Tales From A Golden Anniversary

Posted on March 14, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 11 March 2024.

I became a Chelsea supporter just after the 1970 F.A. Cup Final. It stemmed from the interactions between myself and the other children at my village school in Somerset in the immediate aftermath of that iconic game. Perhaps I had heard that Chelsea were a good team or maybe I just liked the sound of the name. Whatever the reason, it soon became clear to my parents that I was a keen supporter of the “Pensioners” or the “Blues” in those early years.

Chelsea were my team. I suspect that my early devotion shocked my parents, who were not really into football at all. I can remember the horror when my paternal grandfather brought me back a Liverpool duffle bag from a coach trip to North Wales in the summer of 1971, not long before he passed away, and how he received the ire of both my parents and myself.

“But I like Chelsea.”

“Well, your mother told me to buy you something to do with football.”

I am sure that I didn’t reply with the expression “fackinell” at the age of six years old but I probably thought something along those lines.

I have no memory of the loss to Stoke City at Wembley in the League Cup Final at Wembley in 1972, but I remember the season-opener against Leeds United in the August of that year and I well remember the FA Cup tie with Arsenal in March 1973. My fanaticism grew with each year, each month, each game. I was given a Chelsea kit in around 1973. Imagine my absolute elation when – without prompting from me – my parents announced (either on Christmas Day 1973 or soon after) that they would take me to see Chelsea play.

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

I still get chills when I think of that feeling over fifty years later.

By a cruel twist of fate, of course, both my idol Peter Osgood and also Alan Hudson had left Chelsea in February of 1974, a month ahead of my Chelsea debut on 16 March against Newcastle United. I was upset, but the thought of seeing the team in the flesh more than made up for this. My mother had written to the club asking for ticket and travel information and I still have the letter that the club sent back, nicely embossed with the club crest, to this day. In due course, the West Stand benches tickets arrived, priced at just 60p each.

Just to hold those little match tickets…

My first game sticks with me for so many reasons. I can recall waiting in line at the bottom of the West Stand steps at the turnstiles. As the West Stand was the stand with the TV gantry, I wasn’t particularly sure what the stand looked like. I distinctly remember walking up the banked steps as if it was yesterday…I can recall the sense of anticipation, the noises of the crowd and specifically the blue paintwork at the back of the stand, the blue of the turnstiles, the blue of the souvenir huts…just writing these words I am transported back to my childhood.

We walked behind the West Stand, right to the end (the seats were laid on top of the terraces and the access came right at the top of the stand) and I caught a glimpse of the pitch and the inside of the stadium which had previously been obscured from view. I was mesmerized. We walked down the access steps and found our seats…six rows from the front, level with the penalty spot at the North Stand end.

We had a black and white TV set at home and of course it was breath-taking to see Stamford Bridge bathed in spring sunshine and in glorious colour. The East Stand was still being built on the other side of the pitch. There was a smattering of away fans mixed in with Chelsea fans on the North terrace to my left. I remember the closeness of those fans to me.

The Chelsea team?

John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins.
Micky Droy.
David Webb.
Chris Garland ( sub – Ken Swain.)
Peter Houseman.
Steve Kember.
Ian Hutchinson.
Charlie Cooke.

The gate was 24,207.

What do I remember of that afternoon? I remember the middle part of The Shed twirling their blue and white bar scarves. I remember the goal after ten minute; a header close in from Ian Hutchinson, which bounced up off the ground before crossing the line. I remember two or three Newcastle fans, resplendent with black and white scarves, being sat right in front of me. I remember shouting out “we want two!” to which one of them replied “we want three!” I remember thinking “did I stand up and celebrate the goal correctly?” after the Chelsea goal. I promised myself that if there were to be further goals, I would celebrate better…I guess I wanted to fit in. A second goal came along and I stood up and shouted, but it was disallowed. I think that the two Geordies smirked as I quickly sat down.

I remember a “Topic” chocolate bar at half-time. I remember Gary Locke doing many sliding tackles in front of us in the second half. I remember debutant Ken Swain (previously unheard of by me) as a second-half substitute. I paid just as much attention to the songs coming out of The Shed as to the play on the pitch. Generally, I remember the overwhelming feeling of belonging…that this was right, that I should be there.

As the game ended and the crowd drifted away, I know that as I reached the very top of the steps, I looked back at the pitch and the stands with wonderment and hoped that I would be back again. My mother bought me a “Chelsea The Blues” scarf at one of the souvenir huts behind the West Stand as we slowly walked out. I wore that same scarf in Stockholm for the 1998 ECWC Final, in Moscow ten years later for the CL Final, and also at the 2015 League Cup Final just a few days after my mother’s passing.

I can remember that we enjoyed a hamburger meal at the Wimpy Bar (a big extravagance, believe me) on Fulham Broadway. Even to this day, I always look over at the site of it as I walk to Stamford Bridge. We caught the tube train back to Park Royal and then home to Somerset, but that is a blur.

So, Saturday 16 March 1974…it was the day that my love affair with Chelsea Football Club jumped a thousand notches. In truth, my life would never be the same again.

And here we all are, almost fifty years later and another match against the black and whites from Tyneside. I have explained before how annoyed I was that the exact fiftieth anniversary of my first ever game against Newcastle United narrowly missed an exact hit. There was, then, a hope that we would get them at home in the FA Cup on Saturday 16 March. But that missed too.

On the exact fiftieth anniversary, I will hopefully be watching a game at Frome Town against Yate Town. That’s not a bad place to be. I saw my first-ever “proper” game at Frome Town in the early part of the 1970/71 season.

1970 was evidently a big year in my life.

Talking of Frome Town, on the Saturday before this year’s game with Newcastle United, I drove down to Bideford on the North Devon coast. It was a long old drive – almost two and a half hours – but very enjoyable. Just me and my thoughts, a little music, the Saturday all to myself. I paid a quick visit to “The Appledore Inn” just a few hundred yards away from the ground. In October 2020, I drove to Bideford for a Wednesday evening game but later that night in a nearby B&B I had a mild heart attack, to be followed by another a few days later. By the Saturday, I was in hospital in Bath awaiting surgery. On the Monday, two stents were fitted. So this trip to Bideford was always going to be an emotional one for me. I had visited the same pub in 2020 and I made a point of sitting in the same seat in the pub as in that previous visit. A few Frome friends arrived – Mark, Sumo, Steve, Stuey – and I told them this story. They asked why I was sat in the same seat. I suspect they thought it was tempting fate.

It was my way of saying “I am still here” and I lightly tapped the table.

The game was a scrappy affair, but a headed goal from James Ollis after Jon Davies dug out a deep cross from the goal-line gave Frome a huge three points. I watched the game from the impressive main stand, high above the action, with my old school mate Steve – our friendship really fired up in the Lower Sixth when we both realised that our football knowledge put us in a class of our own – and we chatted about all aspects of the sport.

The second-half had its share of hairy moments and I even invoked a heated exchange with two locals as their ‘keeper re-enacted a Schumacher / Battiston assault – from the 1982 World Cup – on substitute Sam Meakes. The ‘keeper was duly sent off and Frome held on. It was a hugely enjoyable afternoon in the North Devon drizzle. Around sixty Frome fans travelled. I loved it.

Back to Chelsea.

On match day, I collected my fellow passengers at 2pm in the pub car park opposite work and by 4.30pm all three had been deposited in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. I met up with PD and Parky in “The Elephant & Barrel”, formerly “The Rylston”, alongside Salisbury Steve and two lads from Boston in Massachusetts. I have known Ben, the Chapter Head of the Boston Blues, since around 2011, but this was my first meeting with Danny, who was at Stamford Bridge for a game for the very first time. It seemed right that on this occasion there was a Chelsea debutant in the party.

There was a nice mix of old and new; old pub, new pub, old friends, a new friend, old memories and new ones.

We raised pints.

Chris : “Friendship and football.”

Ben : “Mates not millionaires.”

Chris : “Bates not billionaires.”

Danny wanted to hear a few stories, so I shared a few. I have several to choose from, cough, cough. We spoke about Newcastle’s awful record at Stamford Bridge in the league.

“Apart from the Papiss Cisse masterclass in 2012, they have not won here in the league since 1986.”

I was at that game in 1986, a 1-3 loss, and Ben was at that 0-2 game in 2012. I shuffled in my seat a little.

I devoured a chicken and gooseberry curry with coconut rice and the others supped some ales. It was a lovely pre-match. At around 7.15pm, we made our way down to the ground.

It is one of my biggest regrets that there is no photographic evidence of my first-ever Chelsea game. This is particularly surprising since my parents took hundreds of snaps of my childhood, yet somehow the camera was forgotten on that most momentous of occasions. I made sure that Ben took one of me outside the main gates to mark the – almost – anniversary of that match fifty years ago. The obligatory one of Danny at his first game soon followed.

As in 1974, I walked towards the West Stand.

I was inside, in The Sleepy Hollow, at 7.45pm.

The Chelsea team?

28. Djordje Petrovic.

27. Malo Gusto.

3. Marc Cucarella.

2. Axel Disasi.

14. Trevoh Chalobah.

8. Enzo Fernandez.

25. Moises Cacedo.

20. Cole Palmer.

23. Conor Gallagher.

7. Raheem Sterling.

15. Nicolas Jackson.

A simple 1 to 11 is much better, isn’t it?

Yet again, the usual pre-match routine : The Clash, Blur, The Harry J. Allstars, the dimming of the lights, electronic pulses, flashes, flames, all culminating in “what the fookin’ ‘ell was that?” from the Geordies.

It wasn’t like this in 1974.

There was a quick chant of “We are the Geordie, the Geordie boot boys” and the game began. I quickly spotted a post by Ben on my ‘phone featuring his view of the game and it was clear that they were just below me in the MHL. There was a miss-hit from Djordje Petrovic in the first fleeting moments and the ball sliced away for a throw-in. We all grimaced.

In 1974, I had to wait ten minutes for my first-ever Chelsea goal. In 2024, Danny did not have to wait as long. After just six minutes, Cole Palmer flicked his brush towards the right wing, painting a lovely ball out to Malo Gusto, who advanced. His low cross was kicked away but it could only reach Palmer. I felt that he didn’t really fancy a shot at goal with his right foot, but he smacked the ball goal wards. Nicolas Jackson was in the line of fire, but a nimble adjustment meant that his slight flick of a leg allowed the ball to slip past Martin Dubravka in The Shed goal.

As in 1974, Chelsea 1 Newcastle United 0.

It is not known how Danny celebrated the goal.

The first-half summed up much of our season. It was good in parts, yet frustrating too.

