Tales From The Top Of The Conference League

Posted on December 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Shamrock Rovers : 19 December 2024.

This UEFA Conference League campaign had been a long-drawn-out affair this autumn and winter, yet it was coming to a halt at an alarming rate with two final games in just eight days.

However, after the excitement and adventure with the Astana game in Almaty, the home game a week later against Shamrock Rovers was a far more humdrum proposition.

Was I excited about this game? No. Definitely not. Foreign trips aside, the Conference League is not the most loved of competitions. It has the feel of a European Simod Cup.

There was another cup competition that I was involved with on the Tuesday between the Brentford and Shamrock Rovers games. My local club Frome Town visited nearby Bath City in the Somerset Premier Cup and won 2-0, the club’s third win in a row. There is a new-found optimism racing through the club at the moment and long may it continue.

Thursday, and Europe, soon came around. I worked from 6am to 2pm and then drove to London with PD and Parky. For the first time that I can remember, we decided to visit “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. There had been a few rumours flying around about the visiting supporters from Dublin and elsewhere. This set of fans had been known to sing a few sectarian songs, and there was talk of Chelsea fans with a loyalist viewpoint making a stand. Would things be a bit tasty around the ground as the game approached? I wasn’t sure.

I dropped the lads off near the pub and then headed up to Charleville Road, where I knew that there would be free parking from 5pm. Just a few moments after, I slowly navigated myself around four or five police horses, waiting by the side of the road, and I wondered if the predicted police presence would include police horses to try to keep the peace.

As luck would have it, there was a parking space right outside an Italian restaurant – “AperiPasta” – and I killed two birds with one stone and wolfed down a beautiful slab of lasagne in no time at all.

From there, West Kensington was just a few minutes away. By 6pm, I was getting off the train at Putney Bridge and I was met by around twenty Irish fans, including one chap in full leprechaun get-up.

O’Fackinell.

I was soon in the pub with the usual suspects. We all noted one by-product of the possible threat of trouble before the game; we were served our tipples in plastic glasses. Ugh.

This was a skeleton crew on this night; just Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek, PD, Lord Parky and little old me.

At 7pm, we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway. As I strode along the Fulgham Road, Steve and Parky dipped into “Bruschetta” where they briefly met Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink as a function came to an end. There was a noticeably strong police presence. I spotted a few hoolie-types lurking in the shadows, but things seemed pretty normal.

Inside at around 7.40pm, all present and correct sir!

The usual away following at Stamford Bridge is capped at 3,000 but there were gaps in the left half of The Shed. I think that the police had asked for a slight reduction in tickets going to the Dublin club. I fully expected a few Irish fans to be dotted around the usual home areas of Stamford Bridge. This was, as daft as it seems, the first competitive football match between Chelsea and a team from the Republic of Ireland. If the rumour-mill was to be believed, we were in for a re-enactment of the Battle of the Boyne in SW6 on this particular night.

There were many green and white flags on the balcony between both tiers in The Shed.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Disasi – Veiga – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Casadei

Madueke – Nkunku – George

Guiu

With the colours of the competition being green, the away fans must have felt at home. The game began at 8pm and there was a quick rendition from the Matthew Harding Lower of a Rangers’ song about “buying a flute” but, after that, I heard nothing of a similar note from both sets of fans.

As we waited to take a corner in front of their fans, toilet rolls bizarrely cascaded down from the top tier. Play was held up for a few minutes.

Thinking : “This lot are from Dublin, not the Bogside, right?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all us.

We probed and probed, but the defending was deep and resolute. A shock, then, on fourteen minutes, as Dylan Watts sent a low cross into our six-yard box from the left, right into the cliched corridor of uncertainty, but Johnny Kenny was unable to turn it in. An offside flag was raised, anyway.

A volley at the back stick from Noni Madueke, but a poor connection.

On twenty-two minutes, a lofted ball into space from Marc Cucarella was aimed at Tyrique George. The Rovers defender Darragh Burns panicked and headed the ball back to their ‘keeper but the pass was awry. A stooping header from Mark Guiu gave us a 1-0 lead and the longest-ever “THTCAUN / COMLD” – full of Dublin accents and choice phrases – was enacted between Alan and me.

“Their defender will be having nightmares about that.”

However, the visitors attacked straight after, and Jorgensen saved magnificently from a Kenny volley. From the corner that followed, Markus Poom smacked the ball home, via a deflection off Cesare Casadei.

The buggers celebrated wildly down below us.

Bollocks.

On thirty-three minutes, in virtually the same location as the first poorly aimed back pass by Burns, we were treated to another, this time via Daniel Cleary. The ball was intercepted by Guiu, and from a tight angle, he steered the ball home.

There was a daisy-cutter from Cesare Casadei from outside the box that the Shamrock ‘keeper Leon Pohls just about saved after sprawling to his left. It almost seemed odd to see a Chelsea player shoot from a long way out. We don’t seem to do that these days, and it doesn’t seem right.

On forty minutes, Cucarella played in Christopher Nkunku, but a great tackle thwarted the striker. However, the ball ran to Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall who calmly slotted home.

In the third minute of added time, Madueke sent over a cross from the right – not unlike the one to Cucarella on Sunday – and I caught the header from Guiu on film. It nestled nicely in the net.

At the break, Chelsea 4 Shamrock Rovers 1.

“Can we declare and bugger off home now, please?”

Enzo Maresca replaced Madueke with Harvey Vale at half-time.

I thought that Nkunku had been relatively quiet in the first-half but he showed a lot more life in the first ten minutes of the second period.

But the pace, not surprisingly, then dropped and the game seemed like a training game.

On fifty-eight minutes, Dewsbury-Hall played square to Nkunku who pushed the ball forward to Cucarella. He took a touch to his right – to his right, I repeat – and I snapped my shutter as he slotted the ball past the Shamrock ‘keeper. I captured his slide into the far corner. Job well and truly done.

On fifty-nine minutes, two more changes.

Harrison Murray-Campbell, a debutant, replaced Axel Disasi.

Joao Felix replaced Guiu, lots of applause.

Felix screwed a shot wide and there were a few more half-chances, but the evening’s entertainment was done, although the stadium honoured the final scorer with a rollicking good rendition of “his” song.

“He eats Paella. He drinks Estrella. His hair’s fuckin’ massive.”

This man is truly loved.

Redemption is a magical thing.

George was a bit disappointing – the phrase “flattering to deceive” seems appropriate – and the game petered out. There was time for one final change on eighty-three minutes with Dewsbury-Hall replaced by Sam Rak-Sakyi.

At the end of this odd autumnal tour of Europe – and Asia – Chelsea finished top of the Conference League table; first out of thirty-two teams, played six, won six, with twenty-six goals scored, and four points clear.

Can we have the trophy now please?

Tales From Seven O’Clock On A Sunday Evening

Posted on December 24, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 15 December 2024.

There was much consternation about Chelsea pushing the kick-off time for our West London derby with Brentford back to 7pm. At seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, people should be close to home, going through those sometimes-annoying Sunday evening rituals ahead of a new week of work, school or college. It’s an out-dated expression these days, but Sundays were always days of rest. Football fans – “those who go” – at such a time on Sundays, should at least be well on our way home from a game. With a 4.30pm kick-off common in these days of football being the slave to TV, it is pretty tough to be setting off for home after a game in Liverpool or Manchester at 7pm.

However, at 7pm on a Sunday, football fans should not be rushing to get into a stadium to see the start of a game.

Sigh.

Chelsea deemed that the players needed an extra, say, four hours of rest after their trip to Almaty and the game the previous Thursday. I find this all a bit ridiculous. I am sure that the squad and management travelled on direct flights in style. Did they really require, effectively, four extra hours in bed? I doubt it.

Whatever. 7pm it was.

Ironically, the delayed kick-off worked for me. It meant that when I reached home just before midnight on the Saturday, I did not have to get up too early on the Sunday.

From the cheap seats : “What are you moaning for then?”

Me : “My personal situation doesn’t change the absurdity of it.”

I suppose I got to sleep at about 1.30am. I had, like the returning Chelsea players I suspect, managed to get a lot of sleep on my Azerbaijan Airlines flight home, and I woke at 9am feeling fresh.

I was planning to head up to Chelsea at 1.30pm or so.

No rush.

As I mentioned in the Astana blog, Frome Town had walloped Swindon Supermarine 3-0 at home on the Saturday. This was a huge fillip. It was our second successive league win and the first home win of the season. For the game with Brentford, I was travelling up to Stamford Bridge with my friend Courtney from Chicago. He so enjoyed his first Frome Town game in October that he was back for more. He was more than happy to combine Chelsea and Frome Town again. At 12.30pm we met up for a Sunday Roast at a local pub in a nearby village. This was, officially, Courtney’s first-ever roast on a Sunday in England. The roast beef went down a treat.

At about 1.45pm we set off for Chelsea. The trip up was pretty decent, and we chatted about all things Chelsea and all things Frome.

At around 4.45pm I was just about to park up in the usual place when I spotted new parking signs. We had been warned that new parking charges were coming into effect soon, but no solid date had been announced. I quickly did an about-turn and headed a few blocks north to Charleville Road. Here the parking was free after 5pm, rather than not until 10pm further south, nearer Lillie Road.

There was a short and brisk walk to West Kensington tube to Earls Court. As we changed platforms, I commented to Courtney about me first walking up towards the southbound District Line to Wimbledon in March 1974, over fifty years.

Courtney : “Probably the same steps.”

Chris : “Definitely the same legs.”

We shot through Fulham Broadway, always an odd feeling, and alighted at Putney Bridge. Here, PD and Parky – and a few other usual suspects – had been slurping since around 1pm. The two of them could not wait for my late arrival and, instead, had taken the train up to Paddington. Nothing gets in the way of a pre-match drink-up for these two Herberts. The place wasn’t too busy, and Courtney and I were able to find a quiet corner to sit and chat.

At just after 6pm, there was a call to arms and so Parky, PD, Courtney, Doncaster Paul, Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and little old me set off for Stamford Bridge.

Forty years ago, to the very day, I made my way to Stamford Bridge alone. On Saturday 15 December 1984, Chelsea played Stoke City in Division One. I was now back in Somerset after spending my first term at North Staffs Poly, and it was odd that I was now watching my quasi-hometown team play at The Bridge. I travelled up by train to Paddington and my diary reports that I spent the morning doing what I often did on Chelsea home games. I toured the West End shopping areas – Oxford Street, Bond Street – on the look out for clobber in several shops. For the first time I spotted the “Giorgio Armani” shop on New Bond Street (not Emporio Armani, that came later) and baulked at the price of those delicious pullovers. “Gee2” was nearby, and their pullovers were similar. Alas, I was a mere student and would soon succumb to a cheaper “Robert Klein” rip-off version at a shop in Stoke. I remember that I bumped into my college room-mate Chris on Oxford Street, visiting from his home on Teesside. What a small world.

I remember that I had been talking to a Stoke fan, Tim – he looked like Lou Costello – at that party above a pub before the Sheffield Wednesday away game and he confidently predicted that Stoke would take “a firm” to Stamford Bridge, but I wasn’t confident that he was telling the whole truth. Beer, bravado and bullshit, more like.

I sat with Alan in the West Stand benches.

So much for Tim’s protestations of greatness. Stoke only brought between 75 and 100 fans in a crowd of just 20,534. A Stoke firm? No. Most of them looked infirm. I didn’t see him.

This was a dire match. The suspended David Speedie was sadly missed. Stoke defended and defended. On seventy minutes, Pat Nevin sent over a cross that Gordon Davies reached. Former Manchester City ‘keeper Joe Corrigan, deputising for Peter Fox, saved his header, but Kerry Dixon headed home the rebound. Sadly, a minute later, Paul Dyson slid in and prodded in an equaliser from close range.

It was a poor game on a dull afternoon in London. I returned back to Frome where I went out for a few beers with a mate who had returned from college in Tottenham for the Christmas period. I bumped into Glenn wearing one of those patchwork leather and suede jackets that were becoming a sought-after item, on London’s terraces if not further north, in 1984/85. I would later to succumb to one of those buggers, too.

In 1984/85, Brentford were in the Third Division, and a place at the top table would have been a pipedream. Yet they are an established topflight team these days and were victorious in each of their previous three visits to Stamford Bridge in the Premier League.

But I was confident. Cole Palmer was playing for us, right?

Indeed he was.

Us :

Sanchez.

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Chelsea in blue, Brentford in red and white stripes.

Courtney had taken Clive’s place in The Sleepy hollow.

PD – Alan – Courtney – Chris

What a back four. No inverted full-backs here but no end of wide players though, myself included.

The Ron Harris Derby began.

There was an early header from Nicolas Jackson, and then the game flattened out a little, with slow build-ups from Chelsea in front of a Brentford midfield and defence that defended so deep that the players almost started shouting at each other with South London accents.

After the chill of Almaty, this was a ridiculously mild night in SW6.

There was an angled drive, again from Jackson, beautifully found by Moises Caicedo, as we dominated the ball. Their ‘keeper Mark Flekken blocked the effort. A couple more Chelsea efforts, from Palmer and Madueke emphasised our dominance.

On seventeen minutes, Robert Sanchez had us all worried when he mis-controlled the ball close to his goal line but was able to recover.

