Tales From A Black Night

Posted on December 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

Leeds United vs. Chelsea : 3 December 2025.

Subtitled : To ‘ell and back.

I will be totally honest – or in modern parlance, “NGL” – here. I had been dreading this trip ever since I heard of this season’s fixtures.

Even as the game became close.

And that is somewhat surprising, bearing in mind our recent little upturn in the home games against Barcelona and Arsenal.

No, sorry everyone. A midweek trip up to West Yorkshire on a Wednesday evening in December filled me with dread. For starters, I was short on holiday, so was only able to take two half days to accommodate this troublesome journey. However, it got worse; I was still recuperating from the bug that had hit me hard the previous week.

The day began for me at 6.30am with an alarm call to get me up and ready to work an 8am to midday shift.

I eventually got away, with PD and Parky as my trusty passengers, at 12.15pm. Thankfully there were clear skies overhead. I am not quite sure how I would have possibly coped with heavy rainfall and dodgy visibility. So, that was a huge positive.

Not long into the journey, PD shared the news that Marvin Hinton had passed away the day before. This fine servant, who played as a full-back and then a centre-half and was probably our first-ever sweeper on occasion back in the mid- ‘sixties, played an important role in our much-loved teams from that era. “Lou” played 344 times for Chelsea and came on as a substitute against Leeds United in the 1970 FA Cup Final and replay. Sadly, I never saw him in a game. He was known for his cool and calm style of play. He was eighty-five.

Rest In Peace Marvin Hinton.

We stopped briefly at Strensham Services. Thankfully I was feeling reasonable and we pressed on.

I spoke about the evening’s match.

“It’s weird. They will be singing ‘Doris Day’, while we will be singing ‘Dambusters’ and long may it continue.

It’s a cracking rivalry, even now.

At around 4pm, we decided to call in at a familiar pub on our travels; The Windmill at the Tabley Interchange on the M6. We were distraught to see that the property was closed and for sale. All three of us had really fancied some of their robust Northern grub. We then decided to aim for The Kilton Inn near Mere, another old favourite used for games in the Manchester area – including on Saturday 30 April 2005 – but they weren’t serving food until 5pm. Thankfully, our luck improved when we stumbled across The Plough at Hollins Green – a good sign for the evening’s game, surely – where we stopped from 4.30pm until 5.15pm.

Food was ordered and devoured.

In-keeping with the day’s travel and the evening’s game, we dined on traditional no-frills fare.

PD : Cheese and onion pie and chips.

Parky : Cottage pie.

Chris : Lancashire Hot Pot.

The pub was decent. It’s very close to the northern banks of the Manchester Ship Canal. The food was hearty and filling. The staff were friendly, if not slightly bemused that we were en route to Leeds.

We edged through some slow-moving traffic but then found ourselves back on the same road that we had used to get to Burnley ten days previously. Once on the M62, the traffic cleared, and I soared up and over The Pennines.

I made good time. We passed over the highest spot on the UK motorway network near the Lancashire / Yorkshire border then descended towards Leeds. As I drove on, the lights of the city and then the lights of Elland Road lured me in.

I was parked up at 6.30pm at a private car park; the price was a reassuringly cheap £6.

We had made it.

The former “away” pub The Dry Salters is now closed, so we had no options before walking to Elland Road, which was a good twenty-five-minute walk away. There’s nothing much around Elland Road. It’s a decent place to reach in a car, but it’s a long way out of the city centre, with hardly any pubs nearby.

Stamford Bridge it ain’t.

The temperature had dropped. Locals rushed by wearing the trademark white, yellow and blue bar scarves.

My K-Way jacket and Yankees cap fought to keep out the chilling temperatures.

I had to meet Lewis, a friend of a friend of a friend, to pass over a spare, and this was eventually accomplished at around 7.30pm.

In I went, and I was soon reminded that the bar area in the away concourse is strangely carpeted, a remnant of when this stand was for home fans only.

Up the steps, down the steps, and I quickly found my place alongside John. I said “this place doesn’t change much, does it?” and he soon mentioned the Don Revie carpet.

Revie loved getting the Leeds squad to play carpet bowls – that’s not a euphemism, I hope – and I wondered if this odd practice even took place in the crowded confines of Elland Road.

We had good seats, near the player’s tunnel. I soon spotted PD in the front row. He was sat a couple of seats away from a guy that Parky was sat next to at Burnley. During the TV coverage, Parky was spotted by many friends in the US and I was sent some screen shots. The chap next to Parky had a bizarre ‘seventies hairstyle…long blonde locks…and a mate said that an image of him was used to initiate a “reddit” thread during the game.

There were comments of this bloke’s resemblance to Jimmy Saville. In Leeds, on this night, he made the very wise choice to wear his hair in a ponytail. However, one poor chap within the Chelsea support nearer the noisy buggers in the South Stand, who must have had a passing resemblance to the infamous Leeds native, was the target for much abuse throughout the game.

John and I chatted about how ridiculous the 8.15pm kick-off was.

The irony was that Arsenal were playing Brentford at 7.30pm. If one game had to kick-off, why not that one, with most of the crowd travelling in from the South-East.

An evening game in West Yorkshire is bad enough, but not 7.30pm, not 7.45pm, not 8pm but 8.15pm?

It’s taking the piss on a monumental scale.

The team was announced.

Enzo Maresca rang the changes, and how. Nobody was happy.

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Gittens

Delap

With Caicedo on a ban, and James simply not chosen, I wondered if the team had enough guts.

The home team boasted a mysterious bunch of unknowns – Ampadu, the captain, and Calvert-Lewin aside – including Peri-Peri, Bijoux, Boogle, Nacker, Stuck and Stack.

“Marching On Together” boomed, and the noise was impressive.

The two teams appeared in front of us, and it irked me that Chelsea chose to play in the all black “Millwall badge” monstrosity. When Chelsea plays at Leeds, we should always wear blue. Maybe with yellow socks to remind them about 1970.

As for Leeds, what with their hatred for all things Mancunian and Lancastrian, the flash of red of their shirt sponsor looked out of place too.

The noise didn’t let up as the time reached 8.15pm.

I posted on Facebook : “Let’s Win This For Lou.”

Leeds began on fire. A shot from Ao Tanaka was dealt with by Robert Sanchez, but a corner in the sixth minute was swing in and Jaka Bijol leaped clear to head home, unchallenged, from an angle ahead of the near post.

“Here we bloody go.”

After ten minutes or so, we looked so lethargic in possession.

Where was the fire, the intensity, the hunger?

On fifteen minutes, a half-chance for Joao Pedro at the old Gelderd End, now the Don Revie Stand. Funny, back in the day, I always knew it as The Kop, not the Gelderd End. I only heard of this name relatively recently.

There was an almost witty exchange on fifteen minutes.

Chelsea to Leeds : “Champions of Europe, you’ll never sing that.”

Leeds to themselves : “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe.”

This is their stubborn nod to the 1975 European Cup Final in Paris against Bayern Munich when a Peter Lorimer goal was controversially chalked off for offside, only for Bayern to win a tight game 2-0.

Fifty years ago. Fackinell.

The irony is that I wanted Leeds to win that night; these were the days when things were less tribal, and when – as a young kid – I wanted all English teams to be victorious in European finals.

I remember us singing “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe” as we exited the stadium in Munich in 2012, but we haven’t sung it since to my knowledge.

Estevao was only really involved with his trademark shimmy inside and I wondered if he would be found out if this was to be the only trick up his sleeve.

Meanwhile, Leeds were winning tackles and second balls with an admirable, yet gut-wrenching, intensity. Our midfield was missing, perhaps on the Pennines or somewhere.

Shots were aimed at Sanchez from all angles. They were out-fighting us and out-shooting us.

“And go get your father’s gun, shoot the Chelsea scum.”

We improved slightly but our shots on goal were woeful. Jamie Gittens seemed unsure whether to stick or twist; to dribble past his man, or to pass. He looked lost.

Leeds were full of it.

“Even bloody Calvert-Lewin looks a handful tonight.”

Benoit Badiashile seemed to slow down to a crawl when in possession. And it didn’t help that he probably touched the ball more than any other player as the first half progressed. His passes were never positive. It was excruciating to watch.

On thirty-nine minutes, there was some terrible pre-meditated nonsense from Estevao. After losing the ball, he kicked out at a Leeds player from behind and was rightfully booked.

Prick.

In the last couple of minutes, Leeds won a loose ball as Chelsea struggled to clear and the ball ran nicely to Tanaka, who struck a magnificent shot into the corner.

Bollocks.

The home crowd roared again.

Memories of our equally awful performance under Thomas Tuchel in the August of 2022 came racing back. We lost 0-3 that afternoon.

At the break, we were at a real low.

What a lacklustre first half, nobody more than 4/10.

“Sort it out Maresca.”

At half-time, Howard Wilkinson slowly walked onto the pitch to say a few words to the Leeds faithful. How I remember our battles with his Sheffield Wednesday team in the early-to-mid ‘eighties, and of course I remember him leading Leeds to that 1991/92 championship. It was the last Football League title and – get this – Wilkinson is still the last English manager to win the title in England.

That’s pretty damning if you ask me.

As I heard him speak, I remembered that excellent midfield of David Batty, Gary Speed, Gordan Strachan and Gary McAllister. In truth, elsewhere that Leeds team contained mediocre players – maybe Tony Dorigo is the exception – but I was just happy that they pipped Manchester United that season. My college mates Bob and Trev went to many Leeds games that season. I thought of them too; friends since 1984.

I was having a wistful moment and found myself clapping the Leeds manager, no doubt out of respect for some fine memories of a time when football was another ball game in another age. A few other Chelsea fans of my generation clapped too.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile.

Pedro Netro for Estevao.

On forty-seven minutes, a cross from the Leeds right found Lukas Nmecha but Sanchez made an outstanding point blank save.

Three minutes later, we worked the ball out to Gittens who surprised us all by sending over a very good cross that evaded everyone and found Pedro Neto arriving at the far post. He adjusted himself and did ever so well to slot the ball in from a very awkward angle. He raced away, heading for the bench, pointing and gesturing and one can only imagine what he was saying to the management team.

We momentarily played some incisive stuff, and the fans noted the difference in intent.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

Liam Delap fired wide from an angle.

“Come on boys.”

On the hour, more changes.

Cole Palmer for Delap.

Alejandro Garnacho for Gittens.

Eight minutes later, the Argentinian raced away down the left, in front of the baying home fans who remembered his Manchester past and set up Cole Palmer who had typically dropped into some space at the front of the goal.

I expected him to score. John expected him to score. The twat behind me who had been calling virtually every Chelsea player a “c**t” expected him to score. My mates in South Philly and in South London expected him to score. Johnny Dozen from Southern California, watching to my right in the paddock, expected him to score.

The shot went wide.

I held my head in disbelief.

On seventy-two minutes, Chelsea suicide. We found ourselves doing our best “after you, Claude” routine, passing the ball around inside our box, but looking increasingly inept with each nervous pass. Leeds put us under pressure. Tosin dillied and dallied, and dallied and dillied, and lost his way, and the ball. Leeds had two aggressive players on the last man. Ilia Gruev stabbed at the loose ball, Sanchez blocked, but Calvert-Lewin pushed the ball home.

Leeds United 3 Chelsea 1.

Bollocks.

In the last ten or fifteen minutes, many Chelsea fans evacuated both levels of the stand, but I had to stay to the end. I rarely leave early.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Guiu replaced Joao Pedro.

No doubt recycling a chant aimed at Manchester United fans, the South Stand sang at us.

“It’s a long way to London when you’re shit.”

It wasn’t to be.

The whistle blew and that was that.

What a terrible performance.

In retrospect, the manager’s selection – and by the looks of it, his motivational pre-match speech – were way off.

To the Chelsea fans inside Elland Road, we appeared to be in completely the wrong frame of mind. Whereas the home team were full of aggression from the off, we seemed to be treating this game like any other.

Simply selecting a sub-par eleven and hoping for the best was never going to work at Elland Road.

Is anyone at modern day Chelsea aware of the dislike they have of us?

Amongst all of it, Sanchez kept us in it with some super saves, and he can’t really be blamed for the goals. Garnacho was a big positive when he came off the bench. And I think he ought to have started. He knows what the atmosphere at Leeds is like. Less so the young and still inexperienced Estevao. Enzo was poor. Santos too. That midfield was devoid of bite.

Elland Road is a very tough venue for us.

Since our first visit in 1927, in all games, our record is this :

Played : 53

Won : 8

Drew :15

Lost : 30

Two seasons ago, the two teams met in a Youth Cup game. The club was concerned that Leeds knew all about the rivalry, but the Chelsea boys didn’t. To remedy this, the 1970 replay was shown to the squad at Cobham, and the staff ensured that the players were suitably motivated. We won the tie easily.

I bet Maresca didn’t even know about the 1970 cup replay.

We slowly walked back to the car, and I got going at around 11pm. On the return home, there were roadworks on the M5 and so I was pushed down the M1 to Leicester and I was forced to come down the Fosseway – hello again – and over The Cotswolds. At Cirencester, there was a road closure, and the diversion signs took me everywhere but the right direction. At 2.45am, I found myself creeping around the streets of Cirencester trying to find an escape route.

I eventually reached home at 4am.

6.30am to 4am.

Bloody hell.

We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…

Tales From Weatherfield

Posted on September 22, 2025 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 20 September 2025.

In the short few days of build up to our game at Manchester United, one thought kept bouncing around inside my head.

“Twelve years. We haven’t bloody won at Old Trafford for twelve years.”

That 1-0 win in May 2013 was the last time we had returned south with a full three points. A Juan Mata shot that nutmegged the gurning giant Phil Jones, deflecting slightly off his left kneecap, gave us the three points. I remember that I took a photo of that exact moment. It affected Sir Alex Ferguson so much that he announced his retirement the next day.

It all seems so long ago now. Our team that day reads like a list of Chelsea giants :

Cech, Azpilicueta, Cole, Ivanovic, Luiz, Ramires, Lampard, Oscar, Mata, Ba, Moses.

No Terry, though, jettisoned to the sidelines under Rafael Benitez. Torres and Ake were the two playing substitutes.

My closing paragraphs in my “Tale” from that that day sums up the joy of that moment.

“I glanced at Alan, who was screaming, his cheeks red, his face ecstatic. I spotted Juan Mata sprint down to the corner flag. It was his moment to tease, torment and tantalise. I clicked away. I was surprisingly cool. After taking around ten photos, my time had come. I clambered onto the seat in front and screamed.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES! GET IN!

That was it. It was time for some bombastic, triumphant chanting.

“Amsterdam. Amsterdam. We Are Coming.
Amsterdam. Amsterdam. I Pray.
Amsterdam. Amsterdam. We Are Coming.
We Are Coming In The Month Of May.”

Our battle song of 2013.

The Chelsea fans around me were full of smiles and joy. I stood on the seat in front for the next few minutes. I was only vaguely aware of the late red card for Raphael as I was still full of song. I felt my throat getting sore, but this was no time to relent.

“Champions Of Europe. We Know What We Are.”

Despite a few last-ditch United chances, we held on. This was my eighteenth visit to Old Trafford with Chelsea and only the fifth victory. It wasn’t comparable to the pivotal win in 2009-2010, but it was a close second.

I raced back to the waiting car with the United fans moaning away all around me. I listened to “606” on the drive through Sale and Altrincham. Dave Johnstone’s voice was the sole Chelsea voice to be heard. Many United fans were phoning in.

They weren’t happy.