Our blind determination to play it out from the back wound most fans up, and there was a cheer when Petrovic went long on one occasion. Much has been written about this “playing out from the goal line” this season, but we have not remotely perfected it. It annoys me, as it did in this game, to see Jackson with just one man close to him, in yards of space, yet a quick punt up field is hardly ever chosen as an alternative way to attack. On the occasions when Petrovic decided to go long, he annoyingly waited until the Newcastle defence was set. The art of a quick break seems to be lost in 2024.

We enjoyed most of the chances, however fleeting. A shot from Jackson was claimed by Dubravka. A run from Palmer picked out Enzo in a decent central position but his effort curled over the bar.

The visitors’ efforts were rare. However, on forty-three minutes, the Chelsea defence went into circus mode. The otherwise impressive Gusto attempted keepie-uppy and lost control. Trevoh Chalobah then lost the ball too and it was not cleared. The ball was flicked to Alexander Isak, who danced inside and smacked a fine shot past Petrovic at the far post. They celebrated down below us.

1-1.

Just after, an early ball – at last – to Jackson who did ever so well to dribble past Dubravka and slot home. Alas, he had not beaten the offside trap. No goal.

In the last move of the half, nice interplay between Palmer and Gusto resulted in a deep cross to the far post. A fine header back from Conor Gallagher set up Raheem Sterling and as he took a touch and closed in on goal I could only think of one thing –

“Hit one of the corners.”

He didn’t. His shot was right at Dubravka.

I was relatively happy with the performance at half-time. I had seen a lot worse this season. There had been, as always “glimpses” of decent play. In the programme – some really decent articles at the moment – there were lovely pieces on Hughie Gallacher and Colin Lee.

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding. However, it was the visitors attacking The Shed who engineered the first chance. Chalobah cheaply surrendered the ball, and it was moved out to the left. Miguel Almiron raced away but his angled riser was pushed over by Petrovic.

Phew.

A teasing run from the fleet-footed Palmer took him deep into the Newcastle box but his low cross evaded everyone. Sterling was on the end of a swift break but he seemed to lack conviction and was forced wide. His weak shot missed the goal frame.

On sixty-three minutes, an incisive ball from Enzo found Palmer. Before we knew it, he had touched the ball on and then swept a low shot effortlessly towards goal. The ‘keeper was beaten. It was a lovely finish and the place erupted. To my joy, the scorer raced over to our corner to say hello.

Snap, snap, snap, snap.

Nice one.

2-1.

Palmer has certainly made this season a lot more palatable. Imagine 2023/24 without him. Shudder.

A long ball out of defence by the redoubtable Gusto was superbly headed on by Jackson. Sterling raced through and was clear, one on one with Dubravka. My camera was poised. Alas, he dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, and lost his way. Eventually, his shot was cleared off the line.

Dan Burn had a rare chance for the visitors. The towering defender headed wide.

On sixty-nine minutes, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling. There was an odd mixture of applause and mild booing. Answers on a postcard.

On seventy-six minutes, Jackson broke with a flash of speed out on the left. My camera tracked his fine run. The ball was played square towards Gallagher, but Mudryk arrived on the scene like a runaway train and took the ball on. His momentum carried him forward. A slight shimmy and Dubravka was sent sprawling. He rounded the ‘keeper and slotted in from an angle, with a defender unable to hack away.

What a goal.

3-1.

I screamed and screeched as I held my camera close and snapped. Who says geezers can’t multitask?

Mudryk was on fire, full of confidence, and mesmerized us all with another burst of speed but was unable to finish. We all want him to succeed so much.

Two late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for the magnificent Palmer.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Jackson.

Sadly, the otherwise solid Marc Cucarella lunged in and allowed a blast from distance from Jacob Murphy. It arrowed into the Shed End goal. It was some strike.

3-2.

Blimey.

Thankfully, the six minutes of extra-time soon passed and we held on.

At the end of the game, just before “Blue Is The Colour” segued into “Freed From Desire”, I spotted Ben and Danny down below. Their smiles were wide.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

I enjoyed the evening. It wasn’t perfect, but we showed enough to warrant the win. I wasn’t that impressed with the visitors. It had been 4-1 to them in November and it was 3-2 to us in March. We edged the League Cup tie in December. There might even be another game yet, in the FA Cup, later this season.

Talking of which, the FA Cup follows on Sunday with a game against Leicester City at Stamford Bridge. See you there.

Tales From Westbury And Manchester

Posted on February 19, 2024 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 17 February 2024.

I left work on Friday afternoon with a decent weekend lined up. There was a non-league local derby involving teams from two towns just eight miles apart on that Friday. On the following evening there was a match involving two powerhouses of the modern game who were both the European Cup winners and the World Club champions in 2021 and 2023.

Football can be a varied beast.

First up, Westbury United versus Frome Town. This season, the race for the automatic promotion spot in the Southern League First Division South looks like being contested by Wimborne Town, near Bournemouth, Cribbs in Bristol and Frome Town. It is very tight at the top. There is then a keen fight for the four play-off positions too. I can see it all going down to the wire.

Westbury Town are a recent addition to the division, which is seven levels below the FA Premier League. 2022/23 was their inaugural season at this level and their highest-ever level since their formation in 1920. I was unable to attend either of last season’s games. Suffice to say I was pretty excited to be heading over the Somerset / Wiltshire border for my first-ever visit to the club’s Meadow Lane stadium, albeit as excited as a fifty-eight-year-old football fancier could be.

I used to drive past Westbury United’s ground for many years when I worked in the town. I parked up in a roomy car park adjacent to the ground and was soon chatting to a few of the many Frome regulars that had made the short trip to the game. Last season, the attendance was a hefty 950, a number that shocked me at the time. I hoped for another high number in 2023/24. It was nice to have a brief chat with my Chelsea mate Mark who I had not seen for a while. He lives in the town and used to run the clubhouse. He was proudly wearing a green and black Westbury United ski-hat.

Meadow Lane is a neat ground, but most of the facilities are cramped into one-corner giving it an odd feel. There are two covered stands; one with seats, one without. A former girlfriend lives in a little cul-de-sac just behind the northern goal. One of her sons used to play for the team. The current team is managed by former Frome player Ricky Hulbert.

Unfortunately, despite having much possession, Frome conceded two goals in the first-half. The first was a well-worked corner that caught us by surprise, with a low shot by the wonderfully-named Harvey Flippance catching us all out. A “Worldy” from the equally impressively named Jasper Jones gave the home team a 2-0 lead.

Changes were made in the second-half and the visitors soon replied with a goal. A tap-in from club favourite Jon Davies, on his 250th game for the club, put us right back in it. The visitors completely dominated the second-half. We stretched the home team and kept probing. Westbury had their lumpy central defender Sean Keet sent off for two yellows and soon after substitute Sam Meakes broke away and slotted home an equaliser on eighty-three minutes.

The intensity increased, and Frome kept attacking. However, a great save from Town ‘keeper Kyle Philips kept the game alive. In the last minute of the five added minutes, Frome were awarded a free-kick in a central location, a little further in than Enzo against Villa.

This was it. Now or never.

Jon Davies took aim and clipped a magnificent into the top left-hand corner of the goal, the Westbury ‘keeper beaten.

Westbury 2 Frome Town 3.

The visiting support erupted.

The players reeled away in ecstasy and the travelling Frome support let off a few red flares, as they had done at kick-off.

What a moment.

It was such a high, the absolute top note of an increasingly entrancing season as a Frome Town supporter. The smiles were wide among the excellent gate of 783.

Westbury’s average gate this season is at the 235 mark and the previous high was 462 against another local team, from the town where I currently work, Melksham. You can draw your own conclusions as to how many of the 783 attendance were from Dodge.

I drove home a very happy man and I woke up – after a much-needed lie-in on Saturday – a very happy man too.

I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10am and Parky from his village between Trowbridge and Melksham at around 10.30am.

We were on our way to Manchester.

Rain was forecast later in the day, what a surprise, but the journey up was dry. Despite me fearing the worst at the Etihad, my mind was full of the pleasure of the previous night. Whatever would be would be in Manchester. I had already had my rush of football-related endorphins for this weekend.

All four of us were glumly pragmatic about our chances at City.

Glenn : “I’d take a 2-0 loss.”

My comment was even worse.

I suggested that “don’t worry about a thing” might well be sung later in the afternoon with a hint of irony.

This was another pre-Villa vibe. I really did not fancy our chances.

We hit a little traffic, unfortunately, over the last few miles of the M6, but pulled into our usual feeding station, “The Windmill” at Tabley at around 1.45pm.

We ordered some food – three of us went old school and ordered liver, bacon and onions…magnificent – and we were joined by our Chelsea pals PJ and Brian, with a lad called Lee that we had not met before. There was much laughter and piss-taking, but sadly nobody gave us much of a hope against City. Typically, the heavens opened while we were in the boozer. Sigh.

I set off for the Etihad at 3.45pm. This is a familiar route these days. In past the airport, around the M60 Orbital, through Stockport, then a jagged cut through towards the stadium, along surprisingly wide roads. It was lashing down as I dropped the boys off outside the away entrance at “Mr. Mac’s Stadium Chippy.” I backtracked to park up at our usual spot opposite the “The Grove” public house where we spent a miserable hour after last season’s away game.

I was parked up at 4.55pm.

Thankfully, I hopped on a passing bus to avoid getting absolutely drenched.

Phew.

The bus dropped me off outside the same chippy as twenty minutes before. The undulating curves of the Etihad were in the distance, but the splash of rain was everywhere. It was a miserable day alright.

Friday night, Westbury.

Saturday afternoon, Weatherfield.

Welcome to Rain Town.

I was inside the stadium at 5.10pm, just in time for the 5.30pm start.

I was alongside Parky – and Gal, and John – in effectively the front row of “Level Three” aka the Upper Tier. We were right next to the wall of the stand, beyond a void that housed only security staff, a few Old Bill and, oddly, a load of sky blue seats stacked up in neat rows. PD and Glenn were just a few rows behind us, again right next to the wall. This was Glenn’s first visit to City since a game in September 2008, a nice 3-1 win.

Our record since then, as we all know, has not been great. A narrow 1-0 win in 2013/14, a mesmeric 3-1 win in 2016/17 stand out. The 2-1 in the COVID season of 2020/21 not so; nobody was there.

Unfortunately, there were a few gaps in our three tiers. Train cancellations had left many stranded in London.

At the other end of the stadium, a lone crane stood guard over the stadium. City are now commencing work on increasing the stadium’s capacity to over 60,000. As I understand it, there will be a simple extension of the existing middle tier into a large tier rather than the creation of a third tier that would mirror that of the southern end.

Regardless, it’s a fantastic view from the front rows of the upper tier.

