Tales From A Date With Thiago Silva

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fluminense : 8 July 2025.

In the report for the match in Philadelphia against Tunis, I penned this closing segment :

“I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.”

First there was the crazy “weather-delayed” marathon match in Charlotte, North Carolina against Benfica. Winning 1-0 until late on, with a goal from Reece James mid-way through the second half, the game was then delayed for two hours due to the threat of lightning with just a few minutes of normal time remaining. I fell asleep and set the alarm for the re-start but watched in horror as Angel Di Maria equalised. I then dropped off again, but was awake to see goals from Christopher Nkunku, Pedro Neto and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall secure an eventual 4-1 win. The match finished at around 6am on the Saturday morning in the UK.

Next up was a match in the quarter final with a game back in Philadelphia against Palmeiras.

I had been away from work for a fortnight. In that spell, I had watched the game against LAFC from Atlanta on TV in a bar in Manhattan, the two games live in Philadelphia, and now the game in Charlotte on TV at home.

However, before our next match in the US on the Friday, something equally important was happening in my hometown of Frome in Somerset.

And it’s quite a story.

This story, this sub-plot, began on Saturday 2 October 2021 when the usual suspects gathered in our usual hostelry, “The Eight Bells” in Fulham for a home game against Southampton.

“We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chinwag. It was good to see them both.”

Bizarrely, the next time that I met Courtney, was exactly two years later, on Monday 2 October, for the away game at Fulham. We gathered together, obviously, in the same pub and it was great to see him once more.

We kept in contact at various times over that season.

Last summer, Courtney contacted me about attending a Frome Town match during an extended visit to see Chelsea play at Anfield on Sunday 20 October. He had obviously noted my support for my local non-league team within this blog and on “Facebook” and fancied seeing what the noise was all about.

As I detailed in the Liverpool match report, Courtney arrived at Manchester airport on the Saturday morning, ahead of Frome Town’s home match with Poole Town, and then drove straight down to deepest Somerset.

“With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made good time and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.”

Ironically, the Frome Town chairman had asked, that very week, about extra support for the club, which had been struggling for some time. Over the next few weeks, Courtney spent many hours talking to the Frome Town board.

To cut a very long story short, Courtney became vice-chairman of Frome Town Football Club in December. I next met him when we enjoyed a Sunday lunch in a local village pub and then drove up to the Brentford home game on Sunday 15 December, ending up yet again at “The Eight Bells.”

I last saw Courtney at a Bath City Somerset Cup away game during the following week.

Throughout the first six months of 2025, there have been strong and determined discussions concerning the future of Frome Town Football Club with Courtney at the fore. On Thursday 5 June, at the Town Hall, I attended an extraordinary meeting of the Frome Town Council, who had saved the club a few years earlier through a very generous taking over of all debts, to discuss the release of the land that Frome Town have called their home since 1904. At this stage, all directors and supporters were totally behind Courtney taking over the club.

Unfortunately, the vote did not go Courtney’s way that evening, and we were all crestfallen. There was immediate doom and gloom. A few supporters met outside the steps to the Town Hall after the meeting, and I have rarely been so sad. I feared that Courtney would walk away, and our chance lost. However, the council offered a lifeline, and the chance of another offer, but with greater emphasis on the community aspect of the club, and its buildings and its land.

A second meeting was to be held on the evening of Wednesday 2 July, just two days before Chelsea’s game with Palmeiras in Philadelphia.

I was unable to obtain a ticket to attend but watched the “live feed” of the meeting in “The Vine Tree” pub just two hundred yards from Badgers Hill, the ground at the centre of all the attention.

On a hugely memorable evening, the Frome Town Council, God bless them, approved the sale of the ground to Courtney, now the chairman, and I have rarely been happier. The group of around twenty supporters were joined my more, and several directors, and the management team joined us too.

We were euphoric.

Of course, I had to take a photograph.

It’s what I do, right?

As the voting took place, and with the mood becoming increasingly positive at every decision, I had looked over at the pavement on the other side of the road. During the first few weeks of season 1970/71, I would have walked along that very pavement with my mother, hand in hand I suspect, as a five-year-old boy, on my way to my first-ever Frome Town game, and my first ever football game.

My memory was of just my mother and I attending that game, and of a heavy Frome Town loss.

However, by a bizarre twist of fate, I had bumped into my oldest friend Andy, who used to live opposite me in the five-hundred-year-old street in the same village where I type these words now. I see him very rarely around town but bumped into him on the Sunday before the first meeting back in June.

“I reckon I went with you to your first-ever football game, Chris.”

This caught me on the hop. I knew he couldn’t have been referring to a Chelsea game, so we spoke about Frome Town.

In the summer of 1970, my parents and I stayed in a caravan for a week at West Bay in Dorset. In the next caravan, we met a couple from near Bath, and the husband was to play for Frome Town in the new season. His name was Mike Brimble, and he invited me to his first game at Badgers Hill.

Andy reminded me that and his family were holidaying at Bowleaze Cove, not so far from West Bay, at the same time, and we apparently visited them, though this is long forgotten by me. Amazingly, fifty-five years later, Andy was able to remember that a Frome footballer had invited us to a game, thus backing up his claim that he was with me on that day in 1970.

I think we were both amazed at our memories.

I was amazed that Andy remembered the footballer.

Andy was amazed that I remembered his name.

Fantastic.

With the incredible news about Frome Town buzzing in my head – I think it was utterly comparable to the CPO refusal to accept Roman’s “buy-out” bid in 2011 – all my focus was now on Chelsea and the game with Palmeiras on the evening of Friday 4 July.

I was so pleased that my friends Jaro, and his son, and Joe, and his daughter, were able to go back to Philadelphia, but even more elated that Roma and a family group from Tennessee were heading there too.

It was not lost on me that an English team were playing in Philadelphia on 4 July.

Meanwhile, I was doing some logistical planning of my own, and – should Chelsea be victorious against the team from Sao Paolo – I had squared it with my boss to head back to the US for the semi-final on the following Tuesday and, here’s hoping, the final on the following Sunday.

This was never really in the plan of course. Prior to the start of this tournament, I don’t honestly think that many Chelsea supporters would have given us much hope of getting further than the last eight.

But here we were.

The Friday night arrived, and I got some much-needed sleep before the 2am kick-off.

Sod’s law, the DAZN feed broke up, so I missed Cole Palmer’s opening goal. Alas, I saw Estevao Willian’s amazing equaliser and I wondered how the game, and the night, would finish.

As I tried to stay awake, my eyes heavy, it dawned on me that I loved the way that our boys were playing. We were showing great maturity for such a young team and squad. I began to entertain slight thoughts of winning it all.

Just imagine that.

Sssshhh.

During the last part of the match, I set up my laptop to see if the flights that I had earmarked were still available. My attention was momentarily on that, and I just missed the exact moment when the winning goal ricocheted in off a defender from a Malo Gusto cross. For such a moment, my reaction was surprisingly subdued. But it meant that I now had to leap into action.

I refreshed the flight options.

Within minutes of the final whistle in Philadelphia, I was booked on an ITA Airways flight to JFK via Rome on Monday 7 July. I was out via London City, back via London Gatwick.

For a few moments, my head was boiling over with crazy excitement.

Originally, I had never really planned to return to the US. But three factors came together. Firstly, my friend Dom had offered me the use of his apartment in Manhattan for the week. Secondly, I had just received an unexpected bonus at work. Thirdly, I was owed some holiday from the previous year that I needed to use by the end of July.

I messaged Dom, and we had a fruitful back-and-forth.

I fell asleep, somehow, with dreams of heading back across the Atlantic.

That I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Sunday seems as irrelevant now as it did then.

It had been, dear reader, an incredible three days.

Wednesday evening: a stressful day that led to an amazing decision enabling a fantastic future for Frome Town.

Friday night : Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the FIFA Club World Cup and – smelling salts please, nurse – a date with Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, who had defeated Al Hilal 2-1 in their game on the Friday.

On the Sunday, my birthday was very subdued. I wrote up the Tunis match report and planned what I needed to take to New York. I just about had time to squeeze in a lunch at a nearby village pub, the same one that I had taken Courtney in December.

After a relatively small amount of sleep on the Sunday night, I woke at 1am in the small hours of Monday 7 July. This was going to be a ridiculously long day of travel, but this is something that I live for; you might have noticed.

I quickly packed my small “carry-on” bag (to keep costs to a minimum) and I set off at just after 2.15am. As I drove up the A303, I turned on “Radio 2” for some company. The first full song was “Breakfast In America” by Supertramp, how very apt.

I reached my mate Ian’s house at Stanwell, near Heathrow, at 4.15am, and caught a pre-booked Uber to take me to London City Airport at 4.30am, unfortunately the only – expensive – way that I could get to the airport on time. This was a first visit for me and the driver dropped me off outside the super small departure lounge at 6am. There was immediate concern about my ESTA not registering but that was soon sorted. The 8.30am flight to Rome Fiumcino left a little late, maybe at around 9am.

In the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that should we lose to Fluminense the following afternoon, in addition to the sadness, there would also be the completion of an annoying circle.

On 4 July 2024, my first game of this ridiculous season featured Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. Should we lose against them at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, my last game of the season would feature them too.

And – maybe just as bad – I would be stuck on ninety-nine live games this season.

Considering these worries, it’s surprising that I managed any sleep on the flight to Fiumcino.

There was to be a three-hour wait at the airport, and this gave me more than enough time to relax, buy a couple of cheap Benetton T-shirts (the spirit of 1984/85 lives on…) and grab a snack and a drink. Unfortunately, we missed our allotted slot and were delayed by almost two hours. We eventually took off at just before 5pm local time.

Thankfully I had a window seat and managed four hours of sleep during the eight-hour flight.

My thoughts returned to Rio last summer. I remembered how amazed I felt as I visited the original Fluminense stadium at Laranjeiras on the very first day.

“I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact, and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.

I clambered up into the main stand and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer, and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado Mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I surely would have feinted.”

I was over in Rio for nine days, and to my sadness a Fluminense home game had been bumped because of the floods that had hit Brazil earlier that summer. However, typical Brazil, on the third day of my visit I found out that a Fluminense vs. Internacional game had been squeezed in on the Thursday. I was ecstatic. Alas, Thiago Silva was not going to be playing, but at least I would see his team, and my favourite Brazilian team.

“I took an Uber and was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium and I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed incomprehensible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had suffered a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.”

And yes, I found it so odd that we were up against both of Rio’s major teams in this World Cup competition. I could never have envisaged this while I was in Rio last summer.

The ITA Airways plane landed at a wet JFK at 7.30pm, only half-an-hour late, and I loved it that we arrived via the same Terminal 1 that I had used on my very first visit to the US way back in September 1989. The border control was brisk and easy, and I was soon on the AirTrain and then the Long Island Rail Road once again into Penn Station. It was only just over three weeks ago that Glenn and I were on the very same train.

I quickly caught the subway, then walked a few blocks north and west. I found myself knocking on Dom’s apartment door at around 9.30pm.

It was just over twenty-four hours door to door.

Phew.

There was a lovely warm welcome from Dom and it was a joy to see him once again. After a couple of slices of New York pizza, I slid off to bed a very happy man.

I woke surprisingly early on the Tuesday, the day of the game.

To say I was happy would be a huge understatement.

Here I was, back in Manhattan, staying at a great friend’s apartment for a week, with an appointment with Thiago Silva and Fluminense later that afternoon. Please believe me when I say that I have rarely felt so contented in my entire life.

My smile was wide as I trotted out of Dom’s apartment block at 8.45am. My plan was to head over to Hoboken, on the waterfront of New Jersey, to meet up with a few Chelsea supporters from the UK and the US at 11am at “Mulligan’s“ bar before taking a cab to the stadium. I had time on my side, so I decided to walk through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station and take the PATH train to Hoboken just south of Macy’s. First up was a magnificent breakfast at “Berlina Café”

“Take a jumbo cross the water.

Like to see America.”

On my little walk through Manhattan, I spotted around fifty Fluminense supporters, but not one single Chelsea fan. I was wearing my Thiago Silva shirt and wished a few of the Brazilians good luck. I quickly popped in to see landlord Jack at “The Football Factory” on West 33 Street, and saw my first Chelsea fan there, Bharat from Philly. There were a few Fluminense fans in the bar, and they told me that Chelsea now had a great Brazilian. I immediately presumed that they were referring to Estevao Willian, soon to arrive from Palmeiras, but they were referring to Joao Pedro. Unbeknown to me, he began his professional career with Fluminense.

I caught the 1030 train to Hoboken and it took me under the Hudson River. I was in the hometown of Frank Sinatra within twenty minutes.

The morning sun was beating down as I made the short ten-minute walk to the pub, which is run by Paul, who I first met in Baku way back in 2019. My friend Jesus, who I first chatted to on the much-loved Chelsea in America bulletin board for a while before meeting him for the first time at Goodison Park on the last day of 2010/11, was there with his wife Nohelia.

Cathy was there too, and I reminded her that the first time that I ever spoke to her was after she did a rasping rendition of “Zigger Zagger” at “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan in 2005. This was on the Saturday night before Chelsea played Milan at the old Giants Stadium on the Sunday. Giants Stadium was right next to the current locale of the MetLife Stadium.

A few familiar faces appeared at “Mulligans” including my great friend Bill, originally from Belfast, but now in Toronto. Bizarrely, Emily – the US woman who showed up at a few Chelsea games a few years back and created a bit of a social media stir – was perched at one end of the bar.

Out of the blue, I received a call from my dentist.

“Sorry, I forgot to cancel. I am currently in New Jersey.”

“So, I don’t suppose that you will be making your hygienist appointment either.”

Fackinell.

The pints of Peroni were going down well.

We spoke a little about tickets. I had a brain freeze back in the UK when I attempted to buy – cheaper – tickets via the FIFA App and couldn’t navigate myself around it for love nor money. I panicked a little and ended up paying $141 for my ticket via Ticketmaster.

I would later find out that tickets were going for much less.

Sigh.

The team news came through.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Nkunku – Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

A full debut for our new striker from Brighton.

“No pressure, mate.”

Tosin replaced the suspended Levi Colwill.

Folks left for the game. Nohelia, Jesus, Bill and I were – worryingly – the last to leave the bar at around 1.30pm. We headed off to the stadium, which geographically is in East Rutherford, although the area is often called The Meadowlands after the adjacent racetrack. Our Uber got caught in a little traffic, but we were eventually dropped off to the northeast of the stadium. With kick-off approaching, I became increasingly agitated as I circumnavigated virtually three-quarters of the stadium. We were in the southern end, but our entrance seemed to be on the west side.

It’s not a particularly appealing structure from the outside; lots of grey horizontal strips cover the outside of the stadium, all rather bland, nothing unique. Right next to the stadium, which hosts both the NFC Giants and AFC Jets, is the even more horrible “American Dream” Mall, a huge concrete monstrosity with no architectural merit whatsoever.

Eventually I made it in, via a security check, and a ticket check. At least the lines moved relatively fast, but the sections were not particularly well signposted.

I heard the hyperbolic nonsense from pitch side.

At three o’clock, the game kicked off just as I walked past a large TV screen, so I took a photo of that moment.

I was getting really annoyed now; annoyed at my inability to reach section 223, but also at the ridiculous lines of spectators missing the action by queuing up for food and drink.

“Can you fuckers not go forty-five minutes without food?”

At 3.06pm, I reached section 223, mid-level, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.

I was in. I could relax. Maybe.

Fluminense in their beautiful stripes, with crisp white shorts and socks.

Chelsea again in the white shirts, but with muted green shorts and socks this time.

The two kits almost complimented each other, though this was my third game in the US and I was yet to see us play in blue.

There were a few Chelsea fans around me. I spotted a few supporters from the UK in the section to my left. Three lads with Cruzeiro shirts were in front of me, supporting Chelsea, and we shared a few laughs as the game got going.

The stadium looked reasonably full. The lower tier opposite me was rammed full of Flu supporters.

I always remember that their president was so enamoured with the way that Chelsea behaved during the Thiago Silva transfer that he was reported to say that Chelsea was now his favourite English team and that he hoped one day Chelsea could visit Rio to play Fluminense at the Maracana.

“Will New Jersey do, mate?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all Chelsea, and it looked very promising.

The first chance that I witnessed was a shot from Enzo that was blocked after a cross from Malo Gusto.

We were on the front foot, here, and Fluminense were penned in. There was energy throughout the team.

On eighteen minutes, Pedro Neto was set up to race away after a delicate touch by Joao Pedro. His cross into the box was thumped out by Thiago Silva but the ball was played straight towards Joao Pedro. Just outside the box, at an angle, he set himself and crashed a laser into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Their ‘keeper Fabio had no chance.

What a screamer.

And how we screamed.

GET IN!

What joy in the southern end of the MetLife Stadium.

Blur on the PA.

“Woo hoo!”

I thought back to those Fluminense fans in “Legends” earlier in the morning and their comments about Joao Pedro.

Their thoughts were far different to my dear mate Mac, the Brighton fan.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

We continued the good work. On twenty minutes, Pedro Neto was again involved and his cross was headed towards goal by Malo Gusto but Fabio did well to parry.

On twenty-five minutes, in virtually the Brazilians’ first attack of note, German Cano was released and struck the ball past Robert Sanchez. Thankfully, Marc Cucurella – ever dependable – was able to scramble back and touch the ball away.

I did my best to generate some noise in Section 223.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA!”

But I sang alone.

I was standing, as were many, but maybe the heat was taking its toll. Our end was pretty quiet, and the Fluminense fans were much quieter than the Flamengo and Tunis contingents in Phillly.

Then, a moment of worry. From a free kick from their left, the ball was swept in and the referee pointed to the spot, the ball having hit Trevoh Chalobah’s arm.

“Oh…shite.”

Thankfully, VAR intervened, no penalty.

Phew.

On forty-four minutes, a good chance for Christopher Nkunku, but he chose to take a touch rather than hit the ball first time. There was much frustration in the ranks. One of the Cruzeiro lads yelped “primera!” and I understood exactly.

