Everton vs. Chelsea : 17 October 2026.
At last, we were on our travels. After eight trips to London, a new destination in 2026/27 was on the cards.
Everton away.
As an aside, it has taken me over a year to stop saying “Goodison” when I refer to a trip to the blue half of Merseyside’s home, but now it is starting to become easier. However, rather than use the Hill Dickinson Stadium or Bramley Moore Dock, I think I am going to simply use “Everton.”
Less words, more succinct, to the point.
I love away games in October. The season has settled down. Teams have hit a pattern. New players have acclimatised. And there is just something about driving through those autumn colours, especially if on an adventure up north, where everything screams “proper football road trip.” The temperatures are a little cooler, but the air is crisp, and it seems to fit for me. Maybe this is a nod to my childhood when my father took me to Stamford Bridge once in the autumn and once in the spring. For the first three seasons, the pre-Xmas matches were all in October. For many years, I always jump to October when the fixture lists are published; an away day up north in October suits me fine.
I collected Glenn bang on 6am. My usual partners in crime Paul and Parky were missing this one. They really struggled with the walking at Everton last season. In fact, they decided recently that the next away game that they will do will be Coventry City just after Christmas.
The M5 was closed so I was diverted through The Cotswolds on this October morning. As I climbed up towards Nailsworth the sun was starting to rise in the east. Not for the only time on this day out, I wished that I had my SLR camera to take a photograph of this moment. The slight rise of the fields, the first glimpses of yellow and orange, then the darkness of the sky.
The population of Nailsworth is only 5,500 and is the smallest town to ever host a Football League team; from 2017 to 2024. They even reached League One for one campaign in 2022/23. They now play in the National League, two steps above my local team Frome Town.
On the previous Tuesday, I had travelled the short distance to Chippenham to catch Frome’s game with our local rivals. It was another fantastic match. After a nondescript and goal-less first-half, Frome Town won 2-0 with goals from crowd favourite Jon Davies and zesty wing-back Zak Drew. The crowd was 602. The result solidified our sixth place in the table. While Chelsea would be playing on Merseyside, Frome Town would be at lowly Malvern Town, so I was hoping for a decent result in both matches.
Glenn and I were pragmatic though. We acknowledged that our record at Everton has been very poor of late, and we both said that we would be happy with a draw. I was hoping for three points at Malvern, though.
Our magical mystery tour continued through Stroud, Painswick and Brockworth. We began our descent into the Severn Vale here, and it was another moment when I wished that I could stop in a lay-by to record the scene. The vast expanse of lowland, the River Severn wriggling to the south, the lofty Brecon Beacons away to the west.
At 7.45am, we stopped at Strensham Services for a quick breakfast and to top up the car’s fuel.
We were back on familiar territory now, and I ate up the miles, flying past familiar sights on the road north. Birmingham was bypassed, Walsall’s Bescot Stadium on the right, then signs for Stoke, and I retold the story to Glenn of my rather agitated trip that I took with my parents in September 1984, ahead of three years at college. Onto the flat Cheshire plain, and a comfort break and coffees at Sandbach Services.
Then, the familiar Thelwall Viaduct with sensational views of Winter Hill north of Bolton in the distance. I flew past the huge warehouses that line both sides of the M62 at Burtonwood. Finally, the very familiar approach to Liverpool’s city centre. I spotted the two Liver Birds in the distance between buildings.
I couldn’t resist.
“You dancin’?”
“You askin’?”
“I’m askin’.”
“I’m dancin’.”
Then a quick chorus of “if you’re standing on the corner with a red scarf round your neck.”
While queuing to join the famous Scotland Road, we spotted an Everton blue-liveried scooter, with an Everton-themed number plate, in front of us.
“E70 TFEE.”
And then a blue car, with a similarly themed – EFC – Everton plate.
Glenn just missed taking a photo of these.
Drat.