The team?

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

“Looks like Jackson upfront, then.”

The Sky Blues of Manchester vs. Chelsea in Tottenham navy.

Modern football, eh?

The rain was still coming down in sheets as the game began.

We attacked the crane.

It took three minutes into the game for me to spot the first “Three Little Birds.”

After seven minutes, we constructed a fine move and Conor Gallagher worked a low cross from the right but there was nobody on hand to apply a touch.

On eleven minutes, Erling Haaland inexplicably missed a great chance to give the home team a lead but his header from a perfect cross down below us flew over the bar. We heaved a massive sigh of relief. It would not be for the last time.

A minute after, Raheem Sterling cut in but shot weakly at Ederson. We heaved a massive sigh of frustration. It would not be for the last time.

But this was a really positive start for us. The team looked energised and aggressive. I was strangely – and worryingly – overcome with a little optimism.

Gallagher – roaming at times in surprisingly high positions – was putting in a talismanic performance already. This was a fine start.

At the half-way mark of the first period, Cole Palmer played a fine ball to Malo Gusto on the right, just beating the offside line. He advanced and played in the advancing Nicolas Jackson. A quick finish was needed but his clumsy touch allowed Ederson to smother.

Just after, Raheem Sterling found himself in acres of space – “find me, find me and nothing more” – but we just couldn’t get the ball out to him. He was just inside his own half with no City player closer than twenty yards. A golden opportunity was lost.

On thirty-two minutes, another bloody chance. Another Sterling / Ederson moment, but an offside anyway.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Moises Caicedo was committing one-too-many silly tackles and was booked.

On forty-two minutes, we again caught City on the hop. We neatly built a move from deep inside our half down below us in the corner. Jackson adeptly sidestepped two City aggressors and passed to Palmer. His one touch prod into space to Jackson was perfect. Another first-time-touch was laid across the box to Sterling, though deeper than the Jackson chance.

Raheem bamboozled Kyle Walker and cut inside before slamming a curler in to the far corner.

The net rippled.

GET IN.

The celebrations around me were ridiculous. Lads from behind rushed past me, knocking two gents flying. One of them – name unknown, I first met him in Stockholm in 1998, we had spoken already – was laid right at the bottom of the seats in front of the balcony wall. He was still. His head was perilously close to a concrete step. We were all so concerned. Thankfully, mercifully, he rose to his feet.

“You OK, mate?”

“Aye. Be a bit sore in the morning, like.”

I caught the cut inside by Sterling on film with my pub camera – SLR’s are banned at City – but you would not know it.

In added time, a strike close by Haaland was blocked by Axel Disasi and the ball flew over.

At half-time there was euphoria in the concourse and throughout the three away tiers.

Tiers of joy anyone?

I went up to talk to Glenn and PD. We were so happy with our strong performance thus far.

“A photo of some smiles at half-time, lads? No, might tempt fate.”

We reassembled for the second-half.

On forty-seven minutes, a Kevin De Bruyne free-kick in Kevin De Bryne territory, but thankfully his effort looped and dropped onto the roof of the net rather than inside it.

Phew.

On fifty minutes, City now dominating, there was a rapid counter from the home team. I really feared this. Phil Foden played in Haaland and I watched with trepidation as he met the cross on the volley. I was right in line with the effort. I laughed as he shot wildly wide.

Fackinell.

I may have raised my right fist and agitated it slightly.

Two half-chances for us. Jackson to Gallagher but wide. Then a Palmer to Gusto move resulting in a Sterling slide that Ederson cleared, then saved well from a follow up by Ben Chilwell.

I was now clock-watching like it was a new hobby.

50 minutes.

55 minutes.

It reminded me of doing the same in Porto in 2021, watching the game pass in chunks of five minute segments.

60 minutes.

There was a block from a City effort on the six-yard line, I know not who by. We were throwing bodies at everything though. I lost count of the times that Disasi managed to reach and stretch and jump to head a ball clear. At right back, Gusto was magnificent, sticking like a limpet to Doku. His aggressiveness reminded me of Ashley Cole.

A strong shot by Haaland was saved well by Petrovic at full stretch.

The pressure was mounting but other City efforts went high and wide. Their finishing had been rank.

65 minutes.

Christopher Nknunku replaced Sterling.

As with last season, he was applauded well by the City support. There were no boos.

Nkunku wasted a chance but offside anyway.

70 minutes.

Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were initially boos here from the City lot and it surprised me. But these were then drowned out by a fair amount of applause. Fair play.

We were tiring all over the pitch; we had been doing a lot of chasing, a lot of ground was covered. It was a surprise to see young Trev out there but I understood Mauricio Pochettino’s rationale.

An extra body in defence.

But we inevitably dropped further back.

Hey, this was a fantastic game of football. Could Chelsea hold on for a magnificent double of Friday Night & Saturday Evening wins?

Another ball cleared off the line. Bloody hell. What defending. Epic stuff.

On seventy-seven minutes, a perfect De Bruyne cross from the right found Haaland who had timed his movement to perfection and had the whole goal to aim at. He was seven yards out. I fully expected to see the net bulge. This was it.

The header flew over.

Fackinell.

I may have raised my right fist and agitated it slightly.

80 minutes.

A really loud “Blue Moon.”

Our singing had been decent, but it is so difficult over three levels.

Cesare Casadei for Jackson.

They kept pushing. This was manic, intense stuff. What a game of football.

On eighty-three minutes, a Walker shot from an angle was blocked but the ball rebounded out to Rodri. He took a blast and it rose high into the net.

The Etihad erupted.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

Bollocks.

“WE’RE NOT REALLY HERE.”

Fackinell.

We were all as nervous as hell now, fearing the worst, fearing a second goal. I am sure we all felt that it would come.

Four minutes of injury time were signalled.

There was time for a couple of Chelsea half-chances and a late VAR decision on a potential handball. I was worried because the ball did appear to nestle against an arm, although I was of course over one hundred yards away. Thankfully, it was declined.

At about 7.30pm in deepest Manchester, the referee blew.

Phew.

We bounced out of The Etihad. It was the happiest that I had been in that small part of the world since late 2016. It had been a miserable trip for years. At last, some pleasure.

We walked back to the car, the rain almost stopped. Once in the car, we ran through the whole team, praising all of them. Gusto and Disasi had been exceptional. Colwill playing as a centre-back put in a really solid performance. Palmer had been as neat and influential as ever. Gallagher the heart and soul of the team.

“I just loved the defensive clearances and the blocks. It just showed that we were switched on and attentive, and full of aggression. It hasn’t always been the case.”

As I pulled out onto Ashton New Road, the rain increased and it did not let up the entire trip home.

While I drve home, we continued talking about the game.

“Haaland is a weird bugger isn’t he?” Nothing for a lot of the game, but he then shows up, a bundle of extended limbs in front of the goal.”

“So good to see Chilwell playing well.”

“With Gusto in form, we are absolutely in no rush to get Reece James back.”

“Disasi immense.”

“Love him to bits, but Silva’s days are numbered, no?”

I battled the rain and eventually reached home at 12.40am.

Thanks football. Thanks for two fantastic games.

Next up, Wembley and Liverpool in the League Cup Final.

See you in the pubs.

Westbury.

Manchester.

Parky, Glenn, PD.

Tales From Memory Lane Café

Posted on December 28, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 27 December 2023.

The drive up to London had been horrible. Due to traffic congestion throughout the journey, and not helped by persistent rain, it took four hours rather than the usual three. I had set off from my house at 10.30am, then collected the three others, but wasn’t parked up on Mulgrave Road until 2.30pm.

We were in town for the delayed Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace game, pushed forward a further day from Boxing Day. As I battled the rain and spray I was able to tell the chaps all about the game that I had seen on Boxing Day, the local derby between Frome Town and Melksham Town. It was a mad but deeply enjoyable encounter that resulted in two players from each side being sent off, plus the visiting Melksham manager too, and a 2-2 draw in front an attendance of 696, the highest home league gate of the[i] season. It had it all. I was breathless at the end of it. Proper football.

I made my way down the North End Road, the rain almost stopped, and decided to call in for an all-day breakfast at “Café Olé” for the second time this season. As I sat at the table, I tuned in to the café’s wi-fi to put out a post on “Facebook.” I wanted to detail what was happening exactly forty years ago to the day.

On 27 December 1983, we played a game against Portsmouth at Stamford Bridge. I uploaded a couple of photos with a little narrative. I then realised that it was in this same café back in November before the Manchester City game, in the exact same café, the exact same table even, that I had detailed a similar “forty years ago” moment on “Facebook.”

So, 1983/84.

For my generation it’s everybody’s favourite season, and I will be dipping in to its reach seam of memories occasionally during this campaign. I originally wrote about that season in greater depth during my 2008/9 match reports on its silver anniversary. There will be a few more “memory dips” this season. Let’s go back in time…

I travelled up with my parents…they had seats in the East Lower, but I had decided to get in amongst the boisterous and noisy supporters in The Benches, for the first time in fact since my first ever game in 1974. Up until that point, all of my games that season had been in The Shed, but both Glenn ( who was staying in London with his grandparents ) and myself fancied a change. Portsmouth, newly-promoted and with Mark Hateley and Alan Biley upfront, would bring a good following to The Bridge and we were both looking forward to some banter with the away fans on that huge slug of terrace to our left.

And – it would give us a chance to get in amongst the trendies.

Yep – December 1983 against Pompey was when I was brought fully up to speed with the football fashions of the time. Both Glenn and myself had entered the season completely oblivious to the movement which had been developing, unbeknown to us, in the main football cities since 1977.

Since then, many books have been written and many magazine articles devoted to this vibrant sub-culture; ”the thing with no name” one Manc has called it…but I can only describe it from my perspective.

Most youth trends are music based. God knows, Britain in 1983 had many; there had been the Mod revival of 1979, skinheads, suedeheads and two-tone / ska boys and girls were in abundance, the punks were still around from 1977, there were those into heavy metal with their long hair and denim, the Goths were around, there was rockabilly, psychobilly, soul boys ( definitely a London phenomenon )…then we had the lighter end of it all – the new romantics, with girls – and boys – who dressed like make-up was going out of fashion…hip hop was making inroads from across the Atlantic too.

But – as Glenn and myself were to find out over the remaining months of that most seminal of footy seasons, here was a movement which was solely based around what young people wore to football. It was a tantalisingly “underground” movement – that’s what made it so amazing to us. None of my friends back in Frome would be clued up about it for years and years.

The season was fermenting most beautifully; not only were Chelsea playing some great football, I was also going to more games – and now this.

“What – a totally new way of dressing up, based on football? Yes, please. Where do I sign up?”