Then, three minutes later, a header dropped just wide.

At the break, all was well. We were halfway to paradise.

I met up with a few English lads in the concourse during the break and decided to leave Section 223 and join them in Section 224A.

I sat alongside Leigh and Ben, and in front of Scott, Paul, Martin and Spencer.

In this half, the Chelsea team attacked the Chelsea end. We began again and it was still the same controlled and purposeful performance. Moises Caicedo fired over the crossbar, and then Cucurella was just wide with another effort.

On fifty-four minutes, Robert Sanchez got down well to save from Everaldo, a substitute.

Soon after, with much more space to exploit, Chelsea broke. Cole Palmer won the ball, and then Enzo pushed the ball out to Joao Pedro on the left. I sensed the opportunity might be a good one so brought my camera into action. We watched as our new striker advanced unhindered, brought the ball inside and, as I snapped, smashed the ball in off the crossbar.

Ecstasy in New Jersey.

There were quick celebratory photos of the little contingent of fans close by.

The worry reduced but although we were 2-0 up, we still needed to stay focussed. In fact, it was Chelsea who carved open more chances. The often-derided Nkunku shot on goal, but his effort was deflected wide.

On the hour, Nicolas Jackson replaced Joao Pedro.

Next, Nkunku was able to get a shot on goal, way down below us, and it looked destined to go in but who else but Thiago Silva recovered to smack it clear.

Twenty minutes remained.

Malo Gusto took aim from distance and his effort curled high and ever-so-slightly wide of the target.

We were well on top here, and I could not believe how easy this was.

I whispered to Leigh :

“We are seeing this team grow right in front of our very eyes.”

On sixty-eight minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Pedro Neto and Reece James replaced Malo Gusto.

Ben went off to get some water; we were all gasping.

Marc Cucurella sent over a lovely cross, right across the six-yard box, but it was just slightly high for all four of the Chelsea players, all lined up, that had ventured forward.

The gate was given as 70,556; happy with that.

On seventy-nine minutes, Jackson robbed the ball from a loitering defender and set off. His low angled shot just clipped the near post, but Palmer was fuming that he was not played in at the far post. Soon after, Jackso forced Fabio into another save.

Two very late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

There was almost ten minutes of injury time signalled by the referee, but apart from an over-ambitious bicycle kick from Everaldo, the game was up.

The Great Unpredictables were in the World Cup Final.

From my point of view, the gamble had paid off.

As “Blue Is The Colour” and “Blue Day” sounded out through the stadium, and as the Fluminense players drifted over to thank their fans, there was great joy in our little knot of supporters in Section 224A.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I moved down to the front row and tried to spot anyone that I knew in the lower deck. I saw Alex of the New York Blues, and shouted down to him, and he signalled to meet me outside.

I was exhausted and began my slow descent of the exit ramps. I waited for a few minutes outside but soon realised that meeting up with Alex would be difficult. I slowly walked out into the area outside the stadium. After three or four minutes, I looked to my left, and there was Alex, walking at the same slow pace as me.

What a small world. Alex is a good mate and let me stay in his Brooklyn apartment for the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.

As we walked over to the New York Blues tailgate in Lot D, I turned around and spotted some other fans. I recognised one of them from that very game.

I yelled out.

“I remember you. You were stood behind me at Yankee Stadium and we had a go at each other!”

He remembered me, and we both smiled and then hugged. Rich had been berating the fact that he had paid good money to see Chelsea play but the team was full of youth players. I turned around and said something to the effect of “that doesn’t matter, support the team” and he remained silent, but he bashfully now agreed that I was right.

What a funny, crazy, small world.

I enjoyed a few celebratory beers with the New York Blues, and then eventually sloped back with Alex by train to Secaucus Junction and from there to Penn Station. The two of us stopped by at Moynihan Train Hall for more beers – Guinness for me for a change – and we were joined by Dom and his mate Terence and Alon too.

This was just a perfect end to a magnificent day.

We said our goodbyes, but I dropped into “Jack Demsey’s” for a couple more drinks before getting a cab home at 1.30am.

It had been another long day, but one of the greats.

And yes, my gamble had paid off.

I would be returning to East Rutherford, to The Meadowlands, to MetLife on Sunday.

BADGERS HILL, FROME.

LARANJEIRAS, RIO DE JANEIRO.

MARACANA, RIO DE JANEIRO.

METLIFE STADIUM, NEW JERSEY.

Tales From A Painful Watch

Posted on January 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2025.

“Spin the wheel, Sanchez. Spin the wheel.”

This was a painful match to watch, and this is going to be a painful edition to write.

As is so often the case, the football managed to get in the way of an otherwise enjoyable day out.

Clear driving, perfect timings, fine weather, blue skies, good company, contrasting landscapes, interesting new pubs, friendly locals.

But also football.

Fackinell.

This would be my fifty-fifth Chelsea versus Manchester City game in all competitions and at all venues. It would be my twentieth visit to the Etihad. In the previous nineteen, we had won just five.

2003/04

2007/08

2008/09

2013/14

2016/17

The preparations for this trip north had been set in stone for a while. Normally for games in Manchester, we stop at the Tabley interchange on the M6 and enjoy some food and drinks at “The Windmill”. We visit so regularly that the landlady recognises us. However, I realised that this pre-match routine wasn’t particularly lucky for us. In fact, I can never remember us winning at either City nor United since this has been our Manchester pre-game plan. I decided we needed a change.

Rather than a pre-match spent to the south-west of the city, I decided to flip things one-hundred and eighty degrees, and head up to the moors overlooking the empire of Mancunia to the north-east of the city centre.

I explained my plans to PD and Parky, and there were no complaints.

I collected PD at 8.30am and PD at 9am. The idea was to arrive at the first of a little string of three or four pubs to the northeast of Oldham at around 1pm and to stay until 4pm before setting off for the game.

Soon on our way, PD asked me of my thoughts about the evening’s match.

I grimaced as I replied “I think we can get something today, maybe even a win.”

After all, simply put, City had not been City in the past few months. The collapse in Paris on Wednesday, I hoped, had unsettled them further.

The skies were clear, clear blue, as we headed north. We stopped for a very quick breakfast at Strensham on the M5. Our next stop was at Keele on the M6. For the last hour, New Order’s “Music Complete” accompanied us as I drove on. It got me, at least, in the mood for a few hours in Manchester.

We swept over the Thelwall Viaduct. Winter Hill, just to the north of Bolton, just a few miles north of where we won the league almost twenty years ago, was clearly visible. I curled around onto the M62 and then hit the M60 orbital. Then back onto the M62 again as we rose higher and higher. The skies were still magnificently clear. One view in particular was stunning; a wide and vast panorama of moorland, valleys, industrial heritage, rooftops.

Then, at last, a southern spur on the A672 took me to our first stop, the Rams Head pub on Ripponden Road.

We arrived at 1.15pm. A cold wind howled around me as I took a few photos of the rugged and wild moors that surrounded the pub. We settled in for the best part of an hour and befriended a local couple who had popped in for a pint or two. I was in for a shock. They informed me that pub was actually in Yorkshire, and the Lancashire border was a few miles away, but we would pass that important line soon. The log fire roared next to us. What a cosy place on top of such a wind-blown summit.

This area – Saddleworth Moor – is of course tainted with the horrific events of the mid ‘sixties and the atrocious acts of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.

“Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Lesley-Ann and your pretty white beads.

Oh John you’ll never be a man.

And you’ll never see your home again.

Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.”

Not only the bitter wind chilled me to the bone.

We drove a couple of miles south-west to the next pub, The Printers, and were again welcomed with open arms by the staff. We squeezed in at a table next to a roaring fire. The beers were cheap, the pub was warming. The landlady gave us each a hug as we left and hoped we won. She was United. I had explained the need for us to break the ill-luck of visiting “The Windmill” at Tabley, and optimistically said “see you next season.”

At 3pm, we ventured further south and entered the final stop of this pre-game pub crawl, The Kings Arms. This overlooked yet more naked moorland and was a very busy hostelry. A City fan at the next table chatted for a while. Above the bar was a wooden beam that signalled the exact boundary between Yorkshire and Lancashire. The toilets were in Yorkshire.

At 4pm, we headed off to the game. From a geographical perspective, the Ripponden Road, the A672, resembled a long straight ski jump that would eventually send us hurtling into the heart of Manchester.

We were sent right through the middle of Oldham. PD remembers being in digs in Oldham while working with one of Frome’s many road gangs. But none of us had ever watched a game at Boundary Park, home of the town’s team Oldham Athletic.

The football scene in the Manchester conurbation has changed somewhat in recent years. Oldham Athletic and Rochdale are now one level below the Football League in the National League, while Bury are playing in the lowly North West Counties League, two levels below Frome Town. Going the other way, Salford are now in League Two while Stockport County are now back in League One after playing as low as the National League South in 2013/14, just one division higher than Frome Town.

Ah, Frome Town. On this day, I solemnly wished that I could be in two places at the same time. While I was two hundred miles north of Frome in Manchester, my home-town team were playing fancied Gloucester City in our first home game in more than three weeks. At half-time, I learned that it was 0-0.

My route took me from Oldham on the A62 and through Failsworth and close to United’s original home in Newton Heath. I made it to the Etihad where PD and Parky made a quick exit at a red light outside the away end. I was parked up at my usual place near The Grove pub – it memorably smelled of bleach in May 2023 – at 4.50pm.

That, I think everyone will agree, was perfect timing.

Once parked, I quickly checked the score at Badgers Hill.

Frome Town 0 Gloucester City 0.

I was happy with that.

I donned my warm Moncler jacket and slapped my black Frome Town baseball cap on my bonce and walked off in the cold along Ashton New Road to the waiting stadium.

I was inside the middle tier – block 214, three seats from the City fans, get ready for some tiresome banter – at 5.15pm.

My first-ever visit to Manchester took place in October 1984 when I visited a mate from Frome who had just started a course at Manchester Poly, and I briefly described this earlier this season. On that day, City played a Second Division home game against Oxford United in front of a very creditable 24,755 and won 1-0. I remember trying to spot the Maine Road floodlights as we travelled into town on the train. I was undoubtedly on the lookout, too, for the subtle differences between London and Manchester casual trends as we darted around the city centre. I definitely remembering spotting flared cords, flared jeans, and the seminal “Hurley’s” shop near Piccadilly.

Incidentally, just for the record :

City’s home average that season in Division Two was 24,206.

Chelsea’s average that season in Division One was 23,065.

My diary from that day mentioned us visiting a city centre pub called “The Salisbury” – I have the very feintest memory – but I have since decided that I would love to go back, as it looks an absolutely cracking boozer, right under the train tracks near Oxford Road station. Maybe next season.

Back to 2025, and I was inside just in time to see some white smoke drifting up from in front of the stand to our right. There had obviously been some sort of pre-match fanfare. The City team was being shown on the TV screens.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

There was time for a little Manchester-themed music. Typically, this featured Oasis, but also James, who I had not knowingly remembered being featured at City before. I wondered if there was a yearly meeting in a city centre hotel featuring the media team of Manchester’s two main clubs, and an NFL-style draft of the coming season’s playlists.

United : “Well, you can have Oasis, as per. And the High Flying Birds.”

City. “Mint. You can have Stone Roses. It’s our turn for The Smiths this season, Marr is more a blue than Moz is a red anyway.”

United : “OK, We’ll have New Order.”

City : “Oh, that’s hard to take. OK. We’ll have James.”

United : “Deal. Buzzcocks.”

City : “No worries. The Fall for us.”

United : “Magazine.”

City : “Duritti Column.”

United : “Happy Mondays.”

City : “Given. Inspiral Carpets.”

United : “Hollies.”

City : “Thought Russell Watson was more your style.”

What an over-the-top pre-match show. The stadium lights dimmed, flashing spotlights zoomed around the stands. I found it all too much. What will this shite be like in twenty years’ time for God’s sake?

The real City are Levenshulme, not Las Vegas.

There was an odd operatic-version of “Blue Moon.”

Oh boy.

It wasn’t like this in Moss Side in 1984/85 I am sure.

Then, a mood change.

A clanging mood change.

The images of three City players who have recently passed away were shown on the screens.

Bobby Kennedy

Denis Law

Tony Book

The last man, the player then manager Book, was described in revered tones and a nice banner was draped from a top balcony. The announcer called him “Stick” which was new to me. In Frome, two-and-a-half hours earlier, there had been a minute’s silence in memory of the same man.

I remembered the lovely and respectful way that City remembered Gianluca Vialli two seasons ago.

Despite the awful kick-off time, the three-thousand Chelsea fans were in. There was hardly an empty seat anywhere. My mate David, the freelance photographer, was spotted in a pit in front of the away fans.

Both teams in blue, the game began.

And how.

There was an early City attack on the goal down below us, but on two minutes, it was Nicolas Jackson causing problems in the City half. There was rather rustic clearance from Trevoh Chalobah and Jackson chased the high ball, putting pressure on the new City defender Abdukodir Khusanov. His headed pass back to Ederson did not have the legs, and Jackson picked up the ball and flicked it to his right where Noni Madueke was level with his run. There was a simple tap in.

The Chelsea away contingent, in three tiers, erupted, and Madueke raced away and slid to his knees in front of the disconsolate City support.

After my head stopped spinning, I did my best to capture the moment.

Ci’eh 0 Chowlsea 1.

Blimey.

However, I suspect that I wasn’t the only person thinking “we’ve scored too soon, here.”

After the tap in against Wolves, Madueke will not score two easier back-to-back goals in his career. We continued our bright start and there was a free-kick from Reece James. On nine minutes, Cole Palmer was put through into acres of space after excellent play by Chalobah. He raced on, but just as we were expecting a trademark ice-cold finish from his wand of a left foot, he remarkably played the ball to Jackson. Critically, this pass was overhit and Jackson struggled to catch up with the pace of the pass. The chance to shoot had gone, and although we kept possession, the follow-up shot from Jadon Sancho was blocked by Khusanov.

Bollocks.

A 2-0 lead on nine minutes would have been a formidable position to find ourselves.

Chalobah, the player of the game thus far, was able to block a shot on goal, and we then watched as that annoying little irritant Phil Foden smacked a shot against Robert Sanchez’ left post.

But then City, energised by a couple of breaks, grew into the game and the marauding runs of Josko Gvardiol caught the eye. After drifting past Madueke far too easily, the Croatian blasted over.

After Chelsea controlling the first fifteen minutes, City effectively dominated the remaining thirty minutes of the first period. Our midfield lost its bite, the wide players did not support the defenders, it all went downhill, like us dropping down from Saddleworth earlier.

Sigh.

The noise from both sets of fans wasn’t great. It is always difficult for us to get anything going as we are split over the three tiers. There were occasional barbs aimed at City.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Jackson was through on goal, but the shot was saved, and the linesman’s flag was raised anyway. City had a goal chalked off for offside.

The chances for City were piling up.

I turned to John :

“If City don’t equalise this half, it will be a miracle.”

Lo and behold, on forty-two minutes, a long ball out of defence set up a chance for Matheus Nunes as he beat off a challenge from Marc Cucurella. His shot was blocked by Sanchez, but the ball ran nicely to Gvardiol who tucked it in from an angle down below us.

Bollocks.

The home support just yards away turned it on. They were looking into us and were hoping for a reaction. I just turned away.

Sigh.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

The half-time period was spent with hands in pockets, keeping warm, trying to muster up some hope from somewhere.

The second half, then. Do I have to?

Initially, Chelsea managed to create a few half-chances but never really looked like scoring. On more than one occasion, I felt myself wanting to see a niggly and obstreperous Diego Costa leading our line rather than the flimsy Jackson.

In the second half at City, that far half of the pitch always looks so huge, so full of space, and it always scares me to death. We were defending high and always seemed at risk.

I was surprised that we managed to create, somehow, some half-chances, but the City goal was not really under threat.

Erling Haaland was having a typically odd game; never too involved but always a threat. He’s like a stick insect on steroids, a powdered up praying mantis, a bundle of arms and legs.

On sixty-one minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson and then managed to hide for the rest of the match.

“Half an hour to go, John.”

We surely wouldn’t last this amount of time.

We didn’t.

On sixty-eight minutes, Ederson went long and aimed a punt at the marauding Haaland. He met the ball, with Chalobah breathing down his neck, and managed to get a head on it. He spun Chalobah in the inside-right channel – all that bloody space – but as he sped away, we saw the worrying presence of the orange peril, Sanchez, racing out, changing his tack, and looking like a fireman who had been called out to the wrong fire.

Quite simply, this was not going to end well. We could all see it. To be fair to Chalobah, he had forced Haaland quite wide, but Haaland was no fool. He came inside just as Chalobah slipped. Sanchez was back-peddling and readjusting at the same time, going in nine directions at once, and a vain leap was never going to stop Haaland’s perfectly curled lob into an empty goal.

The City support erupted.

Fackinell.

City 2 Chelsea 1.

At last they made some worthwhile noise.

“We’re not really here.”

Sanchez, eh? For all of his decent saves and blocks, he is not good enough.

He is just not good enough for Chelsea Football Club.

The one thing that really annoys me is his really casual and lackadaisical approach to everything he does. He never seems to be tuned in, to be in step with others, to be fully aware of the situation at hand. He never seems to be ready to play the ball out. He is so slow. He doesn’t inspire confidence in fans nor players alike.

At City, he had his own low point.

I know our job as supporters is to support, but it’s fucking hard.

Some substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

We went to pieces.

On eighty-seven minutes, another Ederson long ball, this time to the substitute Kevin De Bruyne. He flicked it on towards the familiar pairing of Haaland and Chalobah. It was Haaland who got a touch, square to Foden. It was at this point that I took my eyes off the play and looked deep into the night above the stadium. I brought my gaze back to the game, and Foden slotted past Sanchez.

City 3 Chelsea 1.

PRE

MATCH

Tales From Foxes, Tigers And A Stray Dog

Posted on November 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2024.

With the latest International Break behind us, real football was back on the agenda.

Leicester City would host Chelsea at the King Power Stadium, with an early kick-off at 12.30pm.

