Chelsea vs. Burnley : 21 February 2026.
After missing the Hull City trip the previous weekend – a professional performance, a lovely trip to Wrexham next – the home game with relegation-threatened Burnley was therefore my first Chelsea match in eleven days. From the very off, this felt like the very definition of a “bog standard” / “run of the mill” match at Stamford Bridge, and it didn’t exactly get our pulses racing as we all converged on SW6.
I was inside the ground at 2.30pm and I soon glimpsed over at the away end to see what allocation Burnley had managed to bring. As I suspected, it was the lower of the two amounts: 1,500 and not 3,000. This was no surprise. Wolves are already down and the claret and blues from Lancashire are surely not far behind them, or above them to be exact. I would have been really surprised had they opted for the full amount.
My mate Alan soon arrived and showed me a photo in the match programme that honoured Gary’s father Ron who had passed away before Christmas, aged ninety-one. For many years, he had a season ticket with Gary in the front row of the East Upper. What a view that must have been.
Paul showed up a little later after being spotted down in “Jimmy’s” with – er – Jimmy, as they both enjoyed an extension of their pre-match drinking session that I had joined at around 12.30pm in “The Eight Bells.” Before that, I had shot over to London Bridge Road to treat myself to a “double double” at “Manze’s” pie and mash shop, the oldest in London. It was my third visit, and the grub was as good as ever. The place was very busy and rammed full of Millwall before their home match with Pompey. I had shared my table with a local and there was a little small talk before I left.
“Have a good day, mate.”
“And you. Goin’ football?”
“I am, yes, but not the same game as you. Chelsea vs. Burnley.”
Years ago, such an interaction might not have been so forthcoming, but things have relaxed a lot in the past couple of decades.
“Might see you in the topflight next season.”
“Yer. We’ll add something to that division.”
I thought to myself “you’re not wrong there, mate” as I squeezed past him and his mound of mash, pies and liquor.
On the way into London Bridge Station, the Portsmouth lot were just arriving, full of song, and I was surprised that there were no police, yet, on show. I have always had a little soft spot for Pompey, and I remembered a Frome lad, Rob, who supported them but sadly took his own life in the summer, a fact that I am still struggling to accept.
I had enjoyed my little dip into another corner of London; Bermondsey Street especially looks a lively stretch, full of pubs and cafes, all under the shadow of The Shard. It brought it home to me how London is smothered in football clubs, each with their own catchment areas, pre-match drinking regimes and habits, their own rituals, and their own rivalries. Imagine London with just two professional clubs; how dull would that be?
In the pub, I joined up with the lads, but all was not well. Jimmy the Greek was suffering with lower back pain, and Ian had pulled a calf muscle. As for me, after my traipse to and from underground stations and on to “Manze’s” I needed a sit-down.
The game against Burnley would mark the first appearance of the new shirt sponsor, IFS, an AI company, and Jimmy said, “it should be FFS” and I had a little chuckle.
AI, eh? I almost saw it coming. I must admit that I am not a fan of artificial intelligence, as I have already witnessed how it can be used to stir up hatred on social media. It also has a detrimental impact on the environment, using ridiculous amounts of water to cool its super servers, plus copious amounts of electricity of course. Will it eventually lead to employment losses? I think we all know the answer to that. But that’s a debate for another day. Meanwhile, I am consciously trying to stay away from it.
However, I am sure that the people that run Chelsea Football Club will increase their use of AI as the future unfolds, especially in increasing revenue streams.
“How can we fleece as many possible punters as possible, while convincing them that we are doing them a favour?”
And I am sure AI has found its insidious way into assessing the agglomeration of data that exists in football these days.
“What is the most efficient way to score goals in football?”
I suspect we all know the answer to that one too; pass, pass, pass, wait for an opponent’s error, shoot but only when within ten yards of the goal.
Sorry, but in these days of fake everything, I prefer life and football with a little more authenticity. And fun.
In the pub, I gulped down two pints of refreshing “Diet Coke” and it was then time to depart. Alas, this was a bittersweet moment. The current landlords are moving away, and this was the last time that we would see Aga and her team. We all hoped our love affair with “The Eight Bells” can continue under the new regime.
