with Moises Caicedo, a strong midfield duo, er pivot. Pivot, right? That’s what all the nerds call it, right?
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Tosin – James
Lavia – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Going into the game, I was confident, but was not that confident to think of a win. A draw would make me a happy man.
Being back in that bloody away end took me back to January when we were shellacked 4-1, and if Darwin Nunez hadn’t hit the woodwork on multiple occasions it would have been much worse.
It seemed odd not to see Jurgen Klopp stood in front of the Liverpool bench.
The game began and to my pleasant surprise we seemed to have most of the ball. But the home support, above us especially, were warbling out their old favourite :
“Fuck off Chelsea FC. You ain’t got no history.”
I chuckled to myself about their use of a double-negative.
Very early on, Liverpool broke and Tosin tangled with Diogo Jota just inside our half. The referee brandished a yellow, and I was so thankful that there was a Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, alongside the play, thus nullifying the threat of a straight red.
On eighteen minutes, Cody Gakpo was given the ball on a plate after a typical bit of madness from Robert Sanchez but his snapshot was hit right back into the arms of our worrying ‘keeper.
After a quarter of the match, it wasn’t much of a game, but we were still dominating most of the ball. Jadon Sancho on the left was often in space but did not use the ball wisely. Noni Madueke was more direct on the right. Cole Palmer was a peripheral figure. I liked the pairing of Caicedo and Lavia from the off, strong and resourceful.
It seemed like both teams were sounding each other out.
Salah went down in the box, but no penalty. Phew.
It was lovely to see Reece James patrolling the right-hand side of our defence and he slotted in well, showing some sublime early touches.
On twenty-nine minutes, Salah broke in from the right. I yelled at our defender to keep him outside. He came inside and shot. The ball hit Colwill but fell at the feet of Curtis Jones and Colwill made an attempt to nick the ball.
Penalty.
“Bollocks.”
Salah swept it in from the spot.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 0.
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
Two minutes later, more menace from Salah as he crossed and Gakpo arrived late at the far post to prod home. Thankfully, Salah was adjudged to have crept offside. Phew.
The ball was pushed through by Caicedo to Jackson who wasted no time before smashing it high against the angle of near post and bar.
It was our first real attempt.
A couple of half-chances at either end.
At least we weren’t being over-run and over-powered like last season. This seemed like a slightly reticent Liverpool team.
In the closing moments of the first-half, as Sanchez rushed out to block from Jones, we were utterly amazed to see a penalty awarded, along with a yellow for our ‘keeper.
“That was just a normal block tackle, surely?”
VAR was called in.
No penalty. No yellow.
Very late on, Madueke broke down the right, Palmer withdrew to give himself some space and Madueke angled the ball to him. Was this the moment? Well, it was a moment but not the moment. Palmer’s shot glided just over the bar.
“Bollocks.”
The droll low burr of the Anfield announcer George Sephton, a presence at their games since 1971, introduced a younger and more excitable colleague to talk through a junior penalty-kick competition at The Kop at half-time. Sephton’s voice certainly evokes some memories. David James then saved a twice-taken penalty kick from a young Liverpool fan. The crowd booed. The announcer was in shock.
“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve just ruined that lad’s day.”
At the break, Pedro Neto came on for Sancho. My goodness, we certainly have options out wide. Soon into the second-half, just three minutes in, Caicedo picked out the run of Jackson and played a perfect ball through. Jackson advanced and calmly slotted past Kelleher. The away end erupted, but our joy was soon quelled by an offside flag. We waited for a VAR decision and, thankfully, it went our way. Jackson had stalled his run just right.
Goal.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.
With that, Jackson led a charge from the half-way line down to the Annie Road and the players celebrated wildly, while I hoped for a couple of decent shots with my pub camera.
Sadly, just three minutes later, a cross from Salah on the Liverpool right, caught the entire Chelsea defence out. The ball was swept right into a wide corridor of uncertainty, and the impressive Curtis Jones was able to take a touch and then prod the ball past Sanchez. I looked at the linesman in the far right corner but there was no flag.
“Bollocks.”
Liverpool 2 Chelsea 1.
On fifty-two minutes, three changes.
Renato Veiga for James.
Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.
Benoit Badiashile for Tosin.
“Were they preparing those subs before the goal, John?”
“Think so, mate.”
I was surprised to see Lavia being replaced. He had played well. Perhaps this was a precautionary measure.
There was a very loud “allez allez”.
It’s odd that we hear “YNWA” before games at Anfield, but never during the actual games themselves these days. When did that stop?
We had more of the possession as Liverpool seemed happy to soak it all up, but there were only quarter-chances from a Madueke shot from an angle and a Palmer free-kick.
I sensed that the home support was worried though; they seemed quiet and nervous.
The away support got behind the boys with our loudest chant of the game thus far, a fine rendition of “Amazing Grace – the Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” version.
I remember surging and strong runs through the middle from Caicedo, plus energy and directness from Neto on our left. Palmer was, alas, a passenger for much of the second-half. Neto’s effort trundled wide of a post.
On seventy-six minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Madueke, and Neto swapped wings. His play deteriorated on the right.
Palmer lobbed a free-kick into the Liverpool six-yard box but Veiga headed over from a good position.
We still kept going. I could not fault our application, even if the attack lacked real bite.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
My attention was drawn to the twin clocks that sit above the corner flags at The Kop.
Those bloody clocks.
I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time gazing up at those simple blocks of electric lights and I have done for years.
The extra-time ticked down, the time ticked away.
Nkunku almost touched the ball home, from a Neto cross, just a few yards to our left.
At the other end, Diaz picked up the ball and advanced.
“Don’t let him dance into the box.”
Thankfully his shot tantalisingly flew high and wide.
In the last second of the game, a shot from Malo Gusto was blocked and the referee blew.
Fackinell.
This had been my twenty-eighth visit to Anfield, and my record is relegation-form.
Won : 5
Drew : 8
Lost : 15
For : 28
Against : 45
I caught site of Courtney as we gathered together in the concourse. I am sure his weekend had felt just like a dream. He was to make his own way to Crewe and then catch a train down to London where he was working on the Monday and Tuesday.
I wished him a safe journey and thanked him for Saturday.
I didn’t envy his travel. Mind you, I didn’t envy mine. I still had around two-hundred miles to drive on this Sunday evening.
I stopped a couple of times to refuel – me, not the car – and I dropped off the lads before getting in at 12.30am. I was, of course, repeating Courtney’s breakneck mission on Saturday morning.
This football road.
Unfortunately, our football weekend had resulted in two defeats, but it had been a cracker.
There was international football ahead for Josh, and others in the coming week, with a trip to Athens for our game at Panathinaikos on Thursday.
I had an international game lined up too.
Merthyr Town vs. Frome Town next Saturday, ahead of Chelsea vs. Newcastle United next Sunday.
The game against Barrow in the League Cup was the first of four home matches at Stamford Bridge in just thirteen days. Not wishing to denigrate this competition, but it is probably the last of our priorities this season. I know that the Europa Conference is – well – the Europa Conference, but it offers European, and Central Asian, travel, and it is a UEFA competition after all. The League Cup – or whatever name it gives itself these days – is familiar to us, whereas the Europa Conference is something different. Should we win it this season – our UEFA coefficient alone suggests we might – then maybe it would go back down the pecking order until UEFA invents yet another competition for also-rans across Europe.
There is a competition, though, that is well down my list of priorities this season for Chelsea Football Club. The English Football League Trophy is a cup that began life as the Associate Members Cup in 1983/84, and it had a number of sponsors over the years. It was the Freight Rover, it was the Leyland DAF, it was the Auto Windscreens, it was all sorts. It was once the Johnstone Paint Trophy, the one that Southampton sang about us not winning.
The English Football League Trophy is a competition for clubs in the two divisions of the English Football League. The name rather gives this away, right? But, it’s not. Since 2016/17, sixteen U21 teams from the Premiership and the Championship have been invited to take part too. There was an initial backlash against this, since it could stop smaller clubs from enjoying a day out at Wembley, and I agreed wholeheartedly with this statement. I decided to boycott the tournament even if it meant not seeing a Chelsea team at local stadia such as Forest Green Rovers, Exeter City and Bristol Rovers. Would I go to the final at Wembley if Chelsea U21s were to reach it? No.
I am just dead against the notion of U21 teams being in this competition.
That said, I did find it ridiculous that Chelsea were playing Barrow in the League Cup on the very same evening that Chelsea U21s were at Bromley in the English Football League Trophy. I knew of many Chelsea mates who were going to Bromley – “new ground” – rather than attend the first team match at Stamford Bridge, yet how easy could it have been to plan these two games on different nights? Surely, Chelsea could have played Barrow last week. It’s not as if the team from the Cumbrian coast were playing European football.
Sometimes modern football does not make any sense at all.
I was up at 4.45am and worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I set off for London with just PD and Parky. When I drove past Junction 14 of the M4 and saw the signs for the nearby town of Hungerford, another football competition flitted into my mind. Later that evening, my local team Frome Town would visit Hungerford Town in a league game. It was a match that I would have attended had it not been for the game at Stamford Bridge. At the weekend, Hungerford beat Plymouth Parkway 9-3 at home, while Frome Town lost 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville. I would be girding my loins for score updates as the evening wore on. In a nutshell, I was far from hopeful.
We landed in London at 5pm, and I shot off to get some food down my neck. The “Efes” restaurant – Turkish – on the corner of Lillee Road and the North End Road has been garnering some decent reviews of late so I gave it a shot. While I leisurely ate a lamb shish kebab plus the usual garnishes, I spotted plenty of Chelsea fans in the restaurant and three sets of parents with children.
