As with the last time that we played Liverpool at home, on Sunday 4 May, we had decided to forego our usual pre-match in “The Eight Bells” in favour of “The Tommy Tucker” because of logistical reasons. The closure of the District Line was again the cause, but we didn’t mind one iota. This pub is only fifty yards from Fulham Road and serves as a decent enough substitute for our usual boozer a mile or so to the south.
I was hoping that it would prove to be a lucky omen since we defeated the newly crowned champions 3-1 on that sunny day five months ago.
The day had begun in deepest Somerset with the rain lashing down outside, and with low dark clouds above. The outlook looked bleak.
Thankfully, the weather improved as I drove to London with PD and LP, so that by the time I was parked up, the skies were clear. Walking to the pub was a lot easier than I had expected with blustery gusts of wind the only negative. As soon as I reached the bar, I spotted Tommy Langley and we enjoyed a brief chat before he darted off to the stadium to commence his pre-match hospitality routine.
I stayed in the pub from 1pm to 4.30pm, and a few acquaintances joined us at our table, all of whom seemed to be called Steve or Dave.
We semi-watched the Leeds United vs. Tottenham Hotspur game on the TV screen that faced our table.
I was on the “Diet Cokes” of course and occupied myself with occasional peeks at my phone to see how my local team Frome Town were faring at Willand Rovers in Devon. During the week, on the Wednesday, I had enjoyed a cracking game of football between Frome Town and Bristol Manor Farm, our great rivals. My hometown team eventually prevailed 3-2, with a late goal from new fan favourite George Dowling, who rifled home on eighty-eight minutes after seeing an early 2-0 lead collapse. This gave Dodge our fifth win out of five in the league this season. Sadly, Willand won 1-0 and so I was downbeat about that.
With virtually every single Chelsea fan that I had chatted to expecting a loss against Liverpool, but hoping for a draw, I prepared myself for a bleak afternoon.
As I made the short walk from the “The Tommy Tucker” to Stamford Bridge, the wind was still blustery, and I was pleased that I was wearing my light jacket to fend off some surprisingly cold bursts.
I smuggled my SLR in using “Method 9/F” and quickly made my way up to The Sleepy Hollow.
It was 4.45pm. As I took a few photos of the dormant stadium from the very back row above our seats, waiting for things to liven up, I recollected a few things from that Liverpool game last May. It would prove to be dear Albert’s last-ever Chelsea game, and I thought back to him once again.
As friends drifted in, I chatted away, but none of us thought we would get much out of the game.
Enzo Maresca had chosen this starting eleven :
Sanchez
Gusto – Acheampong – Badiashile – Cucurella
James – Caicedo
Pedro Neto – Fernandez – Garnacho
Joao Pedro
With the appearance of the teams from the East Stand tunnel, we were treated to fireworks exploding from both roofs of The Shed and the Matthew Harding. The air turned a hazy blue/grey for quite some time, and the whiff of sulphur permeated our nostrils.
At 5.30pm, the game began.
Liverpool began brightly, and as they attacked our end, it gave the Chelsea supporters the chance to boo the new Liverpool striker Aleksander Isak at close quarters.
Then Chelsea began to make inroads, and there was an opening for Malo Gusto but he fluffed his lines when presented with a chance.
With an extended “sesh” having taken place in the boozers around Stamford Bridge – I had deposited the lads outside the pub at 12.15pm and they didn’t leave much before 5pm – there was a tipsy atmosphere inside the ground, and the noise was excellent, a complete improvement to the horrible Brighton atmosphere.
We had started to move the ball around well, with the two wingers looking mustard.
However, on fifteen minutes, a fluid attack took place in the centre of the pitch, well away from Messrs Garnacho and Neto.
Benoit Badiashle pushed the ball forward to Gusto, supplementing the midfield as is the style these days, and he in turn played the ball forward to Moises Caicedo. There was no shortage of red shirts around him, but he deftly created space and advanced. He pushed the ball on, gave the impression that he was about to let fly, but touched the ball again, possibly putting defenders off balance or of kilter, and let fly with a blast from twenty-five yards. As soon as he had taken that extra touch, the Red Sea had parted, and I was right in line with his thunderbolt as it slammed into debutant Giorgi Mamardashvili’s goal.
Euphoria from me, euphoria from everyone, and I was up and celebrating like a loon, only slightly troubled that I didn’t get a snap of the goal. I followed Caicedo’s triumphant run past Parkyville and into the corner, buzzing all the while.
What a stunner.
Bollocks to the pre-match gloom, we were 1-0 up.
Liverpool had their share of possession in the ensuing half-an-hour, but we did not let them create much at all. We were playing the best football of the season thus far, not allowing the red-shirted players much space, and kept the ball well when in possession. Enzo seemed revigorated in that first-half, but Caicedo was even better. Out on the wings, the tireless Neto kept asking questions of their left back, while Garnacho, right in front of the Scousers, was lighting up his wing with some nice movement.
There was a powerful block by Badiashile from a Dominik Szoboszlai shot. The often-derided defender was surprising us all with an accomplished showing alongside the equally impressive Josh Acheampong.
On thirty-three minutes, Liverpool found themselves in our box, and a shot was hacked away by the ever-reliable Marc Cucurella.
There was a lung-busting, and quite thrilling, run by Neto down his right flank, and he eventually cut the ball back into the box, with Virgil van Dijk beaten, but the chance went begging.
Just after, Garnacho curled an effort just wide.
By this stage, the three-thousand Mickey Mousers in the far corner were as quiet as I could remember.
Garnacho went down inside the box, but after a VAR review, the play resumed.
Isak headed the last chance of a pulsating half over Robert Sanchez’ bar.
We were supremely happy at the break.
Soon into the second half – I timed it as just twenty-one seconds – Chelsea lost possession cheaply and the Liverpool substitute Florian Wirtz set up Mo Salah, who had struggled to get involved in the first period, but the Egyptian striker fired wide.
Sensing a dip in our play, the Chelsea spectators at Stamford Bridge turned into Chelsea supporters and noisily got behind the team with a barrage of noise.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
This warmed my heart.
The visitors improved and enjoyed a spell on top, and Sanchez saved a long shot from Ryan Gravenberch. Then, a one-on-one race between Salah and Badiashile, but our former striker fired over with his usually trusted left-foot.
Ten minutes into the half, Badiashile was injured and was replaced by Romeo Lavia, with James sliding back alongside Josh in the centre of the defence.
Then, two quick chances down below us. Garnacho took a long ball down to perfection but his intended pass inside to Joao Pedro was poor. Then a lovely flowing move that began with Lavia and ended with Cucurella’s floated cross towards the far post, but Pedro Neto’s header was deflected over.
This was a great game.
The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t hating modern football quite so much.
A dink from Neto, and Enzo wide.
Sadly, on the hour, Liverpool crossed from our left and it looked like Cucurella’s leg changed the flight of the ball slightly.
I found myself commentating.
“Oh deflection…here we go…goal” as Gakpo rifled it in past Sanchez.
Bollocks.
So, back level, and it felt like we had been hard done by.
There were further changes.
On sixty-seven minutes, Acheampong was injured and was replaced by Jorrel Hato. I found it odd that Hato didn’t come in for Badiashile, but what do I know?
At this rate, Tommy Langley will come on to play in our patched-up defence.
This was a pulsating game, though, and it seemed to be in the balance.
What next?
On seventy-five minutes, I could hardly believe seeing a triple substitution.
Estevao Willian for Garnacho.
Jamie Gittens Pedro Neto.
Marc Guiu for Joao Pedro.
We went on the offensive again. It seemed to be Chelsea attacking at will now.
Gittens to Enzo, a cross that begged to be converted, but the chance passed.
Next up, a sublime long pass from James found Gittens, looking lively, and he brought a decent save from Mamardashvili. Estevao picked up the loose ball, danced towards goal, and floated a shot towards the far post that Mamardashvili managed to get fingertips on, and I managed to snap that exact moment.
With minutes passing by, PD asked for his stick and left early. He needs a good half-an-hour to slowly walk back to where I collect him on Lillee Road.
The Chelsea chances still piled up. A shot from Caicedo – shoot! – and Mamardashvili (I am sick to death of typing out his name) nudged it over the bar.
A corner from the far side, Enzo unable to convert with a difficult header.
I wondered if PD was not too far away from the stadium that he could hear the “oohs” and “ahhs” from the increasingly mesmerized home support.
Szobososzlai – the hirsute Hungarian henchman, a certain woolyback if his legs are a clue – then shot wide at The Shed End.
The assistant linesman signalled seven minutes of extra time.
PD was surely out of earshot now.
The lively Estevao sent over a magical cross towards Enzo, who contorted his body to fashion a header, but although Mamardashvili was beaten, the ball struck the post.
Ugh.
Ninety-six minutes were on the clock and PD must have reached the North End Road by now.
The last moments of this super game began.
An amazing move from the right of our defence, right through the team, found Cucurella on the left, who passed outside to Gittens, then to Enzo, who now controlled the ball amidst a crowd of opposing players. He waited and chose his moment. He spotted the run of Cucurella. The Spaniard whipped in a cross towards the far post, and I looked up. To my amazement and joy, I saw Estevao arrive, sliding and off-balance, but within a blink of an eye, the young Brazilian had the coolness of mind to push the ball over the line.
Mamardashvili was beaten.
The.
Crowd.
Exploded.
I pumped the air with my fists, bellowed some primaeval roar, lost in the moment. I then tried to remain cool to snap the melee over on the far side. What a scene. What madness. What a goal. What a finish. What a win.
I would later learn that PD had heard the roar along the North End Road.
“Chelsea Dagger” played, and I hated it, and the fans bounced along and I hated it more. But there were crazily mixed emotions, and I loved the buzz of it all. We were all taken to another place.
There was, worryingly, a mere whisper of VAR involvement, and the guy in front of me looked very concerned.
No. They can’t do that to us surely? Was Cucurella off? Surely not.
No.
The goal stood.
The whistle blew.
Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1.
I bloody love you, Chelsea.
Next up, “One Step Beyond” and everyone losing it.
I stayed behind for a few minutes, more than usual, long enough to hear “Blue Is The Colour” begin.
After a chorus or two, we made our way down the stairs in the north-west corner, and one song dominated.
We were in for an alluring climax to the season. With two straight wins in the league on the bounce – not anticipated by me and probably many more – we were right in the thick of it in the scramble for Champions League and Europa League placings. Our next match, our ninth league game in London on the spin, was against newly crowned Champions Liverpool.
While huge parts of our Chelsea nation obsessed about the guard of honour, I shrugged my shoulders; it would all be over in less than ten seconds.
What with the closure of the District Line south to Wimbledon, there was a change of plan for our pre-match. “The Eight Bells” was jettisoned in favour of “The Tommy Tucker”, a mere Ian Hutchinson throw-in from the West Stand forecourt on Moore Park Road. I dropped PD and Parky right outside at just before 11am and then switched back on myself and drove over to my favourite breakfast spot, “The Half Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road. If the other two lads could enjoy a four-hour session, then at least I could enjoy a full English.
I made it inside the pub at around 12.30pm, and the highlight of the time spent inside this busy boozer was the realisation that 1972 Olympic gold medallist Mary Peters was a few yards away. I can well remember watching her hop, skip and jump her way to her a gold in the pentathlon all those years ago.
For Mary Peters and Chelsea Football Club, Munich will always be a special city.
I left the pub earlier than the rest and reached the concourse just as Newcastle United scored a late, VAR-assisted penalty, to equalise at Brighton. Still, not to worry, a draw there did us a favour.
I reached my spot in The Sleepy Hollow, having smuggled my SLR in yet again. Before I settled in my seat, I took the camera out and took a few shots. However, a steward had evidently seen me and rather apologetically said “I have been told to tell you not to take use a professional camera.”
I smiled and replied “OK.”
At the end of the game, I would have taken 127 photos, but it was OK, I don’t get paid for any of the buggers.
I guess I was inside with a good forty-five minutes to go. There seemed to be many more obnoxious half-and-half scarves in the MHU than normal, and I feared the worst. I suspected an infiltration by you-know-who. Way atop our little section of seats, a father sat with his four-year-old son, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt under his jacket. I tut-tutted and tried to find someone else to be annoyed at. I didn’t take long. Sat behind me were four lads, two with half-and-halves, who seemed to be ignoring Chelsea’s pre-match kick-in down below us, instead focussing on the Liverpool players at The Shed End. By now Clive was alongside me, and we suggested to them that they were Liverpool fans. Their reply wasn’t in English, but they seemed to intimate that they were fans of football and soon dispersed. They must have had seats dotted all over the MHU.
The build-up to the match seemed to be rather low key in the stadium. The Liverpool fans were massed in the opposite corner, and one banner caught everyone’s attention.
IMAGINE BEING US.
Righty-oh.
The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. My light rain jacket kept out the chilly gusts.
By some odd twist of fate, forty years ago to the exact day, Chelsea were also pitted against Liverpool, but on that day in 1985 the match was at Anfield. More of that later.
The week before that game, on Saturday 27 April, Chelsea played Tottenham Hotspur at Stamford Bridge.
Let my 1984/85 retrospective recommence.
Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 27 April 1985.
For all of the big names coming to play us in matches at Stamford Bridge in that return to the topflight, none was bigger than Tottenham. It was the one that was most-eagerly awaited of all. And yet the problems of that era contrived against us. After the near riot at the Chelsea vs. Sunderland Milk Cup semi final on 4 March, there was a full riot at the Luton Town vs. Millwall FA Cup tie on 13 March, and football hooliganism was the talk of the front and back pages. Considering the history of problems between the two teams, the league game with Tottenham was made all-ticket with an 11.30am kick-off.
The result of this, much to my complete sadness, was that this crunch match against our bitter rivals only drew a crowd of 26,310, a figure that I could hardly believe at the time.
Sigh.
I watched from the back row of the West Stand benches with my match day crew and took plenty of photos.
Before the game, as a celebration of our ninetieth birthday – admittedly a month and a half late – we were treated to some police dogs going through some manoeuvres on the pitch (how apt) but also the Red Devil parachute display team, and if I am not mistaken one of them managed to miss the pitch and end up on the West Stand roof. I am sure some wag wondered if the guilty parachutist was Alan Mayes. Some blue and white ballons were set off in front of the Tottenham fans and we all looked on in bewilderment.
“Let’s just get to the game.”
Ski-hats were all the rage in 1984/85 and one photo that I took of Alan, Dave, Rich and Leggo has done the rounds on many football sites over the years.
The match, in the end, wasn’t that special. Tottenham went ahead via Tony Galvin in the first half but a Pat Nevin free kick on seventy-five minutes gave us a share of the points.
A week later, the action took place two-hundred or so miles to the north.
Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 4 May 1984.
In 1984/1985, I only went to five away games due to finances, and the visit to Anfield was one of the highlights for sure. Liverpool were European Champions in 1984 and reigning League Champions too. They were in their pomp. Growing up as a child in the ‘seventies, and well before Chelsea fans grew tired of Liverpool’s cries of history, there were few stadia which enthralled me more than Anfield, with The Kop a beguiling wall of noise.
No gangways on The Kop, just bodies. A swaying mass of humanity.
Heading up to Liverpool, on an early-morning train from Stoke, I was excited and a little intimidated too. Catching a bus up to the stadium outside Lime Street was probably the nearest that I came to a footballing “rite of passage” in 1985. I was not conned into believing the media’s take that Scousers were loveable so-and-sos. I knew that Anfield could be a chilling away ground to visit. Famously, there was the “Cockneys Die” graffiti on the approach to Lime Street. My first real memory of Liverpool, the city, on that murky day forty years ago was that I was shocked to see so many shops with blinds, or rather metal shutters, to stave off robberies. It was the first time that I had seen such.
The mean streets of Liverpool? You bet.
I was deposited a few hundred yards from Anfield and took a few photos of the scene that greeted me. The local scallies – flared cords and Puma trainers by the look of it, all very 1985 – were prowling as I took a photograph of the old Kop.
Travelling around on trains during this season from my home in Stoke, I was well aware of the schism taking place in the casual subculture at the time. Sportswear was giving way to a more bohemian look in the north-west – flares were back in for a season or two, muted browns and greens, greys and blues, even tweed and corduroy flares – but this look never caught on in London.
At the time, I always maintained that it was like this :
London football – “look smart.”
Liverpool and Manchester football – “look different.”
I walked past The Kop and took a photo of the Kemlyn Road Stand, complete with newly arrived police horses. You can almost smell the gloom. Note the mast of the SS Great Eastern, which still hosts a fluttering flag on match days to this day.
The turnstiles were housed in a wall which had shards of glass on the top to deter fans from gaining free entry. Note the Chelsea supporters’ coach and the Sergio Tacchini top.
I paid my £2.50 and I was inside at 10.15am.
To complete this pictorial tour of Anfield before the game and to emphasise how bloody early I was on that Saturday morning – it was another 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive drinking and, ergo, hooliganism – there is a photograph of an empty, waiting, expectant Anfield. I guess that the photograph of the Chelsea squad in their suits was taken at an hour or so before kick-off. This is something we never see at games now; a Chelsea team inspecting the pitch before the game. I suspect that for many of the players, this would have been their first visit to Anfield too. Maybe that half-explains it.