I collected the three amigos – PD, Glenn, Parky – by 7.30am as Storm Bert, don’t laugh, hovered in the background and threatened to upset the weekend. The drive north up the Fosse Way was, for once, a mundane affair, with dull grey skies overhead, pounding rain at times, and the glorious Cotswolds were only able to be glimpsed occasionally. Usually, it’s a grand trip up to Leicester, one of the joys of the football season, but this one was only memorable for the laughs that the four of us generated en route. We had stopped to pick up some rations at Melksham just after collecting Parky, and we had these “on the hoof” to save time. My focus was reaching the away pub, “The Counting House”, as soon as possible. I was hoping to be parked outside it just after 10pm.

Soon into the trip, I learned that Frome Town’s home game against Wimborne was off due to the weather. My focus, this weekend, was to just be on us.

I hit a little traffic nearing the final destination but, unlike the last time that I parked right outside the pub in 2022/23, my Sat Nav sent me right past the King Power Stadium. It felt a little odd to be driving so close to it, past the away entrance too.

I was parked up at 10.15am.

As we approached the boozer – it had opened at 9am and a fair few Chelsea were already inside – we spotted some familiar faces waving to us. Their smiles were wide.

Tom from New Jersey was in town. We last saw him at the very last game before Covid struck; Everton at Stamford Bridge in March 2020, a pre-match in the Eight Bells. He was next to Jimmy and Ian, recently mentioned in recent episodes, and they appeared to be sat at the same table. I wondered if they had been chatting and had realised that they had mutual friends that were soon to arrive. As it happened, it was just by chance that they were sitting close to each other. Pints were acquired and we perched together around a high-top table. It was soon difficult to hear conversations as the pub grew loud with the chants and songs of the – mainly young – pre-match Chelsea crowd.

Thoughts were positive in our little group. I think we all fancied a Chelsea win. I had to remind myself that Enzo Maresca was recently in charge at Leicester. Out of sight – in the Championship – means out of mind, I guess.

There was a little question that Ian – and his son Bobby – and Jimmy asked us, and it involved our two greatest, we thought, right backs; Branislav Ivanovic and Cesar Azpilicueta.

“Who was the best?”

Ian and I went with Ivanovic, the others with Dave.

There had been discussions about this on the way up in their car.

It was lovely to reflect on some of the great players that have worn our colours. I guess Steve Clarke, Dan Petrescu and Ron Harris would be in the next bracket.

Ah, talking of history, let’s quickly catch-up.

…to continue the 1984/85 season.

Wednesday 21 November 1984.

There would still be no mid-week game for me at Stamford Bridge. On this Wednesday evening, while I was in my college town of Stoke-on-Trent, Chelsea were playing against one of the previous season’s adversaries Manchester City in a League Cup tie down in SW6. We soundly won this game 4-1 in front of a very pleasing gate of 26,364 – let me emphasise how good this was, I was thrilled by it – with a hat-trick from Kerry Dixon and yet another goal from Keith Jones. This match, however, gained immediate notoriety as it featured one of the game’s all-time shocking penalty misses. During the previous twelve months, Chelsea’s lack of prowess from the penalty spot was well known, but it reached a nadir with Pat Nevin’s terrible “pass back in the mud” to City’s young ‘keeper Alex Williams. If you haven’t seen it, track it down, you will be shocked.

I was keen to get inside the stadium and get the inevitably tense “camera / bag / security check” out of the way. Thankfully, I calmly assured the steward who spotted my SLR that “don’t worry, I won’t take any photos” and I was allowed inside.

The concourse at Leicester would soon fill up, and I quickly chose to join Alan, John and Gary inside, down by the corner flag. PD would watch the game a couple of rows behind me, but Glenn and PD were elsewhere in the throng, I knew not where exactly.

Lecester City have grandiose plans to slap an extra tier on the stand that runs along the touchline to our left, but I wonder if they have the fan base to support it. The capacity would, if constructed, reach 40,000.

Our team?

A few surprises.

Sanchez

Fofana – Badiashile – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix

Jackson

Gary and I ran through the ever-rowing number of players that have, recently, played for Leicester and then us.

Ngolo Kante

Danny Drinkwater

Ben Chilwell

Wesley Fofana

Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall

Of course, I remember Dennis Rofe.

The far side of the stadium was decorated with mosaics celebrating the one-hundred and forty years of the home club.

“Fosse to City. 140 Years of History”.

I soon spotted my Foxes mate Sally who sits in the far corner at all home games.

We always seem to have a good sing-song at Leicester these days, and as the game began, this was no exception. It was a very decent start in fact. Chelsea, in all white, and attacking that far end, absolutely hogged the ball as the first few moments and then minutes passed. The home team did not cause a threat offensively.

At all.

I was happy with our start, as were the noisemakers around me. The contrast between the away quadrant and the home fans close by was stark.

“The Leicester lot are quiet for a change, Gal.”

The former Tottenham player Harry Winks – nicely booed by us at the start, good work – was substituted early on after a knock.

I had already decided that the Leicester City defender Wout Faes was a lesser Fabricio Coloccini, and a much-lesser David Luiz.

We absolutely dominated.

After a couple of attacks, I found myself jotting a few notes on my phone. I looked up at just the right time, and saw a long clearance being chased by Nicolas Jackson but with Faes in proximity. However, the defender seemed to be chasing shadows, or maybe even the wrong ball and the wrong striker. As play developed, Jackson’s perseverance was rewarded.

He was un-Faesed.

After a fortuitous bobble, and with a deft flick of the boot, Jackson fought of a late challenge from Caleb Oko and skilfully lifted the ball past the home ‘keeper Mads Hermansen and into the goal.

Get in.

The away end roared, and I stabbed a quick fist-pump into the air.

“Great goal, Gal.”

I thought Leicester were awful, and their passing especially so. They defended deep, but simply could not muster together any coherent passes if they ever regained the ball. The home crowd were still so quiet.

A wild tackle on Cole Palmer warranted only a yellow card.

Palmer, involved at times but often quiet thus far, often has the appearance of a stray dog. It is a fine quality of his to wander into spaces, away from the pack, unconfined, unperturbed, free from others, and then suddenly become involved at the merest hint of a chance to exploit space.

I invented my own little nickname for him at Leicester.

“Go on the stray dog.”

He is, after all, a long way from Manchester now.

A succession of awful tackles riled the away support further and the atmosphere was stirred. The noise increased.

Madueke sent a curler goalwards, and then had a goal chalked off for offside, which was soon confirmed via VAR.

I spotted that Enzo, so often the subject of dismay at best and derision at worst, was enjoying a very fine game, breaking up play, pressing well, passing well.

“Leicester really are shite, Gal.”

Joao Felix lit up the play with a couple of lovely touches but struggled at times to integrate.

Another stray dog, but without the bite, perhaps.

A couple of passes from Palmer allowed in others, but our shooting was off. Just as it looked like the home team would go the entire half without a single effort of note, with Jamie Vardy looking so quiet, a couple of late chances stirred the home team. Kasey McAteer, whoever he is, mis-fired heroically and how we laughed.

Chelsea missed a fine chance after a delayed corner, a strong leap, but a header that flew wide.

Then, a fine break, Jackson to Madueke, but a fine block from the ‘keeper.

Ugh.

At half-time, I spotted of all the variously coloured flags that are oddly draped on support struts at the back of the stands at Leicester. They appear all the way around the circumference of the stadium, par the away end, just under the roof. They reminded me of the multi-coloured pennants that coach drivers in the ‘seventies used to buy and use to adorn the inside of their vehicles.

Llandudno. Penzance. Weymouth. Blackpool. Tenby. Great Yarmouth. Whitby.

It’s a very odd feature. Unique. Not so sure I understand it though, because all of the flags are bunched up, unable to be properly read.

The second-half started and there was, very soon, a quick break down the middle. Joao Felix set up Jackson, but the ‘keeper saved. The follow-up ran to Palmer whose shot struck Madueke on its way to the target, with Noni’s soft-shoe-shuffle unable to stop the ball hitting him. The ball spun out for a goal-kick.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I admired the honest smile, maybe even a grin, that swept over Palmer’s face. It’s just so refreshing to see a lad enjoy his football in the way that he does.

We still dominated the entire game. Over on the far side, the Leicester manager Steve Cooper looked perplexed. It ate away at me, however, that a single chance could so easily be gifted to the home team and our domination could count for nought.

We ploughed on as the dull skies darkened.

On many occasions, the away corner was able to witness the burgeoning relationship between Palmer and Madueke. I remember, with pleasure, a “no look” pass back from Noni to Jackson. An Enzo shot from outside the box fizzed wide.

With fifteen minutes to go, a cross from the energetic and industrious Marc Cucarella – loved at Chelsea now – found the head of Jackson, but Hermansen foiled him. Luckily for us, the ball rebounded nicely for Enzo to nod home.

The Chelsea end exploded again.

Enzo’s slide towards the corner flag was joyous, but it could have been so much better had he done it in front of us and not in front of Kevin and Sally from Hinckley, Paul and Steve from Loughborough, Aggy from Ashby-de-la-Zouch and Nobby from Narborough.

“Safe now, Gal.”

The away support ran through a few familiar songs of faith and devotion.

“We all follow the Chelsea…”

“Palmer again.”

“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Some changes on eighty-one minutes.

Christopher Nkunku for Joao Felix.

Romeo Lavia for Caicedo.

It surprised me that Caicedo was taken off, but it was perhaps a sign of how well Enzo, the player, was faring.

More changes.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Jackson.

Just as it was looking a plain-sailing 2-0 win, an easy one, Romeo Lavia was adjudged to have clipped the heel of Bobby De Cordova-Reid as he ventured inside our box. After some confusion, VAR confirmed a penalty and Jordan Ayew steered the spot-kick home.

A late late scare?

Not really.

We held on for the last couple of minutes of the five added minutes.

Lovely stuff.

We were mired in slow-moving traffic as we attempted our getaway. For the first time, I drove right past Welford Road, the home of the famous Leicester Tigers, and it felt odd to be driving past that stadium too. As I edged out, I spotted at a large brick wall that was decorated by a huge sprayed-on image of three foxes grappling with the FA Cup, a reminder of a recent game in the combined histories of our two clubs.

On a slow-moving stretch of the main road out to the ring road, in the space of a few minutes, we spotted Rich from Swindon, stopped by the side of the road and attempting to repair a puncture…we then spotted an Ellison’s coach, windows blackened, that almost certainly contained the Chelsea team en route back to London…and as we were stopped in traffic behind a BMW, we watched as a bloke got out of the rear passenger seats and opened-up the boot to retrieve something…it was none other than Joe Cole.

It made our day.

It was a long old trip home. I battled the inclement weather, Storm Bert et al, and while the others slept, I played some soothing music and prayed that the rain would stop.

I was back in Frome at just after 7pm.

It had been a good day.

Tales From The Summers Of 1929, 1984 And 2024

Posted on August 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 17 August 2024.

Welcome to Chelsea 2024/25. This is my fifty-second season of continuous attendance at Chelsea games and the seventeenth year of these match reports. Last season, I celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game and also the first season of attending every single Chelsea match.

For the most part, it was tough as hell wasn’t it? All those new players, a new coach, new ideas. There was a massive disconnect at times – it came to a vitriolic head at Brentford – but at season end, everything appeared to be moving towards a common goal. We were a form team, the manager was getting the best out of his charges, we had reached a domestic final, we had nailed a UEFA spot, Cole Palmer was king.

And then it all fell apart.

Pochettino out, Maresca in.

Change, change, change where there should have been stability.

Over the summer, I felt increasingly disengaged from the love of my life as Chelsea’s bizarre recruitment policy kicked in again. It left me doubting my sanity at times.

The European Championships came and went with dwindling interest from me. It is a worry for me that my relationship with Chelsea Football Club might follow the same pattern as my relationship with England’s national team. I watched some of England’s games, not all. The Euros seemed to be taking place in an odd parallel universe for me this summer.

In truth, from a football perspective, my mind was elsewhere.

My non-league team, Frome Town, won promotion to the Southern League Premier South last season, regaining our place at step three of the non-league pyramid, last experienced in 2018/19. As I explained in these reports, the joy of last season and the sense of anticipation for the new season was a true highlight of the past twelve months. With an influx of new opponents and stadia, Frome’s 2024/25 campaign soon had the feel of Chelsea’s 1984/85 season for this football fancier. All those new away trips, all those new places to visit, the thrill of pitting our wits against teams in a higher level, the comparison was easy.

When the fixtures for Frome were announced, a few weeks after Chelsea’s, I quickly did some logistical planning. The upshot is that I ought to be able to see nine of Frome Town’s first ten league games of the season.

And if I am blunt and honest, I was actually looking forward to the first ten Frome games more than the first ten Chelsea games. Friends at Chelsea often talk about the dwindling connection between the club, the mother ship, and themselves over the past few seasons, but at Frome Town the connection gets stronger with every game.

Over the course of this season, where needed, I will perhaps report on the differing senses of connection and belonging that Chelsea and Frome conjure up.

However, season 2024/25 did not begin for me with a pre-season friendly involving Frome Town. It began at a stadium in Laranjeiras in Rio de Janeiro.

Let me explain.

After my incredible football-centered trip to Buenos Aires in February 2020, I have been mulling over another trip to South America for a while. I almost pushed the button on a trip to Rio de Janeiro last summer but the lingering threat of COVID and a few other issues put me off. In the summer of 2025, when I turn sixty, I am hoping to travel to the Eastern US for the first phase of the FIFA World Club Championships, so I quickly decided that I would look keenly at getting to Rio this summer. We never know how long we have left. It was time to get going.

The fixtures for the Brazilan Serie A were announced in March and I quickly focussed on the weekend of Saturday 6 July. Not only was this my birthday, but the fixture list had Fluminense playing Athletico Paranaense at the magnificent Maracana stadium on that date. Two things to mention here. It was widely rumoured that Thiago Silva would be returning to his first love of Fluminense in the summer and this sent me dizzy. Also, ever since seeing Roberto Rivelino in the maroon, green and white stripes of the Flumimense shirt in the mid-‘seventies, I have been in love with that kit, if not the team itself.

In early March, I decided to go for it. I sorted direct flights from Heathrow to Rio de Janeiro and eight nights in a three-star hotel a block from Copacabana Beach. There would be maybe three games in Rio, matching my three in Buenos Aires. It was all systems go.

And then nature intervened. The floods in Brazil forced a re-arrangement of fixtures and my dream date with Fluminense, and maybe Thiago Silva, was hit. Instead, it was looking like Vasco de Gama vs. Fortaleza on the Wednesday, Flamengo vs. Cuiba on my birthday and Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro on the Sunday. I’ll admit it; I was devastated that there would be no Fluminense game.

I waited for Saturday 29 June for take-off. Of course, Thiago Silva did indeed sign for Fluminense and there was talk of his first game being played in July. My annoyance in missing him play in Rio was palpable, yet I was sure that I was still going to have a superb trip. In the ten days before departure, I contacted Chelsea Football Club about sending Fluminense, temporarily, the huge Thiago Silva crowd-surfer flag that the “We Are The Shed” team created, and which marked his last ever game for us. One of the “We Are The Shed” folk is a friend and for a while it seemed that this idea was a runner. Alas, communication from Chelsea predictably dried up and the Thiago Silva flag has stayed in the bowels of Stamford Bridge. Sigh.

I landed at Rio’s Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport at 5.30am on Sunday 30 June.

I hoped that I would arrive at my hotel by 7am and I soon caught a cab that took me through a surprisingly grey and rainy city centre. The cab driver pointed out the Maracana to our right, a thin sliver of white amongst the grey buildings. My pulse rate quickened. After a twenty-five-minute journey, I walked into my hotel at 6.59am and so here’s my first “I work in logistics” comment of the new season. I wolfed down a filling breakfast and trotted out onto the nearby Copacabana Beach to get my bearings and to get those first day vibes. The weather was still disappointing but I was overjoyed to be setting foot on such a famous location.

My first football-related task of the holiday involved getting an Uber to take me a few miles north to the well-heeled Laranjeiras district of Rio. Here, the driver deposited me right outside Manoel Schwartz Stadium. This historic ground, dating from 1914 was originally Brazil’s national stadium, and home of Fluminense, founded in 1902, who played here until decamping to the Maracana upon its construction in 1950.

I liked it that I would be visiting the national team’s first three stadia in Rio – Laranjeiras, Vasco da Gama’s Estadio Centenario and Maracana – in chronological order during my stay.

The stadium soon captivated my heart and soul and, I think, was the absolute highlight of my stay in Rio. On that grey Sunday afternoon, I wandered in and out of its stands, and I truly fell in love with the place. There is an extra reason for this.

We need to go back to the summer of 1929.

From 29 May to 7 July of that year, Chelsea Football Club played a ridiculous sixteen games in South America; ten in Argentina, four in Brazil and two in Uruguay. This tour is of significance for two major reasons. Firstly, it represents Chelsea’s longest-ever pre-season tour of any nature. Secondly, no British team has toured South America since.

I had to smile when I heard that the current Fluminense president Mario Bittencourt say that he was so impressed with the way that Chelsea conducted themselves in the Thiago Silva transfer that he is now a Chelsea fan and hoped to schedule a friendly between the two teams at the Maracana at some stage during Silva’s contract.

This might well be silly lip-service, but you never know. Chelsea at the Maracana? Lovely. If I couldn’t see Fluminense on this trip, maybe on another.

I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, at Fluminense’s first stadium and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

I clambered up into the main stand, and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I would have probably feinted.

The stadium is still used for training games, and the occasional match involving some of Fluminense’s lesser teams. There is a small club shop, and I bought a few items.

That night I watched Flamengo play against Cruzeiro in a bar on Copacabana. David Luiz was playing for the home team and I felt surprisingly protective towards him. I liked him at Chelsea and I wanted to see him do well. Later, I watched a Copa America game between Venezuela and Jamaica in another bar and got talking to people from Chile and Venezuela. The common language was football. It had been an amazing first day.