All of us pedants in The Sleepy Hollow, if not the entire Matthew Harding, became obsessed with two balls being on the pitch at the same time. A ball sat on the pitch a few yards from the goal-line.

We kept tut-tutting.

“The game should be stopped.”

“If a goal is scored, it really should not count.”

“The lino is not far away. Why can’t he flag the referee?”

“Has no official seen it?”

After a few minutes, a ball boy rose from his seat and picked it up and took it off, accompanied by, possibly, the loudest cheer of the game thus far.

I purred at the unreal close control from Palmer which set up a chance, but it went wide for a corner.

The chances were mounting, but I thought that we were half-a-second slow in our passing half-a-yard slow in our movement. It was too pedestrian.

A block from Colwill thwarted a Brentford effort from Mikkel Damsgaard, whoever he is.

It was mild in the stands too. Oh, modern football. The noise levels were dire.

However, on forty-three minutes, Malo Gusto pushed the ball out to Noni Madueke. He floated a fine ball into the box and Marc Cucarella attacked the ball. He guided a fine header down and in at the far post from the edge of the six-yard-box.

Get in you fucker.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

I silently dedicated the goal to all those fools who left for a half-time drink or slash just before.

At the break, mixed feelings. Happy to be ahead. Not overly happy with our approach play. But winning. Unlike against Stoke in 1984.

There wasn’t too much of a reaction from Brentford, and it was business as usual as the second half began.

It really was all us.

On the hour, a lovely move involving a wriggle and a dribble from our boy Palmer, and then a cross from Jadon Sancho set up the on-rushing Jackson. He could not believe the miss, high, and nor could any of us. Heads were nestled in hands throughout the Matthew Harding in a flash mob homage to “The Scream” by Edvard Munch.

Fackinell.

We kept going. Our chances came but nothing clearcut.

On seventy-two minutes after a little head tennis in our box, the ball was pumped back in and Christian Norgaard, whoever he is, settled himself before volleying at goal.

I knee-jerked a yelp of “goal!” but was utterly amazed by Sanchez’ amazing leap and save. It was magnificent.

On seventy-six minutes, the ball was out to the Brentford right and Cucarella had been sucked in, following the ball. A low cross was met by a stab by Fabio Carvalho and the ball smashed the crossbar before bouncing out, the ball landing right on the line.

Phew.

This was tense stuff now.

Come on Chelsea.

Jackson easily fell inside the box down below us and we groaned. Thankfully, not long after I caught the run from Jackson, released from deep by a lovely ball from Enzo, and snapped as he set himself up to breeze past Ethan Pinnock, and then fire low past Flekken.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Just after, eighty-three minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

He was warmly applauded.

“He’ll miss more than he will score, but what player is any different? He’s a threat.”

Rather than an easy slide into the last moments of the game, we were treated to some typical Chelsea nervousness after a sliding tackle from Tosin missed both ball and player and Bryan Mbeumo on a quick break was able to finish impeccably.

Seven minutes of extra time were signalled and the crowd grumbled. It was seven minutes of hell, but we held on. Cucarella had been as good as anyone. He had my vote for Man of the Match, so it was with some surprise and a little sadness that we learned that he was sent off after the final whistle.

However, second place.

What a bloody fantastic effort.

Tales From One-Hundred-And-Nine Minutes

Posted on May 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 15 May 2024.

I swung into the car park of the “Horse & Groom” pub, on the A36 in Salisbury, at just after 3pm. Waiting for me was Salisbury Steve. Way back in August, I had popped into the very same pub before the two of us went off to watch his local non-league team, Bemerton Heath Harlequins, play a game against my local non-league team Frome Town. It was Frome’s first away league game of the 2023/24 season, and here we were, meeting up at the self-same pub ahead of Chelsea’s last away league game of 2023/24.

This was going to be yet another long day at work, on the road and in the stands. I was up at 4.15am and God knows what time I would return. PD and Parky had made their way to Melksham for 2pm and I quickly whisked them south-east to collect Steve. Unfortunately, road works between Southampton and Portsmouth and then road closures later meant that the three-hour trip to Brighton, or rather Lewes, ballooned to four hours. I pulled into one of the last remaining car park spaces at Lewes railway station at around 6.15pm. We usually drink in this lovely historic town before games at the Amex Stadium but we decided to head to the ground. On the five-minute journey in we spoke with some locals about the news that Premier League clubs were to vote on binning VAR.

I’ll say only this. From my experience, 99.9% of match-going fans in the UK want to see it gone.

I spent a little time outside the stadium, taking it all in, taking some photos, chatting to a few Chelsea friends. Brighton’s stadium is a decent arena, and a visit there is quite unlike any other in the top flight. This would be my seventh visit, and we are yet to experience a pre-match in Brighton itself. The Lewes pre-match is as good as any in the Premier League, and I do like the Brighton stadium. It is roomy and pleasant with enough quirky features to keep it away from the “soul-less modern bowl” epithet of modern football connoisseurs. The greenery of the South Downs was visible beyond the west stand and there was a cloudless blue sky above. I like it how seagulls fly and soar above the stadium, as if they are trained specifically for match days. Thankfully, there are no lions at Millwall, nor tigers at Hull City.

I spoke to Allie and Nick, two Chelsea stalwarts who never miss any games, and I soon stopped moaning about the four-hour journey in. Their car had broken down on the outskirts of Brighton and would be sitting overnight in a local garage. At least they had found a lift back to The Smoke.

This would be my third successive season of not missing a Chelsea away league game. God willing, should I manage Bournemouth on Sunday, it will be my first-ever season of not missing a single first team game.

I spotted the Brighton Memorial Garden for the first time – a nice feature – and the gentle rise of the sloped pathway allowed me to take a few more photos. I had to laugh that the home club chose to feature a photo of an old team group posing with comedian Norman Wisdom above the main entrance. A football club must have a lot of self-confidence in itself to be OK with an image like that. I can’t imagine Ken Dodd at Anfield nor Bernard Manning at City.

It was odd to see a player profile of Bruno Saltor on a large poster opposite the main stand. How many Chelsea fans had completely forgotten him? Yes, me too.

I was soon inside the roomy away concourse. What a nice change not to be pressed together like sardines, unlike at other new builds like Arsenal and Tottenham. The boys had bought me a lager; my first pint on a “driving match day” of the season. I guess I needed to celebrate another complete away record somehow. It was lovely to bump into Whitey, who I had not seen at Chelsea for years and years. We reminisced about Juventus away in 2009; fifteen bloody years ago. Shudder.

I made my way into the roomy away end. Waiting to chat as I reached row D was Ross. I had remembered that he had posted on “Facebook” in the morning that he was on his way down to the game with Richard West, aka “Mr. C.” from The Shamen, a band from the late ‘eighties and early ‘nineties. I had a brief thought of meeting him for the first time even though we are friends on “Facebook”. Lo and behold, it worked out that they would be in the adjacent two seats. Excellent. We said our hellos and readied ourselves for the evening’s entertainment.

Unfortunately, yet again at The Amex, my seat was right behind the goal nets. I knew that my camera would struggle to get many good photos on this particular night. I made sure I took some of the setting; the stands, the angles, the setting sun.

Kick-off approached.

So, here we were. We had experienced a demanding season with a new manager, new players, an odd ownership group, a new transfer strategy. For the most part it has been a struggle. Supporters have openly expressed how distanced they feel from the players. Yet over the past two months there has been a marked improvement – minus that painful blip at Arsenal – and we were now in touching distance of European football next season. Until very recently I was convinced that we would finish tenth and would be without European football – those beautiful away trips – for a second successive season.

We faced two games against the beach towns of Brighton and Bournemouth. The south coast of England had played a big part in my travels thus far this season; I had watched Frome at Falmouth, Plymouth and Ramsgate and Chelsea at Bournemouth. It felt just right to be ending my away trips in Sussex by the sea.

Our team?

There was one change from the tight win at Forest; Malo Gusto replaced Trevoh Chalobah at right-back, thus meaning that he was shunted inside at the expense of Thiago Silva.

Petrovic – Gusto, Chalobah, Badiashile, Cucarella – Gallagher, Caicedo – Madueke, Palmer, Mydruk – Jackson

In the Brighton team were former blues Billy Gilmour and Tariq Lamptey.

At 7.45pm, the game kicked-off. We were in that very dark navy. I just hoped the players could pick each other out. I was struggling.

Being so low down, I struggled as we attacked the far goal and it took me a while to get into the game. Thankfully, Chelsea were involved from the kick-off and the speed of Noni Madueke on the right caused a flutter in the Brighton ranks. However, young Lamptey on the Brighton right started the game equally well and the home team threatened us too.

The former Brighton duo of Marc Cucarella and Moises Caicedo – now blonde – were boo’d relentlessly from the off and I found it all a bit boring and boorish.

Cucarella went sprawling in the box and the referee pointed at the spot. My first reaction was that it looked a little soft. After a lengthy VAR review, involving the referee checking the pitch side monitor, the decision was reversed. The home crowd roared and it was the noisiest they had been all evening.

There was a leap and a header from a Brighton player right in front of us, but then the excellent Malo Gusto sent a dipping shot in on goal but the Brighton ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen was able to finger-tip it over.

On thirty-four minutes, we had stretched Brighton a little and the ball was played out to Cucarella. He did well to spot a runner and dig out a cross. There was contact, a stooping header, and the ball flew up and over Verbruggen into the goal.

GET IN.

Brighton 0 Chelsea 1.

The players raced off to celebrate and I snapped away, to the left of the nets. I had not spotted who the scorer was, but I knew soon enough.

“Palmer again, Palmer again, Palmer again ole, ole.”

Beautiful stuff.

The Chelsea end were in a sudden celebratory mood.

“We’re all going on a European tour, a European tour, a European tour.”

We pushed forward and a shot from Palmer was cleared. Then, a nod-in from Jackson but he was flagged offside.

I didn’t see the incident that left Mykhailo Mudryk sprawled on the floor for several worrying minutes. For a while he was motionless. Eventually, he was substituted by Christopher Nkunku.

With nine minutes of added time signalled, we traded chances. There was another cross from the left, but Nicolas Jackson shinned it over. Then, a cross from Lamptey and Joao Pedro leapt but struck a header against the bar.

It was 1-0 to the visitors at the break.

It had been a first-half in which both sides had enjoyed spells of domination but Chelsea shaded it. In the second-half, I hoped for more of the same, but also more photos. I had hardly taken any in the first period.

So, the game re-started with “us attacking us” and my camera was primed.

It was an open game and chances continued to be traded. Nkunku looked fresh and nimble, and soon flashed a shot wide from an angle. We looked dangerous on the counter-attack, and our supporters shouted words of encouragement as we attacked the open spaces. Brighton were causing more of a problem to us in the second-half and there were several near misses. The home crowd had been surprisingly quiet in the first-half but were coming to life.

On sixty-five minutes, we broke again with pace. Gusto pushed deep into the Brighton box and spotted Nkunku inside. In a flash, the ball was swept in to the goal with the minimum of fuss.

Brighton 0 Chelsea 2.

I was so low down that I struggled to get any goal celebrations of note.

For a while, the Chelsea supporters took the piss out of one of the home supporters in the stand to our right. I didn’t know the reasons for ridicule, but the poor bloke was getting pummelled with insults. He was slightly overweight (like many of us) and so was an easy target. After minutes of abuse, the Chelsea choir turned the knife deeper.

“You fat bastard, you’re texting your Mum.”

With that he left.

Reece James replaced Gusto and Raheem Sterling replaced Madueke.

The game seemed to be petering out with Chelsea well in charge. Jackson was upended just outside the box by the Brighton ‘keeper but Raheem Sterling wasted the resultant free-kick.

I was proud to see our support clapping both Lamptey and Gilmour when they were substituted. But I had to laugh when Brighton replaced the dangerous Julio Enciso with Ansu Fati.

The Chelsea support to my right sang “we’ve got our Fati back.”

Late on, there was a rough tackle out by the touchline on Reece James and our captain reacted by lashing out with his leg. I spotted it immediately. My mind raced back to David Beckham in France in 1998. A VAR review was signalled and, no surprises, Reece was red carded. What a silly boy.

Fackinell.

Thiago Silva replaced Jackson.

A mammoth ten minutes of added time was signalled and everyone thought the same; “here we go.”

An effort from Simon Adingra smacked against the base of Petrovic’ right-hand post and then in the eighth minute of extra-time, a cross towards the near post by Joao Pedro was touched in by their substitute Danny Welbeck.

Brighton 1 Chelsea 2.

Welbeck’s goal did not surprise me at all. The veteran striker has a good record against us.

More substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Gallagher.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

The last three minutes of the game were tense and nervy.

At last, the referee blew up.

Phew.

With the late, presumably unplanned, appearance of Thiago Silva, I was at least able to get some decent close-up photographs of our much-loved Brazilian legend in his final away game for Chelsea Football Club. He looked emotional as he clapped the away support for the last time.

“Oh Thiago Silva.”

We were back at my car in Lewes at 10.30pm, but those road closures again meant that our journey home was another long one. After I had dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 1am, I suddenly felt peckish. I stopped at a nearby all-night-garage and bought myself a Chelsea Bun.