PD soon called.
“McGettigans is closed. We’re at ‘Simmons’ and it’s £4 a pint.”
I slowly walked down the North End Road, but despite a couple of coffees on the drive to London, I was feeling so tired, so groggy. I decided to dip into “Café Ole”- close to the pie and mash shop in 1984 – and downed a cappuccino with a double-shot. I was soon buzzing. Phew.
This place has served as the “Memory Lane Café” in past match reports, so let’s use it again. Forty years ago, my mind was focussed on beginning a new life in Stoke-on-Trent as a human geography undergraduate at North Staffs Poly. I had buggered up my “A Levels” in June 1983, re-took them in November 1983, and managed to get a place at Stoke. When Chelsea played at Luton Town in a Division One fixture on Saturday 22 September 1984, I was at home in Somerset, recuperating after a heavy session in Frome the night before when I gathered together a few friends as they gave me a boozy send-off. My parents would drive me up to Staffordshire on the Sunday.
My diary reiterates my memories of that night. I was being bought drinks right, left and centre and when I reached home, I fell out of the car. Oh, I had bumped into Glenn – now sporting a perm – who told me that he was off to Luton on the Saturday. My diary tells me that I got up late on the Saturday, much the worse for wear, and that although I listened to Radio 2 all afternoon, there was no score update from Kenilworth Road until the end of the game.
It ended 0-0, as did I if my memory is correct.
I crossed the road and joined PD and Parky at the high tables in “Simmons” which has been given a bit of a makeover since our last visit. There is more space, more neon, a better feel. I said a quick hello to “Mr. Pink” – Chris always wears a lucky pink polo at away games – but the place was generally quiet, nothing like it used to be on midweek games a few years back. I like it though. It’s convenient. For some reason, blue and white balloons were dotted around the bar. Were the owners secret Nkunku fans?
Outside, the weather was dry but muggy. At the end of Fulham Broadway, an electronic sign helpfully stated “Please Keep To Your Left Our Right” and I thought “thanks for that, big help, I was going to tunnel beneath it.”
I was inside at about 7.15pm for the 7.45pm kick-off.
Barrow, eh?
It takes me right back, way back to around 1970 or 1971, just as I was starting to watch football on TV and learn more and more about the game, the players, the teams, the league tables. I can distinctly remember poring over the league tables of my grandfather’s Sunday Express and examining all of the various football teams that plied their trade in the four divisions of the Football League. Some of the names used to fill me with wonder and a desire to learn about them, especially all those that were unfamiliar to me as a Chelsea fan, used to hearing only about the bigger teams in the First Division. I found some of the names beguiling.
Crewe Alexandra.
Sheffield Wednesday.
Aston Villa.
Port Vale.
Halifax Town.
Workington.
Southport.
Stockport County.
Barrow.
Chester.
Chesterfield.
Rochdale.
Bury.
I wondered where all these places were. Were they all up north? These were all new to me. Ironically, Barrow were relegated out of the Football League – or rather voted out – at the end of the 1971/72 season and I can distinctly remember this taking place. They would not return to the Football League again until 2021.
PD and I were sat together in The Sleepy Hollow. Being both a Bromley and a Chelsea season ticket holder, there was no surprises as to where Alan was.
It looked a pretty healthy crowd for hardly a game with much of a “pull”. Stamford Bridge wasn’t full but it wasn’t far off. Around 2,500 away fans had travelled down from Barrow-in-Furness. Ironically, we know a loyal Chelsea fan – hello Gary – who lives in Barrow yet still travels down to Chelsea as a season ticket holder. It’s a solid six-hour drive.
Us?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Veiga
Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall
Neto – Felix – Mudryk
Nkunku
It was Cesare Casadei’s first start.
Barrow were in waspish yellow and black hoops, though I immediately felt it strange that the referee was in all black, since – from the rear – the Barrow players were in all black too. Very odd.
To their credit, the away team began the livelier.
With our attacking options though, it did not surprise anyone when we went ahead on just eight minutes. Renato Veiga slammed a ball towards Joao Felix who adroitly flicked the ball over some dawdling defenders for Christopher Nkunku to drill the ball home.
Chelsea 1 Barrow 0.
The players celebrated in front of Parkyville.
There was an attack from Barrow, and a shot was slammed over, but Chelsea continued to dominate. On fifteen minutes, a neat flick from Pedro Neto set up Malo Gusto. I shouted out some advice to him – keep it high – but he chose to ignore me and he drilled a low ball towards Nkunku at the near post. It was too far away for me to truly admire the finish, but the ball ended up in the back of the net.
Chelsea 2 Barrow 0.
“Nice to see Gusto took my advice, PD.”
PD laughed.
It was the equivalent of me falling out of my father’s car forty years ago.
Chelsea continued in the ascendency and Barrow’s focus now seemed to involve sitting back and trying to limit further damage. There was one blistering run from Mykhailo Mudryk down the left, but he again promised much, but delivered little.
On the half-hour mark, Gusto was upended centrally. My immediate reaction was that the free-kick was too central. PD agreed.
“We need Zola here.”
I need not have worried. Felix waited until the wall was set – much buggering about from both sets of players and the referee – and then dipped a floater over and around the western edges of Barrow’s wall and we watched as the ball cannoned in off the post, but off the Barrow ‘keeper too.
I lept to my feet, but many stayed sat. How odd.
Chelsea 3 Barrow 0.
The rest of the first half didn’t result in anyone rising to their feet, apart from those going off to the loos. Caicedei looked solid, though was reticent to turn, and always seemed to choose the soft option of a backward pass. No doubt the stats men loved it. All of this backward passing makes for a hideously dull form of football though.
There was a shot from the much-derided Benoit Badiashile, but that was about it.
At the break, my focus was away from Stamford Bridge. In other games, Bromley were losing 1-2 and it was 0-0 at Hungerford.
Enzo Maresca replaced Gusto with Ben Chilwell – welcome back, Chilly – with the defence shifting around to accommodate him. A header from Dewsbury-Hall did not threaten the Barrow goal.
On forty-eight minutes, Nkunku played in a raiding Mudryk and we all wondered what would happen. Thankfully he didn’t trip, nor sky a shot over the bar, but he played the ball intelligently square to Neto who steadily turned the ball in.
Chelsea 4 Barrow 0.
I am sure that more people stood for that one.
We often had a spare man down below us, and that man was usually Mudryk. He sprinted ahead and set up Dewsbury-Hall, but his shot was saved well by the Barrow ‘keeper.
It annoyed me to hear the MHL, presumably full of a vastly different set of fans than usual for this game, to take the piss out of the Barrow ‘keeper as he took goal kicks in this second-half. In fact, the “Ooooooooooooooooh! You’re shit! Aaaaaarrrrrgggggh!” has not been heard at Chelsea since, probably, the late ‘eighties. Come on, we were playing Barrow, not a London rival.
I said to Anna “I’m surprised the idiots in the MHL aren’t taking the piss out of Barrow for not winning the Champions League.”
For the purists, I always remembered it as a plain “Ooooooooh, you’re shit!” at Chelsea. Other teams’ supporters extended it. There, that’s told you.
Down at the other end, a dipping free-kick was well saved by the scrambling Filip Jorgensen at the near post.
The away fans were making lots of noise, as expected. This was their biggest away game for a while.
“You’ve seen the Barrow, now fuck off home” was the only chant I could decipher, though.
Just after the hour, a double substitution.
Josh Acheampong for Disasi.
Tyrique George for Neto.
This was my first sighting of the young winger. After a little Barrow spell, George was presented with a golden chance to mark his Stamford Bridge debut with a goal, but he rolled a shot well wide of the far post.
With a quarter of an hour to go, the Barrow ‘keeper dawdled and was pick-pocketed by Nkunku and steered the ball into an empty net. The French striker, who offers a different skill-set to Nicolas Jackson, thus gained a well-deserved hat-trick. Alas, no money shot this week; I couldn’t focus my camera in time for his blue balloon celebration.
Just after, more changes.
Carney Chukwuemeka for the excellent Joao Felix.
Marc Guiu for the clinical Nkunku.
There were a couple of late chances, including a good strike from Carney, but as the final whistle beckoned, my football focus soon switched from London SW6 to Berkshire.
In Hungerford, it was still 0-0.
Come on Frome!
Meanwhile, over in Bromley, the Chelsea U21s narrowly squeaked it 3-2 with Harvey Vale getting two.
At the end of the match, I made a quick getaway and strode purposefully down the Fulham Road. I kept checking the Frome score on my ‘phone which had dramatically dwindled down to 2% and then 1% charge.
85 minutes : 0-0.
90 minutes : 0-0.
96 minutes : 0-0.
98 minutes : 0-0
With that, the final score of 0-0 flashed up and my ‘phone died.
I smiled.
“GET IN.”
It wrapped-up a decent night out. We ran through the options of a preferred opponent in the next round. With a nod to 1984, I fancied Stoke City away.
I didn’t stop on the way home; I left Normand Road at 10.02pm and I pulled up at my house at 12.06am. Two hours and four minutes. A record surely?
This was always my fear. Despite a resurgence in our play over the past month – high points at Villa, the second-half at Palace and at City – there was still a niggling doubt that whatever team was selected to play at Wembley, the players just could not be trusted to drag us over the line. And despite Liverpool players falling by the wayside with injuries as the final approached, I had a fear that there would not be enough in our locker – nous, determination, skill – to give us a much-needed win.