There’s no point trying to reinvent history – up until December 1983, I really had no clue, though Glenn had met some casuals on an away day to Carlisle I believe. However – looking back – I guess by some kind of fashion fluke, I could have been mistaken for a football trendy. I have a photo of myself, taken on holiday in the summer of 1981 in Italy with my two Italian pals Tullio and Mario with me wearing a polo shirt, cords and a pair of Dunlop Green Flash. If I squint and avoid the glaring mistakes, I guess I could be mistaken for a football trendy. But I’d really have to squint hard. The horrible bog standard English schoolboy haircut gave it away. If I had been in the know, I would have realised that The Wedge was the way forward. There are people in their forties who coolly claim that the whole movement, the whole football thing, began with The Wedge in Liverpool in 1977. Who am I to argue? However, during the summer of 1983, I had helped myself to a great new haircut…before it the standard fringe and hair over the ears…we all had this haircut. Horrible it was. But, I decided to change all that…get a side-parting and sort myself out. Without really knowing it, my transformation from clueless fan to wedged-up trendy was beginning.

So – The Benches 1983 – a crisp sunny winter morning, my first Chelsea Xmas game and Glenn and myself clocking all of the hitherto unnoticed fashions of the time.

Why were those lads only wearing light blue jeans, many with side splits over their trainers? Look at all those pastel-coloured jumpers. They’re either “Pringle” ( small lion rampant, how Chelsea ) or “Lyle & Scott” ( yellow eagle ). I had only ever heard of “Slazenger. Why are all the trainers either “Nike” or “Puma” or “Adidas”? Wait, what are they? “Diadora”? Never seen them before.

Then the hairstyles…those side-partings, those huge flopping fringes, the famous flick… lads with hands in pockets, posing, walking up and down the Benches like a catwalk…what is that badge…a crocodile? And another! What is that?

John McEnroe’s “Sergio Tacchini” and Bjorn Borg’s “Fila”. Desert boots. Scarfs. Ski-jackets. Bright colours. Swagger.

Glenn and myself were hooked. Funny – at the time, it really was the cult with no name. Glenn called them “trendies”, quite correctly as it happens…but the cult was never really sure of itself…I would learn later – after much research – that “the football trendies” were known as “casuals”, “scallies”, “perries”, “dressers” and “trendies” depending where you were in the UK.

And here’s the thing – it was all about football; the terraces, the away games, the specials, the buzz, the noise, the colour, the lifestyle.

Chelsea versus Pompey at Xmas 1983 opened my eyes. The game ended 2-2 and has almost gone down in casual folklore. Pompey always seemed to have a photographer in their 6.57 firm and there are a few from the north terrace that day in circulation. Kerry Dixon infamously missed two penalties during the match but the one abiding memory is of a lone Pompey fan sauntering in, high on the terrace, hanging on to a fence, gesturing to us down below and wearing a pink pullover.

My diary from that day records our words to him as ”who’s the poser in the pink?” but this has since changed in popular culture to “the wanker in the pink”, as featured in a line within John King’s “The Football Factory.”

Several years ago, I chanced finding a photo from the game – both teams were wearing exquisite Le Coq Sportif kits – showing Kerry going up for a header with the West Stand in the background. I wondered if I might be spotted in the crowd. I zoomed in and found myself, way right, almost out of shot. I loved seeing myself from all those years ago, complete with floppy wedge. I include it here. I don’t like including photos on this site that aren’t mine but I make exception on this occasion. I include a few photos from Fulham Broadway of the Pompey mob, the North Stand – which, alas, I never stepped foot on – and the game.

Ah the memories.

Back to 2023.

I soon found myself catching a train from that same southbound platform at Fulham Broadway to join up with the lads at “The Eight Bells.” There was just time to take a couple of photos of the old station exits, including the ancillary one that was only used on match days. It bypassed the booking hall and went straight from platform to street level in a steep ascent. I had taken an outside shot too, to complete the picture. It’s an almost forgotten and un-noticed feature of the old station that I am sure 90% of current match-goers simply do not notice. That and the old Shed wall; that’s all that’s left from my first visit to Chelsea in 1974.

I reached the pub at about 3.45pm. Glenn, my mate from beside me on The Benches in 1983, was with Parky, PD and Salisbury Steve in “The Eight Bells” with some German lads who have featured in these tales before. Ben used to work for a company on the Swiss border that I used to contact for onward shipping of our furniture. He has visited Chelsea a number of times; the last time in 2019. He was with Jens and Walt, who we had met before, plus another chap called Michael. Everyone was getting on famously, despite the barmaid mischievously putting a couple of “WW2” films on the pub TV for their viewing pleasure. They were howling with laughter. Kyden originally from Kent, but now living in Florida called by for a drink and a chat. The pub wasn’t too busy. We rarely, if ever, visit this pub for an evening game. Top marks to Salisbury Steve who was first in at 11.30am. That’s pretty keen for a 7.30pm kick-off, eh?

I was shocked, and saddened, to see a huge poster advertising a PSG club shop in London on the northbound platform as I alighted at Fulham Broadway. There are no words.

I was inside Stamford Bridge very early at about 6.30pm. I waited for the troops to arrive. For a team that has seemed to have had our number on occasion recently, I was staggered to read that we had won our last dozen games against the Stripey Nigels in all competitions; I hoped it would be unlucky thirteen for them.

Nobody, though, seemed confident.

Our team was announced, and there was a full first team debut for Christopher Nkunku.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Colwill

Caicedo – Gallagher

Maatsen – Nkunku – Mudryk

Jackson

…”or something like that.”

Ben, Jens and Michael were around fifteen yards away to my right but Walt was down in The Shed. There was the usual “lightshow and flames bollocks” before the teams entered the pitch.

At 7.30pm, the game started and Crystal Palace began brightly attacking the Matthew Harding. They enjoyed a couple of efforts on our goal.

“Colwill is too tall for a full-back.”

On eight minutes, we were treated to a magnificent turn of pace from Mykhailo Mudryk who slotted a perfect pass through for Ian Maatsen. It ran away from him a little but he poked a toe at it as the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson raced out. Sadly, a Palace defender recovered to clear from just a few yards out.

On thirteen minutes, a very fine move carved Palace open. A majestic turn / drag-back from Malo Gusto had the crowd purring and the right-back then set off up field. A little fortune saw the ball continue to Nkunku, who had two stabs at getting the ball between two defenders into Gusto, who had ridiculously continued his run from the inside-right channel to the inside-left channel. His perfect low cross was pushed home by Mudryk.

GET IN.

We roared but he seemed subdued. There was no trademark Chelsea run to the corners. The central celebration seemed odd.

Not long after, a terrible pass from Nicolas Jackson – intended for Nkunku I think, but it hit a Palace player – did his cause no good whatsoever, but thankfully the move that followed fizzled out.

On twenty-one minutes, Mudryk was in on goal after good passing from Caicedo and Jackson but Henderson saved well. There was a roller from Jackson across the goal but wide of the far post. Next, at last some consierable styrength and doggedness from the currently maligned Jackson who battled off the challenges of two Palace defenders and set up Nkunku, who was not able to get a shot away.

This was decent stuff from Chelsea.

Pass the smelling salts, nurse.

And it was reassuring to hear genuinely positive reactions from the crowd. Stamford Bridge was clearly not a riot of noise, but there was warm applause from our surprisingly intricate and pleasing passing movements.

A pass from Gusto to Maatsen, but wide.

In the last ten minutes of the half, the game died a little. The frustrations from the crowd returned. Nkunku seemed peripheral now. Maatsen looked out of place out wide, often afraid to take his man on, too often happy to play the ball back. I spotted how slow Moises Caicedo is with the ball.

“Seen treacle move quicker.”

For all of Conor Gallagher’s energy, we missed a playmaker.

“Oh please exploit the spaces out wide.”

What I’d give for someone to loft a ball into those wide open spaces for a willing wide man to attack.

A sturdy tackle on Maatsen by Chris Richards released the ball for Palace. A deep cross towards the far post from Jordan Ayew always looked like causing us grief. Michael Olise, lively in the half-thus far, was scandalously unmarked and he had time to chest the ball down and smack past Djordje Petrovic at the near post. Caicedo had lost his concentration. Terrible defending.

It was 1-1 at the break.

So, moans at half-time. The relative positivity from the first half-hour had evaporated. It seemed to be the same old Chelsea of 2023/24.

One step forward, several steps back – and sideways.

In the first minute of the second period, I spotted how easy it was for the Palace attackers to roll off our defenders.

After a few more minutes of toil, I said to PD “there is nothing unexpected about our play.” All of it was without invention, without a spark, all of it in front of the defensive lines.

On fifty-three minutes, a Palace free-kick went just wide.

“We could lose this, boys.”

I looked over at the Germans; at least they were still awake.

Benoit Badiashile – he had impressed me at the end of last season, but has played poorly of late – allowed Jean-Philippe Mateta to roll off him and break. Badiashile and also Disasi raced after him but could not stop a shot on goal. Petrovic saved well at the near post.

A debut for Romeo Lavia on the hour, replacing the really poor Maatsen. Thiago Silva replaced Colwill at the same time.

Gallagher pushed up, Lavia sat alongside Caicedo and immediately looked more mobile and interested than his new midfield partner.

On sixty-six minutes, Gusto was so tenacious to stop a rapid break. Whisper it, but a few of us would not be unhappy if Gusto replaced Reece James in the long-term. We love Reece but his play has stalled for a while. He is so injury-prone and is too quiet for a captain. Gusto was enjoying a really excellent game.

More substitutions with twenty to go.

Noni Madueke for Nkunku.

Armando Broja for Mydryk.

More than a few supporters : “how is Jackson still on the pitch?”

Jackson then missed a one-on-one. Gallagher prodded the ball centrally – a great ball actually, one we had been missing – but the young striker fluffed his lines and his shot faded wide. Jackson fell into the netting and probably wished that the goal would swallow him up. Shortly after, we thought there was redemption.

A cross from Silva was deflected but Jackson pounced at the far post.

A roar.

We celebrated wildly.

He celebrated wildly down below.

He slid.

He crossed himself.

He closed his eyes.

He pointed to the sky.

He was mobbed by team mates.

I took some half-decent photos.

Then, after about a minute or so, to my disbelieving eyes : VAR.

Silence in my brain, sadness in my heart.

I was still stood, but slumped back against my seat.

No goal.

Oh do fuck off.

A save from Olise by Petrovic after an error by Silva.

Broja rippled the side-netting.