There is no punchline.

Tales From Archie’s First London Derby

Posted on May 6, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 5 May 2024.

With my good friend Alan’s absence from the Chelsea vs. West Ham game due to Bromley’s participation in the National League play-off final at Wembley, there was an extra space in The Sleepy Hollow. Clive had originally given his ticket to Glenn, but it was Clive who picked up Alan’s ticket. Confused? Yeah, me too.

So, the upshot of all that is that there were now five heading up to London in my car for the second London derby in four days. I collected PD and then Glenn at 6.45am, Ron at 7am, Lord Parky at 7.20am.

By 9.20am, I had deposited three of the passengers near “The Eight Bells” and one at the gates to Stamford Bridge. I parked up and darted into the “McDonalds” for a bite to eat and a much-needed coffee. There was a quick chat with John and his son.

“Odd feeling today. I said to the chaps in the car that I was really confident today, but they were having none of it.”

I had a quick chat with Marco at the “CFCUK” stall, a few words with Steve at his programme stall, a brief chat and catch-up with a few former players in the hotel, and a drink with Donna, whose daughter Tallulah was one of the match mascots on this warm and sunny day in West London. I didn’t have my Canon SLR with me on this particular day; the baggage checks are getting more and more draconian and for reasons that I will keep to myself, I didn’t want to risk it. I would be making do with my smaller Sony camera and so, sadly, wouldn’t be able to take any close-ups of Tallulah as she made her way onto the pitch.

With the tubes kaput, I was forced to take the 414 bus down to Putney Bridge. I strolled into the pub just before 11.30am. The boys – joined by the Normandy Division of Ollie and Julien – were already getting stuck into some beers. It was Ollie’s birthday the previous day. To celebrate, I bought a round of shots. A few more rounds of shots would follow.

I, of course, was driving so nothing alcoholic for me.

I took a photo of the lads and posted it on “Facebook.”

I titled it : “Fooligans.”

My friends Aroha and Luke were in the pub, in the far corner, and they were with their two-and-a-half-year-old son Archie, who was bedecked in a blue Chelsea top. This was to be his third Chelsea game, and his first London derby. I have known Aroha and Luke for over ten years or more, and it was a joy to see them bringing their little lad to Chelsea.

At just after 1pm, we set off to catch the 22 bus to Stamford Bridge. Archie was hoisted on top of his father’s shoulders and he joined in with the chanting. I loved that.

However, the bus trip didn’t go as planned, and we seemed to take forever to reach the appropriate point on the King’s Road. Eventually we got off. Very soon, the support struts of the roof at Stamford Bridge could be seen, and I looked back at just the right time to see little Archie’s face light up as he pointed at the sight ahead.

Dear reader, it was such a beautiful moment.

The wonderment and excitement on his little face will be etched on my brain for a long time. We said our goodbyes as we opened up on to the Fulham Road and we made our way in. Lo and behold, nobody stopped me at the second, usually more thorough, bag check at the bottom of the steps to the MHU.

Oh well, I was in.

However, such had been the delay on the bus that I was only just in. As I walked up the final few steps to The Sleepy Hollow, “Liquidator” was booming.

I know I work in logistics, but this really was a little too “just in time” for my liking.

We had heard that Thiago Silva was starting, and the defensive line had been shuffled to accomdate him.

Petrovic

Chalobah – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

The bench looked ridiculously stronger than against Tottenham on Thursday.

As the game began, I promised myself to make a note of the movements of comrade Cucarella, who – unbeknown to me – had been adopting a new position further infield once we were in possession in the past one-and-a-half games. The nerds were going wild about it on social media; plainly I had missed the email. I have to say how impressed I was with Cucarella’s scurrying back to his left-back berth once possession was lost, but I noted that even in the first ten minutes, his man was way clear on the right-hand touchline on one occasion. You would think it would be a high-risk strategy, but the wide man was only noticeably unmarked on one other occasion during the whole game.

The West Ham three-thousand started to sing about being “Champions of Europe” and we all guffawed with laughter. I am still unsure if their version is due to them being deluded or a nice effort at self-deprecating irony. For the future of mankind, I hoped for the latter but feared the former.

Fackinell.

In some ways, with no SLR, the pressure was off me to try to get a few killer photographs. The smaller camera was, in my eyes, simply not up to the task. I decided not to take as many photos. On this day, I would take just forty-five photos from the ninety minutes. I usually take three times that amount. I relaxed a little. I still made a note of a few key moments on my ‘phone, but this would be a different kind of game for me. I would be less of a photographer, more of a fan. If that is fucking possible.

There was a little light-jousting in the first quarter of an hour, but I was soon being gloriously entertained.

On fifteen minutes, Noni Madueke created just enough space to lift a cross towards the penalty spot. Nicholas Jackson took a swing but his effort was blocked and the ball came out to the waiting Cole Palmer. I think I inwardly relaxed. Did I expect a goal? Truthfully, yes. Our little diamond instinctively swept the ball in with a gentle swipe towards the far post.

The net rustled.

Areola must have felt a tit.

Chelsea 1 West Ham United 0.

Just after, the head of Jarrod Bowen got to the ball from a corner from Emerson – who? he? – down below us. The header flew in, but thankfully cannoned back off the bar.

Phew.

At around this time, I leaned forward and told Albert in the row in front of me about Clive’s teaser from Thursday. To my shock, Albert only took six guesses and about five minutes to guess the five England players, the “G-Men” from the ‘eighties. I slapped him on the back.

“Well done, son. Well impressed.”

With that, Clive managed to lose the grip on a cup of boiling hot chocolate and a large portion of it spilled onto Albert.

“Easy, Clive, no need to be like that.”

Unfortunately, there are no photographs of the incident.

We were all howling.

With twenty-five minutes gone, we were playing some lovely football. Everything seemed to be knitting together nicely. Efforts from several players rained in on the West Ham goal.

We spoke a little about the day in 1984, almost forty years ago, when West Ham, and more importantly the ICF, visited in vast numbers and despite Chelsea winning 3-0 on the day, it felt that we had been embarrassed a little. Clive took a few hits in The Shed that day. Glenn and I admitted that we were in the safest part of the ground that day; the benches. West Ham, at various times, were in all other parts of the ground. Shudder.

Forty years ago, Fackinell.

On the half-hour mark, a long move saw us creep up the pitch. It was begun with a firm first-time side-foot out of defensive from Thiago Silva, and it really pleased me. It was right on the money. The move developed, mainly down our tight, and although the ball was momentarily lost, it was soon regained. Palmer struck a low roller to the feet of Madueke, but when the ball was semi-cleared – a little similar to the first goal – it ran nicely to Coner Gallagher, who smacked it home on the volley.

Blue & Whites 2 Clarets & Blues 0.

A little knot of Essex Blues behind me were loving it.

Six minutes later, a deep corner in front of the away support from Mkhailo Mudryk was headed back into the six-yard box by Thiago Silva – a resounding leap and header, pure poetry – and the ball ended up in the net. I was a little unsighted, but that man Maduke, had got the final touch.

The Richardsons 3 The Krays 0.

I was up and celebrating with the lads behind me. That little walkway behind my seat has seen some exuberant celebrations over the years and here was another one.

I was up and celebrating another chance just after, as Gallagher smacked a shot from a Palmer cross, after more beautiful twists and turns on the right, against the bar. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t really know what had happened.

But – oh boy, we were purring.

Conor was through, one on one, but fell too easily.

Bizarrely, Bowen hit the Chelsea bar again, just before the break.

At half-time, the warm buzz of quality football. Bliss. A few West Ham fans had already left.

Just three minutes into the second-half, a magnificent ball from deep from Trevoh Chalobah – the sort of ball that I have been wanting to be played for so long – evaded everyone, but dropped into the path of Madueke inside the box. Rather than finish himself, he played the ball square to Nicolas Jackson, who coolly pushed the ball home. Jackson had been a constant worry to the West Ham defence and the goal was richly deserved.

Fulham Broadway 4 Pudding Mill Lane 0.

Up came a massively entertaining chant, slightly-altered from Thursday.

“West Ham get battered, everywhere they go.”

I spotted a little show-boating from Palmer in the middle of the pitch, and the match began to resemble a training game. I wanted more goals – “let’s humiliate them” – but I think that the intensity dropped, and that’s not surprising really.

West Ham threatened our goal with a few half-chances. There was a great save from Petrovic from a James Ward-Prowse free-kick.

Bowen gained an unlikely hat-trick by hitting the bar once again; this time via a slight deflection. Not with his right foot though, so not a perfect woodwork hat-trick. Must try better.

Substitutions took place late in the game.

Cesare Casadei for Madueke.

Christopher Nknunku for Mudryk.

On eighty minutes, Moises Caicedo won the ball and pushed the ball into the path of the raiding Jackson. To my eyes, it looked offside, and so when Jackson finished coolly, I was not celebrating with too much enthusiasm. There was a massive wait for VAR to confirm…no offside, goal. Kurt Zouma – who? he? – had played him on.

Joe Cole 5 Carlton Cole 0.

More substitutions.

Axel Disasi for Thiago Silva.

Malo Gusto for Chalobah.

Alfie Gilchrist for Palmer.

This was another lovely Chelsea performance and it was a joy to watch from the stands. In the end, my photos weren’t too bad and I include some here of course.

On the drive home, we eyed our last three games and we dreamed of three more wins, and maybe, Europe.

Next up, a solo trip to Nottingham.

See you there.

PS – Archie loved it!

Tales From Badgers Hill And Stamford Bridge

Posted on March 20, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 17 March 2024.

This was another weekend where I was able to attend two games of football.

I spent the fiftieth anniversary – to the hour – of my ever first Chelsea game at Badgers Hill, the quaintly-named ground of Frome Town, for the league game with Yate Town. I met up with Francis and Tom in a local hostelry and we enjoyed a power-hour of conversation about not only the Robins but top-level football too. It was a real “State Of The Nation” chit-chat. With a promotion charge taking place for my local team, I admitted how annoyed I am when I discover that I can’t attend a Frome game as I am otherwise engaged with Chelsea.

In the ground, I met up with a few other pals; the ever-present Steve, plus Glenn from Chelsea, who was with Neil from Chelsea too. I liked the look of the crowd as soon as I walked in. Frome have averaged around 440 this season; this seemed a lot more. We watched from the Cow Shed along the side of the pitch as the home team dominated possession but were limited to a few chances in a frustrating first-half.

We decamped to the club end for the second-half and the visitors came into it a little. Manager Danny Greaves made some fine tweaks and it paid off as two good strikes from James Ollis and Kane Simpson gave Frome the points. The gate was a hefty 571. It was a solid performance; gritty, physical, but with quality where it counted. The only negative was hearing that leaders Wimborne Town had nicked a late 2-1 win at Malvern Town. However, if we win all of our remaining eight games – three at home, five away – we will be automatically promoted. The away game at Wimborne on Saturday 20 April could be pivotal. On that day, Chelsea are due to play at Brighton in the league or at Wembley in an FA Cup Semi-Final. Let’s see how that pans out.

I enjoyed the Saturday evening, basting a little in the glory of another fine Frome win, but my thoughts soon turned to the Sunday game; our FA Cup Quarter Final at home to Leicester City.

But my mind also wandered to those first fifty-years of match-going Chelsea support. It took my fancy during the week, thinking of the number fifty, to attempt to compile a list of my favourite fifty games from that period. That Saturday night I finished it all off. Of the 1,438 games I had seen, at first I narrowed it down to an initial list of sixty. Then came the final cull, swiping left on ten games. I include the list, the final fifty, at the end of this piece. It’s impossible to rate them in order of preference, so they are in chronological order instead.

Favourite games are not necessarily the greatest games, and not every single piece of silverware is listed, but these fifty games are the ones that leave a lingering feeling of warmth and appreciation.

The Sunday game was to kick-off early at 12.45pm. I was up at 5.45am, and left Frome at 7am. We were parked up in Hammersmith by 9.20am. After a breakfast at “The Full Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road, we met up with others at “The Old Oak” on the North End Road. The reason for this was two-fold. Firstly, we were hoping that Alan would be making a reappearance at this game after an enforced absence of over two months due to ill-health. If so, he would surely be in this boozer.

Secondly, the pub is to close very soon, and the property will make way for flats. I think it has a week left. This would only be my fourth visit over the years. It seemed right to make a final visit.

I dropped the lads off outside and spun back to park up. When I walked in a few minutes later, I was so pleased to see Alan sitting at a table opposite Gary. He slowly got up and we hugged. We have all missed him so much.

Oh, there was a third reason; the pub opened at 10am.

A few other folks arrived; firstly, Salisbury Steve, then Andy and Sophie, Neil and Nigel, all from Nuneaton. There was a brief chat with Huddersfield Mick.

As we left the pub at about midday, Andy was muttering disparaging things about the folk from Leicester, just up the road from him in the East Midlands.

“Let’s go and see the knicker makers.”

There were around six thousand visitors from Leicestershire in town for this cup tie. Sophie mentioned that as they spun around the Hammersmith roundabout, she had spotted that a few police vans were parked outside “The William Morris” pub, no doubt keeping a close watch on a section of the away fans as they neared Stamford Bridge.

