Tales From Beyond The Dock Wall

Posted on March 30, 2026 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 21 March 2026.

The trip to see Chelsea’s first ever game at Everton’s new stadium was our first journey to Merseyside since December 2024. There were no visits in 2025. Sometimes it works out like that. I can’t deny it; I had been relishing this game since we heard of the fixture list back in the summer. A new stadium, a new experience, a new routine; just beautiful.

Despite the chances of others attending, it boiled down to just the three of us. I collected Paul at 8am and Lordy at 8.30am, and we were soon on our way via the usual stop at Melksham for a quick breakfast.

I had worked out the logistics for the day, and I had given myself more than ample time to travel up to Liverpool, meet friends, relax a little, but also spend time checking out the Hill Dickinson Stadium on the banks of the River Mersey. I know that naming rights are “the thing” these days, but what an ugly name. Still, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers in such circumstances. I have heard that some Evertonians have already dubbed it “The Dixie” in lieu of Dixie Dean, and there has already been the typically English abbreviated version of “Hill Dicko”, which just sounds too Scouse, and too ridiculous. I think it will take me a long time to stop calling it Bramley Moore Dock.

However, on multiple occasions during the build-up to this trip, I found myself mentioning the stadium as Goodison, by mistake, so entwined has Everton Football Club been with its old home.

So, that’s the pre-amble, the entrée, and there has been no mention of the actual game. On this occasion, I was suffering from a strong case of stadiumitis and – to be blunt – after our previous showing against PSG, it was probably just as well that I had something else to occupy my mind. The football would take care of itself. And I was hoping that it wouldn’t spoil a good day out.

The weather was grand as we headed north. The skies were clear of rain, with little hint of clouds. I ate up the miles. My first port of call was to be “Ye Old Hole In Ye Wall”, allegedly the oldest pub in Liverpool, a favourite pub among many favourite pubs in Liverpool’s historic city centre, and where we dived in for a pre-match drink on the two previous visits to Anfield at both ends of 2024. The aim was to get there around 1pm.

I was soon heading into the city from the M62, that oh-so familiar route in. I am prone to chatting to Paul and Parky about the sights that we encounter on these football trips, and if I am honest, I am never sure if they take too much notice of my wittering. I was genuinely amazed that when we approached the huge art deco building that used to house the Littlewoods Pools company, and which I have chatted about a few times, PD wondered if the rebuilding – it is set to become a film studio – had started yet.

I wanted to stop and grab his little cheeks and shower him with praise.

“Bloody hell, you do listen.”

Dropping down into the city by car is one of the great moments on my travels, like some sort of modern-day footballing Pevsner, around This Football Land and it didn’t disappoint on this pristine Spring Day. The two cathedrals, the Radio City Tower, the Liver Building and even a glimpse of the river came into view.

I dropped the lads close to “Ye Old Hole In The Wall” at about 1.15pm. It had been about a five-hour drive; I tend not to speed these days. I can’t afford getting more points. I said that I would be back at around 2.30pm.

I then headed up towards the stadium.

There is no doubt that one of the main problems with the placement of the stadium on the river is a lack of close match day parking, and access routes to and from the venue.

Logistics.

Thankfully, I had lucked out. A friend’s daughter lives in an apartment about a twenty-minute walk from the stadium, and I was able to park – for free – in one of the visitor spaces outside. I had to swear blind that I was visiting her to the poor bugger that manned the entrance hut, and who noted some personal details, but I suspect that he knew I wasn’t being honest. I am sure that the visitors’ car park is full to bursting on Everton home games yet not used on other days. Oh well. I was parked up, job done.

I grabbed hold of my SLR and marched north. It was ridiculously warm and I wished that I had not chosen one of the warmer jackets that I keep in the boot of my car.

I briefly looked south and spotted the Liver Bird a mile or so away, facing out to the river, perhaps unwilling to acknowledge the shiny new stadium to the north.

I was soon appreciating the historical nature of the setting. Waterloo Road became Regent Road, and there were red-bricked buildings to my right, and these no doubt acted as warehouses when the docks to my left were in full usage. I started to see that a few of these old warehouses, industrial premises and houses had been turned into watering holes for the area’s new clientele.

It was around 1.45pm, just under four hours until kick-off, but there were supporters already heading up to the stadium. I walked past a couple more bars, including “The Dock Wall” where I would be meeting up with friends later. Just after, I walked over an antiquated iron bridge that links Collingwood Dock and Stanley Dock and couldn’t resist a few photos. The Titanic Hotel, where Chelsea and other teams stay, was to my right. Then, the huge hulk of a former tobacco warehouse, a truly impressive sight, now turned into apartments.

Whereas Goodison was locked into the terraced streets of Walton a couple of miles away, this new stadium is placed in an area that reeks of the city’s sea-faring past, and it already has an amazing sense of place.

In the distance was the stadium and, against a clear blue sky, it looked stunning.

I noticed that at every break in the Dock Wall, which runs all the way from where I was parked to the south past the stadium to the north, there is a rounded tower, and these are not too dissimilar to the Everton “lock-up” Tower, dating from 1787, featured on their badge.

A nice little synergy, there.

I was soon outside the stadium. I had driven past it on the way to Anfield in 2024, and I had visited it by foot on the first day of the season in 2022. On that occasion the stadium was just being started, with a couple of stands creeping into the sky, but it was mainly a construction site full of cranes.

I include the link to that match report – and photos – later.

My first thoughts?

It’s a stunning piece of architecture, but I find the two distinct parts to the exterior a little jarring.

First there is the red brick façade that houses the stands, the offices, the corporate area, the function rooms, that obviously references the city’s industrial heritage, the nearby warehouses, even the red-bricked terraced streets around Goodison Park. It gives the stadium some solidity, and that’s fine.

Then we have the space-age curves of the roof, that floats above the under structure, and it almost seems that the two different halves of the stadium are too different to completely work as one.

But you have to say, especially on a sunny day when the sunlight is dancing on the steel curves, it’s a physically stunning piece of architecture.

I think I read somewhere that the architect wanted the stadium to have two distinct parts; the lower part grounded in Everton’s local history, but the upper part a reflection of the club’s desire to fly off into unchartered territory as it faces a bold and exciting future.

If that’s the desire, it’s mission accomplished.

There’s just something about it that grates a little.

I guess it’s a typical post-modern stadium.

It just doesn’t look like it ought to.

I took a bundle of photos, and I include some here.

One of Goodison’s trademarks was the criss-cross design on the Archibald Leitch balconies, and while there was to be no permanent mirror of that inside the new stadium, I heard that there would be a section on the outside, on the brickwork, that echoed this. I didn’t see anything. Maybe that’s a task for my next visit. I did, however, spot the famous design atop the fence that marks the southern boundary of the stadium.

I hoped that wasn’t it.

I absolutely loved the mooring bollards that have been left in situ, weather-beaten and rusting. There is also a tower just inside the premises that – I believe – houses an Everton information centre.

I walked under the roof on the South Side and along to the western edge but annoyingly seemed unable to advance any further. It seemed to me that the West Stand, overlooking the River Mersey, was accessible only via a turnstile, somewhere. This was a shame, since I wanted to take photos from the river, looking back at the stadium. Maybe I can make that a goal next time; maybe I missed a secret entrance. I am usually good at the powers of persuasion. I will try my luck next time.

I really wanted to have a little moment to myself, looking out at the river and the surprisingly high land of Birkenhead over the water, and remember my great great grandparents who set off on the SS City Of Philadelphia from Liverpool in the August of 1854, heading out to a new life in the USA. I wanted to stand still and remember them. On 7 September the ship was wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race, but thankfully nobody was killed. It was, unnervingly, its maiden voyage. They went on to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.

Maybe I can remember them at that place on a later visit.

Instead, I took some panoramic shots of the sweeping scene to the south, with the Liver Birds still visible if you knew where to look.

At the southern side there are paving stones featuring some Everton greats. These are surrounded by the names of fans on smaller slabs, a familiar feature these days at stadia. I wondered if the Dixie Dean memorial and the Holy Trinity will one day migrate to the new stadium from their current homes outside Goodison.

At about 1.15pm, I hopped into an Uber outside the Bramley Moore pub on Regent Road and I soon joined up with my two mates at the same table that we used in 2024. On that day we were joined by Josh from Minneapolis and Courtney from Chicago. On this occasion, Brian and Kev from South Gloucestershire wandered in and sat at our rather cramped table. Another Chelsea fan – face familiar, name unknown – sat close by too, with his daughter. We chatted to the friendly locals, who were virtually all Evertonians and heading up to the match, and were “made up” that Liverpool had lost in the early kick-off.

At about 3.45pm, we caught an Uber north. At that moment, all the pubs in the city centre were overflowing with punters. This seemed like the first day of Spring. People were everywhere. They couldn’t be all going to the game. However, the new stadium is closer to the city centre than Goodison, so maybe a new switch has been taking place for Evertonians. A lifetime of drinking close to Goodison is in the past. A new regime of drinks in the city centre awaits.

Up, up and away.

I was dropped off where my car was parked and swapped my SLR for a smaller camera – I wasn’t ready to risk it at the new stadium, despite never ever being stopped at Goodison – and swapped my warm coat for a light rain jacket. While the other two were taken closer to the stadium, I retraced my steps and headed to The Dock Wall.

From “Ye Old Hole In Ye Wall” to “The Dock Wall.”

The crowds on Regent Road had thickened now, and a huge number of the locals were wearing blue. I wondered what the local scallies back in the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties would have reckoned to that.

The Dock Wall was packed. Luckily, I soon found the two sets of mates that I needed to see. First up, just outside at the rear by a small car park, were Deano and Dave. They had travelled down from near Lancaster and were happy that I had been able to sort out tickets for them. Deano has just returned from Sri Lanka. Dave told me a very interesting piece of information about the previously mentioned dock wall, that runs the length of stadium to the east. Apparently, it is a grade 2 listed building and so cannot be dismantled and removed.

I also met up with the Brothers Grimm, Tommie and Chris, along with Tommie’s son and daughter. I had met up with Tommie at Wrexham. I was reminded of the fact on the way up that it is not very often that I get to visit two new stadia in consecutive away games.

I have been lucky this season.

Chris is a life-long Evertonian and season ticket holder. He used to have a seat near the half-way line in the Upper Bullens at Goodison. His new home is in the corner of the Upper Tier where the West Stand meets the South Stand. It was Chris who recommended this boozer.

“I came down here a few years back and there was just one pub. Now there are bars appearing all the way down here. But I like this one because they serve the ale in glass pints not plastic.”

It was rammed. I decided against queuing up for a drink. I had a good natter with both sets of mates. Like me, Chris loves Stiff Little Fingers, and I had to comment on the two little badges he had on his lapel.

“SLF” and “UTFT”.

As one we said the same thing.

Chris : “My life.”

Chris : “Your life.”

We laughed.

Chris instigated the famous old Everton fanzine “When Skies Are Grey” back in the mid-to-late ‘eighties, and Tommie has done plenty of work with the Welsh-speaking media channels in his homeland. They are an interesting set of brothers.

I excused myself and headed out. It was about 4.45pm. I was bloody parched though, so imagine my joy when I was handed a small can of Coke by some young’uns on a promotion on Regent Road.

There were discarded remains of blue flares littering the pavement. The local ultras had obviously been putting on a show, presumably on a march to the stadium. I could just about detect the lingering aroma of sulphur.

I am glad Chelsea’s younger element don’t go for this “dress in black, walk to stadium, wave flags” nonsense that doesn’t seem to fit our club. Just have a drink in the pub and sing your hearts out inside.

Simple.

I made my way over the iron bridge again and walked to the final of four gaps in the dock wall that was the designated place for us away fans to enter. This, of course, was the busiest of the four. I walked through a full-size metal detector with my pub camera clenched in my fist and there were no bleeps. I walked on. There was another small queue in the north-east corner, and I was patted down, but no hold-ups and I was in.

I had a seat in Row 6 of the lower tier, but everyone needs to climb a few flights of stairs to access the two tiers of the seating bowl. Both tiers are served with a mid-level concourse. It seemed pretty airy, and decent, a long way from the cramped area at Goodison. I didn’t hang around and soon found my place adjacent to John. Alas, no Gary or Alan on this occasion.

First thoughts?

Steep.

The two tiers are super steep.

It used to be the case that, to save space, tiers used to sit on top of one another, with the lower tier covered by the overhang of the upper. Goodison used to be like this. The North Bank at Highbury used to be like this. The Matthew Harding Stand at Chelsea is like this. I suppose there is a slight overhang in the lower tier at Arsenal. But not at Anfield, in any stand. In these new stadia, with more room, there are tiers in name only. They simply sit higher but are not really attacked.

Therefore, the Everton architect helped with sightlines by making the rake the steepest in the United Kingdom.

But I wasn’t particularly blown away by the interior and found it a little bland. There are no quirky bits, no features that make the place unique. The northern end, to my right, is slightly different in that the upper deck is cut away to enable a large section of glass to be placed at the rear, presumably to aid the growth of the grass on the pitch.

Above, there are a million metal beams holding the roof up. I tried not to dwell too much on that. It’s a really ugly sight.

Chelsea had three thousand fans located in three sections in the north-west corner; all in the Lower Tier.

I was in 118 along the side, 119 was by the corner, 120 was behind the goal-line.

The players, in green, went through their shuttle runs, and I soon spotted my photographer mate David, who was seated behind the advertising boards to my right. I met David at Goodison a few years back as he caught me taking some photos outside. He came over for a nice little chat, and I knew there would be a few candid photos of yours truly coming my way later.

I momentarily had to focus on the game. Bollocks.

Our team?

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella

Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

With about five minutes to kick-off, I was dismayed to see cheerleaders to my left doing whatever it is cheerleaders do. What a load of old crap.

I noticed that on a couple of occasions the advertising boards flashed with some Evertonian phrases and chants :

“The People’s Club.”

“Up The Toffees.”

“Come On The Blues.”

And also, the LED version of the Leitch crosshatch.

Oh, that looked lovely, combining old with new faultlessly. I had heard whispers of this a few months ago. I hoped that it would reappear many times during the game.