How dare “United” lose a match.

To be honest, I could hardly believe my ears at the ruthlessness of some of their fans. They were irate with Ferguson for playing a second-rate team (I hadn’t noticed) and one chap was so fed up with Fergie’s dictatorial nature that he wasn’t renewing his season ticket next year.”

Twelve years on, we had been lured back to Old Trafford once more.

I collected PD at 10am and Parky at 10.30am. I was well aware that this would be my thirtieth visit to Old Trafford to see Chelsea play Manchester United, the most-ever visits to an away stadium, but my record was rather humble.

Played 29

Won 5

Drew 10

Lost 15

To make it worse, two of those paltry five wins were way back in 1986, my first two visits. So, stretched out over almost forty years, just three wins in twenty-seven games tell my own personal story of misery.

For those of a certain age, Chelsea always used to have a decent record at Old Trafford, with our most successful period between 1966 and 1986. In thirteen league visits in that twenty-year span, we were unbeaten. It all came to a crashing end on a hot bank holiday Monday in August 1987, a game that I sadly watched from a cramped away enclosure.

Anyway, enough of the past. This was 2025, and I – worryingly – was travelling north with a smidgeon of optimism. As we all know, Manchester United have been quite awful so far this season under Ruben Amorim. I had no doubts that the four Manchester United supporters that co-exist alongside me in our small office of ten were nervous of the weekend’s game. I had kept my lips tight, not wishing to tempt fate, but was hopeful.

With the game kicking off at 5.30pm, a four-and-a-half journey stretched out in front of me.

The skies darkened as we advanced past Birmingham. We became enmeshed in slow-moving traffic, partly caused I think by teeming rain and copious surface water, and so we had to reappraise our pre-match plans. Rather than stop off at a pub en route, we decided to aim straight for the stadium.

In the last hour or so, the rain didn’t stop, and the clouds were so low that it seemed we had to duck to avoid them.

The Sat Nav sent me towards Old Trafford via a different route than usual, avoiding the M60 Orbital, past Didsbury, through the massive Southern Cemetery, a sombre experience in the Manchester rain, through Chorlton-cum-Hardy – a district that always makes me chuckle like a twelve-year-old – and then on towards Old Trafford. For a few minutes, I found myself driving on Kings Road in Stretford, where Morrissey once lived. In 2004, I saw Morrissey in concert at the Old Trafford cricket ground, a genuine home coming, and he opened with the line –

“Hello, Weatherfield.”

Due to my two co-passengers’ issues in walking, I dropped them off outside The Bishop Blaize pub on the Chester Road at around 4.15pm, then turned around and headed down to my usual parking place near Gorse Hill Park. As they exited my car, the rain lashed against them, my car, the roads and the pavements. I had left my house at 9.45am, and I had dropped the lads off six-and-a-half hours later. It was, despite no end of laughs between the three of us, a real slog.

I paid my £10 – it was £15 last season, are United now worth 66% of their 2024 value? – and zipped up my jacket, donned my baseball cap, and away I went, fearing the worst. The rain still lashed down, and I expected to be drenched by the time I reached the familiar slope of the forecourt underneath the Munich clock.

Thankfully, the weather lightened on my twenty-minute walk to Old Trafford, and I decided to take a few photos from a couple of fresh angles, with the huge steel structure of the stadium looking over the terraced houses below.

I noted the “20 Zone” street sign next to The Bishop Blaize and quizzically wondered if that was a nod towards the local team’s title haul. Maybe I would have been happier if it had said “20 Limit.”

They have won enough, surely.

On the busy corner of Chester Road and Sir Matt Busby Way, there was the usual agglomeration of United fans from many parts of the British Isles and further afield. For a few moments, all I could hear were Irish accents.

After a slight wait at the security check, and with Chelsea fans shouting about flutes, and a lone United fan shouting about rent boys, I finally reached the cramped away concourse.

Phew.

It was just before 5pm.

The rain had recommenced and – my goodness – Old Trafford looked as quintessentially Mancunian as it is ever likely to.

A depressing wash of clouds overhead, the grey steel of the roof, the mesmerising sight of millions of speckles of rain lashing down and across the massive void of the stadium.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry that my seat, in row 2 above the corner flag, had just missed the drip, drip, drip from a hole in the stand a hundred feet above me. Even worse was the fact that two of the disabled spectators in the section right in front of me were experiencing the full effect of a leaky roof too. It seemed that their red United rain jackets would be in for a tough assignment during the early evening’s entertainment.

Shocking.

Both the home and away sections took a while to fill.

At 5.25pm, I recognised a song.

“This Is The One” by the Stone Roses started and would welcome the teams onto the pitch. Flags and banners fluttered in The Stretford End, looking like a less colourful Kop, and I took a few photos.

I posted one on “Facebook” with the words “This Is The One.”

And please God, let this be the one, a win at last in rainy dreary Weatherfield.

Manager Enzo Maresca chose these starters :

Sanchez, James, Cucurella, Fofana, Chalobah, Enzo, Caicedo, Estevao, Palmer, Neto, Joao Pedro.

Then, next up, a John Denver / Pete Boyle mash-up.

“Take me home, United Road.

To the place I belong.

To Old Trafford, to see United.

Take me home, United Road.”

I had sensed a quiet nervousness both outside and inside from the home support, and there had been little pre-match jousting on the terraces from either set of fans.

As always, we attacked the Stretford End in the first half.

However, in the first six minutes, we didn’t attack the Stretford End. It was all United in this opening period.

It didn’t take long for the goal at our end to be the central focus. New signing Bryan Mbeumo forced a decent save from Robert Sanchez after only two minutes, and then Reece James was on hand with a timely interception very soon after, saving a likely opener.

This understandably roused the home support, whose noise then stirred the away support into life.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

Around this time, we were treated to two Sanchez miskicks to United players, but very soon there would be an even bigger calamity.

Just as I was reviewing how wet the seats were to my right, and where my away pals Gary and John should have been standing – where were they? – I had momentarily looked away as the United ‘keeper had walloped a ball forward. To be honest, I didn’t see the build-up, only the ill-timed rush out of our penalty area by Sanchez and the catastrophic swipe at Mbeumo.

Oh bollocks.

The referee issued a straight red.

What a mess.

It seemed that those little hopes of success on this miserable day had been immediately washed away.

But then, as the United players crowded around the site of the free kick that would follow, Maresca chose not to make one substitution but two and we all scratched our collective heads.

Filip Jorgensen for Estevao, Tosin Adarabioyo for Neto.

Bloody hell, our two wingers, our two “out balls”, what was the manager thinking?

“That just invites them on” uttered a local Chelsea fan, who I am sure stood in front of me at Old Trafford on a recent visit.

From the free-kick, Bruno Fernandes thankfully wasted the chance to take the lead.

We struggled to put two passes together, and on fourteen minutes, a cross came in, and Patrick Dorgu’s header fell nicely for Fernandes to sweep the ball in. He raced away to the far corner and as the home fans roared, I felt ill.

“Well, that was too easy.”

Here we go again.

Unbeknown to me straight away, there was a VAR review, but that amounted to nothing.

Just after, Gary and John arrived, soaked, the victims of slow-moving traffic on the M6.

We were awful. I had to wonder who on Earth thought that it was a smart move to knock it about nonchalantly at the back when United had a spare man and who could put us under great pressure. It was nonsense tactics. Especially, when we had nobody to hit if we ever managed to play it past this press.

After twenty-one minutes, a further substitution, Andrey Santos for Cole Palmer.

I texted some mates.

“White flags.”

I was utterly perplexed. But then the rumour went out that Palmer was injured.

Down below us, a move developed and Casemiro bundled the ball in from an Amad Diallo cross, but the ball had gone out behind the goal-line in the build-up.

On thirty-four minutes, a very rare excursion into the Stretford End penalty box, and Joao Pedro tumbled. It was too far away for me to judge.

On thirty-seven minutes, a cross to the back post, a header back into the six-yard by Patrick Dorgu wasn’t cleared. James attempted to do so but only added to the panic. A Luke Shaw header then dropped down and Casemiro was on hand to nod in. His race towards our corner was just horrible to witness.

Fackinell.

In injury-time, a coming together of Santos and Casemiro, and they ended up on the floor. The referee took his time, seemed to review what he had just seen, then signalled a yellow.

The Mancunian next to me, bless him, had remembered another yellow.

“Second yellow. Off.”

I roared.

For a few seconds I overdosed on positivity.

“Now we have some space. We’re back in it.”

Or so I thought.

The half-time came and went, with much muttering and moaning from the faithful.

The second half began, and we tried to get at United, but at times we were rather pedestrian.

It took a while for us to build anything of note.

I expected a lot more from Enzo.

Wesley Fofana headed in from a James corner but there was an offside flag.

Soon after, a double substitution.

Tyrique George for Fofana.

Malo Gusto for Cucurella.

The addition of George was a head-scratcher.

Alejandro Garnacho, who had been booed by the Stretford End while he was warming up, would have been many Chelsea fans’ choice for a late appearance. Here was a player that had an extra dimension to his game, and a massive point to prove. A moment like this does not come around too often. The moment was meant for him. Alas, Maresca chose not to gamble, perhaps the story of his managerial life thus far.

God knows what must have gone through Garnacho’s head as he sat down on the bench, overlooked.

For all of the change in personnel, and for all of the possible variations of attack, Reece James stuck with what he knew, out wide, making angles with overlaps, and became our only effective attacking threat.

It was his cross that was ably headed down and in by Trevoh Chalobah with ten minutes to go.

The Mancunian next to me : “3-2, you watch.”

I wished that I shared his optimism.

We kept going, but without much of a clue as to how to get into areas that would hurt United.

At the other end, a flashing shot from Fernandes was ably saved by Filip Jorgensen.

The rain had relented slightly but then came on strong again in the closing minutes.

At the final whistle, I turned and headed up the steps, bracing myself for a long and wet walk back to the car. First, that bloody slope on the forecourt which is always a fun experience, being serenaded by the home fans.

I had to laugh as I walked back in the darkness when I was overtaken by a United couple. Despite the win, they were as morose as we were.

“Ten versus ten, we lost.”

That’s the spirit.

With PD and Parky unable to walk quickly, we did not get back to the car until 8.30pm, and by then I was absolutely soaked.

We hit the M6 at 9.30pm, the road conditions awful.

I stopped at Stafford Services for junk food – Scottish themed, Tunnocks tea cakes and Irn Bru – and we bumped into Allie and Nick from Reading again. There was a final stop at Strensham for some petrol, and at last, nearing Bristol, the rain finally relented.

I made it home eventually at 1.45am.

That win at Old Trafford is as elusive as ever.

At least Frome Town won.

2013

2025

Tales From Our House

Posted on May 24, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 16 May 2025.

With twenty-five minutes to kick-off, I posted this on “Facebook”.

Tonight is all about Albert who sat in this seat in front of me since 1997. Last week, Albert sadly passed away.

He was a lovely man and will be so sadly missed by all who knew him.

Rest In Peace.

The news about Albert’s passing had hit me hard, and during another early shift at work in Melksham, Wiltshire, I was quiet and subdued. I was preparing myself for a tough day ahead.

I had been awake since 4.50am when the alarm rang before a 6am to 2pm shift at work. My usual travel companions PD and Parky had travelled up earlier by train to get stuck into some drinking at “The Eight Bells” in the early afternoon. I had a decent drive up to London and only stopped for a Cornish Pasty at Reading Services. I was parked up just after 5pm and I then walked to West Brompton tube to catch the District Line down to Putney Bridge tube.

I had caught a glimpse of the promotional video of the new 2025/26 Chelsea kit and immediately suspected that the “Carefree Café” in the film was in fact “The River Café” opposite the tube station. It was closed as I crossed the road so could not peer inside to check the décor, nor talk to the owners, but I was pretty sure. This café, a lovely old-fashioned one, has been featured in a few media pieces over the years and so this added to my assumption that this was indeed where Cole Palmer had asked for his usual sandwich in the promo video.

I eventually squeezed through the door and into the familiar pub at about 5.40pm. The usual crowd were assembled. Everyone seemed well-lubricated. We briefly touched on the loss at Newcastle, but more focus was on the evening’s match with the decidedly poor Manchester United, the season finale in Nottingham, and of course another UEFA Final in Wroclaw.

This hasn’t been an overly exciting nor engaging season, has it? Yet here we all were with three games to go and talk of European football – via whatever means – next season, and it seems that this is nearly always the case.

Since 1997/98, we have only experienced two seasons without European adventures.

2016/17 and 2023/24.

We have been very lucky buggers.

Back in 1984/85, as the supporters assembled at Stamford Bridge on the evening of Tuesday 14 May, there were thoughts and dreams about Chelsea participating in European football for the first time since 1971, some fourteen years previous. With an up-turn in our fortunes in the closing games of that league season, a win against already-relegated Norwich City would probably ensure that Chelsea would finish in fifth place in the First Division and thus qualify for the following season’s UEFA Cup.

It had been an odd season for our opponents that year. They had won the Milk Cup Final yet were relegated alongside Sunderland and Stoke City.

On a terribly wet night at Stamford Bridge – I was listening to updates on my radio in my student flat in Stoke – we were tied 1-1 at the break via a goal from Mickey Thomas, but in the second-half Asa Hartford grabbed a surprising winner, to add to their first goal scored by Steve Bruce.

Chelsea 1 Norwich City 2.

It dropped us down to sixth place.

The gate was just 22,882.

My memory is that we would therefore need Liverpool, who had finished thirteen points adrift of Champions Everton, to beat Juventus in the up-coming European Cup Final on 29 May to take a second European Cup place and to allow us to slip into the 1985/86 UEFA Cup.

From 14 May 1985 to 16 May 2025, a gap of forty years and two days, European football was dominating our collective thoughts.

I wanted to be inside the ground early, to come to the terms with Albert’s absence, and I solemnly made my way in. There was one final “pat down” and my SLR had made it in once again. I made my way up the stairs to The Sleepy Hollow.

I gave Alan a hug.

We believe that Albert passed away in the days between the Liverpool and Djurgarden home games. Albert and his brother Paul were not in their seats for the latter game; they were used by others. I concluded, then, that Albert’s last Chelsea goal was that penalty from Cole Palmer against Liverpool when the scorer changed tack in the goalmouth and headed over to celebrate down below us.

I am sure that Albert loved those celebrations.

As kick-off against Manchester United approached, overhead there were no clouds. It was a pure, perfect evening in SW6. What a bittersweet feeling.

Albert often appeared late at games, clambering over the seats to reach his place in front of me.

Always there would be a shake of our hands –

“Alright, mate? / alright, Albert? / alright, son?”

Oddly, I seemed to think that against Liverpool I clasped his hand with both of my hands, in the way that blokes sometimes do…

Down below us, the Dug-Out Club muppets were grouped behind the rope cordon to watch the players up close during their pre-match routines.

I’d want to be bloody playing for £12,000 a pop.

There was a photo of some very good friends that I have accumulated over the years.

Clive 2003.

Alan 1984.

PD 1984.

Ed 1995.

Daryl 1991.

Rob 2010.

My team.

I had no doubts that despite United’s very lowly position in the league, their supporters in the far corner, the red corner, would be making some noise all night. I had recently read a comment from a Brentford supporter who had praised the wall of noise provided by the away fans at the recent away game in West London. Manchester United have constantly been one of the noisiest sets of supporters at Chelsea for years now.

The clock-ticked away.

I sadly passed on the news about Albert to the two chaps who sat to his left. They had not heard. Eyes were moist.