Like last season, I was lucky enough to be able to park at a mate’s daughter’s apartment at Waterloo Quay, and we arrived here at 10.30am, four-and-a-half hours after leaving Dodge.
We walked ten minutes north on Regent Road and dived into Dock Wall, but unlike in March, my Everton mate Chris wasn’t going to make it. Glenn got the drinks in, and we chatted to our mates Rob, Dave, and Johnny Twelve Teams from California who had arrived in London on the Friday and was hanging around for the Tottenham game. Neil Barnett called by too. It seems impossible to think that he last graced the Stamford Bridge pitch in 2018. We stayed about forty minutes. It wasn’t too busy. It’s the only bar on Regent Road that serves drinks in glass pints, and nobody sussed we were Chelsea, so everything was cushty.
Neil clutched a team sheet of those in the squad, and I watched as he checked names off from the media release from Chelsea.
One change; Jorrel Hato for Pep Chavarria.
Emi
Josh – Maxence – Levi – Jorrel
Hendo – Moises
Pedro – Cole – Morgan
Joao Pedro
I was itching to get inside, and we marched past various entrances carved into the dock wall before reaching the away turnstiles.
There is something very special about these moments; attracted to football like moths to a flame, mirroring generations before us. It’s in our blood. Let’s hope we never tire of it.
There was a slight nip to the air. Just how I like it.
Then, a very brief security check. I must have had an honest face as the steward just waved me through with not even a pat-down. I wonder if I can one day risk bringing an SLR to this new pad.
I was inside at midday. Just right.
I was in section 118, very close to last season’s position. What an awful first visit that turned out to be. The absolute pits.
Glenn and J12 were fifteen rows behind me. I spotted a few other friends. The PA played a selection of Evertonian favourites.
“It’s a grand old team to support, and if you know your history…”
“Everton, we never shone so brightly. Everton, the spirit of the blues.”
Oddly, the voice of Elton John warbling “I guess that’s why they call it the blues.”
We countered all this with a relatively loud “Carefree.”
Then, with five minutes to kick-off, the siren and I braced myself.
“Z Cars.”
It’s bloody fantastic.
Tombsy was stood right behind me, and I know he loved Goodison, and he loves the “Z Cars” at Everton.
We exchanged knowing nods.
There was another Everton song, squeezed in just before a slightly delayed kick off.
“All for one, one for all, Everton’s the team that plays beautiful football.”
Um, “righty-oh.”
The game began, and Brian Moore would have been perplexed that both teams were wearing white shorts.
Our kit looked decent from a distance, but why the club persist with the hated Chelsea Collection Millwall badge is a mystery. We hated it in 1986. In 2026, my feelings have not changed.
The Evertonians – noisy in March – had been silent thus far. Unlike Goodison, with many features to catch the eye, the new stadium is rather bland inside. The steep stands are its major plus point.
Unlike March, we attacked our end in the first half.
It was a very even start to the game. So much so that I did not make a single note on my phone until a shot from Cole Palmer was aimed at goal on fifteen minutes, but Jordan Pickford made an easy save.
There was the usual barrage of songs remembering former players.
It included Jimmy’s and my bête noire.
“He comes from the Ivory Coast, Kalou, Kalou.”
12.46pm / WhatsApp : Chris to Jimmy –
“It’s Salomon!”
12.46pm / Messenger : Jimmy to Chris –
“It’s Salomon!”
Meanwhile, the Evertonians were still so quiet.
On twenty-one minutes, a run down the right in front of the three thousand away supporters from Neto and a Henderson, but his shot was blocked.
Everton then enjoyed a few chances. On twenty-five minutes, Jack Grealish fed Merlin Rohl but his shot was straight at Emi. Unfortunately, our ‘keeper was punished for not releasing the ball. From the resulting corner from Grealish, a close-in header from Thierno Barry but it was aimed straight at our ‘keeper. We should have been a goal down here.