Late on, Madueke – who had looked lively – fell just inside the box after a corner. There had been a challenge, but I did not really see it. I could not judge its severity. With Madueke down, Palace broke with four against one. The referee played on. I screamed expletives. I’m good at that. That chance thankfully passed, but then VAR was signalled. I am tired of VAR now. I didn’t applaud nor cheer.

Eventually, a penalty was given.

Again, no cheer from me.

Jackson took the ball. Gallagher took the ball. Then Madueke, the fouled, took the ball. He looked confident. A staggered run-up. I clicked.

Goal.

I cheered now alright.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Eighty-nine minutes had passed.

Bloody hell.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

One last substitution.

Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

The young lad certainly made a strong impression in his first fleeting minutes as a first-team player. There was the “gee-ing up” of team mates, at least one crunching tackle, and much running around like a man possessed.

Alfie. Alf. Welcome to the show, son.

There was just time for one last save from Petrovic, again down low at the near post, again from Olise.

It finished 2-1, a well-won victory if not an easy one.

We rose to tenth place. It is, I think, where we will be come May.

Next up, an away game at Luton Town and a visit to the Oak Road End once again. I will see some of the lucky ones there.

1983

2023

Tales From Chelsea World

Posted on December 23, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 19 December 2023.

The League Cup Quarter-Final at home to Newcastle United was positioned just before the rush of football games over Christmas and the New Year. In this heady period – from Friday 22 December to Monday 1 January – there would be three Chelsea games and three Frome Town games for me to attend. It’s what Christmas is for, right?

The visiting Geordies would be backed by a strong following of around 5,500 in The Shed but their team were beset with injuries. Chelsea, too, were missing several first-teamers. It was a match that intrigued me. It was a game that we could win. It was a game that could propel us into an unlikely Semi-Final. But Newcastle United would be a tough opponent despite their missing players.

An early shift behind me, I deposited my three passengers off at two different locations at Chelsea World; the first-two were dropped-off on Bramber Road, just a short hop to the evening’s base of “The Rylston” on Lillee Road and the third one was deposited right outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge. As I slowly drove back along the Fulham Road, I snapped the view of the West Stand, its forecourt and the milieu of Christmas lights falling like snow from the stand’s facade, the neon lights and the club crest, the milling crowds, a bright Christmas tree, and the Peter Osgood statue.

It felt like I was driving home for Christmas.

SW6 may not be my home, but sometimes it feels like it must be.

Not wanting to collect an unwanted parking ticket I drove around for twenty minutes and then parked up on Mulgrave Road bang on five o’clock. I met up with PD, Parky and Salisbury Steve in “The Rylston” just after 5pm.

The kick-off was at 8pm. We had three hours to relax. By an odd quirk, this pub – nestled under the flats of the Clem Atlee Estate – is run by the same pub management company as our usual haunt “The Eight Bells” further south. The Yellow Panda Pub Company has just these two in their portfolio. The lads worked their way through a few lagers, while I had the usual non-alcoholic offerings that accompany my match days. Food was a third off between 3pm and 6pm so a decent picante pizza was less than a tenner. It went down well.

I looked around at the clientele and it was very different from “The Eight Bells.” Our usual domicile, right down the bottom end of Fulham, is full of what could quite rightly be termed “old school” Chelsea support; virtually all blokes, decidedly working class, hardly any Chelsea colours on show, ribald laughter booming. In contrast, “The Rylston” attracted a more varied demographic; more couples, a few Chelsea shirts on show, a more middle-class vibe, hushed tones.

I could not help feel that these two pubs had swapped their clientele. Once an estate pub – I remember it as looking pretty rough, at least from the outside, “The Rylston” still has one of the poorest estates in London on its doorstep. It has, however, undergone a tidy re-vamp over the last decade. I like it a lot. By contrast, “The Eight Bells” is located, to my eyes, in a more affluent adjacent area.

I can almost hear the “compare and contrast” instruction from a social geography course at poly in the ‘eighties.

As we left the pub at about 6.45pm – a mild night – I took a few photos of the lads. I could not help but notice the black and white pub sign. I remembered the Panda from the pub company. Was I tempting fate ahead of the tie against the black and white hordes. At least a single magpie didn’t ominously appear. We made our way along Lillee Road, a red London bus drove past, the Clem Atlee to our right, the towering Empress State Building ahead. Another London bus flew by. We were deep in Chelsea World. I smiled.

Driving home for Christmas.

We were all in at about 7.15pm.

As the away fans were encamped in The Shed, Parky had been transplanted to the Matthew Harding. As against Brighton and Blackburn Rovers, I took his ticket and he took mine so that he could sit alongside PD and Alan in “The Sleepy”; my seat was centrally towards the goal. I spotted Luke, another Shed End regular – who used to sit very close to Lord Parsnips until last season – and so I took a snap of them being reunited at the other end of the stadium.

There were the Newcastle fans, set up in two tiers, at The Shed, and a decent showing on a Tuesday night in London. They brought a few flags, including a very odd one that featured the letters “NUFC” and an image of a woman with a tooth missing.

At 7.50pm, “London Calling”, “Parklife” and “Liquidator.”

The usual – kinda cringe worthy by now – light show and accompanying flames welcomed the teams onto the pitch.

Our Chelsea eleven?

Djordje Petrovic.

Axel Disasi – Thiago Silva – Benoit Badiashile – Levi Colwill

Moises Caicedo – Conor Gallagher

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Raheem Sterling

Nicolas Jackson

In the Newcastle United team was Tino Livramento but not Lewis Hall. Despite some players missing, they still boasted Miguel Amiron, Callum Wilson and Anthony Gordon, all undoubted threats.

It was a lively start. An unmarked Gordon managed to get a shot in on the goal that we were defending down below us but it was deflected for a corner. On six minutes, Gallagher saw his curling effort bounce against the Shed End crossbar. We began well. There was a Newcastle cross from their right that didn’t drop for an attacker to pounce but it had me worried.

Not long after, calamity. From a cross from the bye-line from Disasi, we gave up possession and Newcastle broke with pace. Callum Wilson, however, had Caceido chasing him and the twin pillars of Silva and Badiashile closing in on him. This pincer movement failed. He ghosted past Silva. Badiashile then seemed to get his legs tangled. I watched in horror as the ball was adeptly curled with the outside of his foot past the forlorn dive of Petrovic.

Fackinell.

It seemed the unluckiest of goals to concede, but now we were up against it.

We were immediately treated to an absolutely magnificent sliding tackle from Silva, and if I was to say that it was worth the admission money alone I would stand by my comment. Pure class.

A twist and a shot at the near post from Palmer. There was a nice “one-two” between Sterling and Caicedo on twenty-seven minutes but his roller just evaded the goal frame. Just after, another shot from Sterling was blocked after a decent break down the right.

These chances were few and far between though. I was again frustrated to see Sterling in acres of space but criminally under-utilised. Our build-up play lacked guile. The two centre-backs seemed to be touching the ball every five seconds.

“Slow, slow, quick, quick, slower.”

At least the Newcastle threat had dwindled; they were quite content to defend deep.

“LOW BLOCK” shout the FIFA nerds.

Yeah, low bock, whatever.

Fernandez was surprisingly substituted on thirty-two minutes and was replaced by Armando Broja. There was a shifting of personnel and Sterling popped up on the right, taking over from Palmer. Jackson was shunted out towards the East Stand. I speculated if he would be better positioned behind the East Stand.

The noise from us wasn’t great. There were a few attempts at getting something started. I couldn’t decipher much of it, but the away fans were making a fair old racket.

“Noo-cassel You-nited. We’ll nevah be defeated.”

As the first-half continued, I moaned to the chap next to me “one-hundred and ten passes and its going nowhere.”

Jackson was having a minimal impact, aside from getting caught offside. There had been one, just one, excellent run from him – that both the bloke next to me and I had spotted – but which was not spotted by the man on the ball. We longed for the movement of Crespo or Vialli.

“Proper strikers” he murmured.

It was so noticeable that, even with Broja on the pitch, we were loath to send crosses into the Geordie box. I wondered that we would need Zaphod Beeblebrox loitering at the far post before we started crossing high balls into the mixer.

At the end of the first-half, Broja’s goal was called back for offside, Newcastle had two efforts on our goal, and Palmer supplied, probably, one of the highest ever crosses seen at Stamford Bridge, only for Jackson to head it over at the far stick. Perhaps if he had two heads he would have fared better.

At half-time, there were moans.

“We aren’t hitting our front players quick enough. By the time we play the bloody ball, they are fully marked.”

At the break, Malo Gusto replaced Colwill at left-back.

The chap next to me said that if Reece James was to be out for an extended stay, as is likely, Gusto would be an able replacement. I could not disagree. He has been a good addition this season.

Soon into the first-half, there was nothing but praise and applause for the much-maligned Jackson who chased a Newcastle break from Gordon and put in a timely tackle way inside our own half. Fair play to him. I was not upset when Gordon would soon be substituted.

Bursting down the right, that man Gusto played in Broja who set up Jackson. He swivelled nicely but his GPS let him down, the shot missing the near post by a yard or so. A minute after, Jackson prodded the ball through to the rampaging Sterling, but his low shot was pushed – low down – past the far post by Dubravka.

There was noise now.

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea. Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

You know the tune.

Stamford Bridge was alive and it felt like a proper game, a proper cup tie.

On the hour, another magnificently-timed sliding tackle from Silva. More glorious applause.

“Come on, keep up the intensity Chels.”

By now, Newcastle’s attack had virtually ceased.

The noise continued. At last Christopher Nkunku made his Chelsea debut, replacing Jackson.

A big roar.

It seemed like the second coming of Christ.

I turned to the chap to my right.

“No pressure.”

Ten minutes later, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling and Ian Maatsen replaced Disasi. Gusto moved to the right. Mudryk was soon attempting to dance down the left. Was I confident of us getting an equaliser? Maybe. Only maybe.

Into the last ten minutes, the atmosphere had noticeably quietened. Perhaps the Chelsea faithful were not confident of that equaliser. Mudryk found himself our main threat. A teasing cross was headed, almost disastrously, into his own goal by Livramento.

On eighty-nine minutes, a wriggle from Gallagher – our best player, he was everywhere – and a coming together of bodies but no penalty.

There were four minutes of injury time but I had hoped for more.

Four minutes? Fackinell.

The bloke next to me couldn’t hold it in any longer, and excused himself. He got up, we shook hands, and off he went. I like these temporary friendships that we make at football. I’ll probably never see him again, but it is always nice not to be sat next to a dickhead, of which there are many, at Chelsea. At away games, those temporary friendships always tend to solidify over the years.

Into injury time, a deep cross from the nimble and mobile Gusto was aimed at the far post. For some reason that only he knows, Keiran Trippier reacted oddly to the ball as it bounced up in front of him. He seemed to be shocked that the ball would take its trajectory. Mudryk, just behind him, reacted quickly.