The second day was spent touring the city in a mini bus with other tourists and it enabled me to get to grips with the scale and intensity of the city. Rio is ridiculously dramatic. It is a vibrant, sweaty and sultry city. Alas visibility was poor atop Corcovado and Sugar Loaf. There was a fleeting ten-minute stop outside Maracana, but I knew I would be back on the Saturday. That night I watched a game in another bar between Palmeiras and Corinthians, our two World Club Cup opponents in 2012 and 2021, er 2022.

The third day, the Tuesday, was spent on Copacabana, the weather now brighter, and I was so happy. Cristo Redentor looked magnificent against a deep blue sky above the hotels of the beach. I met up with a local guy that I had been put into contact with; Rudson would be my ticket broker for the week. He had texted me during my wander along the beach to inform me that, miraculously, there would be an extra Fluminense game squeezed into the schedule on Thursday. I was so happy. I would get to see them play. It amazed me that the fixture change had taken place only three days out. And we complain in England.

So, a change of plan. I binned the game at Vasco da Gama – in a rough area, and an expensive ticket, plus an odd pre-registration process involving QR codes and facial recognition – as I would now be going to Maracana twice.

I walked west to Ipanema, and ended up in Garota Café, a super-cool establishment once frequented by Antonio Carlos Jobim – yes him again – and Vinicius de Moraes who penned the bossa nova gem “The Girl From Ipanema” in 1964. I shared a photo on Facebook and there would be an online conversation later between a Chelsea fan – Ian – and myself about the bossa nova revival in the summer of 1984 in the UK involving Everything But The Girl and Sade. We talked about how amazing that summer was for us Chelsea supporters.

As I mentioned in the last blog of 2023/24, I felt a comparison between the summers of 1984 and 2024, but for slightly different reasons.

“I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years. Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.”

More of 1984 later.

I had walked four miles from Copacabana to Ipanema and took a cab back to the hotel.

However, events took a dark turn that evening. Unfortunately, I became victim to what I would term “Pele Belly” and was more-or-less confined to my hotel room for two days. I was so worried that I would not be able to chance going to any games. And I was horrified to think what the return eleven-hour flight to London might entail.

Fackinao.

I slept for long periods and raided the fridge for snacks. Thankfully I bought some “Imosec” and things slightly improved. I felt so tired though. On the Thursday, Rudson met me in my hotel lobby – despite living way north of the city, his office is on Copacabana – and gave me my Fluminense ticket. It cost around £30. Gingerly, I caught an Uber to Maracana. Despite still feeling delicate and tired, I absolutely came to life on that cab ride. The Uber driver was a Fluminense fan too.

In my travels around the city, just like I had done in Buenos Aires, I asked the locals if they were Flamengo or Fluminense. In Buenos Aires, it was roughly 60% Boca and 40% River. In Rio, it was weighted far more steeply to one side. It was easily 95% Flamengo, 5% Fluminense. I knew Flamengo were enjoyed the larger support base, but the scale shocked me. Not to worry, it made me dig in and like Fluminense more.

Those colours!

I was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium, unlike on Monday when our visit had taken place by the statue of the Brazil World Cup winning captain Hilderaldo Bellini at the south-east side. I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed comprehendible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one in reality and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had enjoyed a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.

As with the fans in Argentina, there were melodic songs rather than vitriolic and barked chants that the European supporters favour. There were no pointed arms, no staccato clapping, no rapid vocal jousting. The songs from the stands, with occasional flag-waving, were accompanied by rolling arm movements, as in Buenos Aires, and it reminded me of Max Bygraves and his “I wanna tell you a story” arm shrugs. All very floppy. Not aggressive at all.

I caught a cab – a Fiat, there are tons of Fiats in Rio – back to the hotel and slept well that night.

Friday was a quiet day. I visited a local churrascaria steakhouse in the evening and then the Lapa area of the city centre where the bars and nightclubs are centered. I was still 58, but in the UK I was 59. I sank a few beers to celebrate, but if I was honest I still wasn’t 100% and returned home early.

Saturday, my birthday, and a day of contrasts. I stayed in the hotel, again not wanting to chance it, but then booked an Uber to take me to the Flamengo vs. Cuiba game which kicked-off at 8pm. What I found nice about travelling anywhere in Rio was that I was invariably driven past the white walls of Laranjeiras stadium, as if the city was telling me “it all started here, remember.”

Later on, nearing Maracana, the city’s hills spotted with lights, the Uber driver played two Sade songs. This was magical. Truly magical. I instantly remembered the conversation that I had with Ian on the Tuesday. I leaned forward.

“Sade? Sade Adu?”

The driver smiled. I think she was amazed.

“Sade. Yes.”

It was one of those gorgeous moments where life does not get any better.

Sade. The summer of 1984. Rio de Janeiro. The home of bossa nova. The Maracana. Flamengo. The summer of 2024. My birthday.

Music. Football. Travel.

Bliss.

I was deposited in exactly the same spot as on Thursday, but immediately the mood seemed different. More noise. More supporters. More banners. It seemed that Flamengo really were the city’s team. I felt a little conflicted.

Flu over Fla for me, though.

I had paid a little more for my ticket – £40 – but was rewarded with a sensational view high on the main stand side. I took a lift up to the top level and the vast bowl of the Maracana took my breath away. I bought myself a beer – alcohol is allowed in the stands in Brazil – and raised a toast to myself.

“Happy birthday young’un.”

I really loved this game. It was a lot more competitive, and the noise was more constant, and actually quite breath-taking. Cuiba, from the city of the same name, only had a few hundred fans for this match and I didn’t even try to hear them. Surprisingly, Cuiba scored early on when Derek Lacerda waltzed through and struck a shot into the massive Maracana goals. For aficionados of goals, goal frames, stanchions and goalposts, these are beauties.

“Deep sag.”

It was a decent game. My view of it made it. Maracana, dear reader, is vast.

At half-time, I trotted out to the balcony that overlooked the city. I took a photo of a section of the Maracana roof support, pocked and cracked through time, and contrasted it with the lights shining on a nearby hill. Rio is surrounded by huge rising pillars of black rock. And here I was inside the city’s mammoth concrete cathedral.

“Diamond life, lover boy.

We move in space with minimum waste and maximum joy.

City lights and business nights.

When you require streetcar desire for higher heights.”

The second-half began, and the intensity rose and fell. All eyes were on David Luiz. It was so good to see him play again. I last saw him play for Chelsea at the away friendly against St. Patrick’s Athletic in Dublin in 2019. The Fla – or ‘Mengo, take your pick – support never waned and were rewarded when Pedro tucked in an Ayrton cross on the hour. One through-ball from David Luiz will stay in my mind for a while. He was arguably their best player. It ended 1-1. The gate was 54,000. I was expecting more.

There was one more thrill to come.

Whenever I saw photos of Maracana as a child and in later years, I was always mesmerized by its exit ramps, and I tried to imagine how many millions of carioca – Rio’s inhabitants – had descended those slopes over the years. After the game, I walked them too.

The whole night had been a wonderful birthday present to myself.

On the next day, I revisited Corcovado and took in the magnificence of the view of the city underneath the open arms of Cristo Redentor.

Another magical memory.

To complete the 1984 vibe, Everything But The Girl released a song in 1999 called “Corcovado” and it was in my mind all day long.

“Um cantinho e um vilao. Este amor, uma cancao.

Pra fazer feliz a quem se ama.”

For my final game of Brazil 2024, Rudson had booked me a driver to take me out of the Zonal Sud comfort zone and into the central part of the city. Vincius called for me at 6pm for the 8.30pm start. We made our way out, not only past Laranjeiras, but Maracana too.

There are four Serie A teams in Rio; Fluminense, Flamengo, Vasco da Gama and Botofogo. Interestingly, all originated in the affluent Zonal Sud area, some originally as rowing clubs. Botafoga’s full title is Botafogo de Futebol e Regatas. Botafogo now play at Estadio Nilton Santos – along with Garricha and Jairzinho, its favourite son – which was built for the Olympics of 2016. It’s in a pretty shady area. I was grateful that Vincius was with me. He parked up in a grimy side-street and walked me to the modern stadium.

“After you wait here” and he pointed to a statue of Garrincha.

Botafogo play in black and white stripes – like Juventus, an old flame – and I must admit I fell in love with an old Botafogo Kappa black jersey.

Very Juventus 1990.

There was time to relax and take in the local environs. Again, lots of street vendors, lots of replica shirts, lots of hustle and bustle. Both Botafogo and Vasco advertise themselves as the real clubs of Rio. Think Everton over Liverpool. Fluminense once had a tainted history of elitism and racism but thankfully that has virtually disappeared now. There are smaller clubs elsewhere in Rio. But, still, nowhere near as many pro clubs as Buenos Aires, the city that I constantly felt myself comparing Rio against during my stay.

I wolfed down another Heineken at a street side bar. Unfortunately, hardly anybody speaks English in Rio so although I was bursting to talk to the locals, I knew it was a futile wish. At the turnstiles, a camera took my photo as I entered. And we complain in England.

The stadium is a little odd. With a running track, the spectators are a long way from the pitch. One end was completely empty. In fact, both ends are single story but look like they can have extensions if required. The noisy section of home fans was therefore in the two tiers opposite the main stand where I sat. To my right were around 2,000 away fans of Atletico Mineiro, who now boasted Hulk in their ranks, who I saw play at Stamford Bridge for Porto. He is now thirty-eight.

Unlike at the Maracana, there was a full tifo display here, with vertical strips, a huge horizontal banner, flares and smoke. It was mightily impressive. The home team scored after just thirteen minutes via Luiz Henriques. Hulk’s far from incredible team mate Igor Rabello was sent off on twenty-five minutes, and the home team totally dominated the game. Two late goals from Cuiabano and Jefferson Savarino gave Botafogo a deserved 3-0 win in front of 23,000. I knew that Rudson would be happy.

“I am a humble man. I like Botafogo.”

Soon back at my hotel, I decided on a nightcap and popped over the road for a couple of beers in a small bar. Just like on night one, I lucked-out with some drinking companions. I chatted to a group of kit-wearing Botafogo supporters, a few of whom spoke English – thank heavens – and I had a great final hour of my final match day. They had been sat above me in the upper tier of the west stand. The youngest liked Chelsea – and Barcelona, ugh – and we spoke about all sorts. The group were all from Brasilia and one of them is the owner of a lower league team, FC Capital. It was a cracking end to my stay in Rio de Janeiro.

Nine days, eight nights, three stadia, three games, a few Chelsea moments, a truly unforgettable holiday. Rio truly loves its football. I have not stayed in a city where so many locals wear football shirts as a matter of course, going about their usual tasks. There were Flamengo shirts everywhere. Many wore the famous yellow of Brazil too. In Rio, it remains a working class sport. I hope to return one day.

“A corner and a guitar.

This love, a song.

To make those you love happy.”

The rest of my summer was spent trying to avoid most of the rumours about the comings and goings at Chelsea Football Club; my game plan was to try to get to game one, Manchester City at home, and then make my mind up about what I saw with my very own eyes.

Instead, I spent my time following Frome Town as their – “our”? – pre-season developed and merged seamlessly into the first few games in the Southern League Premier South. My travels took me to friendlies at Clevedon Town, Shepton Mallet and Westbury United, with home friendlies against Yeovil Town, Bath City and Swansea City U21s. There was an exceptional opening game in the league at fancied Gosport Borough – the last time I saw Frome play there in 2018, we lost 0-7 after ignominiously starting with only ten players – where a late Curtis Jemmet-Hutson goal gave us a wonderful 1-0 win. Frome were then brought down to Earth with two home defeats against Merthyr Tydfil – 0-2 – and Bracknell Town – 1-2 – in the week leading up to Chelsea’s league opener.

Before the game at Stamford Bridge, I had a walking tour of SW6. I walked from a new parking spot on Star Road to Stamford Bridge, then out to the Bedford Arms on Dawes Road to see Alan and Gary, then down the Fulham Road and Fulham High Street to see the usual suspects in The Eight Bells. It was a yomp of some three miles.

The Eight Bells doesn’t change. I was there from 2pm to 3.30pm, and although it was packed with Chelsea supporters – maybe sixty inside, maybe thirty outside – I only saw two Chelsea shirts. Both were worn by the younger element; excusable.

I met up with Parky and PD, Salisbury Steve, the Kent lot, and Deano called in too. He is off to Chile in November and I vowed to contact the Chilean family I met in Rio. A barmaid had travelled in South America with two friends for four months since the last time I saw her and there was a heady South American feel to the pre-match.

“Sixteen games in 1929. And we complain about pre-season tours in 2024.”

We caught a tube up to Stamford Bridge. Chelsea have adopted the “CFC – LDN” tagline for this season and there is signage everywhere in and around the stadium. The shite new kit is heavily paraded on every spare inch of Stamford Bridge.

Set aside under a section of the old Shed Wall is a bizarre display called “The Garden Of Eden”, some Xbox or Playstation nonsense involving Eden Hazard, geared towards the EA Sports generation that seems to account for a huge proportion of our global fan base these days. The display could easily have been in honour of Jeff Koons.

The first programme of the new year had a striking cover. It consisted of an “upshot” from the middle of a players’ huddle. It reminded me of the famous scene from Stanley Kramer’s “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” when the protagonists realised that they were at last “under a big dubya” and they peer over the hidden treasure.

I am not so sure what treasure we will find at Chelsea this year, but it will be a mad world for sure.

Inside, Stamford Bridge looked the same, but as kick-off approached, there were a couple of “I Hate Modern Football” moments. For a while now, in addition to the Dug Out Club nonsense, we have been treated to the sight of around twenty well-heeled individuals watching the Chelsea players go through their pre-match drills from the West Stand touchline. It looks ridiculous. And God knows how much they pay for the privilege. In close proximity to all of this baloney, a young DJ was set up to spin some discs at a booth and my eyes rolled to the heavens.

In that crucial thirty minutes before kick-off, it would be nice to be able to sing our own songs, adding to the atmosphere nicely – just like we used to do decades ago – rather than be voyeurs to some dance music being pumped out to disinterested spectators.

When I showed a photo of this ridiculous scene to a Brentford fan at work, he commented “it looks like a wedding.”

Women in posh frocks, blokes in tailored shirts and trousers, children at play, a DJ booth, the green grass below. It could easily be a scene from a summer wedding.

That ain’t football.

I could hear the cariocas in Rio laughing at us from six thousand miles away.

I shook hands with Charlie and Alan who sit alongside us. Sadly, Charlie’s father and Alan’s brother Gary passed away on 29 May after a battle with motor neurone disease. Gary’s last match at Stamford Bridge was the last game of 2022/23. Along with their father Joe, Alan and Gary had been sitting alongside us since 1997. Glenn and I attended Gary’s funeral in Crawley at the end of June. He will be missed.

RIP Gary Buchmann.

As 4.30pm approached, another new-fangled addition at Stamford Bridge. In addition to flames alongside the East Stand, there were fireworks and blue fumes from atop the East Stand.

As Alan said “we will get banned for bringing in flares, but it’s OK for the club to fill the air with blue smoke.”

The teams entered the pitch.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Caicedo – Lavia

Enzo

Palmer – Jackson – Nkunku

Or something like that.

Even from afar, our new kit looks shite. Maybe I will write more about it later.

We started well with a fair amount of the ball. I immediately sensed that the battle between Marc Cucarella and Jeremy Doku was going to be entertaining.

Decent noise too. The usual songs.

Enzo was ahead of Lavia and Caicedo. The Argentinian began well.

Then calamity, Doku swapped sides and on eighteen minutes, he gained a yard of space and sent in a low ball into the box. It evaded our defenders, Bernardo Silva touched it on, and Erling Haaland fought off a late challenge from Cucarella to stab home.

Here we go.

Chelsea 0 City 1.

Bollocks.

Nothing about the goal looked dodgy, but VAR was called into action. The goal stood, no surprises.

City had three thousand in the far corner and they were chirping away as you would expect.

Just after, the Conor Gallagher song, to be expected really. I didn’t join in. I was already pissed off with our transfer policy and the new season wasn’t even half-an-hour old yet.

City went close again via Kevin de Bruyne, but Chelsea were having a share of the play. The ball was played in as Enzo made a Lampard-esque run into the box. He was clattered but no decision.

At the other end, a shot from Doku was deflected and Sanchez did ever so well to tip the ball over.

I liked the look of Romeo Lavia, breaking up play and physically strong.

A nice move involving Cole Palmer and Christopher Nkunku set up Nicolas Jackson. A lay-off to Enzo, but his shot was blocked.

City were finding angles to play through us, and we had to rely on Sanchez to spread his legs wide to block a shot.

At last some noise.

CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.

“Come on lads, hit the runners early.”

Just before half-time, a goal from Jackson after Ederson spilled a Palmer effort, but I had soon spotted the linesman’s flag.

VAR…no goal.

The spectators watching on, quite bewildered.

There was a lovely through ball by Jackson in to Nkunku but he did not do himself justice.

Boos at half-time, but surely for Anthony Taylor rather than for our performance. I was relatively happy at the break, though. We had played better than I had expected. This was always going to be the toughest of tasks. Lavia had been excellent.

Soon into the second period, Enzo and Jackson became entangled in front of the City goal just as Jackson was about to strike and the Chelsea fans’ frustrations rose.

Sanchez saved well from Haaland at the other end.

We lost our way a little as the second-half progressed.

We became quiet, City too.

58 minutes : Pedro Neto for Nkunku.

He almost got on the end of a chance, close in, with his very first touch, after a fine ball from Palmer to Enzo, whose cross almost reached the substitute.

“CAREFREE – WHEREVER YOU MAY BE.”

A nice rumble of noise again.

Neto then beat his man and sent over a fine cross that Enzo headed on. The move was kept alive, the ball found Jackson whose acrobatic stab at goal was well saved by Ederson.

67 minutes : Marc Guiu for Jackson and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Romeo Lavia.

80 minutes : Renato Vega for Cucarella.