On the half-hour, we were guilty of poor marking and deep cross from former blue Kiernan Dewsbury Hall set up a volley from Grealish but his shot was slammed into the grass and Martinez leapt to tip the ball over the bar.
“CAM ON CHELS.”
Amongst all this, the yellow card count was increasing but if I am honest being so low down and blocking the sun with my eyes – despite wearing sunglasses – I didn’t spot too many of the misdoings. Within the first half alone, there would be five yellows, with Neto, Acheampong and Rogers getting our three.
The docile Everton fans came to life eventually, and with Dewsbury-Hall setting up Grealish on a few occasions, our goal was under threat. Too often, Grealish danced past his marker too easily.
On forty minutes, a corner from Henderson (who hadn’t been booed as much as I had expected by the home fans), swept in a long corner from the far side. It fell to the onrushing Moises Caicedo who sprinted in to meet it on the volley. My poxy little phone camera remarkably caught the ball flying towards the goal. To our amazement, the ball crashed against the bar.
As a few people said after the game; it would have been the best goal any of us would ever see.
Bollocks.
Into the final few minutes of extra time, a long-range shot from the effervescent Neto was tipped over by Pickford. We then enjoyed three late corners, and a header from one of these by Lacroix was hacked away by an Everton defender.
Half-time thoughts? Both teams had chances to go ahead but it had hardly been a classic. I chatted to Huddersfield Mick and Swanage Jase at the break.
The second half began and we attacked the other end, and that entire half of the stadium was almost lost in shade. It looked like viewing would be rather problematic.
However, in the very first minute of the second period, a fine move down our left – me on tiptoes – involving a sweet back-heel from Rogers, set up the overlapping Hato to attack his full back. He reached the goal line, and the ball was played back. I saw two white shirts waiting, and there was a great sense of anticipation as the ball was left by Palmer and fell at the feet of Neto. He took a touch, the anticipation increased, and he smashed the ball low past the forlorn dive from Pickford.
Despite this being Chelsea game number 1,566 for me – and this being goal 2,866 – the excitement that I showed for this goal shocked me; but I was very happy that this goal affected me like this. It proved that I still have the hunger and desire for everything. I just hope it lasts and lasts.
I shook both arms like a lunatic. Think David Pleat at Maine Road in 1983 but without the shit beige jacket and slacks.
We were 1-0 up.
Fackinell.
Just forty-three seconds of the second-half had passed.
Oh, in case anyone is wondering, goal 2,500 was Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang’s opener against Milan at the San Siro in 2022. A good a place as any, I guess.
Buoyed by that goal, we looked a lot more confident and dominated in ways that we didn’t in the first period.
On fifty-five minutes we went close, and a minute later after the best move of the match Palmer shot over with a cheeky lob.
On sixty-three minutes, Rogers shot wide.
With sixty-five minutes played, an in-swinging corner from Dewsbury-Hall – that I captured on film – was aimed at a cluster of players on the penalty spot. Martinez came out to punch but was poleaxed. He lay still, and before no time at all was surrounded by medics. We were all immediately worried. I saw his legs move and was instantly happier. But these were tense times.
I noted that during these minutes, the sun disappeared behind a rare cloud, and I hoped and prayed that this was not an ominous portent of some awful news.
A little gaggle of Evertonians – no more than twenty in a close area – stood up and started remonstrating, and I found this odd. Players had surrounded the ‘keeper, and I wondered what on earth these supporters alone had seen that had irritated them. Whatever it was, surely, they should have respected the moment. During the wait, I must admit that I found it poor that we goaded the home fans with the “Liverpool Slums” ditty while our ‘keeper was laying prostrate and getting medical attention.
After ten minutes, Marinez was lifted slowly onto a stretcher and was taken off the field. We applauded him, as did many home fans, but there was a noticeable barrage of boos from the other end.
Why?
It baffled me then as it baffles me now.
This was a very poor show from those involved.