The teams were announced.

Sanchez

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

George

So, Reece James back at right-back, and the youngster Tyrique George asked to lead the line.

Oh, Mason Mount was in the vaunted number seven shirt for United.

The twerp.

Before the game, the We Are The Shed gang had plastered bar scarves over the back of a thousand seats in The Shed, but as the teams entered the pitch, although the many Shed flags were waved, not many fans joined in by waving the scarves.

I am not too surprised.

Despite the probable protestations of our tourist section, we have never really been a scarf-waving crowd, not in the same way that – say – Liverpool and Arsenal are.

At 8.15pm, the game kicked-off.

With Mount’s first touch, a barrage of boos. Not from me, but there you go.

This wasn’t “Durie, 1991” levels of desertion…

The first chance of the game was perhaps unsurprisingly created by Cole Palmer, up against his boy-hood team, who steered a cross for Noni Madueke at the far post. The ball was bounced high and he found it hard to get his attempt on target. His shot was high, and my shot of his shot was too blurred to share. Let’s move on.

On eight minutes, a rather agricultural tackle by Enzo Fernandez on Bruno Fernandes went unpunished by the referee Chris Kavanagh, and I licked my lips at the thought of a no-holds-barred game of old-fashioned football. One can hope, right? In fact, I thought that the referee let quite a few rugged tackles from both sides go in the first part of the game.

United then enjoyed a decent spell and on fifteen minutes, Harry Maguire volleyed a cross from Fernandes in and reeled away as the United support roared. It was, thankfully, ruled out via VAR.

No celebrations from Alan nor me, though.

“Nah.”

We continued to be rather sloppy both in and out of possession. Patrick Dorgu, down below us, created a chance for Mount, but his effort was wide, and how we laughed.

Thankfully, these two chances having passed, United then defended deeper, and they lost their interest in attacking us. It was odd how the game tilted back in our favour. Perhaps the visitors were more concerned with a UEFA final of their own. They just seemed to drift away.

Chelsea, with Moises Caicedo in top form, slowly took control, though goal-scoring chances were rare.

On twenty-four minutes, a cross came out to Our Reece, who slammed a delightful shot goalwards – I was right behind its flight-path – but sadly struck the far post.

“Beautiful effort, that.”

James had been a little patchy, like many, in that opening period, but from that moment he seemed to improve.

By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency but were not really playing brilliantly. While others in my company were rudely chastising our players, I was a little more pragmatic. It’s not always about the quality at this stage of the season, but it’s all about the points.

My attention was caught by the LED adverts sliding their way around the perimeter of the pitch, backing up the 2025/26 kit launch.

“London. It’s Our House.”

Good ol’Suggs in the video, as the cab driver, and that classic song from 1982.

“Our house, it has a crowd. There’s always something happening and it’s usually quite loud.”

I wish. On this particular night, we were quiet. Compared to other seasons, United were relatively quiet too, but they were singing the whole time, unlike us.

The game continued on, but with not much quality on show.

A deflected shot from Palmer, a blocked shot from Enzo, another shot from Enzo, but offside anyway.

It seemed that neither team had the will to finish the other off.

Enzo was surprisingly poor.

At the break, I shared the opinion that if there was another St. James’ Park style improvement in the second-half, we would win.

At the break, Alan offered me a “Wispa” which I quickly devoured. After, I spotted that I had let the wrapper slip beneath my seat.

“That was careless.”

Alan groaned.

At the break, “Our House” was played in the stadium.

“Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, in the middle of our street,

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, in the middle of our street.”

It was now around 9.15pm, and the second-half began.

Annoyingly, United began on the front foot. On fifty-one minutes, Mount screwed a good chance wide. Amad Diallo, who had almost impressed me, set up Fernandes but his shot sped past the far post.

Not long after, down below us, Tyrique George – not really in the game, bless him – ran after a ball, and Andre Onana ran to cover. The result was a penalty, but then not a penalty, and I yawned my way through the whole sorry tale.

The game continued, but with only hints at quality.

I turned to Alan and mentioned that Sanchez had not really had too much to do, and Alan gave me a withering look.

On sixty-nine minutes, off went Mount and Casemiro, whose face always looks like it has been injected with something catastrophic.

Two minutes later, at the end of a massive spell of possession, as the ball reached Pedro Neto – who had been increasingly involved during this half – I picked my trusty SLR up and focussed on the winger. He danced one way and then the other and I snapped. Next, the ball was played inside to Our Reece. I had my camera focussed on him, and was aware that he had lost the substitute Alejandro Garnacho was an exquisite “see you later” spin, but then snapped as he released a cross that would drop into the danger zone in the six-yard box, or just outside it. As the ball hung in the air, I readjusted and snapped as the leap of the continually impressive Marc Cucurella flashed before me. I was able to witness the beautiful moment as the ball rippled the net, Onana somehow beaten.

Stamford Bridge reacted with a guttural roar, and so did I.

I then tried to flip immediately back to that of ice-cold photographer and snapped away as the scorer raced away over towards the far corner, the noise booming.

I quickly took a photo with my phone of the Cucurella header from my SLR – typically blurred – and shared it on “Facebook.”

For Albert.

Right after, probably as I was fiddling with camera and ‘phone, Madueke was released by Palmer and found himself one-on-one with Onana. He slammed it past the near post. Had that one gone in I am in no doubt that Stamford Bridge would have been launched into the atmosphere and would have landed in another time / space portal.

There is nothing like the adrenalin rush of two goals scored in quick succession.

Chances were exchanged as the game, at last, came to life, with Neto forcing a fine save from Onana, while Sanchez saved from Amad.

Some late substitutions were made by Enzo Maresca.

Romeo Lavia for George.

Palmer moved forward.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

Gusto went sprawling, pictured, but no penalty.

We held on.

A poor game, mainly, but one that was lit up by that magnificent winner. Our opposition was the worst Manchester United team that I have ever seen live.

In the pub it felt odd to be saying “see you next season” to those I would not be seeing in neither Nottingham nor Wroclaw, and as I walked back towards my car off Rylston Road, the sign at Fulham Broadway saying “Have A Safe Journey Home” seemed ridiculously final.

However, this had, indeed, been our final home game of the season, but where has the time gone?

Regardless, our home record in the Premier League this season has been remarkably good.

P 19

W 12

D 5

L 2

The two losses were against Manchester City and Fulham. Maybe our house is regaining its status of a decade or so ago.

“Our house, was our castle and our keep.

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, that was where we used to sleep.

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house…”

After some typical delays underneath the M4, I didn’t get home until 2.15am and I eventually get to sleep at 3am. I had been awake for twenty-two hours and ten minutes, but it was all worth it for that spin, that cross, that header.

I will see you in Nottingham and I will see you in Wroclaw.

Let’s go to Europe.

Tales From Two Firsts

Posted on January 1, 2025 by Chris Axon

Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea : 30 December 2024.

This was a new ground for me. In my fifty years of following Chelsea at various locations, I had never yet ventured as far as Portman Road in the Suffolk town of Ipswich. In fact, I had only ever visited the town twice before, for work in 2003 and 2009, and on both of those occasions I was based to the south of the town, so this was to be my first visit to the town centre itself.

Once it was eventually decided when the game was to be played, I booked up a hotel close to the stadium. I didn’t fancy an “in and out mission” on the day, and I also fancied a drink. This would be my first domestic drink-up at a game since Newcastle away last season.

A few years ago, the two biggest stadia within the English and Welsh professional pyramid that I had not visited were Ipswich Town and Huddersfield Town. I crossed off the latter on opening day 2018, and now it was the turn of Ipswich. What are the remaining major stadia that I am yet to visit? Notts County, Bradford City and Millwall immediately spring to mind as being the three biggest on the list.

Talking of “firsts”, there was a huge “first” that occurred just over forty years ago on Saturday 29 December 1984.

On that day, I saw Manchester United play for the very first time.

Following our promotion to the old First Division in May, Chelsea were starting to find our collective feet in the First Division. Although there had been dropped points along the way, there had been an excellent away win at Everton, creditable away draws at Arsenal, Tottenham and Sheffield Wednesday, and two fine home wins against West Ham United and Liverpool, amongst others.

This was a glamour game for sure. Although United had last won the league in 1967, they were the biggest-supported club in the country and were a decent-enough team at the time. From a fan’s perspective, I was very keen to see how many supporters they would bring and how the numbers would compare with Liverpool who had visited three weeks earlier.

It was a familiar routine for me for my pre-match; a visit to West End shopping areas – purely window shopping – and a spin down to Fulham Broadway. My diary informs me that I darted into the long-gone Pie & Mash shop at the southern end of the North End Road, and I then met up with two pals outside the ground who advised me to nip along and buy myself a Benches ticket for £4. I have no recollection of this. I imagine I was previously unaware of the need to get a ticket. Was the Benches ticket-only for this one game? I am not sure.

On a cold day, we were inside as early as 12.15pm. There was no spare money for pre-match drinks in those days. I was a poor student, but just happy to be at Chelsea as often as possible.

There were nine of us in a row at the very rear of the Benches.

My diary called us “the Back Benchers.”

From the North to the South :

Paul from Brighton, Alan from Bromley, Dave from St. Albans, Richard from St. Albans, Simon and his brother Andy from Sandridge, me, Leggo from Bedford, Mark from Sunbury.

Simon and Andy were momentarily famous twenty years ago when the video of them at Highbury for the Champions League Quarter-Final went as near to viral as 2004 would allow.

I still see all eight lads at Chelsea to this day.

Us in 1984?

Niedzwiecki

Wood – Pates – McLaughlin – Joey Jones

Nevin – Keith Jones – Spackman – Thomas

Dixon – Davies

My notes said that United brought about 4,000 but Liverpool had brought more. There was a little “mixing” in the centre pens and a few punches were inevitably exchanged. It’s sad to admit to it now, but I remember being awkwardly thrilled to see the red shirts of the United players as they walked out from the East Stand tunnel.

Chelsea began on top in the first twenty minutes. The ex-United midfielder Mickey Thomas set up Gordon Davies who volleyed home. Mass celebrations, what noise, another scalp for this exciting team?

Sadly, the visitors went 2-1 ahead by half-time. Frank Stapleton crossed for Mark Hughes to head home and then Bryan Robson slipped a pass through to Remi Moses who slotted the ball in. David Speedie came on as a substitute for Keith Jones at the break. A scrambled third goal by United, with Frank Stapleton getting the final touch, was met with groans, and there was added ignominy as Kerry Dixon missed a penalty with ten minutes remaining. My notes said that Mike Duxbury should have been sent off at least twice and that our best player was, perhaps, Nigel Spackman.

In Frome that night, I bumped into PD and Glenn, and I am not wholly sure why Glenn didn’t join us in the Benches. He travelled up with the Frome / Manchester United coach though, so he may have arrived late. He told me that he almost got hit as he approached the United coach after the game by some Chelsea lads.

So much for 1984.

With dropped points against Everton and then Fulham, I set off for Suffolk rather concerned for our health, despite Ipswich still waiting to win their first game at home in the league this season.

I called for PD bang on 7.30am and I called for Parky not long after. There was a sub-standard breakfast at McDonalds in Melksham, but we were on our way.

On this day, Chelsea was set to announce loyalty point thresholds for access codes for the FIFA World club Cup games next summer. These were to be shared at 9am.

At 9am, I stopped at Membury Services in Wiltshire and my 110 points meant that I was to be given a 10.30am time slot. At 10.30am, or rather just a minute after, I was stopped at South Mimms Services in Hertfordshire where I accessed the Chelsea ticket page.

I was in.

I hoped that the rest of everything else Chelsea-related would go as well later.

The drive to Suffolk was fine. The M25 was clear, the A12 was clear. The skies were clear too. It was a glorious Winter Day. It felt good to be seeing different roads for a change, different scenery. We drove right past Colchester United’s stadium by the side of the A12.

At just after midday, I was parked up at our hotel around half-a-mile from Portman Road.

I had been given a seemingly decent plan of pubs by a friend, Rob, who would meet up with us later. We caught a cab down to the marina and at just after 12.45pm we were supping our first lagers of the day at “The Lord Nelson.”

On the trip to Ipswich, I had tried to think of players that had played for both teams.

Colin Viljoen. Kevin Wilson. Jason Cundy. Craig Forrest.

I posted this on “Facebook” and a few more followed.

Omari Hutchinson – oh damn, of course.

Mark Stein – I had forgotten that.

Trevoh Chalobah – and that.

“The Lord Nelson” was a great little pub, and it dated from 1652.

I began with a couple of “Amstel” lagers.

From there, we trotted over to “Isaacs” on the marina. Just as Kevin, a Chelsea fan from Ipswich itself, came out to take a photo of us outside the glass-fronted pub, Kalvin Phillips waited behind the wheel of his huge car. His career stalled after his move from Leeds United to Manchester City and he is now part of Keiran McKenna’s squad at Portman Road. He is the player that Gareth Southgate pined for recently.

Yeah, I know.

We met up with Noel, Gabby and Paul, enjoying the mid-afternoon sun as the “Madri” lagers went down well.

Next up, at 3.45pm, was “The Thomas Wolsey”, another decent pub in the town centre. This one used to be run by Alan Brazil. The pubs were not, yet, particularly busy, but that did not matter.

“A Cruzcampo please barman.”

From there, a five-minute walk to “The Plough” where we arrived at 4.15pm. There were a few familiar faces here; Lee from Essex, Jimmy the Greek, Dave and Glenn the brothers, Liam and his father, Pete – last seen everywhere – but pride of place goes to Rob, the guy in charge of the pub crawl, and our mutual friend Steve, who goes all the way back to that 1984/85 season as he was on the very same Human Geography course as me in Stoke-on-Trent.

“Peroni please barman.”

Apparently, this pub was meant for “home fans only” but I didn’t see any signs. Everyone was on fine form, what a great pre-match.

Incidentally, talking of “firsts”, Steve – with his twin brother Sean – travelled up with me in 1986 from Stoke for my first-ever visit to Old Trafford, but that’s a story for another day.

At about 7pm we strolled off to the game. It was only about a fifteen-minute walk.

On the drive up to Ipswich, I had joked with the lads that despite us arriving in Ipswich at around midday, we should not be too surprised if we were huffing and puffing our way through the turnstiles with five minutes to go before kick-off. Well, on this night, we surpassed ourselves. Despite a delay getting in, I was inside with a whole fifteen minutes to spare.

Portman Road was as I expected it really, although the double-decker stands behind each goal have been additions since the team were in their heyday in the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties. My mate Steve has a season ticket at Portman Road these days, although I am sure he won’t mind me reminding him that he favoured Derby County when I first knew him.

Chris : “More clubs that Jack Niclaus.”

Steve : “More clubs than Peter Stringfellow.”

Rob : “More clubs than Tiger Woods.”

Before we knew it, Portman Road was engulfed in the heavy sulphurous fumes from the fireworks that seem to be a pre-requisite of many top-level match days in 2024.

We had none of this shite in 1984.

Portman Road was full to the rafters, just a little shy of 30,000. It’s a nice and neat ground, well-proportioned, and – whisper it to Steve – not too dissimilar to Derby County’s old baseball Ground.

Us in 2024?

Jorgensen

Disasi – Colwill – Tosin – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Felix

Nkunku

I loved the Ipswich Town pinstriped shirts, so reminiscent of the good old days of clean and crisp shirts by Adidas and Le Coq Sportif. This one is by Umbro, and it’s a cracker.