All of our deficiencies – and a few of our positives – were discussed at length as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky and drove up to the M4 at Chippenham. As I approached Junction 17 I made my views clear.
“Right, that’s enough about the game today. Let’s not talk any more about it. Let’s enjoy the day ahead.”
I was up just after 5.45am. I had collected the two Frome lads at 7am and Parky in Holt at 7.30am. By 9.30am, we were tucking into our breakfasts at “The Half Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road. At 10am, I pulled up outside “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge and PD shouted out to Salisbury Steve, who was just about to disappear inside as the front doors were opened, to get a round in. For the third League Cup Final in a row, we were staying the night at the Premier Inn opposite, and I soon parked the car outside. We were hoping that this would be third time lucky. Against Manchester City in 2019 and against Liverpool in 2022, we had narrowly lost on penalties.
On the Saturday, I had watched Frome Town obtain a relatively easy 3-1 win at home to Tavistock to nudge themselves into pole position in the table. As the beers started to flow, I never felt confident that Chelsea would follow up Frome’s win to give me a perfect weekend. Mark, now living in Spain, and his son Luca, still in The Netherlands, joined us and the laughter roared around the pub. We tried not to think too much about the football.
This would be Chelsea Football Club’s tenth League Cup Final.
Our first final took place four months before I was born in March 1965, when we defeated Leicester City over two legs. In 1972, we infamously lost 1-2 to Stoke City at Wembley and I have no recollection of the game. We had to wait ages for the next one; a 2-0 triumph against Middlesbrough at old Wembley in 1998 after extra-time. Next up was a match in Cardiff at the Millennium Stadium against Liverpool in 2005; we narrowly edged it 3-2 after extra time. Two years later, at the same venue, a 2-1 triumph against Arsenal. In 2008, the 2-1 loss to Tottenham Hotspur, after extra-time, at the new Wembley Stadium. In 2015, we comfortably defeated the same opponent 2-0. Then, the two tight losses in 2019 to Manchester City (0-0 after extra-time, losing 3-4 on penalties) and in 2022 to Liverpool (0-0 after extra-time, losing 10-11 on penalties).
A potted history of us in nine previous League Cup Finals does not tell the entire story of course.
1965 : there are numerous stories about Eddie McCreadie’s apparently masterful solo run up the middle of the park before sliding the ball past the ‘keeper. It was only our second piece of silverware in sixty years.
1972 : “Blue Is The Colour” was released specifically for this game and I used to get such a thrill listening to it on the radio for years after. An Osgood goal for Chelsea, but George bloody Eastham gave Stoke their sole trophy in 161 years.
1998 : the first-part of a Cup Double that season and another Wembley goal from Roberto di Matteo. The good times were returning to Stamford Bridge.
2005 : the first Mourinho season and the first Mourinho silverware. In an enthralling match, we went behind early on after John Arne Riise belted one in from distance. A Steven Gerrard own goal levelled it and two late goals from Mateja Kezman and Didier Drogba gave us a huge win. Mourinho was sent-off for his “shush” but we did not care less. It was the first game that I had seen Chelsea play in an enclosed stadium.
2007 : two more Didier Drogba goals gave us a win after Theo Walcott scored early for Arsenal. The game that Cesc Fabregas was pelted with celery at a corner and the game where John Terry was knocked unconscious by a boot to his head.
2008 : we went ahead through Didier Drogba, but Tottenham levelled with a Dimitar Berbatov penalty before Jonathan Woodgate headed Tottenham in front. Our support that day was the worst that I can ever remember. It was one of my all-time lows as a Chelsea follower.
2015 : this was a tough game for me, coming just three days after my mother’s passing. Goals from John Terry and Diego Costa gave us a relatively easy win.
2019 : a decent performance and great support from the Chelsea crowd. This was the day that Kepa notoriously humiliated Maurizio Sarri by not following instructions to be substituted by Wily Caballero.
2022 : this could have gone either way, but a ridiculously long penalty shootout went against us when Cesar Azpilicueta missed the only penalty out of twenty-two.
Going in to the 2024 Final, our record was won 5 and lost 4.
At 12.45pm, we caught a District Line tube up to Paddington and changed trains to get ourselves over to Marylebone. Here, the ever-reliable Jason handed over a spare ticket to me that would then be passed to Glenn. Just as we were about to hop on a train to Wembley Stadium, the call went out that a few of the lads that we know from Westbury and Trowbridge were in the “Sports Bar.” The drinking continued.
“What football?”
We eventually caught a train at about 2.15pm to Wembley.
We bumped into many familiar faces at Marylebone, on the train, at the station, on the march to the turnstiles.
I remember my first visit to the old Wembley, in around 1972 or 1973, on the back of a visit to see my grandfather’s older brother in Southall. There was no game. I just wanted to see Wembley, beguiled by either the 1972 or 1973 FA Cup Finals. We parked just off “Wembley Way” – actually Olympic Way – and I remember being mightily impressed as I saw the twin towers for the first time. The stadium was at the top of a slight rise in the land, with its own added embankments and steps giving it an air of importance. It stood alone, not encumbered by any buildings nearby, only the London sky above it. It exuded a great sense of place.
Wembley in 2024 is much different. Bleak flats and hotels take up every spare square yard of space, from the walk up to the stadium from Wembley Park Station, right up to the immediate surrounds of the stadium itself. I don’t suffer from claustrophobia and I am glad I don’t. At Wembley, between the bland stadium walls and the oppressive bleak apartment buildings I would be surely panting with anxiety.
It is a horrible stadium. I hate it.
Regular readers of these tales will know only too well how we struggle to get in to Wembley in time. At 2.50pm, I was still in the queue. Once inside, an escalator was not working, delaying me further. I eventually made it in at around 3.05pm.
Sigh.
Our seats were in row thirty-eight, just a few from the very back of the highest part of the stadium. We were virtually on the half-way line. My calves were aching. God knows how much pain PD and Parky were in.
A quick check of the team. As expected, the same as against Manchester City.
Petrovic.
Gusto – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell
Caicedo – Enzo
Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling
Jackson
Everyone was stood. PJ and Brian – from the pre-match pub at City last weekend – were right behind us along with Feisal and Martin. We would find out later that Gary, Daryl, Ed and Clive were a few seats in front.
These seats only cost £41. Decent.
Liverpool had the best of the very early part of the game and we looked stretched at times. They enjoyed the first real chance when Axel Diasi allowed Luis Diaz a shot but Djordje Petrovic was equal to it.
There wasn’t a great deal of noise thus far. But I always try to look for clues to see which support is more “up for it.” My first observation wasn’t good. On the upper balcony wall, to my left – our unlucky East End – there were red banners everywhere. To my right – the West End, us – the same balcony between the Club Wembley tier and the upper tier was almost completely devoid of Chelsea flags and banners.
Ugh. An early lead to The Scousers.
As the game continued, neither sets of fans were particularly noisy. Were nerves to blame? It couldn’t have been due to the lack of alcohol. Maybe the game needed to ignite to fully engage the supporters and their voices.
Chelsea began to grow into the game and on twenty minutes, a Conor Gallagher cross from the right was played in to Raheem Sterling. There was a heavy touch and the ball eventually found Cole Palmer. His stab at goal was from close-in but the Liverpool ‘keeper Kelleher saved well. Nicolas Jackson’s follow-up was blocked too.
On the half-hour mark, Palmer padded the ball forward to Jackson who moved the ball square to Jackson. His grass-cutter cross to the far post – towards Sterling – was perfection and as our often-maligned striker prodded home, I turned to PD and we both screamed at each other like fools.
Alas.
VAR.
The goal was disallowed. Offside.
Bollocks.
Liverpool’s Gakpo headed against the base of Petrovic’ near post.
The game had taken a while but it was warming up. However, still not much noise, and virtually nothing from our end to the right. There were a few half-hearted chants from our section – “Three Little Birds” is a difficult one to get going in the huge spaces of the upper tier at Wembley – and the noise did not build.
Just before the half-time break, I spotted many red seats in the Chelsea end, the lure of a pint or a pee too strong for many. In contrast, there were hardly any empty seats in the Liveroool end. Advantage still to Liverpool. Bollocks.
When the whistle sounded, I disappeared downstairs and hoped that I would be able to conquer the north face of the Eiger on my return. I made it, but it seemed that we had lost PJ and Feisal to frostbite.
The second-half began and we began to probe the Liverpool defence more often. Gallagher set up Enzo but the Argentinian managed to get his tango feet tangled up and the chance went begging. At the other end, Petrovic punched clear from Elliott.
On the hour, a long cross from the Liverpool left was met by a leap from Van Dijk. The ball nestled in the net. We groaned. In the Liverpool end to our left, red flares were ignited, a horrible reminder of a scene at the end of the 2022 FA Cup Final.
After what seemed like an age, VAR was summoned.
No goal.
Christopher Nkunku replaced Sterling.
The game increased in quality and intensity. Chances were exchanged.
A Gallagher corner dropped into the six-yard box. Levi Colwill headed it on but Disasi made a mess of the final touch. Kelleher was able to jump unchallenged to claim. From my vantage point it seemed impossible that we had not edged ahead.
Gakpo blazed over.
Everyone was still stood. Everyone in the stadium. You have to marvel at us football fans’ ability to stand for hours and hours.
There was a nice interchange between Gusto and Caicedo that set up the silky skills of Palmer. His touch inside to Gallagher was flicked on and we were exasperated when his effort came back off the far post.
