Tag Archives: London Stadium

Tales From An Evening Out In London

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West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 22 August 2025.

I always look forward to the first away match each season. I will bump into a ton of mates at the first home game of a new campaign, but way more at the first away fixture. At such games, in pubs or on concourses or in the away section, it’s impossible to go more than a few minutes without seeing someone that I know. It’s all about big numbers in small spaces.

The first away fixture of the new season would be sending us out to the East End of London, and despite the inconvenience of a Friday evening kick-off, that was alright with me.

West Ham United vs. Chelsea at 8pm on a Friday night?

Oh, go on then.

I was parked up outside Barons Court tube station on Margravine Gardens at 5pm, and I fancied a jolt of caffeine before Parky, PD and I headed out east. Our usual café just across the way from this red-bricked station, where Parky and I chatted to Seb Coe after a game at Arsenal in 2012, was closing and so we tried “Gail’s Café” for the first time.

“If we lose tonight, we shan’t be coming here again” I warned my two mates. My football-going routines are full of such superstitions.

After some expensive but bland coffee, we caught a District Line train to Westminster, then a Jubilee train to Canary Wharf. On these two journeys, we were the only Chelsea fans. We saw a just a few West Ham. The ratio on this day would be around 60,000 to 3,000 or 20 to 1, so it was not surprising that we were the lone Chelsea contingent. At Canary Wharf, we ascended into the light at the airy train station and into the London of finance, tall tower blocks and evening commuters heading away to their homes in the suburbs.

We turned a corner and spotted the first Chelsea presence of the evening; Leigh, Darren and a few others, mainly from Basingstoke as far as I could see, were drinking at “The Alchemist” and although we were tempted to stop, the consensus was to head over to the stadium even though it was still two hours to kick-off.

“Nice to see you chaps though evidently not that much”, I exclaimed, smiling, as we left them to walk over to the Docklands Light Railway. Before long, we had boarded the driver-less train (I was hoping that West Ham would be equally devoid of a leader) and we soon found ourselves at Pudding Mill Lane, which not only acts as the destination for away fans going to the London Stadium, but also for those attending the ABBA arena too.

It was a quarter of an hour walk to the away turnstiles, and it’s all so familiar now. This would be my ninth visit. Because we were there so early, and the foot traffic was very quiet, the immediate surroundings seemed even more anaemic than usual. There wasn’t the usual hustle and jostle of a football crowd. There were no street vendors, no hawkers of tat, no grafters, no food outlets, no noise, no nothing. It was a bland approach to the stadium, which itself is as bland as it gets. I was never a fan, even in its Olympic year.

There were quick security checks – no SLR this time either, my Sony pub camera was clasped in my hand and nobody spotted it – and the three of us were soon taking a lift to the area outside the away turnstiles. Sharing the tight space was a lone West Ham supporter.

“Here we go for another nine months of hell” he grumbled.

“That’s the spirit” I thought, remembering how awkward it used to be back in the ‘eighties when home fans talked to you as one of their own, and you tried to say as little as possible. I remember settling down to some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” on the Barking Road in 1986 and the West Ham fan sitting opposite trying to strike up a conversation with me about Tony Cottee or Mark Ward, and me being very taciturn.

More checks, more security, but we were in. I did say to the lads that I had fancied walking around the stadium to see if there are any things worth seeing, but without thinking, I was pulled into the away concourse, like a moth to a flame.

West Ham’s London Stadium might be the worst football stadium in London, in the topflight, maybe in the whole country, but I do like its airy concourses outside the steps to the away seats, which provide plenty of space for fellow fans to assemble, drink, and share a laugh. We soon bumped into “Eight Bells” regulars Jimmy and Ian. The latter bought me the dearest Diet Coke ever apparently.

“Cheers mate.”

And there they all were; many familiar faces, far too many to name, ready for the battle against our London enemy.

Yes, I love away games.

And yet, it has not been a good summer regarding away games in the up-coming season. To cut a long story short, many in our support base have felt let down by the club. Firstly, news about the away season ticket took forever to be communicated by the club. Then came the horrific news that away tickets were non-transferable, with the added piece of news that sporadic ID checks would take place at away games, a repeat of what allegedly happened at Tottenham last December.

This panicked many people. Two friends who have been away season ticket holders for a while have very kindly offered me their away tickets over the past seven or eight years if they could not attend games. They immediately contacted me to say that if they could not transfer tickets, they would opt out of renewing in 2025/26. This was understandable. But it meant that I would not be able to help many close friends to tickets, including Parky and PD on occasion.

If you are reading this and have received away tickets from me in this period, they have more-than-likely come via these two mates.

Then, long after the away season ticket cut-off time, we found out that Chelsea Football Club had reneged on this ruling – in other words, away tickets could be transferred – but without any clear communication in the change to their stance.

Everyone I knew was livid, not least my two mates.

It is rumoured that during this period of uncertainty, around two-hundred supporters left the away scheme.

That hurts.

What hurts even more is the near certainty that many away seats in the Chelsea sections at stadia in 2025/26 will be on sale on third party sites for extortionate and obscene prices. By creating a period of uncertainty in the ranks, perhaps on purpose, it’s likely that the club succeeded in weeding out some of our most loyal fans to gain financially from moving tickets to third party platforms.

It sickens me.

I was inside the upper tier with a good forty minutes to go as I fancied settling myself and clearing my head. I had been awake since 4.45am and was feeling a little jaded. My seat was in a very familiar position; the second row of the tier, right in line with the touchline. I was sat next to John and Gary.

The stadium took forever to fill up. I hated the booming dance music that sucks all the life out of the pre-match. I remember the days when football grounds would be bubbling away before kick-off, with songs being sung, and players being serenaded. Not so in 2025.

At last, bodies appeared. The stadium filled.

We heard, late on, that Cole Palmer had injured himself in the kick-in, so he was replaced by Estevao Willian.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Adarabioyo – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Pedro Neto

Delap

“Bubbles” boomed as the players entered the pitch, the longest walk in football.

Chelsea were in all black.

Although this new kit looks clean and neat from a distance, I am not a fan of its odd white “false collar” but I absolutely loathe the Chelsea Collection badge from 1986. It was hated, really hated, when it came along almost forty years ago and there was a real sense of relief when the “lion rampant” badge was reinstated on our centenary in 2005.

In many circles, it was known as the “Millwall badge” and it is obvious why.

I then thought back to the “World Champions” logo on the rear of the hotel wall at Stamford Bridge and it all made perfect – muddled – sense.

Never mind, the oddballs who collect Chelsea shirts like a mania will love it.

West Ham themselves looked a little odd. There were no light blue sleeves, nor much sign of light blue anywhere on their kit. Their kit reminded me of the one they wore in 1986 when they finished in second place in the old First Division, their highest-ever placing.

At 8pm the evening’s entertainment began, and – as always – we attacked the other end in the first half.

It’s so difficult to get our whole section singing as one at West Hame, since there is that hideous void between the two levels. I have always had seats in the upper section and the view from there is bad enough, so God knows what it is like thirty-five rows behind me. I have had contrasting opinions of the view from the lower tier. Some say it’s OK, some hate it. The away fans tried to get behind the players as the game began.

In the first five minutes, Chelsea edged possession but then came the sixth minute.

The ball was played in to Lucas Paqueta, a long distance out, but allowed to advance. I immediately sensed the danger and yelled out “block the space” but nobody heard me. Chelsea backed off and the West Ham player strode on. To my utter disbelief, he struck a brilliant shot – moving and dipping over the flailing and failing arch of Robert Sanchez – and the ball crashed in. To my horror, I was right in line with the path of the ball.