There was a loud group of them exiting from the guts of the Fulham Broadway tube complex at about 12.15pm too. I noted a large police presence outside the West Stand on the Fulham Road. I soon made my way in. I stopped to take a “welcome home” photo of Alan with PD and Parky in The Sleepy Hollow and then made my way to my single seat, almost behind the goal in the MHU.

The team was announced.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Gallagher

Mudryk – Palmer – Sterling

Jackson

Before the game began, I had realised that I had left my glasses in the car. Added to the fact that Leicester City had chosen to wear an all-black away kit, it was a little difficult to tell the two sets of players apart. I struggled for the first few minutes before my eyes got to grips with it all.

There were a few early barbs from the away supporters aimed at the Chelsea sections.

“Football in a library.”

“Ben Chilwell – he sits on the bench.”

I felt like muttering “apart from when he wins European Cups” but I wasn’t in the mood.

The visitors began the brighter and an effort went ridiculously close to the right-hand upright of the goal right down below me.

“Ooooooooh.”

At The Shed End, there was a flicked-effort by Cole Palmer from a corner that was kept out by Jakub Stolarczyk at the Shed End.

On thirteen minutes, a really strong run by Nicholas Jackson on our right went deep into the Foxes’ penalty area. He had the beating of the last man, Jannik Vestergaard, and also the awareness to spot the unmarked Marc Cucarella at the far post. The low cross was perfect, the finish from the left-back was clinical.

Chelsea 1 Leicester City 0.

It was a perfect start.

We needed to be wary of the away team on the counter-attack and they threatened on a couple of occasions. The ever-alert Cucarella was able to head away a couple of over-hit crosses at the far post.

I spotted Jackson signal to Axel Disasi to play him through – great awareness, great movement – but I growled with displeasure as his request was ignored. The ball went square yet again…

On twenty-five minutes, just as Raheem Sterling was about to take aim at goal from a central position in the box, his legs were unceremoniously taken from under him by Abdul Fatawu. It was a clear penalty.

We waited for Palmer to take control of the situation, but to our surprise it was Sterling who placed the ball on the spot. My thoughts were along the lines of Sterling needing a goal, so the penalty was gifted to him.

It was a terrible penalty, the central shot kicked away with ease by Stolarcyck.

Bollocks.

Well, that did nothing for Sterling’s confidence.

We kept going. A strong shot from Mykhailo Mudryk was parried. On forty-five minutes, Sterling was through, one on one, with only the ‘keeper to beat. Alas, his shot did not hit the target, instead it missed the right-hand post by yards rather than feet and inches. The crowd howled at the enormity of the miss.

There was redemption immediately after. Sterling created space on the left and his perfect cross was nimbly pushed home by Palmer.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 0.

Coasting.

Conor Gallagher let fly just before the break but his curling effort went just wide of the far post. I had been impressed with Mudryk in the first-half, not always potent going forward, but showing a much greater desire to put opponents under pressure, to close space, to tackle. There was a lot more energy from him.

He began the second-half with a fine bursting run.

On fifty-minutes, with Leicester City attacking their fans in The Shed, Disasi made a brilliantly-timed sliding tackle on a forward. Sadly, just seconds later the same defender, under pressure from Patson Daka, completely over hit a back-pass to Robert Sanchez. The ball always looked like dropping into the open net.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 1.

Fackinell.

Jackson broke away but hit the side netting to my left. Moises Caicedo’s strike was saved. But the gifted goal had given Leicester a lifeline and it felt like they had the bit between their teeth.

On sixty-two minutes, Stephy Mavididi danced away as he cut inside the Chelsea penalty box.

“Put a tackle in.”

The Leicester player shimmied and drove a fine effort into the Chelsea goal.

Chelsea 2 Leicester City 2.

Fackinell.

Shots, both over, from Palmer and Mudryk.

On seventy-minutes, a strong run from Jackson ended with a challenge on the edge of the box by Callum Doyle. At first the referee seemed to signal a penalty. Then VAR stepped in. No penalty, but a free-kick on the edge of the box instead. But Doyle was off. Advantage Chelsea? Maybe.

But first we had the free-kick. There was the usual delay as the away team sorted out a wall, then made a substitution. We then we focussed on Palmer and Sterling, both seeming to want the ball.

We waited.

Palmer did not move.

Sterling strode forward.

His effort sailed ridiculously high and ridiculously wide.

I cupped the back of my head in my hands and turned to look away from the pitch in disbelief. Everyone behind me was equally as flabbergasted.

Good grief.

There were immediate boos.

On seventy-six minutes, Carney Chukwuemeka replaced Mudryk, and there were more boos. However, Mudryk was then clapped off by the home fans, especially those in the East Lower when he walked past them. He was warmly hugged by the manager.

On eighty minutes, ten minutes from the end of the game, I can honestly say that I heard the first real bone-crunching, lung-bursting, ear-piercing song from the Chelsea faithful.

“Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea – Chowlsea, Chowlsea, Chowlsea.”

Eighty fucking minutes.

Sterling was booed when he had the ball.

My heart slumped.

Pathetic.

Everyone knows my thoughts about supporters…er…supporting.

The substitute Chukwuemeka went close with a curling shot that strayed past the post.

We penned Leicester in to the final third, even the final quarter of the pitch, but space was at a premium. Malo Gusto had been neat all of the way through the game and his confidence grows with each appearance. Some of his flicks under pressure were lovely.

We kept going. On eighty-three minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Sterling. There were boos; not for the substitution, but for Sterling.

I spotted many, though, in the MHU who were stood and clapped him off.

This warmed me a little.

Bad day at the office? Oh yes. But he didn’t deserve the level of nastiness aimed towards him – “Get him off, get him off, get him off!” – in that second-half.

A few late chances came and went. Jackson flashed over from close-in.

Where was Erland Johnsen when we needed him?

On ninety minutes, Ben Chilwell replaced Cucarella.

The Bloke Next To Me : “Please score, Chilwell.”

Our dominance continued as eight minutes of injury time were announced. It was quite a sight to see Carney and Ben doubling-up on one attack down the left.

On ninety-two minutes, Carney found a little space and cut in. The ball was played to Palmer. I expected him to set up Gallagher, but he took us all by surprise. Palmer back-heeled the ball perfectly into the path of Chukwuemeka who pushed the ball home.

GET IN.

Chelsea 3 Leicester City 2.

The place was alive at last.

On ninety-eight minutes, it was the turn of the second substitute, Madueke, to set the place alight. A fine dribble into the central area, a couple of step overs, and then a lofted curler into the top corner, right in line with yours truly.

Chelsea 4 Leicester City 2.

I managed to catch bits of the manic celebrations from the two late goals on film.

We made it, we’re off to Wembley yet again.

I walked back to the car and caught up with PD and Parky. The traffic was light and I was back home by 6pm, a very early finish to the day.

The weekend had been a success; a pleasing league win from my twenty-seventh Frome Town game of the season and a last-gasp win in the cup from my thirty-ninth Chelsea game of the season.

We now have a break – no Chelsea game for a fortnight, no Frome Town game for even longer – as winter turns to spring.

See you on the other side.

Fifty Favourite Games :

4 March 1978 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1 – First Division.

25 October 1980 : Chelsea 6 Newcastle United 0 – Second Division.

13 February 1982 : Chelsea 2 Liverpool 0 – FA Cup.

27 August 1983 : Chelsea 5 Derby County 0 – Second Division.

22 November 1983 : Chelsea 4 Newcastle United 0 – Second Division.

10 March 1984 : Newcastle United 1 Chelsea 1 – Second Division.

31 March 1984 : Cardiff City 3 Chelsea 3 – Second Division.

28 April 1984 : Chelsea 5 Leeds United 0 – Second Division.

25 August 1984 : Arsenal 1 Chelsea 1 – First Division.

1 December 1984 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1 – First Division.

9 April 1986 : Manchester United 1 Chelsea 2 – First Division.

13 September 1986 : Tottenham Hotspur 1 Chelsea 3 – First Division.

18 March 1989 : Manchester City 2 Chelsea 3 – Second Division.

1 February 1992 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 2 – First Division.

3 November 1994 : Austria Memphis 1 Chelsea 1 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

14 March 1995 : Chelsea 2 Club Brugge 0 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

26 January 1997 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 2 – FA Cup.

17 May 1997 : Chelsea 2 Middlesbrough 0 – FA Cup.

16 April 1998 : Chelsea 3 Vicenza 1 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

13 May 1998 : Chelsea 1 Stuttgart 0 – European Cup Winners’ Cup.

3 October 1999 : Chelsea 5 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

5 April 2000 : Chelsea 3 Barcelona 1 – Champions League.

13 March 2002 : Chelsea 4 Tottenham Hotspur 0 – Premier League.

11 May 2003 : Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1 – Premier League.

8 March 2005 : Chelsea 4 Barcelona 2 – Champions League.

30 April 2005 : Bolton Wanderers 0 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

11 March 2006 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 1 – Premier League.

29 April 2006 : Chelsea 3 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

3 April 2008 : Chelsea 3 Liverpool 2 : Champions League.

10 March 2009 : Juventus 2 Chelsea 2 – Champions League.

8 April 2009 : Liverpool 1 Chelsea 3 – Champions League.

14 April 2009 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4 – Champions League.

3 April 2010 : Manchester United 1 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

2 May 2010 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 2 : Premier League.

9 May 2010 : Chelsea 8 Wigan Athletic 0 – Premier League.

14 March 2012 : Chelsea 4 Napoli 1 – Champions League.

15 April 2012 : Chelsea 5 Tottenham Hotspur 1 – FA Cup.

18 April 2012 : Chelsea 1 Barcelona 0 – Champions League.

24 April 2012 : Barcelona 2 Chelsea 2 – Champions League.

19 May 2012 : Chelsea 1 Bayern Munich 1 (won 4-3 pens) – Champions League.

27 April 2014 : Liverpool 0 Chelsea 2 – Premier League.

1 March 2015 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 0 – League Cup.

2 May 2016 : Chelsea 2 Tottenham Hotspur 2 – Premier League.

23 October 2016 : Chelsea 4 Manchester United 0 – Premier League.

5 November 2016 : Chelsea 5 Everton 0 – Premier League.

3 December 2016 : Manchester City 1 Chelsea 3 – Premier League.

22 April 2017 : Chelsea 4 Tottenham Hotspur 2 – FA Cup.

12 May 2017 : West Bromwich Albion 0 Chelsea 1 – Premier League.

29 May 2019 : Chelsea 4 Arsenal 1 – Europa League.

29 May 2021 : Chelsea 1 Manchester City 0 – Champions League.

Tales From Game 71/208

Posted on October 24, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 21 October 2023.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gulp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck war.

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

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

28 April 1973 – Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

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

26 August 2013 – Manchester United 0 Chelsea 0.

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

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

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

We lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Mudryk

Or something like that.

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

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

I feared the worst, but hoped for a draw.

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

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

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

We waited.

Penalty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They hadn’t settled at all.

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

Shots from ourselves were a little half-hearted.

One from Gallagher was hit right at Raya.

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

One from Enzo was hit centrally at Raya too.

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

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

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

Et cetera.

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

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

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

At the break, mild optimism.

Easy now.

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

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

Rest In Peace.

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

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

GET IN!

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

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

“Oh fuck, he’s coming this way.”

I caught his Christ The Redeemer pose.

Phew.

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

The players were loving it down below.

FUCKING COME ON!

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

I was still a bit edgy though.

“Next goal is crucial.”

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

On sixty-six minutes, Nicholas Jackson replaced Mudryk.

Stamford Bridge stood to applaud him off.

The substitute then went close.

Fackinell.

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

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

Bollocks.

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

We made two late changes of our own.

Noni Madueke for Sterling.

Reece James for Palmer.

“Where’s Reece playing then?”

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

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

“COME ON CHELS.”

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

Chelsea 2 Arsenal 2.

Bollocks.

They celebrated like they had won the European Cup.

As if.

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

Arsenal’s version was a poor copy.

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

Winning the league at Stamford Bridge?

I must have missed that one. Maybe it happened.

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

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

Fackinell.

Head tennis in their box and Levi Colwill headed over.

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

It ended 2-2.

Every Chelsea fan on the planet :

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

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

Next up, another derby against Brentford.

See you there.

Rest In Peace

Tales From A Goal And A Win

Posted on October 1, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 28 September 2023.

After defeating AFC Wimbledon in the Second Round of the League Cup, we could have been drawn away to Salford City, Exeter City, Ipswich Town, Mansfield Town, Peterborough United, Bradford City, Port Vale, Sutton United or Lincoln City in the next round. I have not seen Chelsea play at any of these clubs’ stadia. However, the draw for the Third Round gave us a home tie with Brighton & Hove Albion. This was met with the usual grumbling from me. I don’t have a feverish desire to tick off all ninety-two grounds before I exit stage left, but a new ground is always a pleasant experience.

As I typed out the teams in that list above, I felt a little sadness that I have not seen us play at either Valley Parade nor Portman Road. These two stadia belong to two teams that we have played a fair few times over the years. However, the twin perils of geography and economics have not always been aligned for me to travel as much as I do now. I guess that I should mention that I have seen a game at Port Vale, lured in by a chance to see Micky Droy play for Brentford at Vale Park only for him to be injured, when I was at college in The Potteries. Quite a few fellow Chelsea supporters that I know have reached “92” on many occasions and are constantly topping up their totals as new teams arrive in the fourth tier.