As Mike Penders entered the pitch for his league debut, the sun reappeared, and I was cheered.
We’re superstitious buggers, aren’t we?
On eighty-one minutes, Palmer shot over.
Two minutes later, a long cross was aimed towards our box, and it looked like it would fall just inside the area. Penders spotted the threat early – “bloody hell, here he goes” – and I have to say that everything worked out. He raced towards the ball, jumped to perfection, and punched the ball all the way down Regent Road.
Bloody fantastic.
Two minutes later, a lovely break – three on two including the ‘keeper – allowed Palmer to race through the middle and set up Joao Pedro to his right, but the striker decided to take a touch, and he sadly hit the ball straight at Pickford who had stayed upright.
On ninety minutes, we were awarded a free kick in a central position.
The Chelsea crowd sang “Hendo again, olé, olé” with thoughts of the goal against Bournemouth. But this was from a different angle. We wondered if, for giggles, he would dummy and Palmer would shoot.
No, it was the same routine. A dummy from Palmer, a shot from Henderson. But this was a poor effort that smacked against the wall.
However, the ball dropped fortuitously to Neto amidst some defenders who calmly side-footed the ball in.
No ecstatic fist punching this time, just a relief that we had surely secured three points.
The Chelsea crowd responded.
“Neto again, olé, olé.”
Eleven minutes of extra-time were signalled.
On ninety-two minutes, some changes.
Marco Palestra for Hato.
Romeo Lavia for Caicedo.
Danny Welbeck for Joao Pedro.
Soon into it, a cross from Dewsbury-Hall was slung in low and skidded wide of the far post with no Everton player near.
Late on, the Chelsea choir sang a familiar song.
“Don’t worry about a thing…”
Then a chant for the manager, and how he would have loved this win, not that we need to dwell too much on the reasons why.
“Oh Xabi Alonso, oh Xabi Alonso.”
There were now thousands of visible blue seats, especially in the home end to our left. I hoped that the horrible slow march south towards my car parking spot of March would not be replicated because many Evertonians had gone home early.
One last change.
Geovany Quenda for Neto.
Thirteen extra minutes were played.
At the whistle, there were thousands of royal blue seats by the royal blue Mersey.
The players came over to celebrate with us. Hendo led the charge. Neto did one but two victory jigs; one per goal.
Hendo and Palestra gave their shirts away.
Good times, at last, at Everton.
We all met up and sauntered – sauntered I tell you – out into the plaza and then the road. The volume of pedestrians was simply nowhere near the level of March. We said our goodbyes to J12, Dave and Rob at Waterloo Quay, and I quickly edged out onto the road. My route out of the city took me under the River Mersey via the Wallasey Tunnel, and thankfully the road volumes were minimal as I headed east on the A56, past Ellesmere Port and signs for Chester and Wrexham.
Alas, on the M6 south, we learned that despite the magnificence of the day thus far, it would not be a perfect one. Malvern Town had struck twice in two minutes in the second half, and my hometown team had succumbed to a shock defeat. We were stunned. Going into the game, our opponents were right at the bottom of the table. However, we remained in sixth place.
Chelsea, however, would end the day – and weekend – in fourth place.
Lovely.
We dipped into “The Vine” at West Bromwich at 5.30pm for a curry – chicken jalfrezi for Glenn, lamb phatia for me, Bombay potatoes, and naan bread for us both – and we shared the premises with West Brom and Blackburn Rovers supporters after their game.
I fuelled up at Frankley Services, then headed home. Around Tewkesbury, the western sky shone with a majestic sunset, a beautiful melange of pinks, oranges, and reds. Again, I longed for an SLR to do it all justice.
Further south, the Malvern Hills loomed in the distance, a reminder of Frome’s defeat.
I retraced my path over the Cotswolds, and I eventually reached home at 9pm, fifteen hours after picking up Glenn.
We had both agreed that it had been a cracking day out.
Thank you for coming along with us.