Gutted.

The scorer shot off to celebrate in the right-hand corner and the home fans were in ecstasy.

Well, bollocks. After our staid draw against Palace, this was a horrible way to start our next game.

Behind me, four fans howled “we hate Sanchez” and I just glared at them.

We huffed and puffed and tried our best to get back to level terms. On fifteen minutes, we were given a corner on our right and Pedro Neto aimed at the near post. I captured the moment that Marc Cucurella lept and headed the ball on – a waning skill these days – and we watched with glee as a Chelsea player, no idea who, headed the ball in as it dropped inside the six-yard box.

GET IN.

Then, a scare. West Ham broke down our left in front of us, and the ball was played square. I immediately thought the recipient was offside, so when the cross was turned in by Niclas Fullkrug, whoever he is, I was adamant that VAR would rule it out. There was a wait, but yes, no penalty. Jean-Clair Todibo, whoever he is, was just offside.

Phew, but fuck VAR right?

Five minutes later, we did well to win the ball in the inside-right channel and Joao Pedro flicked a great cross over to a Chelsea player to sweep the ball in. I was too far away to be sure who scored and was too busy celebrating to watch the scorer run to the corner flag where he was mobbed.

A blue flare was dropped from behind me into the void below and the sulphurous fumes filled my nostrils.  

On the pitch, we began to purr. You know we played well when I use that word.

The Chelsea support was loving this. With each move, we grew in confidence. Lovely.

On thirty-four minutes, a nice little moment of interplay between Liam Delap and Estevao enabled the young Brazilian to dance away inside the box – quite beautiful – and send over a teasing cross that a Chelsea player swept into the goal.

We were up 3-1.

You beauty.

Another race to the corner flag, more celebrations, more fist-punching from me, more snaps of the lads in black.

I thought back to New Jersey.

Another first-half with three goals.

I realised that I had sat the entire first half, leaning on the safe-standing rail in front of me, but totally engrossed in everything. It had been a cracking game thus far. As the players left the pitch at the break, there were audible boos from the home section.

We eventually learned that the three scorers were Joao Pedro, Pedro Neto and Enzo Pedro Neto, whoever he is.

What would the second half bring? Hopefully more goals.

To be honest, the second period was just funny.

We continued as we had finished. Enzo, though, shot over with a good chance.

On fifty-four minutes, a corner from Enzo down below us and the West Ham player in orange – their goalkeeper apparently – flapped at the ball. Moises Caicedo was on hand to smack the ball in.

More crazy celebrations.

Beautiful.

I remembered the poor bloke’s horrible debut on that sunny Sunday two years ago at the same stadium. Since then, what a revelation he has been.

Just four minutes later, a Pedro Neto corner from down below us, mayhem in the West Ham box, and the ball fell for Chalobah to smash in from close range.

5-1.

Heaven.

More celebrations in Chelsea-ville.

With half-an-hour to go, we hoped for more goals, but no. It wasn’t to be. But we didn’t care. To be honest, the home team conjured up a few chances, but we never looked like conceding.

The hapless Graham Potter was serenaded by the Chelsea faithful. Has there ever been a more lack-lustre personality linked with Chelsea Football Club? I think not.

Substitutions were made.

62 : Andrey Santos for Delap

69 : Reece James for Gusto.

69 : Wesley Fofana for Chalobah.

69 : Jorrel Hato for Cucurella.

A good chance for Estevao, running freely, but a mis-control and a touch too many and over. Ugh.

We didn’t care.

77 : Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

I spoke to the bloke to my left.

“This must be our biggest ever win at West Ham. Does it even up that 0-4 loss to them in 1986…that year again…no, I guess it doesn’t.”

I had answered my own question.

The last part of the game drifted away, as did a good proportion of the home fans.

My player of the match was Pedro Neto. His efforts up and down the wing were the stuff of legend.

At the end of the game, just happiness and smiles.

“Top of the league, lads.”

However, it has to be said; how poor were West Ham?

I trotted out to the concourse and went to use the gents before the trek back West. One of the idiosyncrasies of the gents at West Ham is that the toilets are like a maze, a never-ending pattern of urinals, going on forever. You’re lucky to get out. I reckon it’s one of the reasons why West Ham have gates of 62,000 every game. There was one bloke in there from the final day of the 2012 Olympics.

I met up with PD and Parky and we re-traced our steps. The first DLR train was an odd mix of West Ham fans and ABBA fans. People were dolled up for their night out and were wearing gaudy make up with bright and lurid fashions from the successful era of the mid-‘seventies to the early-‘eighties. The others were the ABBA fans.

From Pudding Mill Lane to Canary Wharf, the night now dark, and the return journey to Westminster, which always seems to be like something out of a dystopian sci-fi horror, then back to good old Barons Court at 11.30pm.

“Gail’s Café” passed its test.

I reached home at 2.20am and I fell asleep at 2.45am.

This Chelsea day at lasted from 4.45am to 2.45am.

Mamma mia.

Next up, another London Derby awaits.

See you in the pub.

BARONS COURT TO PUDDING MILL LANE

LONDON STADIUM

PUDDING MILL LANE TO BARONS COURT

Tales From Two Tribes

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West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 21 September 2024.

It seemed odd to have no Chelsea midweek game after the Bournemouth match, especially since many other teams were embroiled in not only UEFA competitions but the Carabao Cup too. However, the away match at West Ham United’s London Stadium was reward enough for a barren week of football.

Although this stadium is undoubtedly my least favourite away venue – terrible sight-lines in addition to no Chelsea wins in all of my previous six visits – I was pretty positive about the day. As my working week ended on Friday, I was absolutely relishing the trip to East London. The malaise of the previous weekend had disappeared. Whisper it, but I could even sense a win. If that was to be the eventual outcome, the four of us were planning to execute a post-game victory ramble around the East End. That was enough to get me chomping at the bit for the day to start.

By some odd twist of fate, some forty years ago, Chelsea and West Ham United met in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I always remember that a chap called Baz who ran the Yeovil Supporters Club used to produce a small bi-monthly magazine, and in the pre-amble to the travel plans for this game, he subtitled it “When Two Tribes Go To War” after the huge Frankie Goes To Hollywood hit from that summer. Well, on Saturday 15 September 1984, the two tribes went to war in a game that is avidly remembered to this day, not least by me.

This would be the first time that I would see West Ham play and, while North London’s two teams had been developing a mutual hatred of each other both on and off the pitch for decades, Chelsea and West Ham had been doing the same, albeit in the Second Division, for a couple of seasons prior to 1984. Those 1979/80 and 1980/81 encounters – two Chelsea wins in the first season and two West Ham wins in the second – must have been lingering in the memories of those who were planning to attend the first match between the two clubs since a 4-0 West Ham win at Upton Park on Valentine’s Day 1981. To say that there were off-the-field scores to be settled would be a massive understatement.

I was up early for this one – some things don’t change – and I caught an early-morning train from Frome train station to Westbury with Glenn, and we then zipped up to Paddington. We made a bee-line for Stamford Bridge, arriving as early as 10am. As I was off to North Staffs Poly in a week’s time, I needed some photos for my NUS card, and so I used the photo booth at Fulham Broadway tube station. We walked down to a café at the bottom of the North End Road and for the first time in my life I sampled some pie, mash and liquor. This seemed ridiculously authentic for a nineteen-year-old lad from deepest Somerset; what a beautiful start to a top flight London derby. On walking up to the main gates at around 11am, we were aware of a large mob of casuals walking past us in the middle of the road; dressed to the nines, no colours on show, full of attitude, full of purpose. Without a doubt, we knew they were West Ham, the ICF. I remember one bloke bumped into me as he brushed past, but with the fear of their notoriety in the forefront of my mind, it was me who apologised.