My mate Glenn had travelled up with the Yeovil supporters coach for this game and we managed to find each other, and stand together, in the packed away segment at Anfield. My mates Alan, Paul and Swan stood close by. We were packed in like sardines on that terraced section of the Anfield Road that used to meet up with the Kemlyn Road, an odd mix of angles. Memorably, I remember that a lot of Chelsea lads – the firm, no doubt – had purchased seat tickets in the Anfield Road end, mere yards away from us, and a few punches were thrown. Even more memorably, I remember seeing a lad from Frome, Mark – a Liverpool supporter in my year at school – with two others from Frome only yards away in those very same seats.
The look we gave each other was priceless.
I see Mark at lots of Frome Town games to this day.
This was a cracking game. We went behind early on when Ronnie Whelan headed past Eddie Niedzwiecki and we soon conceded two more, both via Steve Nicol. We were 3-0 down after just ten minutes.
Welcome to Anfield.
We then played much better – my diary noted that it was the best we had played all season – and Nigel Spackman scored via a penalty at The Kop. Our fine play continued after the break, and Kerry Dixon slotted home in the six-yard box. Alas, a quick Liverpool break and a cross from their right. Ian Rush stuck out a leg to meet the ball at the near post and the ball looped over Niedzwiecki into the goal. My diary called it an exquisite finish and who am I to argue? I suppose, with hindsight, it was apt for Rush to score a goal at The Kop in my first ever game at Anfield. Writing these words forty years later, takes me right back. I can almost remember the gnawing inevitability of it.
Five minutes later, on about the sixty-fifth minute, Gordon Davies volleyed a low shot into the corner down below us.
Liverpool 4 Chelsea 3.
Wow.
We played so well in the remainder of the match but just couldn’t squeeze a fourth goal. We had outplayed them for a large part of the game. I remember being really surprised that Anfield was so quiet, and The Kop especially. Our little section seemed to be making all of the noise.
“EIO, EIO, EIO, EIO.”
“Ten Men Went To Mow.”
In that cramped, tight enclosure, this was a big moment in my life. I left Anfield exhausted, my throat sore, my brain fizzing with adrenalin, my senses heightened, drained.
We were all forced to take buses to Edge Hill, a train station a few miles out of Lime Street. Once there, I spotted a Chelsea lad that I recognised from Stoke, waiting with the rest of our mob, and preparing their next move, back into the city no doubt.
It took me forever to wait for a train that took me back to Crewe, where I needed to change for Stoke. I was, in fact, one of the last two Chelsea fans to leave Edge Hill that day.
These are some great memories of my first trip to Anfield.
Over the following forty years, I would return twenty-seven more times.
Back to 2025, and this was my fiftieth game against Liverpool at Stamford Bridge.
We lined up with a very strong formation, with the return of Romeo Lavia squeezing Moises Caicedo to right back and keeping Reece James on the bench.
Sanchez
Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella
Lavia – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Liverpool were a mixture of familiar names and not-so-familiar names. I think I can name every single one of their 1985 squad, much less their 2025 version.
There were boos as both teams took to the pitch. I just stood silent with my hands in my pockets.
Within the first thirty seconds, or so it seemed, a pass from deep from Virgil Van Dijk set up Mo Salah. He attacked us from the right before attempting a low cross that was well gathered by Robert Sanchez.
This was a noisy Stamford Bridge, and the game had begun very lively. After just three minutes, we witnessed a beautiful move at pace. Romeo Lavia came away with the ball and slipped it through to Cole Palmer. The easy ball was chosen, outside to Pedro Neto. He advanced and I looked over to see Nicolas Jackson completely unmarked on the far post. However, after moving the ball on a few yards, Neto spotted the Lampardesque run of our current number eight and our Argentinian was able to kill the ball with his left foot and stroke it home with his right foot, past the diving Alisson, and Stamford Bridge went into orbit.
This was an open game, and Madueke’s shot whizzed past the post while Robert Sanchez saved well from Cody Gakpo.
Liverpool enjoyed a little spell around the fifteen-minute mark, but we were able to keep them at bay. I loved how Lavia and Caicedo were controlling the midfield. On twenty-three minutes, a magnificent sliding block from Trevoh Chalobah robbed Liverpool a shot on goal.
As the half-hour approached, I felt we were riding our luck a little as balls bounced into space from defensive blocks and clearances rather than at the feet of the opponents.
On thirty-one minutes, Noni Madueke played a one-two with Marc Cucurella, and his shot was inadvertently blocked by Jackson. The ball ran on to Caicedo, who dropped a lob onto the bar from the byline down near Parkyville.
On forty-one minutes, a snapshot from Neto hit the side netting. Just after, Jackson played in Madueke, who rounded Alisson to score, only for the goal to be chalked off for offside.
By now, the Liverpool lot, despite a flurry at the start, were quiet in their sunny corner of the stadium.
Liverpool did not seem to be creating as many threats as expected, and I was quietly confident at the break that we could hold on for a massive three points. I loved how Neto was playing, out wide, an old-fashioned winger, and Lavia, Caicedo and Enzo were a solid, fluid and combative three when we had the ball. Some of Jackson’s touches were, alas, woeful.
Into the second half, a magnificent burst from Madueke down in front of us – just a joy to watch – but a weak finish from that man Jackson. Just after, Nico slipped in the box. Just after, a fantastic dummy by Madueke out on the line, a little like Jadon Sancho at Palace, but he then gave the ball away cheaply.
Wingers are infuriating buggers, aren’t they?
At the other end, we watched a lovely old-fashioned tussle between Salah and Cucurella on the edge of our box.
Only one winner, there.
“He eats Paella, he drinks Estrella.”
On fifty-six minutes, Palmer shimmied into the right-hand side of the box and sent over a low cross towards Madueke. He touched the ball goalwards, but in the confusion that followed Van Dijk slashed at the ball and it ricocheted off Jarrell Quansah and into the goal, not that I had much of a clue what on Earth was going on. I just saw the net ripple.
It was an odd goal, in that nobody celebrated too quickly, as the spectre of VAR loomed over us all. The build-up to the goal included so many instances of potential VAR “moments” that I think it conditioned our thinking.
To our relief, no VAR, no delay, no problems.
But – VAR 1 Football 0.
Sigh.
Not to worry, we were up 2-0, and I had to ask the lads if they could remember the last time that we had beaten Liverpool in a league game at Stamford Bridge. Nobody could.
On the hour, Jackson worked himself into a great position but selfishly tried to poke the ball in from a very tight angle.
Liverpool, coming out of their shell now, enjoyed some chances. A great diving header from Levi Colwill denied them a shot on goal, and then they wasted a free header from a Salah cross.
On seventy minutes, another great slide from Our Trev denied them a shot. He was enjoying a magnificent game.
Another Liverpool header went wide.
This really was an open game.
On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Nico, who is soon to enrol in the parachute regiment.
More Chelsea chances came and went. A shot from Madueke was blocked, a rasper from Sancho was saved well by Alisson, Palmer wriggled free and somehow hit the post from a ridiculously tight angle.
This was breathless stuff.
Another shot from Palmer, who looked rejuvenated.
“He wants it now.”
On seventy-eight minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Lavia, who had been a revelation.
On eighty-five minutes, a free header from Van Dijk, from an Alexis Mac Allister corner, and they were back in the game.
This caused our hearts to wobble, and as the game continued, we watched with increasing nervous concern. Just after, the next move, Palmer forced another save from Alisson, who was by far the busier ‘keeper.
A fine move, but Neto shot over.
On eighty-eight minutes, Reece James took over from Enzo, who had enjoyed another fantastic match.
The battle continued.
“COME ON CHELS.”
Six minutes of injury time was signalled.
Fackinell.
Not to worry, in the very final minute, Liverpool attempted to play the ball out from the back and Caicedo closed down and got to the ball just in front of a defender. The defender, however, got to Caicedo just before the ball.
Penalty.
Cole Palmer stroked it home, his first goal since January.
He ran towards the goal and turned towards the East Stand but I summoned up all of my psycho-kinetic powers to entice him over to us, under The Sleepy Hollow.
I spotted two of the four foreign lads sitting close by, full of smiles, and I felt I owed them an apology for thinking that they were Liverpool fans. I gave them the thumbs up. They reciprocated.
This was a lovely day and a lovely match, and perhaps the best performance of the season thus far. We bounced out of Stamford Bridge and I subconsciously found myself singing Chelsea songs on the stretch from the West Stand forecourt to the tube station, just like in the old times.
Last season, the Everton away game was again just before Christmas, on Sunday 10 December, and at the time it was to be our last-ever visit to the Grand Old Lady on Goodison Road. I went into that game expecting it to be so and took tons of photos to commemorate my last-ever visit. Yet, between the time of the game and the day of posting my match report, five days later, it was announced by Everton Football Club that they would be staying one more year at the revered old stadium and would move into Bramley Moore Dock in August 2025.
Ironically, another recent visit had the feel of a potential “last-ever” game too, the match in May 2022, when Everton were deep in the relegation mire. On that day, Frank Lampard’s Everton squeaked home 1-0 and lived to fight again.
It seems like Everton, or rather Goodison, has been messing about with my brain for a few years now. God knows what actual Everton fans have been experiencing.
I was pretty happy with the 105 photos that I posted for last season’s match and I had a feeling that I might well match this high figure on this occasion.
Goodison Park and I go back a long way, to a match that was shown on ITV “live” on Sunday 16 March 1986, but many fans of my generation first experienced Goodison on Saturday 22 December 1984 – forty years ago to the day – and it is the one game that I wish that I had seen. The visit in 2024 would be my twenty-fourth Chelsea game at Goodison, but the game on that Saturday forty years ago was arguably our best performance there in the past four decades.
At the time, I was so annoyed that I was not able to attend the game at Goodison in 1984. I had returned home the previous weekend from my college town of Stoke, and would be listening-in on the portable radio as I did a shift in my father’s menswear shop in Frome’s town centre. I occasionally helped out at Xmas time when things got a little busier. But I was so annoyed that I was back in Somerset. It would have been easy to travel up by train from Stoke to Liverpool had I still been in The Potteries.
My diary from 1984 explains “the saga” at Goodison Park, and how I “went wild” every time we scored, especially when a score of Everton 3 Chelsea 1 was corrected to 2-2. We won the game 4-3, with Gordon Davies getting a hat-trick and Colin Pates getting one. Graeme Sharp scored two for the home team and Paul Bracewell scored the other. I had predicted a gate of 24,000 so was very happy with the attendance of 29,800. I went out in Frome later that night and had way too much to drink. It was our first away win in the league in 1984/85 though. These things have to be celebrated surely. Those that went to the match in 1984 often tell the story of all sorts of missiles being launched at the tightly packed Chelsea terrace and the seats high above the goal from the home enclosure in front of the main stand; pool balls, flares, golf balls with nails. Friendly bunch, Everton.
For the game in 2024 we set off early. I collected PD and his son Scott at 6am and Parky at 6.30pm. We breakfasted at a deadly quiet Strensham between 7.30am and 8am. I was parked up at the usual Stanley Park car park at 10.30am – a £13 fee – but as we made our way north to Goodison, the wind howled, and the rain fell. In Almaty there was no wind chill and there was no dampness in the air, and I coped OK. After a minute of being exposed to the bitter chill of Stanley Park, I was shivering like a fool. The rain seemed to seep into my bones. I was reminded of Turf Moor in 2017. We came off the vast expanse of the park and walked alongside more sheltered and tree-lined roads.
While the others went off to find shelter in “The Abbey” pub on Walton Lane, I met up briefly with a photographer pal of mine, David. We had bumped into each other at last season’s game and had kept in touch ever since. He often takes photos pitch side at the four grounds in Liverpool and Manchester. He was queuing up, hiding from the rain, underneath the towering main stand that rises dramatically from the pavement on Goodison Road like no other stand in England. Only Ibrox come close in the entire UK. He was after a good “speck” – Scouse slang for “spot” – behind the Park End goal. We had planned for him to take a few photos of my pals and I during the game.
As I made my way to the pub, I spotted a former Everton player from my early years, Mike Lyons.
“Hello Mike.”
No answer.
That’s because I quickly realised it was Martin Dobson.
Fackinell.
I dodged the rain and made my way inside the pub that was surprisingly quiet. We stayed inside from 11pm to 1pm, and the small, thin, cosy pub soon became rammed. We were made welcome, though. I chatted to some Evertonians from Aberdare in South Wales who were staying over. Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and Doncaster Pail had joined us, and Ian then arrived with two random Evertonians he had met on the train and who had subsequently shared a cab together from Lime Street.
They are a lot more friendlier in 2024 than in 1984.
If anything, the inter-city rivalry between Merseyside’s blues and reds has heightened and intensified and turned nasty since 1984. I joked with Jimmy and commented that Evertonians hark on about Liverpool’s fan base now residing in Norway, and Liverpool bite back by saying that Everton’s global reach now goes as far as North Wales.
David, the photographer arrived with a programme for me, but reported that his “speck” was in front of the Gwladys Street, so no candid photos of us on this day.
Tommie and Chris – the brothers Grim, Tommie Chelsea and Chris Everton – arrived in the rain and I passed over spares. Then, I got drenched on the short walk to the ground, where I was serenaded by a “Town Called Malice” – an odd choice so far north – by a band playing in the fan park behind the impressive Dixie Dean statue.
There was time for one final, sad, circumnavigation of The Grand Old Lady.
The Winslow Hotel, where I popped in with my mate Francis for a drink before a game at Anfield in 1994, and if my fictional piece from 2012 is to be believed, where my father visited on his one visit to Goodison Park in around 1942, mid RAF training on The Wirral.
To the left, Jock spotted the frosted glass windows of a local hostelry. Without any words being exchanged, Jock quickly headed inside, his two friends left outside in his wake.
“A quick pint, Half Pint?” asked Hank to Reg. “It appears our Scottish friend is in need of liquid refreshment.”
They spotted Jock dart in the bar to the right of the main entrance of The Winslow Hotel and they quickly followed suit.
“Jock’s at the bar, Half Pint – this is a rare sight indeed. Let’s hope he doesn’t forget us.”
The cavernous bar was incredibly noisy and the three pals struggled to hear themselves be heard above the din of orders being taken, jokes being shared, vulgar belly laughs, shouts and groans. A young lad strode through the bar, bedecked in Everton favours – the blue and white standing out against the dismal colours of wartime England – and attempted to sell match programmes. He was not faring well. The locals were more intent on drinking. An elderly gent, with glasses and a pencil thin moustache, spoke engagingly to Reg about Dixie Dean, the great Everton centre-forward, who once scored 60 goals in a 42 game season.
As his knowledge of football wasn’t great, Reg wasn’t sure if this was the same Dixie Dean who had been ridiculed in the schoolboy poem of his youth –
“Dixie Dean from Aberdeen. He tried to score a goal. He missed his chance. And pee’d his paints. And now he’s on the dole.”
Talk of the imminent football match was minimal, though. It seemed that just being in an alien environment, so different from each of their hometowns, was amusement enough. Hank looked at his watch and signalled to the others to finish their drinks. Outside, the rain had started to fall. The three friends quickly rushed across to the stand and did not notice that the narrow street, darkened under the shadow of the structure, was busy with an array of match day activity; grizzly old men selling programmes, young boys selling cheap paper rosettes, wise-cracking spivs selling roasted chestnuts and cigarettes and young girls selling newspapers.
The main stand, and the elevator that I took to watch a game from the top balcony with my mate Pete in 1992 when Robert Fleck scored. The church of St. Luke the Evangelist, with its café and memorabilia shop that I visited in 2022.
The huge images of Dean, Sharp, Latchford, Royle, Young and Hickson towering over rooftops.
The Holy Trinity statue.
The pavement alongside where some local scallies had eyed me up and down on my second visit in late 1986 and sneered “that jacket is so fookin’ red” and I thought I might be in for a hiding.
Gwladys Street, where I walked with Josh and Courtney in October and where Courtney took a photo of two lads, in red and blue, playing football outside two houses with red and blue doors, a perfect image.
A turn into Bullens Road and the away end. Memories of a beautiful visit with my then girlfriend Judy’s young football-mad son James, aged just ten, his first-ever game in 1998, and then a repeat in 2006 with him, the 3-2 cracker.
The rain was bucketing down and the stewards just wanted us inside, so there was no camera search.
For one last time, I was in.
The familiar steps, the crowded concourse, the wooden floorboards of the Archibald Leitch Stand, our seats in Row B, effectively the front row.
I love Goodison. It’s obvious, right? But some hate it. I thought of them when I realised that a roof support was right in front of my seat, blocking a good deal of the pitch.
Fackinell.
I was lined up with Alan, John and Gary to my left and with Eck and Steely from Glasgow to my right. After being given a word of warning about using my SLR by both the chief steward and an over-zealous ambulance woman (!), I played cat and mouse with them all game long, and Eck was able to step in front of me to avoid me being seen. I am pretty sure I relied on Eck for this superb defensive partnership against prying eyes last season too.
Like Nesta and Cannavaro in their prime.
Eck and I found ourselves lip-syncing to “If You Know Your History”, it’s easily done.
Then, the big big moment…the sirens and “Z Cars” for one last time at Goodison.
Chills.
There is nothing better.
I have no doubt that Everton will keep this tune as a key part of their match-day routine at Bramley Moore. I am sure when it is played at the first-ever game, it will seem like the torch has been handed on.