Me? I am up to fifty-eight of the current ninety-two English and Welsh stadia, plus a few “doubles” too. Other than that, there are around forty clubs in the non-league arena that I have visited. So, a total of around one hundred clubs in the UK visited for actual games. I’ll make an exhaustive list one day. It’s a pretty low figure compared to many. I know of one Chelsea fanatic who is up to six-hundred individual stadia worldwide, and another who has seen games at over two and a half thousand stadia worldwide. Across the globe, I think that I might be up to around one hundred and seventy-five individual stadia.

Stadium number one in that list was Frome Town in 1970 and I returned there on Tuesday, the night before the Brighton game. The home team won 3-2 against Evesham United with goals from Warren Maidment, Reece Rusher and James Ollis. This was Frome’s first league game in four weeks.

On the Wednesday, I set off for London with the usual three other passengers at around 2.15pm. I dropped Parky and Paul near “The Rylston” pub on Lillee Road at 4.30pm. I was able to drive down a relatively deserted North End Road, then up the Fulham Road, to drop Ron off at the main gates. It felt a little odd to be able to do this. I haven’t often driven up to the actual gates at Stamford Bridge, though I did park in the underground carpark on one or two occasions almost thirty years ago. After getting fined for arriving at a car parking space before the Luton Town game, I was wary not to park up too soon. I killed time by driving around a few blocks and hit my spot bang on 5pm just as a traffic warden had glided past.

I had driven past a father and daughter that I often see in “Norbros Pizzeria” on the North End Road. The father reminds me of Perry Benson who was in “This Is England.”

I joined the chaps in “The Rylston” for a drink. It sits at the northern edge of the Clem Atlee, and is a very decent boozer, though now attracting a very different clientele than the decades since its inception. I bet nobody from the Clem Atlee drinks there now. As such, it’s a perfect metaphor for that part of Fulham, that part of London.

I shot off to gobble down a diavolo pizza on the North End Road – Perry Benson and his daughter were in there, of course – and I then dipped into “Simmons” where I had a nice chat with Salisbury Steve. Neither of us were particularly relishing the game. Why would we be?

Brighton had over four thousand supporters in The Shed and so Parky was shunted into the MHU. I swapped with him so he could sit next to PD, while I took his seat in the more central Block 11. It suited us both. Before the game, I was able to spot three friends who normally sit in The Shed – Long Tall Pete, John and Dave – and I also spotted Terry Wine Gums too. Lo and behold, just before the kick-off, Perry Benson and his daughter took their seats right behind me and I spoke to them for the first time.

“Good food in there, innit?”

I enjoyed being able to watch the game from a different angle. It mirrors the “new ground” feeling. I would be pointing my camera at the usual objects but there would be different outcomes.

Our team?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell

Ugochukwu – Caicedo

Maatesen – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Or something like that. Palmer, his first start, was definitely ahead of Uguchukwu and Caicedo.

I nestled myself in. I seemed to have a lot less room than in my usual seat. The pre-match music began in earnest and I thought that the House Of Pain, from thirty years ago, was an apt choice of band to start off the proceedings. Would we be jumping around later? I wasn’t sure.

There was the flash, then darkness and the pulsing beat of the pre-match light-show, and I worried for the future of mankind. On the pitch, men with forks were tapping the pitch with complete disinterest. As a spectacle, it needed a little more work, a little more choreography.

Fackinell.

I looked around. It was almost a full house. The bubble isn’t for bursting just yet. The tickets for the previous round were £26. These were £32. I hope the price rise stops there. It was a mild night in SW6. Secretly, I was sweating like bastard. That extra Hugo Boss hoodie was not a wise move.

The game kicked-off.

Brighton were in a very vivid red. Tariq Lamptey, one substitute appearance for us in 2019, was starting while Billy Gilmour was a substitute.

We began nicely, with some positive play going forward. Mudryk cut in but shot straight at the Brighton ’keeper.

It was a bit of a head-scratcher to see the maligned Marc Cucarella starting at right back, and the effervescent Brighton winger Kaoru Mitoma gave him a merry dance as a he advanced. Thankfully, a cross was smothered away for a goal-kick.

After a Chelsea attack, the ball was played back.

“Cucarella as the last man. That’s not a scary thought is it?”

Robert Sanchez had already fluffed a few lines; kicking for touch like a rugby player and failing to clear with ease. He had already passed the ball to one Brighton player in error. Then, his biggest error yet. With all of our hearts in our mouths, we watched as he kicked the ball straight to Joao Pedro. Mercifully, his lob evaded the goal and the ball nestled on top of the net.

Fackinell.

A run from Nicolas Jackson, but he crumpled too easily inside the box.

“Needs to be stronger.”

Palmer advanced but his shot was weak.

In front of us, another horrific piece of football from Sanchez, with him passing the ball to Caicedo with an attacker right behind him. The ball was lost and Ansu Fati, on loan from Barcelona, shot at goal. Thankfully Sanchez redeemed himself with a fine save.

Some nice interplay between Mudryk and Jackson set up the Ukrainian, whose advance was halted by two sliding tackles.

After a free-kick was cleared, the ball fell to Lesley Ugochukwu but his lofted chip sailed over via a deflection off a defender.

A long ball into space from Chilwell, captain on the night, found Mudryk in acres of space. His cross was flicked past the near post by Palmer.

It had been a first-half of few real chances with the abysmal performance of the ‘keeper Sanchez the main talking point in MHU Block 11. Only Palmer, Mudryk and Jackson stood out really.

The Brighton fans had been quiet. We had been quiet too. It was one of those nights.

Soon into the second-half, on fifty minutes, a slick move involving Caicedo, Ian Maatsen and Palmer – with exquisite footwork – set up Jackson who cleanly swept the ball in.

Get in.

The crowd roared. What a relief. We had joked for a while about wondering where our next goal would come yet here it was.

Phew.

I tried to capture the slide but there were too many arms being thrust into the air.

Mudryk set up Jackson but he dawdled a little too long and the angles worked against him; his shot was blocked by the outstretched leg of Verbruggen.

A fine ball from Cucarella into Caicedo set up Palmer. His slight touch was enough to see the ball reach Jackson, who tucked home. Sadly, I immediately saw the chequered flag for offside. It must have been close. It stayed as a 1-0 game.

Billy Gilmour came on as a Brighton substitute and a fair few clapped him on. I stood up and did so. He was part of our squad in Porto, that will do for me.

Raheem Sterling replaced Mudryk.

Then two more changes.

Conor Gallagher for Maatsen.

Enzo for Palmer.

Both had played well on the night; positive signs.

A quick break down the Brighton left set up Solly March but his header was right at Sanchez. Estupinan then drilled a cross right through the danger zone and it eventually went off for a Chelsea throw in. Brighton had been poor. This surprised me.

Armando Broja replaced Jackson.

Another promising show from him.

Alas, while chasing a long ball, Chilwell fell and it was clear that he was hurt. He was escorted off.

A volley from Joao Pedro was blasted over.

The minutes ticked by and we hoped that there would be no last minute twist, no last minute drama.

There was relief, much relief, at the final whistle.

The quality wasn’t brilliant, but a win is a win is a win. The big surprise on the night was Cucarella, who really grew into the game and impressed many with his tough tackling, decent distribution and high energy levels. Well done to him. We assembled back at the car and I made very good time on the drive home. I was back home at around 12.45am, definitely an early finish.

But so much for a new ground.

We were paired with Blackburn Rovers at home.

Next up, a trip for me to Kent on Saturday in the FA Cup before we assemble again on Monday night at Craven Cottage.

See you in The Eight Bells.

The Rylston

New Angles

The First Half

The Second Half

Tales From The Counting House

Posted on March 12, 2023 by Chris Axon

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 11 March 2023.

We stepped into “The Counting House” at 11.30am. This pub, formerly part of an old cattle market, is equidistant between Leicester Tigers’ Welford Road stadium and the Leicester City Foxes’ King Power Stadium. It must do a great trade during these two sporting seasons. We only heard about this pub being the designated “away” pub before our game, just before COVID struck, in 2020. It’s a great boozer, modernised well with a long bar, and plenty of room for an overspill outside where beers are poured at a “pop-up” facility. We – the four of us, PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve and little old me – soon settled at one of the last remaining high tables. We had timed it just right.

This was another relatively long day following The Great Unpredictables.

I had set my alarm for 6.30am and I picked up PD and Steve at 8am, his Lordship just after. The drive up the Fosse Way was as picturesque and as pleasurable as ever. We breakfasted at Moreton-In-Marsh, then zipped around Coventry and headed towards Leicester. We used the last disabled parking space right outside the pub. As trips go, it had been nigh-perfect.

I have known Steve for a couple of years. He watches games near Parky in the Shed Lower and now drinks with us down “The Eight Bells”. It was good to have him on board. He added a little sanity to the day.

When we reached the pub only fifty or so other Chelsea supporters were present. I didn’t recognise any of them, not one. There is a rumour flying around at the moment that there is a way to “beat the system” of the VWR by using an app that opens up hundreds of browsers at one time. It is no wonder that many established old-school regulars at Chelsea, not au fait with such nefarious processes, never seem to get hold of away tickets these days.

The place soon filled up and at just after 12.15pm the first “Carefree” echoed around the bar. Two games were being shown on the bar’s large TV screens; Bournemouth vs. Liverpool and Bristol City vs. Blackpool. I didn’t really bother too much with either of them, though we loved to see Bournemouth take the lead against Liverpool and Mo Salah strike a penalty well-wide of the goal towards the end of the game.

How we laughed.

I wasn’t sure if I’d be laughing later. It would be “typical Chelsea” to follow up that fine win against Borussia Dortmund with a draw or, gasp, even a defeat against Leicester City. My prediction was a draw. To win three games in eight days might, I thought, be pushing it just a bit.

This would be my eighth visit to the King Power Stadium; I have missed three due to a holiday, being snowed in and “not being arsed” for a midweek League Cup game.

We walked the short distance to the ground just after 2pm.

I had swapped my ticket with PD’s so I could get a different perspective. Previous visits have always plotted me down the front; I fancied a change. I was well-rewarded with a seat right in the middle of the upper reaches of our away corner. Steve was ten yards away to my left, a row in front. PD was way down in row three alongside Al, Gal, John and Parky.

King Power Stadium slowly filled up and eventually came to life.

Our team?

Kepa

Fofana – Koulibaly – Cucarella

Loftus-Cheek – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Mudryk – Havertz – Felix

We have certainly raided Leicester City in recent years; Kante, Drinkwater, Chilwell, Fofana. I suppose their revenge was the 2021 FA Cup win, a fair trade-off, though I am sure they will never admit it.

The teams appeared.

The home team were dressed completely in royal blue while the away team were kitted out in garments based on foundation cream.

At the other end of the stadium, a rather pathetic “tifo” display took place involving a few white flags – presumably not of surrender – and a banner depicting the club’s trophies. The stadium is as bland as bland can be, quite different from Filbert Street with its four lop-sided stands.

Modern football, eh?

Around the ground, tucked under the roof at the rear of the home seated areas, Leicester City parade hundreds of small flags – not sure what they depict – but this looks messy, as if they have hung out all of their laundry to air.

The game kicked-off.

The badinage between both sets of supporters began early.

“Wesley Fofana. He left ‘cus your shit.”

“Potter and Boehly are fucking shit.”

“Ben Chilwell’s won the European Cup.”

A shot from James Maddison was easily saved by Kepa.

Ben Chilwell took a corner over in the far corner and as the ball dropped into the six-yard box, I experienced an immediate flashback to last season when I photographed a similar delivery onto the head of Antonio Rudiger and a goal followed. He loved playing at Leicester did Rudi. This year, Wesley Fofana headed the ball on and Kalidou Koulibaly kept the ball alive despite it ending well past the framework of the goal on our left. His cross went way deep. Chilwell, out on the right still, was the recipient and he was shaping up to make a direct hit, which I thought was being optimistic in the extreme. The angle was so tight. To my joy, he kept the ball low and it scudded into the net.

GET IN.

How he enjoyed that, running over to the crowd in the main stand, cupping his ears, and loving it all. My former work colleague Sally, watching with her young daughter Lily, was only a few yards away in her season ticket seat in the corner. Ouch.

Despite my pre-game reservations, we were 1-0 up.

The Chelsea crowd, buoyant before the goal, turned the volume up further.

“We’ve got Enzo in the middle. He knows exactly what we need.”

The front three were fluid, with Mykhailo Mudryk often in the middle with Kai Havetz on the right. Mudryk’s first touch was excellent in that first part of the game. I wanted him desperately to succeed. In the bar and at the game, his song was sung loudly.

“Mudryk said to me…”

Maddison zipped a free-kick over from the left but Daniel Amartey headed wide from very close in. This was developing into a fine game of football.

The songs continued.

“Oh Roman, do you know what that’s worth, Kai Havertz is the best on Earth.”

I had said to Steve in the pub that I liked this one, since it was born out of the 2021 Champions League Final in Porto, yet also mentions, and honours, Roman.

It was mid-way through the half, and the songs still rattled along nicely.