After they had passed, we looked on as they ran a hundred yards or so towards the tube station and had a set-to with some newly-arrived Chelsea lads.

We waited in the East Stand forecourt as we saw another large mob of around fifty gents line up at a ticket office and attempt to buy tickets. The police had arrived by now and told them that no tickets were on sale and to disperse. The presence of a mob of away fans in the forecourt reminded me of the time in February 1977 when Millwall made an appearance, along with rushes and pushing and punches. As an eleven-year-old, this was all too exciting for words.

At one stage, the police closed the main gates, worried about a further influx of West Ham. Things were bubbling – pardon the pun – along for a while. Glenn and I got in the ground, into the relative safety of The Benches, at 12.30pm. There were some proper bruisers on parade that day, and us two teenagers were in no mood to get walloped, especially after a nasty experience at Bristol City that August.

Our capacity at the time was around 43,000 and I had predicted a gate of 32,000 the day before.

Once inside, it was clear that West Ham had brought the numbers. Our sweeping North Stand held 10,000 at the time and each of the four paddocks were swelling with numbers from an early stage.

At about 1.30pm, we noted that a mob of chaps had arrived en masse in the West Stand seats above us. For what seemed an eternity, they looked at us and we looked at them. At 2pm, they moved towards our right, towards the northern end, and punches were thrown at home fans, although the Chelsea seats were not full at all.

A slow deep song, previously unheard of, boomed out of the West Stand.

“ICF…ICF.”

I can’t deny it. It put the fear of God inside me.

They positioned themselves – maybe a hundred, maybe more – right behind us. I had been sitting in the very back row of The Benches, a few yards away. I looked at their angry faces and became concerned that they might well decide to throw some coins at us.

“Fuck that.”

Leggo, from Bedford, and I moved a few rows down.

On the other side of the pitch, about fifty West Ham showed up in Gate 13 in the East Lower but the police were soon in charge.

The game, played out in front of a very hostile atmosphere, was a cracker.

Us in 1984?

Niedzwiecki

Lee – McLaughlin – Pates – Rougvie

Nevin– Bumstead – Spackman – Thomas

Dixon – Speedie

West Ham fielded such stalwarts as Billy Bonds, Alvin Martin, Ray Stewart, Paul Allen and Tony Cottee. They played in all white.

It annoys me, forty years after the event that Trevor Brooking didn’t play in this match in; he had been a great player, one that I respected a little. Sadly, he had just retired at the end of the previous season, along with Kevin Keegan. Oh God, here come the memories of that bloody England vs. Spain game in 1982…I digress.

For some reason we attacked the Shed in the first-half. David Speedie was through but he was taken out by the West Ham ‘keeper Tom McAllister. The Hammers’ ‘keeper saved Colin Lee’s penalty kick, only for Lee to smack home the rebound. For some reason, the penalty had to be retaken. Bizarrely, the same thing happened again. Lee shot, McAllister saved, but Lee adeptly prodded home the rebound.

In the second-half, West Ham improved but a further goal, a lashed strike from Speedie on seventy minutes, made the game safe. With five minutes to go, Doug Rougvie was an unlikely provider of a deep cross that found an even unlikelier leap from Pat Nevin to head the ball in at the far post to give us a 3-0 win.

As this third goal went in, the West Ham mob behind us upped and left. Before we knew it, they had reappeared to our right, marching into the Shed at the Bovril Gate. A few punches were thrown at anyone within reach. It looked pretty indiscriminate. My pal Clive – who I sit alongside at Chelsea these days – took a battering after being pushed to the ground, but Chelsea soon re-grouped and chased them out.

Bizarrely, Glenn and I walked across the pitch – as did many – at the end of the game while the police tried to quell further scraps in The Shed, and we would get back on to the Fulham Road via the main gates. We made it back to Paddington intact and made the 6.05pm train to Bath, then to Westbury, then to Frome. On the way home, we chatted to two Bristol Rovers hooligans who had been lured to the bright lights of London for the game and had been part of the huge number in the away section.

The day had been massive. The gate was given as 32,411, yet we suspected that the Chelsea chairman Ken Bates had fiddled the figures; it felt nearer 35,000, maybe 40,000.

This had been a huge win for us. However, on the day, both Glenn and I always felt that West Ham had certainly made a big impression off the pitch – the buggers were certainly organised, their forte, their strong point – though in the ensuing years, Chelsea have always mocked the fact that they showed up way too early when the West Stand was full of normal fans.

That night, around the pubs of Frome, I bumped into a West Ham fan from school who, on hearing of the day’s events, summed it all up.

“The ICF did their job, then.”

I glumly nodded.

On this Saturday, just over forty years later, it was all about the football now. Hooliganism has almost disappeared from the national game, and it’s the actions of those on the pitch that are the focus of our attentions in 2024, though I am always aware of the symbiotic relationship between supporters and players.

Without supporters, we always say, football – and maybe footballers – are nothing.

After getting up early – 5.30am – I collected PD and Glenn at 7am. I drove past Frome train station, where our trip began in 1984 and onto collect Parky at 7.30am. We soon McBreakfasted at Melksham and we were on our way. While Glenn read my Bournemouth blog – that I had only finished the previous night – on his ‘phone, I updated the others on my December travel plans for Kazakhstan; out via Istanbul, home via Baku, and four nights in Almaty. I can’t wait. On the drive to London, the weather was miserable; full of dark clouds and rain. Thankfully, as we approached London it all brightened up considerably.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at 10.15am and, after our usual changes at Westminster and Canary Wharf, we reached Pudding Mill Lane station at 11.20am.

It’s a short walk to the London Stadium from here, and one which we are all familiar with. Unlike last season – just over a year ago – we were at the ground with tons of time to spare. Four foreign West Ham fans, all wearing various West Ham shirts, breezed past me. I detected accents from the southern US states. As they passed me, I spotted that one chap had “Lampard 26” emblazoned on his jersey.

My brain short-circuited.

“Lampard. Not our Frank surely? They hate him here. Maybe a reference to his father. But number 26?”

This just didn’t compute.

Security Check One : in.

Security Check Two : in, albeit after couple of dicey moments as the guy checked my camera.

I looked up and saw that “Lampard” was just ahead of me. I couldn’t resist a little chat.

“Hi mate. I have to ask why you have Lampard on your shirt?”

“He’s a legend, isn’t he? Like his father!”

I had no words.

Security Check Three : in.

But then a sniffer dog seemed interested in my camera bag. I was asked to accompany a bloke into a small tent where my camera bag, my wallet and my ‘phone were examined. I stood silent, bemused.

“You haven’t got any drugs, sir.”

“No.”

I almost expected them to ask if I’d like some.

We chatted to some pals in the large concourse; about the only thing they got right at this horrible stadium. PD and Parky were in the lower tier, I was towards the front of the upper tier, and Glenn was with Clive further back. For the first time, our tickets were sent via email and had to be repositioned inside an app on our ‘phones. It worked OK for me, but as Glenn was using a mate’s ticket, there was an uncertain period a few days ago when it appeared that the ticket – or rather a QR code – belligerently refused to appear on Glenn’s ‘phone. Eventually it was sorted.