My heart-beat increased. I gulped some air. I stood.

The ball sat up nicely.

The Ukrainian walloped it in.

Fackinell.

GET IN.

The Bridge boomed.

The scorer ran past the lucky ones in the front row at pitch side and continued his run over to the West Stand, not usually the place to aim for. Shades of Micky Thomas against Sheffield Wednesday in 1984.

Stay still my beating heart.

Fackinell indeed.

Ninety-three minutes had elapsed. This was indeed a late-late show. I immediately thought back to a Les Ferdinand equaliser for the Toon Army, equally late, in an FA Cup tie in January 1996. Revenge for that, maybe?

Before we could breath, the final whistle sounded. I hoped for the penalties to be taken down our end. There seemed to be a longer-than-usual delay.

The players walked to the half-way line and faced the Newcastle followers in The Shed.

Ugh.

I remembered an FA Cup loss on penalties at The Shed against Everton in 2011.

I prepared my camera for its big moments.

Cole Palmer – a confident strike low to the right, tucked just inside the post.

1-0.

Callum Wilson – down the middle, git.

1-1.

Conor Gallagher – a short run up but a smash high, phew.

2-1.

Keiran Trippier – “you little prick” might have out him off, a drive wide of the left-hand post.

2-1.

Christopher Nkunku – a confident smack high left, welcome to Chelsea my son.

3-1.

Bruno Guimaraes – a stop/start run up, but struck just inside the right-hand post.

3-2.

Mykhailo Mudryk – a brief approach, stroked to the left, surely evoking Didier in Munich for us all.

4-2.

Matt Ritchie – confidently struck, but flamboyantly saved by Petrovic, magnificent stuff.

Yes!

Within the space of sixteen minutes, we had come back from the dead. Into the League Cup semis we went. Thousands of puns simultaneously erupted all over Chelsea World about Djordje and the Geordies.

This was a stunning turnaround. But it was a reward for our dominance in an increasingly noisy and enthralling second-half.

“Freed From Desire” boomed around Stamford Bridge and there was a lot of untidy body movements in the Matthew Harding Upper. Then “One Step Beyond” and even more shocking behaviour.

But I didn’t mind.

Outside, there were so many Chelsea smiles and a massive sense of release.

“Freed” indeed. Maybe the DJ was right.

Fackinell.

Our team and our club continue to confuse us all, but this win seemed so important. I am not going to naively suggest it might save our season but stranger things have happened. It might just get the positivity flowing again.

As I drove home, we learned that Middlesbrough had beaten Port Vale and Fulham had edged out Everton.

We often underplay the importance of the League Cup these days, but surely no Chelsea fan currently does. I can’t wait for the semi-final.

See you there.

Postscript 1.

In preparing for this write-up, I stumbled across the realisation that in September 2010, we came from 1-3 down to get to 3-3 in a League Cup game against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge only for Shola Ameobi to score on ninety minutes to give the visitors a 4-3 triumph. Shockingly, I have no recollection of this game.

Postscript 2.

As I reached my car on Mulgrave Road, I had opened up my boot and threw my jacket in. There, in a corner, I spotted a black and white bobble hat – a free-gift from a visit to see Queens Park at Hampden a year ago – and I smiled. I need not have worried about me tempting the Footballing Gods with those black and white references pre-match. I had already committed a cardinal sin, but thankfully I had not been punished.

Tales From Game 71/208

Posted on October 24, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 21 October 2023.

In my international break, I saw just one match and it unsurprisingly featured my local team Frome Town. On Tuesday 10 October, I travelled the short distance to the former mining town of Paulton for a local derby of our own. Frome coasted to a 2-0 lead at the break, playing some nice stuff. Then, a down turn in events and we conceded two goals by the halfway point of the game and we were hanging on. With ten minutes to go I said to a mate “I’ll take the draw” as I couldn’t see us scoring. With six minutes to go, it was still 2-2. The final score? Paulton Rovers 2 Frome Town 7. It was, unquestionably, the most ridiculous game that I had ever seen. Admittedly the second-half had an extra twelve minutes, but even so. It was a demented result. Dodge are in a fine run of form at the moment.

With no European football to bolster our fixture list this autumn, this was turning into a very regular start to the season for Chelsea Football Club; four games in August, four games in September, four games in October, four games in November. Our London derby at home to Arsenal would be the third of the four in October. It was our first game in a fortnight.

On the walk towards the stadium at around 4.45pm, with the sky full of rain, free programmes were being handed out. The programmes were billed as a “collectors’ edition” in the way that many normal products are over-hyped these days. It was only a programme, albeit a free one, and I couldn’t really see it being worth much in the future. But it was a decent gesture by the new kit sponsors “Infinite Athlete” – whoever they are – and was perhaps an apology-of-sorts for not arriving on the scene a little sooner. If I was offered £1,000, I would struggle to describe the services that they bring to the world, and my world in particular. The cover was different to the usual design this season (maybe that is what made it so collectable, if not delectable) and it featured match facts in the style of a ticker-tape at the top of the cover.

It didn’t look much like a match programme at all.

The first stat mentioned that this would be the two-hundred and eighth game between the two sides. Chelsea have played no team more often. It was, in fact, the first-ever top-level London derby, played at Stamford Bridge on 11 September 1907, when the gunners were still a south London team called Woolwich Arsenal. The game ended up with Chelsea winning 2-1.

So, really, forget about the rest, this is the daddy of all London derbies.

This edition would be my seventy-first such game across all competitions and venues and, thus, it would mean that I would have seen just under thirty-five percent of all Chelsea versus Arsenal games. This doesn’t include the game I saw in Beijing as Chelsea have not included that in their total.

Gulp.

I got duly drenched on the walk to the turnstiles and I soon wanted to take my thin rain jacket off once I had reached my seat. It was a mild evening in SW6 and I would watch the entire match wearing just a sweatshirt, a Boca one in grey, blue and yellow, and it tied in nicely against the red and white of Arsenal and River. In the match programme, I would later read that our manager Mauricio Pochettino favoured Racing as a boy before he started playing for Newell’s Old Boys.

As kick-off approached at 5.30pm, the weather deteriorated further. The ground filled up slowly and steadily, but I had a feeling that that those watching in the front rows would be getting drenched. We had played cat-and-mouse with the rain all day long. We had set off at around 9am but after picking up the last of the passengers – Parky – I was sent on a little diversion caused by the flooding of a road near Melksham. On the drive to London, the skies were intermittently cloudy then clear. Thankfully, my walk to Stamford Bridge at around midday and then the pub at around 2pm was during a couple of dry spells.

I remembered that Parky’s first-ever game at Stamford Bridge was against Arsenal, way back in 1961 – another 2-1 win – on the same day that Parky’s hero Jimmy greaves was playing for England in the 9-3 walloping of Scotland. Greaves scored his usual three.

I had spoken to Ron about his childhood in Hackney and how he used to be taken to Highbury by his Arsenal-mad father as a child. They would watch first-team and reserve team games in the ‘fifties, taking a bus from their pre-fab to watch their local team play. I asked if it felt odd playing against the team that he had supported as a child, and in that pragmatic and down-to-Earth way of his, he just shrugged his shoulders and dismissed such silliness.

It’s likely that PD’s first-ever Chelsea and Arsenal encounter was the same as mine; that game at Highbury in 1984. It is so famous that a whole book was written about it.

The rain still fell. Stamford Bridge had rarely looked gloomier. Over in the away section, one bright yellow Arsenal flag was draped over the Shed balcony. It shone like a beacon, but hopefully not as a metaphor for the away team as the match would develop.

The teams appeared just as a huge banner honouring the recently-retired Eden Hazard floated over heads down to my left. On the day before the anniversary of his passing, I would have preferred a flag with the image of Matthew Harding being passed from east to west in the stand that bears his name.

Before the kick-off, the stadium stood silent in remembrance of those killed in Israel and the Gaza Strip.

Fuck war.

To add to the sombre tone of the day, there had been two sad pieces of news that we encountered in the pub beforehand. The lads who sit at a table near us were gathered around and I spotted a photo of one of their crew placed on the adjacent table. Sadly, “Hillsy” had passed away last Sunday, the victim of a single heart-attack, and all of us remembered his cheery manner on many occasions in “The Eight Bells”. We all signed a shirt of remembrance.

Later, the news filtered through that Sir Bobby Charlton had died. I was only looking at a recent photo of him a day or so ago. Ah, that was some sad news. Growing up in the early ‘seventies there was nobody bigger, nobody better, nobody more famous than Bobby Charlton. I thought back to two games.

28 April 1973 – Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

Bobby Charlton’s last-ever game for United was played out at a packed three-sided Stamford Bridge. I suspect that a good 15,000 of the 44,000 present were United fans. I remember that crazy Osgood goal and the shrug to the TV camera. Charlton’s last-ever United game seemed a seismic moment in time. For United, maybe it was. They were relegated twelve months later.

26 August 2013 – Manchester United 0 Chelsea 0.

Out on the Old Trafford forecourt, the scene of much naughtiness over the years, I spotted Sir Bobby Charlton before the game looking dapper in a light grey suit and United tie. The great man walked straight across my path. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I was giddy with excitement as I reached out to shake his hand. It was probably my favourite non-Chelsea football moment of all.

In the packed pub, we had raised our glasses in memory of Sir Bobby Charlton.

As the minute of silence finished – not a sound from the four-sided Samford Bridge in 2023 – I wondered if Sir Bobby would be remembered too.

We lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Or something like that.

Jorginho would be passing the ball square in their midfield while Havertz was on their bench, perhaps dreaming of a night in Porto and another one in Abu Dhabi.

This would be a big test for our fledgling team. Our club, actually, even feels like a fledgling club at the moment too.

I feared the worst, but hoped for a draw.

The rain was lashing down and despite all available lights being switched to the max, visibility of the action down at The Shed was pretty poor. As the game began, a 5.30pm start, the first burst of action took place at that end. A fine ball from Thiago Silva found Raheem Sterling who pushed the ball into the box. A shot from Conor Gallagher was blocked and a follow-up from Enzo Fernandez was blazed over.

We absolutely dominated everything in the opening period as the rain continued to fall. There was an eerie and ethereal feel to the evening; night not yet fallen, but so dark and moody. I imagined a scene from a century ago, another London derby, the air thick with London fog and mist and cigarette smoke drifting over the packed terraces.

Then, approaching fifteen minutes of play, a superb counter-attack that began wide left and finished wide right. Sterling struck the ball in towards Mykhailo Mudryk, whose glancing header had initiated the move in the defensive third, and he threw himself at the ball. There was a huge shout from The Shed – for what I do not know – but it soon became apparent that those closer to the action had spotted an Arsenal handball (or a handy Arseball, depending on the outcome of the imminent VAR).