“It’s A Grand Old Team To Play For” was bellowed by the home fans as it came on the PA.

Then, the big moment.

The sirens, then the drums…I captured “Z Cars” on my phone and immediately shared it on “Facebook.”

I looked up to where Chris would be sitting, way up to my right, and momentarily Goodison Park entered my head.

It’s the only stadium that my Dad visited before I came along, and jolted his life with my love and football, and Chelsea, and Chelsea games.

Goodison will always be a part of me.

Back to the game.

At 5.30pm, it kicked-off.

Everton were attacking our end, Chelsea the South Side. The early afternoon heat had subsided, and I needed my rain jacket to keep warm. The first ten minutes or so didn’t amount to much on the pitch, and I spent a few moments eying up the various parts of the new stadium and wondering if the home fans would ever get going. The atmosphere wasn’t brilliant. I spotted a fair few empty seats opposite in what looked like a corporate zone. I had heard rumours that this was the case at the new stadium, and that Evertonians were far from happy that seats were appearing on third party sites way too easily. Sound familiar?

There was another in the long line of Sanchez mishaps after ten minutes as made an absolute balls-up of ushering the ball to a colleague, but thankfully, he was able to scramble the ball clear before Beto could cause the ultimate embarrassment. The away end howled their derision.

We were playing our usual slow build-up in which the two central defenders touched the ball more than our more creative players. I moaned to John that “football has got right up its own arse the past few years” and I hope we – somehow – return to a looser style of play.

With twenty minutes on the clock, and with just a lazy shot from Caicedo that had drifted wide to our name, it was all Everton. They were sharper on the ball and sharper off it. A shot from James Garner, whoever he is, was cleared by Gusto.

A voice behind me, booming out so that everyone could hear him, was winding me up. His voice was loud and boorish. He was calling several Chelsea players the most hideous of names. I bit my lip until I could bite it no more. I turned around.

“Listen mate, I admire your passion, but you can’t say that word here.”

It was a word that I had not heard on the football terraces ever before, nor outside of football – in polite society or not – for decades. My comment had riled him, and he then used several other unpleasant words over the next fifteen minutes or so with the sole intention of winding me up. I did not turn around. I did not react.

I was tempted to get out of the stadium, defeated. But I stayed, resolutely. I didn’t want this person to win.

Our play then improved a little for a few minutes, and we managed to conjure up a flurry of shots from a variety of players, all of which were blocked on their path to goal.

Sadly, on thirty-three minutes, out of nowhere, a lightning break caught us flat-footed at the back, and we all sensed danger. Garner sent the ball through for Beto, who had out-raced and out-thought Fofana, and he dinked the ball perfectly over Sanchez. It was a gut-wrenching sight to see the ball end up in the net with thousands of Evertonians behind the goal cheering along.

Fackinell.

Everton 1 Chelsea 0.

We hadn’t created too much from open play, and our best chance came soon after the Everton goal when Neto floated a corner in from the far corner, but Jordan Pickford flapped. The ball fell nicely for Enzo to smack the ball goalwards. However, Pickford threw up an arm and managed to palm the ball over. It was an amazing recovery and a fine save.

A chance fell for Lavia, from an Enzo cross, towards the closing moments but his header went wide.

By now, the bloke behind me had disappeared.

At half-time, I spoke to a woman in front, who was watching with her young son, and I mentioned to her that it was the look of pure disgust on her face that had prompted my words. She mentioned that the woman in front of her had reported the bloke to the stewards. He didn’t return for the second half.

A bloke to my left had a little word about the two goalkeepers.

“Imagine if we had Pickford in goal. Not Sanchez. The calm it would create in the defence.”

I had to agree.

At half-time, there was more Leich “criss-cross” being flashed on the advertising areas, but there had been nothing during the game, which was a shame from my perspective. Why not display this famous design a few times for a few minutes each half?

Liam Rosenior replaced Malo Gusto with Alejandro Garnacho and it took me and the bloke to my right a few moments to work it all out.

“Who has gone off” he asked.

“Looks like Gusto. Caicedo to right back” I replied.

That didn’t feel quite right to me, shades of Michael Essien filling in at right back in 2008. But it also meant Enzo sitting deeper and Palmer coming inside.

Everton still looked hungrier, with more energy, while we looked lazy and lethargic, a horrible combination. Chances were at a premium.

On fifty-seven minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Lavia, who still hasn’t got close to a full game for us.

Well, for a while we improved slightly and Enzo conjured a shot on goal, a curler that Pickford saved well.

Then, on sixty-two minutes, another quick break after Idrissa Gueye picked up a loose ball. He played the ball into the path of Beto – this had “goal” written all over it, that footballing sixth sense – and he sped away before slamming a low shot at goal. From a hundred yards away, we saw the ball emerge past Sanchez, and there was a futile attempt to hack it away. But the line had already been crossed.

Everton 2 Chelsea 0.

The replay was shown on the big screen, and there were howls from the away end as we saw the ball squirm under Sanchez.

Fackinell.

The noise, that had been simmering all afternoon, now took over the steep-sided stadium.

“Everton. Everton. Everton. Everton.”

It was loud as hell.

Chelsea carved out a rare chance after a neat Enzo one-two with Joao Pedro, but his lifted effort was well-saved by Pickford again.

The manager changed things again. On seventy-minutes, Estevao replaced Neto. His brightness down in front of the away support brought an up-turn in our noise, though in all honesty it felt that the game was well gone by this stage. He certainly added some zip to our play. One corner that he whipped in came crashing down onto the bar with Pickford for once well beaten. There are few players in this squad that I have a rapport with, but Estevao is one of them. His smiles are refreshing, his skills are lovely, his whole demeanour is of a “nice kid.”

A second corner was whipped-in, and that caused a problem too.

I chirped to John that “Estevao our best player and he’s only been on the pitch for five minutes.”

Alas, with fifteen minutes remaining, Everton moved the ball to Beto, who passed it on to Iliman Ndiaye. Bizarrely, I found myself leaning forward to get a good look at his approach on goal. I might have preferred, perhaps, to look away, or to move back. I saw the player curve a magnificent shot past Sanchez. I watched it every bit of the way.

Ugh.

Everton 3 Chelsea 0.

There followed more incredible noise from the Everton faithful. I would read a few days after the game that many Everton fans thought that the new stadium “came of age” against us. Some even said that it was on a par with some of the noisiest days at Goodison Park, notably the ECWC semi-final against Bayern Munich.

It might be the only honour we get this season.

Our section then thinned out steadily for the remaining minutes. On seventy-eight minutes, two more substitutions.

Tosin Adarabioyo for Moises Caicedo.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Yep, proof that Rosenior has a sense of humour.

At the end of the game, only around 20% of the 3,000 Chelsea supporters were still in the stadium. I must be a glutton for punishment as I was one of them. I stayed to see the reaction by the players to the supporters and from the supporters to the players.

It was grim stuff really. I think I momentarily clapped for a few seconds. The players faces were stern. At least they didn’t all sprint off down the tunnel. Rosenior clapped us, and I didn’t know what to think. But I do think that it was important that they stared down our bleak expressions.

If that miserable moment helps them understand our pain, then so be it.

The tide has turned against Rosenior. There are no more “Liam” chants at games. It seems that the bloke is out of his depth. He did relatively well in France at Strasbourg, but that is a relatively weak league where one team dominates and a few lesser protagonists jostle for scraps. I suspect that Madame Cholet could successfully manage a team in France.

I met up with the lads, and we took the lift down to ground level. Everyone around us was irritable and fed-up. We slowly walked out towards the exits, and we eventually shuffled through one of the four exit gates. Four exit gates for 52,500 seems crazy; the place needs more. We then began the – very – slow walk south. The walk back to the car took the best part of an hour. I suppose we pulled out of my parking spot at around 9pm.

To be fair, the car journey through the city and out to the M62 and then the M6 was surprisingly quick. We stopped off in Kensington, unlike the London version, a very low rent part of the city, and wolfed down some burgers and a kebab. Then, the long road south.

I eventually made it home at 2am.

Gallery

Staring Us Down

Goodbye

Hello

2022

Tales From Difficult Shapes And Passive Rhythms

Smiles Before Kick-Off

We Will Be Back

Tales From Wrexham

Posted on March 14, 2026 by Chris Axon

Wrexham vs. Chelsea : 7 March 2026.

The Football Gods had shone on us once more. After FA Cup away trips to Charlton Athletic and Hull City, we were blessed with another rare venue; a trip to North Wales to see us play Wrexham.

To be honest, there are so many different strands to this cup tie, it’s difficult to know where to begin.

How about a little bit of history?

Well, there isn’t a great deal. The two teams first met in the old Second Division in August 1979 and would do so again at that level for three seasons. This period represented the high-water mark in Wrexham’s footballing path at the time, and it hasn’t been matched until now. I saw Wrexham once in that period.

I visited Stamford Bridge for our game with them on Saturday10 October 1981. This was a memorable day for me as it was the first time that I travelled up to London by myself, by train from Westbury station, aged sixteen. It’s likely that PD – who would be travelling with Parky alongside me forty-five years later – was on the same Paddington-bound train that morning. I was in the Lower Sixth at the time, drifting along, with my love for Chelsea far outweighing my love for academic study. I had newly subscribed to the home match programme that season and every Monday morning I would be so excited to receive the latest edition. Chelsea won 2-0 on that autumn afternoon, with goals from Colin Lee and Mike Fillery in front of 14,710. It would be the last time I’d see Petar Borota in goal.

Later that same season, the teams met in three FA Cup games in early 1982. On 23 January, a crowd of 17,226 saw a 0-0 draw at Stamford Bridge. This necessitated a replay at Wrexham three days later. On this occasion, 8,655 witnessed a 1-1 draw with a goal from the much-maligned Alan Mayes. In those days, we had second replays and this took place five days later on 31 January. We triumphed 2-1 on this occasion, in front of a gate of 10,647. The goals came from Mayes, again, and Micky Droy. Incidentally, we met Hull City in the previous round that year, just as we did last month.

We went on to beat European Champions Liverpool in the fifth round at Stamford Bridge before losing to Tottenham at home in the quarters. The two gates for those games of 41,412 and 42,557 were huge at the time. Our average gate in the league that season was just 13,132.

Between those two games, we lost a run-of-the-mill league game 0-1 at the Racecourse Ground on 27 February 1982. By then, I think both sets of supporters were sick to the back teeth of seeing each other. Just 3,935 attended.

And that was our last game against Wrexham until those two recent hideous friendlies against them in the US. In 2023, we beat them 5-0 in North Carolina, and a year later we drew 2-2 in California. At the time, it felt that we were bit-part players to a reality TV show and those two games didn’t sit right with me. I remember watching the first few minutes of the first match on TV and I have never seen a more tepid atmosphere at a football match. Why the hell were we playing Wrexham? They were hardly at our level.

Oh yeah, I know why.

By then, of course, Wrexham was a global football phenomenon after the take-over by Messrs. Reynolds and McElhenney. Their rise through the football pyramid has been one of the “feel good” stories in recent years and although it is tempting to be churlish and mock this amazing story, there is no doubt that the town seems to have been energised since the two North Americans strode into town.

I just find it a little odd that Americans loved the connection between the Wrexham team and its community; they seemed surprised and shocked, as if this sort of bond doesn’t happen in the US. This was my big take on all this. But then I wondered if high school football teams have the same bond with their communities? And, if so, maybe that is the only comparable example. Maybe in US pro-sports there is no sense of belonging. No sense of local pride. Or a shared brotherhood. I can’t imagine a sporting culture like that.

When I was in the US last summer, I lost count of the number of Americans that mentioned the word “Wrexham” to me, and it all got rather tiresome.

And all because of a TV programme.

Crazy, tedious and amazing all at once.

Chelsea was given 1,330 tickets for the game and I must praise Wrexham for not hiking the price of tickets to silly levels. My ticket cost just £27, no doubt a lot less than those two games in Chapel Hill and Santa Clara.

I set off from Frome at 9am and the day stretched out in front of me. The kick-off wasn’t until 5.45pm, but I fancied a nice long day following the love of my life. Neither Parky nor PD had visited Wrexham before, so this had all the makings of a cracking day out. It was a misty and foggy start to the day. We wolfed down a McDonalds breakfast at Melksham, then headed up on to the M4, onto the M5, before stopping at Frankley Services just south of Birmingham. There, we bumped into Chelsea stalwarts Allie and Nick. We touched the M6 for a few miles and then veered off onto the M54. PD and I drove this way to a League Cup game at Shrewsbury in 2014. It is not used very often on my travels around the country following the team.

The traffic lessened as I headed north, and the countryside grew flat. Just over the Welsh border, we stopped at Bangor-on-Dee, just a few miles south of Wrexham. It was 1.30pm. This little village, with a quaint cobbled bridge over the River Dee had one pub, “The Buck”, and we stayed there for forty-five minutes. The Mansfield Town vs. Arsenal cup game from Field Mill was on TV and seemed to be entertaining the locals – somehow. Maybe they had been fans of “Robot Wars”. It seemed Arsenal were struggling a little but edged it 2-1.

A few summers ago, drinking with my mate Chris in Washington, County Durham – a lovely summer sesh at a sports bar – I met up with his mate John, a Wrexham fan. We spoke about the Wrexham and Chelsea connections; Eddie Niedzwiecki, Mickey Thomas, Joey Jones, John Neal. We got on like a house on fire; we stayed in touch. Over the past few weeks, John was able to tip me off with a few nuggets of local information for my day in Wrexham, and he had advised a pub to aim for, just across the road from the Racecourse Ground.

The Racecourse Ground. It first came into my consciousness one day in May 1980. I was playing cricket for my school team in Shaftesbury, Dorset, and was aware that England were playing Wales at Wrexham in the home internationals. Wales defeated England 4-1 that day; a real shock, back in the days when I cared about the national team. There was a memorable Mark Hughes volley at the Kop End against Spain in 1985, and a Mickey Thomas screamer for Wrexham against Arsenal in the FA Cup in 1992.