On eighty-four minutes, Mateo Kovacic, who had grown into being the game’s most impressive player, picked up a loose ball from Wesley Fofana and ran with pace through the middle of our pitch. As he aimed at goal, I uttered the immortal “Fuck off Kovacic” and he duly swept a strike past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

The bloke sitting between PD and Alan, who had not sung a single note of support for the team all game, got up and fucked off out, the City fans did a Poznan and that was that.

Chelsea 0 City 2.

Did anybody, anywhere, really expect anything different?

Next up, Servette Geneva in the Europa Conference on Thursday.

See you there.

Estádio Manoel Schwartz, Laranjeiras.

Fluminense vs. Internacional, Maracana.

Flamengo vs. Cuiabá, Maracana.

Botafogo vs. Atlético Mineiro, Estádio Olímpico Nilton Santos.

Chelsea vs. Manchester City, Stamford Bridge.

Tales From A Few Fleeting Moments

Posted on May 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 19 May 2024.

This was turning into a very enjoyable end to the 2023/24 season. The last five days of it were packed full of Chelsea. On the Wednesday, we travelled down to Brighton and on the Sunday, there would be the final game against Bournemouth. But tucked into the middle, on the Friday, was a bonus day.

The Chelsea Foundation, who look after former players through the Chelsea Players Trust and oversee the club’s charities, education projects and Chelsea in the wider community, recently found out that we have been taking Ron Harris up to Stamford Bridge on match days since the autumn of 2021. As a gesture of thanks, they invited a gang of us up to the Cobham training centre. They gave us a range of dates to choose from, and it transpired that Friday 17 May was the best fit. You can just imagine our elation. I was lucky enough to visit Cobham way back in 2008 with a few friends from the UK and the US, but this would be a first visit for my match-day companions from the West of England; Glenn, PD and Parky. We went up in one car. In the other car, was the Harris family; Ron, his daughter Claire, her partner Dave, Ron’s son Mark and Mark’s young son Isaac. Joining us at Cobham was Gary Chivers, Ron’s match-day companion, who was with his young daughter.

We had an absolute blast on a perfect sunny day. We met academy chief Neil Bath, and a few of his staff. We chuckled when Ron introduced Paul to the academy hosts as “my minder.” You know you have made it in life when Chopper Harris calls you his minder.

The day started off in 1970. Let me explain. Recently, the youth teams of Chelsea and Leeds United met in a cup final, and there was a concern that the Leeds youngsters would be more “up for it” than the Chelsea lads. To rectify this, to illustrate the very real rivalry that exists between the two old enemies, the lads were shown footage of some of the tastier moments from the 1970 FA Cup Final Replay. We loved seeing the film, none more so than Ron, and there were many funny moments as we watched tackle after tackle, with legendary players clashing, a real blast from the past. It must have had the desired effect as Chelsea won the game 5-3. We saw footage of the youngsters’ match; there were some fine goals but some rugged tackles too, Leeds didn’t stand a chance.

In a surreal moment, we hopped into a fleet of little golf buggies and embarked on a tour of the huge complex, making sure that we didn’t crash into the players’ expensive cars. Not for the first time I found myself driving Lord Parky. We spotted the first team in a training session away to our right. The complex is massive. A full forty people are on the ground staff alone.

We spent a few moments with Cesc Fabregas who happened to be visiting the training ground. I told him that all four of us were at Burnley for his Chelsea debut in 2014 for “that pass” to Andre Schurrle. There was then a frantic period as the current first team squad made their way to the changing rooms. Each one, though, met with Ron Harris, and we tried our best to say a few words to as many as possible. Ron spent quite a while with Conor Gallagher and Cole Palmer. I took the usual smattering of photos. Nicolas Jackson was especially friendly. Loved his attitude. My big moment came when I tentatively approached Thiago Silva for him to sign a recent home programme; Tottenham, the great man on the cover. He took time to painstakingly sign in his unique way with his name, number and a flourish before handing the programme back to me.

“Obrigado.”

I was happy. Mission accomplished.

I must admit that Reece James looked a little sheepish after his sending-off against Brighton. We managed to spend an incredible five or six minutes with Mauricio Pochettino, who spoke easily and naturally with us as if we had known each other for ages. He talked about the development of the team, the way things have started to gel, and plans for the US Tour in the summer. He could not have been nicer. I loved the hug that he gave Ron Harris.

“We hope you are here next season, Conor.”

“So do I.”

We were treated to a lovely lunch in the same canteen as the academy players. PD tucked into a FAB ice-cream on the house, an image that will make me laugh for years.

Everyone that we met were so polite, so attentive, so personable and there was a cool and calm professionalism about the entire complex. We left on an absolute high, sure that the immediate future of our club was in good hands. I drove the boys home, almost not wanting the day to end. We stopped off for a couple of early-evening pints at a pub alongside the canal in Devizes. It was a fantastic end to a perfect day and it totally restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club.

Sunday – Munich Day – soon arrived and we were on our way to London at a ridiculously early time. Despite a 4pm kick-off, I was up at 5.30am to pick up PD, Ron and Parky by 7.30am. I dropped Ron off outside the main gates at about 9.45am and I was soon parked up. I spent a little time chatting to a few friends on the Fulham Road and at Stamford Bridge. I was quick to relay the positive vibes from Cobham. There was a quick and impromptu photo-call with Ron at the hotel with some friends of a friend from Dundee; their first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge and they were boiling over with excitement.

On a day when Thiago Silva would be making his last-ever appearance in Chelsea colours, I made sure that I took a few photographs of his image on the wall by the West Stand forecourt.

Then, a tube down to Putney Bridge to meet the troops in the pub. Friends from near and far joined us, and I detected a happier atmosphere in the boozer than is always the case. We were, after all, chasing our fifth win a row, and the confirmation of European football in 2024/25.

The global scope of Chelsea’s support was well-represented.

Russ – Melbourne, Australia.

Brad and Sean – New York, US.

Richard and Matt – Edinburgh, Scotland.

Sara and Danny – Minneapolis, US.

Even and Roy – Oslo, Norway.

Kyden and Jacob – Tampa, US.

No drinks for me of course, but the lads were filling their boots. The laughter boomed around “The Eight Bells.” At around 3pm, we set off for the final time of this roller-coaster of a season.

A tube to Fulham Broadway, a walk up to the turnstiles, the sun out, where is there a better place on Earth?

Chats with a few folk who sit close by. Again, positive vibes. The end of season run-in was not as problematic as we had feared.

The team?

In order to accommodate Thiago Silva, Malo Gusto was unfortunately dropped. Mudryk was out after his injury at Brighton. He was the one player that we did not clock at Cobham.

Petrovic – Chalobah, Silva, Badiashile, Cucarella – Caicedo, Gallagher – Madueke, Palmer, Sterling – Jackson

The surprising thing was that there had been virtually no mention of the title race. Was Manchester City’s win against West Ham as straightforward as we were hoping? Only time would tell. However, the outside chance of Arsenal winning the title for the first time in twenty years was lurking in the back of my mind, and maybe others too. I think we made a pact with each other to keep silent. I also had a whimsical notion that Tottenham would do the ultimate “Spursy” thing and fall on their own sword at Sheffield United, thus giving us the chance to finish above them.

There were colourful displays at both ends of the pitch devoted to the captain for the day.

Thiago Emiliano da Silva.

The great man signed for us while we were ensconced at home under COVID, and I did not see him play for Chelsea in the flesh until the FA Cup Final in May 2021. Just a few weeks later, I remember watching out in Porto as he fell to the floor in the closing moments of the first-half. Inwardly, I shared his tears as he pulled his shirt up over his face before walking off. Thankfully, we scored just three minutes after and he would win his sole Champions League medal after all. Since then, he has been a colossus, a giant, a cool leader at the helm of an oft-troubled defence and team and club. We will miss him so much.

Anyway, the game began.

In the opening few moments, Stamford Bridge was a noisy cauldron in celebration of Thiago Silva. His standard two songs rang out and we all joined in.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

“He came from PSG.”

After all that had happened the previous week, I found it difficult to fully concentrate on the game that was being played out on the gorgeous green of Stamford Bridge. I felt a little tired, a little dazed. Was this one game too far for me?

This was my eighty-seventh game of the season.

Chelsea 51; for the first-time ever, I had not missed a single game.

Frome Town 35; my most-ever, beating last season’s twenty games, and an absolute belter of a season.

Exeter City 1; and quite easily the worst of the lot, my reward for going to a game in which I had zero interest.

We began brightly, and there was a shot from Nicolas Jackson and one from Cole Palmer. Both did not trouble the away ‘keeper Neto. The first was hit right at the ‘keeper, the second drifted past the far post. Raheem Sterling was buzzing around, and it was a nice reminder of how he can play if he is in the mood.

In the opening fifteen minutes, we had completely dominated possession, possibly at the 90% level. But in the stands the noise had been reduced to a whisper.

“Football in a library” sang the three-thousand Bournemouth supporters.

Yep, guilty as charged.

Sterling went down inside the box, but VAR adjudged it to be a clean challenge.

On seventeen minutes, Jackson poked the ball forward perfectly into space for the lively Sterling to chase. Neto was out early and cleared, but was under pressure from Conor Gallagher. The resulting swipe lacked direction. The ball reached our half, where it found Moises Caicedo. The midfielder pushed the ball forward, just over the half-way line, and thumped a high ball towards goal. With Neto scrambling back, and a spare Bournemouth defender chasing too, the ball perfectly nestled into the Shed End goal. I will be truthful, it looked a goal as soon as it left his foot.

GET IN.

I captured his jubilant run and leap. What a way to score his first Chelsea goal.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

We heard that Manchester City were 1-0 up and then 2-0 up within twenty minutes.

“We’re gonna have a party…”

The away team attacked occasionally, but we didn’t seem in danger. I made sure that I took a few photos of Thiago Silva down below us.

The away fans were still moaning.

“1-0 and you still don’t sing.”

I was still struggling a little to get into the game and our players looked a little tired. Bournemouth seemed to improve as the first-half continued. A speculative long-range shot from Ryan Christie glanced the top of the bar, there was a block from Trevoh Chalobah, a save from Djordje Petrovic.

At the end of the first-half, we heard that Arsenal were losing at home to Everton and there was a sudden input of noise.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

But then the mood changed when it became City 2 West Ham 1 and Arsenal 1 Everton 1.

Please God, no.

At the break, we were relatively content. With just a point required to secure European football once more – out of the question for me and many others until very recently – we were on track.

On forty-eight minutes, the seemingly rejuvenated Sterling was put through in a wide position and danced his way down below us in The Sleepy Hollow and into the box.

“Go on, Raz.”

From a ridiculously tight angle he finished beautifully, although Neto will be annoyed at the ball going right between leg stump and off stump.

Barely thirty seconds later, Bournemouth scored when a shot from Enes Unal was deflected off the unlucky Benoit Badiashile and into the net. Could Cucarella have done better? His slight slip allowed Unal to come inside.

Bollocks.

The game drifted a little. At least there were no significant updates from the UAE Air Company Stadia.

On the hour – at last! – a loud “CAM ON CHOWLSEA” followed by an equally loud “Carefree.”

We then heard that City were 3-1 up and we could relax a little.

Mauricio Pochettino made three substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Madueke.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Caicedo.

Christopher Nkunku for Sterling.

I captured the header from Nkunku, from a Palmer free-kick, that just missed the goal frame.

At the other end, Dominic Solanke – who was applauded by many as he came on as a substitute – really ought to have done better but his low shot went wide of the far post.

Chances came at both ends and the game became a lot closer than we had hoped. We created chances for Gusto and Nkunku. There was a fine low save from Petrovic up the other end.

Another substitution.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

Huge applause.

The lad from Manchester has been a revelation. He will be the main reason why I pay any attention to the European Championships in Germany later this summer.

Late on, substitute Casadei forced an error and the ball fortuitously fell to Gallagher who forced a decent save from that man Neto.

There was a header, from distance, a little similar to John Terry against Barcelona in 2005, from Thiago Silva and although we prayed for a perfect end to his Chelsea career, there was no Ricardo Carvalho on hand to spoil Neto’s view and the effort was ably saved.

Drat.

At the death, a lightning break from Bournemouth down their right caused added anxiety. The ball was played in to Dango Ouattara but Petrovic parried the low effort away. Christie was following up but a perfectly-timed scything tackle from Gallagher denied the chance. However, the ball bobbled out to Solanke who – thank God – blasted the ball over.

Alan and I looked at each other and gasped.

The added time came and went, and we had made it.

City champions, then Arsenal, then Liverpool, then Villa, then Tottenham, then us.

“We’re all going on a European tour.”

There was not too much time to wait for the farewell speech from Thiago Silva. He walked on to the pitch with his wife Belle and their two boys – a guard of honour from his team mates of course – and took a few moments to steady himself.

It is a mark of the man that virtually everybody had stayed behind for this. Often when there is a lap of honour at the end of a season such as this – no trophies – many drift off. But it again restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club to see so many supporters, evidently including many in the corporate areas such as West View, stay to witness his farewell speech.

There were ripples of applause throughout the speech and a big and booming finale greeted his closing words.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

What a man. What a player. What an athlete. What a professional.

These last four years have been as mad as they come, but his presence has been like a beacon for us Chelsea supporters.

Thiago – you will be missed.

We left the stadium. I popped around to collect Ron from outside the hotel, and we slowly walked back to the waiting car.

It had been a fine end to a testing season. We were all relishing the prospect of some European travels in the autumn – at least – in whatever competition we end up in. And we were all looking forward to, hopefully, a summer of stability, with thoughts of progression into 2024/25.

On a personal note, I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years.

Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.

I make no apology for dovetailing Frome’s games in with Chelsea’s games during this season. Hopefully the readership of this blog appreciates the contrasts and the extra narrative that it provides for my Chelsea rambles.

And thanks to everyone for keeping faith with me again this season. It’s a labour of love all this. It is part of my Chelsea routine. I take photos and I write. It’s what I do.

I am currently up to 1,952,777 words on here.

Next season, I will get past the two-million-word mark.

Fackinell.

As an aside, I have noticed a couple of things this season.

Firstly, there have been more and more “clicks” on the homepage, meaning that many of the good people who read these tales do not rely on Facebook links to access this website. I like that. It means they don’t need a prompt.

Secondly, despite these tales beginning life on the Chelsea In America site in 2008, there has been a continual reduction over time of viewers in the US.

In the first full year of CHELSEA/esque in 2013, the US comprised of 7,437 out of 16,895 total views. Yet so far in 2024, the US’ numbers are just 4,184 out of 26,010 total views.

2013 : 44%

2024 : 16%

But I am not worried. Viewing figures remain robust and healthy, with more and more from the UK with each passing season. That’s great. We are, after, all – despite the owners – a UK club.

Oh, the owners.

Do I have to?

These match reports always end on the day of the game; either at the final whistle, on the walk back to the car, on the drive home, or after watching “Match Of The Day.”

If there is anything that occurs the next day that requires comment, I shoe-horn it in to the next edition. But, as my next edition will not be for three months, I had best turn my attention to the events of Tuesday 21 May 2024.

I could write a lot. I could write a little. What to do?

It just struck me that it is something when 95% of opinions shared by Chelsea supporters on social media that evening backed Mauricio Pochettino, the former Tottenham manager, as opposed to backing the Chelsea board.

Yes, he did not rush to win us over, but I liked his view that he wanted to earn respect from us rather make some superficial “kiss the badge” statement or be pressurised into a sound bite. He was his own man and I kind of respected him for that. We told him at Cobham that we realised that it would take time this season. He got us into Europe. We reached one cup final. The last two months have generally been superb. The odd blip? Growing pains.

I leave with my “Facebook” post that evening.

“I feel so blessed to have been able to see a decent man go about his work last Friday. The clowns in charge of the club have left me confused and sad, angry yet helpless.

Good luck Mauricio, for a few fleeting moments it just felt right.”

Best wishes for a fine summer everyone. This football fancier will return in August with hopefully a tale or two to tell from Brazil featuring Thiago Silva.

Keep The Faith.

Cobham

The Eight Bells

Stamford Bridge

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth

Obrigado Thiago Silva

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 One To Remember

Posted on November 16, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 November 2023.

After the euphoria and shock of our 4-1 victory at Tottenham Hotspur on Monday, we were now presented with another equally tough opponent. The league fixture list had provided us with a home game against the current English and European Champions Manchester City. During the first few miles of our drive up to London, PD set the scene.

“I think Man City today will be more of a test to see where we are.”

But I replied.

“Well, to be fair, we said that about Tottenham.”

However, Manchester City are the current benchmark for English football and they have been for a few years now. We held that mantle, relatively briefly in retrospect, in 2004/5 and 2005/6 and now find ourselves at a position in the pecking order not too dissimilar to around 2001/2 and 2002/3. We are seemingly adrift of the main bunch of contenders, chipping away at whoever we come up against, and so be it.

The day before the City game at Stamford Bridge, I attended my sixteenth Frome Town game of the season, an easy 3-0 home win against the current league leaders Willand Rovers in front of a slightly disappointing crowd of 436. It pushed my home town team into second place in the table. On the Sunday came my fifteenth Chelsea game of the season.

It rained all of the way up to London, but thankfully by the time I had parked up on Bramber Road and walked down the North End Road to pop into “Café Ole” for a bite to eat, the rain had completely abated. We had set off early on this Remembrance Sunday. Parky had wanted to attend the service, or at least the two-minute silence, at All Saints in Fulham, a stone’s throw from “The Eight Bells” and where we attended the hundredth anniversary of the cessation of World War One before the Everton game on 11 November 2018.

As I ploughed into a full English, instrumental versions of songs by James Blunt and Glenn Medeiros provided a backdrop that I didn’t really appreciate; I wanted something a little more “football” and something to stir me a little, something with a bit more bite. As the anaemic muzak continued. I flicked through bits and bobs on my ‘phone and soon realised that the day marked the fortieth anniversary of one my favourite-ever Chelsea games.

All those years ago – Saturday 12 November 1983 – Chelsea played host to Newcastle United in the Second Division. I reviewed season 1983/84 in my match reports of season 2008/9, but this game is so important to me – and to others – that I think it is worth sharing again.

