Tales From The Addicks And The Addicts

Posted on January 13, 2026 by Chris Axon

Charlton Athletic vs. Charlton : 10 January 2026.

The two domestic cup competitions continued to serve us well in season 2025/26. After a decent Autumnal tour of England and Wales – Lincoln, Wolverhampton and Cardiff – in the League Cup, the FA Cup first gave us an away day at Charlton Athletic, a ground that I had not visited since the opening day of 2002/3, and which the club had not visited since early in 2007.

A visit to The Valley was long overdue.

The kick-off time of 8pm would normally have resulted in much wailing – more of that later – but on this occasion, the timings worked out in our favour. I spotted a good deal at the Premier Inn opposite “The Eight Bells” and booked four of us – Glenn, PD, Parky and little old me – in for the Saturday night.

It took me a while to devote some time to planning a pre-match pub-crawl but on the Friday night (just before I set about writing the Fulham match report), I decided that we would hit a few pubs that were centered on The Strand. It is an area that we have covered before, but most of the hostelries would be new.

I left home at 8.45am and soon collected the three chaps. There was a filling breakfast at “McDonald’s” in Melksham, and I soon found myself driving down the Fulham Palace Road only two-and-a-half days after driving up it after the limp 1-2 defeat at Craven Cottage on the Wednesday. We booked in at the hotel, prised Salisbury Steve away from “The Eight Bells”, which was slowly being filled by Middlesbrough fans prior to their cup tie at Fulham, and headed off to Embankment.

By about 1pm, we were drinking outside the first of the pubs of the day, the “Sherlock Holmes”, and the oddest part of that short visit was being approached by a bloke from the Florida Keys – on his first day in London, in England, in Europe – who told us “he just likes hearing you guys talk.” He seemed harmless enough but looked completely confused when I started unravelling the story of the FA Cup for him and soon tried to divert the conversation back to his domain, the world of College Football. His wife soon dragged him back inside the pub, perhaps afraid he would catch a cold, or worse, gain a sudden passion for “soccer.”

We then walked the twenty yards to “The Ship & Shovel” which we visited a few years back before a trip to see us lose to Tottenham in their second season at Wembley. It’s a unique pub, with two rooms either side of a narrow walkway.

From there, another short walk to Villiers Street and a pint at “The Princess Of Wales” where we soon learned that Macclesfield Town from the sixth level of the English pyramid had defeated Crystal Palace, the current FA Cup holders. Here was a beautiful illustration of how the FA Cup, certainly in the early rounds, still captures the imagination of the romantics among us. By the time of the latter rounds, all the magic is sadly squeezed out of the oldest football competition in the world.

I remember dropping in to this pub en route to The Valley in November 2000, when we lost 0-2 on my first-ever visit, and Claudio Ranieri came under torrents of abuse from many among the Chelsea support. He was just finding out about his new charges and was prone to playing odd systems as he struggled to find a winning team. I seem to remember he played Dennis Wise as a right wing-back in that game, and we were collectively awful.

We then hopped over the street to visit “All Bar One”, the most modern of the pubs that were on the list, and probably the least enjoyable.

Next up, a minute walk to “Theodore Bullfrog” and I was so pleased to be able to tell the lads that Frome Town were winning 3-1 at promotion rivals Winchester City. I highlighted this game as the most difficult that we would face all season. The beer in this pub tasted all the sweeter.

By this time, a few folks had spotted our travels on “Facebook” and had suggested a couple of pubs that were not originally on my list.

Pub number six was “The Harp”, possibly my favourite of the new pubs, a cosy – but packed – boozer that oozed charm. It was now 4.30pm, Frome were still 3-1 up, and the beers continued to flow.

Next up, another unplanned pub, “The Marquis”, which was virtually next-door to the previous gaff, and another packed and cosy boozer, with lots of musical references around the bar; posters, props, artifacts, etc.

I asked a woman to take our photo of us in the bar.

I checked the photograph; it was a cracker and told her “You have the job. Welcome to MI5. We will see you on Monday.”