I had mentioned to John and Chris that while travelling up to Glasgow from Stoke to see Rangers in March 1987, three Wrexham nutters got on the train at Crewe, and they were on their way to support Celtic in a game at Hamilton. To be honest, they were proper psychos and were part of Wrexham’s Frontline firm at the time. I mentioned that the main lad, who I was sat opposite, had ginger hair.

Chris and John said at the same time “that was Neil.”

It must be a close-knit community in Wrexham. I figured that Neil was the leader. One of the three went with Chelsea a fair bit. A lad from Cardiff was on our table, on his way to Ibrox too. The conversations between them were quite an eye-opener. It seemed that they were totally and unequivocally devoted to football violence. John and Chris had mentioned that Neil had quite recently passed away.

Later that night in Washington, we were joined by John’s mate from Wrexham, Scoot, who is the lead singer in the Declan Swans, a local band that has featured in the Wrexham TV series. Having never seen the series, I was oblivious, but after meeting Scoot, I found myself playing their signature song “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” non-stop for a few days. What a catchy song.

We moved on and I headed into Wrexham. It’s a city of around 45,000 people, and I am a little annoyed that I didn’t really get to see too much of it. I dropped the lads off at “Maesgwyn Hall”, then parked up at the nearby university. My car was only around seventy yards from the away turnstiles; “tidy” as they say somewhere.

I fell in love with the angled European-style floodlight pylons as I navigated my way around three sides of the cramped stadium. The old Kop is no more; a void sits in its place, waiting for a new 7,500 structure that will bring the capacity up to around 18,000. I suspect that the local supporters would be happy to host games hosting such a number. It seems about right for a city of Wrexham’s size. Should the owners over-egg it, and aim for a higher capacity, one wonders if the indigenous support would be able to support it. A reliance on a global – OK, US – support should not be taken for granted. There’s a difference between supporters’ buses coming in from Llandudno and Rhyl and planes arriving from Los Angeles and Philadelphia.

Out on the Mold Road, the new Macron Stand isn’t particularly appetising; it’s cladding resembles that of a trading estate warehouse. However, tucked in a corner is the famous “Turf” pub – where the club was formed in 1864 and because of its many appearances in the TV series – which now boasts a lovely mural of the late Joey Jones on one of its walls. There is the famous clenched fist, so beloved by the Chelsea faithful when Joey played for us between 1982 and 1985.

I, like many others I think, was not too happy when Joey joined us in 1982, amid a terrible season, for just £34,000. He seemed well past his best – he was a European Champion with Liverpool, remember – when we picked him up from lowly Wrexham, with whom he played before his big move to Merseyside. I was even less impressed with him when he was sent off on his debut at Carlisle. However, over the next two-and-a-half years his passion and commitment to our cause, under former Wrexham manager John Neal, allowed him to become a Chelsea legend.

As I began taking some photos of Joey, who should appear but Allie and Nick. I took a photo of then in front of Joey. They took one of me.

Mission accomplished.

I was calling this game “The Joey Jones Derby” and I had my photo with him.

I was happy.

I made my way over to the pub at 3pm and we stayed the best part of two hours. It was full of friendly locals, many wearing Wrexham favours. I sat with PD and Parky and – a rare treat – I decided to reward myself with two pints of cider. Our friends Youth and his son Seb sat with us. There was a rugby union game on the TV, but I avoided it.

Tommie from Porthmadog dropped in for a short stay, buzzing that a Chelsea game – for once – only took him an hour and forty minutes to get to. I first met Tommie in Bratislava in 1997, and he is a good friend. Tommie and Chris are brothers. Tommie mentioned that Scoot had ‘phoned him earlier in the day and had teased him about “not singing about sheep-shagging”.

We had a great pre-match.

The team news came through. We weren’t happy. For some bizarre reason, Liam Rosenior had chosen us to line up in a 3/4/3 formation.

Robert Sanchez

Mamadou Sarr – Tosin Adarabioyo – Benoit Badiashile

Josh Acheampong – Andrey Santos – Romeo Lavia – Jorrel Hato

Pedro Neto – Liam Delap – Alejandro Garnacho

Just before I left, I shook hands with the two Wrexham fans next to me and said, “good luck in the next round.”

I wasn’t sure if I meant it or not. We all smiled.

This honestly felt like a huge banana skin had been placed under our football boots.

Unlike at Villa, there was no bag search and my SLR was in. The stand at Wrexham was cramped, and I struggled to edge my way along to my seat.

It was 5pm.

So far, a perfect matchday…now, it was up to the lads.

Gulp.

The consensus among a selection of some very familiar faces next to me in the stand was that the new formation, and mass-changes, was a negative. My annoyance was Rosenior’s changing of the goalkeeper and centre-backs. They had played well at Villa a few days before. Change other personnel, but keep those three in place, to attempt to try to get some sort of continuity. Jorgensen, Fofana and Chalobah made way for Sanchez, Badiashile and Tosin.

The Chelsea section creaked with the closeness of 1,330 supporters. There were familiar faces everywhere.

Before the entrance of the teams from the off-centre tunnel down below, a mosaic on the far side was displayed, but the words were not clear. I only later realised that the cards spelled out “OH JOEY JOEY”.

So, the Joey Jones Derby was recognised by the home team; super. I had hoped for Mickey Thomas to appear on the pitch, at half-time maybe, but he never did. A shame.

Soon into the match, a chant from the locals in the Tec End to my right, a nice bit of banter.

“National League Champions, You’ll Never Sing That.

Off the pitch, there was a frenzied atmosphere, with the home fans bubbling over with enthusiasm. You felt their passion from the off. This felt like a classic Cup Tie already. There was an edginess to our play in the first quarter of an hour and we didn’t seem comfortable.

Being so close to the goal, I kept thinking back to that screamer from Mickey Thomas in 1992. It was lovely to be visiting a famous stadium for the first time after seeing it so often on TV through the years.

On twenty minutes, a catastrophe. A long ball out of the Wrexham defence from Callum Doyle was perfectly weighted for Sam Smith to chase. The twin centre-backs had been caught out and scurried back in desperation. There was no surprise when I saw the shot from Smith – through my camera lens – evade Sanchez and end up in the goal.

The home support erupted. To my right, bodies jerked and spasmed in all directions at once, and the home stands roared.

“Here we go” I thought.

A VAR check – new to this lot – did not stop the goal.

Wrexham 1 Chelsea 0.

Llffackwynll.

After the commotion had died down, out came a chant from the Tec End.

“1-0 to the Sheep Shaggers.”

And another one, heavy on self-deprecation.

CLAP CLAP – CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP – “ SHEEP”.

I had a little chuckle.

What of our play? We couldn’t get going and our passing was slow and lacked invention. I found Pedro Neto particularly frustrating; forever carrying the ball, but to nowhere in particular. It was if his Sat Nav was broken.

Leigh was stood behind me, and he had seen the manager and the team up close in a Chester hotel the previous night. He had mentioned that Rosenior looked unduly worried and nervous ahead of this match.

Perhaps he was right to be.

Wrexham were playing to their strengths; tight marking, tough tackling, direct when needed. Joey Jones would have approved.

Our chances were rare. There was only one half-chance involving Neto and Garnacho.

At the other end, the gaping void where The Kop once stood, there were a couple of Wrexham chances. On the half-hour, Smith slipped at the last minute, thank the Lord. Just after, a fine reflex push-away from Sanchez at the near post.

Phew.

Wrexham had undoubtedly produced the better football thus far, but we were slowly getting into the game in the closing section of the half. On forty minutes the ball was punched forward to Liam Delap by Andrey Santos. Thus far he had received service but had been woeful with what he had been given. On this occasion, he was fantastic, beating off a challenge and turning, running into space. He passed to Alejandro Garnacho who raced on and shot at goal. I captured his shot through my camera lens, but how the ball ended up in the net was a matter of confusion. Just after he reeled away – minimal celebration, good to see – there was an announcement that there had been an own goal from Arthur Okonkwo in the Wrexham goal.

So be it.

Wrexham 1 Chelsea.

There was great relief at the break. This game was, of course, being shown on free-to-view national TV on BBC1, and the viewing millions were surely enjoying this classic Cup Tie. Well, I am sure they were enjoying it more than I was. We had been poor, but now we needed to push on.

Lo and behold, the second half began with two chances from the home team in front of us at the Tec End. A shot over the bar, a shot at Sanchez.

Then, at the other end, on fifty-three minutes, Delap set up Garnacho on the left, but he fired wide.

I almost missed it, but the Tec End sang the chorus from “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham.”

“Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-one’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.”

On fifty-eight minutes, Rosenior made a change; Marc Guiu for Sarr, and I tried to work out the jigsaw puzzle of players and positions but soon gave up as the match became even more intriguing.

Sanchez erred, clearing to a Wrexham player, but the ball was hoofed away.

On sixty-two minutes, Neto set up Hato and the latter slammed a ball just wide of a post.

Just after, two more changes.

Marc Cucurella for Lavia, still to play a whole game.

Dario Essugo for Hato.

There was a run and a shot from Neto that went just wide. But Wrexham were creating chances too. I turned to Leigh and Ben and grimly admitted that “all this pressure is going to pay off, isn’t it?”

In the very next passage of play, a corner was swung in, and cleared, but only as far as a Wrexham player outside the box. Josh Windass kept the ball low, and it was deflected in via a neat touch by Callum Doyle.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea1.

Bwyllocks.

Seventy-nine minutes were on the clock. This was dire.

However, just three minutes later, a loose ball in the Wrexham box was won by Santos and he played in a teammate. I caught a shot on film, and saw the ball slam into the net, though was unsure of the scorer.

Wild celebrations now.

What a Cup Tie.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 2.

The scorer was Young Josh.

BOSH.

Just after, Sanchez saved well from George Thomason, and a header then flew wide from Windass.

Phew.

Two more substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Acheampong.

Joao Pedro for Delap.

On eighty-six minutes, Neto slammed a shot against the crossbar.

Ugh.

The game edged into six minutes of additional time. Soon into that period, Garnacho was chopped down on the left wing. The yellow for George Dobson was changed by VAR to a red. The defender was sent marching.

The home support screeched about VAR, and of course they have a point.

Just after, an absolute blooter was hit right at Sanchez.

On ninety plus extra-time, it was level and so the game continued for another thirty minutes. Here was a modern-day equivalent of that 1982 three-game marathon.

In the first period of extra time, it was all us. In the sixth minute, Essugo played the ball out to Garnacho, in a not-too-dissimilar position to where he struck before, and he volleyed at goal. From my angle, it looked like the ball had hit the near post. Nobody reacted. But we then saw Garnacho running away, his arms held high. The referee was pointing at the centre-circle.

Goal? What?

I don’t think the Chelsea support has ever celebrated a go-ahead goal as quietly as that ever before.

Very strange.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 3.

Now in front, the Chelsea support changed the tune from urging the team on to a dig at our own US-based owners.

“We don’t care about Clearlake.”

Jesse Derry replaced Neto.

As the second period of fifteen minutes began, I turned to Leigh and Ben.

“Boring half coming up.”

Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong, could I?

Five minutes in, a Wrexham free kick was sent narrowly over.

Eight minutes in, a block from Tosin stopped Kieffer Moor’s goal bound header. From the corner that followed, Moore flicked the ball on, and Lewis Brunt, loitering on the far post – surely offside, ref! – poked the ball in. While the locals, and large swathes of the US, celebrated, we waited for the correct decision.

VAR.

Offside.

Yep.

There was still five minutes of injury time to play; this tie simply did not want to end.

One minute into this, a curler from Lewis Brunt swept just past a post. The looks on our faces told of relief and disbelief in equal measure.

I must say that Joao Pedro looked fantastic in his short cameo appearance, full of beautiful hold-up play – he’s not exactly Mark Hughes, but he knows how to shield the ball – and gentle prods to others.

Thankfully, he was on hand in the last minute to sweep a ball in, again on film, and we howled our approval.

Wrexham 2 Chelsea 4.

Our deficiencies were never far away, but we hauled ourselves over the line, and into the hat for the Quarter Finals.

It was hard work, but what a pulsating Cup tie.

It was an absolute classic.

We were back at my car within two minutes, and I began the long drive south.

Thanks Wrexham.

What a great day out.

Joey would have loved it.

It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham

He ordered a medium doner kebab.

Saving a tenner to pay for his cab.

Seems no harm in jumping the queue.

Showing the owner his latest tattoo.

Guy in his forties is rolling a joint.

Pleased his team has rescued a point.

A wicked deflection in time added on.

Can see in his eyes he was totally gone.

Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.

King Street was calm on a Saturday night.

Apart from the usual worrying sight.

Of zombie-fied corpses parading the streets.

Arched over flower beds slumped across streets.

Mass the bus stop for Moss and Brynteg.

Zombie apocalypse modern day plague.

A stone’s throw away or a two second ride.

Wetherspoons locals are smoking outside.

Less than a mile from the centre of town.

A famous old stadium crumbling down.

No-ones’s invested so much as a penny.

Bring on the Deadpool and Rob McElhenney.

Tales From The Men In Black

Posted on March 9, 2026 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 4 March 2026.

Chelsea were amid a run of away games against Arsenal, Aston Villa, Wrexham and Paris St. Germain; this midweek fixture at Villa Park was being talked about within many Chelsea circles as a “must win” game, bearing in mind Villa’s place in the league – just ahead of us – but also because they were on a run of poor form.

This had been a simple enough flit up the M5 for me – via a curry at “The Vine” in West Bromwich – and I was parked-up on Bragg Road around fifteen minutes from the away turnstiles at 6.30pm. I fastened my coat and walked east. Kick-off was an hour away.

It was the usual scene at Villa Park; the police vans parked on the roundabout where Witton Road meets Aston Lane, the approach along Witton Lane, the bloke with the “God Is Love” placard, the red bricked buildings, the souvenir sellers, the floodlights in the distance. I did notice a new pre-match hospitality area as I got closer, a good use of those old existing buildings. Villa have plans to enlarge the existing North Stand, and they have plenty of space to enlarge the hospitality areas further.