“I was unemployed throughout the season…but had been to the home games against Derby in August and Cardiff in October. The biggest game of the season was to be against Arthur Cox’s Newcastle United. They were the favourites for promotion and boasted Keegan, Beardsley, McDermott and Waddle; a good team. I had travelled up alone for the first two games, but had arranged to travel up by train with Glenn, from Frome, for the first time for the Geordies’ game. We would have reached Chelsea at about 10.30am and I distinctly remember having a cuppa in the old “Stamford Bridge Restaurant” with him. Two Geordies were sitting with us.

“Keegan will score a hat-trick today, like.”

I remember we got inside the ground when the gates opened at 1.30pm. Even to this day, I can remember peering out on a misty Stamford Bridge, Eurythmics playing on the pre-match show, in amazement how many people were “in early.”

By 2pm, The Shed was getting very full. Back in those days, we were used to average gates of around 12,000 in the Second Division. In April 1982, we infamously only drew 6,009 for a league game. In the First Division, in 1983-84, even champions-to-be Liverpool only drew 32,000. Football was at a bit of a low ebb. The recession was biting. After narrowly avoiding relegation to Division Three in May, however, Chelsea were rejuvenated in the first few months of 1983-84 and the Chelsea support was rallying around the team. We drew 30,628 for the Newcastle game in November 1983…a monster gate, when the average Division Two gate was around 11,000. We watched from The Whitewall.

Chelsea slaughtered Newcastle 4-0 and I fondly look back on that game as one of my favourite games ever. We absolutely dominated. Mention this game to anyone who was there, though, and they will say two words.

“Nevin’s run.”

Just before half-time, with us leading 1-0, Pat Nevin won a loose ball from a Newcastle attack in the Shed penalty box on the West Stand side. I would later read a report from “When Saturday Comes” founder Mike Titcher that Pat had nut-megged Keegan ( but I can’t confirm this ) and then set off on a mesmerizing dance down the entire length of the pitch, around five yards inside the West Stand touchline. This wasn’t a full-on sprint. Pat wasn’t that fast. At five foot six inches he was the same height as me. Pat’s skill was a feint here, a feint there, a dribble, a turn, a swivel, beating defender after defender through a body-swerve, a turn…it was pure art, a man at his peak…he must’ve left five or six defenders in his wake and I guess the whole run lasted around twenty seconds, maybe more…he may well have beaten the same man twice…each time he waltzed past a defender, the noise increased, we were bewitched, totally at his mercy…amazingly he reached the far goal-line…a dribble of around 100 yards. He beat one last man, looked up and lofted the ball goal ward. Pat’s crosses always seemed to have a lot of air on them, he hardly ever whipped balls in…his artistry was in the pinpoint cross rather a thunderbolt…a rapier, not a machine gun. The ball was arched into the path of an in-rushing Kerry Dixon. We gasped…we waited…my memory is that it just eluded Kerry’s head and drifted off for a goal-kick, but some tell that Kerry headed it over.

Whatever – it didn’t matter. On that misty afternoon in West London, we had witnessed pure genius. I loved Pat Nevin with all my heart – still my favourite player of all time – and most Chelsea fans of my generation felt the same.”

Despite our successes over the past twenty-five years, 1983/4 will never be surpassed as my favourite ever season.

I had a little wander up to Fulham Broadway. There were chats with Chidge and Marco, while DJ shoved a copy of “CFCUK” in my hand. Marco and I reminisced about that game forty years ago and I retold the story of the Geordies in the café; we were stood in 2023 right opposite to where that self-same café stood in 1983.

I took a few “scene-setter” photos then caught the tube down to Putney Bridge.

I stepped foot inside “The Eight Bells” at 12.30pm. PD had been there since 11am. Not bad for a 4.30pm kick-off. The pub was full of like-minded souls; virtually all chaps in our forties, fifties and sixties, but with a few young’uns too, and I noted some gents with ties, jackets and medals – including Parky – who had called in after the church service. The music here was far better than in the café. Soon into my three hours in the pub, we were treated to “Alternative Ulster” by Stiff little Fingers and tons more tracks from my – and our – youth followed. I flicked through “CFCUK” and enjoyed reading articles by Marco, Chidge and Tim Rolls. I loved Tim’s phrase “amortisation groupies” in a piece about the club’s financial outlay finding approval from the kind of people that seem to suddenly know everything. It’s always a good read.

The rain held off on the way to the stadium, the air still misty and so similar to the pre-match feel of the game forty years previous.

We were inside early, at about 4pm I suppose. I have recently bought a new ‘phone and I had to re-enter details to enable me to gain access to the stadium’s free Wi-Fi. It disturbed me a little to see that in the drop-down menu of reasons for my visit, which I had to tick, “football” was not listed. After huffing and puffing for a few seconds, I reluctantly selected “entertainment and events.”

Good grief.

As I looked around, a chap wearing a River Plate jersey and a Chelsea scarf caught my eye. I went up to have a word with him. Martin was from Buenos Aires, a River season ticket holder, and on his honeymoon; his wife had a ticket in The Shed, they were unable to get two together. We traded barbs and laughs about Boca and River. I showed him photos of my trip to his home city in 2020. He was here, plainly, to see Enzo Fernandez. Where I favour the blue of Boca, he tends to favour teams in red – “Arsenal” – but here he was wearing a blue Chelsea scarf and that was good enough for me. This was his first-ever game in England. The players were warming up down below me and he shouted out “Enzo!” a few times, but the music was blasting and there was no chance that he could be heard.

The rain had held off, and we prepared ourselves for the unique way that our club is able to call on the services of the Chelsea Pensioners as we remembered the fallen. I surely can’t remember two minutes of silence at games in November forty years ago; this seems a relatively new development.

The “Last Post” followed a seemingly brief moment of silence. As at the Frome Town game the day before, the bugler played every note to perfection.

After, a roar.

“Come on Chelsea.”

Us?

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

This was almost the same team that won at Tottenham, albeit with a little tinkering at the back. Manchester City eschewed the chance to wear one of their dayglow kit alternatives and went with their sky blue home kit.

The game began.

It was a very decent start indeed with Chelsea aggressively involved all over the pitch. There was a shot from Reece James within the very first minute. Nicolas Jackson, derided in some quarters of late, was sniffing at every opportunity to gain a yard, to edge ahead of his man, to create a chance. It was noisy, reassuringly so.

“These late kick-offs are great. Gives everyone the chance to have a few more scoops in the pub.”

There was, however, an odd chant from the three thousand City fans in The Shed.

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

It immediately confused the rest of the 40,000 crowd since not only have we won it, we have won it twice, the last time against City – as if anyone needs reminding.

Were City “in” on a private joke? Surely this was the explanation. I wondered if it was akin to Manchester United fans singing “Who the fuck are Man United?” and left it at that.

Chelsea, the Matthew Harding, responded with –

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

We had the upper hand in the first quarter, moving the ball quickly, looking sharp, playing as a unit. Cole Palmer and then Conor Gallagher had attempts at Ederson’s goal. Whisper it quietly; we were on top.

Then, on twenty-five minutes – the pace relentless – there was a clash of heads between James and Disasi down below me and I was focussed on the injury prone James. Almost as an afterthought, I looked over to see a cross just miss the far post and Thiago Silva clear, while more bodies fell to the floor in the immediate area. I re-focussed on the two defenders on the ground. After a few moments, the rumour went around that the referee had signalled a penalty.

Who? What? Where? When? How?

As always, the punters within the stadium were the last to know what was going on. After a wait, Erling Haaland – maybe two touches until now – swept the ball in. Nobody expected him to miss. Despite our fine play, we were losing.

Chelsea 0 Manchester City 1.

Soon after, a free-kick, and James curled one goal wards but Ederson flicked it over.

I said to Clive “Zola would have scored.”

From the corner that followed, Gallagher sent in a delivery with pace. Thiago Silva was unmarked as he edged forward to meet it and supply the deftest of touches, his glancing header nestling in the bottom far corner. We erupted and I was boiling over as I photoghraphed his slide past Parky and the resulting celebrations in the corner. We love our corner celebrations at Chelsea, eh?

Royal Blue 1 Sky Blue 1.

No more than five minutes later, Enzo – who was getting stuck in defensively – won the ball and pushed the ball to Palmer who then found the advancing James. His low cross was bundled in from close range by Sterling. The place erupted again. We were ahead.

Munich & Porto 2 Istanbul 1.

GET IN!

Chelsea shots peppered the City goal, but that man Haaland had the goal at his mercy, only to draw a quite magnificent save from Robert Sanchez down low. We all expected him to score. Phil Foden then curled one past a post. This was a super game.

Alas, we fell asleep at a corner, taken just below me. The ball was played back to an un-marked Bernardo Silva, their main play-maker thus far, and his first-time cross was headed home via the leap of Manuel Akanji. It seemed all Chelsea defenders were too busy marking other City players.

Thiago 2 Bernardo 2.

Oh boy.

It had been a relentless first-half.

At the break, the inhabitants of The Sleepy Hollow were upbeat and positive. This had been a fine game of football thus far. I did however say to a few friends :

“If somebody had said we would see four goals in this half, I would have been supremely worried.”

The second-half began and just after I took a wide-angle photo of a free-kick from out on our left, the ball was lost and City broke at pace, with Foden slipping in that man Haarland to convert from close range. He celebrated with the away fans. I felt sick.

Celery 2 Bananas 3.

City now dominated and I feared another goal. However, we clawed our way back into things and were absolutely buoyed on the hour by a scintillating shimmy into the box from Palmer, slaloming past close defenders, but with a shot that was stopped by Ederson, the Illustrated Man.

The applause rang out. It was, maybe, a condensed version of the run from Pat Nevin forty years ago.

Mauricio Pochettino made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

After a tentative performance at Tottenham on Monday, Reece was more gung-ho in this game, defending more rigorously and using his speed and strength to challenge his foes. Enzo had started well, but seemed to be tiring. The injection of the Ukrainian was just what we needed. Not long after, a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played into Moises Caicedo. He found Gallagher with a square pass, who let fly from outside the box. Ederson spilled the ball and two Chelsea players pounced. It was Jackson who stabbed the ball in.

The place erupted once again.

More photos, interspersed with me screeching and yelling. After his slide, I turned and punched the air. Fans all around me were losing it.

Sean Lock 3 Eddie Large 3.

The rain fell now, but the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was electric.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team the World has ever seen.”

So loud.

“Flying high up in the sky, we’ll keep the blue flag flying high.”

I looked around to see Martin, the Argentinian, singing songs of praise to our beloved Brazilian.

“Ooh, Thiago Silva.”

His smile was wide; a great sight.

…inside my head : “Fuck Arsenal.”

There was a massive shout for handball – Kyle Walker, inside the box? – on seventy minutes but maybe that was an optical illusion visible only to a thousand or two in the Matthew Harding. To say I was bemused would be an understatement.

Jack Grealish had replaced Doku for City on the hour mark and now Mateo Kovacic replaced Julian Alvarez. I was amazed that there were a few boos, but these were rapidly outnumbered by a large burst of clapping and applause. He was well liked, most of the time, at Chelsea was our Croatian Man.

The game moved into its final minutes.

Malo Gusto, tearing in, slammed a curler high and wide of Ederson’s goal.

On eighty-six minutes, the ball came loose just outside our penalty box, Rodri slammed it towards goal and it took a huge deflection off Thiago Silva and left Sanchez stranded. My heart sank.

“Oh God. Not even a point.”

What a bitter pill.

Blue Flag 3 Blue Moon 4.

Armando Broja replaced Caicedo.

Palmer dropped back into midfield, but Pochettino was certainly going for it. This was such an enthralling game. Very few left early. A lengthy eight minutes of injury time was signalled.

“Come on Chels.”

We urged the players on. The noise was relentless. This was incredible stuff. Broja had looked a handful and with time running out, Sterling – a magnificent performance throughout – clipped the ball in to him. Ruben Dias made a rough challenge and it looked a penalty from the off. The maligned Anthony Taylor pointed to the spot.

There was, then, an unseemly kerfuffle as both teams crowded the referee and a player from each side was booked in the melee. The always confident Palmer took the ball. By now, I was feeling the pressure. But I am glad that my heart was showing no signs of palpitations nor was there tightness in my chest. I looked around. There was tension on the faces of many.

“Come on Cole. Come on my son.”

He advanced. I clicked. He scored. I yelled. I clicked some more.

What a fucking game of football.

Palmer & Sterling 4 Ake & Kovacic 4.

Not so long after, and with Les replacing Nicolas, the hated Taylor blew up. The game was over. I was exhausted, again. I was exhausted after Tottenham, I was exhausted after this to. Surprisingly, “Blue Is The Colour” was not played at the end. Instead, “Park Life” accompanied our joyful exit from the stands.

The memory of this game would surely live with us for a long time.

I stopped by the Peter Osgood statue to sort out tickets for upcoming games, and shook hands with a few mates who were just as exhausted as myself. Thankfully, the rain soon abated and I walked back to the car in the dry.

There have been a few 4-4 draws of late, eh?

2007/8 : Chelsea 4 Aston Villa 4

2007/8 : Tottenham 4 Chelsea 4

2008/9 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4

2019/20 : Chelsea 4 Ajax 4

And now the best of the lot on Remembrance Sunday 2023.

At last – at bloody last – it looks like our arid period of poor football has ended, though of course this is only two games in a week after months upon months of stultifying fare. But there were so many positives to take from this game.

My favourites?

Palmer – fantastic, the future.

Cucarella – another blinder.

Sterling – sensational, please keep it up.

Gallagher – tireless, relentless, a leader.

James – strong, resolute, back to his best.

A mention for the manager too. I like him. I hope he likes us. It’s a romance just waiting to blossom.

On the way back in the car, we were purring at our performance and we looked forward to a full fortnight of relaxation before the daddy of all away trips, Newcastle United.

“It’s good they will come at us because we struggle against teams who sit back.”

See you there.

Tales From Manchestoh : Ci’eh

Posted on May 24, 2023 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 21 May 2023.

There was an old-fashioned 1982/83 feel to Saturday afternoon, the day before our game at the Etihad against Manchester City. I sat on my sofa in the living room and listened to Radio Five Live for the football commentary and was more than happy to hear that a lone Taiwo Awoniyi goal – the thorn in our side last Saturday – would condemn Arsenal to a 0-1 defeat at the City Ground, and thus hand the Premier League title to Manchester City.

City were champions and Arsenal weren’t. Perfect.

It of course meant that City were not looking to get over the line against us on the Sunday, a scenario that would have struck fear into myself and countless other Chelsea supporters. With them chomping at the bit, I dreaded it. There were thoughts of a cricket score. In the new circumstances, I hoped that Pep Guardiola would take the foot off the accelerator and also play some fringe players with two cup finals still to fight for this season.

That said, I am struggling to remember a game where I was so convinced that we would lose. As I set off to collect Lord Parky and Sir Les at around 9.30am, I was of the opinion that I would be happy losing 0-3. Even in the darkest of days of yore, I don’t think I was ever as downbeat – “pragmatic” – as that.

We were on our way from Melksham at 10.15am and the drive up to Manchester – Manchestoh to the locals – went well. The skies were brilliantly blue and sadly brilliantly sky blue too. We stopped for a very filling pub lunch at the Tabley Interchange on the M6 – the landlady recognised us from the FA Cup game in January – and I then drove on to our usual parking spot off the Ashton New Road. It felt odd to be playing City – Citeh, or Ci’eh with the full-on glottal stop of the locals – in an away game this late in the season. The last time I had seen us at City in May was in 2001. There was a lone game behind closed doors in May 2021 but that doesn’t count in my book.

With us playing at them so late in the season, and the weather being so nice, the locals had dispensed with the usual coats and jackets of a Manchester autumn, winter and spring. Many were wearing replica shirts – not just the current edition – to an extent that I don’t usually see at City.

I sorted out tickets for both Manchester games – we return on Thursday against the other lot – with Deano and headed in. I was perched in the first few rows of the upper tier at 3.30pm.

The Chelsea team was announced on the TV screens.

Kepa

Fofana – Silva – Chalobah

Azpilicueta – Fernandez – Loftus-Cheek – Hall

Sterling – Havertz – Gallagher

The City team was announced too and it immediately pleased me. There were fringe players throughout their line-up. There was a hope that City would not function to their full capability.

For some in the Chelsea support, this would be a third visit to this stadium during the current campaign. I looked around and I was pretty impressed with our turnout, which was surely over the 90% level; not bad for an end-of-season game in the circumstances.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, there was a medley of songs as flags were twirled down below us behind an Italian-style banner that proved difficult to read from behind.

The Dave Clark Five : “Glad All Over.”

Queen : “We Are The Champions.”

The Beatles : “Hey Jude.”

The teams appeared and flames flew into the air along the touchline directly in front of me. I missed the guard of honour amid my photographic manoeuvres.

Then, the old standard.

“Blue Moon.”

Officially we were in the fourth row but as the front two were covered in nets, we only had one row of spectators in front. To be honest, it was a splendid view. There was barely a seat not being used in the home areas, and the vast bowl was bathed in sky blue. It is an impressive stadium. With City looking to expand to around 63,000 with the addition of a third tier at the northern end, I wonder if they will do a Barcelona and dig down to increase capacity further; there is certainly tons of space. That would get it up to around 68,000 I suspect.

Pre-match chat with a few friends uncovered the fact that I was not the only Chelsea fan who would be happy with a 0-3 defeat.

Sigh.

The match began. The fans immediately behind us were sat and so, for the first time for ages and ages, I sat at an away game.

There was a bright start from City but we had a couple of promising forays into their half too. I soon spotted a new City song.

Snap : “Rhythm Is A Dancer.”

I couldn’t quite work out the words though.

Must be that Manc accent.

Ten minutes had passed. I turned to Gary :

“Well, we’ve made it to ten.”

Two minutes later, an attempted pass out of defence from Wesley Fofana ended up at the feet of a City player and the ball was soon zipped by Cole Palmer to the advancing Julian Alvarez and the Argentinian, surely at home in sky blue, purposefully steered the ball low past Kepa.