With time to spare, I walked to the very top of the upper tier of the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand just to see for myself how awful the view is from the rear.

It is, as I suspected, horrific.

The sun was out, blue skies overhead, still positive vibes. I was stood alongside John and Gary in the third row of the upper deck.

Us in 2024?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Adarabioyo – Colwill – Fofana

Enzo – Caicedo

Sancho – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I had heard of a few of the opposing players, but not all of them. It’s a sure sign of my waning interest in top level football outside of the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club. After fifty years of going to games, it’s no bloody wonder my brain can’t take much more.

I hear this comment from so many people of my generation : “Teams from my youth roll off my tongue so easily but I really struggle to name many opposing players these days.”

As always at this stadium, we attacked the other end – The Bobby Moore Stand – in the first-half. The home team created the first chance of the game in the opening few minutes, but Roberto Sanchez saved well from Mohammed Kudos, whoever he is.

Then, a lightning break for ourselves. A free-kick was taken early. Chelsea – the cream shirts looking cleaner and whiter in the sun than last week – switched the ball from Jadon Sancho to Nicolas Jackson who sped away in the inside-left channel. He advanced and slotted the ball home, between the keeper Areola’s legs, and we were 1-0 up. He sped away, full of glee, and the home fans looked on despondently.

Snigger.

However, I was reminded of the times that we had gone ahead in this fixture only to concede goals later.

The home team came at us and created a chance for Crysencio Summerville, whoever he is, but we were full of ideas too. A forceful run from Jackson allowed a ball in to Cole Palmer who sadly stroked the ball just past the frame of the goal.

There was much to admire about our play and the home fans were beautifully quiet.

On eighteen minutes, the ball was played by Enzo Fernandez to Moises Caicedo in the middle of the pitch. He immediately saw the breaking Jackson and his pass was weighted to perfection. This was another Jackson versus Areola moment, though central this time, and our young striker clipped the ball past the ‘keeper with the outside of his right foot, thankfully captured on film by yours truly.

Get in.

A jubilant run past a fresh set of home fans.

A slide.

You beauty.

We were 2-0 up early.

As soon as had I picked up PD at 7am, I was confident we would win on this occasion. Should we do so, we were going to combine a post-match visit to a traditional pie and mash shop and then, probably, a first-ever visit to an infamous East End boozer “The Blind Beggar” where Ronnie Kray shot and murdered George Cornell, of the rival Richardson firm, back in 1966.

Were we safe? Maybe.

Chelsea continued to play well – especially strong through the middle – but the home team had a lot more possession during the final twenty minutes of the first period. I noted that Palmer was strangely quiet, often losing possession cheaply, and how deep he appeared to come for the ball. Often it felt like he was alongside Enzo and Caicedo in a three. I remembered Moises’ Chelsea debut at the same stadium last season, and what a shocker it was. He has progressed so well since and is one of our most admired players of late.

The home team weren’t especially good, but carved open a couple of chances. Jarrod Bowen fired over. A cool finish from Kudos was quickly flagged for offside. Our defence looked on top, but there were still a few jarring mistakes to keep us worried.

We eked out chances too. Sancho linked well with Jackson, but a shot was blocked, while Madueke ran and ran but failed deliver an end product. A lively first-half ended with another fine save from Sanchez.

There were plenty of Chelsea smiles at the break in the vast away end.

I was still sat, fiddling with my camera case, when Chelsea broke early into the second-half. The ball was pushed into the path of Palmer by the advancing Jackson. I hastily pulled the camera up to my eyes and shot. Then Palmer shot. The effort flew in off the near post as I rose to my feet.

Beautiful.

3-0.

Safe now.

I began thinking again of some pie and mash.

The goal signalled the end of whatever noise there was from the home areas. Joe Cole, commentating on the game in an open area to our left, was heavily serenaded. The West Ham crowd must hate that he is now revered as Chelsea and not West Ham, just like another person that we know and love.

Despite some half chances for the home side, the game really was over.

Time for some changes.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Axel Disasi for Colwill.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo.

There was a fantastic crunching tackle from Marc Cucarella on some West Ham player or another that – although resulting in a booking – resulted in a big cheer from the away contingent. It showed, in one moment, the desire in the team. I also loved all of the blocks – players putting their bodies on the line and other clichés – that again showed a desire and commitment that is not always visible.

At last, after six previous visits to the London Stadium, I had at last seen a Chelsea victory on a lucky seventh visit. Our home games often seem nervy affairs at the moment, don’t they? Can we play all our games away from home please? Three out of three in the league now.

Alas, no.

We now play four home games in a row in three competitions.

Barrow.

Brighton & Hove Albion.

Gent.

Nottingham Forest.

Our next away game – Liverpool on Sunday 20 October – seems ages away.

With many of the home fans leaving early, there was virtually no wait at Pudding Mill Lane station after the game. We caught the Docklands Light Railway train to All Saints and soon located “Maureen’s Pie & Mash”, tucked away in a small ‘sixties shopping precinct in Poplar.

Last season, before the corresponding fixture, we called in at the more famous “Manze’s” on London Bridge Road, but I think the pies on offer at “Maureen’s” were even better. Last season, I decided to call the West Ham blog “Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1” but on this day it was a case of “West Ham 0, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 3.”

Who should walk in as we were sitting down to our plates of pie, mash and liquor but our friend Dane who sits just in front of me at Chelsea. He often visits this haven of traditional London fare. What a small world.

None of us were keen to head home, so we caught another train from Poplar to Shadwell, then another one to Whitechapel. The sun was still shining high in the sky and we walked through the bustling street market – all of human life was there – until we reached “The Blind Beggar” pub on a wide pavement at a junction. We were able to relax, despite being the football supporter equivalents of the South London-based Richardsons visiting the heartland of West Ham’s East End support. Glenn had visited this infamous pub years ago – which was once owned by Bobby Moore of all people – and knew where to show me the bullet hole in a picture frame on the wall that was, allegedly, the one that killed Cornell after passing straight through him.

Gulp.

I had to smirk when “Smooth Operator” by Sade – featured in the first blog of this season, Rio de Janeiro, 1984 and all that – was played while we supped on ales. I also laughed at the chalkboard advertising “shots” for sale.

We crossed the road for a pint in a second pub, “The White Hart”, in Bethnal Green now, and we enjoyed a few moments as we reviewed the day’s game, while admiring the considerable scenery, cough, cough.

With no rush to return home, we then decided to head into the city. Alas, we heard that there had been a “jumper” on the line near Earls Court so we would have to return to Barons Court by other means.

We visited five more pubs during a lovey evening ramble around Blackfriars and Fleet Street. The only downer was hearing that Frome Town had been walloped 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville.

“The Blackfriar.”

This narrow pub was packed so we stood outside with the sun reflecting off the towering superstructures on the other side of the River Thames.

“The Albion.”

We saw bits of an entertaining 0-0 game on the big screen between Crystal Palace and Manchester United. Then, outside, the astonishing sight of St. Paul’s Cathedral, floodlit and magnificent.

“Punch Tavern.”

The first of three pubs on historic Fleet Street and the realisation that this was quickly turning into one of our greatest London away days

“The Old Bell.”

A cramped pub, full of character, a cosy room and recollections of school days, football days and hopes for a reasonable season ahead.