We were in a solid block of three thousand in the upper tier of the East Stand, the Cobbold Stand. I was stood with Gary and John, just a few rows from the front, a fine view. This stand was named after the family who presided over the Alf Ramsey League Championship season of 1961/62 and the Bobby Robson cup triumphs in 1978 and 1981. However, I always think that unless we are behind the goal at away venues, the involvement – and noise – is never as good. It’s just something about being stood en masse at one end.

We looked a bit edgy – “not at the races” – and it was the home team that forced the upper hand in the early exchanges.

After twelve minutes, the ball was pushed forward by Leif Davis, whoever he is, and it met the run by Liam Delap, who pushed the ball past Filip Jorgensen. To our horror, the referee John Brooks pointed to the spot, and Delap drilled home the ball into the left-corner, just beyond Jorgensen’s dive.

Fackinell.

Ipswich Town 1 Chelsea 0.

Jorgensen made an absolute stunner of a save soon after, tipping a rasping effort from that man Delap over the bar.

Halfway through the first-half, a sweet low curler from Cole Palmer smacked the base of a post from a free-kick, and the ball was hacked away before a Chelsea player could pounce.

A cross from Palmer cut out everyone and Joao Felix smacked the ball in to the goal, but our celebrations were cut short with a signal that we all dread : VAR check.

A long wait.

Sigh.

No goal.

Chelsea created a few half-chances, but the home side dug in and covered space, tackled hard, and looked more organised. Marc Cucarella shot wide, Moises Caicedo shot over.

Another Delap and Jorgensen shoot-out, thankfully our ‘keeper saved.

Delap was a real handful though.

Just before the break, a curler from Palmer was expertly saved by Christian Walton in the home goal.

The first half hadn’t been great, and I was frustrated with our support, many of whom were standing in silence. It reminded me of the League Cup tie at Middlesbrough last season and we were along the side on that night too.

Sigh.

What of the second-half, then?

We actually began strongly, with efforts from Felix and Madueke.

Alas, on fifty-three minutes, a disastrous pass from Axel Disasi was intercepted by Delap who kept the ball before passing to Omari Hutchinson. Our former youngster cleanly wrong-footed Jorgensen with a drilled shot back across the goal.

Ipswich Town 2 Chelsea 0.

Oh God.

The rest of the game was a blur really.

55 minutes : Nicolas Jackson for Joao Felix.

Christopher Nkunku had looked ill-placed to play upfront, to lead the line, and he hardly got a sniff, and we hoped that Jackson might inject some life into the team as Nkunku was shifted wider.

We just looked tired and jaded, without ideas, without energy.

65 minutes : Jadon Sancho for Nkunku.

Moving Nkunku out wide had not worked. If anything, the ever-willing Cucarella was more of a threat.

The Chelsea fans had almost given up by now.

To be fair to Sancho, he looked the liveliest of the lot during his cameo.

77 minutes : Malo Gusto for Disasi, the less said the better, and Pedro Neto for Madueke, average at best.

We conjured-up a couple of half-chances, no more than that, and there was still time for a lung-bursting run from Delap down in front of us, as if to rub it in. It has been a while since I have seen such an old-fashioned striker ply his trade in the topflight.

It ended 2-0 and we sloped off into the night.

Outside, next to a statue of Sir Bobby Robson, we gorged ourselves on hot dogs and burgers. We needed to be warmed-up, somehow.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United :

Pre-Game :

Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea :

Post-Game :

Postscript 1 :

After I had dropped Lord Parky off on Tuesday afternoon, and only around six miles from home, I was zapped by a policeman with a speed gun in the village of Rode. It was just what I needed. After our terrible results over the past ten days, I turned to PD in the passenger seat and said :

“Well, it looks like I will end up with more points than Chelsea this Christmas.”

Postscript 2 :

Well, I finally got through those nine Chelsea games in December. Five trips to London, one to Southampton, one to Almaty, one to Liverpool and one to Ipswich. I’ve seen the games, I’ve taken the photos, I’ve caught the flights, I’ve driven the car, I’ve written the blogs. It all resulted in over 10,000 views in one month, by far the highest monthly total since this site hit the newsstands in July 2013.

Thank you all so much.

See you at Selhurst Park next Saturday.

Tales From Stretford

Posted on November 6, 2024 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 3 November 2024.

“It’s time the tale were told.”

This was another footballing double-header of a weekend, involving two away days, five-hundred and twenty miles in the hot-seat and almost fifteen hours of driving.

On Saturday, Sholing vs. Frome Town in the Southern Premier League South.

On Sunday, Manchester United vs. Chelsea in the FA Premier League.

Before all of this, in the office on Monday, there was a shriek of dismay from yours truly on hearing that Erik ten Hag had just been sacked by Manchester United. The four – four! – United fans in the office were a lot happier. How we all wanted the Dutch manager to still be in charge for our game on the Sunday. Alas, it was not to be.

I had a grand day out down on the south coast at Sholing. Despite going down to ten men when Matt Wood was sent-off, the Frome Town team played so well, with new signing Archie Ferris adding some physicality to the attack and loan-returnee Rex Mannings playing his best game since his move from Chippenham Town. The home team missed a penalty in the second-half, and then in the last ten minutes, substitute Curtis Hutson crashed a dipping shot from well outside the box to send the thirty away fans delirious. Alas, in the ninety-fifth minute, the home team poked home an equaliser. Frome are still mired in a relegation dogfight but the month of November contains matches against teams that we might well be able to get some wins against.

My match-going pal at Chelsea, Alan, had a football-double-header too, and one which needs a mention. Very early on Saturday morning, Alan left his house in order to catch the Bromley supporters coach up to Rochdale to the north of Manchester. The two teams played an enthralling FA Cup tie. Bromley went 2-0 up early on, but were losing 3-2 as injury-time began. Two goals in the ninety-first and ninety-second minutes gave Al’s team a wonderful 4-3 victory. While I was driving home to Frome, Al was heading back to London.

And on the Sunday, both of us would be heading north to Manchester.

This would be my twenty-ninth United vs. Chelsea match at Old Trafford. It is my most visited away venue. Alas, my record in these games is as similarly shocking as on my trips to Anfield.

Won – 5

Drew – 9

Lost – 14

The reading is more depressing when you consider that on my first two trips to Old Trafford in 1986, we won both times. This means that over the last twenty-six personal visits to Old Trafford, Chelsea recorded just three wins.

Gulp.

Alan and myself would be with each other on the Sunday in the away enclosure at Old Trafford, and we were sitting alongside each other at Stamford Bridge forty years ago to the exact day too.

On Saturday 3 November 1984, I travelled down by train from Stoke for the home game with Coventry City, back in the days when the Sky Blues were an absolute fixture in the top flight. They played football at the highest level from 1967/68 to 2001/02 without a break.

On that day, I took a 0920 train down to Euston, arriving at 1130, and noted lots of casuals milling about. In those days, Euston was a battle ground for various firms – all without colours – and it could be a dicey moment walking over the concourse and down into the underground. Nobody wore team kits in those days, but many went for the small metal badges which were all the rage. You wore these as the only outward sign of which club you were with.

These were magnificent times for this burgeoning yet undercover football sub-culture.

It was simple but smart; an expensive pullover – it was changing that autumn from pastels to muted colours – and a polo shirt. Mid-blue jeans – a change from the light blue ones of the summer – and then Adidas, Diadora or Nike trainers. This was “the look” in the autumn of 1984.

I took my camera to the game for the first time since the West Ham game in September and took a pre-match photo of my mates Leggo, Stamford and Alan on the Benches, not too far from where I saw my first game ten years earlier.

When I aired this photo on a Chelsea Eighties page on “Facebook” a while ago, the lad who is looking at the camera beyond my three mates got in touch. He was surprised to see his face. He got in touch and the rest is history. Incidentally, the lad to the left holding the match programme is Leggo, or Glenn, and he has recently retired. I will be meeting him before the Noah game on Thursday.

Chelsea began well, but the visitors were 2-0 after half-an-hour. They had an unlikely trio upfront of Bob Latchford, Cyrille Regis and Peter Barnes, all of whom had starred at other clubs. However, Chelsea soon hit back, scoring via a Kerry Dixon far-post header. Just before half-time, a Pat Nevin cross, a Dixon header, and Keith Jones touched in the equaliser.

We had to wait twenty-five minutes into the second-half for a further breakthrough; a goal from David Speedie. Then Kerry made it 4-2. At this stage, many left to queue up at the ticket office for Tottenham away tickets. I remained on the deserted Benches to see Kerry break through to make it 5-2 and then Keith Jones stabbed a loose ball in to make it 6-2.

It had been a great game, with Pat Nevin in imperious form. The win was much-needed after a dip in our form. The gate was 17,306, a bit better than my 16,000 prediction before the game. My diary tells me that I counted just one hundred away fans.

On the previous Wednesday, Chelsea had drawn 2-2 at Fellows Park against Walsall in the League Cup. Although it was just down the road from Stoke, I didn’t attend. I wasn’t yet ready for my first-ever midweek game. There were goals from Colin Lee and Pat Nevin in front of 11,102, and there was a fair bit of trouble, as we called it in those days, I seem to remember.

Forty years later, I had collected Glenn at 10am, and Parky at 10.30am on the way to Manchester. PD was missing this away day; instead he was in Cyprus at his son Scott’s wedding. We stopped for drinks at Strensham, but as I neared Birmingham, I was warned of heavy traffic ahead and so took a detour through the Black Country. I re-joined the M6 just north of where the current day Walsall play at the Bescot Stadium. The pre-match plan was to stop at the Tabley Interchange for a Sunday Roast, but with people to meet from 3pm, time was running away from us. Glenn shared out some Somerset Pasties and we had these on the hoof.

Spinning around the M60, I could not resist singing a few lines from a couple of Smiths songs, just before we hit the traffic that was backed up at the exit for Stretford.

Old Trafford is a conundrum. It’s in Stretford, which is part of the metropolitan borough of Trafford in Greater Manchester, but it isn’t in Manchester, the actual city.

Confused?

Talk to Carlos Tevez.

After five-and-a half hours, I eventually arrived and I was parked up at just after 3.15pm. We walked through the familiar Gorse Hill Park and out onto the Chester Road, the heady smell of autumn leaves underfoot.

This is indeed a well-trodden journey.

Soon we were close.

The acrid punch of vinegar on chips at the take-aways near the crossroads leading to Sir Matt Busby Way. The fanzine sellers. The half-and-half scarves. The grafters. The match day colours. It was all so bloody familiar.

I met up with Aleksey, originally from Moscow, now from Houston, and in the UK on a work trip to Aberdeen and other locales. He will be adding to the game at Old Trafford with a game on Thursday at Chelsea, a game at Frome on Saturday, and – maybe – a game at Chelsea on Sunday. He’s a keen follower of this blog – “thanks mate” – and it was good to see him again.

With me leaving at 10am, it was a ploy to have a lie-in, to have a little rest before the drive north, and the timings had been pretty decent. On the way in, I had admitted to Glenn and Parky that “it’s nice to be able to take our time strolling up to Old Trafford. Not rushing. Well, not Aleksey. He’s from Moscow.”

Next up, I had to hand over some tickets to Deano, who had not yet arrived. This gave me a twenty-minute window of opportunity to do a complete circuit of Old Trafford, probably for the first-ever time.

I took a shot of the Holy Trinity statue of Charlton, Best and Law as it faced the Matt Busby statue under the megastore and the East Stand, which used to house the away paddock in days gone by.

Next, a photo of the Alex Ferguson statue under the huge stand that bears his name. This used to be the United Road stand, the one that was so modern when it appeared in the mid-sixties, the one featured in the Albert Finney film “Charlie Bubbles”, and featuring a game against Chelsea in 1967. The original United Road is long-gone now. I once drove along it around twenty years ago. The transformation on this side of the ground has been phenomenal. It seems like a different place now, a modern monolith to the United brand.

Then, I aimed myself towards the Stretford End. My recollections of this stand from the two FA Cup semis in 2006 and 2007 are scant, but it’s a really horrible structure, faced by a vast car park, not unlike the feel of a San Siro, but without the architectural merit. Great blocks of black, grey and red, as if designed by a Lego enthusiast. There even appear to be huge handles on the stand, maybe to lift the end up and deposit it elsewhere in the vicinity if a threatened new stadium ever gets built. Then, a puzzle for me. I didn’t know that there was a statue outside the Stretty, as the home fans call it, and I didn’t recognise the figure depicted on a plinth. I got closer. It was Jimmy Murphy, a name I remember from the immediate aftermath of the horrors of 1958.

I wondered if any of the four United fans in the office were aware of this statue.

I was annoyed that it caught me unawares.

Then, the last leg, through the oddly-named Munich Tunnel, underneath the oldest stand from the original 1910 structure. There were chants of “Chelsea Rent Boys”, how boring.

I caught up with Deano at around 4pm, just after a United fan had aimed another “Rent Boy” chant our way and just after said United fan was marched away from the ground by two stewards.

United fans jostled past us, occasionally shouting derogatory words.

I thought to myself how so many United fans look like Syd Little.

I queued up underneath the Munich Clock, and was inside at around 4.15pm after a slow and rigorous security check. SLRs are banned at OT, as are all cameras, but I won that battle.

I soon met up with Alan, looking remarkably chipper after his three out of four weekend coach trips from hell. Alan was stood next to Gary. John was further along, next to me. To my left were Little Andy and Big Colin. Glenn was a few yards away in the row behind me. Parky was ten rows behind me.

I took a phot of Alan – with Glenn – to go with the photo of him forty years earlier. Back in 1984, it was either a Burberry scarf or an Aquascutum scarf on the terraces of England. I always favoured the latter. I bought one in 1985 and it lasted five years until it was stolen in Italy. I bought another one ten years ago. Alan sported his Aquasutum scarf, a nod to the fact that, in the long game, Aquascutum has remained at the top of the pile, whereas Burberry never really recovered from its nadir in the post Brit-Pop era.

The sky was grey and it marched the cold grey steel of the roof supports above us all.

Old Trafford, what have you got in store for me this time?

With ten minutes to go “This Is The One” by the Stone Roses gave way to “Take Me Home” by John Denver.

Not an easy segue, that one.

Oh well, maybe a lot of match-going Mancunians think they have the gait and swagger and street cool of Ian Brown, whereas in reality so many of United’s match-day support resemble John Denver, and Syd Little.

“Take me home, United Road, to the place I belong. To Old Trafford. To see United. Take me home, United Road.”

The teams appeared.

We were as expected, the line-up the same as against Newcastle a week earlier.

Sanchez, Gusto, James, Chilwell, Fofana, Lavia, Caicedo, Madueke, Palmer, Neto, Jackson.

The noise was getting ramped up.

“Take me home, United Road.”

The game began, and as per usual we attacked the Stretford End in the first-half. I had to laugh when after just four minutes, Cole Palmer – the hometown anti-hero – attempted a very similar pass to Pedro Neto that had us all so enthralled last week, but a covering defender stuck out a leg to rob us of a repeat.

I thought we began well, and we had more of the ball than United. Palmer was involved early, but there was a poor cross from him. Just after Moises Caicedo robbed the ball in midfield and played in Palmer, who had a free run on goal, but dithered a little, and Matthijs de Ligt was able to block.

On fourteen minutes, Noni Madueke rose to meet Palmer’s corner at the near post, and his header crashed against the bar – though, in reality, it was difficult to tell in the Stretford gloom – and Levi Colwill slashed at the rebound but it hit the side-netting.

The natives were quiet, and the three-thousand away fans had a dig.