Sigh.

“Here we bloody go.”

Our confidence then disintegrated so easily and the home team dominated for most of the first-half.

“City. Tearing Cockneys apart. Again.”

This was a hard watch. I remained sat. There wasn’t a barrage of support from our three tiers at this away game. We were all there in body, but the spirit was yet to emerge. Not many Chelsea chants pierced the warm Manchester air.

Another new song from City. Status Quo? Give me strength.

“City’s won three in a row.”

There was a flurry of City attempts on goal. A lob from Phil Foden just cleared the framework. Palmer looked lively and his shot was booted off the line by Trevoh Chalobah.

With the home crowd buoyant with their team’s domination, several sections of the ground “did the Poznan” but Chelsea responded with a doggedly defiant “Carefree.”

Dave was getting roasted by the kid Palmer down below me. A trusted “7/10 every game” player, Dave shoudn’t really be anywhere near the first team these days. I chatted to Gary about him.

“Maybe Frank just needs players who he thinks he can trust. I dunno. It’s a mystery.”

I guessed that Benoit Badiashile was injured. I would rather have him in the three and move Chalobah over to right wing-back.

“Why isn’t Mudryk playing? City are bound to come at us. All that space he could exploit.”

Gary sighed.

The noise levels lessened. At times it was quiet. A few inflatable bananas were tossed around. This had the definite feel of a dead rubber game.

I was sorely wondering if we might go the whole game without an effort on goal. On half-an-hour, Raheem Sterling broke but his weak effort rolled away for a goal-kick. He was then played in by Kai Havertz but his shot was ably saved by Stefan Ortega.

To be fair, our play improved in the closing moments of the first-half.

A deep cross from the left by Lewis Hall found the completely unmarked Conor Gallagher who stooped to head at goal. The ball hit the near post and appeared to be pushed out by the ‘keeper.

Our support improved.

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

At half-time, one of Manchester’s favourite sons was remembered.

Andy Rourke, who played bass guitar for The Smiths, passed away in New York on the Friday. He had been suffering with pancreatic cancer for quite a while. As a member of one of my very favourite bands, I was obviously upset to hear of his death. He was only fifty-nine. It is a deep regret that I never saw The Smiths live, but they provided the soundtrack, along with the Cocteau Twins, to my youth. I am seeing Johnny Marr in Frome in August. I remember that on a visit to Manchester in late 2006, I visited Salford Lads Club prior to a game at Old Trafford and the caretaker had mentioned that Andy Rourke had visited the previous day, using its recording studio. This is the nearest I got.

“Barbarism Begins At Home” was played at the very start of the break, with Rourke’s funky intro making me unsurprisingly emotional. I glanced up at a banner away on the upper balcony of the main stand.

“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.”

RIP.

There were no substitutions from either manager at half-time.

The game continued along strange lines. City seemed happy to play within themselves while we tended to have more of the ball in attacking areas than the first-half, and our support rallied a little. But the match was played out in an odd atmosphere.

Kalvin Phillips, starting his very first league for City, hit the same part of the goal frame as Gallagher as the second half began.

John Stones appeared for City. We feared that more would come on. We definitely played better in the second-half. A few runs, Ruben looking half-decent, and a couple of shots from Hall peppered their goal. There was a strong run from Sterling but another weak effort.

On sixty-eight minutes, Mudryk replaced Gallagher and Madueke replaced Sterling.

The City support applauded Raheem off; a nice touch in the circumstances. I am not so sure many Chelsea would have applauded him on.

Mudryk blasted high when clean through.

City made three substitutes; on came Haaland, Rodri and De Bruyne.

Their fans were full of it.

“Erling Haaland. He’s scored more than you.”

Gary chirped : “Fuck me. John Stones has scored more than us.”

At some moment in the second-half, Hall slipped as Alvarez advanced and slotted home, but VAR easily spotted the arm that controlled the bouncing ball. A few Chelsea left when this soon-to-be-disallowed goal went in but I was really happy with how many of us stayed right to the end.

We then made a flurry of substitutions.

On came Koulibaly, Chukwuemeka and Pulisic.

Pulisic sent over a fine ball but a diving prod from Dave, of all people, was blocked on the line by Foden.

Thinking to myself : “bloody hell, we could have got a point here.”

At the final whistle, thousands of City fans invaded the pitch despite being warned continually about it.

We walked slowly back to the car.

One young City fan walked along in the middle of the road, arms aloft.

“Ederson and Ake. Walker and Akanje. Ruben Dias, Johnny Stones. Best defence in Europe. We’re Manchester City. We’re on our way to Istanbul.”

…remember Porto, lad, remember Porto?

Sadly, my car was hemmed in back at the car park and so we had to wait for all of the post-match celebrations to end. We stepped inside a rancid pub – “The Grove Inn” – which was full of extras from “Shameless” and reeked of bleach. As we stood silently at the bar, City lifted the trophy on the TV screen to our right. Oh boy.

We had a little banter with the locals; to be fair they were OK. Eventually, bodies appeared outside and we finished our drinks.

“Take care. Hope you pump United in the Cup Final.”

I didn’t pass on my wishes for the Champions League Final though.

I suppose we set off at around 7.15pm. I drove west and then made my way south. There had been a lot of talk between the three of us about football – Chelsea – in the ‘eighties on the drive up to Manchester and there were a few mentions on the return trip home.

Concluding my retrospective about one particular season from that decade – 1982/83 – is the final match of the campaign, the home game with Middlesbrough on Saturday 14 May 1983. Going in to the game we knew that a draw would see us safe. The visitors were one point ahead of us, one place ahead of us, but needed a draw to be safe too.

In the match programme, there was much praise for the fans that had travelled up to Bolton the previous week. The three thousand-strong support represented a full quarter of our average home gate that season and would be the equivalent in today’s money of us taking 10,000 to an away game. The programme honoured those loyal fans who had travelled on the “special” that year by listing the ninety-seven supporters who had gone to at least fourteen of the twenty-one away games with the club. Despite the five London teams in the Second Division that season – Charlton, Crystal Palace, Fulham, QPR and us – there was a definite northern feel to the division that year. Utilising the club special would have been an easy way to save money. I know four of the ninety-seven; Paul Holder, Russell Holbrook, Patrick Gordon-Brown and Kev O’Donohoe, and I am also aware that although my match-day neighbour Alan Davidson qualified for the roll-call, for some reason he was inexplicably excluded, a fact that gnaws away to this day. Kev won a raffle from this list of heroes and the prize was a season ticket to The Shed for 1983/84. He has recently told me that he traded up – paying the difference – for a much more agreeable and fashionable Gate 13 season ticket.

Only three of the ninety-seven are female and I have never seen so many Steves and Daves in one list.

On another page in the Middlesbrough programme, there is a brief mention of my friend Neil Jones, who is wished a happy birthday by his parents. Jonesy recently told me that his actual birthday was spent in the seats at Bolton the week before. That must have a fine birthday present.

In the centre pages, there is a photo of Seb Coe presenting the “Player Of The Year” award to Joey Jones. From an ignominious start and a sending-off at Carlisle United in late October, Joey certainly worked his way into our collective hearts in the remaining seven months of the season. Just below is a picture of Breda Lee and Mary Bumstead.

I would listen to Radio Two, as it was in those days, during the afternoon for score updates. Going into the game, I had hoped for a 10,000 crowd.

The match ended 0-0, thus securing the safety of both teams, and I remember being really pleased that 19,340 attended the game.

Thus, our top four home gates in 1982/83 really were decent.

Fulham – 29,797

Leeds United – 25,358

Queens Park Rangers – 20,821

Middlesbrough – 19,340

However, the dismal run of attendances in the winter had a terrible effect. Our home average levelled out at 12,672. This was narrowly lower than the 13,132 of 1981/82 and the 13,370 of our very first season of 1905/06. Apart from the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/2021 – two league games with an average of 6,000 – these have been the low points in our 118-year history.

We ended the season in eighteenth place, easily our worst-ever placing in our history. We were just two points clear of safety. That Clive Walker goal really did make all of the difference. The three teams relegated to the Third Division were Rotherham United, Bolton Wanderers and Burnley. At the top of the table, Queens Park Rangers were promoted as champions, with Wolverhampton Wanderers and Leicester City filling the other two automatic places. Our neighbours Fulham narrowly missed out by one point in controversial circumstances. Losing 0-1 at Derby County, the home fans invaded the pitch with a minute of the game remaining and the referee signalled the end of the game. At one stage, Fulham were looking a safe bet for promotion.

Elsewhere, Liverpool won the League Championship despite a recent trailing-off of form, finishing eleven points clear of Watford and then Manchester United. Their 2-1 loss at Watford was their fifth loss in seven games.

As for Manchester City, they lost 0-1 at home to Luton Town at Maine Road in front of a massive 42,843, and were relegated to the Second Division.

In some parts of Manchester, the image of David Pleat, dressed completely in beige, still brings convulsions of terror to this day.

OK, Yahni’ed – you’re next.

Tales From A Huge Loss

Posted on January 11, 2023 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs.Chelsea : 8 January 2023.

I have feared that I might have to write this particular match report for a while. Ever since we heard that Gianluca Vialli had left his post with the Italian Football Federation, and was then re-admitted to the Royal Marsden Hospital before Christmas, many of us suspected the worst. Alas, on the Friday morning after our home game with Manchester City, the saddest of news broke.

Gianluca Vialli had died.

I was told the news by a work colleague in our office. I put my hands to my face and sat silent for a few moments.

This was just horrible, horrible news.

I had mentioned Luca only a few days previously in my match report for the Nottingham Forest game; that memory from almost twenty-four years ago, a crowded car-park, a photograph, an autograph, the perfect gent.

In fact, I was rather sparing with my comments about Gianluca Vialli in that report. I sensed that he didn’t have long to live. Pancreatic cancer is an obstinate foe. I erred away from saying too much about the former Chelsea player and manager. I’ll be blunt; I didn’t want to tempt fate.

That I mentioned Gianluca Vialli, though, in my last match report written while he was alive seems right.

And it also seems right that the great man took his last breath in a hospital on Fulham Road, just a few hundred yards from Stamford Bridge.

Luca, how we will miss you.

Being a big fan of Italian football in the ‘eighties, I was aware of the curly-haired striker playing for Sampdoria of Genoa, and watched with interest as he took part in the European Championships of 1988 and the World Cup of 1990. The blues of Sampdoria, with Vialli the leading scorer, won their first and only title in 1991. My first actual sighting of the man took place when I travelled to Turin in May 1992 to see Juventus and Sampdoria eke out a 0-0 draw at the Stadio Delle Alpi. Sampdoria were only a few weeks away from a European Cup Final with Barcelona at Wembley and so put in a rather conservative performance.

Not long after the loss to Barcelona, Vialli moved to Juventus for a world record £12.5M. With Juve being my favourite European team, and with Italian football being shown that season on Channel Four for the first time, I was able to keep tabs on both the progress of him and the team. In 1995, Juve won their first Italian Championship since 1986. In late 1995, I saw Vialli play for Juventus at Ibrox against Rangers in a Champions League group phase game; the visitors won 4-0, with Vialli the captain, and a certain Antonio Conte playing too. I watched in the Broomloan Stand, in a home section, but very close to the travelling away support. The Italians were on fire that night.

At the end of that season, I watched the European Cup Final in a bar in Manhattan as Juventus beat Ajax on penalties in Rome. Just over a week later, I was over on the West Coast – I remember the location, Gaviota State Park – when a ‘phone call home resulted in me learning that Gianluca Vialli had signed for Chelsea.

It truly felt that the stars were aligning.

Gianluca Vialli was to play for Chelsea. Just writing those words twenty-six years or so later still gives me goose bumps.

Of course, that 1996/97 season has gone down in Chelsea folklore for both happy and sad reasons. In addition to Vialli, the summer of 1996 brought new signings Roberto di Matteo and Frank Leboeuf to augment the previous summer’s purchases of Ruud Gullit and Mark Hughes. Our Chelsea team was certainly looking like it could seriously challenge for honours. But first, tragedy, and the death of director Matthew Harding. We all wondered if this would redirect the club’s focus, but not long after, Ruud Gullit signed another top-ranked Italian Gianfranco Zola, and the rest is history.

Ironically, we were stumbling a little before Zola signed. Looking back, I think it is fair to say that Hughes and Vialli were a little too similar in many aspects of their game, and it was the addition of Zola, a play-maker in addition to being a goal scorer, that allowed the team to reach its full potential. Manager Gullit certainly jiggled line-ups around to accommodate all three strikers, and on one memorable occasion, we were able to witness Chelsea alchemy of the very highest order.

Losing 0-2 at half-time at home to Liverpool in the Fourth Round of the FA Cup in January 1997, Gullit brought on Mark Hughes in place of Scott Minto and the triumvirate of Vialli, Zola and Hughes caused havoc in a scintillating second forty-five minutes. A swivel and turn from Sparky on fifty minutes, a delicious Zola free-kick eight minutes later, then two from Vialli on sixty-three and seventy-six minutes. Stamford Bridge was buzzing and we didn’t want the game to end. It is many Chelsea supporters’ favourite ever match. It often gets mentioned here and I do not apologise for it.

Of course we went on to win the FA Cup Final in the May of that year, our first trophy since 1971, and the appearance of Gianluca Vialli as a very late substitute for Zola resulted in the whole end yelling the great man’s name.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

Things never stay the same, though, at Chelsea and before we knew it, Ken Bates had dismissed Ruud Gullit after just a year and a half in charge, and chose Vialli to take on the role of player-manager. I’ll be honest, I was a little concerned, but I need not have been. In a glorious period supporting my team, Vialli won the 1998 League Cup, the 1998 ECWC, the 1998 UEFA Super Cup, the 2000 FA Cup and the 2000 Community Shield.

There has been greater success since, but I absolutely loved the vibe around the club from 1996 to 2000 – “the Vialli years” – and it is probably my favourite period supporting the club, although as a one-off season 1983/84 will never be beaten.

We came so close in 1998/99, only trailing eventual champions Manchester United by four points, but finishing third. If only we had won and not drawn our two games against United, we would have been champions, and the barbs aimed at us in 2005 would have been less prolific.

There was a lovely mix of characters at Chelsea in that era. We played some superb football at times. Ruud called it “sexy”, but I think under Vialli it became a little “cheeky” with a mix of expansive football, quick breaks, rapid-fire passing, with quality everywhere. What do I mean by “cheeky”? Think back to October 1999, Chelsea beating Manchester United 5-0, with Wisey winding up Nicky Butt. That’s what I mean.

There was style and swagger, those two Chelsea cornerstones.

As a player, I loved Vialli’s power, technique, movement, work ethic and goal scoring prowess.

As a manager, I loved his cheerfulness, his honesty, his diligence, the way he called the players his “chaps.”

I loved his big Italian tie, his sweatband, his grey pullover, his penchant for wearing a watch over his cuffs.

I’ll admit it.

He was a man’s man.

We all loved him.

Again, Chelsea being Chelsea, nothing stays the same and amidst rumours of player power, Ken Bates sacked Vialli as manager in September 2000.

I had seen the great man’s first game as a Chelsea player at Southampton in 1996 and I had seen his last game as manager at Newcastle in 2000.

Thank you Luca. We had a blast.

Vialli – I believe – continued to live in London after his departure and also had season tickets at Stamford Bridge for some, if not all, of the subsequent years. In doing a little research for this edition, I was able to plunder some photographs from a midweek game at Stamford Bridge against West Bromwich Albion on 12 February 2018. At halftime, Neil Barnett paraded three stars from the late ‘nineties and it was a glorious occasion.

My eyes were set on Gianluca Vialli. I am pretty sure it was the first time that I had seen him since he left us in 2000.

My match report from that night is called “Tales From The Class Of ‘98” and features these words.

“They slowly walked towards us in the MH and I snapped away like a fool. Each were serenaded with their own songs. They lapped it up. My goodness, it is the twentieth-anniversary season of our ECWC triumph in Stockholm, one of my favourite seasons. It is hard to believe in these days of single-strikers and “false nines” that in 1997/1998 we had the considerable luxury of four strikers.

Gianfranco Zola

Gianluca Vialli

Tore Andre Flo

Mark Hughes

And five if we include Mark Nicholls.

Bloody hell, those were the days. A two-man attack. Beautiful. Let’s get to basics here; I’d much rather see two top strikers in a starting eleven for Chelsea rather than two top holding midfielders. Who wouldn’t?

That season, we were certainly blessed. And each of the four had their own qualities, and it was always interesting to see how Ruud, and then Luca, chopped and changed the front two.

Zola – those amazing twists and turns, those dribbles, that appreciation of space, those passes to others, those goals.

Vialli – those blind-sided runs, the constant movement, the strength of that body, the willingness to run and run.

Flo – surprisingly skilful on the ground for a tall man, his touch was excellent and he weighed in with his share of goals.

Hughes – the last of his three seasons with us, but still useful for his strength in hold-up play, his galvanising effect on the team, and eye for a goal.

Glory days indeed. I loved that team those players.

Gianfranco Zola, Tore Andre Flo, Mark Hughes, Gianluca Vialli, Dan Petrescu, Frank Leboeuf, Graeme Le Saux, Gus Poyet, Dennis Wise, Roberto di Matteo, Steve Clarke, Ruud Gullit.

If anyone had said to me in 1998 that, twenty years on, only one of those players mentioned would get into my team of greatest ever Chelsea players, I would have screamed madness.”

As I looked at other photos from that evening, I gulped when I saw a photo of my friend Glenn and little old me in the hotel before the game with Ray Wilkins, who would pass away less than two months later. That night took on a new resonance for me.

Going in to the FA Cup tie at Manchester City, the focus in my mind shifted. Rather than get obsessed, and down-hearted, about a potentially tough game I realised that the whole day was now about being one of the lucky ones to be able to share our collective love for a much-respected footballer and, above all, man.

And the tributes poured in on the Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Not one soul said anything negative about Gianluca Vialli. He was truly loved, so loved.