Dear reader, it was a pitiful sight as the troops slowly ascended the stairs at Putney Bridge tube station, what with PD and Parky and their dodgy hips, Jimmy with the excruciating pain in his back, and Ian limping like he had been on the receiving end of a “difference of opinion” with Ronnie Harris.
Compared to them, I relatively flew up the three flights of stairs.
We liked the look of the team; we knew that Marc Cucurella was still out, and so his place was taken by Malo Gusto. I hoped that this would be a seamless adjustment, rather than a maladjusted one.
So, here we were :
Robert Sanchez
Reece James – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Malo Gusto
Moises Caicedo – Andrey Santos
Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez
Joao Pedro
On the way into the Matthew Harding Upper, I had been thoroughly dismayed to see every single TV screen showing the England vs. Ireland rugby game.
“Why are they showing that crap?”
We were here for Chelsea. For football. Had Chelsea run out of Chelsea stuff to show the punters?
There was the usual pre-match routine, some of which felt right, but most of which still felt odd, artificial, and forced upon us.
Chelsea songs, crowd-surfing flags in the Matthew Harding, flags being waved in The Shed, flames in front of the West Stand, fireworks fizzing into the air. I am sure there was none of this prefabricated nonsense at Millwall.
The game began, but it again felt odd to see us attacking the Matthew Harding in the first half. While we were chattering away to ourselves, we took an early lead. And it came from un-likely move. Rather than passing to the nth degree, something that frustrates most of us, an incisive ball played early from Moises Caicedo that exploited an early gap in the Burnley defence. His ball was perfectly paced and placed for Pedro Neto to gather and then smack a low cross towards the six-yard box where Joao Pedro arrived to bundle the ball over the line.
We were up and celebrating as the scorer raced across to the far side.
But then, the rancid odour of VAR swept over Stamford Bridge and a potential handball was reviewed. Alan and I vented our displeasure. We had already spoken about the authentic nature of the matchday experience at Millwall, and the absence of VAR in the division below was referenced as we spoke about the differences between the two games being played out only a few miles apart.
I know a few fans of clubs in the Football League who absolutely love the fact that their games do not involve the passion killer of VAR. For that is what it is. It has muted the adrenalin rush of goals, as I always said it would.
Thankfully the goal stood.
We dominated the next twenty minutes of play and although we managed to create a reasonable supply of chances, much of our play was slow and methodical. Burnley had a couple of pot shots at our goal at The Shed.
A quarter of the match in, I noted to Alan that I hadn’t heard a peep from the Lancastrians in the far corner.
Shots from Enzo and Cole Palmer were either struck over or blocked.
It then went awry for ten minutes, and we lost what momentum we had developed, and just couldn’t carve open the Burnley defence. It felt that we were sitting on our laurels at a time when we really should have taken the game to them. It was a frustrating period.
Alan commented that it felt like we were waiting for them to score, as if we need an outside dynamic to inspire us and galvanise us.
A weak free kick from Marcus Edwards went wide of Robert Sanchez’ goal.
On thirty-seven minutes, Cole Palmer was presented with a one-on-one with Kyle Walker, a good old-fashioned sprint, with just daylight between the ball and the Burnley ‘keeper Martin Dubravka. Palmer raced ahead and shot early, but the ball was parried easily by the ‘keeper.
This was the last attacking threat of the first period, and such is our support these days, that Alan and I spent the closing moments debating whether or not we would get booed off at the break.
Thankfully, there was nothing.
At the break, I heard that Frome Town were 1-0 up at near neighbours Larkhall Athletic who play in Bath. On the Saturday before, the weekend of the Hull City game, I had watched my local team beat Brixham 2-0 at home to solidify our position at the top of our division. That night, PD, Glenn and I met up at the main music venue in town to see tribute acts to The Specials and The Jam. This was another lovely day of football and music, and over the course of it I chatted to three fellow members of the Oakfield Road Middle School team from 1976 to 1978. Fantastic.
The second half started with a jolt to wake us from our first-half stupor. Within the first few seconds, the ball was played forward by Joao Pedo to Palmer, but just as it seemed he was about to unleash a shot on goal, a leg of a defender swiped away at him. We hoped, optimistically, for a penalty but the referee Lewis Smith was having none of it.