Fackinell.
Gomez at Petrovic. An easy save.
Caicedo to Gusto, but a searching ball was just too long for Nkunku at the far post.
Gallagher was given another chance, set up by Palmer, but with just Kelleher to beat there was a lame finish.
Fackinell.
We still created chances. A fine ball by Enzo out to Jackson who did well to hold the ball up. He played it back to Gallagher who blazed over.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Jackson.
Another attack, with bodies in the box, Kelleher saved at point blank range from Nkunku.
Oh my bloody goodness.
At ninety-minutes it was 0-0.
“We have been here before Liverpool, we have been here before.”
There was no time to pause, no time to think, the game began again. Or rather, it didn’t for us. All of the momentum that we had built in the last quarter of the game seemed to disappear as the night grew colder.
Noni Madueke for Gallagher. What? Answers on a postcard.
Trevoh Chalobah for Chilwell.
Liverpool came again, with a few efforts on our goal. We had Petrovic to thank once more. His had been a fine performance. There was a hugely impressive “Allez Allez Allez” from the red corner to my left. It was the loudest noise of the entire match. I looked over at the blue corner to my right. I heard nothing. I just saw a few blue flags being waved in the far corner. As far as responses go, it was almost fucking laughable.
Where has our support gone? It was excellent in 2019 against City. This, in 2024, was even worse than the 2008 debacle against Tottenham. It makes me so sad.
At half-time in extra-time, I suspect we all feared penalties once again.
The second period soon came and we watched as Chelsea grew weaker. The minutes ticked by. Our new additions did not add anything to the team. Mudryk frustrated us in the way only he can do. We looked tired. I felt tired.
Penalties surely.
With just two minutes remaining, a Liverpool corner. I found myself momentarily gazing over at the lower tier opposite, the Chelsea section. Everyone was still stood. I looked back just in time to see the ball fly into the net from another Van Dijk header.
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 :
John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins
Micky Droy.
John Dempsey.
Steve Kember
Tommy Baldwin.
Charlie Cooke
Ian Hutchinson
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.
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.
The League Cup Quarter-Final at home to Newcastle United was positioned just before the rush of football games over Christmas and the New Year. In this heady period – from Friday 22 December to Monday 1 January – there would be three Chelsea games and three Frome Town games for me to attend. It’s what Christmas is for, right?
The visiting Geordies would be backed by a strong following of around 5,500 in The Shed but their team were beset with injuries. Chelsea, too, were missing several first-teamers. It was a match that intrigued me. It was a game that we could win. It was a game that could propel us into an unlikely Semi-Final. But Newcastle United would be a tough opponent despite their missing players.
An early shift behind me, I deposited my three passengers off at two different locations at Chelsea World; the first-two were dropped-off on Bramber Road, just a short hop to the evening’s base of “The Rylston” on Lillee Road and the third one was deposited right outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge. As I slowly drove back along the Fulham Road, I snapped the view of the West Stand, its forecourt and the milieu of Christmas lights falling like snow from the stand’s facade, the neon lights and the club crest, the milling crowds, a bright Christmas tree, and the Peter Osgood statue.
It felt like I was driving home for Christmas.
SW6 may not be my home, but sometimes it feels like it must be.
Not wanting to collect an unwanted parking ticket I drove around for twenty minutes and then parked up on Mulgrave Road bang on five o’clock. I met up with PD, Parky and Salisbury Steve in “The Rylston” just after 5pm.
The kick-off was at 8pm. We had three hours to relax. By an odd quirk, this pub – nestled under the flats of the Clem Atlee Estate – is run by the same pub management company as our usual haunt “The Eight Bells” further south. The Yellow Panda Pub Company has just these two in their portfolio. The lads worked their way through a few lagers, while I had the usual non-alcoholic offerings that accompany my match days. Food was a third off between 3pm and 6pm so a decent picante pizza was less than a tenner. It went down well.
I looked around at the clientele and it was very different from “The Eight Bells.” Our usual domicile, right down the bottom end of Fulham, is full of what could quite rightly be termed “old school” Chelsea support; virtually all blokes, decidedly working class, hardly any Chelsea colours on show, ribald laughter booming. In contrast, “The Rylston” attracted a more varied demographic; more couples, a few Chelsea shirts on show, a more middle-class vibe, hushed tones.
I could not help feel that these two pubs had swapped their clientele. Once an estate pub – I remember it as looking pretty rough, at least from the outside, “The Rylston” still has one of the poorest estates in London on its doorstep. It has, however, undergone a tidy re-vamp over the last decade. I like it a lot. By contrast, “The Eight Bells” is located, to my eyes, in a more affluent adjacent area.
I can almost hear the “compare and contrast” instruction from a social geography course at poly in the ‘eighties.
As we left the pub at about 6.45pm – a mild night – I took a few photos of the lads. I could not help but notice the black and white pub sign. I remembered the Panda from the pub company. Was I tempting fate ahead of the tie against the black and white hordes. At least a single magpie didn’t ominously appear. We made our way along Lillee Road, a red London bus drove past, the Clem Atlee to our right, the towering Empress State Building ahead. Another London bus flew by. We were deep in Chelsea World. I smiled.
Driving home for Christmas.
We were all in at about 7.15pm.
As the away fans were encamped in The Shed, Parky had been transplanted to the Matthew Harding. As against Brighton and Blackburn Rovers, I took his ticket and he took mine so that he could sit alongside PD and Alan in “The Sleepy”; my seat was centrally towards the goal. I spotted Luke, another Shed End regular – who used to sit very close to Lord Parsnips until last season – and so I took a snap of them being reunited at the other end of the stadium.
There were the Newcastle fans, set up in two tiers, at The Shed, and a decent showing on a Tuesday night in London. They brought a few flags, including a very odd one that featured the letters “NUFC” and an image of a woman with a tooth missing.
At 7.50pm, “London Calling”, “Parklife” and “Liquidator.”
The usual – kinda cringe worthy by now – light show and accompanying flames welcomed the teams onto the pitch.
Our Chelsea eleven?
Djordje Petrovic.
Axel Disasi – Thiago Silva – Benoit Badiashile – Levi Colwill
Moises Caicedo – Conor Gallagher
Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Raheem Sterling
Nicolas Jackson
In the Newcastle United team was Tino Livramento but not Lewis Hall. Despite some players missing, they still boasted Miguel Amiron, Callum Wilson and Anthony Gordon, all undoubted threats.
It was a lively start. An unmarked Gordon managed to get a shot in on the goal that we were defending down below us but it was deflected for a corner. On six minutes, Gallagher saw his curling effort bounce against the Shed End crossbar. We began well. There was a Newcastle cross from their right that didn’t drop for an attacker to pounce but it had me worried.
Not long after, calamity. From a cross from the bye-line from Disasi, we gave up possession and Newcastle broke with pace. Callum Wilson, however, had Caceido chasing him and the twin pillars of Silva and Badiashile closing in on him. This pincer movement failed. He ghosted past Silva. Badiashile then seemed to get his legs tangled. I watched in horror as the ball was adeptly curled with the outside of his foot past the forlorn dive of Petrovic.
Fackinell.
It seemed the unluckiest of goals to concede, but now we were up against it.
We were immediately treated to an absolutely magnificent sliding tackle from Silva, and if I was to say that it was worth the admission money alone I would stand by my comment. Pure class.
A twist and a shot at the near post from Palmer. There was a nice “one-two” between Sterling and Caicedo on twenty-seven minutes but his roller just evaded the goal frame. Just after, another shot from Sterling was blocked after a decent break down the right.
These chances were few and far between though. I was again frustrated to see Sterling in acres of space but criminally under-utilised. Our build-up play lacked guile. The two centre-backs seemed to be touching the ball every five seconds.
“Slow, slow, quick, quick, slower.”
At least the Newcastle threat had dwindled; they were quite content to defend deep.
“LOW BLOCK” shout the FIFA nerds.
Yeah, low bock, whatever.
Fernandez was surprisingly substituted on thirty-two minutes and was replaced by Armando Broja. There was a shifting of personnel and Sterling popped up on the right, taking over from Palmer. Jackson was shunted out towards the East Stand. I speculated if he would be better positioned behind the East Stand.
The noise from us wasn’t great. There were a few attempts at getting something started. I couldn’t decipher much of it, but the away fans were making a fair old racket.
“Noo-cassel You-nited. We’ll nevah be defeated.”
As the first-half continued, I moaned to the chap next to me “one-hundred and ten passes and its going nowhere.”
Jackson was having a minimal impact, aside from getting caught offside. There had been one, just one, excellent run from him – that both the bloke next to me and I had spotted – but which was not spotted by the man on the ball. We longed for the movement of Crespo or Vialli.
“Proper strikers” he murmured.
It was so noticeable that, even with Broja on the pitch, we were loath to send crosses into the Geordie box. I wondered that we would need Zaphod Beeblebrox loitering at the far post before we started crossing high balls into the mixer.
At the end of the first-half, Broja’s goal was called back for offside, Newcastle had two efforts on our goal, and Palmer supplied, probably, one of the highest ever crosses seen at Stamford Bridge, only for Jackson to head it over at the far stick. Perhaps if he had two heads he would have fared better.
At half-time, there were moans.
“We aren’t hitting our front players quick enough. By the time we play the bloody ball, they are fully marked.”
At the break, Malo Gusto replaced Colwill at left-back.