Sunday arrived and I collected PD and LP and a long day lay ahead. I set off from home at just before 9am. By 12.30pm, we were ordering three roast beef Sunday lunches at “The Windmill” pub at the Tabley interchange off the M6. Two hours were spent thinking a little about the game later that afternoon but also about our recent sad loss.

My 1982/83 retrospective features, fittingly, an FA Cup game. On Saturday 8 January 1983 – forty years ago to the day – we played Huddersfield Town from the Third Division at Leeds Road. We eked out a 1-1 draw with much-maligned striker Alan Mayes equalising in the second-half. The gate was a very decent 17,064, which came just after a season-leading gate of 18,438 for a home derby with Bradford City. In those days, FA Cup Third Round gates would often be the largest of the season for many clubs, barring local derbies such as this one. I miss those days when “the Cup” was truly special.

It took the best part of an hour to reach the stadium. The expected rain hadn’t really amounted to much, but on the slow drive past City’s old stomping ground and other familiar sights, the bright winter sun reflected strikingly on the steel of new buildings and the red brick of old. In the distance, dark moody clouds loomed ominously. The quality of light was spectacular.

I dropped off PD and LP outside the away end at around 3.30pm and soon parked up. I made my way over the long footbridge that links the smaller City stadium to the main one. I had previously made a mistake in saying that I had seen only Arsenal at seven stadia. Manchester City tie that record; Stamford Bridge, Maine Road, Wembley, The Etihad, Villa Park, Yankee Stadium, Estadio Dragao. If you count the old Wembley and the new Wembley separately, they take the lead with eight.

Another bloody trophy for them.

As soon as I reached the concourse at Level Three – the top tier – there were shouts for “Vialli.”

I have to say that our support for this game blew my socks off. I originally thought that with the game taking place at 4.30pm on a Sunday, and on the back of us taking over 5,000 to the stadium for a League Cup tie in November, there would be no way that we would sell our allocation of 7,500 tickets.

But sell them we did.

Absolutely fantastic.

I was stood alongside LP in the middle of the top tier, alongside Rob, in front of Pete, close to the Two Ronnies, while PD was in the middle tier. I was just glad to be watching from a different part of the South Stand and to not have hundreds of locals jabbering away at us all game long.

The place filled up. My ticket cost just £25, a good deal.

The team was announced.

Kepa

Chalobah – Humphreys – Koulibaly – Hall

Gallagher – Jorginho – Kovacic

Ziyech – Havertz – Mount

And some new names on the bench too.

City? A mixture of youth and experience, no Haaland.

So, a debut from Graham Potter for young Bashir Humphreys.

Shall I do the inevitable line about the manager asking if he was “free” for the game on Sunday?

Nah.

Kick-off approached, the players took to the field, I soon noted the players assembling on the centre circle.

“Ah, fair play City.”

There was an announcement from a voice saying that “Manchester City was sad to hear…” but I then lost the rest of the message as the Chelsea end applauded and sang.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

There were images of Luca on the two corner screens; black and white images, that cheeky smile.

Bless him.

It is a mark of how I assumed that we would perform in this match that I thought that, all things considered, we had a pretty decent start to the game. Both teams began brightly. But on each of our rare forays into the City half (is it me, or does the City pitch look huge?) we quickly ran out of steam, with no target man to hit.

On nine minutes – as requested – the 7,500 strong away army chanted again.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

Not too long after, a mightily impressive “OMWTM” rang out and I liked the fact that a few old school types sat down at around the “eight” mark. It always was better when we all got up on ten.

The City fans must have looked on in awe.

They then had the audacity to sing “YSIFS” and I groaned.

I wondered if the fixture was reversed and there was a 4.30pm kick-off in London, how many City would come down? Not 7,500 I am sure. In the FA Cup of 2015/16, City had brought barely 2,500 down to London on Sunday 21 February. Get my point?

On the pitch, City gained the upper hand.

After twenty-three minutes played, Rob and I were worried about a City free-kick about twenty-five yards out.

Me : “I don’t like this.”

Rob : “Especially Mahrez.”

Me : “There you go. Great goal.”

Sigh.

I will be honest, I didn’t see the handball from Kai Havertz that led to a VAR decision going City’s way not long after. Julian Alvarez struck from the resultant penalty.

In the back of mind : “at least we won’t suffer the ignominy of losing four consecutive FA Cup Finals this year.”

Sigh.

Chelsea were now chasing shadows.

On thirty-eight minutes, I saw a move cut its way through our defence.

“Oh that’s too easy.”

Phil Foden pushed the ball in from close range.

Game over.

Sadly, many Chelsea fans upped and left. This was my worst nightmare; our away end full of empty seats on national television. At the break, my friend Su from Los Angeles, made her way down to watch the rest of the game with Rob, LP and me.

“It’s character building this. By the time I see you again, you will be twice the woman you are now.”

It could have been more. We were awful and in so many different ways. I felt so sorry for the debutant Humphreys, who must have wished that he was needed in haberdashery or to look after Mrs. Slocombe’s pussy.

At the break, changes.

Denis Zakaria for Kovacic, surprisingly poor.

David Datro Fofana for Ziyech, truly awful.

But there were other appearances too, and my heart began to swell. Virtually all of the Chelsea supporters that had left after the third goal thankfully returned. Unbelievable stuff. Well done each and every one of you.

Proper Chelsea.

Good God, on fifty-five minutes Mason Mount shot at goal, deflecting wide, and I even caught the bugger on film.

On sixty-three minutes, more changes.

Omari Hutchinson for the ever dreadful Ziyech.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Mount.

Hutchinson showed a lot more confidence than on his meek appearance on Thursday. The new Fofana looked decent too.

On seventy-three minutes, another change.

Azpilicueta for Jorginho, the slow-moving and irksome irritant.

I found it hard to focus on anything really. The game seemed an irrelevance. The four of us kept our spirits up with gallows humour. Around us, there were loud songs for Thomas Tuchel and Roman Abramovich.

With five minutes to go, a foul by Kalidou Koulibaly gave City their second penalty of the game.

Manchester City 4 Chelsea 0.

Sigh.

With that, an exodus started but we stayed to the final whistle.

It was, in the end, all rather predictable. However, the mood in the away end was defiant throughout. The shouts in memory of Vialli were loud, and sung with passion, while there was anger and frustration at the current regime.

We left.

A chap with his daughter remained upbeat and suggested a surreal ending to this season and a very strange one in 2023/24.

“We win the Champions League but get relegated this season.”

“Ha” I replied…

”Real Madrid and Bristol City one week, Juventus and Rotherham United the next. Love it.”

On the walk back at our car I overheard a woman – a local City fan – talking to her husband and daughter.

“City fans singing about Chelsea’s support being effing shit…well, it wasn’t was it?”

“Thanks” I said.

She smiled.

I made good time as I wriggled out of the city.

How long did it take me?

“A pasty, two small Double Deckers and half a packet of Fruit Pastilles.”

The rain stayed away as I drove south and I made good time. We didn’t dwell too much on the defeat. But it certainly felt as if we were now supporting a different team and club, almost unrecognisable in fact. And that is not good.

As the reaction to another defeat hit social media, I was reminded that this was our first exit in the Third Round of the FA Cup since that shocking 3-5 defeat by Manchester United at Stamford Bridge in January 1998; our first game since 1970 as FA Cup holders. We were 0-5 down at one stage. But I still loved that 1996 to 2000 team. Oh for some of that spirit in 2023.

I reached home at 11.15pm. It had been a long, emotional, and sad day.

Next up, a local derby at Craven Cottage. See you there.

Tales From City At Home

Posted on January 7, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 5 January 2023.

After the miserable performance at the City Ground, we were now due to play two games in four days against the current English Champions Manchester City. This would only be my second home game against these opponents since September 2017. In 2018/19, I missed the home match with City due to illness, and in the subsequent two campaigns, COVID forced both games to be played behind closed doors. Last season, I was able to watch as we narrowly lost 0-1 to City at Stamford Bridge.

We were in London early, arriving at our usual parking space on Mulgrave Road at 4.15pm. I had lots of time to kill before the 8pm kick-off. In that long period before the game, every Chelsea supporter that I spoke to was very subdued and wary. Everyone without exception said that they would be satisfied with a draw.

I filled the time until kick-off in a number of ways.

First up, a wander down to the stadium and a coffee in the hotel bar area, with a few chats with several familiar faces. I had spotted a queue of cars to get into the car park at Fulham Broadway; a very rare sight. On a day when trains to London were hit with strikes, many more than usual would be driving in like us. I then spent a few minutes outside, clicking away with my camera to try to capture a few different match day sights at the main gates. But I needed sustenance, so meandered down the Fulham Road, stopping off for a quick chat with Steve at the programme stall. Further down, I peered into the offices of an estate agent’s as I walked on. This is where “The George” used to be; our local from around 1985 to 1987, but this sadly ceased being a pub ages ago. My mind flew back in time. It’s where Glenn and I used to meet the Somerset Supporters Club; Neil, Baz, Rob, Swan, Terry and company. It’s another pub that is now consigned to the history books. Those clean white walls of the estate agents know nothing of the laughs we had in that back bar.

There was a surprise meet up with Marco way down the Fulham Road as he made his way up to the CFCUK stall. I eventually stumbled across a previously unvisited Sicilian café where I plotted up for half-an-hour. “Simmons” is now unfancied for midweek games, so I made my way to “The Mitre” for the first time in many a year where we hoped to meet the usual suspects. I bumped into Neil Barnett as I turned a corner to walk up the North End Road and we chatted for a while about the current malaise. He too feared the worst against City. Why wouldn’t he?

In “The Mitre”, I spotted Parky, but none of the other usual lads who we used to meet in “Simmons”. We’d later learn they had been drinking in “The Cock”. Not to worry, Leigh and Darren were in “The Mitre” with some of the lads we had been drinking with in Salzburg. No positive vibes from any of them either.

I was in early, way early, at about 7.15pm. It was a surprisingly mild night. My Barbour jacket was too warm but I could hardly jettison it. PD was in early too.

With half an hour to go, Depeche Mode were on the pre-match play-list.

“Just Can’t Get Enough.”

Could I get enough of Chelsea? Probably not. I could probably get enough of City over the next few days though.

There was a quick chat with Oxford Frank behind me. More negative vibes.

Sigh.

Amid all of this, time for a further dose of misery; 1982/83 is calling.

On Monday 3 January 1983, a bank holiday, Chelsea travelled to Filbert Street to play Leicester City in a Second Division match. We lost 3-0, and it would have come as no surprise to me. I was undoubtedly preparing myself for a tough 1983, and this was not all Chelsea-based. I was really struggling with my “A Levels” and the exams in June loomed heavily on my mind. There were a few interviews at various polytechnics to endure as spring approached and I just thought that this would be an absolute exercise in futility. I knew damn well, even in January, that my grades would not be good enough. A helping hand from Chelsea Football Club to get me through this depressing period was needed. Alas, my beloved team were performing as well as me. Two goals from Gary Lineker and one from Alan Smith, in front of a decent-enough gate of 13,745, gave Chelsea our second away defeat in three days.

Oh the joys.

What with the train strike, I half-expected a fair few unfilled seats, especially in the away section, but this was another near capacity crowd at Chelsea.

Graham Potter chose these players against City.

Kepa

Dave – Koulibaly – Silva – Cucarella

Kovacic – Zakaria

Ziyech – Sterling – Pulisic

Havertz

Jorginho wasn’t playing. That would have pleased Neil Barnett. Kovacic was. That wouldn’t.

City, and it does not always happen, were wearing their sky blue home kits. It’s a decent look this year. Blue, white, blue, with that maroon trim from old. However, both the names and numbers were almost unreadable. Nathan Ake’s arse has doubled in size since the last time I saw him; it is now the size of Audenshaw and Droylesden.

We remembered Edson Arantes do Nascimento before the game.

RIP.

The match began.

There were mutterings about Raheem Sterling putting one over his former team mates, but this fantastical notion was obliterated in the first five minutes when he went down after a challenge by John Stones. He was replaced by the gloved crusader Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang.

We prepared to be underwhelmed.

With each passing minute, I thought three things.

We are playing alright here.
We haven’t conceded a goal.
Has Erling Haaland touched the ball yet?

Indeed, we were playing alright. There were a number of decent passing moves on both flanks, but with no finishing touch. One pleasing move down our right on a quarter of an hour resulted in a decent low ball in to the danger zone from Dave but all of our attacking players had been busy in the right-hand side of the pitch setting the move up, and there was no predator waiting to finish the move off.

There was a reasonable amount of noise from the home areas but nothing to get the pulses racing nor the stands shaking. Such is life in modern football, eh?

“Has Haaland touched the ball yet, Clive?”

Halfway through the first-half, not only no goals but we were just about edging it.

However, another enforced change.

Carney Chukwuemeka for the perennially crocked Christian Pulisic.

The young substitute immediately impressed, and there was a nice edge to our midfield with Kovacic and Zakaria both influencing our play. I certainly didn’t miss the “touch, look, swivel, look, pass” from Jorginho one little bit.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A shot from Carney was blocked, and a shot from Ziyech. Ederson, dressed in head to toe in tattoos and purple, tights and all, managed to get down low to save the latter.

There were times when Ziyech, an outcast on the right, was under-used and it frustrated me.

“It’s gotta go quicker, Chels.”

Haaland was quiet, and as the game reached the final ten minutes of a decent half, the surprising sight of Kalidou Koulibaly out-muscling the Norwegian when the poacher was in on goal was magnificent. The Matthew Harding cheered this and I’d hope the defender grew from the affection. His Chelsea career has been tough thus far.

Thiago Silva was putting in another fine performance.

The under-fire left back Marc Cucarella was struggling at times, though, and some of his positioning as he marked his player was truly awful. On a few occasions, he was so unbalanced that he was easily side-stepped. But generally speaking, both Phil Foden and Kevin de Bruyne were subdued.

At last, Cucarella made a fine tackle just outside our box.

“Well done, Crystal Tipps” bellowed Rousey.

The first-half finished with a flurry, despite Chelsea being a little reticent to fully commit.

“We just don’t flood the box, Al.”

An effort from Haaland flew over. Phew.

On forty-three minutes, a fine move resulted in Carney crashing a low drive against a post, with The Illustrated Man well beaten. From here, a rapid break towards us in the Matthew Harding with our combined buttocks clenching with each yard gained. Thankfully, Kepa was equal to a rasper from De Bruyne. It was the best minute of football during the entire half.

I thought our performance was measured and controlled, not leaving us exposed and open to getting ripped apart again, despite the wishes of the away end.

I was more than content at the break.

“Not roaring though is it Clive?”

The atmosphere, to be truthful, was shite.

When the second-half began it was all City in the forty-sixth minute, the forty-seventh minute, the forty-eighth minute, etcetera.

Haaland went close soon into the half. Ake crashed a header against the Shed End bar, with a team mate behind him for extra support should he miss-time his header. Then a fine save from Kepa when De Bruyne shot at goal.

After Carney did well to retrieve a loose ball from a Chelsea corner, the ball sat up nicely for Silva but his zipped shot narrowly missed the far post down below us all.

I stood up, swore, and held my head in my hands instinctively, while turning to my left and looking back at my fellow supporters in the MHU. It is something I do without thinking on many occasions. It’s my body’s way of telling the world “damn, that was so close, eh?”

It dismayed me no end to see virtually every single spectator still sat.

It’s gone. Our support has gone. Where’s the fucking emotion? Where’s the fucking involvement?

Forays by us into the City defence were rarer now though, and on the hour, a double substitution was ominous. On came Jack Grealish and Riyad Mahrez.

“Fackinell, Clive.”

Within five minutes, catastrophe.

My commentary to myself, and Clive if he was listening, was this :

“he’ll move it again…I hate these balls in…there you go.”

It was easy as 1,2,3, A, B, C, do-re-mi.

Fackinell.

Grealish, in space, a low ball, Mahrez at the back stick.

Others will have had a better view, with the portioning of blame no doubt, but it was just too far away for me to comment.

At that moment, the conceding of that one goal, I just knew we would be up against it. Even an equaliser seemed implausible.

The previously quiet City contingent roared.

“City. Tearing Cockneys apart again.”

We ain’t Cockneys. Keep that song for when you play United, eh?
That’s based on a United song about Ryan Giggs. You’re better than that.

Graham didn’t potter about. His reaction was swift.

Conor Gallagher for Ziyech.

Lewis Hall for Crystal Tipps.

And a Chelsea debut for Omari Hutchinson, on for the substitute Abameyang.

Omari is the latest in a line of Chelsea Hutchinsons.

Ian.

Colin.

Sam.

I hope he is a better footballer than Colin.

The introduction of the substitutes energised the support and for one exact moment it sounded, at bloody last, like a football match.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

In truth, the debutant Hutchinson looked nervous and played easy ball after easy ball. Gallagher was so full of energy that he almost exploded. Hall fitted in supremely well on the left.

On seventy-two minutes, a rapid cross from De Bruyne from the right flashed across the box, missing everyone, but also the lunge from Haaland with the whole goal gaping in front of him. I had witnessed a miracle.

There was a looping header from Havertz just after, but this was easily saved by Lilac Larry in the City goal. An effort from Kovacic fizzed over. Very late on,Hall blasted over from a bursting run down in front of us.

It wasn’t to be.

It ended 0-1, as did the City games that I saw live in 2017/18 and 2021/22.

On the drive home, I saw that Peter Rhoades-Brown had been back at Chelsea for the night’s game. These days, he is heavily involved in some community and corporate work for his home town team Oxford United for whom he played after leaving us. I mention this because he played in the 1982/83 featured game at Leicester.

We were philosophical. We had played much better than most had expected. City, to be blunt, had been relatively poor, the worst I had seen from them at Chelsea for a while. We all know we are a team in transition, a club in transition too. There is no doubt that the knives are out for Graham Potter within some sections of the support. That’s not a surprise.

I eventually reached home at 1.30am.

On Sunday, the same two teams meet in deepest Manchester.

7,500 Chelsea are going.

See you there.