The last pub, number eight, was “The Nell Gwynne” and we had been joined by Small Bobby. He had played a game of football at 2pm and was keen to join us before heading over to the Chelsea match. We reached here at about 5.15pm and decided to make this the last call of the evening. It had been single drinks in all the others, but we stayed for three in this one, eleven all told, but I mixed some pints with some bottles to remain as lucid as possible. Stop laughing at the back. We found ourselves next to three women “of a certain age” who were – unfortunately for them, and us – Tottenham fans, but it didn’t spoil the evening.

In total, the eight pubs were covered in just twelve minutes of walking time. The first five were south of The Strand, the final three were north of The Strand.

It had been a blast.

We left there at about 6.30pm, and we all decided that catching an Uber was probably the best bet as it saved scurrying around the steps and escalators of various underground and mainline stations en route to The Valley.

While in the uber as it set off towards the Tower of London, past Canary Wharf and Poplar, then under The Thames, I spotted a quote on “Facebook” by ex-Leeds United manager Marcelo Bielsa that hit a chord.

I am not one for sharing too much that isn’t my own stuff on “Facebook” but I did so on this occasion.

Here it is :

“I am certain that football is in a process of decline. More and more people are watching the sport, but it is becoming less and less attractive. There are fewer and fewer footballers worth watching, and the game is less and less enjoyable.”

This mirrors my thoughts, and many that can compare the far less regulated styles of football in the past to the robotic “keep ball” of today, and it elicited a decent number of responses.

The conclusion?

It’s a drug, this football lark, and I commented that I am too old and too stupid to give it up.

My name is Chris, and I am a Chelsea addict.

Like many who were assembling at The Valley, no doubt.

The Uber ride took exactly an hour, and we were dropped off a few hundred yards away from the entrance to The Valley on Floyd Road. As I have only visited it twice before, and the last time was almost a quarter of a century ago, the approach wasn’t too familiar. As we reached the bottom of the incline, I found myself walking right in the middle of a mob of baying Charlton fans, and then within seconds an equally boisterous mob of Chelsea. There was a bit of a ruckus, but not much to get excited about.

With the stadium in view now, I quickly snapped a couple of photos of a chap grafting away and selling the hated “friendship scarves.”

“Half-Man, Half-Trinket, the face of shame.”

It was reassuring to see many old school faces queuing up to get inside. I guessed that absence made our cumulative hearts grow fonder and this was why we flocked to The Valley once more.

I was inside at 7.45pm and quickly found my seat…er position. Halfway through the first half, I realised that Glenn was two rows in front of me. 3,300 Chelsea were in the Jimmy Seed Stand and we were just a few feet apart. What were the chances?

The evening was already getting colder, and I was beginning to regret not wearing a warmer coat. But it’s always a balancing act when we dive in and out of pubs. I weighed up the options and plumped for being comfortable in a pub for six hours and cold at the football for two hours rather than too warm for six and toasty for two.

There was the usual modern-day nonsense of lights being dipped, flumes of smoke, and the home fans added to this silliness by going all “Spursy” by holding their phone torches above their heads, the loons.

Liam Rosenior was in charge for his first game, and we had touched upon our thoughts of him in the first pub or two. He seems an articulate so-and-so, and confident, and of course we wish him well.

His first Chelsea team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho

Guiu

The game began and it seemed unreal that I was back at The Valley after a gap of over twenty-three years. In 2002, we won 3-2 on a hot and sultry August afternoon with a late goal from Frank Lampard but the weather was so different on this occasion. We attacked what used to be called “The Covered End” and a cross from Jamie Gittens on the right was soon claimed by the Charlton ‘keeper Will Mannion.

It seemed very much like we were playing the same way as before in the opening few minutes; I guess it’s difficult to change to a new style immediately.

There was a medical emergency in the first few rows of the Main Stand, and this held the game up. We really did not need any further hold-ups. God knows what time we would leave the stadium if this tie went to extra-time and penalties. A good guess would be 11pm and God forbid that.