Incidentally, the new stadium :
I love the location.
I am a little worried about parking and traffic flow.
The outside looks fantastic.
The inside seating bowl looks rather bland.
But I like the steepness of the rake of the terraces.
I like that – at the moment – the blue seats are not spoiled with sponsors names or other silliness.
How I wish that a few Leitch cross struts could be repositioned at key places on the balcony wall at the new digs.
With the kick-off time approaching, I checked our team.
Sanchez
Disasi – Colwill – Tosin – Gusto
Caicedo – Enzo
Neto – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Everton were a mixture of footballers and former footballers, some familiar, some not and how on Earth is Ashley Young still playing?
Both teams wore white shorts. Brian Moore would be turning in his grave.
Everybody standing, the rain starting to get worse, the game began.
Whisper it, but a win at Goodison would send us top, if only for a few hours.
We began the livelier and attacked the deep-sitting Everton lines in front of the Gwladys Street. There was a shot, wide, from Cole Palmer, and a couple of attacking half-chances involving Nicolas Jackson and Pedro Neto.
The rain was heavier now and seemed to be aimed right at us in the Bullens Upper. I sheltered behind Eck. The wind was blustery and seemed to change direction at will. Playing conditions, although not treacherous, were difficult, and it made for periods of messy football. The Everton crowd, not exactly buoyed by the news of the latest take-over, soon quietened down.
Neto had began the game as our liveliest player on the right and, after good play by Moises Caicedo, he fed in Palmer, and there was a low cross towards Jackson, but Jordan Pickford saved well.
We played well in short spells, and from a corner, Jackson smacked the post from close range and Pickford closed angles before Malo Gusto could attack the rebound.
Everton had been very defensive and offered very little. It was so noticeable that the Everton support were cheering defensive clearances.
“God, I know everyone loves their clubs and their teams, but imagine turning up to watch this every two weeks?”
At last, an effort on our goal; someone called Orel Mangala forcing a very fine stop from Robert Sanchez. Just after, another Everton effort, and Sanchez thwarted Jack Harrison from close range.
It had been a poor first-half and was met with moans and grumbles by the Chelsea faithful at the break.
Neto had been my favourite, and we loved the audacious piece of skill when he controlled the ball by knocking it back over his shoulder to fox his marker. Caicedo was strong. Sancho had a lot of the ball but was finding it difficult to get the best of Old Man Young. Disasi touched the ball so many times it honestly felt like he was our main playmaker. We cried out for a little more urgency.
Just before the second half began, Eck, Steely and I were now lip-syncing to “True Faith” by New Order and we hoped our faith would be truly rewarded.
“That’s the price that we all pay. And the value of destiny comes to nothing. I can’t tell you where we’re going. I guess there was just no way of knowing.”
The weather was still wild. There were hints of a blue sky and sun, but only fleeting. At times the sky over the huge main stand roof took on a lavender hue. This was Goodison Park in the depths of winter, in the depths of Liverpool, in its unique setting. The wind grew stronger and the rain came again.
Football. There is something about it, in these old weather-beaten stadia, that absolutely stirs the soul.
Bizarrely, to me at least, it was Everton who created more chances of note in an increasingly worrisome second-half. On fifty minutes, a huge jolt to our confidence as Everton really should have scored. At last the home crowd made some noise that the old ground deserved.
Although Sancho looked a little more lively down below us – in an area of the Goodison Park pitch that always invokes of Eden Hazard twisting and turning – as the second-half continued, our link-up play was poor. Palmer was having a very average game, and this seemed to affect our confidence.
Some substitutions on seventy-five minutes.
Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
Noni Madueke for Neto.
Everton attacked down our left, and a shot from Martin Gore lookalike Jesper Lindstrom was expertly stopped by Sanchez, but the block on the follow-up effort from Tosin was exceptional.
It was at this stage that we all began thinking that we would be happy with a 0-0, a point, and consolidation of a second place finish.
There were minimal minutes added on at the end of the ninety. It was if the referee Chris Kavanagh was happy to save us any more pain.
It ended 0-0.
As the legions of home and away fans departed, I loitered with my camera and tried my best to capture a few haunting images of my final ten minutes in a stadium that I have so enjoyed visiting over the past thirty-eight years.
My final Everton vs. Chelsea record at Goodison Park :
Played : 24
Won : 8
Drew : 7
Lost : 9
For : 23
Against : 26
I took some inevitable shots of the trademark Leitch cross struts on the balcony wall, and I was reminded of when I pinned my “VINCI PER NOI” banner on this section for our last great game at Goodison, the 3-0 triumph late in 2016/17. My words illustrate the joy of that day.
At the final whistle, a triumphal roar, and then my eyes were focussed on Antonio Conte. He hugged all of the Chelsea players, and slowly walked over to join his men down below us, only a few yards away from the touchline. With just four games remaining, and our lead back to seven points, the joy among the team and supporters was palpable. Conte screamed and shouted, his eyes bulging. He jumped on the back of Thibaut Courtois. His smiles and enthusiasm were so endearing.
Altogether now – “phew.”
The songs continued as we slowly made our way out into the street. A message came through from my good friend Steve in Philadelphia –
“Chris, the image that just flashed on my screen was beautiful. A shot of a cheering Antonio Conte, cheering the away fans, with the Vinci banner in the background. Absolutely perfect shot.”
There was time for one last photo of me with the Gwladys Street in the background, and then one last shot of the exit gate in the Bullens Upper, a photo that I had taken just over twelve months earlier.
But now, it was final.
Thanks Goodison, for the memories, from Reg Axon in around 1942 and from me from 1986 to 2024.
The Famous Five were back together again for the home game against Aston Villa; I was on the road at 6.30am and by 7.30am my four passengers had been securely collected. I was alongside PD in the front while Glenn, Parky and Ron were squeezed into the back seats. Villa have faltered of late, and I think that the consensus in the car was of quiet optimism.
“If we win this, it would be a great statement of intent. Villa are no mugs. But we can bet them. If we win by three goals, we can rise to second place.”
My voice had begun strongly but tailed off. Deep down I thought that a win involving a margin of three goals might well be beyond us.
I was parked up at around 9.45am on a grey and slightly damp morning in the streets of Fulham. Time was of the essence during this particular pre-match and rather than take my time over a “sit down” breakfast at “Café Ole”, I quickly popped into the McMemory Lane Café further up the North End Road and scoffed a breakfast muffin.
You know what’s coming up, right?
Saturday 24 November 1984.
It was just after midday, and I was out and about in Stoke’s town centre. I can well remember the moment that I spotted a half-time score on a TV in an electronics shop on Church Street. Chelsea were playing against Tottenham at White Hart Lane, and it was an early 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive hooliganism. I saw the scoreline. We were 1-0 up. I bellowed a load “yes” and probably carried out a Stuart Pearson – who? – style fist pump. Being 1-0 up at the home of our most bitter rivals was one to celebrate. The goal came courtesy of Kerry once again, after just five minutes. Alas, Marc Falco – he was loaned to us two years previously, possibly one of our lowest of low points – equalised soon into the second-half for the home team. It left us in eighth place, and in a good state of health before the upcoming game at home to Football League and European Champions Liverpool the following Saturday.
Saturday 1 December 1984.
On the Friday, I had travelled back to Somerset, and on the morning of the game on the Saturday, I travelled up to London from Frome, by myself, by train. I was expecting to see Glenn en route but he was nowhere to be seen. This was to be the first in a double of huge home games in the month of December, with Manchester United visiting a few days after Christmas. There is no doubt that I was super-excited about the game with the red-shirted scousers. My record against them was perfect. Two games, two wins, at Stamford Bridge in 1878 and in 1982.
I got to Stamford Bridge ridiculously early and took in the early atmosphere. The place was excitedly expectant. I took my place on the back row of the West Stand Benches on a cold afternoon, alongside some friends who are mates to this day. A few rows behind us, up in the front rows was none other than Peter Osgood, my all-time hero. It was the first time I had seen The King since a game against Southampton eight years previously. My mate Alan took a photo of me before the game began. I remember I was sporting a pink Lacoste polo and a newly-acquired Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover from menswear shop in Stoke called “Matinique” where I had bumped into the Everton striker Adrin Heath a few weeks previously.
Eventually Glenn appeared after taking a later train from Frome and then Westbury. There was a ‘photo of him too, a picture of 1980’s Casualdom, with a bubble perm and a yellow Pringle.
I was obsessed by how many away fans of the various visiting clubs would show up at Stamford Bridge in 1984/85. There is no doubt at all that our home stadium had a fearsome reputation for away supporters, but I had been impressed with the West Ham following in early September, which must have reached the eight thousand level. Would Liverpool equal it? I wasn’t sure. From memory, they filled two pens, and a third was – as the game approached – mixed between home and away fans. There was a “set to” between the two sets of supporters in this third pen, and I can distinctly remember two things. There were around four thousand Scousers present.
Firstly, Alan – alongside me – said that he had spotted Hicky, the leader of the Chelsea pack, in the heart of the action. Secondly, I remember the Scousers letting off red flares, which hinted at their European history, and which I had never previously seen before at Stamford Bridge. One or two were propelled towards us in the West Stand. Needless to say, my little Kodak camera went into overdrive and captured a few of the red flashes between the two battling factions.
This only heightened the atmosphere. It was a dark afternoon, and the air of malevolence hung over the north terrace as thick as the London fogs of the pre-war years.
Chelsea attacked that same north terrace in the first-half and a move developed down the right, in front of the East Lower. Kerry Dixon raced down the right wing in front of the East Lower and kept going. From memory, he drew the ‘keeper and then slipped it in to put us 1-0 up. Only ten minutes had passed. There was wild and wanton euphoria on The Benches and elsewhere in the stadium too.
Sadly, Jan Molby equalised for Liverpool at The Shed End on twenty-eight minutes.
Thankfully, the second-half went our way with goals from Joe McLaughlin, a towering header just after the break – his first goal for us – and a third from David Speedie on seventy-six minutes giving us a fully deserved 3-1 win.
I was ecstatic.
My record against Liverpool was now an incredible 3-0, in an era when they were the stand-out team in England by a huge margin.
The gate was a huge 40,972. It added to the magnificence of it all.
Altogether now :
“Chelsea Are Back, Hello, Hello.”
On the Friday, in Frome, I had bought a copy of the new Cocteau Twins album “Treasure” and as I walked along the Fulham Road towards South Kensington tube station, to avoid the formidable crowds at Fulham Broadway, I listened to the album on my sub-Sony “Walkman”, an AIWA version. With the night now fallen, and with Christmas lights in the shop windows, with those glorious shimmering sounds providing a scintillating backdrop, I was able to go over the afternoon’s events, and it is a memory that lives with me to this day.
Every time, I hear that album – it is my favourite, my favourite ever – I am immediately transported back to that December evening in London some forty years ago.
And it was exactly forty years ago.
Fast forward to 1 December 2024, and I was back at Stamford Bridge yet again.
My pre-match was predictably busy and I spent it with Glenn and my friend Pete, and his son Calvin – from Seattle – at the hotel where The Shed once stood before meeting up with a smattering of mates from near and far in the “Eight Bells.”
The Normandy Division, headed by Ollie, was in town, and there was a visit from Johnny 12 Teams and his wife Jenni 12 Markets. Tommie from Porthmadog called in and we talked about Brazil. I had watched the final of the Coppa Libertadores on the Saturday night with the Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro game an exact copy of the last game I saw in Rio in July. Botafogo won 3-0 in July and 3-1 in December. They took the last spot in next season’s FFA World Club Cup in the US.
I was pleased that Botafogo won – it was some game – and cheered me up a little. Although I did not attend, Frome lost a “must-win” relegation six-pointer at Marlow earlier that day.
Inside Stamford Bridge, one friend was missing.
Alan, my mate from that day in 1984, was a hundred or so miles away following his other club Bromley in one of their biggest ever matches. They were at Solihull Moors in the Second Round Proper of the FA Cup. Ironically, the tie was against the same team that Bromley had beaten in their play-off final at the end of last season.
I often wonder if I will miss a Chelsea game in favour of a key Frome Town game. That time will come, I am sure.
The minutes passed until kick-off.
I have suffered recent technological nightmares with both my mobile phone and my laptop ceasing to work over the past fortnight. I bought a new ‘phone a week or so ago and upon firing up the wi-fi offered by Chelsea Football Club, I was again dismayed to see that during the set-up to get my new device registered, the list of reasons for my visit to Stamford Bridge included around eight options (such as Commercial Sponsor, Commercial Guest and Banqueting) but there was no mention of football.
It made me want to cry.
Where has it all gone wrong, Chowlsea?
Fackinell.
The team?
Sanchez
Caicedo – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella
Lavia – Enzo
Neto – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
The game began at 1.30pm. It soon became apparent that Moises Caicedo pushed up and inside when we had the ball, and there was all sorts of fluidity going on at the top end of the pitch. It was enough for me to do to exactly work it all out.
The three of us regulars in The Sleepy Hollow – PD, Clive and yours truly – were joined by a lad from Los Angeles (his debut at Stamford Bridge) and a young woman from New York (her second visit) and as the game began, we tried our best to make them feel at home, but we warned them about the usual flurry of swearing.
The three thousand Villa fans were in decent voice and there was an early song honouring the well-loved Gary Shaw, who recently passed away.
I noticed that a few Sleepy Hollow regulars had arrived a little late, but I had to commend them as they arrived just in time to see us play the ball out to Marc Cucarella on the edge of the box who then whipped in a fine cross towards the near post. Nicolas Jackson was on hand to prod the ball in past Emiliano Martinez.
Chelsea 1 Villa 0.
Get in.
Just seven minutes had passed.
The visitors seemed happy to soak up the early pressure, but we were tested by a break away down below us in the inside-left channel by Ollie Watkins. Fearing danger, I yelled out “stay with him Fofana” but this is the exact opposite of what our French defender did. He appeared to trip over an imaginary leg, and Watkins left him for dead. We were oh-so thankful of Robert Sanchez’ alert block, his legs spread wide.
I thought to myself that Watkins would thrive in our team, but then immediately chastised myself for coveting a neighbour’s ox when we had Jackson within our midst, a very decent young player in his own right.
There were decent performances throughout our team as the first-half continued. The two wingers Pedro Neto and Jadon Sancho caught the eye, but Neto had more end product.
There was that rare sighting of an indirect free-kick well inside the opposing penalty box, but Cole Palmer’s effort was saved by Martinez, and Romeo Lavia’s follow-up was unsurprisingly blocked.
Sanchez gets some stick from us regarding his poor distribution, but Martinez made a howler himself, passing the ball straight to Jackson. Surely a goal here? Alas not, the ball would not sit up for a clean finish, and Martinez was saved blushes. This was not the only example of sloppy defensive play from the visitors.
On thirty-seven minutes, we won the ball in midfield via the twin powers of Caicedo – currently becoming one of my favourites – and Lavia. The ball was played to Enzo, and then to Palmer. Our Mancunian maestro, the stray dog, pushed the ball on to Enzo who had found space. A quick assessment of the moment, and Enzo despatched a low shot with unerring precision and the ball flew past his Argentinian teammate in the Shed End goal.
Chelsea 2 Villa 0.
How we celebrated. And how Enzo, the captain today, celebrated too, sliding into Parkyville and ending up lying still on the turf. He was soon mobbed by his teammates.
“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC.”
Oh we were all very happy at half-time.
Villa, I think, had been poor, and had rarely threatened. At times we had purred.
Clive spotted a change between the sticks for Villa. On came Robin Olsen for Martinez. We continued along similar lines as the first-half.
I had a little think back to the game at Leicester City the previous weekend. I realised how the dynamic of support had changed over the two matches. At Leicester, all three-thousand of us in that tight corner, all standing, in it together, out-numbered, grateful for anything, happy with any attack away from home, bellowing songs of support.
And now, in the comfort of home, sat, arms crossed, offering polite encouragement, almost as if we needed to be entertained.
There was a glorious tackle that Enzo won before steadying himself to play in Jackson, who ran on but sadly squandered the chance.
On the hour, the injured Fofana gave way to Benoit Badiashile.
Villa made changes themselves.
The quality of play dropped a little and we didn’t dominate quite as much.
Ross Barkley came on as sub and received a warm reception. He soon made his presence felt with a close-in header that Colwill did ever so well to head off the line.
I am sure that I wasn’t the only one begging for one more goal. Despite playing the far more impressive football, at 2-0, I was never content.
Another chance for Jackson, and one for Sancho too.
On seventy-one minutes, Enzo Maresca made a double-swap.
Noni Madueke for Sancho.
Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.
I spoke to Max, from LA :
“You’re not missing out on any of our stars here, mate, they are all playing today.”
The game continued on, and I still begged for one more goal. The mercurial Palmer was involved as the game reached the last section and had one or two shots blocked.
On eighty-three minutes, a free-kick was taken quickly by Palmer out to Madueke, who returned the ball. Palmer took a touch, and although he was seemingly hemmed in by a gaggle of Villains, his firm strike at goal was perfectly despatched, its curve and its trajectory utterly beautiful.
It’s a good job he works in ballistics.
Chelsea 3 Villa 0.
Not only was the goal a stunning creation, the post-goal celebrations were magnificent too, and it made me tingle to see everyone so happy down below us.