“Vialli” Vialli! Vialli! Vialli!”

“Kovacic our Croatian man…”

A fine cross from Havertz from the right found Felix who was one on one with the Leicester ‘keeper Danny Ward. He advanced and dinked the ball over him. Surely this was going in. We waited for the net to ripple. To our amazement and dismay, the ball struck the right-hand post.

“He’s gotta score those.”

On twenty-five minutes, the whole away end combined for a thunderous “Ten Men.”

Just after, Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall (not just a footballer but the site of temperance movement meetings in West Yorkshire), let fly from outside the box and his shot took a deflection off the considerable bulk of Koulibaly. To our relief, the ball crashed against the bar.

The barrage of songs continued.

“From Stamford Bridge to Wembley…”

“Hello, hello we are the Chelsea boys.”

“His hair is fucking massive.”

Marc Cucarella was, again, having a decent game. When he man-marks closely, he is decent. When he gets pulled all over the place, his sat nav throws a wobbly and he gets shown up. But on this occasion, fine.

“Oh when the blues go steaming in…”

“Oh Frankie Lampard scored two hundred…”

Another fine move followed. Mudryk cut in from the left with pace and set up an advanced Ruben Loftus-Cheek on the right, who then played a delightful low ball towards that man Felix. His tap in made us roar again, and the players raced over to Sally’s Corner.

YES!

And then.

VAR reared its ugly head.

No goal.

Not long after, Felix lost possession, trying to be too fancy in our defensive third, and Leicester won the ball. It was touched on to Patson Daka, whoever he is, and his shot fizzed past Kepa at the near post. It was a decent strike to be fair.

The quiet home fans to my left were now chirpy.

“You’re not singing anymore.”

Next, two fine saves from Kepa in very quick succession from Maddison and Kelechi Iheanacho. The game kept providing thrills and spills.

Some folk around me were losing their patience with Mudryk whose ball retention was lessening with each pass.

With half-time approaching, Enzo found himself with a little space and spotted the central run from Havertz. He scooped the ball up with deft precision – Zola to Poyet in 1999, anyone? – and over the defence right into the path of Havertz who beautifully lobbed the ball over Ward. Magnificent. One of the great goals.

But nobody celebrated.

Not Havertz. My gaze centered on him. Was he sure he was offside?

Not any of the players. Were they sure too?

The stadium seemed still, frozen in time.

Leicester fans – football fans always fear the worst – were stony silent as they presumed a goal had been conceded.

Not us.

We were quiet too. And mightily confused. There were, maybe, a few yelps of pleasure. But the majority of us were predominantly numbed into silence. I twice looked around to check the reaction of the bloke behind me, and neither of us knew what was going on. With the players idly walking back to our half and with the referee on the centre-circle, we all came to the slow realisation that the goal stood.

But the fear of VAR had ruined that goal celebration – once bitten twice shy – and, although we were laughing and joking at the time, we all knew that VAR had insidiously buggered-up that moment, our moment.

Fuck VAR.

Incidentally, I have to mention it; this goal was eerily similar to one that I witnessed in deepest Devon in August when Owen Humphries scooped a ball over the Buckland Athletic defence for Jon Davies to score for Frome Town in an FA Cup tie. No fucking VAR at that level, though.

We were happy at half-time. I popped down to see the lads in the third row. All of them were bemused by the second goal too.

A change at the break.

Conor Gallagher for Felix.

We enjoyed a couple of early corners with Fofana forcing a fine save from Ward at his near post.

“Oooh Wesley Fofana.”

A new one this, I think.

Then Leicester enjoyed a little spell. The challenges were crashing in and Kepa went down injured after a save. This was an open game now. Leicester dominated for ten minutes or so. We held firm.

“Super, super Frank…”

“That’s why we love Salomon Kalou…”

I’d prefer songs about current players to be honest. Can we not serenade former players when we are winning 4-0 and 5-0?

On the hour, spaces opening up as we countered and there was an effort from Havertz, off balance, that flew wide. Gallagher had to awkwardly block off the line on sixty-five minutes as Leicester attacked at a corner.

“Oh Dennis Wise…”

There was a header from Havertz on the penalty spot but it was right at the ‘keeper

“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea…”

The boke behind me was in a quandary.

“I like Gallagher, I really do, but I struggle with what he does apart from basically run around a lot.”

I knew what he meant.

A fine move, but our man Conor shot right at the ‘keeper.

Kepa tipped a shot over. There were surely no complaints about entertainment value here. After Tuesday, here we all were enjoying another thoroughly enjoyable game of football. Throughout it, we were the team that showed a little more quality in all areas.

Up the other end, the ball came loose and Dewsbury-Hall missed a sitter. Phew.

On seventy-three minutes, Graham Potter made some substitutions.

Christian Pulisic for Chilwell.

Trevoh Chalobah for Loftus-Cheek.

With fifteen minutes to go, the ball was played to Mudryk who raced on and calmly slotted but we were all able to sadly spot the lineswoman’s flag raised for offside. His joyous slide was in vain.

Bollocks.

A Leicester substitute became the latest victim of the away choir.

“Jamie Vardy, your wife is a grass.”

Songs still roared on in memory of Gianluca.

“Vialli! Vialli! Vialli! Vialli!”

On seventy-eight minutes, I watched the movement of Havertz just as Enzo brilliantly played a ball into space.

“That’s on.”

Havertz outpaced his marker and kept possession well. He then crossed, deeply, towards Mudryk who was back-peddling somewhat but still managed to keep the ball alive by heading it back into the six-yard box.

Enter Kovacic who blissfully volleyed home from close quarters.

We celebrated wildly now.

The scorer, surrounded by team mates, sprinted down to our corner while fists and arms pumped into the air. These were superb scenes.

And then.

VAR.

I silently groaned.

FOR FUCK SAKE.

But I had seen Havertz break. He had to race past his marker. I was confident.

Goal.

I turned to bloke beside me :

“Six goals in eight days!”

The away end was now the loudest it would be for the entire day.

“Kovacic our Croatian man.

He left Madrid and he left Milan.

He signed for Frank. Said fuck off Zidane.

He signed for Chelsea on a transfer ban.”

Magical times.

It seemed, at last, that things were looking up.

Some very late tweaks, and God knows who was playing where but I did not care one jot.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Mudryk and Benoit Badiashile for Fofana.

“You are my Chelsea, my only Chelsea…”

Empty seats appeared. I was so proud to see Sally and Lily still staying until the very end.

“Is there a fire drill?”

“You’ve had your day out…”

“We’re gonna bounce in a minute.”

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

There were seven minutes of extra time and, in it, Wout Faes – whoever he is – got sent off for a second yellow.

I loved seeing the players – and the manager, great stuff – celebrate a fine win with smiles in front of our section at the end of the game. Let’s hope the corner has been turned.

This was a bloody excellent day of football, the away support was back to its best after the no-show at Tottenham, the colour was back in our beautifully toned cheeks, and I even got to see Kev Thomas smile.

We met up back at the car and all was good with our world. I slowly navigated myself away, the route taking my car right past the old away entrance to their old Filbert Street ground at the end of those tightly-packed houses on Burnmoor Street.

I reached home at about 9.30pm.

It had been a fine day.

Next up, Everton at home and let’s win again.

See you in the pub.

Tales From A Masterpiece

Posted on March 10, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Borussia Dortmund : 7 March 2023.

On a night of high drama at a wonderfully noisy Stamford Bridge, as Chelsea undoubtedly produced the finest performance of a deeply frustrating season, we defeated Borussia Dortmund 2-0 with goals in each half from the boots of Raheem Sterling and Kai Havertz, this from a twice-taken penalty, to secure our passage into the Champions League quarter finals once again.

It was always going to be a long day for me, this one. I had set the alarm for 4.30am so I could do an irregular 6am to 2pm shift. Thankfully, traffic was light on the way into London and at 4.30pm, I was parked up at Bramber Road between the North End Road and Queens Club. Heaven knows what time I’d be reaching my Somerset village after the game.

Throughout the day I had been quietly confident of us progressing against Dortmund. I felt sure that their 1-0 lead from the first leg could be overturned. I just felt it in my water. I had to smile when my fellow Frome Town supporter Steve, who would be watching the home game against Bashley – another team that plays in yellow shirts and black shorts – commented that he hoped both Yellow Walls would come tumbling down. Quite.

Pre-match was spent flitting between Stamford Bridge to chat to a couple of friends, a chip shop on Fulham Broadway for sustenance and “Simmons” to meet up with the usual suspects.

Just outside the Shed End, I chatted briefly to Mark M.

“I think we’ll do it. I think those buggers will raise their game and we’ll go through.”

And this was one of the main reasons why I was predicting a win and a safe passage into the next round. Myself and many others could not help but think that the Chelsea players, with just this one remaining trophy left to win in this dullest of seasons, were very likely indeed to go all out for a win against Dortmund. And yes, that would raise questions about desire and commitment to the cause in more mundane fixtures, but Mark smiled when he replied.

“Rather have us go through with that the case, rather than the alternative though.”

On the approach to the West Stand, supporters were being confronted by our very own yellow wall of hi-vis wearing stewards, a long line of them, who were asking for punters to show match tickets. It was calling out for a photograph and I duly snapped away. I was more than optimistic that the night would be supremely photogenic.

As I began to wolf down a saveloy and chips inside the busy chippy, I made room alongside me for a Dortmund fan. I had walked past “McGettigans” just as he had been in a discussion with a bouncer about being admitted into the pub. It didn’t surprise me that he had been turned away. We began chatting and I explained that I had attended the first leg. I also bravely retold the story of my “phantom trip” to see Borussia in 1987, hoping that he – Klaus, with his daughter alongside him – would understand my English. He was originally from Dortmund but now lives in Bonn. It was his first ever visit to London for a Champions League game. I again remained confident about a passage into the quarters and I told them so. As I sidled past them on leaving, I shook Klaus’ hand and said “when we beat you later tonight, you’ll remember this conversation.”

I then bumped into Mark W.

“Just walked up from Putney. There’s loads of them down there. In loads of pubs.”

It was no surprise that the Germans had travelled over in numbers. We had heard ridiculous stories of how many Eintracht Frankfurt supporters had descended on the capital in previous years and it was now the turn of the yellow and black hordes from Westphalia.

In the bar, my confidence was still surprisingly high. Jason and Gina from Dallas, remaining in London from the Leeds game, met up for a quick chat before disappearing off for a pre-match meal in one of the banqueting suites. I could sense that the mood in the small bar was buoyant. You could taste it in the air.

“Just need to avoid conceding an early goal.”

I walked up the Fulham Road with Parky. I was aware that the younger element in our support had planned a Liverpool-style welcome for the Dortmund coach outside the main gates between 5.30pm and 6pm – flares, noise – but I had not heard how well that had gone.

I was soon inside.

The three-thousand away fans were already occupying their allotted zone, though the section was configured slightly differently than the away area for a domestic league game; more in the lower, less in the upper, I know not why.

At 7.30pm, news filtered through that the kick-off had been delayed until 8.10pm. I wondered if the fans’ “welcome” had caused this.

We heard the team, a trusted 3-4-3.

Kepa

Koulibaly – Fofana – Cucarella

James – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Sterling – Havertz – Felix

For some reason, Chelsea had decided to position two blowers at either end of the West Stand, pitch-side, and for a few minutes before the pre-game ceremony really got going, these blew dry-ice into the air. I must admit that it added to the atmosphere and the sense of drama despite me preferring fan-led initiatives.

Clive : “Gary Numan is on the pitch next.”

Indeed, how very 1980.

Next up, a laser light show. Again dramatic, but it was as if we were being spoon-fed our atmosphere rather than being able to create our own.

Then the entrance of the teams. I’ll say it once again; I much preferred the dramatic walk across the pitch and the line-ups in front of the West Stand.

The game was almost upon us.

Tick tock.

But first, it was time for the away fans, seemingly all bedecked in yellow and black scarves, to give us all a show. It was, I have to say, stunning. Just as the teams stood for the anthem, scarves were held aloft. Then, a first for me, the Borussia players sprinted over to the away corner to show their appreciation. By now, the mosaic depicting many of our players was draped over both tiers of The Shed.

And then.

And then the yellow flares took over the away section, then the whole Shed End, then that part of the pitch. Alan likened it to a scene from the trenches of Picardy when mustard gas floated terrifyingly across battle lines. The scene reminded me of a Turner painting of the River Thames that I had recently seen at the art gallery in Liverpool; a yellow wash with broad brush strokes.

I wondered what masterpiece was going to unfold on the canvas before me.

This was it then. A massive game. Up until now, our season had been decidedly patchy, like one of those hideous denim jackets – “Kutte” – that many German football fans love to wear to games, but here was one easy path to redemption. Win this one boys and most – not all – will be forgotten.

Into them Chelsea.

We began so well, with some deep penetration – especially down the Chilwell and Felix flank – bringing us immediate joy, despite us watching the action through a cadmium yellow haze.

I was so pleased to see Julian Brandt, one of their best players in Germany three weeks ago, being substituted after just five minutes. The man mountain of Niklas Sule still stood in our way, though.

Our fine start – a header from Kalidou Koulibaly, a shot from Kai Havertz – helped to stir up a noisy reaction from us.