I was sat in the second row alongside John; alas Alan and Gary could not make this one. Parky and PD were down in the lower tier.

The famous old stadium slowly filled, and we were soon treated to the usual pre-match rituals at Villa of “Hi-Ho Aston Villa”, flames, and fireworks, and dear old Ozzy belting out “Crazy Train.” Other clubs – yes, including ours – have gone for the “Flames & Fireworks” as a pre-curser to the match, but Villa have taken it to a different level. If you were to rate their pre-match claret and sky-blue pyrotechnic trickery, it would certainly be top of the pile. In fact, Villa are so desperate for silverware these days that we might soon find this in their honours section of their match programme.

Amid the sulphurous fumes, the teams made their way onto the pitch.

Liam Rosenior had chosen this team :

Filip Jorgensen

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Was Robert Sanchez injured or dropped?

We were dressed in our all-black kit, and I had immediate memories of us in that colour at this venue in other years, most memorably the Frank Lampard game in 2013 when he equalled and then surpassed Bobby Tambling’s 202 goals. I also, and oddly, remembered the black-shirted Alexandre Pato’s penalty kick in a 4-0 win in 2016.

The game began with us attacking the towering Holte End. I spent the first few moments trying to work out who was where on the right side of the field. Was Reece at right back, but able to push into midfield with Malo Gusto as a right-sided attacker – unlikely, I know – or was Gusto at right back, with Reece alongside Caicedo in midfield? The positioning of Enzo and Palmer seemed to confuse me more than help me. I think it was the initial position of Gusto, so high on that far side, that had baffled me. Within those first fleeting moments, we had won a corner but then got caught on a rapid break from the home team. I took a couple of photos of Leon Bailey teasing away down below us. He got the better of Hato and drove a low ball into the box, where Douglas Luiz delicately and deftly touched it past Jorgensen.

Only three minutes had passed, and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

I was shell-shocked.

The home support was enlivened.

“Holte Enders in the skoy.”

Two minutes later, Garnacho on the left curled a great cross over for Joao Pedro to head down but Emilano Martinez saved well.

Soon after, at a Chelsea corner, we noticed how the Villa team left four players up, and of course it meant we had less numbers in attack. It was a new and novel approach to defending corners, though I seem to remember Jose Mourinho leaving three up in his first stint with us.

Palmer shot weakly at Martinez on a quarter of an hour, and up until now our support was getting increasingly frustrated with the slow approach play from the back. Chalobah must have touched the ball more than anyone else in this period.

“Get it forward!”

I heard that Arsenal were 1-0 up at Brighton and I told John “I hate football.”

On twenty-one minutes, another chance for Palmer inside the box after a great ball into him, but his finish was as weak as before. Then, two minutes later, and with Chelsea picking up the pace and finding some good angles and spaces, a lovely move set up Enzo, but his effort was hit tamely at Martinez. By now, Garnacho was getting more and more involved out wide and giving Matty Cash a real test.

The game was hotting up. We had, also, quietened their crowd, always a good sign.

Out on the far side of the pitch was Ian Maatsen, our former player, and I could not help noticing how short he seemed in comparison to the other players. I had only been commenting to Alan, I think, at a recent home game how we never see short players at football these days. It’s a mark of the modern game; how most players need to be tall and physically strong, and especially fast, in this era. Gone are the days when will o’ the wisp players…cheeky wingers, midfield dynamos…were everywhere…our own Pat Nevin, our own Mickey Thomas, our own Gianfranco Zola spring to mind. All these players – and Maatsen – were 5’6” and it’s an oddity that there seems to be a shortage – sorry! – of these players today.

Maybe I noticed Maatsen because I am 5’6” too.

We continued to be press forward.

Just after the half-hour I turned to John to say “it’s a much better game now.”

We had thrown off our shackles and were now having a real go at Villa. There was a shot from the energetic Garnacho, and the Chelsea choir were now getting behind the men in black. But Villa were still an occasional threat and Ollie Watlkins perhaps should have tested Jorgensen better when one-on-one.

On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful ball from Enzo was sent over the Villa defence to the onrushing Gusto. He spotted the run of Joao Pedro and I sensed a goal. I mouthed “here we go” at the exact moment that he arrived to slide the ball home.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

More Chelsea pressure, Garnacho revelling in the space out wide.

“Go on son, get past him.”

Cash was being run from arsehole to breakfast time.

In the third minute of added time, Hato – who was enjoying a very solid game – dribbled into the Villa box with ease but his shot was blocked.

Then, a rapid Villa break, and I kept an eye on the passage of play, trying to spot if an offside was about to happen. The ball was passed out to Ollie Watkins who struck the ball past Jorgensen. The Villa hordes roared again,

To me, it looked onside. Thankfully, VAR ruled otherwise. Phew.

Then, with five minutes of added time played, Chelsea were again knocking on the door, and Garnacho was involved once more. He found Enzo who wriggled into some space and lifted an exquisite ball into Joao Pedro. He nonchalantly guided the ball past Martinez.

Now it was our turn to roar again.

Then, to our horror, VAR was called in to rule on a potential offside.

Nah. The goal stood.

At the break, we were 2-1 to the good.

“Great recovery that, John.”

I just hoped that we could continue in the same fashion. Sometimes we just can’t seem to play two consecutive halves in the same way, can we?

Joe Cole, with former Chelsea fan Peter Crouch on TV duty, were spotted a few times and Joey walked over to pose for some photos with a few Chelsea supporters in the break.

Before the second period, more “Crazy Train” and another Chelsea huddle on the centre-circle that seemed to irritate the Villa players.

The second half began, and there were two early chances for Garnacho but he spurned them both.

On fifty-five minutes, we broke when Caicedo won a ball inside our half and we moved the ball quickly – no honest, we did, I was there – via Palmer and Joao Pedro and found Reece on the wing. His low cross was punched away by Martinez, but only as far as Palmer. The Palmer of old – er, two seasons ago – would have struck it home easily, whereas the little less confident Palmer of 2026 might struggle. I watched to see which version would prevail.

He struck the ball with venom. Its trajectory was unhindered. The back of the net rippled.

GET IN.

I watched Palmer cup his ear as if to say “what’s that you been saying about me?” and then saw his trademark celebration.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

“Palmer again, ole, ole.”

We were 3-1 up.

Beautiful.

We continued to purr, and the Chelsea fans were energised and happy. This was just how I wanted us to play. With more freedom. With more pace. With more style.

Chelsea is all about style.

But this was still an open game – Mourinho would have hated it – and chances for Palmer and Garnacho were matched occasionally by Villa. Watkins was put through, one on one with Jorgensen but he dallied, enabling Chalobah to twist his body and dig out the ball, a fine piece of defending.

On sixty-three minutes, former blues Jadon Sancho and Ross Barkley were among the three substitutions made by Villa.

A minute later, Caicedo – from deep – swept the ball out to Gusto, who touched it to Palmer. His trusted left peg floated the ball out to Garnacho. I photographed his surging run, deep into the box, and watched as he very unselfishly played the ball square to Joao Pedro who guided the ball in, his hat-trick.

The goal immediately reminded me of that Lampard goal from 2013.

The scorer raced over to the Chelsea section, and I was lucky enough to capture his beatific smiles.

4-1.

Fackinell.

Not long after, there was an audacious bicycle kick from Joao Pedro.

On seventy-two minutes, Tammy Abraham came on and so Villa now had four ex-Chelsea players in their eleven.

In the last fifteen minutes, Rosenior rang the changes.

75 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Gusto.

79 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo.

79 minutes : Tosin Adarabioyo for Fofana,

85 minutes : Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

85 minutes : Andrey Santos for Palmer.

John and I had a little laugh about Lavia and his unfortunate habit of getting injured. I envisaged a scenario where he is chosen to start a game and lasts the entire match. He comes into the Chelsea dressing room at the end of the game and sits on the bench alongside his teammates.

Liam Rosenior sees him and asks “what the fuck are you doing here?”

With the game won, and the number of changes, it was no surprise that the game drifted towards the end. It was nice to see the former Chelsea players again, and Barkley had a trademark shuffle through the middle and shot.

“I can actually see them scoring” I said to Gary, just as Barkley floated a ball in and Abraham leapt to head the ball on to the top of the bar.

In the stadium, the home fans were drifting away, and the Chelsea crowd aired the “fire drill” chant.

The game finished and the men in black had triumphed. This was a lovely surprise, a great Chelsea performance – admittedly against an increasingly disheartened Villa team – and a perfect response to the doom mongers after Arsenal. The plaudits must got to Joao Pedro and his sublime touch, and his ability to drift in and score, but Garnacho was a revelation, his best game for us by a country mile. A special mention for Hato, too; what a polished performance.

I was able to take a selection of photographs at the end as the Chelsea players celebrated down below. I loved the way Enzo was serenaded. He has many admirers at Chelsea. And I loved how we sang Tammy’s name as he walked, slightly, towards us. The photo of him with Trevoh is my favourite of the whole night.

And so that was that. A great away win in a “must-win” game, and a nice fillip before trips to Wales and France.

Oh, there were three extra bits of drama that I won’t bore you with that took place during the afternoon and evening involving Parky’s ‘phone, my SLR camera and my wallet.

“I still can’t download the ticket. I reckon I’m knackered.”

“You can’t bring that camera in. There’s a “drop-off” place just over there.”

“The team are doing a sweep of the stadium; it’s going to be an hour mate. Will you wait here to see if we can find it?”

Thankfully, everything worked out.

Next up, a first-ever trip for me to Wrexham.

Stay tuned.

Tales From A Game Of Real Stupidity

Posted on February 28, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Burnley : 21 February 2026.

After missing the Hull City trip the previous weekend – a professional performance, a lovely trip to Wrexham next – the home game with relegation-threatened Burnley was therefore my first Chelsea match in eleven days. From the very off, this felt like the very definition of a “bog standard” / “run of the mill” match at Stamford Bridge, and it didn’t exactly get our pulses racing as we all converged on SW6.

I was inside the ground at 2.30pm and I soon glimpsed over at the away end to see what allocation Burnley had managed to bring. As I suspected, it was the lower of the two amounts: 1,500 and not 3,000. This was no surprise. Wolves are already down and the claret and blues from Lancashire are surely not far behind them, or above them to be exact. I would have been really surprised had they opted for the full amount.

My mate Alan soon arrived and showed me a photo in the match programme that honoured Gary’s father Ron who had passed away before Christmas, aged ninety-one. For many years, he had a season ticket with Gary in the front row of the East Upper. What a view that must have been.

Paul showed up a little later after being spotted down in “Jimmy’s” with – er – Jimmy, as they both enjoyed an extension of their pre-match drinking session that I had joined at around 12.30pm in “The Eight Bells.” Before that, I had shot over to London Bridge Road to treat myself to a “double double” at “Manze’s” pie and mash shop, the oldest in London. It was my third visit, and the grub was as good as ever. The place was very busy and rammed full of Millwall before their home match with Pompey. I had shared my table with a local and there was a little small talk before I left.

“Have a good day, mate.”

“And you. Goin’ football?”

“I am, yes, but not the same game as you. Chelsea vs. Burnley.”

Years ago, such an interaction might not have been so forthcoming, but things have relaxed a lot in the past couple of decades.

“Might see you in the topflight next season.”

“Yer. We’ll add something to that division.”

I thought to myself “you’re not wrong there, mate” as I squeezed past him and his mound of mash, pies and liquor.

On the way into London Bridge Station, the Portsmouth lot were just arriving, full of song, and I was surprised that there were no police, yet, on show. I have always had a little soft spot for Pompey, and I remembered a Frome lad, Rob, who supported them but sadly took his own life in the summer, a fact that I am still struggling to accept.

I had enjoyed my little dip into another corner of London; Bermondsey Street especially looks a lively stretch, full of pubs and cafes, all under the shadow of The Shard. It brought it home to me how London is smothered in football clubs, each with their own catchment areas, pre-match drinking regimes and habits, their own rituals, and their own rivalries. Imagine London with just two professional clubs; how dull would that be?

In the pub, I joined up with the lads, but all was not well. Jimmy the Greek was suffering with lower back pain, and Ian had pulled a calf muscle. As for me, after my traipse to and from underground stations and on to “Manze’s” I needed a sit-down.

The game against Burnley would mark the first appearance of the new shirt sponsor, IFS, an AI company, and Jimmy said, “it should be FFS” and I had a little chuckle.

AI, eh? I almost saw it coming. I must admit that I am not a fan of artificial intelligence, as I have already witnessed how it can be used to stir up hatred on social media. It also has a detrimental impact on the environment, using ridiculous amounts of water to cool its super servers, plus copious amounts of electricity of course. Will it eventually lead to employment losses? I think we all know the answer to that. But that’s a debate for another day. Meanwhile, I am consciously trying to stay away from it.

However, I am sure that the people that run Chelsea Football Club will increase their use of AI as the future unfolds, especially in increasing revenue streams.

“How can we fleece as many possible punters as possible, while convincing them that we are doing them a favour?”

And I am sure AI has found its insidious way into assessing the agglomeration of data that exists in football these days.

“What is the most efficient way to score goals in football?”

I suspect we all know the answer to that one too; pass, pass, pass, wait for an opponent’s error, shoot but only when within ten yards of the goal.

Sorry, but in these days of fake everything, I prefer life and football with a little more authenticity. And fun.

In the pub, I gulped down two pints of refreshing “Diet Coke” and it was then time to depart. Alas, this was a bittersweet moment. The current landlords are moving away, and this was the last time that we would see Aga and her team. We all hoped our love affair with “The Eight Bells” can continue under the new regime.

Dear reader, it was a pitiful sight as the troops slowly ascended the stairs at Putney Bridge tube station, what with PD and Parky and their dodgy hips, Jimmy with the excruciating pain in his back, and Ian limping like he had been on the receiving end of a “difference of opinion” with Ronnie Harris.

Compared to them, I relatively flew up the three flights of stairs.

We liked the look of the team; we knew that Marc Cucurella was still out, and so his place was taken by Malo Gusto. I hoped that this would be a seamless adjustment, rather than a maladjusted one.