There was a lovely Facundo Buonanotte lofted chip for James Gittens but his header was easily saved. We enjoyed a flurry of corners without testing their ‘keeper and then on eighteen minutes, Andrey Santos did not connect well with a shot, and it spun wide.

Halfway through the half, I could not help but chastise the players for absolutely no movement off the ball.

“You’d think the buggers would want to run around a bit in this cold weather, eh?”

I spotted that the bloke behind me had been behind me at Fulham too and I said to him “you would not invite a friend to watch this dull shite.”

A thunderous strike from Acheampong was well saved by their ‘keeper.

On the half-hour mark, a ridiculously high shot screamed over the bar, and this led to the first-ever time – I am sure – that the infamous “FCUKING USELESS” chant was directed at our own team and not after a shocking piece of play by the opposition.

Yes, we had sunk this low, and it brought back memories of when Ranieri was given a terrible verbal onslaught at The Valley way back in 2000.

The build-up continued to take forever, such is the way of football in the second quarter of the twenty-first century. This slow and meticulous “pass, pass, pass” style of play has blighted the game for years now, and it makes many – including Marcelo Bielsa no doubt – question the sanity of it all.

It feels to me that this is a mode of football that has been spawned by AI. It’s as if every game of football ever played has been processed through a series of huge computers the size of the Maracana and the boffins have observed that the most effective way to play is to relentlessly pass the ball across the pitch until the defending team momentarily loses concentration, or the will to live, until the ball is pushed home from eight yards.

No thrills, no imagination, no skills, no entertaining dribbles, no one-on-ones, no crunching tackles, no variation. Just a grim grinding of gears as players go through set patterns of play that have been practised on training pitches for hours on end.

I don’t know what Cloughie would make of it all.

Football is now like a car journey, planned meticulously by Sat Nav where the only concern is fuel economy and not the scenery. It’s like travelling from Bristol to Birmingham and keeping to the greyness and monotony of the M5 motorway and avoiding the beautiful Cotswolds, the picturesque villages and market towns, the sweeping views of the Severn Vale and the patchwork of fields with stone walls and hedgerows.

On thirty-three minutes we played the ball back to Jorgensen and the Chelsea faithful clapped sarcastically.

Then, a loud burst from us.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! – ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

I pleaded for someone to drop a shoulder. For somebody to do something.

On forty-four minutes, a Garnacho shot was blocked.

The play was so poor. I wanted the players to be less conservative, to take a chance.

In the fourth minute of injury time, a cross from our left was aimed at Marc Guiu who headed the ball back to where Jorrel Hato was stood. The ball bounced once and the left-back smacked it cleanly into the roof of the net.

Get in, thank the Lord.

We were ahead, just.

Half-time was reached.

A friend texted me to say that we had enjoyed – if that is the correct word – seventy-eight percent possession in that first-half.

Five minutes into the second half, down below me, Bounanotte lashed a great free-kick towards the near post and Tosin speared the ball in via a fine glancing header.

Not long after, a confident run from Alejandro Garnacho was followed by a cheeky curler that just went wide of the far post.

On fifty-five minutes, Charlton enjoyed their best chance thus far and the ball went off for a corner. From the resulting kick, Jorgensen did ever so well to pat away a header, but the rebound was crashed home by Miles Leaburn, who is the son of former Charlton striker Carl Leaburn.

Another name from that haunted 1987/88 season. After Leroy Rosenior scored against us at West Ham – as mentioned in my last report – we played Charlton at home and Carl Leaburn was in their team who equalised in the ninetieth minute, forcing us into the play-offs.

Red and white smoke bombs rained down from a corner of the home end. I spotted a Charlton flag in that corner that featured their “Addicks” nickname, one of the oddest in our professional game. The story behind it is very fishy.

On sixty-two minutes, Garnacho dribbled in and set up Buonanotte. His shot was weakly parried and Guiu slotted home. I captured his celebrations with my pub camera.