But the sight of all that yellow smoke drifting into the cold evening air, plus those sulphurous notes hitting our senses too, had set the tone. We were up for the vocal battle.

The atmosphere was bloody fantastic.

Even though I had seen many obvious tourist-types during my wanderings pre-match, wearing far too many friendship scarves for my liking, the old-school support had reacted so well in those early minutes. Again there had been a collective decision to ignore doubts about Graham Potter and to simply support.

And how.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge.

After having the best of the first fifteen minutes, the away team then had a little spell. Fearing danger, Alan had begun to share his packet of “Maynard Wine Gums”, our European good-luck charm for many a season – I have a ‘photo of Alan with a packet before the Vicenza game twenty-five years ago – and we managed to ride the storm.

There was, however, one moment of high drama. There was a foul in “Ward-Prowse” territory and Marco Reus – who did not play in the first-game – struck a fine free kick towards goal. Kepa flung himself across the goal to save well.

Phew.

A goal then would have been catastrophic.

Despite our keen start, the away team were now bossing the possession but we looked confident when we broke. As the minutes passed, it became an even game. At times we struggled a little to win the ball.

But the noise still gratifyingly rose out of the stands.

On twenty-seven minutes, a wicked cross from Reece James was whipped into the six-yard box but without anyone arriving to meet it. The ball rebounded out to Havertz who unleashed a thunderous strike goal wards goal. The effort slammed against one post and then seemed to spin slowly across the face of the goal, again with nobody close, and off it went for a goal kick.

Fackinell.

Next up, more drama. Chelsea on top again. The noise booming. A Raheem Sterling shot – after a run from deep – was saved but the ball reached Havertz. Cool as you like, the German curled an exquisite effort up and into the far top corner. I celebrated wildly but soon saw an off-side flag.

“Yeah, to be fair, Sterling did look offside.”

This was good stuff.

“Bellingham is quiet, in’ee?”

The whole stadium was now one huge unit.

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

Next, a chance for Koulibaly was fluffed but the ball ran on to Felix but his shot was straight at Alexander Meyer in the Borussia goal. Then a shot from Chilwell, attacking space so well, but his effort went wide.

“Be brilliant to get a goal just before the break.”

Throughout the first-half, it was reassuring to see Marc Cucarella playing so well. His game was full of incisive tackles and intelligent passing. A huge plus.

With forty-three minutes on the clock, a move developed on our strong left flank. Often in this half Havertz was to be found in a slightly deeper role with Sterling in the middle up top. On this occasion, the ball was moved out of defence by Cucarella. The ball found Havertz who wriggled away down the left – liquid gold – and he then back-heeled to Mateo Kovacic who kept the ball moving. A cross from Chilwell was zipped in to the waiting Sterling. He stabbed at the ball but completely missed it. He did well to get to the ball again, take a touch and blast the ball goal wards. In the blink of an eye, the ball rose to hit the net high.

The Bridge shook.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Euphoria? You bet. Perfect timing. Perfect.

The players celebrated in front of the away fans. Snigger. Snigger.

At half-time, everything was good in my world, your world, our world.

In 1983, things were…different.

After the win at home to Blackburn Rovers, Chelsea travelled over to The Valley to play Charlton Athletic. The date was Saturday 5 March 1983. The result was horrific. We were 2-0 down at half-time and we went on to lose 5-2. Our scorers were Colin Lee and Pop Robson. The attendance was 11,211. I remember seeing highlights from this game on YouTube a couple of years ago. I saw half-baked football with the stadium at quarter capacity. I would advise against anyone doing the same. The former European footballer of the year in 1977 Allan Simonsen scored one of the five Charlton goals. Things were at a low ebb again.

Never mind, help was on hand. My diary noted that Bob Latchford, then at Swansea City, was going to join us on Saturday.

He didn’t.

Let’s get back to 2023 sharpish.

The second-half began and we were attacking the Matthew Harding as is our wont. We began the half in the same way that we had finished the first.

Again, this was good stuff.

After five minutes, there was an attack, developed well from right to left, that ended up with a cross from Chilwell that eventually resulted in a shot, saved, from Kovacic. But there had been a shout for handball, strangely not by myself, as the cross was whipped in.

Some of the crowd shouted “VAR”.

Fuck that.

We went to VAR.

The usual delay.

Then the referee was asked to check the TV monitor.

I chatted to Alan : “The longer these take, the better likelihood of a penalty. If they look at the TV, even more so.”

Penalty.

I didn’t cheer, I just can’t.

Havertz had the ball, carrying it, waiting for the protestations to pass.

A slow run up, a halt, a wait, a strike.

It hit the post.

The ball was cleared.

Fackinell Chels.

But, salvation.

Unbeknown to me, there had been encroachment.

The TV screen told the story.

“Straftsossausfuhrung Unerfrufung” gave way to “Betreten Des Strafraums. Wiederholung Des Strafstosses.”

Anyway, the whatever, the kick was to be retaken.

“Havertz again. Not convinced. Think he’ll miss again.”

A few fellow sufferers in the Sleepy Hollow were looking away. They could not dare to see it. I watched.

The same, lame, run up. The same side. In.

YES!

Pandemonium in the Sleepy Hollow, pandemonium at Stamford Bridge, pandemonium everywhere.

On aggregate, Chelsea 2 Borussia Dortmund 1.

Deep breaths, deep breaths.

On the hour, Stamford Bridge was again as one.

“We all follow the Chelsea.”

There was a clear chance for Jude Bellingham, but remarkably he volleyed wide.

Conor Gallagher replaced Joao Felix. The substitute provided fresh legs and kept our momentum going. But as the night grew older, and as the remaining wine gums were eked out between Alan, Clive and little old me, the nerves began to be tested.

A save by Kepa from Marius Wolf as the ball flew in.

On seventy-five minutes, Sterling raced through but I thought he was offside. He advanced, passed to Gallagher, goal. The flag was raised for the initial offside.

Tick tock.

On eighty-three minutes, Potter changed personnel.

Christian Pulisic – who? – for Sterling.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kovacic.

On eight-seven minutes, one final change.

Denis Zakaria for Enzo.

An extra six minutes of extra-time were signalled so Alan turned his stopwatch on.

I lived every tackle, every pass. The stopwatch passed six minutes, it entered the seventh. I watched the moment that the referee blew up.

Phew.

We were there.

Superb.

“One Step Beyond” boomed and I hurriedly put away my camera before turning to leave. All around me were smiling faces.

“See you at Leicester, Al.”

I needed to put something up on “Facebook” and it soon came to me.

“We Are Chelsea. We Do Europe.”

This has clearly been a difficult season and the football has, by our high standards, been very poor for more than this current campaign. But this game was so gorgeous to be part of. It was a complete joy to, at last, witness a proper game of football – “just like we used to” – with the added bonus of an active and energised crowd adding support and noise.

A masterpiece? It felt like it. Absolutely. It was one of those great Chelsea nights.

Walking along the Fulham Road, everyone seemed to be smiling. There were chants and songs. Along the North End Road, a car played “Blue Is The Colour” while one of the song’s original singers walked alongside me. It was a lovely moment.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

The car continued on, now “toot-tooting” its horn as it disappeared into the night.

Everyone was super-happy on the drive home.

I eventually reached my house at 1.30am, just as snow started to fall, but I knew that I would not be able to crash straight away. My mind was still flying around – “Benfica next round please” – and I was able to upload a photo or two onto the internet. At just after 2.30am, I must have fallen asleep.

4.30am to 2.30am, mission accomplished.

See you at Leicester.

Tales From Difficult Shapes And Passive Rhythms

Posted on August 10, 2022 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 6 August 2022.

My summer had been quiet. I never fancied another CFC tour to the US during the close-season, and there was no holiday abroad to excite me. It was simply a case of staying at home, saving pennies and attempting to relax from the burden of work which was as busy as ever. The highlight of my summer season was a little burst of gigs involving some music from my youth; Tom Robinson, Tears For Fears, Stiff Little Fingers and China Crisis. Waiting in the wings in September are Altered Images and Toyah. It will be 1982 all over again and that is never a bad thing.

The summer was also short. The gap between the last game of 2021/22 to the opening match of the new season was a brief ten weeks. As time passed, I became increasingly bored with the constant tittle-tattle of rumour and counter rumour regarding our transfer targets. I realised how much I disliked the mere mention of the name Fabrizio Romano; nobody likes a smart arse. I again squirmed every time fan after fan, supporter after supporter, FIFA nerd after FIFA nerd used the phrase “done deal” without transfers being completed. Once players sign, then we can talk.

Maybe it’s an age thing but sometimes I feel that I am from another footballing planet compared to a lot of our support.

Our season would open up in a grand fashion. To start, my favourite away stadium with a trip to Everton’s Goodison Park and then what I would class as our biggest home game with the visit of Tottenham. Two absolute belters. Early on in the campaign there would also be visits to Leeds United, Southampton and Fulham. These are three cracking away trips too. But the downside of this opening burst of away games is that we only just visited Everton, Leeds and Southampton very recently. Could the league computer not have spaced the buggers out a bit?

As the new season approached, I was inevitably concerned that my enthusiasm levels weren’t at especially high levels, but this is so often the case. I often find that I need the season to begin for me to get fully back into the swing of things. But my indifference to the new campaign actually shocked me this summer.

I was faced with the age-old question: was my love of the game waning? It’s a strange one. Many aspects of the modern game leave me cold. So cold. Yet I lap up the chance to attend live matches. There is the old cliché about football – Chelsea – being my drug and I can’t dispute this. Perhaps I should add that my summer season included four Frome Town friendlies, my most ever.

Football, eh?

I hate you but I love you too.

The alarm was set for the new season at 5.30am. By 7.30am I had collected the Fun Boy Three – PD, GG and LP – and we were on our way once again.

I made good progress. After picking up PD at 7am, I had deposited the three of them outside “The Thomas Frost” boozer on Walton Road just south of Goodison only four hours later. It was surely my quickest-ever journey up to Merseyside.

While my fellow travelling companions settled down for five or more hours of supping, I began a little tour around the city, one that I had been promising myself for ages. It was also time for a little more introspection.

This would be my fiftieth consecutive season of attending Chelsea games – 1973/74 to 2022/23, count’em up – even though my fiftieth anniversary will not be until March 2024. Additionally, this would be the fifteenth season that I been writing these blogs. Long gone are the viewing figures of when these were featured on the Chelsea In America bulletin board, but these are such a part of my match-going routine now and I can’t give them up. However, over the summer one of my close friends, Francis, suggested that I should take a year out of match photography and blogging. Just to give myself a rest. An average blog takes four hours of my time. But the look that I gave him probably shocked him to the core.

“Nah. It’s what I do mate.”

I will be honest, I did go over the options in my mind though.

But here I am. Writing away. Taking photos.

I hope that I still maintain the will to keep doing this for a while yet. With the rumours of us partaking in a partial rebuild of Stamford Bridge under the new Todd Boehly regime, I have to continue on until that is finished surely? The success of the Roman Abramovich era might never be matched but there is always something to write about at Chelsea.

On we go.

On my own now, I edged my car south and west towards the River Mersey. Within five minutes, I was parked up a few hundred yards away from the construction site of the new Everton Stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. Camera in hand, I set off to record the progress being made.

I hopped up onto a small wall to gain a good vantage point of the overall scene. This would be photo number one of the season.

Snap.

On leaping down from the wall, my legs crumpled and I fell.

Splat.

The camera and spare lens went flying. My knees – my fucking knees! – were smarting. I was sure I had torn my jeans. There was blood on my right hand. What a start to the season’s photographs. I dusted myself down, then let out a huge laugh.

The first fackinell of the season? Oh yes.

One photo taken and carnage.

Ha.

I limped further along Boundary Street and spent a good twenty minutes or so taking it all in. I found it rather funny that a bold sign warned against site photography and sharing images on social media. During my spell there, around fifteen other lads – not being sexist, they were all lads – called by to take some photos too. I am not ashamed to say that I have recently subscribed to two YouTube channels that provide drone updates of the construction sites at Bramley Moore and also Anfield.

I love a stadium, me.

So, the scene that I was witnessing was indeed pretty familiar. The skeletal shell of the new stadium is rising with the two end stands – the south and north – being the first to pierce the sky alongside the murky grey of the famous river. There are seven cranes covering the site. Maybe those lads were just crane spotters.

I must admit it looks a glorious setting for a new stadium. Evertonians – like me, no doubt – will hate the upheaval of moving out of good old Goodison in a couple of years, but the move represents the chance to level up the playing field with their more moneyed neighbours at the top of the hill up on Stanley Park. I had a fear that last season’s visit to Goodison would be my last. I believe that the new stadium is slated to open up during the 2024/25 campaign.

There was a chance – with Everton likely to flirt with relegation again perhaps – that this day would mark my last ever visit to Goodison.

I hoped not.

I have a personal history with this stadium that I have often mentioned.

I marched back to the car and then drove south towards the city centre. I immediately passed a huge derelict warehouse – a tobacco warehouse I believe – and I had visions of the red brick structure being upgraded to a hotel to take care of the new match day traffic that the new stadium would attract.

But I then heard a voice inside my head, of my mate Chris, a staunch Evertonian.