The chap next to me said that if Reece James was to be out for an extended stay, as is likely, Gusto would be an able replacement. I could not disagree. He has been a good addition this season.
Soon into the first-half, there was nothing but praise and applause for the much-maligned Jackson who chased a Newcastle break from Gordon and put in a timely tackle way inside our own half. Fair play to him. I was not upset when Gordon would soon be substituted.
Bursting down the right, that man Gusto played in Broja who set up Jackson. He swivelled nicely but his GPS let him down, the shot missing the near post by a yard or so. A minute after, Jackson prodded the ball through to the rampaging Sterling, but his low shot was pushed – low down – past the far post by Dubravka.
There was noise now.
“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea. Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”
You know the tune.
Stamford Bridge was alive and it felt like a proper game, a proper cup tie.
On the hour, another magnificently-timed sliding tackle from Silva. More glorious applause.
“Come on, keep up the intensity Chels.”
By now, Newcastle’s attack had virtually ceased.
The noise continued. At last Christopher Nkunku made his Chelsea debut, replacing Jackson.
A big roar.
It seemed like the second coming of Christ.
I turned to the chap to my right.
“No pressure.”
Ten minutes later, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling and Ian Maatsen replaced Disasi. Gusto moved to the right. Mudryk was soon attempting to dance down the left. Was I confident of us getting an equaliser? Maybe. Only maybe.
Into the last ten minutes, the atmosphere had noticeably quietened. Perhaps the Chelsea faithful were not confident of that equaliser. Mudryk found himself our main threat. A teasing cross was headed, almost disastrously, into his own goal by Livramento.
On eighty-nine minutes, a wriggle from Gallagher – our best player, he was everywhere – and a coming together of bodies but no penalty.
There were four minutes of injury time but I had hoped for more.
Four minutes? Fackinell.
The bloke next to me couldn’t hold it in any longer, and excused himself. He got up, we shook hands, and off he went. I like these temporary friendships that we make at football. I’ll probably never see him again, but it is always nice not to be sat next to a dickhead, of which there are many, at Chelsea. At away games, those temporary friendships always tend to solidify over the years.
Into injury time, a deep cross from the nimble and mobile Gusto was aimed at the far post. For some reason that only he knows, Keiran Trippier reacted oddly to the ball as it bounced up in front of him. He seemed to be shocked that the ball would take its trajectory. Mudryk, just behind him, reacted quickly.
My heart-beat increased. I gulped some air. I stood.
The ball sat up nicely.
The Ukrainian walloped it in.
Fackinell.
GET IN.
The Bridge boomed.
The scorer ran past the lucky ones in the front row at pitch side and continued his run over to the West Stand, not usually the place to aim for. Shades of Micky Thomas against Sheffield Wednesday in 1984.
Stay still my beating heart.
Fackinell indeed.
Ninety-three minutes had elapsed. This was indeed a late-late show. I immediately thought back to a Les Ferdinand equaliser for the Toon Army, equally late, in an FA Cup tie in January 1996. Revenge for that, maybe?
Before we could breath, the final whistle sounded. I hoped for the penalties to be taken down our end. There seemed to be a longer-than-usual delay.
The players walked to the half-way line and faced the Newcastle followers in The Shed.
Ugh.
I remembered an FA Cup loss on penalties at The Shed against Everton in 2011.
I prepared my camera for its big moments.
Cole Palmer – a confident strike low to the right, tucked just inside the post.
1-0.
Callum Wilson – down the middle, git.
1-1.
Conor Gallagher – a short run up but a smash high, phew.
2-1.
Keiran Trippier – “you little prick” might have out him off, a drive wide of the left-hand post.
2-1.
Christopher Nkunku – a confident smack high left, welcome to Chelsea my son.
3-1.
Bruno Guimaraes – a stop/start run up, but struck just inside the right-hand post.
3-2.
Mykhailo Mudryk – a brief approach, stroked to the left, surely evoking Didier in Munich for us all.
4-2.
Matt Ritchie – confidently struck, but flamboyantly saved by Petrovic, magnificent stuff.
Yes!
Within the space of sixteen minutes, we had come back from the dead. Into the League Cup semis we went. Thousands of puns simultaneously erupted all over Chelsea World about Djordje and the Geordies.
This was a stunning turnaround. But it was a reward for our dominance in an increasingly noisy and enthralling second-half.
“Freed From Desire” boomed around Stamford Bridge and there was a lot of untidy body movements in the Matthew Harding Upper. Then “One Step Beyond” and even more shocking behaviour.
But I didn’t mind.
Outside, there were so many Chelsea smiles and a massive sense of release.
“Freed” indeed. Maybe the DJ was right.
Fackinell.
Our team and our club continue to confuse us all, but this win seemed so important. I am not going to naively suggest it might save our season but stranger things have happened. It might just get the positivity flowing again.
As I drove home, we learned that Middlesbrough had beaten Port Vale and Fulham had edged out Everton.
We often underplay the importance of the League Cup these days, but surely no Chelsea fan currently does. I can’t wait for the semi-final.
See you there.
Postscript 1.
In preparing for this write-up, I stumbled across the realisation that in September 2010, we came from 1-3 down to get to 3-3 in a League Cup game against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge only for Shola Ameobi to score on ninety minutes to give the visitors a 4-3 triumph. Shockingly, I have no recollection of this game.
Postscript 2.
As I reached my car on Mulgrave Road, I had opened up my boot and threw my jacket in. There, in a corner, I spotted a black and white bobble hat – a free-gift from a visit to see Queens Park at Hampden a year ago – and I smiled. I need not have worried about me tempting the Footballing Gods with those black and white references pre-match. I had already committed a cardinal sin, but thankfully I had not been punished.
But first, we hoped, a little respite in the form of a home tie in the season’s Carabao Cup against Blackburn Rovers. Here was a game that we should win, surely?
This was another early start for me; a 4.30am alarm ahead of a day’s toil that would allow me to pick up my three usual passengers at 2pm. We were all well aware that Storm Ciaran was soon to hit the south of England and so I hoped that the drive up to London would be ahead of the expected rainstorms and gales. I would, we presumed, have all of that to contend with on the return drive home after the game. PD kept saying that the rain was due in London at 9pm.
On the drive towards the capital, the skies to the east and the north were fine, devoid of much cloud, and all very pleasant. However, behind me, in my mirrors, dense grey clouds haunted us most of the way but thankfully did not hit us.
Already through to the quarter finals were Port Vale and Middlesbrough. Could there possibly be a case of me tempting fate by writing about Port Vale in my previous match report? Should we get through later in the evening, an away game at Vale Park would undoubtedly be my favourite draw. The last time we played them was in 1929, almost a century ago. Alternatively, Ipswich Town would be decent; Portman Road is a ground that I am yet to visit. Alternatively, an away game in Newcastle or in Middlesbrough or in Liverpool or in Manchester would severely test me. Ouch.
At just after 5pm, I trotted into “The Rylston” to join up with PD and Parky, who I had dropped off forty minutes earlier. They were with Salisbury Steve’s mate Sam. I ordered some food and we chatted a little about the club at the moment. I could not lie; I told the boys that I honestly wondered if we would – could? – pick up a single point from the next treacherous six league games. I stayed in “The Rylston” for an hour and then an hour was spent in “Simmons” where there was a little pre-match meet-up between some friends from the US. I enjoyed a natter with Nick from California, Tim from Texas and Kim from California. I left the bar just after 7pm and was amazed, but pleased, that the rain had not yet hit.
Tickets for this game were back at the £26 level. Well done Chelsea.
Blackburn Rovers, eh? It has been a while.
In fact, the last time that we had met them was the weekend before a certain game in Munich in 2012, a narrow 2-1 win. In that game, we wore the 2012/13 kit and I hoped that it would not be worn in Munich. I did not like the precedent of the 2008/9 shirt being worn in Moscow. On that day, we thought that we had seen the last of Didier Drogba at Chelsea. After the game, the FA Cup was paraded and Roy Bentley made the Matthew Harding laugh with his antics. It was a lovely day, almost dreamlike from this point in time in a little less optimistic 2023.
Blackburn Rovers were relegated that season and have been battling to get back to the top flight ever since. They suffered relegation to League One – I still like to call it Division Three – in 2016/17 but were promoted the very next season.
I used to like going up to Ewood Park. On a few occasions I travelled up with my Rovers mate Mark, including my first visit in 1994/95, a 1-2 loss. There was a game in 1995/96 when I watched with my mate Alan in the home seats when we lost 0-3 and we were immediately sussed when we didn’t spring to our feet when Rovers’ first goal went in. In more hostile environments, we would not have got off quite so lightly.
There was the Gianfranco Zola debut in 1996/97 when Chelsea completely filled the lower section of the away end, but also had some fans in the top tier too, a healthy 4,000 in total. A fine game ended 1-1 on that occasion.
There was a game that I watched with Mark in a hospitality suite in 1997/98 as guests of a supplier for the toiletries company that we worked for. Until the opener this season, it is the only Chelsea game where I have “gone corporate” and it was an odd experience. The two of us had watched a Rovers vs. Villa game from the same hospitality suite the previous season too.
I have been up there eleven times in total, but all at the redeveloped Ewood Park, none at the original version. I missed the two most famous away games up there in recent years; the 4-3 win in 1998/99 and the 1-0 win in 2004/5, both mid-week games and difficult for me to reach.
The last time that I saw a game at Ewood with Mark was in 2003/04. By then Chelsea were the un-loved money men where once Blackburn Rovers held that mantle. One wonders if the media would have been so against Jack Walker and Roman Abramovich had their monies gone to more favoured teams on Fleet Street. I think we know the answer to that question.