“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”

This pub was rebuilt after the Great Fire Of London in 1666 and I knew that it is one of London’s most famous pubs. I had known of its existence for years but it was a dream to stumble across it on this most magical of pub crawls. The place was swarming with tourists, full of beer, full of wine, full of chat, but thankfully none of them were wearing a Frank Lampard West Ham shirt.

At around 9.15pm, we caught an Uber to take us back to Barons Court and our waiting car. This in itself was a magical trip for us out-of-towners. We drove past The Strand Palace Hotel, where my parents honeymooned in 1957, past Trafalgar Square – a blurred photo of Nelson’s Column – and along Piccadilly, past Hyde Park Corner, into Knightsbridge, past the Natural History Museum, past Harrods, past The Famous Three Kings on the North End Road.

We stopped at Heston for a light snack, then I drove west to Wiltshire and Somerset.

I eventually reached home at just after midnight.

September 15 1984.

Chelsea 3 West Ham United 0.

September 21 2024.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Fackinell.

See you on Tuesday.

Before The Game : 1984

The Game : 1984

Before The Game : 2024

The Game : 2024

After The Game : 2024

Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1

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2

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 20 August 2023.

There were several instances during the build-up to our game against West Ham at the London Stadium where I told my match-day companions that I fancied us to win. And I honestly believed it. Despite me venturing to the Stratford wastelands on six previous occasions and not seeing a single Chelsea victory, after the pleasing performance against Liverpool I sensed a few reasons to be cheerful. I couldn’t have been the only one.

My week had been busy from a footballing perspective. There were two Frome Town away games, encompassing two new grounds, on the Tuesday and Saturday, and both were enjoyable.

I drove down to Salisbury on the Tuesday after work and met up with Salisbury Steve for the league game against newly-promoted Bemerton Heath Harlequins. I loved their neat ground with a decent clubhouse behind one goal and tall yew trees on two of the remaining three sides. Despite going ahead, Frome Town contrived to get two players sent off and eventually lost 1-3.

On the Saturday morning, it was an early start for me – to avoid holiday traffic – as I drove the 170 miles down to Falmouth in Cornwall. I set off at 6am and arrived at 10am for the second preliminary round of the FA Cup and a match against Falmouth Town. This was another excellent ground, with a bona fide terrace behind one goal and seats set upon a slope along one side. There was even a noisy home support, including a section called “F Troop” involving banners, flags, a music system and even a bloke in a Pikachu body suit – don’t ask – but despite all this, Frome Town carved out a fine 6-2 win.

I got back from Falmouth at 9.30pm on Saturday night. I was up again at 6.30am to head up to London. Over the weekend, I would end up driving 560 miles for football. It’s my life.

I had picked up PD, Simon and Parky by 8.30am and we were parked at Barons Court by 10.30am.

At last we were able to enjoy a decent pre-match prior to a West Ham away game. All the others had been early kick-offs or evening games. Here was the chance to relax. We headed to London Bridge, just as the women’s World Cup Final was kicking-off. There was a vague plan to catch a bit of the game but none of us were too bothered.

I hadn’t seen a single kick of the men’s World Cup in Qatar, and – thus far – I had not seen a single kick of the women’s World Cup in Australia and New Zealand either. International football isn’t my thing for reasons that I can’t be arsed to list.

As we changed trains at Green Park, Parky realised that he had left his match ticket in my car so he had to back-track.

Simon, PD and I ploughed on regardless. We walked from London Bridge to Tower Bridge Road and made our first stop of our pre-match on both banks of the River Thames. I had visited M. Manze once before, and I had promised the lads a visit on one of our wanders around London on a subsequent match day. This establishment, which dates from 1892, serves up traditional pie and mash, and is much-revered. It reminds me of the very first pie and mash shop that I visited on the North End Road before the famous 5-0 Leeds United game in April 1984. I was with PD then, too.

All three of us opted for double pie and double mash, served with the famous parsley-decorated green liquor, and splashed with copious amounts of white pepper and chilli vinegar. It’s a London staple, not found elsewhere in the UK. The food didn’t touch the sides. We sat at old wooden benches and ate in glorious silence. We heard that Spain were 1-0 up down under. Replenished, we left the green and white tiled interior and caught a bus to Canada Water. From here, an overground train to Wapping, which – er – went under the Thames.

From here, we walked up to a famous old pub, The Prospect Of Whitby, which has been on “the list” for a while. This is a glorious pub, and acted as our base camp. Not long after the first drinks were ordered, Parky joined us. In Sydney, the score had stayed 1-0 to Spain. We had not seen a single kick of the game.

It was time to relax. This boozer abuts onto the River Thames. There are stone floors, wooden beams, terraces, a beer garden, history everywhere. Out in the river, a noose hangs from a gibbet, a memory of the days of yore when pirates were put to their death on this site.

There were drinks and laughs.

Simon told of how his grandson is named Enzo – not because of our Argentinian midfielder – and he had recently bought him an Enzo shirt.

This was such a fine time.

“Do we have to go to the game?”

I could have stayed there all day.

A Chelsea fan who lived locally arrived to give Simon a spare ticket, and we were then able to move on to the next pub. Wapping, once an area of trade and warehouses, was yuppified in the ‘eighties, with conversions taking place everywhere. Nowadays, the place reeks of wealth. On the walk between pubs, we spotted Porsches and Mercs parked on the cobbled streets. There is a distinct air of fine living in the shadows underneath the converted warehouses. I saw a couple of people with West Ham shirts. This wasn’t classic Cockney territory like Mile End, Poplar or Plaistow, but as good as it gets in modern day London.

Fackinell.

We dipped into the second pub, “The Town Of Ramsgate”, and this was another Thames-side pub with a terrace abutting the river and access to the shingled reach below. It was another winner. We made plans to return. There are three other pubs close by.

At about 3.15pm, Simon booked an Uber and we were soon on our way to the game. The London Stadium was less than three miles away. We could relax.

“Been a great pre-match, boys. Was even better when Parky fucked off for ninety minutes.”

“I still fancy us to win today.”

Halfway to our destination, I continued on :

“Tell you what, it makes a nice change to get to an away game early. No rush. Fed up of arriving late. Glad we have grown out of that habit.”

With that, Doctor Uber took a wrong turn and we found ourselves on a road headed for the Blackwall Tunnel.

“Fackinell.”

Helpless, we peered out as the car was swept under the river, unable to deviate. We did a U-turn past the O2, then swung north once again. Thankfully, we arrived at Pudding Mill Lane at just after 4pm. Outside, the heat was suddenly blistering, away from the cool shadows of Wapping. After two bag searches, we were in the away end at 4.15pm.

Parky and I joined up with Alan, Gary and John in the fourth row of the upper section. Simon was twenty rows behind us. PD was adrift in the lower tier.

Prior to the teams entering the pitch, a large mosaic was displayed in the East Stand depicting the Europa Conference trophy that West Ham stumbled upon last season.

West Ham in a virtually all claret kit, Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

Our team?

Alas, we were missing Reece James, so Malo adjusted into the right wing-back berth.

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Gusto – Gallagher – Enzo – Chukwuemeka – Chilwell

Jackson – Sterling

Bloody hell, Kurt Zouma was captain of West Ham, alongside Emerson Palmieri, another ex-Chelsea player. There were familiar names in the home side. Simon had warned that Michail Antonio always seemed to perform against us.

At 4.30pm, the game began. It doesn’t always happen at West Ham, but this looked like a virtual full house. I couldn’t spot many empty seats anywhere. Gulp.