“Chris lad, all our support comes from Merseyside, The Wirral, the new towns, out to the North Wales coast, we don’t have any day trippers, la.”

I continued on. I have driven around the city centre – or at least the area by the Albert Dock – on many occasions but the scale of the Liver Building knocked me for six. What a building. It’s magnificent. But I drove past it – I spotted a massive bar called “Jurgen’s” – and headed up the hill inland. For many years, ten or more, I have wanted to visit the two cathedrals in the city. This was as perfect a day as any to get this accomplished.

I parked outside the massive Anglican Cathedral on St. James Mount. The sandstone used immediately reminded me of the stone used on the tunnels approaching Lime Street – and the “Cockneys Die” graffiti – and of Edge Hill Station on that first-ever visit to the city for football in May 1985. The building is huge. It is the longest cathedral in the world. I popped inside as a service was taking place. The visitors – there were many – walked around in hushed tones. A few photographs were inevitably taken.

I then headed north and then west and aimed for the second of the city’s great cathedrals, or the fourth if the cathedrals at either end of Stanley Park are included, the Metropolitan Cathedral. This Roman Catholic cathedral – made of concrete in the ‘sixties – sits at Mount Pleasant.

Hope Street links the two religious buildings. It looked a very lively place with theatres and eateries. I dived into the granddaddy of all Liverpool’s pubs, The Philharmonic, famous the world over for the elaborate porcelain fittings in the gents. More photographs followed both inside and out of the funkier of the two cathedrals – nicknamed “The Mersey Funnel” and “Paddy’s Wigwam” – and I was lost in my own world for a few moments.

The art deco Philharmonic Hall looked a magnificent site. The TV tower in the city centre was spotted between a canopy of green leaves. There were blue skies overhead. The Liver Birds could be seen peaking over some terraced rooftops. A few hen parties were making Hope Street their own. Maybe on another visit to the city, I will investigate further.

But it was time to move on. I dabbed a CD on as I pulled out of the car park – China Crisis’ Gary Daly’s solo album “Luna Landings”- a 2020 issue of some synth tracks recorded in the ‘eighties – and it was just perfect.

My route took me past some old, and grand, Georgian houses no doubt once owned by the cream of Liverpool’s entrepreneurs, businessmen and traders when a full forty percent of global trade came through the port of Liverpool. But it then took me past Edge Hill, and onto Tue Brook – past the drinking dens of “The Flat Iron” and “The Cabbage Hall” of match days at Anfield in previous years – and everything was a lot more down-at-heal, the Liverpool of hackneyed legend.

At around 3pm I was parked up in Stanley Park. Up to my left, the extension of the Annie Road Stand at Anfield was in full flow. It will bring the capacity up to 61,000. The new Everton one will be just under 53,000.

Ouch, la.

I popped into “The Thomas Frost” – my least favourite football pub – and located the lads, who had been joined by Deano and Dave, plus a cast of what appeared to be thousands. A friend, Kim, had not been able to attend due to COVID so her ticket was passed on to another pal, Sophie. The chaps had witnessed the Fulham and Liverpool 2-2 draw, and PD was shocked at the hatred that the watching Evertonians showed their local rivals.

Heysel robbed Evertonians of a tilt at European glory and it is not forgotten by many.

A song for Marc Cucarella was aired by the younger element. It would become the song of the day.

I excused myself and squeezed out of the boozer.

This particular corner of Liverpool, along the Walton Road, is a classic pre-match location for Everton home games. “The Thomas Frost”, “The Clock”, “The Party Pad” and “St. Hilda’s” are close, and drinkers from both clubs were inside and outside all of them. At just gone 4pm, my friends – and brothers – Tommie (Chelsea) and Chris (Everton) approached “St. Hilda’s” and it was glorious to see them again.

Here was the reason why we go to football.

Lads enjoying a laugh, a catch-up, a bevvy.

I was welcomed by the Evertonians that I met outside the pub. I loved it.

This is football.

Chris was in the middle of a punk festival – “Rebellion” – up the road in Blackpool and so was now mixing up his twin passions. The brothers are off to watch Stiff Little Fingers together in Dublin over the next few weeks. That 1982 vibe again. Both of the brothers helped me plan my Buenos Aires adventure a few years back and we all love our travel / football addiction.

We briefly mentioned previous encounters. This was the first time that we had begun a league season at Everton in my living memory, though there had been opening games at Stamford Bridge in 1995 – Ruud Gullit’s league debut, a 0-0 draw – and also way back in 1978. The earlier game – a 0-1 home loss – was memorable for two of my pre-match friends in 2022. It was Glenn’s first ever Chelsea game and he still rues a miss by Ray Wilkins. It was also Chris’ first visit to Stamford Bridge with Everton. I spoke about it with him. It has gone down in Chelsea folklore as being the “High Street Kensington” game, when Chelsea ambushed Everton’s mob at that particular tube station. This inspired the infamous “Ordinary To Chelsea” graffiti outside Lime Street, aimed at uniting both sets of fans to travel together to Stamford Bridge for the Liverpool league fixture later in the season. The graffiti is so iconic that sweatshirts are being produced featuring the image almost fifty years later.

Time was again moving on.

Chris and I sauntered off to opposite ends of the Bullens Road.

I left him with a parting shot.

“Up The Fucking Toffees.”

He smiled.

“Up The Fucking Toffees.”

The kick-off was at 5.30pm and I was inside at around 4.45pm or so.

At last, I had a seat that wasn’t tucked way past the goal-line. In fact, it was right on the goal-line. Compared to previous visits my seat 38 felt as if I was watching from the royal box. John from Paddington now sits with Alan, Gary, Parky and little old me at away games now; the Fantastic Five. I looked over at the Park End; Everton had handed out tons of royal blue flags for their fans to wave. I heard Chris’ voice once again.

“Typical Kopite behaviour.”

I hoped that the ground would be full of shiny unhappy people by the end of the game.

John asked me for my prediction.

I thought for a few seconds and went safe : “0-0.”

It was time to reacquaint myself with more than a few friends as the kick-off time approached. I had recently seen Julie and Tim at the SLF gig in Frome. And I had shared a fine evening with Kev in Aberdare at the recent China Crisis gig.

“From Abu Dhabi to Aberdare” anyone?

Kev, in fact, was wearing a China Crisis T-shirt. I had joked on the night that I would wear my exact same copy to the game too, but I had forgotten all about that. Probably just as well, eh Kev?

We could work out the starting line-up from the drills taking place in front of us. The confirmation came on the twin TV screens at opposite ends of the ground.

Mendy

Dave – Silva – Koulibaly

James – Jorginho – Kante – Chilwell

Mount – Havertz – Sterling

In light of our former chairman’s departure, I am surprised that nobody else but me did the “$ out, £ in” joke over the summer.

The PA ramped up the volume with a few Everton favourites, and then the stirring “Z Cars” rung out around Goodison.

It was unchanged as it has been from around 1994.

The rather mundane and bland single-tier of the Park Lane to my left. The still huge main stand, double-decked, sloping away in the top left corner. St’ Luke’s Church peeping over the TV screen in the opposite corner and then the continuous structure of the Gwladys Street bleeding into the Bullens Road, the Leitch cross-struts on show for decades but not for much longer.

A couple of large banners were paraded in the Gwladys Street.

To the left, an image of The Beatles with an Everton scarf wrapped around them all. Were they really all Evertonians? Well, they weren’t day trippers, that’s for sure.

I hoped that their team would be The Beaten.

To the right, there was an image of our Frank on a banner. Gulp.

The teams lined-up.

A shrill noise.

Football was back.

Alas we were back in the odd away kit. From a long way away, it looks reasonable, but up close I can’t say I am too fond of the stencilled lion nonsense on the light blue / turquoise hoops. This overly fussy design, which is mirrored in the collar of the home kit, resembles a great aunt’s frock design from 1971 far too much for my liking.

Me, bored rigid on a family outing, stifling yawns :“Yes, I’d love another piece of fruit cake please auntie”…but thinking “your dress looks ridiculous.”

To be honest, in the pre-release glimpses, the colour looked more jade green than blue. Eck from Glasgow, sat to my left, must have been having kittens.

Both teams were wearing white shorts. I think that ruling has changed only recently.

The game began. I was immediately warned by a sweaty steward to not use my camera. In the ensuing moments, Eck leant forward and shielded my illicit pursuits. It worked a treat.

As the game started to develop, the away crowd got behind the team, but with the lower tier of the Bullens outdoing the top tier. I must admit I didn’t sing too much during the whole game; I am getting old, eh? Soon into the game, I experienced chant envy as I couldn’t make out the Koulibaly song being sung with gusto in the lower deck.

Goodison has been an awful venue for us of late. Our record was of four consecutive losses.

But we began as we often began with the majority of possession.

The first real incident involved Kai Havertz who picked up a wayward clearance from Jordan Pickford after a poor back pass from Ben Godfrey. Rather than pass inside, he lashed the ball against the side netting. Attempting to tackle, Godfrey injured himself and there was a delay of many minutes before he was stretchered off.

There was a swipe from Mason Mount that Jordan Pickford managed to claw away. At the other end, a deep cross from Vitaly Mykolenko was headed goal wards by James Tarkowski but Edouard Mendy did ever so well to tip it over.

Everton occasionally threatened, but our defence – the veteran Dave especially – were able to quell their advances. N’Golo Kante, right after a Chelsea attack, was able to block an Everton shot back in his own penalty area. He had no right to be there. The man was starting the season as our strongest player.

Next up, Thiago Silva – the calm and cool maestro – cut out an Everton break down our right, and this drew rapturous applause.

A shot from Kante was fumbled by Pickford but although Raheem Sterling pounced to score – a dream start? – he was ruled offside. It looked offside to me, way down on the other goal line. Who needs cameras?

To be truthful, despite corner after corner (or rather shite corner after shite corner) that resulted in a few wayward headers, it wasn’t much of a half. The home fans were quiet, and the away section in the upper tier were getting quieter with each passing minute.

But corner after corner were smacked into the Everton box.

“More corners than a Muller warehouse.”

I noticed that the movement off the ball was so poor.

I chatted to Eck : “Without a target man, our forwards need to be constantly moving, swapping over, pulling defenders away, allowing balls into space.”

There was sadly none of it. I couldn’t remember two white-shirted players crossing over the entire half.

I had visions of a repeat of the dull 0-0 at Stoke City that began the 2011/12 campaign.

In injury time, Abdoulaye Doucoure manhandled Ben Chilwell on a foray into the box. It looked a clear penalty to me.

Jorginho.

1-0

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds, like.”

It was the last kick of the half. Phew.

As the second-half began, the sun was still beating down on us in the upper tier. I was getting my longest exposure to the sun of the entire summer. But the game didn’t really step up. The noise continued to fall away. If anything, Everton threatened much more than us in the second-half.

A shot from Demarai Gray – after a mess up between Silva and Mendy – was thankfully blocked by our man from Senegal.

Celery was tossed around in the away section and some local stewards looked bemused.

Some substitutions.

Christian Pulisic for a very quiet Mount.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Chilwell.

Reece swapped wings and Ruben played wide right.

It was pretty grim and pretty tepid stuff this. A tough watch.The practised attacking patterns needed more work. It just wasn’t gelling at all. And during that second-half we allowed Everton a little too much space in key areas. It is early days though. But I have to say it as I saw it.

I could lose myself in this honesty.

More substitutions from Thomas Tuchel.

Armando Broja for a weak Havertz.

Marc Cucarella for Koulibaly.

I wasn’t too happy about us singing Frank’s name during the game.

It took bloody ages for us to get an effort, any effort, on goal. It came on eighty-one minutes, a James free-kick, tipped over. Then, just after a pass from Cucarella to Sterling and a shot deflected for a corner.

To be fair, Pulisic looked keen when he came on and added a new dimension to our play. Cucarella looked mustard too. He looked neat, and picked out a few lovely passes, zipped with pace.

“He’s from Marbella, he eats Bonjela” wasn’t it?

And it was a joy to see Broja on the pitch, charging into space, taking defenders with him, a focal point. I hope he is given a full crack of the whip this season.

In the eighth minute of extra time, Conor Gallagher made his debut and I caught his first touch, at a free-kick, on camera. I see great things for him.

It ended 1-0.

Outside, I bumped into Sophie, with Andy her father, and remembered that she was soon off to Milan, with a side-visit to Como after talking to me in the pub at the end of last season.

“Did you know Dennis Wise is the CEO at Como?”

It made Sophie’s day. Dennis is her favourite ever Chelsea player.

We walked back to the waiting car and shared a few thoughts about the game. It was no classic, but we were all relieved with the win. Tottenham, our next opponents, won 4-1 at home to Southampton and I admitted to PD :

“I’m dreading it.”

“I am too.”

Out

I made good time on the way south, only for us to become entrenched in a lively conversation about all of the players’ performances just as I should have veered off the M6 and onto the M5.

“Isn’t that the Alexander Stadium? Bollocks, I have missed the turning.”

A diversion through the second city was a pain, but I was eventually back on track. As the three passengers fell asleep, I returned to the ‘eighties and Gary Daly.

And I wondered what I should call this latest blog.

Some people think it’s fun to entertain.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Tag Archives: Marc Cucarella

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