Arguably our most famous game ever with them was the FA Cup Semi-Final at Old Trafford in 2007, a nice 2-1 win.
Of course there have been plenty of games at Stamford Bridge too. The first one for me was the opening game of 1988/89 when our terraces were closed due to the near riot against Middlesbrough. On that day, just 8,722 saw us lose 1-2. Depressing times.
I also remember the last game of 1995/96, a 2-3 loss, but acknowledged by everyone at Chelsea as the game in which the fans played a major role in determining the next Chelsea manager. Glenn Hoddle was to take over as England manager from Terry Venables and according to the English press, Ken Bates’ mind was full of George Graham as the replacement. The Chelsea choir had other ideas.
“You can stick George Graham up your arse.”
We serenaded Ruud Gullit that Sunday afternoon. He was soon named as our manager. Job done.
I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 7.15pm.
Still no rain.
Rovers only had 3,000 having turned down the chance to have more. This surprised me somewhat. On the Shed balcony were two away flags. One simply said “Darwen BRFC” and I quickly messaged Mark. It is his home town. It was Mark who first spoke to me about Adidas designer Gary Aspden – himself a native of Darwen – about his collaborations with the sportswear giant and the Spezial range especially. It was his story which eventually lead me to tracking down Carlos Ruiz at his incredible shop in Buenos Aires in 2020.
Just before kick-off, a brief flurry of texts.
Chris : “Good luck.”
Mark : “Not expecting much.”
Chris : “That’s OK. Neither am I.”
Good God, that Rovers away kit was shite.
Us?
Nice to see Benoit Badiashile back in the team. Reece James was starting again. Enzo back. Jackson too. And “Les”. No Mudryk.
Sanchez
James – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella
Ugochukwu – Enzo – Gallagher
Palmer – Jackson – Sterling
The Rovers team included solidly British and Irish names such as Brittain, Hill, Carter, Pickering Wharton, Travis, Moran, Garrett and Leonard, whoever they were.
I used to be able to name the Blackburn Rovers team, nay squad. Sigh.
At least I recognised their exotic-sounding manager Jan Dahl Tomasson, who once briefly played for Newcastle United among others.
As the game kicked off, I presumed that the folk from Blackburn, Darwen, Accrington, Rawtenshall, Oswaldtwistle, Clayton-le-Moors and Ramsbottom would be singing songs throughout the evening about Burnley Football Club.
It’s their thing.
The game started.
Still no rain.
We were treated to a very rare occurrence at the kick-off as Enzo pumped the ball up towards Nicolas Jackson who got a shot in from an angle within ten seconds of the whistle.
It was a decent enough start, though it hardly got our pulses racing. Unsurprisingly, the away team were in no mood to attack and aimed to soak up pressure. Raheem Sterling, away in the far corner, cut inside and there was a strong penalty appeal as he tangled with a defender. Enzo then released James down the right but his shot was low and straight at the Rovers’ ‘keeper.
Our play deteriorated a little and there were some moans around us. Rovers tried to get in the game but their attacks were rare. The noise, even from the away support, was not great. The three of us – PD, Alan and I – sat with our arms crossed. We must have looked as grumpy as hell.
There was an easy save from Robert Sanchez down below us as Rovers threatened a little.
At last, something to cheer us up; we witnessed a sublime spin and turn from Cole Palmer on the half-way line. In fact, it was Palmer who produced most of the pleasing play in the opening period. His touch, skill and awareness was a constant treat. Enzo set up James again, and our right back advanced to find space but his low shot was drilled low and eventually wide of the far post. A fine shimmy from Enzo allowed him to create space but his weak shot was kept out by the Blackburn ‘keeper.
On the half-hour, a short corner was worked well – for once – and Conor Gallagher lofted a cross into the six-yard box. The ‘keeper flapped at it and the ball fell towards a Chelsea player.
I snapped with my SLR.
In it flew.
Who was the scorer? Ah, the returnee.
Badia – Badia – Bing.
We were 1-0 up.
Alan : “THTCAUN.”
Chris : “COMLD.”
The Matthew Harding reprised one of its current songs.
“Todd Boehly went to France…”
I found it reassuring when I heard Alan solemnly comment that he refuses to sing that song. I refuse to do so too. I would feel uncomfortable singing that man’s name, giving him some sort of recognition.
I have already heard enough from Todd Boehly to regard him as a fool.
The away team mustered up a late effort on goal in a rather dull first-half, but Andrew Moran’s effort faded past Sanchez’ far post. Our ‘keeper had completed a couple of Word Search puzzles in that first-half.
At 9pm, as PD predicted, rain.
There was a slight scare at the very start of the second period when an early Chelsea attack broke down and Rovers attacked down the right. Harry Leonard just about kept ahead of the chasing pack but his shot was hit meekly wide, with the watching three-thousand away supporters no doubt trying to suck the ball in.
We improved in the second-half.
I loved an early through-ball that Enzo pushed forward early and into space. Two Chelsea players attacked the ball but the chance evaporated. But I loved this variation to the tap tap tap of balls being pushed around for the sake of it.
Sterling started to dazzle and he set up Enzo, who again left his shooting boots at home, a tame effort straight at the ‘keeper. It was then Palmer’s turn to shake off a defender with some fancy dancing, and he created an angled shot that flew over via the ‘keeper’s fingertips.
On the hour, the two players then combined, Palmer stealing the ball from a Rovers defender and feeding it inside to Sterling, who curled a fine shot into the goal, clipping it around the closest defender. It’s becoming his trademark goal. I snapped that one too
Get in.
[thinking : “Vale away next please”]
We had heard that West Ham were beating Arsenal, Newcastle were winning at Old Trafford. My mind drifted a little as I played with various scenarios. We had all admitted pre-match that getting to a League Cup Final, or even a semi-final, with this current team and squad in its current state of health and mind would indeed be something to celebrate.
What’s that saying about cutting cloth accordingly?
Once proud Chelsea, serial-winners, getting excited about a League Cup Final?
Yes. Absolutely.
It’s amazing how a – relatively – poor spell re-jigs expectations and aspirations. I think most of my close mates would kill for a stint in the Europa Conference next season.
A couple of substitutions.
Malo Gusto for James.
Levi Colwill for Badiashile.
We could relax a little now. Sterling set up Jackson who lazily blasted over. He was not having a great game. There was more trickery from Palmer and a low shot from outside the box. The ball took a deflection en route and hit the base of the post. A low shot from Gallagher went just wide. We were treated to The Sterling Show, with one mazy dribble into the heart of the Rovers’ penalty box drawing gasps from us all.
Two more substitutions.
Moises Caicedo for Jackson.
Noni Madueke for Palmer.
The away team broke through our ranks but the strong fist of Sanchez thwarted the low shot from the substitute Sigurdsson.
It stayed 2-0.
A much better second-half, with Sterling excellent.
On the walk back to the car, the rain continued, but the drive back to Wiltshire and Somerset was not as bad, truthfully, as on Saturday. However, the road near my house was even more flooded than on Saturday so I avoided it and quickly adjusted the last half-a-mile. I reached home at 12.45am.
Oh, another home draw, awaits us in the Quarter-Finals; Newcastle United.
Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2023.
After defeating AFC Wimbledon in the Second Round of the League Cup, we could have been drawn away to Salford City, Exeter City, Ipswich Town, Mansfield Town, Peterborough United, Bradford City, Port Vale, Sutton United or Lincoln City in the next round. I have not seen Chelsea play at any of these clubs’ stadia. However, the draw for the Third Round gave us a home tie with Brighton & Hove Albion. This was met with the usual grumbling from me. I don’t have a feverish desire to tick off all ninety-two grounds before I exit stage left, but a new ground is always a pleasant experience.
As I typed out the teams in that list above, I felt a little sadness that I have not seen us play at either Valley Parade nor Portman Road. These two stadia belong to two teams that we have played a fair few times over the years. However, the twin perils of geography and economics have not always been aligned for me to travel as much as I do now. I guess that I should mention that I have seen a game at Port Vale, lured in by a chance to see Micky Droy play for Brentford at Vale Park only for him to be injured, when I was at college in The Potteries. Quite a few fellow Chelsea supporters that I know have reached “92” on many occasions and are constantly topping up their totals as new teams arrive in the fourth tier.
Me? I am up to fifty-eight of the current ninety-two English and Welsh stadia, plus a few “doubles” too. Other than that, there are around forty clubs in the non-league arena that I have visited. So, a total of around one hundred clubs in the UK visited for actual games. I’ll make an exhaustive list one day. It’s a pretty low figure compared to many. I know of one Chelsea fanatic who is up to six-hundred individual stadia worldwide, and another who has seen games at over two and a half thousand stadia worldwide. Across the globe, I think that I might be up to around one hundred and seventy-five individual stadia.
Stadium number one in that list was Frome Town in 1970 and I returned there on Tuesday, the night before the Brighton game. The home team won 3-2 against Evesham United with goals from Warren Maidment, Reece Rusher and James Ollis. This was Frome’s first league game in four weeks.
On the Wednesday, I set off for London with the usual three other passengers at around 2.15pm. I dropped Parky and Paul near “The Rylston” pub on Lillee Road at 4.30pm. I was able to drive down a relatively deserted North End Road, then up the Fulham Road, to drop Ron off at the main gates. It felt a little odd to be able to do this. I haven’t often driven up to the actual gates at Stamford Bridge, though I did park in the underground carpark on one or two occasions almost thirty years ago. After getting fined for arriving at a car parking space before the Luton Town game, I was wary not to park up too soon. I killed time by driving around a few blocks and hit my spot bang on 5pm just as a traffic warden had glided past.