We waited.

Penalty.

Sterling grabbed the ball, but the confident Palmer wanted it too.

The youngster won that battle and calmly slotted the ball home, David Raya left flat-footed and beaten.

The place roared as Palmer celebrated in front of the silent away fans. I caught the slide on his knees through a million raindrops.

We continued to purr, but there were two totally unexpected errors by Thiago Silva.

“That’s his last two errors this season” I whispered to Clive.

Arsenal, a rare-attack, moved forward down below us but a flicked effort from Declan Rice was hardly worth bothering about.

They hadn’t settled at all.

There was a fantastic old-fashioned run up the right-wing, a full-length battle between Malo Gusto – attacking with, er, gusto – and Gabriel Martinelli, that ended with a foul on our energetic right-back.

Shots from ourselves were a little half-hearted.

One from Gallagher was hit right at Raya.

Clive : “No need to blast those. Jimmy Greaves would have just passed that into the goal.”

One from Enzo was hit centrally at Raya too.

Chris : “I can just see Bobby Charlton drilling that in on the floor.”

Although not at the very highest end of the noise scale, the atmosphere was at times reassuringly loud. There were the usual barbs aimed at Arsenal and their lack of success on the international stage.

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

Et cetera.

A beautiful thrusting run from Gallagher set up Palmer, who darted and dived in front of the Arsenal defence. His deft shot was a lot nearer the target than that of Rice, and his effort seemed to graze the far post on its way past.

Then, another delightful move down our right; such sweet movement, from Silva to Palmer, to the effervescent Sterling, but then a snapped shot from Gusto that again flew over.

But this was lovely stuff. Top marks especially for Gallagher, Gusto and Palmer. Oh, and Cucarella, let’s not forget him, easily our most improved player over the past month.

At the break, mild optimism.

Easy now.

Just before the end of the break, an image of Sir Bobby Charlton appeared on the large TV screens and we applauded his memory.

Munich survivor. World Cup winner. European Cup winner. Night of the realm.

Rest In Peace.

Soon into the second-half, the rain still falling but not so hard, I was lamenting that Mudryk, save the occasional flash, was having a quiet game. Then, Gallagher stole the ball from an Arsenal nonentity, and raced up the wing. I had a perfect view as Mudryk – yes, him – caught up with Gallagher and effectively took the ball off him. The smile on Conor’s face as the Ukrainian took the ball on is priceless. He advanced a little, then slowed, then chipped the ball goal wards.

By the time I had stopped snapping, the ball had dropped into the net, finding that few square feet of space between bar and the hapless Raya.

GET IN!

I immediately thought back to Gianfranco Zola’s last-ever goal for us versus Everton in 2003 from roughly the same spot.

I roared loudly but kept an eye on where the scorer was running.

“Oh fuck, he’s coming this way.”

I caught his Christ The Redeemer pose.

Phew.

Sadly, the photos of his clipped chip / lob / shot and the ball dropping in are too blurred to share.

The players were loving it down below.

FUCKING COME ON!

At last, we were looking like we were a team, a proper team, knowing when to soak up pressure, when to break, with skilful players moving for each other. God, it had been a long time coming.

I was still a bit edgy though.

“Next goal is crucial.”

A Sanchez-style mess of a clearance by Raya almost allowed Palmer to make it three, but his effort was then blocked by the ‘keeper when it looked easier to score.

On sixty-six minutes, Nicholas Jackson replaced Mudryk.

Stamford Bridge stood to applaud him off.

The substitute then went close.

Fackinell.

Arsenal enjoyed a few efforts on goal, mainly from free-kicks and corners, but we held firm. Thiago Silva was a colossus.

Then, a calamity. On seventy-seven minutes, a pass from Sanchez to Enzo was underhit, and Rice swept the ball into the empty net from thirty-five yards.

Bollocks.

Mikel Arteta had rung some changes. Jorginho was replaced, no applause, no boos, and then Havertz appeared, a few boos, no applause.

We made two late changes of our own.

Noni Madueke for Sterling.

Reece James for Palmer.

“Where’s Reece playing then?”

After staying miserable and quiet all day long, the away supporters were finally roused. It had been a very poor performance from Arsenal’s choir, the quietest by a major club for many a year.

We were now hanging on. Stamford Bridge seemed engulfed in nerves. I was kicking every ball and other clichés.

“COME ON CHELS.”

On eighty-four minutes, another calamity. A deep cross from the right from the previously quiet Bukayo Saka found an unmarked Trossard at the far stick. Through the mire, it looked like our defenders had switched off.

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 2.

Bollocks.

They celebrated like they had won the European Cup.

As if.

Ironically, one song now dominated, but one that they had stolen lock stock and barrel from Liverpool, a song that detailed that club’s quite considerable success in Europe.

Arsenal’s version was a poor copy.

“We won the league at Anfield. We won it at the Lane, Stamford Bridge, Old Trafford. No one can say the same. Mikel Arteta’s army. We’re Arsenal through and through. We’ll sing it in the North Bank. And in the Clock End too.”

Winning the league at Stamford Bridge?

I must have missed that one. Maybe it happened.

But it’s the stealing of a rival’s song that I found a little squeamish. Ugh.

Then, substitute Eddie Nketiah latched on to a ball played through the channel and – memories of Nwankwo fucking Kanu – the shot dropped just past the far post.

Fackinell.

Head tennis in their box and Levi Colwill headed over.

A late low shot from Jackson was saved by Raya, the ‘keeper desperately hanging on to the ball on the greasy surface.

It ended 2-2.

Every Chelsea fan on the planet :

“I would have taken a draw before the game began. But this feels like a loss.”

But this was a really decent performance. Many commented that it was the most cohesive football that we have played in two years or so. My God, it certainly felt like it. And yet we have some really testing games to come in the next couple of months. I still project us to finish around eighth, but after the Arsenal game, perhaps I can be a little more optimistic.

Next up, another derby against Brentford.

See you there.

Rest In Peace

Tales From Row D

Posted on August 28, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Luton Town : 25 August 2023.

It’s hard to believe that the home match with newly-promoted Luton Town would only be my fifth Chelsea match against the team from the much-derided town in Bedfordshire. We met plenty of times from the mid-‘seventies to the early ‘nineties, but not many times since.

For some reason, the mention of Luton Town always takes me back to the first day of 1980 and an early kick-off at Kenilworth Road, a frosty pitch, and most of the players wearing trainers. The game was an entertaining 3-3 draw. A more notorious away game had taken place five years earlier, in January 1975, when the two teams eked out a 1-1 draw, but Chelsea fans set fire to the train taking them back to London after the game. I was at neither game.

My first Luton game took place on Saturday 8 May 1982 at the end of a “typical” Chelsea season that saw us over-perform in both domestic cups but under-perform in our Second Division campaign. I travelled up alone, on the train, and remember buying the wonderful Le Coq Sportif pinstriped – and super shiny – home shirt before the game. I watched from The Shed and I recollect Paul Canoville’s home debut, sadly accompanied by boos, and I remember a 1-2 loss and a Clive Walker goal. That season, Luton – in a very fine kit of their own, all white with Adidas stripes in orange – narrowly beat neighbours Watford to the Second Division Championship. There was a deep contrast in styles between these two rivals. Luton played expansive, skilful stuff using a variety of attacking options whereas Watford were “route one” merchants, utilising wingers and tall centre-forwards.

I then saw us play Luton Town at Stamford Bridge on 11 January 1986. I watched with my mate Swan in the East Lower – using complimentary tickets if I am not mistaken – and we won 1-0 via David Speedie.

Next up was the famous FA Cup semi-final in 1994 when two Gavin Peacock goals sent us to an FA Cup Final for the first time in twenty-four years. Kerry Dixon was playing for Luton Town by now and we certainly gave him a full-on reception. Looking back, the win on that day – in my mind – changed our history.

A loss; back to being normal unpredictable Chelsea.

A win; guaranteed European football what with our Cup Final opponents already looking like being crowned League Champions and thus a Champions League place in 1994/95. We would slide into the ECWC, and our profile would be raised, thus enticing Gullit and Hughes the following pre-season.

Lastly, just over eighteen months ago, a first-ever visit for me to the infamously compact stadium of Kenilworth Road where we squeaked a narrow 3-2 FA Cup win on a night when we heard that Roman Abramovich had put the club up for sale. The scorers? Saul Niguez, Timo Werner and Romelu Lukaku. God, that already seems like three teams ago, doesn’t it?

So, game number five and a Friday flit up the M4 with the usual suspects.

After a decent run out against Liverpool followed by a disappointing performance at West Ham, one phrase was surely uttered by us a few times, and by thousands of others.

…”well, if we can’t beat Luton.”

On paper, this was a run-of-the-mill football match, but not for me. I would be joined by my very good mate JR from Detroit. He was last alongside me at Stamford Bridge, alongside Alan in The Sleepy Hollow, for the PSG home game in March 2016, a 1-2 loss. The last Chelsea game we saw together was in Ann Arbor in July of the same year, a 2-3 loss against Real Madrid, in front of – officially – the largest ever crowd to attend a Chelsea game.

105,826.

I suspect the Moscow Dynamo game exceeded that figure but we will never know.

The last sports fixture that we both attended took place the day after the Real Madrid game; a 11-0 win for his Detroit Tigers against Houston Astros in downtown Detroit.

Seven years ago. Damn, where has the time gone?

I met up with JR just after 5pm, alongside Dan, whose wedding in deepest Cambridgeshire JR is attending with his wife Erin next weekend.

It was lovely to see them both again. The last time I saw Dan was – we think – before the away game in Newcastle in January 2020, before COVID, before the lockdown, before football behind closed doors, before Putin, before the sale, before Clearlake, before “Supermarket Sweep” and another age, or so it seems.

We decamped to “The Butcher’s Hook.”

Some Chelsea young’uns were finishing off that horrible Arsenal chant aimed at Tottenham – “that’s alright”, my arse – in front of a sea of Chelsea-liveried tourists, and then went into “Chelsea Alouette” with all the actions. It seemed like the “So Bar” circa 2006 had moved east a few hundred yards. Dan said he saw an over-protective father cup the ears of his child to protect said junior from the swearing.

This is football, not soft play.

Chelsea World Is A Small World Part One.

At the first Frome Town league game of this season, a fortnight ago, my mates Francis and Tom were checking out the antics of the new club mascot Dodge The Dog. Tom, who is originally from Cambridge and follows Cambridge United, told the story of how his team’s mascot is called Marvin The Moose.