So, here we were :

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Malo Gusto

Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez

Joao Pedro

On the way into the Matthew Harding Upper, I had been thoroughly dismayed to see every single TV screen showing the England vs. Ireland rugby game.

“Why are they showing that crap?”

We were here for Chelsea. For football. Had Chelsea run out of Chelsea stuff to show the punters?

There was the usual pre-match routine, some of which felt right, but most of which still felt odd, artificial, and forced upon us.

Chelsea songs, crowd-surfing flags in the Matthew Harding, flags being waved in The Shed, flames in front of the West Stand, fireworks fizzing into the air. I am sure there was none of this prefabricated nonsense at Millwall.

The game began, but it again felt odd to see us attacking the Matthew Harding in the first half. While we were chattering away to ourselves, we took an early lead. And it came from un-likely move. Rather than passing to the nth degree, something that frustrates most of us, an incisive ball played early from Moises Caicedo that exploited an early gap in the Burnley defence. His ball was perfectly paced and placed for Pedro Neto to gather and then smack a low cross towards the six-yard box where Joao Pedro arrived to bundle the ball over the line.

We were up and celebrating as the scorer raced across to the far side.

But then, the rancid odour of VAR swept over Stamford Bridge and a potential handball was reviewed. Alan and I vented our displeasure. We had already spoken about the authentic nature of the matchday experience at Millwall, and the absence of VAR in the division below was referenced as we spoke about the differences between the two games being played out only a few miles apart.

I know a few fans of clubs in the Football League who absolutely love the fact that their games do not involve the passion killer of VAR. For that is what it is. It has muted the adrenalin rush of goals, as I always said it would.

Thankfully the goal stood.

We dominated the next twenty minutes of play and although we managed to create a reasonable supply of chances, much of our play was slow and methodical. Burnley had a couple of pot shots at our goal at The Shed.

A quarter of the match in, I noted to Alan that I hadn’t heard a peep from the Lancastrians in the far corner.

Shots from Enzo and Cole Palmer were either struck over or blocked.

It then went awry for ten minutes, and we lost what momentum we had developed, and just couldn’t carve open the Burnley defence. It felt that we were sitting on our laurels at a time when we really should have taken the game to them. It was a frustrating period.

Alan commented that it felt like we were waiting for them to score, as if we need an outside dynamic to inspire us and galvanise us.

A weak free kick from Marcus Edwards went wide of Robert Sanchez’ goal.

On thirty-seven minutes, Cole Palmer was presented with a one-on-one with Kyle Walker, a good old-fashioned sprint, with just daylight between the ball and the Burnley ‘keeper Martin Dubravka. Palmer raced ahead and shot early, but the ball was parried easily by the ‘keeper.

This was the last attacking threat of the first period, and such is our support these days, that Alan and I spent the closing moments debating whether or not we would get booed off at the break.

Thankfully, there was nothing.

At the break, I heard that Frome Town were 1-0 up at near neighbours Larkhall Athletic who play in Bath. On the Saturday before, the weekend of the Hull City game, I had watched my local team beat Brixham 2-0 at home to solidify our position at the top of our division. That night, PD, Glenn and I met up at the main music venue in town to see tribute acts to The Specials and The Jam. This was another lovely day of football and music, and over the course of it I chatted to three fellow members of the Oakfield Road Middle School team from 1976 to 1978. Fantastic.

The second half started with a jolt to wake us from our first-half stupor. Within the first few seconds, the ball was played forward by Joao Pedo to Palmer, but just as it seemed he was about to unleash a shot on goal, a leg of a defender swiped away at him. We hoped, optimistically, for a penalty but the referee Lewis Smith was having none of it.

On fifty-one minutes, sustained pressure on the Burnley defenders allowed Palmer to intricately set up Joao Pedro, but his shot was blocked. A shot from Neto was similarly blocked.

Would that second goal ever come?

On fifty-five minutes, a rare Burnley effort on goal, a strange looper that dropped like a stone at the far post, but the ball was ushered away.

I liked how we applauded Lesley Uguchukwu off as he was replaced by James Ward-Prowse.

I sometimes make a mental note of how soon into the game the various parts of Stamford Bridge’s home areas get it together and chant or sing as one. On this day in deepest SW6, that moment came on sixty minutes.

Bloody hell, what a disaster.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” – you know how it goes.

In Bath, near Solsbury Hill, Frome conceded an equaliser.

As we struggled to progressively move the ball towards its target, I moaned “is this fucking rugby? Aren’t we allowed to pass the ball forward?”

Frome then went 2-1 up.

Get in Dodge.

On seventy-two minutes, a clash in the middle of their half, and we watched in horror as Wesley Fofana was shown a yellow, his second of the day, and then of course a red.

Fofucksakefofana.

Ironically, maybe this would be the outside adversity we needed?

Liam Rosenior chose to replace Cole Palmer with Tosin Adarabioyo.

“Answers on a postcard.”

In this adversity, the crowd responded with another “Amazing Grace” – the loudest of the afternoon and my faith in humanity was temporarily restored.

On eighty minutes, more changes.

Jorrel Hato for Malo Gusto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

I really wasn’t sure all these late changes would work in our favour. This seemed to be change for the sake of it. This seemed to be a panic reaction. Why not let those who had experienced the movement of the Burnley players, their strengths and weaknesses, throughout the entire game be trusted to see us over the line?

Meanwhile, Frome went 3-1 up.

On eighty-two minutes, a super dribble from Pedro Neto, but the shot was saved and the rebound from Hato went high and wide.

On eighty-four minutes, a great cross from the Burnley right was punched out at full stretch by a horizontal Sanchez.

“Well, I’ve never seen that before…”

More substitutions made me, and others no doubt, more nervous.

Josh Acheampong for Reece James, our captain, our bloody captain no less.

Mamadou Sarr for Pedro Neto.

So many late changes were madness.

Ashley Barnes header dropped onto the top of the net from a Ward-Prose free-kick.

Frome went 4-1 up, but I was ridiculously nervous by now. It seemed we were all expecting a late equaliser.

Six minutes of added time were signalled.

Burnley were awarded a corner after three of these minutes.

The whole stadium took a deep breath.

One of my pet hates of the game these days is the constant pushing, shoving, grappling, holding and – to use a well-used football term of late – “shithousery” that goes on in the moments before a corner is taken.

I just wish referees would clamp down on all this nonsense. It’s ugly, it’s pathetic, it detracts from the game.

Well, as Burnley waited to the corner from the far side, I witnessed no end of pushing and shoving, yet again, in the cramped six-yard box. But after all that, or perhaps because of it, and despite our late injection of height in our defence, the ball in from Ward-Prowse was met by a free leap and a free header from Zian Flemming.

The ball almost apologetically dropped into the goal.

Ugh.

What a desperate, but oh-so expected, moment.

I was crushed.

Unbelievably, two minutes later, a copycat corner from Ward-Prowse was met by yet another free header, this time by Jacob Bruun Larsen, but – thank the high heavens – the header flew over the bar.

In a mad final moment, the ball broke for Delap just outside the Burnley box, but his powerful effort flashed over the bar.

It was the very last kick of the game, and it felt like a final kick in the goolies.

How to sum up this match?

We had it in our hands in the first half, and for huge parts of the second half. But our reluctance to push on and grab more goals just infuriated everyone. The sending-off was a personal disaster for Fofana and our disciplinary record this season is utterly embarrassing. But oh, those late substitutions; instead of providing extra security and cover, they just added to the nervousness and confusion.

On a day of artificial intelligence, much of our play and many of our decisions reeked of real stupidity.

Liam Rosenior, until this one, has managed his charges well, and I think most Chelsea supporters have been surprisingly impressed. This one, though, was a shocker.

Let’s hope lessons are learned.

After a break of one week, we meet up at Arsenal and then embark on a crowded schedule of seven matches in just twenty-one days.

On we go.

Tales From Much Ado About Nothing

Posted on February 6, 2026 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 3 February 2026.

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

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

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

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

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

Here was the first “fackinell” of the day.

What did this mean?

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

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

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

Let’s leave that there, eh?

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

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

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

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

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

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

Nice work Chelsea, you fools.

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

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

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

The teams eventually appeared.

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

Us?

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

In goal?

Easy, Robert Sanchez.

It then got a little difficult.

It looked like three central defenders.

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

We then had Malo Gusto and Marc Cucurella out wide.

OK, that was the easy part. Kinda.

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

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

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

Blimey. A rather unorthodox system, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, we were still in this tie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only we could hit the bloody target.

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

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

“Fucking embarrassing”.

The bloke in front agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After eighty-seven minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

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

On eighty-nine minutes, Enzo shot over again.

Fackinell.

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

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

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

We continued on.

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

I spotted who was free on the right.

“Oh no, Havertz.”

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

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

Bollocks.

The referee blew up, and that was that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I eventually reached home at 2.20am.

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

I fell asleep, eventually, at 3.30am.

4.30am to 3.30am.

Bloody hell, Chelsea.

Tales From A Perfect Day

Posted on February 2, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 31 January 2026.

Prior to our London derby – the District Line Derby of old – at home to West Ham United, our results had experienced a noticeable upturn, and there was an air of positivity as I collected my three mates – PD, Glenn and Parky – and then set off nice an early for yet another trip to HQ.

I had been unable to watch our magnificent away win in Naples on the Wednesday, but it was the sort of result that brings such a depth of joy that is difficult to beat.

The four of us had a big day ahead. PD was celebrating his sixty-fourth birthday, and so for the second time in three weeks we were staying over in deepest Fulham after the game. I was parked up at just after 10am in the car park of the Premier Inn at Putney Bridge, and we dropped into “The Eight Bells” where Salisbury Steve and Jimmy the Greek were waiting for us. The place, not surprisingly, was virtually empty. It was, after all, around seven and a half hours until the game began.

From there, we headed west to six more pubs along the River Thames, gathering friends along the way, and all of us enjoyed this fantastic pre-match ramble. I sorted out an Uber to take us to the first of the pubs, “Old City Arms” next to Hammersmith Bridge. Ian and his son Bobby – aka “Small Bob”, aka “Bobby Small” – were already there. It was just after 11.15am. From here, we took in five more pubs, all favourites, all located next to the Thames. In “The Blue Anchor” we were joined by our good friends Hans and Jon from Norway, and the famous brothers Dave and Glenn, plus their mate Eddy. We hopped next door to “The Rutland” and Jon’s son Sven joined us. At “The Dove” we squeezed together out on the terrace that overlooked the river and met up with Rob and his wife Alex. Here, Dave from Northampton joined up with us too. Next was “The Old Ship” and then the last port of call, “The Black Lion” which we reached at about 3.45pm.

The weather was unbelievable. Not a hint of rain. A fantastic afternoon in and out of the sun, and in and out of these magnificent pubs. It’s interesting, looking back, when I realise that we never really spoke about the game at all.

We ordered two Ubers to get ourselves down to Fulham Broadway. It had been a perfect pre-match. One for the ages.

As soon as Glenn and I set foot on the Fulham Road, we were really chuffed to bump into an old friend – Olly, now eighty-one – who we used to chat to in The Harwood Arms thirty years ago. He was wearing his trademark blue-and-white Chelsea bar scarf and was equally happy to remember us. We had not seen him for a few years. I always remember that we sat with him in “The Seven Stars” on the North End Road after we won the FA Cup in 1997, and after the Cup had been paraded at Fulham Broadway on the Sunday. A lovely time.

We wolfed down a hot dog apiece and made our way into Stamford Bridge. Waiting for us in The Sleepy Hollow was Alan.

The boys were back together again; four of us in a row.

Chris, Alan, Glenn, PD.

Throughout the afternoon, a couple of friends had been updating me with news of Frome Town’s home game with Willand Rovers. While we were setting up to leave the last pub, a text game through to say that Albie Hopkins, a local Frome lad, had scored. And as I made my way into Stamford Bridge, I heard that this is how the match had ended.

Frome Town’s overall record in the league this season is an admirable 23-4-2. In the last ten games, the team has dropped just two points. My hometown club remained eleven points clear at the top.

Frome Town 73.

Malvern Town 62.

Portishead Town 60.

Winchester City 58.

Shaftesbury 54.

We are also top of the home attendance figures too.

Frome Town 499.

Melksham Town 392.

Malvern Town 343.

Portishead Town 336.

Winchester City 323.

The kick-off at Stamford Bridge was not far away, and I checked Liam Rosenior’s choices.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Jorrel Hato

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Jamie Gittens – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Liam Delap

The match began and we attacked The Shed and began well enough.

“COME ON CHELS.”

However, after just seven minutes – just as I was juggling pub camera and mobile ‘phone – I looked up to see a cross from Jarod Bowen that ridiculously avoided everyone and bounced equidistant from the two central defenders, who both turned around to see who had tapped them on the shoulders, and in front of the ‘keeper. The ball squirmed in at the far post.

Bollocks.

The three-thousand visiting supporters roared, and our hearts dipped.

“1-0 to the Cockney Boys.”

Ugh.

On fourteen minutes, a Badiashile error, but a shot from Valentin Castellanos was saved by Robert Sanchez at his near post.

We were dominating the ball but were doing nothing at all with it.

I commented to Alan “Gittens is hard work.”

There was a moment just after when one of our centre-backs had the ball, and was not under a great deal of pressure, but there was simply no movement from anyone in a blue shirt ahead of him. It was infuriating. I started yelling into the abyss.

Our play was terrible. There was no physicality, no desire; just a timid bunch of players who seemed lost.

On twenty-six minutes, we were forced into a change as Gittens was injured. Pedro Neto took his place.

A shot from Moises Caicedo flew past Alphonse Areola in the West Ham goal.

On thirty-six minutes, a long ball out of defence found Bowen, who passed forward to Aaron Wan-Bissaka. His cutback was adeptly poked home by Crysencio Summerville.

The Cockneys and the Mockneys roared again.

Another ugh.

This was awful.

“Stamford Bridge is falling down.”

The Irons continued.

“Build it up with Claret and Blue.”

Just horrible.

This was my thirty-first Chelsea vs. West Ham United game at Stamford Bridge and our record in the previous thirty had been fantastic.