One last change.
Joao Felix for Palmer.
This was a lovely performance from us, and one which solidified our place within the top echelons of the table. A special word for Marc Cucarella. What a fine performance; determined, aggressive, but never out of control, what a player. I loved his succession of headed clearances atv the back post in the second-half.
This whole performance suggested that we are on track for a very fine season.
Everyone was happy.
We scurried back to the car, and we learned that we were locked in at second place with Arsenal, who were marginally – alphabetically – ahead of us. I began the long drive home. We heard that Liverpool won 2-0 at home to Manchester City, and we all said nothing.
Nothing at all.
Alan, in the Midlands, had enjoyed a fantastic day. His Bromley had won 2-1 and were, thus, in the draw for the FA Cup Third Round, where they could possibly draw us.
Happy times for Al.
After dropping off my four passengers, I knew I had to recreate a scene, of sorts, from forty years ago to the day.
A Cocteau Twins compilation was set up in my car and I turned it on. I had to skip one song, but there they were; three consecutive songs from “Teasure.”
That bloody concourse. That bloody away end. That bloody announcer. Those bloody anthems. That bloody song. Those bloody scarves. That bloody clock.
A day out on Merseyside, a day out in Liverpool, a day out at Anfield.
And a few other things to talk about too. But let’s do this chronologically; an all-encompassing review of six football matches played over the past forty years.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Good.
First of all, let’s go back to 1984.
The next match featured in my review of the 1984/85 season was the notorious second leg of our Milk Cup tie against Millwall. This took place on the evening of Tuesday 9 October 1984. With me being a student in Stoke-on-Trent, this was always going to be a non-starter. I was nineteen, and yet to see an evening game in London, and I was never going to start with a trip to The Den. Eight years before, I could vividly remember watching the highlights on ITV of the away game at Millwall in the first few weeks of the 1976/77 season. Not only did we lose 0-3, but there was plenty of crowd trouble to boot, pardon the pun. In fact, in the following forty-eight years, many who went to this game have described it as the most horrific experience of their football lives. The mention by a couple of friends of “meat cleavers” should illustrate what Chelsea were up against on that sunny afternoon in “Deep South” all those years ago.
Millwall away? No thanks.
On this particular evening in 1984, I worked away on an essay, disappeared down to the local for a pint and then returned back to the flat to hear that we had drawn 1-1 at The Den. Kerry Dixon scored for us. The gate was just 11,157 and I suspect that 99% of them were blokes and a sizeable percentage were nutters. There has always been talk of this being the most formidable Chelsea “firm” to ever attend an away game and who am I to doubt it. Radio 2 reported no trouble inside the ground but that Robert Isaac, a Chelsea youth player who was on my radar, had been stabbed outside by some Millwall loons. This deeply saddened me.
The story was that he and some friends were confronted by some Millwall lads and were asked to name Millwall’s reserve ‘keeper. None of them could oblige, and Robert was slashed with a knife across his back. He was rushed to hospital and fifty-five stitches were applied. Over the past fifteen years, Robert and I have bumped into each other on a number of occasions and he joined us for a pub-crawl before the 2018 FA Cup Final. He always says that his thick leather jacket saved his life that night. He would go on to play thirteen times for our first team, then a few more for Brighton.
Next up, was a far-less terrifying home game against Watford on Saturday 13 October. I travelled down from Stoke by train and watched from The Benches with my new gang of match-day companions from London and the South-East, all of whom I still keep in contact with. Before the match, none other than Boy George appeared on the pitch and took loads of homophobic abuse from the home crowd. The back-story was that a video was being shot that day for the Culture Club single “The Medal Song” but I have no recollection of this. Maybe I disappeared off to the gents while this took place at half-time. In the video, the band member Mikey Craig – in full Chelsea kit – scores a goal at The Shed End.
We went 1-0 up via the dependable boot of Kerry Dixon, but Watford came back well to lead 3-1 with goals from Richard Jobson, Kenny Jackett and John Barnes, who had a blinder. There was a late consolation goal from the dependable head of Kerry Dixon. The gate of 25,340 contained a miserly four-hundred away fans.
On the following Saturday – 20 March 1984 – Chelsea travelled down to The Dell in Southampton and lost 1-0 to a Steve Moran goal in front of 20,212. Over this weekend, I was back in Frome but did not travel down to the game. Out in town that evening, my diary informs me that I bumped into Glenn who travelled down to Southampton but didn’t get in. I suspect the game was all-ticket, and I had never planned on going. After all, it would have been rude to come back home for the weekend, my family keen to hear of my first month at college, but then to bugger off to Southampton all day on the Saturday. I also bumped into PD during the evening, who also travelled to Southampton, and got in. He said that the away end was packed and that we ought to have won. He told me that there was no trouble inside The Dell, but he was knocked out after the game.
Let’s fast forward to 2024. However, before we meet up with PD again, forty years to the exact day since I bumped into him in “The Wheatsheaf” in Frome, I need to talk about two games involving our home town’s football club.
On the Tuesday, I drove up to the river city of Gloucester to watch Frome Town play a league game at Gloucester City. I travelled alone, but met up with some Frome friends at the game, and also Chelsea mates Andrew and Martin who live locally and follow their home city’s team in the same way that I follow Frome. Alas, on a wet night, Frome succumbed to a goal in each half to lose 2-0 in front of a gate of 601. We remained mired in a relegation place, but there have been some signs of late of a little resurgence.
As the week developed, thoughts turned to the first game in a mammoth weekend of football. My friend Josh, from Minneapolis, was over for the game at Anfield on the Sunday but was coming down by train from London to see Frome Town play Poole Town on the Saturday. He travelled down last December for a Frome game and vowed to return. He is, in fact, one of a little army of Chelsea mates in the US who follow Frome – hello JR, hello Steve, hello Jaro, hello Rick, hello the other Josh, hello John, hello Phil, hello Bobster – and there has been one recent addition.
I have met Courtney, from Chicago, at “The Eight Bells” for two Chelsea games over the past three years, and on the Wednesday evening he confirmed that he would be attending the Frome Town vs. Poole Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea double-header too.
However, compared to Josh, his travel plans were far more stressful. He was flying over from Chicago, and was due to arrive in Frankfurt early on Saturday morning. He was then booked on a flight to Manchester, but hoped to swap to a London flight, and then drive down to Frome for the game. If not, he would be forced to land at Manchester at around 10am and then drive to Frome.
I woke on Saturday and soon texted both Americans. Josh was fine, and would arrive at Westbury just before midday, when I would pick him up. Courtney, however, unable to change his onward travel from Frankfurt, had arrived at Manchester at 10.15am.
I gulped.
“Poor bugger.”
With a section of the M4 being shut, I warned him that he would be diverted over The Cotswolds to reach Frome. I contacted a Frome director to reserve him a place in the club car park. It would be touch-and-go for him to make the kick-off. I was able to reserve him a car park place because…roll on drums…Courtney had splendidly sponsored the Frome match. Courtney, Josh and I were going to be wined and dined at the club at half-time, along with my two former school mates, the class of 1978 to 1983, Steve and Francis.
I picked up Josh at Westbury and gave him a little tour of my local village and my local town, including a pint at “The Three Swans” in Frome’s historic town centre. Meanwhile, Courtney was making good time and his ETA was to be around three o’clock. We then met up with Francis, and his mate Tom, at “The Vine Tree” for another quick drink before arriving at the ground a few minutes before kick-off.
It was a stunning day; warm temperatures, blue skies, and what looked like a decent crowd of over 500.
With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made really good time, and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.
The game was a very good one. Alas, the visitors went ahead in the tenth minute when our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips spilled a cross and there was an easy tap-in. However, just before half-time, Matt Wood – whose home kit Josh sponsors – slotted home from just outside the six-yard box from a George Rigg corner.
It was a case of all smiles at half-time as we got stuck into our jacket potatoes and chilli – thanks Louise!
With thoughts of our travel to Merseyside, I asked the two Americans a football teaser.
Q : which current league ground – the top four divisions – is closest to the River Mersey?
The answer follows later.
In the second-half, we decamped to our favourite spot in The Cow Shed, but a weak goal from the visitors gave them a perhaps undeserved 2-1 lead. We kept going, however, and were rewarded with a fantastic equaliser on the ninetieth minute when that man Matt Wood bravely headed in.
Pandemonium in the South Stand!
As match sponsors, we had the vote for Man Of The Match, but it was easy; Josh’s boy Matt Wood.
However, football can be a bastard.
In extra-time, a virtual copy of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips’ spill for the first goal resulted in a third, and winning, goal for the visitors.
This felt like a kick had been administered to the collective solar plexus.
Fackinell.
After the game, we were able to relax a little in the club house and I introduced the lads from the US to our board of directors. It had been a cracking afternoon and it was lovely for a couple of players, and the manager Danny Greaves, to meet Josh and Courtney. Courtney had been pleasantly surprised by the size of the stadium and the quality of the facilities, and he went off to buy a blue and white away shirt from the club shop. At 6pm, with a five hour drive up to his hotel in Liverpool ahead of him, Courtney said his goodbyes.
“See you tomorrow, mate.”
Honestly, it had been a lovely time, one for the ages.
But Sunday was another day, and it soon followed.
I was up at 6am, bright and breezy, and I soon spotted a text from Courtney. He had eventually arrived in Liverpool at 11.20pm after a couple of stops en route. I collected PD from his house and Josh from his hotel at 7am, and I collected Parky in his village at 7.30am.
After following our exploits via this blog since its inception in 2008, Josh has always wanted to join us in The Chuckle Bus for an away game, and here he was, sat next to Parky in the rear seats as I headed due north.
A week or so ago I decided that I would probably call this match report “Tales From The Football Road” because my journey would encompass a section of the M6, which is as near to a genuine and bona fide “football road”, for me anyway, in the UK. We would join the M6 in Birmingham, just as Walsall’s Bescot Stadium appears to the east, and it is the road that I use to take me to Chelsea away games against Everton, Liverpool, Manchester City and Manchester United, but also, historically, against teams such as Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers, Blackpool, Burnley, Wigan Athletic and Preston North End.
I am yet, however, to visit Edgeley Park, the historic home of Stockport County – where Chelsea played our first-ever league game in 1905 – and which is the closest league ground to the River Mersey.
The M6 took on a special importance on this weekend. It was the road that Courtney had taken on Saturday from the airport just south of Manchester to get down to Frome, and the road that he took back to his hotel in Liverpool.
The Football Road.
It certainly was.
As I headed past Bath, I was on the exact same route that Courtney had taken around fourteen hours earlier.
I tried my best to keep Josh entertained.
“You know Peter Gabriel’s song ‘Solsbury Hill’ mate?”
“Yep.”
I gestured outside.
“Well, this is it.”
We headed straight over the M4, into Gloucestershire, through some delightful Cotswold scenery. Thankfully the early rain eventually subsided. At Frocester Hill, the Severn Vale appeared down below. It was a breath-taking sight. Parky spoke about the Severn Bore and watching those that surf it, while I spoke about the river’s tidal range being the second highest in the world, but we then realised that we were becoming Severn bores.
We soon stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McDonalds breakfast at about 8.45am. I then ate up the remainder of the M5, but alas the floodlights of The Hawthorns were hidden by dense fog as the M5 ended and the M6 began.
“2017 and all that.”
As I passed Stoke, I was reminded of 1984 and I told PD that forty years ago to the very day we had chatted in one of Frome’s pubs about that game in Southampton. I asked of his recollections of that game.
He had indeed been knocked out after the game, but by a policeman on horseback. There was no real trouble, but after the match, the local Hampshire constabulary had caused a panic among the crowd leaving The Dell, and PD ended up on the pavement. Our mate Andy spotted him and helped him recover. Later that week, the CID interviewed PD at his house in Frome after many complaints by the public about the behaviour of the local police that day. These were the days when football fans, in general, were viewed as low-life scum by many in the police force and it was considered fair game for them to whack football fans. I remember being thrown against a metal fence at St. James’ Park by a Geordie copper after celebrating a little too enthusiastically after a Chelsea goal earlier in 1984.
I refuelled at Knutsford, then drove over the familiar Thelwall Viaduct. As we drove high above the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal, there was some local history for Josh. I explained how the Manchester cotton mill owners reacted to the higher rates being asked by Liverpool dock owners by forcing the construction of their own waterway, with docks at Salford, and how this heightened that particular inter-city rivalry.
Oh God, I was becoming the Mersey bore, now.
I drove onto the oh-so familiar M62 into Liverpool.
I was parked up, as I was on our last visit to Anfield, in a car park just off Dale Street just before midday, and just in time for the pubs to open. It had taken me exactly five hours to get from my house to the car park on Vernon Street. Above, blue skies and glorious sun. We had enjoyed fantastic pub crawls around Dale Street on PD’s birthday in January 2017 and January 2024, and we were back for more.
“Ye Hole In Ye Wall”.
This is rumoured to be Liverpool’s oldest pub, built in 1726. I treated myself to the first of two lagers for a change and it wasn’t long to wait for Courtney to arrive. I must admit, he looked rather tired, but he soon livened up.
“The Vernon Arms”.
Our third visit, the famous sloping floor, a chat with some local Liverpool fans at the next table, no animosity, all gentle banter. Josh recounted the story of the two of us having a drink in a bar opposite Yankee Stadium in 2012 for the PSG friendly, and meeting three young women who had brought little plastic bags of trimmed celery with them, having heard about it being a Chelsea “thing” yet completely unaware of “that” song and its full content.
“The Rose & Crown”.
A first visit, a little more chat with some Liverpool supporters, and we saw a late Kilmarnock goal defeat Rangers on the TV.
We needed to get ourselves parked-up, so I headed up to Goodison Park, via a slow drive-past Everton’s new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. We could only really see the shiny roof as there was a high wall blocking our view. I have been tracking its progress since I called by before our first away game in 2022/23. There are several old warehouses close by that we earmarked to be used for hotels in the near future. The stadium should revitalise that stretch of the river.
The Mersey played a little part in my family history.
I had spoken to Josh and Courtney about how my great great grandparents had left Somerset for a new life in Philadelphia in 1854. They boarded the maiden voyage of the SS City of Philadelphia from Liverpool, but it was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September, though – unlike the Titanic – no lives were lost. The Whites were to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.
Maybe next season, should Everton stay up, I will gaze out at the River Mersey from near the away end of the new stadium and think wistfully back to 1854.
“The Abbey”.
We visited this pub in the August of 2021 before a creditable 1-1 at Anfield, and I joined the lads in the cramped bar. Again, PD and Parky were talking to some locals. There was a quick chat with Tommie from Portmadoc about Rio de Janeiro, and then Josh and I met up with Courtney at the Dixie Dean statue at about 3.15pm.
We did a quick circuit of the old lady. This was their first-ever trip to Merseyside, and with this being Goodison’s last-ever season, it was only right that we circumnavigated the old place. I rattled off what seemed like a hundred different Goodison stories all at once and it is no surprise. I simply adore the place. You may have noticed.
Time was moving on and we needed to get our three arses up the hill of Stanley Park to Anfield. The wind was blowing now, but thankfully there was no rain.
Tommie’s brother, a staunch Evertonian, calls Anfield “Castle Greyskull” and as we approached it I could see his point.
Anfield used to be very similar to Goodison, nestled in among tight streets on all four sides. Now, because it has been able to expand, all of those adjacent houses have gone, and it sits atop the hill like a gloomy grey aircraft hangar, its two new and huge stands looming over everything. Goodison seems quaint and charismatic in comparison.
As we made our way towards the stadium, we could hear the music booming out from what I presumed was Anfield’s “fan zone”, which thankfully we have been spared at Chelsea.
“Stevie Heighway on the wing…”
Those bloody anthems.
Outside the away end, I passed over spares to Deano and I was inside at around 4.10pm. Despite the massive increase to the bulk of this newly-improved stand – the old “Annie Road” as the scallies called it – the concourse tucked behind the away end is still the same size, still cramped.
I took my place alongside John, Gary and Alan. A few familiar faces nearby, but lots of new faces too. The sun was high above The Kop and I wanted it to soon drop below the huge main stand. That bloody flag with the six European Cups made its way down the Centenary Stand, or whatever it is called these days. To my right, the humungous main stand, not one seat empty.
Fackinell.
“The Fields Of Anfield Road” again.
The entrance of the teams.
Scarves held aloft.
“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Those bloody scarves.
A barrage of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea” but this was lost against the pumped tannoyed muzak of an Anfield game day, Gerry Marsden and all.
A minute of applause in memory of Peter Cormack, a player from my youth, a decent player.
Right, the team.
A big shock that Reece James was starting and Malo Gusto was shunted over to the left to keep an eye on Mo Salah, who now looked nothing like Mo Salah. Romeo Lavia in with Moises Caicedo, a strong midfield duo, er pivot. Pivot, right? That’s what all the nerds call it, right?
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Tosin – James
Lavia – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Going into the game, I was confident, but was not that confident to think of a win. A draw would make me a happy man.
Being back in that bloody away end took me back to January when we were shellacked 4-1, and if Darwin Nunez hadn’t hit the woodwork on multiple occasions it would have been much worse.
It seemed odd not to see Jurgen Klopp stood in front of the Liverpool bench.