On sixty-six minutes, Estevao replaced Gittens and the away choir sang his Samba song.

Bloody hell it was cold.

On sixty-nine minutes, more changes.

Liam Delap for Guiu.

Enzo Fernandez for Buonanotte.

Five minutes later we kept warm by sing a loud “One man went to mow” and Estevao cut in but his shot was finger-tipped over.

Estevao added a little pizazz to the game and set up Enzo and Delap before again threatening Mannion with another shot.

Then the fog hit us, and the place became greyer and greyer.

And colder and colder.

Fackinell.

On eighty-five minutes, more changes.

Wesley Fofana for Hato.

Pedro Neto for Garnacho.

A shot from Enzo, high and wide. Then in the first minute of injury time, the Argentinian World cup winner sped forward and passed to Neto. He lost his marker and then drilled a low shot in at the near post.

Three minutes later, Mannion fell at the feet of Estevao after another lively incursion, and the referee pointed at the spot.

Enzo smashed it home. It was the last kick of the game.

Charlton Athletic 1 Chelsea 5.

The players came over to thank us for our support on this cold and foggy night.

We soon serenaded the new manager.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

Job done, can we go home now?

Actually, no we couldn’t. For some reason that was never fully explained, the police kept us penned in on the crowded road that connected the exit of the away end to Floyd Road for around forty minutes, with all of us getting colder and colder by the minute. We were towards the back, so just stepped away from the mob, but tempers were rising as the sirens wailed, the lights flashed and the night drew on.

Eventually we slowly walked to the top of Floyd Road, sadly managed to avoid finding the Uber driver I had booked – and he managed to avoid us too – and so we eventually caught a train back to London Bridge at around 11pm or so.

We gobbled down some bloody awful “McDonalds” burgers under the station’s arches and then took a beautifully warm Uber at midnight that took us through South London, over the Thames at Lambeth, then close to the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament and eventually down the Kings Road to Fulham. We reached our base at 12.30am.

Sleep!

Next up, a League Cup semi-final at home to Arsenal.

Bernie Slaven’s son doesn’t play for them, does he?

Let’s All Go Down The Strand

Up For The Cup

Tales From The Long Haul

Posted on October 26, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Ajax : 22 October 2025.

Our second home game of the Champions League campaign was to be against the famous Ajax of Amsterdam, but this match report does not begin in either London or Amsterdam, but in Miami.

A month or so ago, UEFA “reluctantly” – their words, not mine – allowed the first-ever games to take place outside national European boundaries.

There was to be a game between Barcelona and Villareal in Miami, Florida and a game between Milan and Como in Perth, Western Australia.

Thankfully, on the morning of our game, it was announced by La Liga that their game would not be happening, and I – and hopefully most football supporters – was extremely happy. It felt like a glorious rebuff to the shady money-makers that lurk in and around football’s commercial landscape these days.

One down, one to go.

The Italian game might be a harder nut to crack, but let’s hope Serie A refuse to allow it too. The San Siro is being used for the opening ceremony of 2026 Winter Olympics, and I believe that the Milan directors are using this as an excuse to find an alternative venue for their home game with Como two days later. But surely, a venue swap should take place here? Milan are due to play Como at San Siro on 8 February 2026, while Como are at home to Milan on 21 December. Just swap the venues on those dates. Easy.

As an aside, Milan and Como are just fifty miles apart. How mad to expect their fans to travel to Australia.

This important parcel of football news dominated my early morning thoughts as I endeavoured to get some work done during another 6am to 2pm shift that would allow me to get up to London in good time.

However, I was rather tired, and it was all my own doing. The previous evening, I had decided to traipse over to Portishead to watch my local non-league team Frome Town tackle one of the early pace-setters Portishead Town. Rather than rest up and go to bed early on the Tuesday ahead of a very long day – 5am to 1am – I was lured to the game by the thought of Frome winning and us going top of the league for the first time this season.