I had driven past a father and daughter that I often see in “Norbros Pizzeria” on the North End Road. The father reminds me of Perry Benson who was in “This Is England.”
I joined the chaps in “The Rylston” for a drink. It sits at the northern edge of the Clem Atlee, and is a very decent boozer, though now attracting a very different clientele than the decades since its inception. I bet nobody from the Clem Atlee drinks there now. As such, it’s a perfect metaphor for that part of Fulham, that part of London.
I shot off to gobble down a diavolo pizza on the North End Road – Perry Benson and his daughter were in there, of course – and I then dipped into “Simmons” where I had a nice chat with Salisbury Steve. Neither of us were particularly relishing the game. Why would we be?
Brighton had over four thousand supporters in The Shed and so Parky was shunted into the MHU. I swapped with him so he could sit next to PD, while I took his seat in the more central Block 11. It suited us both. Before the game, I was able to spot three friends who normally sit in The Shed – Long Tall Pete, John and Dave – and I also spotted Terry Wine Gums too. Lo and behold, just before the kick-off, Perry Benson and his daughter took their seats right behind me and I spoke to them for the first time.
“Good food in there, innit?”
I enjoyed being able to watch the game from a different angle. It mirrors the “new ground” feeling. I would be pointing my camera at the usual objects but there would be different outcomes.
Our team?
Sanchez
Cucarella – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell
Ugochukwu – Caicedo
Maatesen – Palmer – Mudryk
Jackson
Or something like that. Palmer, his first start, was definitely ahead of Uguchukwu and Caicedo.
I nestled myself in. I seemed to have a lot less room than in my usual seat. The pre-match music began in earnest and I thought that the House Of Pain, from thirty years ago, was an apt choice of band to start off the proceedings. Would we be jumping around later? I wasn’t sure.
There was the flash, then darkness and the pulsing beat of the pre-match light-show, and I worried for the future of mankind. On the pitch, men with forks were tapping the pitch with complete disinterest. As a spectacle, it needed a little more work, a little more choreography.
Fackinell.
I looked around. It was almost a full house. The bubble isn’t for bursting just yet. The tickets for the previous round were £26. These were £32. I hope the price rise stops there. It was a mild night in SW6. Secretly, I was sweating like bastard. That extra Hugo Boss hoodie was not a wise move.
The game kicked-off.
Brighton were in a very vivid red. Tariq Lamptey, one substitute appearance for us in 2019, was starting while Billy Gilmour was a substitute.
We began nicely, with some positive play going forward. Mudryk cut in but shot straight at the Brighton ’keeper.
It was a bit of a head-scratcher to see the maligned Marc Cucarella starting at right back, and the effervescent Brighton winger Kaoru Mitoma gave him a merry dance as a he advanced. Thankfully, a cross was smothered away for a goal-kick.
After a Chelsea attack, the ball was played back.
“Cucarella as the last man. That’s not a scary thought is it?”
Robert Sanchez had already fluffed a few lines; kicking for touch like a rugby player and failing to clear with ease. He had already passed the ball to one Brighton player in error. Then, his biggest error yet. With all of our hearts in our mouths, we watched as he kicked the ball straight to Joao Pedro. Mercifully, his lob evaded the goal and the ball nestled on top of the net.
Fackinell.
A run from Nicolas Jackson, but he crumpled too easily inside the box.
“Needs to be stronger.”
Palmer advanced but his shot was weak.
In front of us, another horrific piece of football from Sanchez, with him passing the ball to Caicedo with an attacker right behind him. The ball was lost and Ansu Fati, on loan from Barcelona, shot at goal. Thankfully Sanchez redeemed himself with a fine save.
Some nice interplay between Mudryk and Jackson set up the Ukrainian, whose advance was halted by two sliding tackles.
After a free-kick was cleared, the ball fell to Lesley Ugochukwu but his lofted chip sailed over via a deflection off a defender.
A long ball into space from Chilwell, captain on the night, found Mudryk in acres of space. His cross was flicked past the near post by Palmer.
It had been a first-half of few real chances with the abysmal performance of the ‘keeper Sanchez the main talking point in MHU Block 11. Only Palmer, Mudryk and Jackson stood out really.
The Brighton fans had been quiet. We had been quiet too. It was one of those nights.
Soon into the second-half, on fifty minutes, a slick move involving Caicedo, Ian Maatsen and Palmer – with exquisite footwork – set up Jackson who cleanly swept the ball in.
Get in.
The crowd roared. What a relief. We had joked for a while about wondering where our next goal would come yet here it was.
Phew.
I tried to capture the slide but there were too many arms being thrust into the air.
Mudryk set up Jackson but he dawdled a little too long and the angles worked against him; his shot was blocked by the outstretched leg of Verbruggen.
A fine ball from Cucarella into Caicedo set up Palmer. His slight touch was enough to see the ball reach Jackson, who tucked home. Sadly, I immediately saw the chequered flag for offside. It must have been close. It stayed as a 1-0 game.
Billy Gilmour came on as a Brighton substitute and a fair few clapped him on. I stood up and did so. He was part of our squad in Porto, that will do for me.
Raheem Sterling replaced Mudryk.
Then two more changes.
Conor Gallagher for Maatsen.
Enzo for Palmer.
Both had played well on the night; positive signs.
A quick break down the Brighton left set up Solly March but his header was right at Sanchez. Estupinan then drilled a cross right through the danger zone and it eventually went off for a Chelsea throw in. Brighton had been poor. This surprised me.
Armando Broja replaced Jackson.
Another promising show from him.
Alas, while chasing a long ball, Chilwell fell and it was clear that he was hurt. He was escorted off.
A volley from Joao Pedro was blasted over.
The minutes ticked by and we hoped that there would be no last minute twist, no last minute drama.
There was relief, much relief, at the final whistle.
The quality wasn’t brilliant, but a win is a win is a win. The big surprise on the night was Cucarella, who really grew into the game and impressed many with his tough tackling, decent distribution and high energy levels. Well done to him. We assembled back at the car and I made very good time on the drive home. I was back home at around 12.45am, definitely an early finish.
But so much for a new ground.
We were paired with Blackburn Rovers at home.
Next up, a trip for me to Kent on Saturday in the FA Cup before we assemble again on Monday night at Craven Cottage.
Last Friday’s 3-0 win at home to Luton Town was the first of four wins out of four over the Bank Holiday Weekend. It was followed by a narrow 1-0 away win for Frome Town at Yate Town on Saturday afternoon and a decent 2-0 home win against Larkhall Athletic on Monday afternoon in another local derby for my home-town team. I really enjoyed both games.
Sandwiched in between the two Frome games, I made an appearance at the Royal United Hospital in Bath on Sunday afternoon. Back in June, I had experienced an odd tenderness in my stomach, that thankfully only lasted around three weeks, but in the various tests that had followed, it was decided that a colonoscopy was required. This obviously brought a certain degree of worry. I think it was seeing the words “suspected bowel cancer” on a letter than brought it all home. There was one in early August that turned out to be inconclusive, but I was overjoyed to hear that the second one had found no abnormalities at all.
I was clear.
Suffice to say, I was a lot more relaxed at the Frome Town home game on Monday than I had been at the away game forty-eight hours earlier.
So, four wins out of four.
Peroni don’t do weekends, but if they did…
Different Club, Same Name.
Playing in the early round of the League Cup is a rare thing at Chelsea. As always, most people I know were looking for a new away ground to visit in the “Southern Section” (is that a new thing? I guess we had just never been exposed to it before) so there was a certain degree of being underwhelmed at the prospect of a home game, albeit against AFC Wimbledon. The rise of this new club through the football pyramid since the original team were moved lock, stock and barrel to Milton Keynes is surely one of the greatest stories of the past few decades. The tie would represent the two team’s first-ever fixture.
The original Wimbledon Football Club came into my recognition back in 1974/75 during their FA Cup run. They won away at Burnley, becoming the first non-league team in over a century to defeat a First Division team in an away tie. In the next round, they drew 0-0 at Elland Road against champions Leeds United before narrowly losing the replay at Plough Lane. They joined the Football League in 1977. The club rose steadily through the divisions and joined Chelsea in the First Division in 1986/87.
Existing on small crowds, the club were favourites to be relegated. But in that first season at the highest level, despite an average attendance of around 8,000, they finished in a ridiculously high sixth position, way ahead of us in fourteenth place. They even beat us in the two league meetings; 4-0 at Stamford Bridge in December and 2-1 at Plough Lane in May.
They would often hand us heavy defeats at Stamford Bridge. There was a 5-2 win in December 1989 and a 4-2 win in October 1996.
We might well have had the last laugh in 1996/97 though, beating the Dons 3-0 in the FA Cup semi-final at Highbury. It was only when the club ground-shared at Selhurst Park from 1991/92 that gates increased, topping off with an average of 18,000 in 1998/99. Away fans often boosted crowds at these Wimbledon home games.
I watched from a distance as the club fell apart and were moved to Milton Keynes. It was the saddest thing. For this reason, MK Dons remain hated throughout most of our football landscape.