As always, we attacked the far end, the Bobby Moore Stand, in the first-half. It’s a little ironic that West Ham have switched from a very tight ground at Upton Park in favour of a wide-open elliptical set-up at London Stadium, whereas we have gone from a sprawling oval of the old Stamford Bridge to the tight stands of the new Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t sure if those Chelsea fans in the lower tier, nearer the action but with poor sightlines, were better positioned than those in the upper tier, with a better overall view but so damned far from the pitch. We were right in the middle, above the claret-coloured void. Perhaps we had the best view of the two, a compromise.

On the pitch, a middling opening, and not a great deal of noise from any section.

The home team attacked and won a corner which Robert Sanchez took care of. Soon after, the former Southampton player James Ward-Prowse, sent in another lofted corner, and as the ball dropped I was unfortunate enough to catch the moment that Nayef Aguerd out-muscled one or two of our players to head home.

Fackinell.

I turned to John : “didn’t even make it difficult for him to jump.”

We dominated the possession but I noted a lack of movement up front. In the stands, all was quiet. How was it possible for over 62,000 to make so little noise?

Gradually, we improved.

Nicolas Jackson’s involvement increased and there were a couple of half-chances. On twenty-seven minutes, Ben Chilwell’s cross was cleared but the ball fell to Carney Chukwuemeka. His sway and shimmy lost his marker and as the ball was worked to his right foot, he curled a shot that Alphonse Areola was unable to reach.

Carney made him look like a proper tit.

The Chelsea crowd celebrated, as did the scorer who reeled away with a jump towards the home fans in the corner.

A rare West Ham attack resulted in a shot from Lucas Paqueta that bounced up off a post down below us.

There had been a shout for a Chelsea penalty after Jackson was sent sprawling but VAR had noted an offside. When Raheem Sterling squirmed into space on the edge of the box, Tomas Soucek hacked at him, and there was no VAR to save the home team.

We watched as Enzo stood and faced off against Areola. It was a weak penalty and the ‘keeper was easily able to save to his right.

Sigh.

In the closing minutes of the first-half, Chukwuemeka was injured and was stretchered off.

With Sterling running at pace against a worried defence, and with able support from Jackson and Chukwuemeka, we had played some decent stuff in that first-half. At the half-time break, everyone around me was positive.

“Sterling excellent.”

“All us really.”

The first song aired by the PA at the break was “Radio Ga Ga” by Queen, probably my most loathed band of all time. I thought to myself “that has no right to be played at a football game” and I fucked off to the gents.

As I descended the stairs down to the airy concourse, I was reminded of how away games these days are populated by a greater number of lads – mainly lads – in their twenties than in previous years. Not that it needs stating every game, but I also noted how the vast majority of our away support eschew club colours of any description. This was brought home to me when a couple in their forties passed me. Both of them were wearing Chelsea shirts and, to be frank, they really stuck out. All around me, behind me by the bar, grouped at the base of the stairs, chatting and laughing, were lads – mainly lads – dressed in anything but Chelsea gear.

Plain T-shirts, polos, shorts, jeans, trainers.

Lyle & Scott, Lacoste, CP, Boss, Barbour, Fila, Fred Perry, Weekend Offender, Pretty Green, Moncler, Baslager, Adidas, Nike, Aquascutum, Puma, Paul & Shark, Armani, Ralph Lauren.

I often wonder what goes through the mind of Randy and Brandy from Badgercrack, Nebraska when they show up at a Chelsea away game with full shirt / cap / scarf Holy Trinity and find themselves in a sea of lime, lavender, coral, mint, navy, peach, beige, cerise, black, grey and white.

The West Ham DJ had redeemed themselves. The last song of the break was “Born Slippy” by Underworld, with hints of Hibs Casuals and a working class culture.

Mykhailo Mudryk replaced the unfortunate Chukwuemeka.

Last season, we eked out a 1-1 draw under a grey sky in Stratford. There were white fluffy crowds amid a blue sky on this Sunday in August. The second-half began.

Whereas I stood throughout the first-half, as were those near me, I noted that many were sat as the game recommenced. I sat too, and hated myself for it. I felt that this was a sure sign that we weren’t up for it. There was no noise to speak of.

Bloody modern football.

Soon in to the restart, the ball stood up nicely for Said Benrahma on a break but the effort went wide. Just after, a long ball caught our defence out. We seemed too square, too high, almost as if the menacing Antonio was himself the last man. He raced away past Levi Colwill and shot low past the dive of Sanchez, a hideously perfect finish. Now the home fans roared.

But oh their “Champions Of Europe” chant.

It’s beyond parody really.

And no, they are not even being ironic.

When we twice won the Europa League, we would never have dared sing that.

Fuck me, if West Ham are champions of Europe in 2023, then that means that the Brotherhood Of Man were the best band throughout Europe in 1976.

Sorry Led Zeppelin, sorry Fleetwood Mac, sorry Abba, sorry Rolling Stones, sorry Thin Lizzy, sorry Sex Pistols.

Save all your kisses for me, West Ham.

The second-half really disappointed. In the first-half, there was at least intent and cohesion. The second period just got worse and worse.

I compared notes with John.

“The only time we win here, I had to work.”

“Like me at United. Been there fourteen times. Not seen us win.”

We toiled but it was terrible to watch.

Malo Gusto made an absolutely sublime last ditch tackle when a one-on-one break reached the point of no return.

Sadly, Enzo was a poor shadow of the man who played so formidably against Liverpool.

On the hour, Mauricio Pochettino replaced Chilwell with new signing Moises Caicedo. We switched to four at the back with Caicedo bolstering the midfield.

Goal-scorer Aguerd was then booked for the second time and was sent off on sixty-eight minutes. Our attacking play was disjointed. We were afraid to shoot. Sterling dithered on more than one occasion. Mudryk had pace but no end product. More substitutions.

Noni Madueke for Gallagher.

Mason Burstow for Gusto.

A debut and thus a very proud moment for my mate Andy, who coached Burstow at a club in Kent for a while.

Mudryk was pitiful. One shot of his, after arriving late at the far post, was volleyed so far into the air that it spent ages coming back down to Earth, and when it did, it didn’t even go off for a corner.

This was horrible.

Quite bizarrely, I was aware that a young lad, maybe in his late teens, who was sat to my immediate left did not utter one word the entire game. Not one word; no word of encouragement, no comments, certainly no songs of support.

Can anyone fucking explain that to me?

Madueke showed some intent and was almost rewarded when a shot was deflected on the base of Areola’s post.

With hundreds of Chelsea leaving before the end, a rash challenge by debutant Caicedo resulted in Paqueta scoring from the spot.

Holy Moises.

West Ham United 3 Chelsea 1.

Sigh.

So, seven visits to the London Stadium, and still no wins.

Shall I stay at home next season?

We made our way back to Pudding Mill Lane and caught the first of three trains to take us back to Barons Court. On the second one, a Jubilee Line train, the announcer stated that “this train will terminate at Wembley Park.”

I turned to the boys and said “I don’t think our season will.”

We had crossed the River Thames six times during the day and we were at last on our way out west.

I eventually reached home at 10.30pm.

This, of course, was a disappointing performance bit I genuinely think that I – and many others – immediately found ourselves getting overly upset with a few negatives.

It was, after all, only our second league game of the season.

Next up is a Friday night match at home to Luton Town.

See you there.

Manze’s

The Prospect Of Whitby

The Town Of Ramsgate

The London Stadium

Tales From The London Stadium

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West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 4 December 2021.