The game began and to my pleasant surprise we seemed to have most of the ball. But the home support, above us especially, were warbling out their old favourite :
“Fuck off Chelsea FC. You ain’t got no history.”
I chuckled to myself about their use of a double-negative.
Very early on, Liverpool broke and Tosin tangled with Diogo Jota just inside our half. The referee brandished a yellow, and I was so thankful that there was a Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, alongside the play, thus nullifying the threat of a straight red.
On eighteen minutes, Cody Gakpo was given the ball on a plate after a typical bit of madness from Robert Sanchez but his snapshot was hit right back into the arms of our worrying ‘keeper.
After a quarter of the match, it wasn’t much of a game, but we were still dominating most of the ball. Jadon Sancho on the left was often in space but did not use the ball wisely. Noni Madueke was more direct on the right. Cole Palmer was a peripheral figure. I liked the pairing of Caicedo and Lavia from the off, strong and resourceful.
It seemed like both teams were sounding each other out.
Salah went down in the box, but no penalty. Phew.
It was lovely to see Reece James patrolling the right-hand side of our defence and he slotted in well, showing some sublime early touches.
On twenty-nine minutes, Salah broke in from the right. I yelled at our defender to keep him outside. He came inside and shot. The ball hit Colwill but fell at the feet of Curtis Jones and Colwill made an attempt to nick the ball.
Penalty.
“Bollocks.”
Salah swept it in from the spot.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 0.
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
Two minutes later, more menace from Salah as he crossed and Gakpo arrived late at the far post to prod home. Thankfully, Salah was adjudged to have crept offside. Phew.
The ball was pushed through by Caicedo to Jackson who wasted no time before smashing it high against the angle of near post and bar.
It was our first real attempt.
A couple of half-chances at either end.
At least we weren’t being over-run and over-powered like last season. This seemed like a slightly reticent Liverpool team.
In the closing moments of the first-half, as Sanchez rushed out to block from Jones, we were utterly amazed to see a penalty awarded, along with a yellow for our ‘keeper.
“That was just a normal block tackle, surely?”
VAR was called in.
No penalty. No yellow.
Very late on, Madueke broke down the right, Palmer withdrew to give himself some space and Madueke angled the ball to him. Was this the moment? Well, it was a moment but not the moment. Palmer’s shot glided just over the bar.
“Bollocks.”
The droll low burr of the Anfield announcer George Sephton, a presence at their games since 1971, introduced a younger and more excitable colleague to talk through a junior penalty-kick competition at The Kop at half-time. Sephton’s voice certainly evokes some memories. David James then saved a twice-taken penalty kick from a young Liverpool fan. The crowd booed. The announcer was in shock.
“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve just ruined that lad’s day.”
At the break, Pedro Neto came on for Sancho. My goodness, we certainly have options out wide. Soon into the second-half, just three minutes in, Caicedo picked out the run of Jackson and played a perfect ball through. Jackson advanced and calmly slotted past Kelleher. The away end erupted, but our joy was soon quelled by an offside flag. We waited for a VAR decision and, thankfully, it went our way. Jackson had stalled his run just right.
Goal.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.
With that, Jackson led a charge from the half-way line down to the Annie Road and the players celebrated wildly, while I hoped for a couple of decent shots with my pub camera.
Sadly, just three minutes later, a cross from Salah on the Liverpool right, caught the entire Chelsea defence out. The ball was swept right into a wide corridor of uncertainty, and the impressive Curtis Jones was able to take a touch and then prod the ball past Sanchez. I looked at the linesman in the far right corner but there was no flag.
“Bollocks.”
Liverpool 2 Chelsea 1.
On fifty-two minutes, three changes.
Renato Veiga for James.
Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.
Benoit Badiashile for Tosin.
“Were they preparing those subs before the goal, John?”
“Think so, mate.”
I was surprised to see Lavia being replaced. He had played well. Perhaps this was a precautionary measure.
There was a very loud “allez allez”.
It’s odd that we hear “YNWA” before games at Anfield, but never during the actual games themselves these days. When did that stop?
We had more of the possession as Liverpool seemed happy to soak it all up, but there were only quarter-chances from a Madueke shot from an angle and a Palmer free-kick.
I sensed that the home support was worried though; they seemed quiet and nervous.
The away support got behind the boys with our loudest chant of the game thus far, a fine rendition of “Amazing Grace – the Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” version.
I remember surging and strong runs through the middle from Caicedo, plus energy and directness from Neto on our left. Palmer was, alas, a passenger for much of the second-half. Neto’s effort trundled wide of a post.
On seventy-six minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Madueke, and Neto swapped wings. His play deteriorated on the right.
Palmer lobbed a free-kick into the Liverpool six-yard box but Veiga headed over from a good position.
We still kept going. I could not fault our application, even if the attack lacked real bite.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
My attention was drawn to the twin clocks that sit above the corner flags at The Kop.
Those bloody clocks.
I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time gazing up at those simple blocks of electric lights and I have done for years.
The extra-time ticked down, the time ticked away.
Nkunku almost touched the ball home, from a Neto cross, just a few yards to our left.
At the other end, Diaz picked up the ball and advanced.
“Don’t let him dance into the box.”
Thankfully his shot tantalisingly flew high and wide.
In the last second of the game, a shot from Malo Gusto was blocked and the referee blew.
Fackinell.
This had been my twenty-eighth visit to Anfield, and my record is relegation-form.
Won : 5
Drew : 8
Lost : 15
For : 28
Against : 45
I caught site of Courtney as we gathered together in the concourse. I am sure his weekend had felt just like a dream. He was to make his own way to Crewe and then catch a train down to London where he was working on the Monday and Tuesday.
I wished him a safe journey and thanked him for Saturday.
I didn’t envy his travel. Mind you, I didn’t envy mine. I still had around two-hundred miles to drive on this Sunday evening.
I stopped a couple of times to refuel – me, not the car – and I dropped off the lads before getting in at 12.30am. I was, of course, repeating Courtney’s breakneck mission on Saturday morning.
This football road.
Unfortunately, our football weekend had resulted in two defeats, but it had been a cracker.
There was international football ahead for Josh, and others in the coming week, with a trip to Athens for our game at Panathinaikos on Thursday.
I had an international game lined up too.
Merthyr Town vs. Frome Town next Saturday, ahead of Chelsea vs. Newcastle United next Sunday.
This was always my fear. Despite a resurgence in our play over the past month – high points at Villa, the second-half at Palace and at City – there was still a niggling doubt that whatever team was selected to play at Wembley, the players just could not be trusted to drag us over the line. And despite Liverpool players falling by the wayside with injuries as the final approached, I had a fear that there would not be enough in our locker – nous, determination, skill – to give us a much-needed win.
All of our deficiencies – and a few of our positives – were discussed at length as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky and drove up to the M4 at Chippenham. As I approached Junction 17 I made my views clear.
“Right, that’s enough about the game today. Let’s not talk any more about it. Let’s enjoy the day ahead.”
I was up just after 5.45am. I had collected the two Frome lads at 7am and Parky in Holt at 7.30am. By 9.30am, we were tucking into our breakfasts at “The Half Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road. At 10am, I pulled up outside “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge and PD shouted out to Salisbury Steve, who was just about to disappear inside as the front doors were opened, to get a round in. For the third League Cup Final in a row, we were staying the night at the Premier Inn opposite, and I soon parked the car outside. We were hoping that this would be third time lucky. Against Manchester City in 2019 and against Liverpool in 2022, we had narrowly lost on penalties.
On the Saturday, I had watched Frome Town obtain a relatively easy 3-1 win at home to Tavistock to nudge themselves into pole position in the table. As the beers started to flow, I never felt confident that Chelsea would follow up Frome’s win to give me a perfect weekend. Mark, now living in Spain, and his son Luca, still in The Netherlands, joined us and the laughter roared around the pub. We tried not to think too much about the football.
This would be Chelsea Football Club’s tenth League Cup Final.
Our first final took place four months before I was born in March 1965, when we defeated Leicester City over two legs. In 1972, we infamously lost 1-2 to Stoke City at Wembley and I have no recollection of the game. We had to wait ages for the next one; a 2-0 triumph against Middlesbrough at old Wembley in 1998 after extra-time. Next up was a match in Cardiff at the Millennium Stadium against Liverpool in 2005; we narrowly edged it 3-2 after extra time. Two years later, at the same venue, a 2-1 triumph against Arsenal. In 2008, the 2-1 loss to Tottenham Hotspur, after extra-time, at the new Wembley Stadium. In 2015, we comfortably defeated the same opponent 2-0. Then, the two tight losses in 2019 to Manchester City (0-0 after extra-time, losing 3-4 on penalties) and in 2022 to Liverpool (0-0 after extra-time, losing 10-11 on penalties).
A potted history of us in nine previous League Cup Finals does not tell the entire story of course.
1965 : there are numerous stories about Eddie McCreadie’s apparently masterful solo run up the middle of the park before sliding the ball past the ‘keeper. It was only our second piece of silverware in sixty years.
1972 : “Blue Is The Colour” was released specifically for this game and I used to get such a thrill listening to it on the radio for years after. An Osgood goal for Chelsea, but George bloody Eastham gave Stoke their sole trophy in 161 years.
1998 : the first-part of a Cup Double that season and another Wembley goal from Roberto di Matteo. The good times were returning to Stamford Bridge.
2005 : the first Mourinho season and the first Mourinho silverware. In an enthralling match, we went behind early on after John Arne Riise belted one in from distance. A Steven Gerrard own goal levelled it and two late goals from Mateja Kezman and Didier Drogba gave us a huge win. Mourinho was sent-off for his “shush” but we did not care less. It was the first game that I had seen Chelsea play in an enclosed stadium.
2007 : two more Didier Drogba goals gave us a win after Theo Walcott scored early for Arsenal. The game that Cesc Fabregas was pelted with celery at a corner and the game where John Terry was knocked unconscious by a boot to his head.
2008 : we went ahead through Didier Drogba, but Tottenham levelled with a Dimitar Berbatov penalty before Jonathan Woodgate headed Tottenham in front. Our support that day was the worst that I can ever remember. It was one of my all-time lows as a Chelsea follower.
2015 : this was a tough game for me, coming just three days after my mother’s passing. Goals from John Terry and Diego Costa gave us a relatively easy win.
2019 : a decent performance and great support from the Chelsea crowd. This was the day that Kepa notoriously humiliated Maurizio Sarri by not following instructions to be substituted by Wily Caballero.
2022 : this could have gone either way, but a ridiculously long penalty shootout went against us when Cesar Azpilicueta missed the only penalty out of twenty-two.
Going in to the 2024 Final, our record was won 5 and lost 4.
At 12.45pm, we caught a District Line tube up to Paddington and changed trains to get ourselves over to Marylebone. Here, the ever-reliable Jason handed over a spare ticket to me that would then be passed to Glenn. Just as we were about to hop on a train to Wembley Stadium, the call went out that a few of the lads that we know from Westbury and Trowbridge were in the “Sports Bar.” The drinking continued.
“What football?”
We eventually caught a train at about 2.15pm to Wembley.
We bumped into many familiar faces at Marylebone, on the train, at the station, on the march to the turnstiles.
I remember my first visit to the old Wembley, in around 1972 or 1973, on the back of a visit to see my grandfather’s older brother in Southall. There was no game. I just wanted to see Wembley, beguiled by either the 1972 or 1973 FA Cup Finals. We parked just off “Wembley Way” – actually Olympic Way – and I remember being mightily impressed as I saw the twin towers for the first time. The stadium was at the top of a slight rise in the land, with its own added embankments and steps giving it an air of importance. It stood alone, not encumbered by any buildings nearby, only the London sky above it. It exuded a great sense of place.
Wembley in 2024 is much different. Bleak flats and hotels take up every spare square yard of space, from the walk up to the stadium from Wembley Park Station, right up to the immediate surrounds of the stadium itself. I don’t suffer from claustrophobia and I am glad I don’t. At Wembley, between the bland stadium walls and the oppressive bleak apartment buildings I would be surely panting with anxiety.
It is a horrible stadium. I hate it.
Regular readers of these tales will know only too well how we struggle to get in to Wembley in time. At 2.50pm, I was still in the queue. Once inside, an escalator was not working, delaying me further. I eventually made it in at around 3.05pm.
Sigh.
Our seats were in row thirty-eight, just a few from the very back of the highest part of the stadium. We were virtually on the half-way line. My calves were aching. God knows how much pain PD and Parky were in.
A quick check of the team. As expected, the same as against Manchester City.
Petrovic.
Gusto – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell
Caicedo – Enzo
Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling
Jackson
Everyone was stood. PJ and Brian – from the pre-match pub at City last weekend – were right behind us along with Feisal and Martin. We would find out later that Gary, Daryl, Ed and Clive were a few seats in front.
These seats only cost £41. Decent.
Liverpool had the best of the very early part of the game and we looked stretched at times. They enjoyed the first real chance when Axel Diasi allowed Luis Diaz a shot but Djordje Petrovic was equal to it.
There wasn’t a great deal of noise thus far. But I always try to look for clues to see which support is more “up for it.” My first observation wasn’t good. On the upper balcony wall, to my left – our unlucky East End – there were red banners everywhere. To my right – the West End, us – the same balcony between the Club Wembley tier and the upper tier was almost completely devoid of Chelsea flags and banners.
Ugh. An early lead to The Scousers.
As the game continued, neither sets of fans were particularly noisy. Were nerves to blame? It couldn’t have been due to the lack of alcohol. Maybe the game needed to ignite to fully engage the supporters and their voices.
Chelsea began to grow into the game and on twenty minutes, a Conor Gallagher cross from the right was played in to Raheem Sterling. There was a heavy touch and the ball eventually found Cole Palmer. His stab at goal was from close-in but the Liverpool ‘keeper Kelleher saved well. Nicolas Jackson’s follow-up was blocked too.
On the half-hour mark, Palmer padded the ball forward to Jackson who moved the ball square to Jackson. His grass-cutter cross to the far post – towards Sterling – was perfection and as our often-maligned striker prodded home, I turned to PD and we both screamed at each other like fools.
Alas.
VAR.
The goal was disallowed. Offside.
Bollocks.
Liverpool’s Gakpo headed against the base of Petrovic’ near post.
The game had taken a while but it was warming up. However, still not much noise, and virtually nothing from our end to the right. There were a few half-hearted chants from our section – “Three Little Birds” is a difficult one to get going in the huge spaces of the upper tier at Wembley – and the noise did not build.
Just before the half-time break, I spotted many red seats in the Chelsea end, the lure of a pint or a pee too strong for many. In contrast, there were hardly any empty seats in the Liveroool end. Advantage still to Liverpool. Bollocks.
When the whistle sounded, I disappeared downstairs and hoped that I would be able to conquer the north face of the Eiger on my return. I made it, but it seemed that we had lost PJ and Feisal to frostbite.
The second-half began and we began to probe the Liverpool defence more often. Gallagher set up Enzo but the Argentinian managed to get his tango feet tangled up and the chance went begging. At the other end, Petrovic punched clear from Elliott.
On the hour, a long cross from the Liverpool left was met by a leap from Van Dijk. The ball nestled in the net. We groaned. In the Liverpool end to our left, red flares were ignited, a horrible reminder of a scene at the end of the 2022 FA Cup Final.
After what seemed like an age, VAR was summoned.
No goal.
Christopher Nkunku replaced Sterling.
The game increased in quality and intensity. Chances were exchanged.
A Gallagher corner dropped into the six-yard box. Levi Colwill headed it on but Disasi made a mess of the final touch. Kelleher was able to jump unchallenged to claim. From my vantage point it seemed impossible that we had not edged ahead.
Gakpo blazed over.
Everyone was still stood. Everyone in the stadium. You have to marvel at us football fans’ ability to stand for hours and hours.
There was a nice interchange between Gusto and Caicedo that set up the silky skills of Palmer. His touch inside to Gallagher was flicked on and we were exasperated when his effort came back off the far post.
Fackinell.
Gomez at Petrovic. An easy save.
Caicedo to Gusto, but a searching ball was just too long for Nkunku at the far post.
Gallagher was given another chance, set up by Palmer, but with just Kelleher to beat there was a lame finish.
Fackinell.
We still created chances. A fine ball by Enzo out to Jackson who did well to hold the ball up. He played it back to Gallagher who blazed over.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Jackson.
Another attack, with bodies in the box, Kelleher saved at point blank range from Nkunku.
Oh my bloody goodness.
At ninety-minutes it was 0-0.
“We have been here before Liverpool, we have been here before.”
There was no time to pause, no time to think, the game began again. Or rather, it didn’t for us. All of the momentum that we had built in the last quarter of the game seemed to disappear as the night grew colder.
Noni Madueke for Gallagher. What? Answers on a postcard.
Trevoh Chalobah for Chilwell.
Liverpool came again, with a few efforts on our goal. We had Petrovic to thank once more. His had been a fine performance. There was a hugely impressive “Allez Allez Allez” from the red corner to my left. It was the loudest noise of the entire match. I looked over at the blue corner to my right. I heard nothing. I just saw a few blue flags being waved in the far corner. As far as responses go, it was almost fucking laughable.
Where has our support gone? It was excellent in 2019 against City. This, in 2024, was even worse than the 2008 debacle against Tottenham. It makes me so sad.
At half-time in extra-time, I suspect we all feared penalties once again.