Won 20

Drew 6

Lost 4

I remembered the four losses vividly and I had bad vibes about this one now.

Just on half-time, West Ham had a corner down below us. I watched the Chelsea players just pacing around with no urgency, nobody talking to each other, nobody cajoling others to roll up their sleeves and get close to their men, nobody taking the lead, nobody shouting.

What a terrible sight.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

I muttered to a few friends, with no joy, that the first-half performance that I had just witnessed just might have possibly been the worst I had ever seen.

We had nothing. We had hardly carved out a single chance. I remember a Cole Palmer free kick, but that was the sum of our efforts on goal. Alejandro Garnoch – God, I want him to do well – had been dire, as had many.

It had been such a pallid, tame, grey performance.

There were, unsurprisingly, three changes at the break.

Wesley Fofana for Badiashile.

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Joao Pedro for Garnacho.

I liked the idea of Joao Pedro playing just behind Delap but hoped that he wouldn’t get too tired chasing after his knockdowns.

However, the improvements were not immediate. After forty-seven minutes, we had to rely on a fantastic save from Sanchez from Mateus Fernandes, and three minutes later a quickly taken free kick resulted in a shot from Bowen that Sanchez saved again.

On fifty-five, Cucurella played in to Delap, but a delicate touch took the ball wide of the far post.

Two minutes later, a tantalisingly good cross from Fofana on our right was aimed perfectly at the leap of Joao Pedro. From close-in, he scored.

GET IN.

The bridge, at last – it had been so quiet – got going.

“CAREFREE. WHEREVER YOU MAY BE. WE ARE THE FAMOUS CFC.”

Immediately, our players now looked like they wanted it. Their body language changed and there was a bounce in their step.

After an hour of horrendous football, the boys were back in town.

On sixty-three minutes, a thunderous blast from Caicedo was superbly saved by Areola.

Four minutes later, a shot from Castellanos whizzed past a post, low and wide.

On seventy minutes, a deep cross from Neto on our left was headed back across the goal by Malo Gusto. A defender headed the ball onto the bar as Delap jumped with him, and the ball bounced down. In came a diving Cucurella to head it home.

The net rippled.

What a goal.

What a moment.

I found myself standing in the walkway above my seat, punching the air with booth fists, only to see the bloke behind me doing exactly the same thing. We screamed at each other. It could not have been choreographed any better.

Bloody hell.

Then VAR stepped in.

The goal stood.

I didn’t cheer the VAR decision.

The game continued. The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. The visitors were silent now.

On eighty-one minutes, Reece James replaced Gusto.

On eighty-five minutes, a snapshot from West Ham’s Jean-Clair Todibo hit the side netting. How he missed I will never ever know.

Cole Palmer slapped a low shot towards goal that was deflected away at the last moment by a West Ham defender.

Fackinell.

Referee Anthony Taylor’s assistant signalled five minutes of extra-time.

Could we do it?

In the second minute of added time, Palmer played the ball square to Caicedo. An intelligent run by Joao Pedro was spotted by our Moi. At this stage I pulled my camera up to my eyes and caught a very blurred shot of the pullback to Enzo. I clicked as the Argentinian shot – a ridiculously blurred photo – and exploded with joy as I saw the net ripple.

I was up on my feet yelling like a lunatic. Inside I was boiling over, outside I was beaming a huge smile, But I bizarrely I remained stupidly calm to take some photos of the scorer.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some of them worked. I hope you like them.

Late on, we watched on from afar as some players lost control down near Parkyville. It took forever to work out what was happening, and again the folk watching on TV must have had more of a clue than us. There was a VAR check, but nobody in the stadium knew which player was being scrutinised for a possible red card.

In the end, in the eleventh minute of added time, Jean-Clair Todibo was ordered off.

Soon after, the whistle blew.

What a last half-hour. What a comeback. What a day.

By now, only PD and I were left in our row in The Sleepy Hollow, and we sang along to “Blue Is The Colour” like a couple of sixty-four and sixty-year-old schoolkids.

Fantastic.

Eventually we made our way out, and we walked through “Jimmy’s” down below us. I bumped into Paul from Reading – his smile wide – and after a few seconds we found ourselves in an embrace, bouncing up and down like bleeding idiots.

Outside on the Fulham Road, we met up with PD and Jimmy, and we wolfed down some cheeseburgers.

Then, over to Frankie’s where we bumped into a brilliant cross-section of Chelsea friends and faces. Jason Cundy was holding court in the corner, ex-player Garry Stanley breezed in, we met up with Alex and Rob again, plus a few famous and infamous Chelsea personalities.

The three of us returned to “The Eight Bells” where we met up with Hans, Jon and Sven once again.

At about 11pm, I left PD and Parky to it and trotted over to room 310.

It had been a bloody perfect day.

Oh and – this:

Played 31

Won 21

Drew 6

Lost 4

Next up, Arsenal in the League Cup Semi-Final.

I will see six thousand of you there.

Outside And Inside The Pubs Of Hammersmith And Fulham

Outside And Inside Stamford Bridge.

The Birthday Boy With Garry Stanley.

Tales From An In-And-Out Mission

Posted on January 30, 2026 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2026.

I have previously penned ten match reports involving Chelsea away games at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace and I suspect that in each one of them I have mentioned the difficulty in reaching the stadium via whatever means possible.

It’s just not an enjoyable journey by train nor car.

Also, once the immediate area of the stadium is reached, there is only one pub that is hospitable to away fans.

For these reasons, and for the fact that the kick-off time on this Sunday in January was 2pm, it was soon decided that this would be a simple “in-and-out” trip with no pre-match, and a hopefully quick exit after.

PD had recovered from his ailments that forced him to miss Pafos, and I collected him at 8.30am, and Parky at 9am. Bizarrely, my sat nav took me east into very familiar territory – Fulham Broadway – before I shot over Wandsworth Bridge and straight south to a pre-paid parking spot to the north of Selhurst Park on Holmesdale Road, from which the Palace home end is named.

I spoke to the lads about my trip to Bristol the previous day to see my first Frome Town game of the year, and my first for over six weeks. My home town team defeated our old rivals Bristol Manor Farm 3-2 and are now, quite remarkably, a massive eleven points clear at the top.

This last section of driving took me a full forty-five minutes, and it honestly felt that I had driven on every street in south London. In the last couple of miles, my car climbed to the summit of Beaulieu Heights – and the views over a misty south London caught my breath – thus placing me within a hundred yards of the famous TV mast that has peered over Selhurst Park for decades.

Every time I see that mast, it takes me back to my first-ever visit to Selhurst Park in August 1989 when we lost 0-3 to tenants Charlton Athletic, my last Chelsea game before I disappeared off to North America for ten months. Emotional goodbyes to a loved one, surely, should never be that crap.

I dropped the lads off as close to the away turnstiles as possible, and was parked up at 12.30pm, a full four hours after picking up PD.

I had been expecting a typically soggy Selhurst, especially since I was in the front row for this game. However, on the walk to the away end, I was amazed how mild the weather was, and that the rain had held off.

There is an impressive mural in honour of Wilfred Zaha on the end of a house that overlooks that top corner of Selhurst. It sets the scene nicely. There are street vendors, vloggers, and both sets of fans milling around. You really get a sense of how the pitch was dug into the hilly contours of the area, much like at Hampden Park and Molineux. The rising line of houses on the hill at the far end evokes memories of players such as Don Rogers, Alan Whittle and our own Charlie Cooke playing for Palace in the early ‘seventies. It seems that Selhurst Park will always be set in the past, despite a flash upgrade on the main stand being given the go-ahead recently.

Inside, I soon bumped into PD and Parky – with the famous Druce brothers – and spotted the Kentuckians who were still in town. They were amazed how Selhurst sat cheek-by-jowl with tight residential streets. The visitors had seen Bromley play – and win – on the Saturday. They were looking for three straight Chelsea victories on this trip. There was also time for a photo with Stuart, a Chelsea season ticket holder from a nearby village to me. Lastly, a chat with Dave from Alsager in Cheshire, who has recently started penning some entertaining match reports this season.

I reached my seat in good time. Damn that winter sun shining bright above the main stand. And damn the fact that I had left my sunglasses in the car.

I was joined by my mate Stephen from Belfast, via New Orleans, and we had a good old natter.

After years of awful sightlines in the away end, I was just happy to have an unimpeded view of the entire pitch, even the corner flag away to my left, an object that I only ever presumed existed having not seen it since a visit to see us take on Wimbledon – another tenant – in 1998 when the Chelsea fans were lodged behind the goal that was to my right.

The kick-off approached.

Liam Rosenior chose this team.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James

Benoit Badiashile

Trevoh Chalobah

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Estevao William

Enzo Fernandez

Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Flames, fireworks, and the sky was flecked with red, white and blue plumes of smoke.

Crystal Palace were in the latest version of their red and blue stripes and Chelsea were in the off-white ensemble but with those muted green socks.

The Chelsea lot were in good voice as the game began.

We attacked the curved roof of the Holmesdale Road Stand, but the first chance for either team took place at the Whitehorse Lane End. The much-derided Badiashile lost possession, and the striker Jean-Phillippe Mateta struck a firm effort goalwards. Thankfully Sanchez was in fine form, the ball hitting his right-leg, and then flying away to safety.

As against Pafos, we watched a succession of James corners being flighted towards the near post. There was a shot from Enzo, centrally, that was fired over the bar.

Mateta was a towering presence, and he was involved with a few good battles with Chalobah as the half-developed.

The home team had been going through a tough time, with their manager deciding to let on that he was feeling perhaps too claustrophobic among those narrow and overcrowded Selhurst streets and that he would be away in the summer. Their form had dipped prior to this game. There seemed like a degree of tension from their fans.

We goaded them with chants about their “famous atmosphere.”

It was a mixed start to the game with dull build-ups from us, but then occasional rapid breaks. Both Stephen and I noticed that Estevao was quiet in the first twenty minutes.

I tended to become nervous when the ball was played to Badiashile. I always feel that his left boot is on his right foot, while his right boot is on his left foot.

Meanwhile, Cucurella was charging around, covering the inadequacies of others with his usual terrier-like dynamism.

Limited chances were exchanged. Both teams struggled to find their feet, and the game took some time to really get going.

On thirty-four minutes, a defensive mistake in front of the old main stand – an errant back-pass from Jaydee Canvot, whoever he is – and Estevao was away, racing at top speed towards the Palace ‘keeper and captain Dean Henderson. I thought that he had taken the ball too far, but he lashed it past the ‘keeper and the Chelsea crowd roared.

FACKINGETIN.

Huge celebrations from us all, and I turned my pub camera towards my fellow fans in the front row.

Euphoria.

From a few yards away to my left.

“THTCAUN.”

Alan was at the game, fantastic.

The home team improved after our goal, and it became a decent contest.

There was still time to annoy Palace though : “where’s your famous atmosphere?”

Stephen commented “give it to Estevao, he’s more of a threat than the rest put together.”

Five minutes before the break, Estevao took off on a brilliant run, racing past his marker with aplomb, but we watched in agony as his low shot whizzed past the far post.

Fackinell.

At half-time, I was happy. The players had improved in that first forty-five minutes. With them attacking us in the second period – and with me in the front row with my camera – everything was looking positive. The rain was still holding off.

The players “huddled” before the second half, and I wondered why.

Four minutes into the second-half, Chalobah won a battle with Mateta and intelligently passed to Joao Pedro, who passed to Enzo. Enzo passed to Estevao who lofted a beautiful first-time pass towards Joao Pedro. He sold Adam Wharton a dummy, cut inside and struck at goal. I saw the ball fly up and into the roof of the net.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

More noise.

I felt a hand push me forward from behind – “here we go, these celebrations at Selhurst can get ridiculous” – but that was it. I steadied myself, as best I could, and snapped away.

We were 2-0 up and our play improved further as the second half continued. This was very enjoyable.

Estevao – “Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o! Steve-o!” – then let fly at Henderson who kept him at bay with an acrobatic one-handed save.

On sixty-four minutes, Henderson got a hand on a cross from Enzo, and the ball fell to Joao Pedro. He shot, but it was blocked. Play continued, we thought nothing of it.

Then after the best part of a minute, VAR chirped up.

Another minute.

Why do these fucking reviews take so long?

The mic’d up referee Darren England spoke…

He first talked about an “accidental handball” but then pointed to the spot, and I could not have been more at a loss as to working out the modern laws. The “accidental” bit saved him Canvot – yes, him again – from a red.

Enzo collected the ball from down in front of us, placed it on the spot and steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

He shot.

I shot.

Goal.

We were 3-0 up.

GETINYOUBUGGER.

More up-close-and-personal photos.

Lovely stuff.

I had not noticed Wharton’s first yellow, but on seventy-two minutes he fouled again and a voice nearby went up :

“Second yellow!”

Indeed, the referee agreed and off he went.

This reminded me of the away game at Manchester City at the start of the month when a nearby wag shouted “second yellow” every time a City player tackled a Chelsea player with extra aggression. Ah, that terrace humour.

On seventy-four minutes, changes.

Wesley Fofana for Caicedo.

Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

On eighty-one minutes, another change.

Jorrel Hato for James.

On eighty-five minutes, a final change.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Bizarrely, being down to ten men seemed to inspire Palace and they enjoyed a surprisingly positive end to the match. On eighty-eight minutes, Sanchez saved well from a Jefferson Lerma header, but Chris Richards was on hand for a consolation goal.

A huge nine minutes of extra time were signalled, and yes – of course – this caused ripples of concern in the Arthur Wait stand.

But we saw them out.

The players came over to milk the applause, and shirts were hoisted into the away end.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

I am warming to the bloke.

Outside, I met up with a few mates and eventually Parky joined PD and myself. We trundled back to the waiting car.

We were happy as hell.

It had been a fine day in deepest South.

Tales From Managers, Old And New

Posted on January 18, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 14 January 2026.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I fucking hate Tottenham.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The team that Rosenior had picked surprised us.

Sanchez

Acheampong – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Neto

Guiu

Several big names were out; we presumed injured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REST IN PEACE

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

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

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

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 1.