Francis and I immediately recoiled at the name, since there seemed to be little relevance to Cambridge to an animal that inhabits the northern extremities of North America, Scandinavia and Russia. However, Tom told the story of how one Cambridge fan just started bellowing “moose!” during a particular game for no apparent reason, and others latched on to the idea. Oh, I approved of that. Here was a story that seemed totally organic, from within the club’s rank and file, rather than from the imagination of an out-of-touch marketing guru.

Knowing that Dan was a Cambridge United season ticket holder, I happened to share this story with Dan and JR. With a broadening smile, Dan admitted that on occasion, he has dressed up as Marvin The Moose at their home games.

I shared this with Francis, who then shared it with Tom.

There were ripples of football laughter reverberating from London to Frome and to who knows where.

“Moose!”

We called into see Steve, from Somerset, at the programme stall and then Marco at the “CFCUK” stall opposite. Chidge was there too, and JR remembered how he had taken part in a “Chelsea Fancast” from 2011 on the occasion of his first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge. JR’s first ever game here was the West Ham game, the Torres goal, and we remembered that day well. Again, twelve years ago? Oh boy.

We trotted over to “Simmons” where we hoped a few of the usual suspects would congregate. Dan was surprised by the choice of venue.

“This isn’t the sort of bar I’d expect you to frequent, Chris.”

“It’s handy for evening games, being so near the stadium, just a ten-minute walk away.”

We settled down and waited for some troops to arrive. We didn’t have to wait long.

Luke, Aroha, Alan, Daryl, Parky, plus a few more.

The music boomed.

Chelsea World Is A Small World Part Two.

I often speak of my friend Andy from Nuneaton and his daughter Sophie, who sometimes meet us down “The Eight Bells”, and I was especially hoping that they would show up for this pre-match. Andy visited Detroit in 1987 with his Chelsea mate Jonesy – also mentioned herein – and took in a game at old Tiger Stadium. With Daryl and I favouring the New York Yankees over the years, Andy always used to tell us that “his” Detroit Tigers were better even when they weren’t. He always talks about their slugger Kirk Gibson. So, with JR on his way over from Detroit, I wanted to surprise Andy with some Tigers merchandise. To that end, JR picked up a mug and a pair of socks at the airport. I wanted to be able to present Andy with his gifts in the bar. Imagine my joy when I looked over to see Sophie arrive.

Lo and behold, not only did Andy soon appear, but he stood right next to JR at the bar. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I quickly walked over and stood between the two of them.

“JR, this is Andy.”

“Andy!”

“Andy, this is JR. He’s from Detroit.”

“Detroit!”

JR was wearing a Tigers cap, but I am not sure Andy recognised the fine detail. I then explained the back story and soon presented Andy with his gifts. He was well-pleased. It was a lovely moment.

The bar was noisy with a backdrop of classic pre-match music from “the football years”; a little David Bowie, a little Madness, some Oasis, some Blur, a little Specials, even the Frome Town song “A Town Called Malice.”

On his delayed trip from Detroit to Heathrow, JR had suffered the misfortune of his luggage taking a detour to Amsterdam but I could see he was enjoying this.

It was a Friday. The first day of a three-day weekend. The first game of three for me.

Time to relax.

Kinda.

In the midst of this mini-festival of football that was to encompass three stadia and five teams…Chelsea, Luton Town, Yate Town, Frome Town and Larkhall Athletic…there was a hospital appointment for me on the Sunday that was never completely out of my mind. But more of that later.

At about 7.20pm, JR, Dan and I set off for Stamford Bridge. We had, luckily, just missed a heavy downpour that had drenched the streets outside. Dan had managed to get hold of a ticket in the MHU and so he would not be too far away from us.

In we went.

JR met up with PD again, and Al soon joined us.

No surprises that Luton Town brought 3,000 with them. I have only ever met one Luton Town fan in my life – Turin, 2009 – and I wondered if he was in The Shed.

I made sure that JR sat between Alan and little old me. I wanted JR to witness the full “Sleepy Hollow Audio Visual Experience”, and I was especially thinking of the moment – hopefully – when we would take the lead and a certain famous interchange would take place between Alan and I.

JR’s noggin would be right in the middle of it.

The away fans were noisy, as expected. This was, after all, their first top flight visit to SW6 since 31 August 1991. That game, which we won 4-1, was made memorable for marking Vinnie Jones’ debut in Chelsea colours. I can keenly remember where I was that afternoon; near Ashby-de-la-Zouch in Leicestershire on an inter-company sports day, playing five-a-side, and spotting a girl in our team who took part in a few other events. I would go out with Sam on a couple of occasions and I think Vinnie Jones fared better at Chelsea than I did with her, but there you go.

“Park Life” was aired…”Parky Life” more like, I thought, and then the pre-match bullshit started, the flames and all, ending up with a dickhead bellowing into the mic : “make some noise!!!”

Oh do fuck off mate.

Our team lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Sterling – Jackson – Chilwell

Or something like that.

In the Sleepy Hollow –

Chris – JR – Al – PD

Luton were wearing an away kit, all white with a broad vertical orange stripe. New buy Moises Caicedo took a position in our midfield. Former Chelsea player Ross Barkley started his first game for Luton after his spell with Nice. The air was full of drizzle. There were dark storm clouds over the East Stand. I guessed that they had just passed.

The game began with us attacking The Shed as per normal. The away support was on top from the off.

“Come on Lu’on, come on Lu’on.”

JR spoke about the fact that only two of the starting eleven have their own songs; Thiago Silva and Connor Gallagher, with two each.

We were treated to a scintillating run from Raheem Sterling on the right, deep into the heart of the crowded Luton defence and he looked interested from the first kick. There was a fierce shot from Sterling, a volley, that was saved by the Luton ‘keeper. Next, a riser from Enzo outside the box that skimmed the bar.

A rare attack for Luton after a slip by Caicedo but a wild shot flew high past the goal frame.

On seventeen minutes, Sterling ran through the Luton defence with a sublime piece of attacking intent, his weaving taking him away from tackles. At every juncture I thought he had taken it one step too far but he kept the ball close to him throughout. There was a dummy, and then the confident stab home.

The crowd erupted. There was pandemonium behind the goal where Sterling had slotted the ball in. Limbs were flying. The striker ran behind the netting and a few team mates joined in the wild celebrations. Whatever pre-match substances and liquids had been imbibed before the game were being mixed with an adrenalin rush to the head caused by the euphoria of an early goal. We are, after all, goal addicts.

It was pure Shedonism.

Then, our big moment.

I looked behind JR and caught Alan’s eye.

We looked at each other and I suspected that we were both thinking the exact same thing.

Alan paused for a few seconds.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “But not necessarily in the right order.”

Alan burst out laughing. Yes, he had been thinking the same thing. It was our perfect homage to Eric Morecambe.

I turned to JR : “Did you catch that electricity that buzzed past you there mate?”

I am sure that JR didn’t have a clue about our wise words, but he didn’t let on. Alan and I were giggling like schoolkids.

Back to the game.

A Colwill error on the goal-line let in a Luton attacker but the move was stewarded out for a corner. A Barkley near-post header from the resultant corner flew over the bar.

However, we absolutely controlled the first-half. I spotted that Nicolas Jackson often came deep to pick up the ball and run. It was reassuring to see a young forward looking to impact the game. After his far from perfect debut in Stratford, Moises Caicedo settled in nicely and broke up a few rare Luton attacks. At the break, I took a photo of JR alongside Alan and P-Diddy.

JR had put the “D” in Row D.

Kerry Dixon took the mic at half-time and said a few things. Thirty-nine years ago, on Saturday 25 August 1984, it was Kerry’s goal that sent all of us in the Clock End delirious. The clip of that goal always sends shivers down my spine.

The second-half was a far livelier affair. There was a natty one-two between Chilwell and Jackson but with only the ‘keeper to beat, Chilwell just couldn’t trust his right foot and tried to square the ball to Sterling. The pass was intercepted and we all groaned. Next, a neat volley from Jackson that forced a block. We were starting to purr.

A cross from Sterling, a crashing shot from Enzo that smacked the post.

From the away fans :

“Conference Champions, you’ll never sing that.”

Fair play.

Enzo raced on to a pacey through ball but could only hit the side netting.

Jackson swivelled well down below us but hit a strong shot at the ‘keeper.

I turned to JR :

“At long last, it looks like we have a decent young striker to hang our hat on.”

There was a comic interlude that amused us. A ball went off and had to be retrieved by a Luton player. It suddenly dawned on me that there were no ball boys – or girls – along the West Stand touchline. In fact, the stadium’s only five ball boys – or girls – were sat in two groups in front of the Matthew Harding. One group of two, one group of three. And they were adamantly refusing to budge to chase down stray balls. Their insouciance was captivating.

I wondered if their pre-match instructions went something like this.

“OK, the idea is for you five to take your stools and sit equidistantly on the perimeter of the pitch so that balls can be given back to the players as quickly as possible. Is that understood?”

I imagined a sea of blank faces.

Equidistant?

Perimeter?

And then a lone voice…

“Yes fam.”

They hardly moved the entire match, the little buggers.

What made it funnier was that each had “Ball Squad” bibs on.

Ball squad, my arse.

Jackson was running himself into the ground and impressing us all with his industry. He was certainly tenacious. I liked Gusto on the right, rarely a wasted pass.

A bouncing effort from Luton on the hour was gathered well by Robert Sanchez.

We were begging, though, for a second goal. Thankfully on sixty-nine minutes, a move that was beautiful in its simplicity allowed the ball to be moved quickly. Sterling to Caicedo to Gallagher, then to Gusto who sent in a low centre that Sterling swept home easily. He ran over to the far side and Stamford Bridge boomed again.

2-0 and safe, surely?

On seventy-five minutes, a lovely move developed. Enzo scooped a beautiful ball up and over the Luton defence for Sterling to collect. His first-time cross was stabbed home by that man Jackson and we all beamed a huge smile as he raced away.

Three-nil and coasting, the manager brought on three very late subs.

Lesley Uguchukwu for the excellent Jackson.

“We’ll just call you Les” chirped Alan.

Ian Maatsen for Chilwell.

Mason Burstow for Sterling, who was warmly applauded off.

Raheem has been a difficult player to warm to hasn’t he? Let’s hope his fine performance against Luton – yes, I know, it was only Luton – can be replicated over and over again this season.

A late song for our visitors…

“Shit fucking airport, you’re just a shit fucking airport.”

Quite.

At the final whistle, there was a genuine relief of seeing us win a game at Stamford Bridge for the first time since Dortmund in March, a couple of managers ago.

“Enjoyed that.”