A side story. It is rumoured that Wimbledon’s move from south-west London to Buckinghamshire in 2004 was as big a shift as Arsenal’s move across London in 1913. The time it took supporters to physically travel from Wimbledon to Milton Keynes on a match day was virtually the same as the time it took supporters of Woolwich Arsenal to travel from Plumstead to Highbury using the transport available at the time. Think on that, Arsenal fans. It’s no wonder Tottenham dislike them so much, the original franchise team.
There is no place for franchise football in the UK.
Farewell My Friend.
Over the weekend, I heard some horrible news. My friend Russ, who used to sit a few rows in front of me in The Sleepy Hollow from 1997 to 2011, had sadly lost a long battle with cancer on Saturday evening. Russ was a lovely man, and Chelsea mad like all of us. On many occasions, I would leave my car at his house in Shepperton and he would drop me off at various terminals at Heathrow as I travelled to see Chelsea in far off locations. He did this for me from 2009 – Chelsea in Baltimore and Arlington – to 2019 – Chelsea in Baku – and I used to love chatting to him on those drives. I last spoke to him on the ‘phone just after Thomas Tuchel took over in 2021 and we were chatting on WhatsApp earlier this summer. He faced his battle bravely. He leaves his wife Kim and daughter Emily.
On the last few miles of our trip to London for the AFC Wimbledon game, for some reason I spotted a grey van as it slowly moved along a tree-lined avenue as I flew past on the M4. I have no reason as to why I paid attention to it. Imagine my reaction when I spotted that the van belonged to the same small firm of freight forwarders that Russ worked for.
Russ Kemp. Love you mate. Rest In Peace.
Chelsea Is A Club, Not A Team.
The build up to the game was dominated by the news that Chelsea Football Club, despite promising a full period of consultation with supporter groups, had unilaterally decided to abandon the away travel subsidy this season. This dismayed many supporters and hinted at a bleak future of poor fan-related decisions under the new regime. In reality, this only affected a few hundred supporters per away game – maybe between three and five coaches – and indeed not all away games were serviced by the coaches, but this news cut deep. Originally, from my memory, Chelsea used to subsidise some coaches – and trains – at £10, and then after a large TV deal, the Premier League asked for some of the monies to be used by clubs to take away the sting of away travel. As everyone with half a brain knows, away fans are the lifeblood of our game in this country. Without a loyal band of vociferous away supporters at every game, noise levels would decrease and “the product” would be more difficult to sell to TV companies and, with it, advertisers.
The game needs away support.
And those coaches have been a Godsend to many. I know many have used them over the past ten years or so. My fellow companions Alan, Gary and John always use them for tough away games in the Midlands and the North. Not everyone can afford car travel, nor standard train fares. Many users of the club travel are physically disabled. I know that the club has continued to take at least one fan that I know to away games in a specially designed van with wheelchair access. It is a disgrace that this service will be stopped. It is especially galling when the board has spent over one billion pounds on largely unproven players in just over a year.
It would appear that the platitudes that are issued by Clearlake regarding our support are indeed empty.
The new regime must realise that Chelsea is a club – a club that includes its supporters as the main ingredient, the main focus, the heart – rather than just a team. We might moan about players, but there is so much more to Chelsea than the players alone. It’s all about our combined ability to carry on and continue our support of those players in an environment where we are respected, not in a mollycoddled way, but where our voices are heard and where we feel we belong.
If I ever lose that feeling of being part of the club, I will be out.
Simmons.
I sidled into “Simmons” at around 5.30pm after wolfing down the worst cheeseburger – with onions – that I have ever had from “Delish” on the Fulham Road. As I waited for friends to arrive, the music blared and the scene began to be set.
The Killers, The Undertones, Franz Ferdinand, The Housemartins, The Fratellis.
JR and his wife Erin joined me, but there were few others in that I recognised; only the two Marks and Mr. Pink on a nearside table. It had been a really good drive in from Wiltshire; virtually bang on two hours, my best yet for a midweek game. JR had watched AFC Wimbledon on Saturday against Forest Green Rovers and had enjoyed it. Erin had flown in from Detroit on Monday; her first trip to Europe, her first trip to England, her first trip to London, her first visit to Stamford Bridge, her first sighting of Lord Parky.
Parky joined us at 7pm, but it was soon time to get to the game.
New Faces.
In a period of change on the pitch, this was always going to be a night of fresh faces. As I took my seat alongside Alan and PD, I prepared for a night of acclimatisation. In The Shed, Wimbledon – can I call them that? – were backed by around 4,000. It meant that Parky was somewhere in the MHU too, but we never did spot him. Mauricio Pochettino named these players and it took me most of the first-half for them to settle in my consciousness, but the fluid formation took all game for me to suss.
Sanchez
Humphreys – Disasi – Colwill – Cucarella
Gallagher – Uguchukwu
Madueke – Maatsen – Moreira
Burstow
With Manchester United absurdly sniffing around Flopsy And Mopsey, the Cucarella twins, it was a surprise that he got a start. We had seen Bash at City in the Cup, but this was a home debut.
One of the Chukle Brothers was paired alongside Conor, the night’s captain.
The M and M and M Boys in support of the lone striker and a first look at Moreira, and a full debut for Maaatsen.
Up front, Mason – let’s have a proper look at him, eh?
SW6 Versus SW17.
Chelsea dominated the early exchanges to the point of absurdity. The visitors from SW17 were firmly encamped in their own half, in front of their noisy supporters in The Shed, and we hoped that a goal would soon come. It was slightly off-putting to hear “Wimbledon” being sung to the same tune as “Li-ver-pool” but the away fans were giving it their all. The home areas, which included Erin and JR right below us in the MHL, were quiet.
Noni Madueke immediately shone out like a beacon, full of intent, full of running, full of flicks and tricks. I did however hope that there was an end product too.
Wimbledon – in a reverse of our kit – had hardly passed the half-way line but from a free-kick down below us, I caught on film the moment that Robert Sanchez crashed into Harry Pell and a penalty was signalled. James Tilley smacked it home.
SW6 0 SW17 1.
Would we struggle to get out of this round? Last season our involvement in the same competition lasted just one game. I wondered if this might follow similar lines. It’s an odd competition this. I explained it’s importance to a mate at work :
“We attend the first games with not much interest in the hope we get to visit a new ground. We only get excited if we draw Tottenham. We sometimes get to the final. It’s a good day out, but it has lost its appeal really.”
We continued our stranglehold on the game. However, after half an hour, I only remember two deflected shots that missed the goal frame with ease. Madueke continued to dance and Gallagher was chasing every ball down with a fervour. But others were struggling somewhat. Both Burstow and Moreira were spectators. Maatsen looked a little lost too.
But we acknowledged the fat that this time had not played together before and that in a season of new faces, this game was the epitome of it. Our expectation levels were tempered accordingly.
For some bizarre reason, the “Willian Song” was sung by the MHL.
Why?
There had been just two Wimbledon attacks the entire half. But our chances seemed to be equally rare.
Cucarella had been worse than shite. We hoped United weren’t watching.
Just as I was fearing boos from the knobheads at the break, Noni danced and wriggled once more and Alex Pearce poleaxed him. Madueke, the star thus far, took the penalty.
Goal.
SW6 1 SW17 1.
Phew.
For the second-half, Pochettino replaced Moreira with Nicholas Jackson. He received a fine reaction. We love a trier at Chelsea.
The second-half was much better. Jackson soon shot on sight, and drew a save from the latest incarnation of Dickie Guy.
Then a shot from Gallagher.
Wimbledon created a little more in the second-half but we were never tested.
A break from Wimbledon got me all edgy but thankfully a perfectly-timed toe-poke from Colwill cut out the danger.
Enzo Fernandez came on for Burstow with twenty minutes to go. This reminded me so much of years past when first teamers were rested in these home League Cup games, but with the game tied – or worse – the manager would throw on Frank Lampard. At the same time, Malo Gusto replaced Colwill.
Our current number eight soon looked involved and drew a very fine save from their ‘keeper from distance.
A Super Blue Moon rose behind The Shed.
On seventy-two minutes, Maatsen chased down a ball and the ‘keeper failed to clear. The ball bounced off Maatsen into the path of Enzo who steered the ball in to the empty net from the edge of the box.
SW6 2 SW17 1.
Phew. Again.
A new song.
“OHHH, ENZO FERNANDEZ. OHHH ENZO FERNANDEZ.”
For all of our spending (note : I am still not convinced, far from it), I am sure we have a very fine player here, this young maestro from Buenos Aires.
Moises Caicedo replaced Madueke.
More shots rained in on their ‘keeper, we were all over them now. In a similar instance to our goal, the Wimbledon ‘keeper again made a mess of things as he wandered too far from home, but Enzo, on this occasion, planted his shot just wide of the far post. It could have been a game of two penalties and two open goal hits.
It stayed 2-1. It was a decent enough game.
Exeter City Away Please.
Nah, we got lumbered with another tedious home game. We reconvene against Brighton in around a month.
Just The Ticket.
I returned to my car to see that my earlier super-human performance in getting from Portal Road in Melksham to Mulgrave Road in Fulham had been rewarded with a £65 parking ticket.
Fackinell.
It was a silly mistake really. We rarely get to London before 5pm – the cut-off time – on weekdays, and if we do, we have been lucky not to get ticketed. On this occasion, I arrived at around 4.15pm, and I was ticketed at 4.32pm. It spoiled a decent night, but after the worry about “Sunday’s win” last weekend, I honestly did not care one iota.
Next Up.
The twice European Cup winners Nottingham Forest are at Stamford Bridge at 3pm on Saturday. I will see you there.