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

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

“Set piece again.

Ole, ole.

Set piece again.

Ole, ole.

Set piece again, set piece again.

Set piece again, ole ole.”

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

No, because that was soon aired too.

Bloody hell.

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

“This could be a long night, this.”

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

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

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

The consensus was this :

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 2.

The visitors began singing about Wembley.

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

Benoit Badiashile replaced Acheampong, while Alejandro Garnacho replaced Guiu.

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

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

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 2.

Game on.

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

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

Heart-warming stuff.

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

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

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 3.

The Gooners went into orbit.

On seventy-five minutes, Jorrel Hato replaced Fofana.

I wasn’t particularly confident about anything.

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

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

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

Fackinell.

On eighty-one minutes, our last two changes.

Tosin Adarabioyo for Cucurella.

Shim Mheuka for Joao Pedro.

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

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

Fackinell.

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 3.

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

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

Out into the night, I muttered to myself:

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

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

“The tie is still alive.”

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

At least Frome won.

Tales From The Addicks And The Addicts

Posted on January 13, 2026 by Chris Axon

Charlton Athletic vs. Charlton : 10 January 2026.

The two domestic cup competitions continued to serve us well in season 2025/26. After a decent Autumnal tour of England and Wales – Lincoln, Wolverhampton and Cardiff – in the League Cup, the FA Cup first gave us an away day at Charlton Athletic, a ground that I had not visited since the opening day of 2002/3, and which the club had not visited since early in 2007.

A visit to The Valley was long overdue.

The kick-off time of 8pm would normally have resulted in much wailing – more of that later – but on this occasion, the timings worked out in our favour. I spotted a good deal at the Premier Inn opposite “The Eight Bells” and booked four of us – Glenn, PD, Parky and little old me – in for the Saturday night.

It took me a while to devote some time to planning a pre-match pub-crawl but on the Friday night (just before I set about writing the Fulham match report), I decided that we would hit a few pubs that were centered on The Strand. It is an area that we have covered before, but most of the hostelries would be new.

I left home at 8.45am and soon collected the three chaps. There was a filling breakfast at “McDonald’s” in Melksham, and I soon found myself driving down the Fulham Palace Road only two-and-a-half days after driving up it after the limp 1-2 defeat at Craven Cottage on the Wednesday. We booked in at the hotel, prised Salisbury Steve away from “The Eight Bells”, which was slowly being filled by Middlesbrough fans prior to their cup tie at Fulham, and headed off to Embankment.

By about 1pm, we were drinking outside the first of the pubs of the day, the “Sherlock Holmes”, and the oddest part of that short visit was being approached by a bloke from the Florida Keys – on his first day in London, in England, in Europe – who told us “he just likes hearing you guys talk.” He seemed harmless enough but looked completely confused when I started unravelling the story of the FA Cup for him and soon tried to divert the conversation back to his domain, the world of College Football. His wife soon dragged him back inside the pub, perhaps afraid he would catch a cold, or worse, gain a sudden passion for “soccer.”

We then walked the twenty yards to “The Ship & Shovel” which we visited a few years back before a trip to see us lose to Tottenham in their second season at Wembley. It’s a unique pub, with two rooms either side of a narrow walkway.

From there, another short walk to Villiers Street and a pint at “The Princess Of Wales” where we soon learned that Macclesfield Town from the sixth level of the English pyramid had defeated Crystal Palace, the current FA Cup holders. Here was a beautiful illustration of how the FA Cup, certainly in the early rounds, still captures the imagination of the romantics among us. By the time of the latter rounds, all the magic is sadly squeezed out of the oldest football competition in the world.

I remember dropping in to this pub en route to The Valley in November 2000, when we lost 0-2 on my first-ever visit, and Claudio Ranieri came under torrents of abuse from many among the Chelsea support. He was just finding out about his new charges and was prone to playing odd systems as he struggled to find a winning team. I seem to remember he played Dennis Wise as a right wing-back in that game, and we were collectively awful.

We then hopped over the street to visit “All Bar One”, the most modern of the pubs that were on the list, and probably the least enjoyable.

Next up, a minute walk to “Theodore Bullfrog” and I was so pleased to be able to tell the lads that Frome Town were winning 3-1 at promotion rivals Winchester City. I highlighted this game as the most difficult that we would face all season. The beer in this pub tasted all the sweeter.

By this time, a few folks had spotted our travels on “Facebook” and had suggested a couple of pubs that were not originally on my list.

Pub number six was “The Harp”, possibly my favourite of the new pubs, a cosy – but packed – boozer that oozed charm. It was now 4.30pm, Frome were still 3-1 up, and the beers continued to flow.

Next up, another unplanned pub, “The Marquis”, which was virtually next-door to the previous gaff, and another packed and cosy boozer, with lots of musical references around the bar; posters, props, artifacts, etc.

I asked a woman to take our photo of us in the bar.

I checked the photograph; it was a cracker and told her “You have the job. Welcome to MI5. We will see you on Monday.”

The last pub, number eight, was “The Nell Gwynne” and we had been joined by Small Bobby. He had played a game of football at 2pm and was keen to join us before heading over to the Chelsea match. We reached here at about 5.15pm and decided to make this the last call of the evening. It had been single drinks in all the others, but we stayed for three in this one, eleven all told, but I mixed some pints with some bottles to remain as lucid as possible. Stop laughing at the back. We found ourselves next to three women “of a certain age” who were – unfortunately for them, and us – Tottenham fans, but it didn’t spoil the evening.

In total, the eight pubs were covered in just twelve minutes of walking time. The first five were south of The Strand, the final three were north of The Strand.

It had been a blast.

We left there at about 6.30pm, and we all decided that catching an Uber was probably the best bet as it saved scurrying around the steps and escalators of various underground and mainline stations en route to The Valley.

While in the uber as it set off towards the Tower of London, past Canary Wharf and Poplar, then under The Thames, I spotted a quote on “Facebook” by ex-Leeds United manager Marcelo Bielsa that hit a chord.

I am not one for sharing too much that isn’t my own stuff on “Facebook” but I did so on this occasion.

Here it is :

“I am certain that football is in a process of decline. More and more people are watching the sport, but it is becoming less and less attractive. There are fewer and fewer footballers worth watching, and the game is less and less enjoyable.”

This mirrors my thoughts, and many that can compare the far less regulated styles of football in the past to the robotic “keep ball” of today, and it elicited a decent number of responses.

The conclusion?

It’s a drug, this football lark, and I commented that I am too old and too stupid to give it up.

My name is Chris, and I am a Chelsea addict.

Like many who were assembling at The Valley, no doubt.

The Uber ride took exactly an hour, and we were dropped off a few hundred yards away from the entrance to The Valley on Floyd Road. As I have only visited it twice before, and the last time was almost a quarter of a century ago, the approach wasn’t too familiar. As we reached the bottom of the incline, I found myself walking right in the middle of a mob of baying Charlton fans, and then within seconds an equally boisterous mob of Chelsea. There was a bit of a ruckus, but not much to get excited about.

With the stadium in view now, I quickly snapped a couple of photos of a chap grafting away and selling the hated “friendship scarves.”

“Half-Man, Half-Trinket, the face of shame.”

It was reassuring to see many old school faces queuing up to get inside. I guessed that absence made our cumulative hearts grow fonder and this was why we flocked to The Valley once more.

I was inside at 7.45pm and quickly found my seat…er position. Halfway through the first half, I realised that Glenn was two rows in front of me. 3,300 Chelsea were in the Jimmy Seed Stand and we were just a few feet apart. What were the chances?

The evening was already getting colder, and I was beginning to regret not wearing a warmer coat. But it’s always a balancing act when we dive in and out of pubs. I weighed up the options and plumped for being comfortable in a pub for six hours and cold at the football for two hours rather than too warm for six and toasty for two.

There was the usual modern-day nonsense of lights being dipped, flumes of smoke, and the home fans added to this silliness by going all “Spursy” by holding their phone torches above their heads, the loons.

Liam Rosenior was in charge for his first game, and we had touched upon our thoughts of him in the first pub or two. He seems an articulate so-and-so, and confident, and of course we wish him well.

His first Chelsea team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho

Guiu

The game began and it seemed unreal that I was back at The Valley after a gap of over twenty-three years. In 2002, we won 3-2 on a hot and sultry August afternoon with a late goal from Frank Lampard but the weather was so different on this occasion. We attacked what used to be called “The Covered End” and a cross from Jamie Gittens on the right was soon claimed by the Charlton ‘keeper Will Mannion.

It seemed very much like we were playing the same way as before in the opening few minutes; I guess it’s difficult to change to a new style immediately.

There was a medical emergency in the first few rows of the Main Stand, and this held the game up. We really did not need any further hold-ups. God knows what time we would leave the stadium if this tie went to extra-time and penalties. A good guess would be 11pm and God forbid that.

There was a lovely Facundo Buonanotte lofted chip for James Gittens but his header was easily saved. We enjoyed a flurry of corners without testing their ‘keeper and then on eighteen minutes, Andrey Santos did not connect well with a shot, and it spun wide.

Halfway through the half, I could not help but chastise the players for absolutely no movement off the ball.

“You’d think the buggers would want to run around a bit in this cold weather, eh?”

I spotted that the bloke behind me had been behind me at Fulham too and I said to him “you would not invite a friend to watch this dull shite.”

A thunderous strike from Acheampong was well saved by their ‘keeper.

On the half-hour mark, a ridiculously high shot screamed over the bar, and this led to the first-ever time – I am sure – that the infamous “FCUKING USELESS” chant was directed at our own team and not after a shocking piece of play by the opposition.

Yes, we had sunk this low, and it brought back memories of when Ranieri was given a terrible verbal onslaught at The Valley way back in 2000.

The build-up continued to take forever, such is the way of football in the second quarter of the twenty-first century. This slow and meticulous “pass, pass, pass” style of play has blighted the game for years now, and it makes many – including Marcelo Bielsa no doubt – question the sanity of it all.

It feels to me that this is a mode of football that has been spawned by AI. It’s as if every game of football ever played has been processed through a series of huge computers the size of the Maracana and the boffins have observed that the most effective way to play is to relentlessly pass the ball across the pitch until the defending team momentarily loses concentration, or the will to live, until the ball is pushed home from eight yards.

No thrills, no imagination, no skills, no entertaining dribbles, no one-on-ones, no crunching tackles, no variation. Just a grim grinding of gears as players go through set patterns of play that have been practised on training pitches for hours on end.

I don’t know what Cloughie would make of it all.

Football is now like a car journey, planned meticulously by Sat Nav where the only concern is fuel economy and not the scenery. It’s like travelling from Bristol to Birmingham and keeping to the greyness and monotony of the M5 motorway and avoiding the beautiful Cotswolds, the picturesque villages and market towns, the sweeping views of the Severn Vale and the patchwork of fields with stone walls and hedgerows.

On thirty-three minutes we played the ball back to Jorgensen and the Chelsea faithful clapped sarcastically.

Then, a loud burst from us.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! – ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

I pleaded for someone to drop a shoulder. For somebody to do something.

On forty-four minutes, a Garnacho shot was blocked.

The play was so poor. I wanted the players to be less conservative, to take a chance.

In the fourth minute of injury time, a cross from our left was aimed at Marc Guiu who headed the ball back to where Jorrel Hato was stood. The ball bounced once and the left-back smacked it cleanly into the roof of the net.

Get in, thank the Lord.

We were ahead, just.

Half-time was reached.

A friend texted me to say that we had enjoyed – if that is the correct word – seventy-eight percent possession in that first-half.

Five minutes into the second half, down below me, Bounanotte lashed a great free-kick towards the near post and Tosin speared the ball in via a fine glancing header.

Not long after, a confident run from Alejandro Garnacho was followed by a cheeky curler that just went wide of the far post.

On fifty-five minutes, Charlton enjoyed their best chance thus far and the ball went off for a corner. From the resulting kick, Jorgensen did ever so well to pat away a header, but the rebound was crashed home by Miles Leaburn, who is the son of former Charlton striker Carl Leaburn.

Another name from that haunted 1987/88 season. After Leroy Rosenior scored against us at West Ham – as mentioned in my last report – we played Charlton at home and Carl Leaburn was in their team who equalised in the ninetieth minute, forcing us into the play-offs.

Red and white smoke bombs rained down from a corner of the home end. I spotted a Charlton flag in that corner that featured their “Addicks” nickname, one of the oddest in our professional game. The story behind it is very fishy.

On sixty-two minutes, Garnacho dribbled in and set up Buonanotte. His shot was weakly parried and Guiu slotted home. I captured his celebrations with my pub camera.

On sixty-six minutes, Estevao replaced Gittens and the away choir sang his Samba song.

Bloody hell it was cold.

On sixty-nine minutes, more changes.

Liam Delap for Guiu.

Enzo Fernandez for Buonanotte.

Five minutes later we kept warm by sing a loud “One man went to mow” and Estevao cut in but his shot was finger-tipped over.

Estevao added a little pizazz to the game and set up Enzo and Delap before again threatening Mannion with another shot.

Then the fog hit us, and the place became greyer and greyer.

And colder and colder.

Fackinell.

On eighty-five minutes, more changes.

Wesley Fofana for Hato.

Pedro Neto for Garnacho.

A shot from Enzo, high and wide. Then in the first minute of injury time, the Argentinian World cup winner sped forward and passed to Neto. He lost his marker and then drilled a low shot in at the near post.

Three minutes later, Mannion fell at the feet of Estevao after another lively incursion, and the referee pointed at the spot.

Enzo smashed it home. It was the last kick of the game.

Charlton Athletic 1 Chelsea 5.

The players came over to thank us for our support on this cold and foggy night.

We soon serenaded the new manager.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

Job done, can we go home now?

Actually, no we couldn’t. For some reason that was never fully explained, the police kept us penned in on the crowded road that connected the exit of the away end to Floyd Road for around forty minutes, with all of us getting colder and colder by the minute. We were towards the back, so just stepped away from the mob, but tempers were rising as the sirens wailed, the lights flashed and the night drew on.