This was another early start. At 7am I called for PD and at 7.30am we collected LP. Another cold day was on the cards as I pointed my car eastwards. As with any other Chelsea trip, there was the usual early-morning sequence of chit-chat, laughs and piss-takes. Outwardly, my main conversation point to my two travelling companions was this :

“Never bloody seen us win at their new place.”

For it was true.

26/10/16 : League Cup – lost 1-2

6/10/17 : League – won 2-1 (I did not attend – work)

9/12/17 : League – lost 0-1

23/9/18 : League – drew 0-0

1/7/20 : League – lost 2-3 (I did not attend – behind closed doors)

24/4/21 : League – won 1-0 (I did not attend – behind closed doors)

Inwardly, I was humming a tune to myself, but I was not convinced that I would be able to remember the exact words later in the day if required.

The key word was “zangalewa.”

“Tsamina mina, eh, eh.

Edouard Edouard Mendy.

Tsamina mina zangalewa.

He comes from Senegal.”

After the really lucky win at Watford on Wednesday, everyone seemed to be of the same opinion ahead of our game with West Ham who were surprisingly flying high, albeit not from Stamford Bridge to Upton Park.

“Tough game coming up.”

Despite the undoubted strength of our overall squad, despite the fine managerial nous of Thomas Tuchel, despite our fine showing in several recent games, there were of course questions everywhere. But this is to be expected. We are still a learning team, a growing team, a team in embryo.

Despite our real worries about our fate in East London, we were on our way.

One of these days, the Premier League fixtures will be kinder to us for an away game at the former Olympic Stadium in Stratford. Of my three – soon to be four – visits, one has been a night game and three have been early kick-offs. We have a traditional East-End pre-match lined up to take place at some point in the future; a pint at “The Blind Beggar” and some pie and mash somewhere local. Time was against us on this visit, but one day we’ll do it.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at bang on 10am. Our race out east involved three railway lines and changes at Green Park and Canary Wharf. We arrived at Pudding Mill Lane at bang on 11am. The walk to the away turnstiles took just ten minutes.

Just over four hours from PDs’s door to an Iron door.

Ideally, I wanted to circumnavigate the stadium for the first time to take some photos but we were soon funnelled into the away turnstiles. I had taken a photo of the ArcelorMital Orbit on the walk to the stadium, but it was a terribly flat photo. I had been hoping to take other photos of not only it but of the stadium too. Again, some other time maybe.

It was all rather ironic that I chose to wear a classic navy New York Yankee cap on this cold day in London. Back in June 2019, the Yankees played two “away” games against the Boston Red Sox at West Ham’s stadium and it was natural that many of my friends expected me to attend as I have been a long-distance admirer of the Bronx Bombers since 1990. But I wasn’t having any of it. As a vehement opponent of the “thirty-ninth game” or any variant of it, it would have been pretty hypocritical of me to watch the Yanks outside of North America.

We were inside with a long wait until kick-off and I was able to chat to many good people in the large concourse area outside the seating bowl.

It was fantastic to chat to Tommie and Kevin for the first time in a while. Both follow Wales over land and sea. They feel ill at ease contemplating a possible place in the finals of the Qatar World Cup. They feel conflicted should Wales win their two play-off games. Both dislike the idea of that nation hosting the tournament; the ridiculous heat, the lack of a local football culture, the obvious back-handers involved in the process of choosing that country, the deaths of migrant workers in the construction of the shiny new stadia, the human rights violations.

I feel for them.

Personally, I have decided to boycott watching the FIFA 2022 World Cup. It’s a personal choice. I recently decided not to watch any qualifiers either.

Talking of the Arabian Peninsula, I heard that a few fellow fans had already booked their passage to Abu Dhabi for the long awaited World Club Championships. This is now finalised for the first few days in February. I want to go. Under normal circumstances, my flight and accommodation would be booked. There are of course other outside influences to consider. A couple of The Chuckle Brothers are interested too. Let’s see how COVID behaves over the next few weeks.

I sense an incoming barrage of “whataboutery” questions heading my way.

Is it hypocritical of me to boycott Qatar but to embrace Abu Dhabi?

Possibly. I’ll do some research. I’ll get some answers. It might prove to be a difficult decision. It might be an easy one. This is what Tommie thinks about Qatar too.

…a voice from the gallery : “you OK on that soap-box, mate? You finished pontificating?”

Well. If you insist.

I saw that the Chelsea U-21 team again took part in the autumn group phase of the “EFL” Cup, which was originally known as the Associate Members Cup when it was originally floated back in the mid–eighties. For years and years, this was the sole preserve of teams in the third and fourth tiers of the professional pyramid and gave the competing teams the chance to reach Wembley Stadium. For a while this was known as the Johnstone Paints Trophy, and allowed Southampton to have a self-deprecating dig at us in recent years.

“Johnstone Paints Trophy – you’ll never win that.”

Premier League teams have been allowed to enter their U-21 teams since 2016 and I – and many others – are dead against this. I see no merit in it. It could potentially rob a smaller club of their day out at Wembley. In 1988, for example, Wolves beat Burnley 2-0 in the Sherpa Van Trophy in front of 80,000 supporters at a time when both clubs were floundering. As recently as 2019, over 85,000 saw Portsmouth beat Sunderland.

Seeing Chelsea U-21 at Wembley in a final would not thrill me; far from it. Despite us playing at nearby Bristol Rovers and Forest Green Rovers in the past month, I boycotted those two games. No interest, no point and just wrong in my book.

The two Robs appeared.

“Have you got the Mendy song sorted?”

I replied I wasn’t sure but I thought there was mention of the word “satsuma” somewhere within it.

I made my way up the steps to the upper level of the seating bowl. This was my first time back in over three years and I had forgotten how ridiculous a stadium it really is. I was in row thirty-six, so heaven knows what the view was like in row seventy at the rear. That vast amount of wasted space between the two end tiers is such an eyesore. For a one-time Olympic stadium, I am always struck with how undeniably bland it all is. The only unique feature about it is the upturned triangular pattern of the floodlights. The “running” track area is now claret-coloured, the one change since 2018.

On the balcony of the main stand, or at least the one with the posh boxes, which is the only one not named after a former player, a potted history of West Ham’s successes is listed.

The list does not extend too far.

FA Cup 1964

ECWC 1965

FA Cup 1975

FA Cup 1980

Not much of a list, really.

I said to Gary : “I am surprised they haven’t added ‘East 17 Xmas Number One 1994’ to it…”

To be honest, silverware-wise, Chelsea and West Ham were scarily similar for decades; only four major trophies apiece up until 1997. Since then, well…our two trajectories have differed.

We knew that Thomas Tuchel was still battling injuries but we had also heard that Reece James and Jorginho were to return.

Mendy

Rudiger – Silva – Christensen

Alonso – Jorginho – Loftus-Cheek – James

Mount – Havertz – Ziyech

Still no sight of Romelu Lukaku in the starting eleven; we guessed he wasn’t 100% and was being eased back in.

Ex-Chelsea favourite Kurt Zouma was in the West Ham team.

Chelsea, in yellow and black, attacked the home end in the first-half and quickly dominated possession.

In the opening few minutes, the two sets of fans went with some tried and tested chants :

“From Stamford Bridge to Upton Park, stick your blue flag up your arse.”

“You sold your soul for this shit hole.

On six minutes, the mood in the stadium dramatically changed as an image of the murdered young boy Arthur Labinjo-Hughes was shown on the two giant TV screens. It seemed that everyone stopped to clap. What a terrible waste of a beautiful young life. I have rarely felt such sickening sadness and anger as when I saw, and heard, his sweet voice on the TV.