There was an error from Andre Onana at the other end but we blazed over. Then, Robert Sanchez came dramatically at a cross, punching the ball away in a “Superman Pose.” Half-chances came and went. Marcus Rashford over-dribbled into the penalty box. After a swift move from United, Sanchez saved well, but there was a suspicion of offside anyway.

Nicolas Jackson, quiet thus far, was in on goal but there was a heavy touch. Palmer was next up, but after carrying the ball for an age, he too was reluctant to shoot. Eventually his effort was blocked.

But we were in this. Being in it at Old Trafford is half the battle.

I loved the way Caicedo and Romeo Lavia were playing. Caicedo breaking things up, showing dogged tenacity, nicking balls, moving up. Lavia eating up space, rangy, a presence, quick.

There was another surreal touch from Palmer on the half-way line, another pass to himself, the audacity of the kid. He was then wiped out by a reckless challenge by Manuel Ugarte, whoever he is.

Pedro Neto, good in parts, was then taken out with a horrible tackle from Diogo Dalot.

Just before half-time, Bruno Fernandes smacked over a deep cross to the back stick from the left wing, only for Rashford to volley against the bar, and over. Most worrying of all, Reece James had not tracked him. The experiment with the captain at left-back had generally left us scratching our noggins.

During the half, my little self-contained unit of Andy to my left and John to my right had talked through our play and, despite a massive reluctance to strike on goal, were relatively happy with our play. With United under a new manager – albeit the interim Ruud van Nistelrooy – we were worried about conceding early and getting the home support roaring.

That never happened.

Yet elsewhere, others evidently thought we had been poor. It’s odd how this sometimes happens at games. At games, you are caught up in the moment, in the actuality of everything, and I think that the first feeling is the need for survival at big venues like United or Liverpool or City. I think that I sometimes get too positive, too early, and then stick with that mindset. At Old Trafford, at half-time, I was content. John was happy, I was happy. Clearly others weren’t.

At the break, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Marc Cucarella. Reece James stayed in the same small strip of Greater Manchester but on the right and not the left.

The inverted full-back nerds were probably having a field day in TV land.

Ten minutes in, a ball was hoofed high into the air, and the entire stadium, not least the players, had the same thought; that ball was going off for a throw-in. The ball came down, from high, and the ball was given to Palmer, who spread the ball out to the left to Neto. He pushed on before smacking a low shot just past Onana’s far post.

The Chelsea support groaned.

But the volume was definitely turned up a notch.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

On sixty-four minutes, we heard the Stretford End – together, loud – for the very first time. There had been a few “Viva John Terrys” and a few “Three In A Row” chants from the chorus to our right, but the Stretford End had been so quiet. Now they spoke.

“U – N – I – T – E – D, United are the team for me.”

At last.

With that, Alejandro Garnacho shot straight at Sanchez, right in front of them.

On seventy minutes, John and I had a little chat.

Chris : “Think it’ll be 0-0.”

John : “Yeah. Or we’ll let them in.”

At that exact moment, Casemiro dropped a long ball at the feet of Rasmus Hojlund. He took a touch to his right, Sanchez dived at him, it looked a penalty all day long.”

The referee, who had let so much go, often in our favour, pointed at the spot.

The horrible twat Fernandes easily slotted home.

There were two quick substitutions, too quick for me to immediately notice.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the disappointing Madueke.

Enzo Fernandez for the tiring Lavia.

I took a photo of Palmer waiting to take a corner on seventy-four minutes. I had a little idea I shared with John.

“Instead of everyone breaking and the ball going down the ‘keepers throat, why not let the players break towards goal but then pump it into the gap for Caicedo to head in?”

The ball came across. An unknown United defender headed it out. The ball fell towards Caicedo. He didn’t waste any time. He volleyed. The ball thankfully stayed low. The ball crept in at the far post.

Perfect.

Our end exploded.

Rarely have so many made so many ridiculous limb movements. I punched the air. I roared. I punched big Col in the stomach a few times.

Unable to snap the players celebrating on the far side, I turned the camera on us.

Faces of unfettered joy.

Get in.

The noise was all Chelsea now.

Next, a ball out to Garnacho, at an angle, who couldn’t get the right strike on the ball, and it flashed over the bar. It reminded me so much of a late Ole Gunnar Solskjaer equaliser from almost the same position, the same angle of strike, in the autumn of 1997.

A few moments later, Enzo skied a shot over the bar after being set up by Jackson, who surprisingly -I think – stayed on for the whole game.

A reckless challenge by Lisandro Martinez – nice Butthead haircut, mate – on Palmer towards the end of the game raised our temperatures, and we could hardly believe that a red was not issued.

In the closing moments, Fernandes fired ridiculously high into the Stretford End.

The 1-1 draw was a fair result. The consensus as we headed up the slope of the forecourt was that this was a poor United team – probably the poorest that I have seen in decades – and with a little more attacking verve we could have nicked it. I loved Moises Caicedo, now emerging as a real crowd favourite, who was my man of the match even before the goal. A mention for the tireless running of Pedro Neto. And a mention of a typically energetic and spirited performance by Marc Cucarella in the second-half.

Cucarella is the yin to Palmer’s yang.

These two approach the game with different temperaments and energy, but they are all part of this emerging Chelsea team.

Is it good enough?

I don’t know, and we certainly won’t be able to make any decision on Thursday when the B-List take on Noah.

I wolfed down the best football burger ever, a bacon-cheeseburger with onions, pure Mancunian heaven, and we reached the car at 7pm. The traffic was worse than usual as we exited out. I didn’t reach the M6 until 7.40pm. Not to worry, I made steady progress and via a couple of stops, I was home at just before midnight.

See you on Thursday.

OUTSIDE

INSIDE

GET IN YOU BASTARD

FORTY YEARS AGO

3 NOVEMBER 1984

3 NOVEMBER 2024

Tales From Somerset And Dorset

Posted on September 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 14 September 2024.

Saturday 14 September 2024 was going to be another big day of football for me. Fate had acted favourably once again to provide me with not one but two games of football involving my two teams. Our away fixture at AFC Bournemouth had shifted to an 8pm kick-off for the watching millions around the world, meaning that I had another potential “double-header” in my sights. I was lucky; Frome Town were drawn at home against former league rivals Larkhall Athletic, from nearby Bath, in the Second Qualifying Round of the FA Cup.

My mate Glenn said he’d attend both with me, whereas PD and Parky were to book a Saturday night on the south coast, and we would all meet up in the ground.

Games on!

And yet when I awoke on Saturday morning, my enthusiasm just wasn’t there. Where had it gone? I was sure I had it when I went to sleep. Had it rolled under my bed, or out of my bedroom and down the stairs and under the front door and away, or had it fizzled away naturally during the night? The whole day, stretched out before me, seemed to be too much like a chore. And this disturbed me. Watching football – Chelsea, Frome Town anyway – should not be a chore.

I felt that I needed to hop on to a psychiatrist’s couch in order for me to talk through my problems, but it would have been a waste of my money and their time. I knew exactly why I felt underwhelmed.

Firstly, the venue for our Europa Conference game in Kazakhstan in December had been announced on Thursday; Almaty, the capital. A part of me actually wanted to stay at home during the day to try to pick out a trip itinerary to enable me, and maybe PD and Parky, to attend. Alas, that would have to wait, but it left me a little anxious.

I have often mused how “anxious” is an anagram of “I. Us. Axons.”

Secondly, Frome Town – since we last chatted – had seen their form dip. Yes, there was a 2-1 win in an FA Cup replay at home to Easington Sports but this was an unconvincing performance. After, it got worse, much worse. I drove down to Dorchester Town’s fine stadium along with the best part of one hundred away fans, but we were rewarded with a humbling 0-4 loss, with two sendings-off to boot. Next up, a “must-win” game at home to lowly Tiverton Town, but this was a 1-2 loss, a truly shocking performance. The highlight of this one, though, was the appearance of my good Chelsea friend Phil – from Iowa – who was staying in nearby Bath, who joined me for the game. It was a wet night, a typical football night, but I know Phil loved it. I first met Phil in Chicago in 2006 and he is one of my most avid readers.

Thanks mate.

I met up with Glenn in Frome at midday ahead of our day/night double-header. We set off on a stroll around a few coffee shops before the Frome Town game at 3pm. On the walk to the first location on Palmer Street, I had a lovely surprise. Returning to his van was my oldest friend of them all, Dave, who I first met almost exactly fifty-years ago. Dave was in my school tutor group and it almost felt pre-ordained that he would chose to sit opposite me on a table for four in Mrs. Callister’s 1D class. We soon worked out that we were football daft; Bristol Rovers and Chelsea. In my first-ever “proper” eleven-a-side game for my house that term, we would both score goals in a 2-0 win for the “Blues” of Bayard over the “Reds” of Raleigh, and a friendship really flourished. Whenever we played in the same team, there was a great telepathy between us. I had to giggle when Dave said he was “off to see Rovers” later.

Fifty years after the autumn of 1974, how magical that we were off to see our two teams after all the years. What would we think of that in 1974? I think we would have been utterly amazed.

Or maybe not, eh?

Forty years ago, I would occasionally bump into Dave – sometimes with Glenn – in the pubs of Frome, and it is to 1984 I return again in my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season.

First up is our away game at Old Trafford on Wednesday 5 September, a match that I did not attend due to financial and logistical restrictions. We had begun the season with a draw, a win and a loss, and the United game was a huge test. That evening, I was out with a mate, and came home not knowing our result. On the BBC news it was announced that “Manchester United are still yet to record a win this season” which was met with a big “YEEESSS!” from me. Jesper Olsen had put United ahead on 15 minutes but Mickey Thomas had equalised on 55 minutes. In those days, everyone used to “guess the gate” and my diary noted that I predicted one of 48,000. I wasn’t too far away; it was 48,396. I have no figures to hand, but I suspect 5,000 Chelsea were at the game. Over the years the match has gained a certain notoriety in the football world as Chelsea fans say that Hicky’s mob ran the Stretford end in the closing minutes whereas the United hardcore resolutely refute this.

“Well, they would say that wouldn’t they?”

Anyway, I can’t comment as I wasn’t there.

On Saturday 8 September, another away game and – alas – another match that I did not attend. Chelsea travelled to Villa Park, while I listened at home to updates on the radio. In the words of my diary “I went through hell” every time Villa scored their three goals in the first-half. We pulled it back to 1-3, played better in the second-half, yet eventually lost 2-4. I was especially pleased with the gate of 21,494, and this surely meant that around 6,000 Chelsea supporters had travelled to the game, a really fine “take” and one which made me proud.

In those days, football was absolutely all about how many fans clubs took to away games. The season would be a massive test for our support and one which I passionately hoped that we would come out as one of the top clubs in this respect. I noted that 54,000 were at Old Trafford for the visit of Newcastle United and I wondered how many Geordies had swelled that attendance.

During that 1984/85 season, I set out to record every gate in the First Division – in the days before the internet, this involved buying papers after games, or sometimes glancing at papers in newsagents and memorising gates – as I was so obsessed with evaluating how our home and away gates compared to other teams. I have the results, on a large piece of cardboard, saved to this day.

I hear the screams of “statto” from near and far.

Fackinell.

Back to 2024.

Glenn and I enjoyed a lovely amble around Frome. It is such a different town than in 1984, in so many ways. It’s “Dodge” moniker appeared in the late ‘eighties; back then, it was a Wild West town, with gangs of tarmac workers, Gypsies and squaddies from Warminster, plus lads visiting from Westbury and Trowbridge, often making a night out eventful. These days, it has a different vibe at night time, and certainly during the day.

We made our way into Badgers’ Hill at about 2.30pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. On the turnstile was our friend Steve, another member of that “Blues” football team from the autumn of 1974. Steve was the ‘keeper in that game and in all of the subsequent games that I would play in Frome until 1979 when my star waned and I dropped into the wilderness of “B Team” football.

Here was another “must win” game at Frome Town. Despite the local “Cheese Show” taking place at a site just outside of town – an agricultural show involving equestrianism, trade stalls, produce, livestock rosy-cheeked farmers in tweed, Land Rovers, and God knows what else, I have only ever been twice, the experience bored me to death – the FA Cup game drew a reasonable gate of 351. Alas, despite absolutely dominating the first-half, we fell apart after the break and lost 0-1. No Wembley this year. I was truly disheartened.

We left Dodge at around 5pm, and I set the “GPS” for my “JustPark” spot just outside the Bournemouth stadium. All along, I had expected us to glide in to Bournemouth at 6.30pm. The route took us past the site of the Cheese Show – it probably drew over 10,000 people – and then through some glorious Somerset then Wiltshire, then Somerset, then Wiltshire, then Dorset countryside. Despite the Frome loss, this had been a really nice day, and we were hoping that Chelsea would not bugger it up.

I pulled into the driveway on Harewood Avenue at 6.32pm.

There are some lovely houses in the immediate area of the Vitality Stadium. I fell in love with most of them. It’s such an incongruous location for a top flight football match to take place. Within ten minutes, we were knocking back a relatively tasty bratwurst at one of the many pop-up food stands that now swarm around the Bournemouth stadium. The “fanzone” – always a term that makes me nauseous – was showing the Villa vs. Everton game. I fear for Everton and their long-suffering support this season. I wonder when we might see their new stadium for the first time. There are al fresco eateries on two sides of the Vitality Stadium these days, and everything is jammed in.

Just under a year ago, we assembled at the same venue to witness Chelsea in Eton Blue for the first time eke out a dire a 0-0 draw on a rainy and grey day. There were misses from Nicolas Jackson and a second substitute appearance in a week for new boy Cole Palmer.

…little did we know.

The usual battle of wits at the turnstiles.

“Is that a professional camera?”

“No. Just been taking a few photos of the town to be honest. Probably won’t take it out of my bag tonight.”

“OK.”

I met a few friends in the concourse. PD and Parky, despite being on the ale since early in the day, were strangely coherent. Well, relatively speaking.

I spotted safe standing in the last few rows of the away section, and in the home end to my right too.

Kick-off soon approached.

Flames, flags, smoke.

“Make some noise for the boys.”

Pah.

Us?

Sanchez

Disasi – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Veiga

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

First thoughts?

“Not much creativity in the midfield two.”

Chelsea appeared in the “off-white” shirts, like the uniforms sometimes worn by cricketers, a subtle cream.

The game began, and we attacked the goal to our right.

The home team started the livelier and Marcus Tavernier smacked a shot from distance against our bar, a moment that took me back to a strike on the Frome goal that hit the bar when the game was at 0-0 earlier in the day.

We started slowly, but began to dominate possession, yet could not find a way to make Bournemouth feel agitated and nervous. Tavernier forced a low save from Robert Sanchez. Axel Disasi was being run ragged in front of us. Every few moments a Bournemouth cross seemed to be hit across our box from their left.

It was a pretty poor first half from us. On a couple of occasions, it dawned on me that our defence – or at least this version – doesn’t really play as a unit. Disasi was having a tough game and a tough time from the Chelsea support. He was playing without confidence and I actually felt bad for him.

Sigh.

Four lads behind me were full of noise and opinions – not always negative – and I noticed that all four of them were wearing Stone Island.

“Four Stoneys in a row, lads. Good work. Stoney Connect 4. Excellent.

Our chances were only half-chances, nothing more.

The frustration in our ranks reached a peak when Pedro Neto set off on a run into the final third, but was forced in field, and ran laterally across the pitch. Within five seconds the ball was back in the arms of Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Sanchez was being called into action and saved well from a couple of smart Bournemouth shots.