Eventually we slowly walked to the top of Floyd Road, sadly managed to avoid finding the Uber driver I had booked – and he managed to avoid us too – and so we eventually caught a train back to London Bridge at around 11pm or so.

We gobbled down some bloody awful “McDonalds” burgers under the station’s arches and then took a beautifully warm Uber at midnight that took us through South London, over the Thames at Lambeth, then close to the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament and eventually down the Kings Road to Fulham. We reached our base at 12.30am.

Sleep!

Next up, a League Cup semi-final at home to Arsenal.

Bernie Slaven’s son doesn’t play for them, does he?

Let’s All Go Down The Strand

Up For The Cup

Tales From Deepest SW6

Posted on January 10, 2026 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 7 January 2026.

This match at Craven Cottage would be the first of six consecutive games in London, and for this I was truly thankful. There have been some long hauls over the past month or so, including Leeds, Newcastle and Manchester, and I was looking forward to this spell in the capital.

These games are coming quickly in the month of January, and the club will play a total of nine matches this month.

On the Monday after the game at the Etihad, the club interviewed Liam Rosenior, and on the Tuesday morning it was announced that the former Fulham player who was in charge at our sister club Strasbourg would be unsurprisingly joining us. The length of the contract, of six years, baffled me, but much of modern football leaves me baffled so I tried not to dwell too much on it.

Liam Rosenior, then.

I remembered him from his time at Fulham, but struggled with his spells at other clubs. My first ever game at Craven Cottage with Chelsea was in the 2004/5 season and I quickly checked to see if our new manager was playing on that day over twenty-one years ago. In fact, he was a non-playing substitute. As an aside, I really enjoyed that match, with Arjen Robben on fire, and we won it 4-1. I chuckled when I realised that I recognised virtually all the Fulham team that day. The surnames were listed and I quickly barked out their first names.

Mark Crossley

Moritz Volz

Zat Knight

Zesh Rehman

Carlos Bocanegra

Steed Malbranque

Mark Pembridge

Papa Bouba Diop

Luis Boa Morte

Tomas Radzinski

Andrew Cole

The only two I struggled naming were Carlos Bocanegra and Andrew Cole; I thought it was Andy. Of course, these days I would bloody struggle to name many of the Fulham team’s first names. Sigh.

Anyway, enough of this shite.

Welcome to Chelsea Football Club, Liam Rosenior.

Best wishes for a long and successful career on the Fulham Road.

…stop sniggering at the back.

Incidentally, I used to feel haunted every time that I heard the Rosenior name, including when Liam first came to my attention when he played for the local Bristol City team in 2002. You see, dear reader, his father Leroy played – and scored – against us in a 1-4 defeat at Upton Park on a Bank Holiday Monday in May 1988. That defeat effectively consigned us to a play-off position in a fight to avoid relegation that season. And we all know how that worked out.

In twenty years’, time, I hope that the name Rosenior doesn’t haunt me further.

I worked an early shift and collected PD and Parky at 2pm. I updated the lads on Frome Town’s fine win at Bishops Cleeve the previous night. I fuelled up at Reading Services, and enjoyed a good run in. I dropped them off at “The Eight Bells” at just before 4.30pm.

After parking up at 5pm on Gowan Avenue, I trotted the fifteen minutes down the Fulham High Street to meet up with the lads. A group of five slow-moving Fulham fans were in my way and I sped past them. I hoped it was a metaphor for the evening’s match. I peered into “The Golden Lion” with its “Home Fans Only” sign, then crossed the great divide as I passed “The Kings Arms” and “The Temperance” – away fans – and approached “The Eight Bells” with its “Only Away Fans” sign.

At 5.15pm, I was in, and shot round to join up with PD, LP, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Texas Aleksey. I stayed about an hour, and it was lovely to see so many other Chelsea faces appear in our local. It seemed like we were having a little party in the front room of our house and word had got out. It was splendid.

I found it funny that Scott, Gerry, Martin and I were last together in a bar outside Yankee Stadium in the South Bronx in July, and here were all were again in a pub near Craven Cottage in South Fulham in January.

Things, sadly, would take a turn for the worst.

My friend Chris in North Carolina – formerly of Windsor – messaged me at 5.45pm to inform me that a mutual friend, Mick Collins, had passed away after heart surgery the previous night. I was shocked and stunned. I first met Mick, who retired a few years ago, in Chicago in 2006 for our game against the MLS All-Stars, and our paths would cross on many occasions, in the US and in England. He was a lovely man and will be sorely missed.

RIP Mick Collins.

This was the last of Texas Aleksey’s run of games on his trip and this would be his inaugural visit to Craven Cottage. We all left the pub within a few minutes of each other, but while Jimmy walked ahead with PD and LP, I wandered through the park with Aleksey. It was a bitterly cold night alongside the River Thames.

I took a few photos outside the familiar red brick frontage on Stevenage Road.

I was in at 7.15pm.

Such is the benign nature of Fulham’s support, that it is only at Craven Cottage where home and away fans can walk side-by-side once through the turnstiles and inside the concourse behind the stand.

Very Fulhamish.

However, I wasn’t impressed with my view; although I am an away season ticket holder, I was right down by the corner flag alongside the lower tier of the Riverside Stand.

This little area is full of tourists – It’s easy to tell – and I wondered which ones I would become fixated upon as they looked across at the travelling support, open-mouthed, at the volume and humour of our support. It’s a game I always play at Craven Cottage if I am towards that stand.

Of course, it was the Tyrique George chant that got us all energised last season, and I wondered if the youngster might be included in the squad to act as a catalyst for noise if no other reason.

Well, no. He wasn’t even on the bench.

With Liam Rosenoir watching in the stands, Calum McFarlane took charge for his second game and chose this team :

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto

Trevoh Chalobah

Tosin Adaradioyo

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto

Enzo Fernandez

Cole Palmer

Liam Delap

So, Enzo in the hole and Cole out wide. I suspected some abuse from the home fans for Tosin.

Was it just me, or did others feel like we would be treading water in this game as we waited for the new man to take over? I expected a hard game against Fulham and predicted a tight 1-1 draw.

Pre-match, some flames flew up into the sky in front of the Riverside Stand while the PA played what sounded like an ACDC song. What could be further from Fulham than ACDC? I think a song by the Brotherhood of Man would have been more fitting. The players marched across the pitch from the cottage, and yet more flames and fireworks zipped up into the cold black sky. The bloke on the PA was even more “shouty” than our dickhead at Stamford Bridge.

Fackinell.

Fulham play in an all-white kit these days, so it was a nice-and-simple whites vs. blues battle on this evening in deepest SW6. The home team attacked us in the Putney End in the first half, and they engineered a shot on goal in the very first minute when Harry Wilson shot low at goal, but Robert Sanchez saved easily.

Just after, the first of many Roman Abramovich chants got going in the away section of the stadium.

Then, the usual chants for players who were not on the pitch, what an odd custom.

I barked out “It’s Salomon.”

In the first fifteen minutes, we dominated possession but with no real effort on goal.

Then, as we neared the twenty-minute mark, two corners on our left in front of the Hammersmith End from Enzo caused a few problems for Bernd Leno. After the ‘keeper clawed at the ball to save it from reaching Liam Delap, another corner swung in and he watched as an Andrey Santos header hit the bar. Another corner was not so problematic and went behind for a goal-kick. With Chelsea having camped out in the Fulham box for a few minutes, Leno spotted a one-on-one and smashed a long ball forward towards Wilson. He was in a simple battle, a running duel, with Cucurella who had been his usual combative self in the opening quarter of the match. To our horror, Cucurella pulled at an arm and Wilson went down.

It was on the edge of the box, and Cucurella was the last man. We were rather unsighted, but the referee gave a straight red. Phone messages arrived to say the same thing.

“Stupid defending. Definite red.”

Thankfully, a VAR check denied Fulham a penalty. Wilson only hit the wall with the free kick.

Calum McFarlane replaced Santos with Jorrel Hato, who slotted into left-back.

Fulham then penned us in for the next period of the game. They dominated possession but didn’t really hurt us.

On thirty-five minutes, more Roman Abramovich chants, quickly followed by one demanding that Eghbali went forth and multiplied.

The mood was getting fractious in the Putney End.

On forty minutes, a decent break involving the hard-working Delap and Enzo, but a tepid shot from Palmer at Leno.

The game deteriorated and I pondered how truly awful the Fulham badge truly is. It sits there atop the gable of the old Leitch stand, now the Johnny Haynes Stand – an exact replica of our old East Stand – and I just shook my head. It looks like it was designed by an eight-year-old in a school detention.

A Fulham effort from Emil Smith-Rowe flew over the bar.

Six minutes of injury time were signalled.

Fulham put the ball in our net via Wilson, but Raul Jiminez looked offside to everyone around us. The Fulham fans roared as the players raced away, and after what seemed like ninety seconds, a VAR sign was flashed up on the screens. Why it took so long I will never know. It seemed to an increasingly cynical me that they waited for the Fulham players to finish celebrating – “great TV, let’s not spoil that” – before VAR was signalled.

All part of the modern football experience, all bloody shite.

Thankfully, VAR ruled offside.

Phew.

Being so low down – the bottom fifteen rows have a shallow rake – I couldn’t get many decent photos at all. As Chelsea attacked us in the second half, I hoped for an improvement.

In the first minute of the second period, a break and Pedro Neto fired over. Just after, a daisy-cutter from Wilson was deflected wide of Sanchez’ goal for a corner. Enzo sent in a corner, but Hato’s header was glanced over.

I found myself momentarily checking some scores – “United losing, Tottenham losing” – and looked up to see a Jiminez leap, alone, that resulted in his header nestling into the corner of the goal.

Fackinell.

Fifty-five minutes had elapsed.

I liked the way that our support responded with the loudest chant of the night from us.

“And it’s super Chelsea.

Super Chelsea FC.

We’re by far the greatest team.

The world has ever seen.”

Well, in New Jersey in July maybe, perhaps not in Fulham in January.

A Fulham shot whipped past Sanchez’ left post. Many home fans presumed it was in. Thankfully, the side netting rippled from the outside only.

On the hour, more Roman Abramovich chants.

And then the other one.

“Fcuk off Eghbali, fuck off Eghbali.”

A pass from deep from Tosin, and Palmer intelligently stepped over it and allowed it to run to Delap who cantered away at the Fulham goal. The young striker went for placement and not power, but Leno got an arm to it and a covering defender headed away.

I want to see more early balls to Delap for him to run onto; surely it is his strength?

Then, the chant of the night, perhaps of the season, or at least the recent weeks.

Zeitgeist at Fulham.

“We don’t care about Clearlake.

They don’t care about us.

All we care about is Chelsea FC.”

On sixty-five, Reece James replaced Enzo who, apart from those flighted corners, had done little.

Then another chant aimed at Clearlake but one man in particular.

“You’re not wanted here.

You’re not wanted here.

Fcuk off Eghbali.

You’re not wanted here.”

A low shot from Moises Caicedo, who himself had been unusually quiet thus far.

From right in front of me, no more than twenty feet away, Neto – minus ‘tache these days – floated in a near-post header. Under pressure from the leaping Gusto, Antonee Robinson could only flick the ball on, and it smacked against the far post. I could not see a jot, but I saw the reactions to a Delap goal.

GET IN YOU FCUKER.

I tried to take some worthwhile photos of the players celebrating but only really succeeded in snapping us fans.

We’re the important ones anyway, right?

It was 1-1, my prediction on the night.

On seventy-five minutes, Josh Acheampong for Gusto and Joao Pedro for Palmer. Unfortunately, Cole had struggled and didn’t look his old self. He seemed frustrated too, which is clearly not a good sign.

Of the two teams, it was Fulham who then upped their challenge, and we had to resort to some desperate defending, hacking away balls, blocking shots and throwing bodies at crosses. There was one absolutely magnificent “star fish” jump from Sanchez that foiled an effort from close in.

“There’s only one Robert Sanchez.

One Robert Sanchez.

He used to be shite.

But now he’s alright.

Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”

This was tense stuff now.

On eighty-one minutes, Sanchez dropped quickly to save well from Smith-Rowe but the rebound fell nicely for Wilson, who had been a threat all night, and he shot low past Sanchez.

I screamed “OH NO.”

Bollocks.

Interestingly, I looked over to my left to the tourist section and only a very small proportion of the one hundred or so fans closest to me were up and celebrating.

Were many of them Chelsea supporters?

Maybe, but perhaps unlikely.

I suspect most just happened to be in London and fancied a game of football to add to their list of boxes to tick. A Premier League game these days sits right alongside a Harry Potter studio tour, a coach trip to Stonehenge, a visit to Harrods and a plate of fish and chips.

£150 or more later, they sat in stoney silence and perhaps wondered what all the fuss was about.

Nine minutes of normal time and four minutes of injury time did not result in any worthwhile Chelsea effort on the Fulham goal.

This ended as a 1-2 loss.

It was Fulham’s third win against us in the past eight encounters after being winless in the previous twenty-one games.

For a club that has never won a major honour in one hundred-and-forty-seven years, this might be the nearest they come to anything worthwhile.

Bless’em.

As I made my way up the steps at the Putney End, and out into the concourse, the PA system played “Good Times” by Chic and I mouthed an obscenity.

One Chelsea lad barked “the Fulham lot are buzzing. One of them has cracked open a cheeseboard” and I had to smile.

I raced off to collect my car from Gowan Avenue and soon picked up my two mates on Findlay Road. We were soon on our way. I reached home at 12.45pm, a relatively early finish compared to recent trips.

It was a weak performance and nobody except Sanchez really shone. The reason for this malaise? Who bloody knows? We are, as ever, a confusing club and a confused club, and I can churn out the usual platitudes about hoping that the new manager can sort everything out, but he is untested at this level and will find himself under huge pressure if things do not go as Clearlake wish.

I wish him well, but…

Our next match is against Charlton Athletic in the FA Cup Third Round on Saturday, one of the great days in the football calendar. It will be my first visit to The Valley since the opening day of 2002/3.

I’ll see some of you there.

HOME AND AWAY