On fifty-one minutes, sustained pressure on the Burnley defenders allowed Palmer to intricately set up Joao Pedro, but his shot was blocked. A shot from Neto was similarly blocked.
Would that second goal ever come?
On fifty-five minutes, a rare Burnley effort on goal, a strange looper that dropped like a stone at the far post, but the ball was ushered away.
I liked how we applauded Lesley Uguchukwu off as he was replaced by James Ward-Prowse.
I sometimes make a mental note of how soon into the game the various parts of Stamford Bridge’s home areas get it together and chant or sing as one. On this day in deepest SW6, that moment came on sixty minutes.
Bloody hell, what a disaster.
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” – you know how it goes.
In Bath, near Solsbury Hill, Frome conceded an equaliser.
As we struggled to progressively move the ball towards its target, I moaned “is this fucking rugby? Aren’t we allowed to pass the ball forward?”
Frome then went 2-1 up.
Get in Dodge.
On seventy-two minutes, a clash in the middle of their half, and we watched in horror as Wesley Fofana was shown a yellow, his second of the day, and then of course a red.
Fofucksakefofana.
Ironically, maybe this would be the outside adversity we needed?
Liam Rosenior chose to replace Cole Palmer with Tosin Adarabioyo.
“Answers on a postcard.”
In this adversity, the crowd responded with another “Amazing Grace” – the loudest of the afternoon and my faith in humanity was temporarily restored.
On eighty minutes, more changes.
Jorrel Hato for Malo Gusto.
Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.
I really wasn’t sure all these late changes would work in our favour. This seemed to be change for the sake of it. This seemed to be a panic reaction. Why not let those who had experienced the movement of the Burnley players, their strengths and weaknesses, throughout the entire game be trusted to see us over the line?
Meanwhile, Frome went 3-1 up.
On eighty-two minutes, a super dribble from Pedro Neto, but the shot was saved and the rebound from Hato went high and wide.
On eighty-four minutes, a great cross from the Burnley right was punched out at full stretch by a horizontal Sanchez.
“Well, I’ve never seen that before…”
More substitutions made me, and others no doubt, more nervous.
Josh Acheampong for Reece James, our captain, our bloody captain no less.
Mamadou Sarr for Pedro Neto.
So many late changes were madness.
Ashley Barnes header dropped onto the top of the net from a Ward-Prose free-kick.
Frome went 4-1 up, but I was ridiculously nervous by now. It seemed we were all expecting a late equaliser.
Six minutes of added time were signalled.
Burnley were awarded a corner after three of these minutes.
The whole stadium took a deep breath.
One of my pet hates of the game these days is the constant pushing, shoving, grappling, holding and – to use a well-used football term of late – “shithousery” that goes on in the moments before a corner is taken.
I just wish referees would clamp down on all this nonsense. It’s ugly, it’s pathetic, it detracts from the game.
Well, as Burnley waited to the corner from the far side, I witnessed no end of pushing and shoving, yet again, in the cramped six-yard box. But after all that, or perhaps because of it, and despite our late injection of height in our defence, the ball in from Ward-Prowse was met by a free leap and a free header from Zian Flemming.
The ball almost apologetically dropped into the goal.
Ugh.
What a desperate, but oh-so expected, moment.
I was crushed.
Unbelievably, two minutes later, a copycat corner from Ward-Prowse was met by yet another free header, this time by Jacob Bruun Larsen, but – thank the high heavens – the header flew over the bar.
In a mad final moment, the ball broke for Delap just outside the Burnley box, but his powerful effort flashed over the bar.
It was the very last kick of the game, and it felt like a final kick in the goolies.
How to sum up this match?
We had it in our hands in the first half, and for huge parts of the second half. But our reluctance to push on and grab more goals just infuriated everyone. The sending-off was a personal disaster for Fofana and our disciplinary record this season is utterly embarrassing. But oh, those late substitutions; instead of providing extra security and cover, they just added to the nervousness and confusion.
On a day of artificial intelligence, much of our play and many of our decisions reeked of real stupidity.
Liam Rosenior, until this one, has managed his charges well, and I think most Chelsea supporters have been surprisingly impressed. This one, though, was a shocker.
Let’s hope lessons are learned.
After a break of one week, we meet up at Arsenal and then embark on a crowded schedule of seven matches in just twenty-one days.
On we go.