A chance for Nicolas Jackson, but his effort was saved by Mark Travers. Another chance for Jackson – an extra touch close in, just like Zac Drew for Frome earlier – and the shot was saved, but he was off-side anyway.

On thirty-eight minutes, a shoddy back-pass by the patchy Wesley Fofana was intercepted by Evanilson. He ran into the box but was upended by Sanchez.

Penalty.

One of the Stoneys behind me was adamant that it wasn’t a penalty.

“Yeah, right.”

Thankfully, Sanchez chose right and dived left. The ball was kept out. A huge roar.

It had been a very poor half. Bournemouth had surely out-shot us. Our lack of creativity was shocking.

Once or twice I moaned at Gary and John : “we’re just not very good.”

At half-time, Enzo Maresca replaced the under-par Neto with Jadon Sancho, who quickly showed a willingness to show for the ball on the flank in front of us. We are so close to the action at the Vitality Stadium. It’s pretty amazing to see everything a few yards away from us.

We looked a bit brighter but there were still some chances for the home team. Sancho feinted, and teased, and linked well with Cucarella. This was an encouraging debut.

On sixty-one minutes, a couple of changes.

Tosin for Disasi.

Joao Felix for Madueke.

The loyalists in the away end noted an upturn in our play and got going. The old second-half standard of “Amazing Grace” was pumped around the away end for a good many minutes.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”

Jackson was set up nicely but lent back and we all sighed as his errant shot curled over the bar.

Antoine Semenyo himself curled an effort, a free-kick, over our bar.

Sanchez saved brilliantly well from Ryan Christie. Alan looked at me and I looked at him and we mouthed “Man Of The Match” at exactly the same time.

Cucarella, finding space in tight areas set up Jackson, but his shot was blocked.

The latter part of the game truly became the Jadon Sancho Show. He grew in confidence and, despite being marked by two or even three defenders, jinked into space and linked well with Felix and Cucarella. We really warmed to him. Sancho has a rather odd place in my football history. He is, I am sure, the first player who was called up to an England squad that I had never heard of.

On seventy-nine minutes, Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

In my thoughts : “bloody hell, Nkunku should be starting.”

The game carried on. For all our possession, I truly wondered if we would ever score. I was even preparing my post-game Facebook post.

“Thank God there is no Game Three.”

Thankfully, on eighty-six minutes, the determined Sancho pushed the ball into Nkunku, who was seemingly surrounded by an impenetrable congregation of defenders. I held the camera up and waited. This was always going to be a tough shot though, for Nkunku as well as me. I was low down, the third row, and fans were standing in front of me, hands and arms gesticulating. Nkunku had an even tougher task. However, he somehow twisted and turned in the tightest of spaces – like the child that is spun around by his father, then forced to stand, then falls in every direction – before settling for a split second, in a parcel of newly-created space, and rolled around a defender. His poke at goal was perfect.

Goal.

We exploded.

Talk about a “fox in the box.”

What a finish.

Veiga ran over to us, his face ecstatic, then Sancho and Nkunku. By this time Veiga was almost doing a Disasi at Palace or a Jackson at Forest. Pandemonium on the South Coast. The players stopped right in front of me. Supporters rushed forward. I was pushed forward. I pushed back.

“Need to get a photo of this.”

I wish that my shots were as good as Nkunku’s shot, but my view was muddled, and I was jostled.

I then spotted a blue balloon emerge and I waited for my moment.

Snap.

Phew.

I took the money shot.

There was still time for another Sanchez save.

The Sanchez and Sancho Show.

At the final whistle, the players took their time to approach us, and – in light of the mayhem after the goal was scored – kept a respectful distance.

But our applause was genuine, and one player was singled out for special praise.

“Jadon Sancho, Jadon Sancho, hello, hello.”

Maybe, just maybe, we have another gem.

I met up with Glenn – and also my friend Greg from Texas, who was over on a last-minute trip, I managed to snag him a ticket – and we were happy.

Only one mention of the referee. He deserves nothing more. It wasn’t even a dirty game. I hate modern football.

The day hadn’t been a chore at all. No need for the psychiatrist’s couch. No need for over-analysis. The twin crutches of friends and football – 1974, 1984 and 2024 – prevailed. We headed home via Salisbury, Glenn bought me the final coffee of the day, and I made it back at just after midnight.

Next up, the visit of West Ham in 1984 and a visit to West Ham in 2024.

“Chim-chimeny, chim-chimeny, chim, chim, cher-oo.”

See you then, see you there.

Tales From 4.45am To 3.00am

Posted on April 8, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 4 April 2024.

Some finish, eh?

But don’t hop straight to that. Every story has a start, then a build-up, and a back-story or two.

Fasten your seat belts though; I don’t want you to fall off at the end of the ride.

On the way home in the car after the Burnley game that ended in a disappointing 2-2 draw, we engendered a pretty intense post mortem about where the club is, where the team is, our strengths and weaknesses, the whole nine yards. It was an exhaustive chat. The closing thought was along the lines of “well, hopefully we will all be healthy enough to keep going to games for a while yet” with a deeply pragmatic “we can only show up and support, the rest is fluff” as a final word on the day’s events. Although we had been dismayed with a draw against a weak, and weakened, team we have all been going to Chelsea for too many seasons to let a draw get us suicidal.

On the Easter Monday, I travelled to my place of work, Melksham, to watch a local derby. In a tough game, Frome Town raced to a 2-0 lead early in the first-half, and withstood a late Melksham Town charge to eventually squeak it 2-1. The crowd was a very decent 1,103 and the win put Frome Town top of our division.

The next Chelsea game, the 8.15pm kick-off against Manchester United at Stamford Bridge on the following Thursday, meant that I had to turn up at work for another 6am to 2pm shift. I was up at 4.45am and I dreaded to think what time I would be returning home. Before I left for work at 5.30am, I had a quick check on all of the previous Chelsea vs. Manchester United games that I had attended; across all venues, it currently stood at eighty-one This game would be number eighty-two.

There are four Manchester United followers in the office, though two were absent on this particular day. I set things up by saying that of the previous eighty-one games, few had excited me less. There was no banter in the office during the day. Oh well.

Only PD was travelling up with me for this game; the other two regulars were not able to attend unfortunately. Our friends from Jacksonville – Jennifer, Cindy, Brian, Tom – met us in “The Elephant And Barrel” on Lillee Road for some pre-match chat. I was reminded of the first time that Jennifer and Brian attended a game at Stamford Bridge; it was the game against West Ham United in April 2018, just a few days after Ray Wilkins sadly passed away. What an emotional game that was. And here we all were, six years later, on the exact anniversary of his passing. That Ray played for both Chelsea and Manchester United was fitting.

We called in at “The Cock Tavern” and I bored the Americans rigid with how I enjoyed my first-ever pint at this popular pub in April 1984, almost forty years ago. The boozer was packed when we arrived at about 7pm and I hoped that as we squeezed out to the beer garden the crowds would thin out. If anything, it got busier. We were packed in like sardines.

I said to Jennifer “this is when us English types stand around and look awkward.” But Brian had a different take.

“What could be more typically English than this? We are in London, in a pub, before going to the football. It’s raining and the Spice Girls are playing on the pub’s speakers.”

I smiled.

With rain threatening to get worse, we made our way along the Fulham Road.

I was inside Stamford Bridge just before 8pm.

We had heard the team.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Mudryk

Jackson

There were the usual three-thousand United fans staring us down in the opposite corner. They came with a few flags draped over the balcony wall, including one I remember from a few years ago.

“Levenshulme Reds : MUFC – No Mither.”

There were flags from up north – St. Helens – and down south – Patchway – and the away crowd were already in good voice. Before the game, the annoying PA chap shouted at us and obliterated any chance we had of building our own atmosphere.

Then came the dimming of the lights, the flames in front of the East Stand and a display of flags being waved in The Shed. Then, vertical “Keep The Blue Flag Flying High” banners draped down into the lower tier.

The fools who had paid £5,000 per seat took their places behind the Chelsea dugout.

The stadium lights brightened and the players strode onto the pitch.

The famous blue, the famous red.

The three visitors from Florida – not Tom, he is originally from Ireland, and not Chelsea, but Cindy’s partner, and watching his own team in a nearby pub – finally made their way into their seats front and centre of the Shed Lower. I easily spotted them.

Clive was alongside me, but sadly Alan was unable to make this one.

The game began.

And how.

After just four minutes of play, with us attacking both sets of fans in The Shed, Enzo played the ball out to Malo Gusto on the right with a fantastic pass. Gusto sent over a low cross, and the ball fell nicely for the onrushing Conor Gallagher. The captain quickly dispatched the ball towards goal in a way that was very reminiscent of Frank Lampard in his prime. To my eyes, the habitually mocked United ‘keeper Andre Onana appeared to dive over the ball. There was an air of disbelief, a slight delay, before everyone realised that the ball had rippled the United net.

Get in.

As the scorer raced down towards the corner flag in the South-West corner, I purred with happiness when I immediately thought back to the absolutely nonsensical abuse suffered by the player since the Burnley match.

Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

I shouted over to PD; “I remember Pedro’s early goal in 2016 against this lot” and wondered if there would be a ridiculous repeat.

Chances were exchanged as the game continued. United looked dangerous at times with Alejandro Garnacho looking particularly mischievous. Rasmus Hojlund looked as though he could cause us some trouble too. But we had decent spells of our own.

On nineteen minutes, Marc Cucarella played a one-two with Mykhailo Mudryk, and was upended in the box by Antony.

It looked a penalty from one-hundred yards away, cough, cough.

Cole Palmer took the ball and cleanly despatched the ball past Onana, and then celebrated with a trot right in front of Cindy, Jennifer and Brian.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some good ones there I hoped.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 0.

There was a magnificent Zola-esque bamboozle out on the right by the half-way line by Palmer that made us squeal with delight. But at 2-0, I felt we didn’t really push on as much as we should. Our play was a little too slow, a familiar complaint this season, and in others too. But the once buoyant United hordes were quiet. We had them on the ropes. It was such a shame that we didn’t really go for it.

There was a Gallagher free-kick from out on the right and an Axel Disasi header but not much else.

Sadly, on thirty-four minutes, an errant square pass from Moises Caicedo to Benoit Badishile was cut out by the raiding Garnacho. He sped away and tucked the ball home.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 1.

Bollocks.

Caicedo looked devastated.

We looked second-best for a while and on thirty-eight minutes, Cucarella gave Garnacho too much space down below us and he had time to pass back to the unmarked Diogo Dalot. His cross cut out everyone, but was expertly headed home by Bruno Fernandes at the back post, the ball dropping in past Petrovic. I found myself muttering “good goal” to myself and immediately questioned my very existence.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 2.

Right at the end of the half, a screamer from Gallagher rattled against the near post, right in front of Cindy, Jennifer and Brian.

At half-time, there were comments about how loose the game at been.

“Woeful defending for our two conceded goals.”

“It’ll be 4-4 at the final whistle.”

Soon into the second-half, we were treated to two excellent tackles / interceptions by Disasi, one seemingly while on his arse.

We struck at the United goal via Nicolas Jackson and Enzo.

In the Fernandez versus Fernandes battle, things were tight.

The game was opening up, and Chelsea peppered the United goal with efforts. Onana made several dramatic one-handed saves during the evening.

Sadly, halfway through the second-half, a lightening break down our right allowed Antony to advance and play a spectacularly good ball with the outside of his boot into the penalty area. We were stretched, and the ball bounced up and allowed Garnach to stoop nimbly just before Petrovic could clear. It was an odd goal, quite unique, and it gave the visitors the lead.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 3.

I imagined the four United fans at work preparing a few barbs for me.

The away fans bellowed “Who the fuck are man United and the reds going marching on, on, on?”

I grimaced.

This self-deprecating song always gets aired when they are on top.

Pochettino changed it around.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Caicedo.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Then Trevoh Chalobah for Disasi.

Onana continued to thwart us. What had happened to the woeful ‘keeper of the first few months of his United career? An angled shot from Palmer blazed over.

The final fifteen minutes was an increasingly odd period. We attempted to find gaps, and Enzo tried to create openings out of nothing. His prods into players helped keep the pressure on.

The United fans were in full voice.

“Red army! Red army!”

This was met with some Chelsea boos, but I soon realised that this was aimed at Mason Mount who was preparing to replace the impressive Garnacho on the far touchline. If I was honest, I was hoping that Mount would not play.

I didn’t boo. Why would I? Although the volume of boos was loud – and it surprised me – I looked around and behind me and I could not see anyone booing in our section. One suspects, if everyone had been booing, the noise would have been stratospheric.

Thanks for Porto, Mason. But you were shite last season, all of it, and that’s it, it’s over. He managed to get into a little spat straight away.

On the eighty-ninth minute, the last throw of the dice and Noni Madueke replaced Gallagher. I struggled to work out the formation, but we kept going.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

Ten minutes of extra time were displayed.

We kept plugging away.

I turned to Clive.

“We’ll score.”

Injury time continued. Sterling and Madueke tried their best. The game was being played out in the United defensive third in front of us.

The time ticked by.

With three minutes to go, we seemed to have run out of steam, and both Clive and I agreed that it looked a lost cause.

Clive left, as had Albert, who sits right in front of me, a few minutes earlier.

Then, a late and forceful run by Madueke the substitute. He drove at the United box and we gulped in the night air. It was already way past 10pm. He ran and run, and was clipped by Dalot. We gulped some more.

…thinking : “looked like a penalty.”

The referee pointed at the spot.

Then, surprise surprise, the inevitable VAR interaction.

We waited. The United players stood around the referee. There was a commotion.

We waited some more.

I had walked a few steps to my left, down to the front of the MHU for a better view.

This was so tense.

Penalty.

I did not cheer.

I took a few photos of Palmer as he waited to strike. Alas, the photo of the strike is too blurred to share here.

Palmer struck.

Low to Onana’s left.

Goal.

Bedlam.

Fucking bedlam.

I snapped as the scorer raced away, but the stand was trembling so much that all of the photos are magnificently blurred

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 3.

Fackinell.

I immediately thought of Clive, poor Clive.

I walked back up to my place alongside PD. I patted him on the back and we hugged.

“Bloody hell mate.”

After the re-start, United attacked – so much for killing the game, oh well, they are the great entertainers – and we won the ball back in our half. A flick from Enzo to Sterling, a touch to Madueke, who kept the ball well despite being hounded by three red shirts. He pushed the ball to Jackson who played in Sterling. There was a prod into the box. The low cross was cleared, but only to Cucarella. He passed to Chukwuemeka who shaped his body well. A curling shot, deflected, the ball just missing the frame of the goal. We grimaced.

But a corner.

I had taken ten photos of this move which had taken fifteen seconds to unfold. I was waiting for that one magical moment to capture for eternity.

Was there even time for a corner?

Our hearts were racing.

I flipped my camera up to The Shed to take a photo of the Jacksonville Three. Their cameras were posed too.

A short corner on the far side. Cole Palmer, unexpectedly free, received the ball from Enzo.

He took a touch.

I snapped.

He shot.

The ball deflected off Scott McTominay.

The net rippled once more.

Stamford Bridge erupted.

Chelsea 4 Manchester United 3.

My shot is blurred but I have to share it here.

I had just witnessed pure theatre, pure emotion. It was a moment that I will remember for years and years.

My head exploded.

Such joy.

Such ridiculous joy.

Such raucous joy.

For a few moments we all lost it.

“One Step Beyond” segued into “Freed from Desire” and then into a dancey version of “Three Little Birds.”