The second period soon came and we watched as Chelsea grew weaker. The minutes ticked by. Our new additions did not add anything to the team. Mudryk frustrated us in the way only he can do. We looked tired. I felt tired.
Penalties surely.
With just two minutes remaining, a Liverpool corner. I found myself momentarily gazing over at the lower tier opposite, the Chelsea section. Everyone was still stood. I looked back just in time to see the ball fly into the net from another Van Dijk header.
Although our heads seem full of the two domestic cups for the moment, here was a sobering trip back to normality and the league campaign. They really don’t get much tougher than this one.
Liverpool vs. Chelsea.
Gulp.
I was up early, at 5.30am, and I soon found myself outside PD’s house in Frome at seven o’clock. Salisbury Steve had driven up to Frome to join us and, despite being pleased to see Steve, there were a few special words for PD.
“Happy birthday mate.”
It was PD’s sixty-second birthday. I am not sure how that is possible, but it is. It doesn’t seem too long ago that I first met PD on a train home from Cardiff City almost forty years ago.
We left Somerset behind us and soon crossed the border into Wiltshire where I picked up Parky at just after 7.30am. By a twist of fate, the game at Liverpool was on the seventh anniversary of a match that we had attended at Anfield during our championship season of 2016/17. That was a Wednesday too.
And just as we celebrated PD’s fifty-fifth birthday with a famous pub-crawl in central Liverpool in 2017, we were also looking to partake in something similar for his sixty-second birthday. In 2017, we visited four pubs on Dale Street. I had a similar strategy for 2024.
Regardless of the football, we all hoped for a decent time.
There was heavier traffic than usual. However, after stopping for the usual breakfast at Strensham Services between Tewkesbury and Worcester, I was happy with our progress. We didn’t speak too much about the game. I did utter an opinion that most Chelsea supporters, I suspected, would swap a loss at Anfield – “even a heavy loss” – for a triumph in the up-coming League Cup Final.
It was a familiar drive into Liverpool. We crossed over Queens Drive at The Old Swan rather than take a right turn to either Anfield or Goodison and after a few miles, the huge carcass of the former Littlewoods Pools building appeared on our left. This was once an impressive art deco structure but has been abandoned for many years. It is currently awaiting a revamp as a media and studio centre.
We had a little chat about the football pools, and how Littlewoods and Vernons were based in Liverpool, whereas Zetters was based in London. I was reminded that the former Liverpool Polytechnic was re-named as John Moores University after the first owner of Littlewoods. The buildings of this university dominate the final approach into the city. John Moores was a director and chairman of Everton at various times from 1960 to 1977. His nephew, David Moores, was Liverpool chairman from 1991 to 2010.
One wonders how much pools money was filtered into the support of the city’s two football clubs over the years.
Driving into the city was easy. I easily spotted the two cathedrals. I dropped down the hill but Everton’s new stadium was just out of sight to our right. My route took me close to Walker Art Gallery. In March of last year, on my way home for a short break in Newcastle and Edinburgh, I had dropped into Liverpool’s city centre to visit an exhibition at the Walker Art Gallery about casuals. I spent around ninety minutes, appropriately enough, at the exhibition which detailed the rise and spread of casual subculture, which some say began on Liverpool’s Scotland Road in 1977. Although, the geographical roots are often argued, Merseyside is surely the spiritual home of the casual movement.
I really enjoyed the scope and detail of the exhibition, which I caught during the last few days of its run. Not only were there detailed descriptions of how football and fashion fused together, there were vintage original pieces of clothing from the original era, plus some excellent pieces of art from the football world. I was pleased to see a copy of “The Face” from 1983 that I still own to this day. The exhibition was superb and I loved it. It was right up my Gwladys Street.
I include some photographs.
I then drove within touching distance of Lime Street station, always the scene of much shenanigans in past decades. I remember arriving there for the first time in May 1985 and how I gingerly caught a bus up to Anfield for my very first game in the city. I remember putting on a “Scouse accent” as I paid the driver for my ticket. These were nervous steps for me. Liverpool had a gruesome reputation as being unsafe for away fans, despite the media’s view of the city’s football fans as being cheeky rascals and no more. I remember seeing a Chelsea fan on the bus that I recognised at the time. I have not seen him for years and years so I was pleased to see him at Middlesbrough a few weeks ago. I was pleased that he still goes.
Around that time, Liverpool had been the dominant force in English football since the mid-‘seventies. In those four seasons of First Division football from 1984/85 to 1987/88, I went to every Chelsea game at Anfield. It seemed a massive match in those times.
1984/85 : I travelled up by train from Stoke-on-Trent and watched from a packed away corner as we narrowly lost 4-3. This was a Saturday morning game, with the risk of crowd trouble ruling out a later kick-off. I was surprised how quiet The Kop was.
1985/86 : another trip up by train from Stoke, another morning game, and a fantastic 1-1 draw, with Pat Nevin knocking in a very late equaliser. There were around five hundred Rangers fans in our part of the Kemlyn Road. When the goal went in, at our end, I literally could not move.
1986/87 : another morning game, this time on a Sunday afternoon, and live on TV. A poor performance from us, we lost 0-3. I would later spot myself on the TV coverage on two separate occasions, a big thrill back then.
1987/88 : I travelled up from Somerset for this Sunday game, again on TV, and in a close match we narrowly lost 1-2 despite going ahead in the first-half, the winning goal being scored excruciatingly late.
These four away games have taken on a seminal role in my own Chelsea story. I enjoy so many memories from those four seasons; the players, the songs, the tribalism, the fashions, the real element of danger, the sense of place, the whole nine yards. They seemed huge, they seemed significant, as though I was taking part in some sort of Footballing Zeitgeist.
Sigh.
Back to fucking 2024.
The plan was to leave Dodge at 7am and be parked-up at midday. I pulled in to the car park opposite our Premier Inn at 11.58am.
It’s a good job I work in logistics.
The first two pubs of PD’s birthday pub crawl were revisits from 2017.
“The Vernon.”
Famous for its sloping floors, it was eerily similar to seven years ago; quiet, save for a few foreign Liverpool fans dotted around. The floor was sloping and so were my two pints of “Estrella”, sloping nicely straight down my neck.
“Thomas Rigby’s.”
We sat at almost the same table as 2017, but – alas – the jovial Evertonian landlord had moved on. It was quieter than seven years ago. A pint of “Prava” and a pint of “Madri” went down very well. We were starting to relax nicely. This was Steve’s first-ever visit to Liverpool. I tried not to bore him to death with intricate details of too many past trips.
“The Saddle.”
This one was right next to pub number two, no more than a ten second walk away. We arrived here just before 3pm so I soon sorted out tickets on my ‘phone for the Aston Villa cup replay which had gone on sale at that time. Fair play to Villa for knocking a further £5 off the cheap price of £25 for Chelsea season ticket holders. The drinks – another “Madri” for me – were going down well.
“Ye Hole In Ye Wall.”
And this pub was right next to pub number three. This is allegedly the oldest pub in Liverpool, dating from 1720. As soon as we walked in, we loved its warmth and cosiness. A special mention of my mate Francis – with us in 2017 – who got a round in, remotely. Top man. We were joined, in the cosy snug, by our friend Kim from California, now Liverpool, who came by to wish PD a “happy birthday” and to enjoy a few laughs. I managed to snag a ticket for Kim for Anfield last year, but we were not so fortunate this season.
“The Denbigh Castle.”
And this was right next to pub number four. It was now 5pm, but the game was still hours away. It seems pointless, now, moaning about it but instead of having evening games at 7.30pm, or 7.45pm, or even 8pm, games are now held on occasion at 8.15pm, as was this one. It’s fucking pathetic. Just another twist of the knife. As if travelling large distances for midweek games isn’t difficult enough.
PD was happy because they sold “Thatchers” in this pub. I am surprised they sell it in Liverpool.
We were joined here by my friend Brij, originally from California but now residing in Boston and working for the NHL Boston Bruins. I first met Brji in Ann Arbor in 2016 ahead of our friendly against Real Madrid (still, officially, our largest ever paid attendance of 105,826) and we have loosely followed each other on Instagram for a while. He recently told me that he was over in Europe on a short break and I was lucky to be able to spirit up a ticket in the away end out of the ether. He was buzzing with excitement. It was great to see him. I was pleased that he shared many of my dislikes of modern sport. I could see that we would get on fine.
“The Tempest On Tithebarn.”
We arrived here around 6pm. This was a modern pub, unlike all the others, and the décor was a little odd. It was strange – or maybe not, in fact – that we had not spoken too much about the game that would be occupying our hearts and minds a few hours later. Another lager. Phew.
“The Railway.”
One final pub, all of a lengthy one-minute walk from the previous one, but still time to lose PD and Parky on the way. The lagers were starting to slosh around a little now. It was 7pm, and the final call of a pub-crawl that had been really enjoyable. This was a lovely old pub with wooden panels and glistening mirrors and beer pumps. This one was a quick visit. I didn’t even take my coat off.
At about 7.20pm, Brij volunteered to sort out an Uber up to Anfield. We waited outside for a few minutes, and thankfully one arrived. We were deposited near The Kop at 7.50pm. Within ten minutes we were inside the away concourse. The five of us were split up. I made it to my seat – 140, Row 18, a decent seat in line with the six-yard box – just after the “YNWA” stuff.
I didn’t fancy bringing my SLR on such a busy afternoon and evening, so my pub camera had to suffice. I didn’t take too many shots.
Neither did Chelsea.
The game began and I did my best to try to work out who was where, how, why and what for.
Petrovic
Disasi – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell
Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo
Sterling – Palmer – Madueke
The game began with us facing The Kop. Behind me was the newly opened top tier of the Anfield Road Stand. Liverpool began strongly, as expected and attacked at will. Petrovic was soon called into action.
In one of our early attacks, Raheem Sterling advanced on the left with a barrage of boos cascading down from The Kop, and his pass inside found the raiding run of Conor Gallagher. He went deep inside the box, but fell. From one hundred yards away, my view was not great. “No penalty” and the game continued.
Liverpool continued their ascendency, their players fleet-footed, ours with boots full of lead. Not long after, Darwin Nunez launched one from well outside the box, our defensive so easily breached, but the hard strike clipped the bar. The same player again slipped through our defensive line after a long ball from deep. His low angled shot from in front of us was thankfully turned onto the far post by Petrovic.
This was just horrible.
Nunez was shooting for fun. We seemed miles off the pace. We found it impossible to build moves. It just wasn’t working.
On twenty-two minutes, Diogo Jota slalomed his way through our defence, past Thiago Silva and Benoit Badiashile, and slammed the ball low past Petrovic.
It was on the cards.
There was, however, the slight hope that VAR might assist our cause with a long check for handball. Nah, the goal stood.
More Liverpool efforts, Petrovic the hero a few times.
In the away end, the minimal singing has stopped. I stood in silence.
On thirty-nine minutes, utter calamity. Moises Caicedo gave up possession cheaply, and Liverpool exploited acres of space on our left. Conor Bradley ran and slotted in at the far post. I sadly captured this one on film. Our hopes were raised a little, but another VAR check did not help us.
Fackinell.
In the closing embers of a dire half, we conceded a penalty after Badiashile coughed rather too loudly at Jota. Thankfully, Nunez slammed the kick against the outside of the post.
It stayed 0-2.
At the break, three substitutions.
Malo Gusto for Chilwell.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher.
Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.
Early in the second-half, a decent break from Gusto down the right and the ball was played deep into the box, rather like a bouncing bomb. Mudryk – who had that crazily optimistic debut at Anfield just over a year ago – fluffed his lines and the ball flew way over.
Bollocks.
The mood in the away end was as sombre as I have known it. Spaces began to appear around me. That passionate, rugged, defiant “fuck’em all” support of decades ago was nowhere to be seen.
On sixty-five minutes, as simple as you like, a long ball from deep by Van Dijk to Bradley. He skipped past Badiashile and slung over a cross. In front of the goal, in front of The Kop, Dominik Szoboszlai leapt up and headed down and in. The whereabouts of our central defenders at the time is not known.
Fackinell.
The home fans in the top tier of the “Annie Road” sang.
“Liverpool, Liverpool – Top Of The League.”
Neighbours in my row departed to pubs, trains and automobiles. There were seven empty seats to my left and five empty seats to my right. Earlier in the evening, I had been concerned that after such a long spell of drinking since just after midday that I might well be slumped asleep in my seat by 9.45pm.
Now, I almost wished that I was.
Carney Chukwuemeka replaced Caicedo.
Caicedo and Fernandez had been awful, just awful.
On seventy-two minutes, Chukwuemeka turned and ran at the Liverpool defence. He passed to Nkunku, who slipped past markers with some nifty footwork and slid the ball in. It was a really fine goal.
Liverpool 3 Chelsea 1.
Our spirits were raised slightly.
A few of us lone souls yelled :
“COME ON CHELSEA.”
But this was ridiculous. If we had gained a point from this game, the team would have deserved to have been jailed.
Nunez hit the bar yet again
On seventy-nine minutes, any silly thought about an unwarranted draw was extinguished when Luis Diaz crept in behind a sleeping Badiashile to sweep in a low cross from Nunez.
Late on, a Chelsea debut for Cesare Casadei who replaced Palmer, and – worryingly – this is the first time that I have mentioned his name.
Sigh.
We gathered together outside and decided to wait a while to hunt down a cab. We walked the short distance to “The Arkles” and drowned our sorrows. This was always an odd pub in that it was an away pub but one that allowed home fans in too. To be honest, there never was any trouble in all the years that I have dropped into it at Anfield. We had a couple more pints, and one was bought for us by a Liverpool fan from my neck of the woods. He came from Gloucestershire I seem to remember. Brij and I chatted away to him. He was friendly enough and slowly but surely the agony of the game slowly subsided. Behind me, Steve, PD and Parky chatted to two Liverpool fans from Ireland. I am sure that we were the only Chelsea fans in there. We did not leave “The Arkles” until almost midnight.
We caught another Uber down to the city centre and at last had a bite to eat. At about 12.45am, we slipped into “Pop World” and had a few nightcaps. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
It wasn’t.
We finally took another cab back to the hotel, and we must have hit the sack at about 2am.
While I was finishing off the closing sentences of my match report for the Aston Villa game on Sunday evening, PD sent me a brief message :
“Potter sacked.”
I suspect that I experienced the same initial thoughts as many Chelsea supporters.
“Blimey, they did it then? So much for a long-term project.”
“Didn’t even wait until Monday.”
“I never really warmed to the bloke at all.”
“What next, then, Chelsea?”
While we all pondered the next long-term – ha – appointment at Stamford Bridge, there was the matter of a home game with Liverpool seeking immediate attention for those within the club. However, to be blunt, I was hardly thrilled at the prospect of this one. In fact, as the three of us drove towards London – alas no Parky on this occasion – I remember thinking that I had never been less excited about a Chelsea versus Liverpool game at Stamford Bridge.
We were still seeking cohesiveness, and a goal, any goal. Liverpool, recently walloped at Manchester City after giving a bigger walloping to Manchester United a few weeks back, were as hot and cold as it is possible to be. Secretly, I feared the worst.
I was parked up at around 4.45pm. PD and I began the evening with an al fresco Italian meal outside a fully booked restaurant next to The Goose on the North End Road. The linguini and the gnocchi went down well and set us both up for the evening ahead. Towards the end of our meal, a chap plotted up at an adjacent table and immediately began telling us his bloody life story. Yes, one of those annoying buggers. Soon into his rabbit, he told us he was a Fulham supporter. My reaction was immediate :
“Poor bugger.”
It seemed that our decades of dominance over Fulham in this localalised battle had enforced an opinion in my consciousness of superiority over our less successful neighbours. I was going to call them “little neighbours” but even I am not that condescending. And yet, as we were to hit the last ten games of the league season, we are below Fulham, and have only taken one miserly point from the two games against them. I have said it for weeks that we are easily the third best team in West London at the moment. The league table does not lie and other clichés.
Forty years ago, we were embroiled in a couple of games that took place in West London. Let’s go back to 1983 again.
On Saturday 2 April, we played a Second Division game at Fulham’s Craven Cottage. Fulham, for once, were enjoying a far better season than us and were bona fide promotion contenders under manager Malcolm Macdonald, who was born in Fulham, and who was forging a fine team involving Ray Houghton, Gordon Davies and Dean Coney along with ex-Chelsea midfielder Ray Lewington. We drew 1-1 with both goals coming in the first-half. Paul Canoville scored for us in front of the Chelsea supporters in the Putney End with a fine volley at the far post from a corner. Kevin Lock, the ex-West Ham defender, sadly equalised.
It was the day of the Oxford vs. Cambridge Boat Race and I watched it on BBC1, as I usually did – I was always Oxford – and it started just after our game at Craven Cottage had finished. Seeing the many football supporters who had stayed on to watch filled me with a dull ache. I so wanted to be part of the Chelsea match-day experience, but here I was, stranded in Somerset with only enough money to attend a handful of games each year. Even though we were having a nightmare of a season, I still wanted to be part of it. That feeling has never left me. For the record, I was hoping for a better crowd than the 15,249 who showed up.
The game was shown on “Match of the Day” on Easter Sunday and I commented in my diary that Canoville and Mike Fillery seemed our best players. The commentator John Motson, who has sadly recently passed away, was seemingly enthusiastic about our performance. Perhaps there was life in the old dog, yet?