Bless you Arthur. Rest in peace.

Despite our dominance, West Ham were actually ahead on chances created in the first quarter of an hour, with one shot from Jarrod Bowen going wide and a free header from another who I thought was Mark Noble but then realised he wasn’t even playing. It is, after all, a long way from the pitch in the away end.

All of the noise seemed to be coming from us.

A well struck shot from Reece James was easy for Fabianski to hold.

“One shot on goal in fifteen minutes, Al. That equates to just six in the whole match.” My eyesight might have been shite, but my maths was up to scratch.

Another chance to the home team, but Mendy saved from Craig Dawson.

In the wide open space between the two tiers of Chelsea support, around twenty police were positioned.

“Most Old Bill I’ve seen inside an away ground for ages, Al.”

It had made me chuckle just before the match had started to see Goggles, the football-liaison officer at Fulham Police Station, chatting away to a known Chelsea hooligan, admittedly of yesteryear. It also made me laugh to see, at various stages of the match, all twenty police officers avidly watching the game, seated in a separate section, rather than eyeballing the crowd.

I called it The Goggle Box.

At last, another effort on the West Ham goal; on twenty-five minutes a very fine cross from James picked out the unmarked leap of Kai Havertz. Sadly, this was saved.

A corner followed, and then another. Mount crossed to meet the unhindered leap of Thiago Silva inside the box. His header forced the ball downwards and it bounced up and into the goal. The net rippled and the three-thousand Chelsea fans roared. The goal immediately reminded me of the first Chelsea goal that I ever saw in person, another “up and down” header from Ian Hutchinson in 1974.

Twenty-eight minutes had elapsed and all was well in the world.

“Maybe I will see us win here after all.”

We spotted Joe Cole and Gianfranco Zola, and Rio Ferdinand, out in the open, in front of the BT studio no more than thirty yards away.

Hakim Ziyech was involved in some nice flourishes, and the fleet-footed trio up front were causing West Ham more problems than they would have wished. There was still a reluctance for any of our team to take a pop at goal though. It was infuriating the hell out of Alan and myself. At last, an effort from distance from Mason Mount – nothing special to be honest – cheered us.

“Need to do more of that. Get players following up, it might squirm away from the ‘keeper, let’s keep firing shots in, deflections, touches, make the ’keeper work.”

Two more shots at the West Ham goal followed.

West Ham were still offering an occasional threat, though. Sadly, on forty minutes, an under-hit back pass from Jorginho put Edouard Mendy under all sorts of pressure. Knowing that our fine shot stopper is not gifted with even average distribution, we always wonder Why The Fuck do we seem obsessed in playing the ball back to him, especially when opposing teams are putting us under pressure in our third. It is fucking unfathomable. Well, surprise surprise, a heavy touch from Mendy followed, and as he saw himself lose control, he took a low swipe at that man Bowen.

It was a clear penalty.

Fucksake.

Lanzini smashed in the equaliser from the spot.

Only four minutes later, a fine move involving Ruben Loftus-Cheek pushing the ball out to Ziyech resulted in a long cross-field pass to Mount, unmarked, in the inside-right channel. His first time effort was incredible; a potent mixture of placement and power, the shot being cushioned with the side of his foot, but with so much venom that Fabianski did not get a sniff. It crept in low at the near post.

It was a fucking sublime goal.

There were generally upbeat comments at the break. The noise hadn’t been too loud throughout the half, but it is so difficult to get the away support – in two distinct areas – together to sing as one. I hardly heard the Mendy song, but on its rare appearance, the young bloke behind me was making a spirited effort to mangle every syllable in the entire song.

I kept quiet. I knew I would hardly be any better, satsuma or not.

At half-time, Lukaku replaced Havertz.

“Is it me, Al, or has he put on some weight? He was pretty trim when he returned from Italy.”

He must love Greggs’ steak bakes and sausage rolls. And their doughnuts and yum yums.

There was a little nip-and-tuck as the second-half began. Ten minutes in, Gal chirped “the next goal is massive.” Within a minute, West Ham broke with ease down our left and just before Bowen struck, I feared the worst and sighed “goal”; it was therefore no surprise to me to see the net ripple again, this time at the far post.

Bollocks.

Our Callum came on in place of Ziyech; a tad unlucky I thought, but maybe he was tiring. Callum began up front in a three and had a few nibbles. But ten minutes later, Alonso was replaced by Christian Pulisic, so Callum reverted to a left wing back. We enjoyed a little spell of around ten minutes when we looked to be knocking on the Irons’ door, but I have to say that the integration of a returning Lukaku – either unable or unwilling to shake off markers – was a problem. We enjoyed reasonable approach play but floundered in and around the box.

“Hit the fackin’ thing.”

Our efforts on goal hardly caused Fabianski to break sweat.

“Fackinell Chels.”

Callum’s reluctance to drift past his man was frustrating. On the rare occasions that he was in a good position to shoot, he declined.

Sigh.

With three minutes to go, and with a few Chelsea fans already trickling out of the away end, a relatively rare West Ham move found itself wide on our right.

Out of nowhere, Arthur Masuaku took a swipe at the ball, no doubt intending to send a cross into our box for the impressive Michail Antonio – much more agile than Lukaku – or anyone else who was nearby to attack. To our horror, the ball appeared to be sliced. It made a bee-line for the goal, and Mendy – expecting the cross – was caught out. His back-peddling and side-shifting was a terrible sight to see. Again that same net rippled.

The home fans, I have to say, made an absolute din.

Ugh.

With that, hundreds of Chelsea fans poured out of both tiers.

Alan, Gary, Parky and I stayed to the end, but I had packed away my camera long before the final whistle.

“Still not seen us win here.”

The Chelsea crowd shuffled out. Jason – another Chelsea fan from Wales – cheered me with a positive spin on things.

“Tough one but we move on mate” and a smile.

On the walk away from the stadium, there was honest annoyance but also a little pragmatism too.

“Should have won that. Fluke goal, the winner. A mate reckoned it deflected off Ruben’s leg. But we didn’t create enough clear chances. God, we miss Kante.”

As we walked on, the mood shifted further. Let’s not get too silly about this. Nobody likes losing but on this day, a day of two Arthurs, maybe a little perspective is needed.

Arthur Labinjo-Hughes.

Arthur Masuaku.

Do I have to spell it out?

The return trip out west went well. Pudding Mill Lane station was soon reached. It must be one of London’s hidden secrets; we never wait too long there. In the short line for the lift to take us up to the platform, a West Ham fan, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Bernie Winters, soon sussed that we were Chelsea but when he heard that we went to all the games could not have been friendlier.”

“Good lads.”

I finally took my photo of the ArcelorMital Orbit from the platform as we waited for a train to whip us back to Canary Wharf.

We were back at Barons Court for around 4pm. Our trip back to Wiltshire and Somerset was quick and uneventful, but one moment disrupted us.

“Liverpool just scored. Ninety-fourth minute.”

With Manchester City winning too, we suddenly found ourselves in third place. There will be no dishonour if this fledgling Chelsea team, still learning about itself and its manager – and vice versa – finishes third this season.

Personally, I’ve got my beady eyes on the World Club Championships. If we win that, the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy really won’t matter at all.

There is no midweek flit to Russia for me, so next up it’s the old enemy on Saturday.

Chelsea vs. Leeds United.

Salivate away everyone.

I’ll see you there.