We all made arses of ourselves.

It was 10.20pm in SW6.

I quickly tried to think of a game at Stamford Bridge that had witnessed such a phenomenally quick – one minute and nineteen seconds I think – turnaround.

Not in my eight-hundred-and-sixty-six games anyway.

I certainly remembered the very late Wiliam Gallas screamer against Tottenham in 2006 that probably engineered similar feelings of joy, but there had never been anything like this.

Fackinell.

Game number eighty-two wasn’t so bad after all, eh?

We walked back to the car.

The night did not want to end. We had heard of the M4 being shut, so I diverted down to the M3. Then, that was shut, so we diverted onto the A322 to the M4 but then we were forced down onto the A4, the old Roman road.

I was philosophical.

“Not getting too downhearted about this late night, mate. Millions of Chelsea fans around the world would love to be in this car after what we have just witnessed.”

I reached Melksham just before 1.30am, and I eventually made it home at 1.50am. I would eventually fall asleep, after sharing the usual smattering of late night photos, at 3am.

4.45am to 3.00am, oh Chelsea we love you.

Tales From Us, Villa And The Cup

Posted on January 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 26 January 2024.

After a League Cup tie on the Tuesday, we now had an FA Cup tie on the Friday. Two cup games within four days, both at Stamford Bridge, 460 miles for me to navigate, it’s tough at the top.

Of course I enjoyed the 6-1 triumph over Middlesbrough on Tuesday, but I was certainly not getting carried away with the amount of goals that we scored. It was, after all, only Middlesbrough, a mid-table Championship team.

I was sure that if we managed to score against a far more formidable side in the FA Fourth Round tie, I would be celebrating more wildly.

But halfway through Friday morning I was struggling. After finishing the blog for the Middlesbrough game at 10pm on Thursday night, I was up at 4.45am on Friday in order to work an early 6am to 2pm shift in the twin worlds of logistics and office furniture. At about 9.30am, I was bloody hanging, stifling yawns and finding it hard to concentrate. I was dreading the drive to and from London. I would not be home again around 1am in the small hours of Friday / Saturday night. Thankfully the arrival of some pods for our office coffee-maker breathed new life into me.

I picked-up the chaps outside the pub opposite work and set off, feeling fine, feeling happy that work was over for the week, a Chelsea game a reward for my sleep-starved existence. The clear blue skies and bright sunshine invigorated me further and I was actually able to drive to London with a deep sense of contentment.

Alas, mind-numbing traffic congestion as I approached the Hammersmith roundabout halted our swift progress. I eventually dropped two of my passengers at “The Eight Bells” at 4.45pm and the remaining one outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge at just before 5pm. After parking up in virtually the same spot as on Tuesday, I dropped into “The Anchor” take-away for an unplanned saveloy and chips. It warmed me up, and gave me some fuel on a cold night in SW6.

I walked to West Brompton tube and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge. I spent from 6pm to 7pm in the company of PD, Glenn, Salisbury Steve and London Luke. Rich, from St. Albans – we go back to The Benches in 1984 – was there with his daughter Amber, nineteen, and James, fourteen. It would be James’ first-ever game. I had picked up tickets for the three of them from friends in the US who had bought them to raise their loyalty points for a game later in the season. The tickets came from Jacksonville to Axonville.

Boom boom.

Appearing at “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at the Bridge was a first for us. The place was full of regulars. On the tube up to Fulham Broadway, it was no surprise to see Villa fans in our carriage.

“Yippy-aye-ay, yippy-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”

The weather was bitter, much colder than Tuesday.

There was a welcoming tune that greeted me as I reached the seats.

“Blue Monday” by New Order.

I was behind the goal in the Matthew Harding Upper again, but a few rows nearer the front and a few yards closer to the goal than on Tuesday. It honestly felt like only five minutes ago since I was last at Stamford Bridge.

In the match programme, Rick Glanville had written a very interesting article about Chelsea Football Club’s early desire for Stamford Bridge to host FA Cup Finals after it became apparent that Crystal Palace was not an appropriate venue. Lo and behold, we almost played in the first FA Cup Final – in 1920 – to take place at Stamford Bridge. Sadly, we lost 1-3 to Aston Villa in a semi-final that took place at Bramall Lane in Sheffield. That year, Villa defeated Huddersfield Town 1-0 in the final, a game in which my grandfather may have attended. I penned a few pieces about this in the 2019/20 and 2020/21 FA Cup campaigns.

My first viewing of an Aston Villa FA Cup tie against Chelsea took place in early 1987, an away game that ended 2-2. We won the replay 2-1.

The next FA Cup tie against Villa was of much more importance.

The 2000 FA Cup Final was always going to be a very special occasion. The final tie of the 1999-2000 competition was to be held at the original Wembley Stadium – chosen for Cup Finals after Stamford Bridge’s little run from 1920 to 1922 – for the very last time. The venerable old stadium, dating back to 1923, had hosted so many important and memorable football games in its eight decades. In its latter years, it was showing its age, but the thrill, for me anyway, of seeing the famous twin towers on FA Cup Final days evoked wonderful memories of past games and past glories. However, I totally understood the need to update the national stadium. As the season developed, I hoped that we would end up there for one final hurrah.

Season 1999/2000 was an eventful season for Chelsea Football Club. For the first time ever, we embarked on our first every Champions League journey. After winning a qualifier against Skonta Riga – I went to the home leg, not the away game – we were drawn in a group with Milan, Galatasaray and Hertha Berlin. I went to all home games, but no away games.

At the time, my job involved shift work and so I could not always get time off work to follow the boys. I still went to thirty-eight games, my highest-ever total, beating the thirty-five games of 1997/98.

In the league, despite walloping the then European Champions Manchester United 5-0 at Stamford Bridge, we flattered to deceive, finishing in fifth place and a hefty twenty-six points behind United who romped home. In the League Cup, we were sent packing in our first tie, a 0-1 home defeat by Huddersfield Town.

We qualified for the second Group Phase of the Champions League and were grouped with Lazio, Marseille and Feyenoord. I went to the game in Rome, a dour 0-0 draw. Winning that second group set us up for a semi-final with Barcelona. I was lucky enough to go to both games; sadly, a mad 3-1 victory at home was matched by a 1-5 reverse in Catalonia.

As the latter stages of the season were played out, Chelsea made solid progress in the FA Cup. We won 6-1 at Hull City – old Boothferry Park – then enjoyed a run of home games, and victories, against Nottingham Forest, Leicester City and Gillingham. This set us up for a semi-final against Newcastle United at Wembley. Two Gus Poyet goals sent us into the FA Cup Final in a very fine game that would have graced the final itself. Our opponents on 20 May 2000 would be Aston Villa who had beaten Bolton Wanderers on penalties in their semi-final at Wembley.

However, the FA Cup wasn’t all plain sailing that season. For the first time that I could remember, the all-important Round Three was played in early December, though I forget the reasoning, and this was met with a formidable backlash. Also, Manchester United were forced to compete in the inaugural FIFA World Club Championships in Brazil in January 2000 by the FA and so withdrew from the 1999/2000 competition. United drew a lot of flak for withdrawing but, in reality, their hands were tied. In hindsight, one wonders why United could not have entered a youth team in the FA Cup to give the competition some dignity. In my mind, the 1999/2000 FA Cup was played out with an asterisk against it.

It had been a decent campaign for Chelsea and I just wanted us to win the FA Cup against Aston Villa to give us some sort of reward for the season. Unfortunately, I found myself coming off a week of nights, finishing mid-morning on the Friday, and was rather tired as we assembled for a pre-match drink or two at “The Princess Royal” – no longer there – near St. Johns Wood tube station and Lords Cricket Ground. There were probably more Villa fans in the pub than us.

“Ugly bunch, aren’t they?” whispered Daryl.

We had our usual pre-match chat and I think I wasn’t the only one who was a mite nervous. In 1997, it felt that fate – Matthew Harding – was on our side, but this one was too tight to call. Villa, playing in their first FA Cup Final since 1957, had finished just one place below us in the league table.

We caught the tube up to Wembley and posed for photos in front of the gleaming white Twin Towers. We had the same end as in 1997. That would hopefully count for something. FA Cup Finals are always linked to odd superstitions.

Our team?

Ed De Goey

Mario Melchiot – Frank Leboeuf – Marcel Desailly – Celestine Babayaro

Roberto di Matteo – Didier Deschamps – Gus Poyet – Dennis Wise

George Weah – Gianfranco Zola

The normal right backs Albert Ferrer and Graeme Le Saux were both injured. The Aston Villa team – playing in peculiar broad stripes – included David James, Gareth Southgate, Dion Dublin, Benito Carbone and Paul Merson. Merson, the Chelsea fan, was making his second Wembley appearance against Chelsea in barely over two years. Of course, the much-loved Gianluca Vialli was our smart-dressed manager at the time. Note George Weah’s white boots.

In truth, this was a poor game. The first-half was very mundane with precious few strikes on goal. Chances increased after the break with Chelsea enjoying more of them. Midway through the second-half, Dennis Wise scored for us with a close-in prod after a James fumble and the place erupted, limbs everywhere. Sadly, after the euphoria there was misery as we saw that the goal had been disallowed for off-side. From a Gianfranco Zola free-kick on our left, there was another James fumble. Roberto di Matteo was on hand to quickly hook the ball into the roof of the net from close range. We celebrated again but it always felt like it wasn’t with the same intensity of the first disallowed goal. It seemed that all of our energy had been expelled when that Wise effort went in.

Strange game football.

God knows what we would have made of the spectre of VAR in 2000.

After the game, we witnessed some marvellous celebrations from the Chelsea players, who were as relieved as the supporters that the long season had harvested some silverware. For some reason, we all assembled at a pub near Paddington Station after the game. I think that the idea was to give the lads who were not staying up in London for the parade on the Sunday a little send-off before they caught the train west. We saw a few lads from Frome off. Glenn and I went back to stay at Alan’s flat in South London.

This FA Cup lark was alright, wasn’t it?

We had won in 1997 and again in 2000.

These were great times to be Chelsea supporters. I just tried not to think about that bloody asterisk in 2000.

Oh, one last remark about the two centre forwards from 2000.

George Weah was President of Liberia from 2018 until earlier this week.

Dion Dublin currently presents “Homes Under The Hammer” on the BBC.

Weah won that battle, no asterisk required.

We met Villa in one more FA Cup tie, the 2010 semi-final at Wembley. We used to drink in “The Duke Of York” for Wembley games in those days and seven of us memorably showed up in Lacoste polos. Snappy dressers, eh?

The game was an easy 3-0 win with us watching way above the halfway line, with all of the goals coming in the second-half. Thankyou Didier Drogba, Florent Malouda and Frank Lampard. It was a vital step in our march to the domestic double in 2010.

I am not sure how many Villa fans were in the 50,018 crowd at the 1920 FA Cup Final, but there were six thousand Villa fans at Stamford Bridge in 2024. They had the usual smattering of flags, but were not wearing quite so many colours as ‘Boro on Tuesday.

I was seated at 7.30pm.

“Disco 2000” by Pulp.

If this was a deliberate dig by the Chelsea DJ at Villa regarding the 2000 FA Cup Final, then fair play. I remember that in the late ‘nineties, in the car to and from Somerset to Chelsea, we changed the words.

“We’ll win the league by the Year 2000.”

It later became “we won the Cup in the Year 2000.”

We had seen the line-up, but Levi Colwill was injured pre-match. It resulted in a last minute change.

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Silva – Badiashile

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sterling

The pitch was watered right up until the last minute. Water gave way to flames. The players entered the pitch. Chelsea in royal blue and navy tracky tops, Villa in claret ones.

The game began.

We began OK, but then Villa had a little spell. A really well-worked free-kick (memories of John Sheridan in 1991) was played by the Villa captain John McGinn out to Alex Moreno out on the Villa left. His cross was met with a “down and up” header by Youri Tielemans (our nemesis in the 2021 FA Cup Final), but Djordje Petrovic palmed it over as the ball bounced up off the deck.

Phew.

Soon after, a short corner was worked inside and Moussa Diaby unleashed a shot at goal. The ball was deflected by Alfie Gilchrist into the path of Douglas Luiz, who tapped in from a few feet out. The Villa players ran off to celebrate down below PD, Parky and Co., and their fans roared.

However, after what seemed an absolute age, VAR chimed in. A handball? No idea. No clue.

We waited.

And waited.

No goal.

Phew.

No celebrations from me though.

This seemed to spark some life into us and we improved. At around the twenty-minute mark we had a lovely little spell. We admired a great move from Raheem Sterling to Enzo to Cole Palmer – a beautiful flick – and a pass that set up Noni Madueke. However, his studied low shot was met with a fine save by Emilio Martinez. A Villa defender made a balls-up of passing to his team mate after good pressure from the lively Conor Gallagher. The ball ended up at the feet of Palmer, but he was found wanting with a tame shot at goal, again cleared by Martinez.

Ugh. Martinez. The memory of that “non-Final” on the first day of August in 2020.

On thirty minutes, Sterling set up Palmer who reached the by-line but the incoming cross was somehow blocked. Raheem was having a mixed game. Sometimes you just feel that he often dribbles at players as his first thought rather than looking up to assess other options. He seems obsessed in beating opponents. On the other side, Madueke was full of flicks, turns, spins, but they didn’t always work out to the greater good.

It looked odd to see the central Palmer playing adrift of the others. He looked like he was sweeping up behind the Villa paring of Ezri Konsa and Clement Lenglet. A few years back, supporters would have wondered what on earth he was doing.

It was an intriguing half and I was enjoying it. After the disallowed goal, Villa seemed to go into their shell. We, however grew stronger and more confident.

Good work from Madueke in front of Parkyville and the ball was rolled back to Sterling, finding himself on the right flank, but his cross was headed by Benoit Badiashile straight at Martinez.

At the break, I was happy with our performance against a decent team. At times our passing was a little too slow for our liking. I couldn’t help think about that old adage about any move having a crucial moment when the ball has to be played. That moment was reached, and ignored, too many times for my liking. Our slow passing – at times, not always – seemed to allow the momentum to be lost. In the middle, Enzo and Moises Caicedo solid and involved, while Gallagher must have covered almost ever blade of grass on the pitch.

The Villa fans began loudly but soon quietened. Our noise wasn’t bad, especially the first twenty minutes.

There was music at half-time.

“Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division.

“There She Goes” by The La’s.

The second-half began. More decent stuff from us. Down the left, Enzo slid in Gallagher and the ball fell to Palmer on his favoured left foot. He guided the ball towards goal but it was always drifting past the far stick. A long cross from Matty Cash on the right was headed over by Moreno, unhindered, at the far post.

Midway through the half, Martinez’ clearance hit Palmer’s heels but he was unable to connect with the ball as it dropped back down to Earth. Groans from everyone. A huge chance had been missed.

In the first-half, Villa’s play seemed to drop away after their goal was disallowed. In this second-half, our performance seemed to lack lustre after this miss. Perhaps it was tiredness.

On 65 minutes, Ben Chilwell replaced the steady Gilchrist. The back four was realigned with Disasi moved to right back, Badiashile in the middle with Silva and Chilwell out left.

Cash was proving to be a handful and the full back was then set up by Ollie Watkins but, thankfully, his low shot was saved well, down low, a Petrovic speciality. The save was warmly applauded. From a corner, Konsa slashed wide of the framework. Villa were enjoying a good spell, but I was pleased that the home crowd noted their ascendency and dug in and provided the loudest support of the night.