Two days later, on Easter Monday, Chelsea played our other near neighbours Queens Park Rangers at Stamford Bridge. While I was assisting in a couple of events at our local village fair, Chelsea conceded a goal in each half as we lost 0-2 to a QPR team that was flying at the top of the division. One of Saturday’s heroes, Fillery, was sent-off with two minutes to go. I had expected a crowd of 17,000 so was pretty happy with 20,821. I miss the chance to play “guess the gate” with sell-out attendances the norm at modern top flight matches these days. It seems crazy now, but any crowd over 20,000 in those days was seen as decent, especially for the second tier. Many teams in the top flight would average less than 20,000 in 1982/83.
So 4 April 1983 to 4 April 2023…let’s continue.
On the short walk of four hundred yards from the North End Road to West Brompton tube, I ridiculously bumped into four lots of mates – Andy and Kim, Charlie, Dave, Mick – while I spotted Raymondo too. I have said before that I really feel at home at Chelsea. I could walk around Frome town centre for half-an-hour and not see anyone I knew. I guess I am part of the Chelsea match day scene these days. My 1983 wish has come to fruition.
I had a busy pre-match. The tube whisked me to Earl’s Court – “The Blackbird” – for a quick chat with Stan about Abu Dhabi while I waited for Ian, fresh back from his South America odyssey, to hand back two season tickets. Then another tube to take me over to South Kensington – “The Zetland Arms” – to pass on a spare ticket to Cal. We had the briefest of chats. We were both hoping for a positive atmosphere against Liverpool.
“After all, who can we rail against?”
With Potter now gone – his sacking didn’t really affect me too much, I have never been so ambivalent to such major news ever before – I was fully hoping that all supporters would be roused to fully get behind the team.
The tube trains were packed. I was regretting wearing my heavy Barbour. By the time I joined up with the usual suspects in “Simmons” at 7pm, I was gagging for a cold drink. My “Diet Coke” barely touched the sides.
I made my way inside for 7.30pm or so.
The skies were clear. Dead centre was an – almost – full moon. I knew I would be watching its gentle arc towards the West Stand throughout the game; I only hoped it would not be my major focus as the match developed.
Francis, a Liverpool mate, texted me from a Frome Town game to tell me that his team looked weak. I eventually found out our starting eleven, chosen by Bruno Salter, a man who might well only ever get one mention on this website.
OK, this was it.
Kepa
Fofana – Koulibaly – Cucarella
James – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell
Kante
Felix – Havertz
Or at least, that is how it panned out during the evening. At the start of the game, trying to guess where N’Golo Kante would be playing would be like a blindfolded kid pinning the tail on a donkey at a birthday party. I think I got it right.
There were flashing lights and fireworks before the teams entered, then – I am reliably informed – a Foo Fighters dirge just before kick-off.
What?
What’s “Chelsea” about that?
I never ever saw US stuff fitting the vibe of a UK match day to be honest. The thumbs-down from me.
We began attacking The Shed, housing the usual three-thousand away fans.
Our fine start surprised me but also, of course, pleased me. After just three minutes, Joao Felix was one-on-one, and he carried out a great shimmy but dithered a little too much with the goal gaping and allowed a block tackle from Joel Matip. Kai Havertz was loitering but unable to connect from the deflection.
Just after, a lightning break, and everyone on the edge of their seat, with Havertz setting up the bursting Mateo Kovacic. He rounded the ‘keeper Alisson, but his goal-bound effort was cleared off the line by Ibrahima Konate, whoever he is.
There were predictable groans from us all.
But this was a cracking start. And there was some fine noise emanating from the Stamford Bridge stands at last. The crowd were in this. The positivity warmed my soul.
Ben Chilwell played in Havertz, but Alisson blocked from close-in.
In the first fifteen minutes, we were easily on top and the obvious star was the returning Kante, who was playing like a man possessed. Forget the Kante twins; this was more like the Kante quadruplets. There was one moment when he had, mysteriously, lost possession on the halfway line but as Liverpool’s rare break moved forward, it was Kante back in our penalty area to intercept perfectly. It dawned on me; have we been this shite all season simply because N’Golo has not been available for virtually all of it?
On eighteen minutes, another Liverpool break, but Kepa was on hand to hack the ball away.
Oh that lovely ability for Kante to play the ball with the correct strength. He absolutely assesses the pace of a break and rarely lets that pace drop. It staggers me that his role as essentially cover in front of the defence has now evolved into an attacking threat. Everybody loves him. Fackinell.
We all had that weirdest of sensations mid-way through the first-half. A Chilwell corner was met by Felix at the near post but was scrambled clear. The ball broke to Reece James who banged a shot towards goal with great precision. Good God, I watched with disbelief as the ball flew into the net.
A Chelsea goal.
GET IN YOU BASTARD.
Alan and my “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine was rendered redundant when Enzo’s toenail was offside in the melee that had ensued from the corner.
However, this galvanised the crowd further and a loud “Carefree” sounded out. This was ten times better than the non-atmospheres against Everton and Villa.
There was then an exchange from supporters.
“FUCK THE TORIES.”
“FUCK THE SCOUSERS.”
Just before the half-hour mark, that man Kante advanced perfectly and set up Havertz but he scuffed an effort meekly wide. After this fast and furious start to the game, the first-third, the game died a little and, with it, the atmosphere quietened too.
At the end of the half, Liverpool enjoyed a few chances but Kepa saved well from Joe Gomez and Marc Cucarella hacked away with a shot likely. An effort rattled wide from a corner. It had been the visitors’ most dominant part of the game thus far.
At the break, I mouthed to a few folk nearby : “better”.
And it had been.
The cynics among us would probably counter with “it couldn’t be any worse” but I, at least, was enjoying it more than I had predicted. And the atmos was much better too, eh?
There were no changes at the break.
We attacked the Matthew Harding in the second-half.
Soon into it, we were again rueing our astonishing (dis)ability in front of goal. The offender was again Kovacic, set up by a fine run from fleet-footed Felix and aided by Kante, but he leaned back and sent a shot way over.
We uttered a thousand curses. There was more than one wagging tongue.
Fackinell Kovacic.
I watched as he turned away in absolute disgust, his hands coming up to his face, maybe contemplating hiding himself from the thousands of searing eyes.
Just a few minutes later, Havertz broke through but his shot – big surprise – was blocked by Alisson, a vision of sorts in lavender, including tights, but the ball luckily rebounded and hit the German. The ball returned towards goal.
GET IN.
I photographed the joy of the players but VAR intervened before Al and I could dust off our routine again.
Handball apparently. There is no TV-screen replay for us in the stadium of course. Viewers in Detroit, Doncaster, Dubai and Dunedin probably saw it though. Mad, eh?
Kepa saved well from a Fofana back header at the Shed End.
On fifty-seven minutes, there was a foul by a Liverpool player but the ball broke in our favour, if out wide. Rather than let the move develop, the hated Anthony Taylor called the play back. It was a close call this. Should he have let play continue? In reality, Felix was still chasing to control the ball before it would go off for a goal-kick. I think Taylor called it right. Regardless, James struck the resultant free-kick over.
A shot from Felix, rolled just wide.
Then a lovely slalom from the same player into the box but it came to nothing.
Mo Salah came on with twenty minutes of the second-half gone, but thankfully didn’t seem to integrate at all with his team mates.
On sixty-nine minutes, no surprises, Kante was substituted.
Anyone else turn their nose up at the new phrase “subbed-off” these days? Just me?
He was replaced by an eager Conor Gallagher.
Another exchange between the two sets of fans.
“Allez allez” versus “Chowlsea Chowlsea Chowlsea Chowlsea.”
As a sign of his laziness, Havertz had sleep-walked into an off-side position. Alan was fuming alongside me.
“Fackinell Havertz!”
He’s an enigma, is Kai.
The game continued to drift.
Felix was set up by Chilwell but, off balance, his shot was never going to trouble Lavender Lad. The effort flew wildly over.
Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Chilwell.
There was a great cross into the six-yard box from Kovacic down below us but nobody had gambled to sneak into the danger area. Nobody was poaching.
“Couldn’t poach an egg.”
Maybe they were waiting for an official invitation.
Raheem Sterling, the forgotten man, replaced Felix.
A last high effort from Enzo.
So, another draw, another goal-less draw, against Liverpool. It is becoming a habit. Our last six games against them reveal a dull regularity.
28 August 2021 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.
2 January 2022 : Chelsea 2 Liverpool 2.
27 February 2022 : Chelsea 0 Liverpool 0 – lost on penalties.
14 May 2022 : Chelsea 0 Liverpool 0 – lost on penalties.
21 January 2023 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 0.
4 April 2023 : Chelsea 0 Liverpool 0.
Back in Somerset, even Frome Town drew 0-0 in their home game against Bideford.
It had been a better performance, the first-half especially, but against a very disappointing Liverpool team. Our lack of confidence in front of the goal is reaching maddening levels. We remain in eleventh place with a negative goal difference. Below us, a crazily tight battle to avoid relegation. Above us, an equally tight race for a European position next season. If I was a betting man, with our tough run-in, I would put money on us to just make the top half of the table.
In closing, I had to chuckle when I checked out the official match report of this game on the official club website and our formation was given as “3-4-1-1”.
It would seem that particular writer’s donkey tail had missed the target completely.
I think that I am going to enjoy writing this one.
Going into our match at Anfield, there was much gallows humour about this being a mid-table clash, a battle for ninth position, and that some fancied our chances because “they are bloody worse than we are”. It must surely be a while since Liverpool and Chelsea have occupied such lowly positions ahead of a league encounter.
There was a nice little bit of symmetry ahead of the game; our first match this season was at Goodison against Everton and the match at Anfield would be our twentieth. Therefore, both halves of the current campaign would commence on Merseyside.
I was up early. The alarm sounded at 4.30am and after de-frosting the car and picking up a couple of tinned coffees for the journey at a local garage, I collected PD and then Glenn at 6am, and Lord Parky bang on 6.30am as planned.
We were full of talk about the club for the first half-an-hour, with Glenn bemoaning many in the media, both social and unsocial, for calling our new buying policy “scattergun” and with me being foolish enough to admit the fact that I fancied a win later in the day.
We stopped at Strensham on the M5 for a quick breakfast between 7.40am and 8am, and I then made a bee-line for Merseyside. As I slowed down to a halt to wait for a green light to turn onto Queens Drive, we spotted “The Rocket” pub to our left; the very pub where hundreds of Scousers had been stranded ahead of the Champions League Final in Paris last May, the victims of a prank by playful Evertonians.
At this moment, amidst a little side-chat about the merits of managers Thomas Tuchel and Graham Potter, and how fans have moaned about both, I summed things up as succinctly as I have ever done.
“Well, we’ve been going through a rebuild since Conte left. And since then, we have won the Europa League, the Champions League and are current World Champions. That’s not a bad rebuilding stage, is it?”
I was half-tempted to drive past the new Everton stadium at Bramley Moore Dock to check on its considerable progress since I visited the site in August, but we just wanted to get parked up and into Anfield. The five months that have elapsed since game one in August seemed like five minutes. I was parked up outside the away turnstiles at Goodison Park just after 10.30am; the price had increased from £10 in 2021 to £15 in 2023. Outside, the winter weather was biting hard. We headed off up the gentle slope to the top of Stanley Park with parts still touched by frost. The extension to the Anfield Road end, where we would be stationed, dominated my focus.
It was eleven o’clock. Just right. While I waited outside for a while to hand over a spare ticket, the others marched inside. Two Liverpool team buses appeared from my right and were then swallowed up by the huge shutter doors beneath the gigantic new stand. Mobile phones were held aloft by the hundreds of Liverpool fans. This must be a regular occurrence, part of the Anfield routine. But there was no real buzz about the place. Times must be hard at both ends of Stanley Park these days. Since my last visit, a mural of Ian Rush had been painted on the end wall of some terraced houses. There were voices and accents from everywhere.
The weather was tough. I have never seen so many North Face jackets and bobble-less hats.
I chatted to many fellow Chelsea fans.
“They are shite. They’re worse than us.”
“Yeah, I fancy us today, God knows why.”
Kim arrived and I handed her a ticket. At the security checks, I had the usual little panic that my camera would be shown the red card but the seemingly short-sighted security guard just frisked me without spotting the camera bag draped over my shoulder.
In.
I checked my ticket but soon spotted that I had mistakenly ended up with the ticket intended for Kim in row 20. Not to worry, Kim would be with Parky, John, Al and Gal down in row 7. Not a problem. There were only fifteen minutes to go so there was no time to waste. As I edged through the tight concourse, I was aware of a new song being enthusiastically chanted by the younger element.
…”said to me.”
I entered the familiar away end and my spot was in line with the touchline in front of the main stand, not as far jammed into the corner as I had feared. This was my twenty-sixth visit to Anfield, level-pegging with visits to Old Trafford; only five Chelsea wins at each venue, though. That pre-match hope for a win suddenly seemed unlikely.
There was rail-standing in the away quadrant now. Of all places, standing at Anfield. I never thought I would see it.
I once stood on the old Kop, though, and this was way different.
Joe Cole, Steven Gerrard and Rio Ferdinand took part in pitch-side interviews. Joey was serenaded. And so was Gerrard. As he walked past us – he must have dreaded that – he momentarily cupped his hands over his ears.
The usual pre-match ritual at Anfield.
Flags on poles, banners, huge crowd-surfing mosaics, the teams, mascots, the PA announcer with ridiculously low voice, The Kop waiting for “You’ll Never Walk Alone” and scarves held aloft.
I remembered my first visit in April 1985 when a big pot of Crown Paint used to take pride of place on the centre spot.
Noticeably, I spotted the highest concentration of scarves in the lower corners of the main stand and the Centenary Stand – née Kemlyn Road – where those Rangers fans congregated in November 1985.
Our team?
I tried, again, to work it all out.
Kepa in goal.
A back four of Cucarella, Badiashile, Silva and Chalobah.
Lewis Hall was tucked into midfield, somewhere, maybe just alongside Jorginho.
A three of Mount on the left, Gallagher in the middle, Ziyech wide right.
Kai Havertz up top.
Liverpool’s team involved players such as Gakpo and Bajcetic, and these two were completely unfamiliar to me. They reminded me of the final hopeless selection of letters in a game of “Scrabble”
Here we were. At the football again. Waiting to see Chelsea again. Everyone together, the lucky ones, the lucky three-thousand. This meant that I was thankfully able to avoid the unappetising avalanche of buzzwords that the TV folk habitually, and without any self-awareness, foist on our poor ears.
“The press”, “transition”, “between the lines”, “little pockets”, “overload”, “high press”, “low block”, it goes on and on, like a relentless deluge of shite. On a recent “MOTD2” I am sure I heard Danny Murphy mention “overload” three times in ten seconds without the merest hint of irony.
Fuck adventures in TV Land.
We were at the football.
“Into them Chelsea.”
As the game kicked-off, no surprises us attacking The Kop, four spaces to my left were unfilled. Not long into the match, four young lads sidled in. Up in front of The Kop, my eyes straining in the mist, a corner came over from Conor Gallagher and in the resulting melee we gasped as the ball was thwacked against the left-hand post. A leg prodded the rebound home, the net gently rippling.
“GET IN.”
Now then dear reader, there have certainly been tough moments in my recent history when I have questioned my devotion to the cause, especially in the post-COVID era, and I have publicly shared my concerns about me losing the passion for football and maybe even Chelsea. So I am so pleased to report that at 12.33pm on Saturday 21 January in the Anfield Road Stand, there was no ambivalence nor doubt. I, like the thousands around me, was going fucking doolally.
My celebration of choice on this occasion was a Stuart Pearson fist pump, but a double one for good measure.
I turned to the lads to my left…”great timing.”
Alas, we then suffered that horrible delay that these days suggests that VAR was about to rear its ugly ahead once again.
When the goal was disallowed, Mr. Deep Voice on the PA mumbled something incomprehensible. There was no follow-up explanation on the screens. Unlike those in TV Land, I was left to ponder the mystery of why the goal was disallowed.
Modern football.
Unlike in our last visit in August 2021, there would be no Anfield goal for Kai Havertz this time.
Both teams started brightly enough, and Liverpool started to attack. I could hardly believe that James Fucking Milner was starting for them. Gakpo fired over. On a quarter of an hour, things were even.
We then hit a decent spell. There were a couple of lovely long bombs from Thiago Silva towards Kai Havertz, one slightly over hit, another better, but a slip from Mount when free. Havertz then played in Hall, but his shot from an angle was wild. There was a lovely cushioned lay-off from Havertz, a lot more physical in this game, for Gallagher. This was good stuff, or at least, better than we had been used to.
The home crowd was so quiet, easily the quietest that I had ever witnessed at Anfield. We were yet to hear the infamous “History” chant.
Two crosses from a reassuringly decent Ziyech caused a few concerns in the Liverpool box.
The new song was aired again and I spent a ridiculous amount of my time trying to work out the lyrics.
I liked the look of Benoit Badashile again, and even Marc Cucarella was impressing. The youngster Lewis Hall was having a tough game though. Silva was as imperious as ever. Gallagher was fantastic, charging balls down, running to close space, maybe not winning the ball, but forcing a mistake for others to gather the ball.