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

I could hardly believe my eyes as I saw Petrovic going long at goal kicks as the second-half continued, a sure sign that players were tiring.

On 77 minutes, Armando Broja replaced Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Madueke.

We seemed to be shot as an attacking force and neither of these latest two subs were able to make their mark. We defended resolutely.

A late sub, on 89 minutes, saw Carney Chukwuemeka replace Enzo.

It stayed 0-0.

We would have to reconvene at Villa Park in a week and a half’s time. So be it. At least we will be in the draw for Round Five.

As I left, the final song of my night rang out.

“Brimful Of Asha” by Cornershop.

Ah – a nice bit of symmetry. One of my friends from Wembley 2010 – Simon, pictured in the white polo, third from the right – directed the video of that song, a hit from 1997.

On the drive back in the car – a decent finishing time of 12.50am for me – we wondered how many we would get for Villa Park.

“More than the usual 3,000 no doubt.”

“Wonder if we will have enough time to pop into ‘The Vine’ too?”

Next up, back to the league and an away game at Anfield on Wednesday.

See you there.

2000

2010

2024

Tales From The Loyal Three Thousand

Posted on December 9, 2023 by Chris Axon

Manchester United vs. Chelsea : 6 December 2023.

Originally the plan was to stay up in the North-West for four nights, taking in the matches at Manchester United and Everton without the need to travel up and back twice. I had booked accommodation near Piccadilly for Wednesday night, and accommodation near Goodison Park for the other three nights. With it being our last-ever visit to the old lady, I thought it worthwhile to base ourselves in Liverpool, exploring some previously unvisited areas – North Wales maybe – while being close to the stadium for one last hurrah.

That was the plan.

And then Frome Town buggered it all up.

The Mighty Dodge drew ex-Football League outfit Torquay United in the Third Round of the FA Trophy. Well, I couldn’t miss that. I even thought about leaving PD and Parky in Liverpool and driving to Frome on the Saturday. But then Parky decided that he needed to make other arrangements and we chose to cancel both stays.

At 1pm I collected PD in Frome and we began our journey north. It honestly did not seem too long ago that I last visited Old Trafford; it came at the end of last season, the first of two games in Manchester in a mere five days.

It’s a well-worn path. This would be my twenty-eighth away game with Chelsea at Old Trafford. It used to be a decent hunting ground. However, those days seem a long time ago. It is now over ten years since our last win at United, a lone strike from Juan Mata giving us the points in May 2013. Alex Ferguson announced that he would retire as United manager the very next day. I would like to think that the two are linked.

We reached “The Windmill” at the Tabley Interchange on the M6 at 4.45pm and we had a bite to eat. At 6pm, I set off on the last stretch. Alas, we were hit with tiresome traffic congestion as we crawled along the A56 through Altrincham and Sale, and then eventually along Chester Road and into Stretford. Past the old Art Deco cinema. Past the new McDonalds where “The Drum” used to be, past the shopping centre. We were parked up at 7.15pm.

It was a clear night. A little cold. No rain.

I am sure I could walk this last section in my sleep. It is so familiar.

Across Gorse Hill Park. The floodlights of the cricket ground to my right. Back onto the Chester Road again. Past a lot of new buildings, much changed in the last fifteen years. But still that working men’s club on the right. A new car dealership. The hot dog stand. The steel of Old Trafford across the way. That large “Tesco” on the right. A new pop-up bar on the other pavement, a re-furbished 20’ sea container. Those tower blocks to the left. The trot over the road. “The Bishop Blaize” pub. The line of fast food places as you walk up to the cross-roads. Red-brick terraced houses beyond. Lou Macari’s chip shop. People queueing for food. The pungent smell of vinegar. The grafters selling match day scarves. Onto Sir Matt Busby Way. The bloke yelling out “United We Stand” and yet more stalls selling scarves and tat. The crowds getting deeper, a mix of accents. The line of police as the forecourt is reached. The neon signage on the East Stand. The Munich memorial. The Munich clock. The slope down to the away turnstiles. The hunt for familiar faces.

“Kim!”

I spotted Kim, from the US, now residing in Liverpool, and I handed over her match ticket. We bump into each other at a variety of locations – the last one a boat in Bristol harbour – and this was her first visit to Old Trafford for a few years.

It’s always the biggest away game for me, this one. It’s a classic battle. North vs. South. Red vs. Blue. Manchester vs. London. Old Trafford. The largest club ground in the UK. The scene of our 1970 FA Cup win. The scene of our 1915 FA Cup loss. Some huge battles over the decades.

My SLR is banned at both Manchester stadia and so I again wanted to take a few photos of the match-going support, close-up, rather than rely on too many grainy and fuzzy action shots using my smaller camera. There was a mandatory search and I was in. It was 7.50pm.

There was a new vantage point for me for this one. I am usually positioned in the curve above the corner flag. This time I was in Section 233, square behind the goal-line, a few yards inside the pitch. I was only a few seats away from the home fans. It allowed me a few new angles of Old Trafford for which I was grateful.

This was an 8.15pm kick-off. This relatively new kick-off time, at the behest of Amazon, seems particularly pernicious. An extra twist of the knife for match-going fans. There seemed to be no valid reason for it. Why not stage all of “their” midweek games at 7.30pm? With an 8.15pm start, it’s more tiredness, more pain, more stress, especially for those pour souls who were straight back in to work the next morning.

Alan, alongside me in row seven had travelled up by coach. There were no trains back to London after the game. He aimed to get back home to South London by around 6am, another couple of days of annual leave used up, just like me.

Kev, a few rows behind me, had travelled up with some friends from the Bristol area, and although his father Brian was taking a turn to drive, Kev would be back in work at 6am on the Thursday, the poor sod.

Despite the ridiculous kick-off time, our end was full. Three thousand strong. But of course. We may be going through a tough spell but the clamour for away tickets is as frenzied as ever. I saw no gaps in our section. Not one.

Top marks.

Before the kick-off, I met up with Pete from Texas. His wife, a United fan, was in The Stretford End.

The teams entered the pitch from the corner. I had not yet seen the team.

Sanchez

Cucarella – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Or something like that.

The home team had a mixture of names that I was and wasn’t overly familiar with. This isn’t the team of Rooney, Ronaldo, Ferdinand and Evra.

It isn’t even the team of Coppell, Buchan, Hill and Macari.

The current United team is not known in my household.

The game began.

I had heard a new song in the crowded concourse before the game and here it was again.

“Who’s that twat who comes from Portsmouth?”

Well, Mason Mount wasn’t even playing, nor was he even on the bench.

We were under the cosh from the start and in the fourth minute Robert Sanchez collapsed well to finger-tip an angled shot from Rasmus Hojland, whoever he is, past the far post. It was all United.

On nine minutes, after another United attack, the referee signalled a penalty after VAR was called into action. I did not know why the penalty was given. There is no TV screen at Old Trafford. There was just the briefest of mentions of the penalty on the scoreboard in the corner of the Stretford End. So, I was left in the dark as Bruno Fernandes tee’d up the penalty. I lifted up my camera to capture the kick. With everyone stood, I saw nothing. I just heard a roar and I immediately tried to ascertain, in a nanosecond, if the roar was from us or from them. It was from us.

GET IN.

I had no idea if the ‘keeper had touched it, but I did not care one jot.

It was still 0-0.

Not long after, Cole Palmer intercepted a pass from Sofyan Amrabat, whoever he is, and the ball fell to Nicolas Jackson. He passed to Mykhailo Mudryk who tamely shot against the near post.

Gary wasn’t sure who the United midfielder was and we both said that he looked like Juan Sebastian Veron.

“Don’t worry, we’ll sign him in the summer.”

United were carving us open, with their wide men enjoying tons of space. I didn’t like how Levi Colwill, the night’s captain, was not close to his man, while Raheem Sterling was reluctant to double-back and help Marc Cucarella, who often had to cope with two or even three men running at him. A shot from Alejandro Garnacho was saved by Sanchez and in the immediate break, Mudryk must have been overwhelmed as he raced forward with players in support to his left and right. In the end, his pass to the right to Sterling was awful, and was easily intercepted.

Shots were exchanged. Antony at Sanchez. Enzo at Onana.

Possession was given up easily. It was as if the ball was an unexploded bomb awaiting detonation. The ball was nobody’s friend. On twenty minutes, a move down our right carved us open, and when the ball came back to Scott McTominay, the midfielder purposefully volleyed it low and into the net. He celebrated down below us.

More mistakes followed. And chances. A poor touch by Jackson allowed Onana to block.

It frustrated the living hell out of all of us to see Chelsea continue to play the ball out from the back. This well-rehearsed ploy attempted to entice United on, allowing us to cut them open with a series of blistering passes played with cutthroat precision that would lead to devastating counter-attacks.

“Er…what?”

Our passing throughout the first-half was to prove to be our Achilles heel. Yet United were almost as bad. This was no remake of the 2008 Champions League Final.

On the half-hour, Jackson set up Mudryk. He drove on in the inside left channel but his effort was as tame as they come, the ball idly missing the near post by yards.

The mood in the away end was of frustration and then perhaps even anger.

I noted how Cole Palmer often came deep in an effort to knit things together but he found it oh-so difficult. Enzo was quiet. Caicedo non-existent.

Approaching the last five minutes of the first-half, I quickly tallied up that it could have been 5-3.

Crazy game.

With Harry Maguire finding himself in an advanced position on their right down below us, the tall centre-back adeptly back-heeled the ball to a team mate and the United fans in the Sir Bobby Charlton Stand collectively laughed.

On forty-five minutes, Mudryk played in Palmer. He drifted in along the edge of the penalty box, defenders close by, and magnificently stroked the ball in at the far post.

YES!

We went doo-fucking-lally.

He must have loved that, an ex-City player scoring at the Stretford End.

There was a song for Palmer.

“He moves it from the left to right. Cole Palmer is dynamite.”

This was followed by a loud “Carefree” that rung out from Sections 230 to 233. We had been pretty quiet as the half developed but here was a moment to enjoy.

The inevitable “just like London your city is blue.”

At half-time, I bumped into a few faces in the concourse.

“Not much quality but there’s a lot going on.”

I briefly met up with Johnny Twelve from California, celebrating his fiftieth Chelsea game. His wife was alongside him in the away section. I spotted that hundreds of central seats in the lower tier of the Stretford End were empty at the start of the second-half. This is obviously where United had decided to locate many of their corporate guests, many of whom were taking their time to return to their seats.

The lower tier of the Stretty.

Good God.

This end was the beating heart of Old Trafford when I was younger, when I first visited the stadium in 1986, and throughout the next few decades. I can’t imagine what the United faithful think about this.

Modern football, eh?

Mauricio Pochettino replaced the keen but exposed Cucarella with Reece James. The second-half began and we wondered what on Earth would happen next.

Chances were not so frequent as in the first-half.

Luke Shaw, at left-back, and defending near us, was the object of some abuse from Gary.

“The size of your shorts, Shaw.”

“Oi, Shaw. Billy Smart wants his tent back.”

A corner from down below us from Mudryk was flicked on by James and Jackson’s header at the far post really should have hit the target. A strong run from Mudryk then took him into the danger area but his shot was deflected for a corner. At the other end, Garnacho cut inside and his shot on goal reminded me so much of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s late equaliser against us in the autumn of 1997. Thankfully, this effort continued to rise over the bar.

Alas, from virtually the same place in the penalty box, Garnacho sent a teasing cross over to the far post and Teddy Sheringham, Eric Cantona, Andy Cole, Denis Law, Lou Macari, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Wayne Rooney, Gary Pallister, Billy Meredith and Bobby Charlton were among those lining up to head home. Scott McTominay got the touch.

2-1. Bollocks.

Two goals for McTominay. Bollocks.

There was a sniff of VAR cancelling the goal – again, I have no idea what for – but the goal stood. What with late kick-off times and VAR replays for those watching elsewhere, football is a TV game now. As if anyone was in any doubt.

There were twenty minutes’ left. The mood in the away end deteriorated. Rather than improve things with stability, James was having a ‘mare. In fact, the whole bloody team were awful.

Garnacho, with an instinctive angled shot, wide.

Fackinell.

In the first-half there had been rare breaks. In the second-half there had been virtually nothing. Armando Broja replaced Mudryk on seventy-seven minutes, and I wondered why Jackson will still playing. He had been, perhaps, the poorest of the bunch all night long.

Reece James blazed over from an angle.

Ridiculously, we were only losing 2-1 and we were one goal away from the most improbable point. In the last few minutes, a deep cross from James found the leap from Broja at the far post. He hit the frame of the goal.

Oh God.

The final straw for me took place in added time, with us showing no urgency at all at a throw-in, and no players looking like they were too bothered about anything.

No movement. No desire. No talking. No gesticulating. No fervour.

No hope.

The final whistle was blown and I headed for the exits. I couldn’t face clapping the players, but I heard the boos from among our fans. I just glowered.

We walked, as quickly as we could, back to the car. I overheard a few conversations from the home fans. They were pragmatic, but generally subdued, far from euphoric.

“Scott McTominay. He’s our top scorer now.”

“Says it all, doesn’t it?”

Yeah, Scott bloody McTominay.

We walked past the chippies. The smell of vinegar cut through the air again. Along the Chester Road, the familiar walk, the familiar feeling.

We were back on the M6 at 11pm and, after stopping at Keele Services and Strensham Services, I made good time heading south. PD ran through the league positions and – yes – all of the teams above us are undoubtedly better than us. We seem destined to finish in tenth place this season. I joked that the best that we can hope for in May is to finish top of the West London League, ahead of Brentford and Fulham.

Everton on Sunday will be a struggle and I can hear the words already.

“I’ll take a draw now.”

It is becoming our mantra this season.

I eventually made it home at 2.50am.

There is no punchline.

TEAMS

CORNER

STAND

YELLOW

STEPS

THEM

ALONE

OUTSIDE

> dedicated to the loyal three thousand

Tales From Game 71/208

Posted on October 24, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 21 October 2023.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gulp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck war.

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

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

28 April 1973 – Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

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

26 August 2013 – Manchester United 0 Chelsea 0.

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

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

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

We lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Or something like that.

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

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

I feared the worst, but hoped for a draw.

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

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

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

We waited.

Penalty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They hadn’t settled at all.

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

Shots from ourselves were a little half-hearted.

One from Gallagher was hit right at Raya.

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

One from Enzo was hit centrally at Raya too.

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

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

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

Et cetera.

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

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

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

At the break, mild optimism.

Easy now.

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

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

Rest In Peace.

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

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

GET IN!

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

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

“Oh fuck, he’s coming this way.”

I caught his Christ The Redeemer pose.

Phew.

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

The players were loving it down below.

FUCKING COME ON!

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

I was still a bit edgy though.

“Next goal is crucial.”

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

On sixty-six minutes, Nicholas Jackson replaced Mudryk.

Stamford Bridge stood to applaud him off.

The substitute then went close.

Fackinell.

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

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

Bollocks.

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

We made two late changes of our own.

Noni Madueke for Sterling.

Reece James for Palmer.

“Where’s Reece playing then?”

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

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

“COME ON CHELS.”

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

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 2.

Bollocks.

They celebrated like they had won the European Cup.

As if.

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

Arsenal’s version was a poor copy.

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

Winning the league at Stamford Bridge?

I must have missed that one. Maybe it happened.

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

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

Fackinell.

Head tennis in their box and Levi Colwill headed over.

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

It ended 2-2.

Every Chelsea fan on the planet :

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

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

Next up, another derby against Brentford.

See you there.