Liverpool did cut through us on a couple of occasions but their final passes, and shots, were poor.
Just before the half-time whistle, at last an audible chant from The Kop.
…”where we watched King Kenny play.”
Mo Salah took a touch when in previous years he might well have volleyed without much thought, and the ball curled high and wide.
Advantage Chelsea at the break? I think so.
At half-time, I noted empty seats in the afore-mentioned lower corners of the side stands, proof that these were hospitality areas in addition to the top tier of the Centenary and the middle tier of the main stand. Does this matter? It just shows how clubs are going after the extra-revenue these days. They’re going after day trippers, the tourists, the moneyed classes, the same old story.
Less and less seats for the average Joe. More and more for the average Johann, Jan, Jonty and Julian.
And although – I know from experience – many of English football’s overseas fans are wildly passionate about their teams, I shudder at the thought of a bigger and bigger percentage of ticket sales being aimed at the corporate sector. It used to be a game for the working classes. I can’t imagine what Bill Shankly would think of it all.
No wonder Anfield was quiet.
By the way, it made me chuckle that among the electronic messages that advertised hospitality packages on the perimeter of the pitch there was the stunning revelation that match day tickets were included. Thanks for clarifying that, Liverpool Football Club.
There were prolonged chants in honour of John Terry and it soon became known that our former captain was in the away section with us. I am guessing but I think he was maybe ten or fifteen yards away from me though I never saw him. I remember him at Burnley too.
I remembered a famous photo of Shanks in The Kop after he had left the club, unable to let go.
We began the second-half poorly, so poorly. The first two minutes seemed to take an eternity. There was an outrageous effort from Ibrahima Konate that was walloped from the half-way line towards Kepa at The Kop. Thankfully, it dropped just wide. There were a few more Liverpool attempts. This was desperate.
It was also still bloody freezing. It was bloody freezing in January 1983 too. There, that’s the 1982/83 reference taken care of.
On fifty-five minutes, Graham Potter replaced the struggling Lewis Hall with the Ukranian Mykhailo Mudryk, the undoubted subject of the new song, and from my vantage point I was able to capture him entering the field, his first touch, his first few dribbles and spins in the wide expanses of our left. In the end, my “wrong seat” had turned out to be a God send.
On the hour, Ziyech came in from his right wing position and drifted past player after player…each time the away end pleaded with him to shoot…and in the end his effort was typically high and wide.
Soon, Mudryk had us all purring, playing a “give-and-go” with Gallagher and spinning into the box, but we groaned as his effort only troubled the side netting. Soon after, Milner cruelly chopped him down. But Mudryk looked the business, he excited us all.
A rare Liverpool chance, but Kepa was able to thwart Gakpo’s goal-bound prod with a fine save.
We went on the attack again, and at times our play was a joy to behold. On seventy-one minutes, the best move of the match – full of quick passing – resulted in a Ziyech cross hitting the far post area but with nobody able to connect. A shot from Ziyech was blocked.
With ten minutes to go, more changes.
Dave for Trevoh.
Sadly, our defender had picked up a knock, such is life in the Chelsea trenches these days.
Carney for Mase.
Mount had been quiet for much of the game.
Pierre-Emerick for Kai.
I liked the effort from Havertz in this game. He was more involved than before. More up for the fight.
The away crowd were in fine form now. We had spotted a new desire in the team and we roared the team on with every sinew. Just the way it should be.
“You are my Chelsea, my only Chelsea. You make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never notice how much we love you. Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”
Fantastic stuff.
Dave, off the pace at times these days, was excellent in his cameo at the end of the game.
I was convinced that we would strike at the death but our chances sadly petered out. But this was a fine day out from us. It felt, whisper it, that a corner had been turned.
I wished that I had sussed out the new song though.
We walked back to the car amid a lovely exuberance. This was a special feeling.
I pulled out of the car park at 3pm and circumnavigated Goodison Park’s four stands and it honestly felt as though I might never be returning. Those blue stands have given me plenty of memories over the years. Out onto the Bullens Road, past the Dixie Dean statue, past the Winslow Hotel, thoughts of my father in the Second World War, past the player’s entrance – I remembered a recent ‘photo of Pele walking across the street in 1966 – past the Holy Trinity statue, past the Gwladys Street turnstiles and away.
It took me a whole hour to get past The Rocket and onto the M62.
Everton were to lose 2-0 at West Ham of all places.
”Frank’s gone, isn’t he?”
The four of us stopped off at “The Vine” – yet again – at West Bromwich at around 5.30pm where we each enjoyed glorious curries.
Lamb Rogan Josh, Chicken Balti, Lamb Madras, Chicken Jalfrezi.
There was a quick review from myself of our starting; “Conor Gallagher an eight, everyone else sevens apart from Mount a six and Hall a five.”
There was more chat about the match. We all admitted that we might have been getting a little carried away about our performance – ”after all, it was only Liverpool” – and we were sure that “MOTD” would dismiss it as a poor game, but for those of us of a Chelsea disposition, we definitely spotted a new belief, a more rounded performance, and better quality. We mused that the last five games against Liverpool had all consisted of draws. Well, more or less.
There was patchy fog all of the way back, but horrific clawing fog around Frome.
It’s pretty difficult to sum up what I wanted from this last game of the season. Such events can often be inherently strange affairs; often there is nothing to play for, nothing to fight for, and these games are invariably played out in sunshine, thus giving the matches the feel of summer friendlies, or training games.
Against Leicester City on the preceding Thursday, I had said “if I don’t see you on Sunday, have a good summer” to a few friends.
And, I suppose, this was the main raison d’etre for turning up for the visit of relegated Watford. It was important to wish friends and faces, brothers and sisters, fellow fans and fellow obsessives, the best of summers until the start of the next season. Of course, to support the team one last time is a given, right?
Maybe not.
A couple of weeks back, I spotted a few “can’t wait for this season to end” posts from near and far. There was an online altercation with a fan a few thousand miles away who even stated this before the FA Cup Final had taken place. I wasn’t having that. Talk about entitled new fans. That just about summed up our current predicament with some of our brood.
Sigh.
We are supporters. That is our name and that is who we are. Sometimes this is lost amongst the hubbub of social media chit-chat. Sometimes we take on the air of tactical geniuses, of football gurus, of experts on this and that. I am not so sure this is different now than before.
It’s just louder.
Against a backdrop of possible indifference to this last game of the season, the day certainly gave me a timely reminder of how lucky us regular match-goers are. We are incredibly lucky. We get to see our team play each week, maybe twice a week, whereas the vast majority of our global support base – pick a number, one hundred million? – will never see the team in the flesh. It’s easy to scoff at our foreign fans, too easy, but I know for a fact that many of my most cherished Chelsea friends live overseas, and their knowledge of the club and their understanding of what makes Chelsea tick is to be admired.
Some, admittedly, don’t get it.
Their loss.
This was a 4pm kick-off, but I was up early. The alarm sounded at 5.45am. I collected PD at 6.45am, then Chopper, then Parky. We stopped for a couple of breakfast rolls at “Greggs”on the A303 – thankfully the regular server, Sweet Caroline, a bloody Liverpool fan, was not in – and I was soon depositing PD and Parky outside “The Temperance” on the Fulham High Street at 9.30am. They would pop into a nearby café for a coffee before “The Eight Bells” opened up at 10am. I parked up and walked to Stamford Bridge with Chopper. We were there that early that not even Marco’s “CFCUK” stall was set up. There was a chat with Steve at his programme stall. Marco appeared and I took a photo of Marco and Chopper, knowing full well that Marco often likes to post photos of former players on match days on his various social media feeds.
Chopper and I turned left to walk into Stamford Bridge via the entrance to the West Stand. My mind back-tracked. On that exact piece of terra firma, in 1974, I had turned into Stamford Bridge with my parents for the very first time. It was another sunny day. My first game. My first walk up those terraced steps into the West Stand.
“Home.”
I have said it before, but that moment in time – over forty-eight years ago – is etched in my mind forever and ever and ever. That I was repeating it alongside Ron Harris, who played on that day – I mentioned it to him – was particularly poignant. I took a photo of a smiling Chopper with the statue of Ossie in the background.
It will probably turn out to be one of my favourite ever Chelsea photographs.
I back-tracked and caught the tube away from Stamford Bridge – always an odd sensation – and was soon in “The Eight Bells.” We were joined by friends from all over. With the help of a few accomplices, I had been able to sort out spares for a few fans from the US. I enjoyed a good, very good, “state of the nation” chat with Cal who I have known for a good few years now. I always remember seeing him on that long walk to the stadium in Munich before the game – I wasn’t sure that I shared his gung-ho enthusiasm – but also in the concourse immediately after we had all been ushered out of the Nord Kurv, the last to leave, smiles and handshakes, the best of times. We spoke, briefly, about the stresses and the madness of the Porto game too.
Memories to last a very long time.
PD and Parky were in the middle of an extended drinking sesh and the laughter was booming. Dave from Northampton called in for a drink, a couple of the US visitors called in to collect tickets, Josh from Minnesota – still here from the FA Cup Final, stranded with COVID but now able to squeeze in one extra game – was with us. Johnny Twelve and his wife Jenny called in. Andy and Sophie from Nuneaton. The Kent boys, at the bar, roaring with laughter in the background.
All the world in one place.
I loved it.
At around 3pm, we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway for the last time of the season. We encountered some Watford fans. What an odd bunch. I will leave it there. Outside the steps to the Matthew Harding, we sorted one last ticket and I made my way in.
After Leicester City not filling their 3,000 spaces on Thursday, Watford showed them up. A full three-thousand and the highest percentage of replica shirts from any team all season. Bless’em.
Over in The Shed, I spotted wires that would be used to hoist a huge banner over the heads of supporters. I was primed for that exact moment.
Jenny settled in next to me in The Sleepy Hollow. Johnny Twelve was a few seats behind. We waited for the final few moments before the game would begin. Of course, elsewhere there were a few games that would be getting our attention too.
Manchester City at home to Aston Villa. A win please, City.
Liverpool at home to Wolves. Anything you can do, Wolves, would be greatly appreciated.
Norwich City vs. Tottenham. Could they do the ultimate “Spursy” and lose, thus finishing fifth?
Down in The Shed, things were stirring.
The huge mural of current and former players, managers, catchphrases and moments was stunning. And huge. What an effort.
A critique?
Not so sure Jody Morris really deserves a place despite his iconic celebration against United in 1999 and his work with the academy.
Lovely to see Micky Greenaway featured.
Not sure why Frank Lampard and John Terry are featured twice.
Personally, I would have loved to see that famous photo of Hughie Gallacher, pointing.
Hopefully, everyone reading this can name all of the faces featured. If not, sort yourself out.
The teams entered the pitch.
Our starting eleven?
Edouard
Dave – Long John Silva – Rudi
Reece – Saul – N’Golo – Kenedy
Hakim – Kai – Mase
Kenedy was a surprise start. I noted Saul this time; it gave me a warm feeling that Al admitted that he hadn’t noticed him playing the second-half against Wolves too. We were pleased to hear that Ben might be getting a few minutes off the bench.
The game began with us attacking The Shed End. We began relatively brightly with a couple of efforts from Havertz and Saul.
Very soon into the game, we heard that Wolves were 1-0 up at Anfield.
Oh the joy.
I looked over to see Roy Hodgson, his last ever game as a manager, and alongside him the former Chelsea midfielder Ray Lewington. Seeing them on the bench reminded me of a chat that I initiated on “Facebook” during a particularly desolate spell last season.
I find it odd, with the half-way line being off-centre in relation to the tunnel and dug-outs at Stamford Bridge, that Chelsea don’t sit in the northern one since it clearly offers a better all-round view of the pitch. The current away dug out, in fact, currently sits right on the half-way line, whereas the Chelsea one is way off-centre.
This is especially strange since Chelsea have the northern changing rooms. It would make sense for them to have the northern bench too. Back in the ‘seventies, Chelsea originally had the northern dug-outs. I am not sure why it changed.
The current location of the Chelsea dugout being so off-centre has never made sense to me.
In next seasons tales, I aim to provide a thorough review of the location of soap dispensers in the Matthew Harding bogs. Stay tuned.
In the eleventh minute, a fine ball from Kenedy on the left was nicely aimed towards Kai Havertz who could not miss, unmarked and with the goal at his mercy.
I thought, perhaps, he might have been offside, the Watford defence having seemingly stopped.
We enjoyed a few more chances, but the high spot of the middle section of the first-half was a perfectly executed sliding tackle from behind by Saul, hooking the ball away nicely from a Watford player. The same player then shot from outside the box. There was a Mount header. But then Watford enjoyed a little of the play as the first-half continued. There was a save from Mendy after a rare attack on our goal.
It was far from a great game, this. Watford wilted a little and we looked tired. A few more chances came our way, the best falling to Havertz, raiding from the left but his rising shot clipped the top of the bar.
Elsewhere, Manchester City were losing 1-0 at home to Villa and Liverpool were drawing 1-1 at home to Wolves. It was still advantage City.
Although we were winning, this was mundane stuff. I wondered if we were to get our real thrills from games taking place away from SW6.
The second-half began. Soon into the game, on the forty-ninth minute, we joined in applause in remembrance of Scott Conlon, a season-ticket-holder, who had recently passed away. I had spotted a small blue and white wreath at Peter Osgood’s feet in front of the West Stand before the game. A banner was hoisted in his memory in The Shed Upper.
RIP.
Watford created a few chances in the opening part of the second forty-five and Mandy needed to be at his best to save a low shot from Joao Pedro.
We shuffled about without causing much harm. Mount was guilty of trying to dribble through a forest of legs once too often. We were a mess of miss-hit passes.
It was pretty dull stuff. I stifled some yawns.
Thomas Tuchel made some changes.
Malang Sarr for Kenedy.
Ross Barkley for Rudiger.
Rudiger was warmly applauded as he left the pitch. He has been undoubtedly outstanding for us the past eighteen months or so. And even though I was utterly impressed with his letter of goodbye – a great deal of emotion, humour and intelligence – I am not going to get overly emotional about him leaving. We made him. I wish him well. And let’s hope for a fine replacement in the summer.
Barkley injected a good burst of urgency and Ziyech attempted his trademark “cut in and shoot” once or twice.
On seventy minutes :
“God. There’s still twenty minutes’ left.”
It was almost a plea for help.
Elsewhere, grim news filtered through; City were now losing 0-2 to Villa.
FORFUCKSAKE.
We were one Liverpool goal at Anfield for this all ending horribly.
Then, crash bang wallop.
Two goals in as many minutes at City. The games were a little out of synch but on eighty-three minutes at Stamford Bridge, the noise erupted.
“COME ON CITY. COME ON CITY. COME ON CITY. COME ON CITY.”
Of the two evils, City seem quite angelic.
There was a fine shot from Barkley, but an equally fine save from Daniel Bachmann in the Watford goal.
“He did always have a fine shot on him.”
The game sparked to life, or at least three games together.
The news came through that Manchester City had gone 3-2 ahead against Aston Villa, managed – gorgeously by Steven Gerrard – and the Stamford Bridge crowd roared.
“Steve Gerrard, Gerrard. He slipped on his fucking arse. And gave it to Demba Ba. Steve Gerrard, Gerrard.”
Watford scored – I missed it, I was making notes on my mobile ‘phone – and nobody cared fucking less.
The chant continued seamlessly…
“…and gave it to Demba Ba. Steve Gerrard, Gerrard.”
Then came the loudest “Carefree” of the whole day.
Surreal. Bizarre. To the outsider quite unexplainable. To us, normal. Fuck’em.
Ben Chilwell came on for Mason Mount.
Mount was voted our player of the year. An odd choice, I think. For chunks of this season, his career has stalled. My vote would have been for Thiago Silva. Chilwell received a fine reception from us of course.
The noise was still bowling around The Bridge.
Amid all of this schadenfreude, Reece James danced and jinked just outside the box on the far side. My camera was poised…click, click, click. He “toe’d” over a perfect ball for Ross Barkley to stoop and conquer. His strong header was parried by Bachmann but its pace continued it over the line.
GET IN YOU FUCKING BEAUTY.
My immediate thoughts, as he ran and jumped towards me : “that’s one happy Evertonian.”
Phew.
Chelsea 2 Watford 1.
What a breathless end to an otherwise mundane afternoon.
Rather than stay on to see the players and the management on their lap of appreciation, I had to drive precious cargo home. I made my way over to collect Chopper outside the hotel. Everyone was staring for updates on their phones.
It was over.
In the end, Liverpool’s two late goals at Anfield were to be worthless.
What a crazy season, eh? Such highs – Belfast, Abu Dhabi, World Champions, Tottenham, always Tottenham, four times this season, the drive to Newcastle, Luton, Middlesbrough, a trip to Turin but not the result – and lows – the two domestic Wembley finals, the car ride to Norwich on the day we heard about the sanctions, the worry of it all – but a season that marked my return to football and football’s return to me.
Last season, I saw just two Chelsea games.
In 2021/22 I saw fifty-five Chelsea game.
In 2021/22 I saw eighteen Frome Town games.
Seventy-three games. I have never seen more in one football season.
I need to get out more.
As I walked under The Shed Wall, I spotted Chopper reach up to his Chelsea Football Club tie and un-do the knot. He rolled the tie up and placed it ceremoniously inside his jacket pocket.