The game itself wasn’t much to shout about; it was a niggly, physical battle played out on a 3G pitch at a very anaemic venue. Frome withstood some early pressure, but defended resolutely, and created a few chances, and settled for a deserved 0-0 draw. There were some road works on the return journey home, and I didn’t get in until just before 11pm.

I got through my work and collected Pinky and Perky at just after 2pm. I made good time en route to London.

I explained to the lads that I just wasn’t feeling much in the way of excitement for the evening’s game, and PD admitted the same feelings. With eight games in this phase, their just doesn’t seem to be the same degree of tension, drama and excitement in each individual match.

This new process features thirty-two teams. Eight make their way automatically to the first knock-out round in the New Year, while sixteen get a chance to qualify via an extra knock-out round. It honestly seems like it will take forever to unfold and be resolved.

When we won in 2012 and 2021, we played six group games, six knock-out games and the final, a total of thirteen games.

This season, should we win again, we could play up to seventeen games.

More games, more games, more games; it’s the UEFA way.

After my usual dip into “Koka” for some food – a few Dutch lads were eating outside – I joined everyone at “The Eight Bells”

Jimmy had lost his father, Stavros, a few weeks ago, and I toasted his memory.

We also toasted the memory of Matthew Harding, our former director, who perished on this night in 1996.

I have told my story about Matthew Harding before; meeting him in the Gunter Arms before our game with Viktoria Zizkov and then giving him the thumbs up from the East Lower, but Jimmy had a nice story too.

He had travelled up for our FA Cup game at Ayresome Park in January 1993, but only heard late on, when they were on Teesside, that the game had been postponed. They darted inside a local pub for a drink, and Matthew was in the pub too, and bought the Chelsea fans present a drink.

I have always said that Matthew would have loved these European nights, bless him.

RIP Stavros

RIP Matthew

Stamford Bridge was under a deluge of rain as we reached our allotted seats.

The news of the team had trickled through, and it was a mix of experience and youth, and one that surprised me a little. Only Romeo Lavia remained from the first half at Forest.

Jorgensen

Caicedo – Fofana – Tosin – Hato

Lavia – Enzo

Estevao – Buonanotte – Gittens

Guiu

Of course, there had been some recollections of our last meeting with Ajax; the pulsating 4-4 draw in 2019 and our recovery from 1-4 down, plus the agony of the disallowed goal from Dave very late on. There were no Ajax fans allowed at that game, so this would be their supporters’ first view of Stamford Bridge. In that game, I was so pleased to see Ajax in their world famous white and red kit. This time, we were not so lucky. They appeared in an insipid off-white number that was probably named after a frothy coffee variant that didn’t exist thirty years ago.

There was a timely mention of Matthew Harding before kick-off and the large flag bearing his image was floated over the heads of the spectators below us in the MHL.

The game began with us attacking The Shed, and very soon a respectful “One Matthew Harding” rang out from the stand that bears his name.

I must admit that it took me a few moments to realise that Caicedo was indeed an inverted right-back, and it looked a very fluid formation, with Buonanotte and Enzo playing well ahead of the other two in midfield.

Ajax had a little of the ball to begin with, but we soon started to dominate the play.

But we all waited for the first effort on goal from either team.

Ten minutes, eleven minutes, twelve minutes, thirteen minutes…it seemed that the lack of urgency in getting this first phase completed – the last of the knock-out games isn’t until 25 February – had transmitted to the players on the pitch.

“In your own time, lads.”

On the quarter of an hour, the game changed.

A lunging studs-up tackle by Kenneth Taylor on Facundo Buonanotte resulted a very quick VAR review, and then a red card.

Facunell.

Ajax were down to ten men.

Just after, a cross from the right from Buonanotte was ably headed back across the six-yard box by Wesley Fofana for Marc Guiu to stab home.

I turned to the bloke next to me – Alan from Wandsworth – and said “he needed that goal, great.”

In the immediate aftermath of the goal, I experienced the ache of having to endure “Chelsea Dagger” and I turned to the people behind me in the MHU and looked on in disgust.

Their actions were, indeed, a dagger to my heart.

(As an aside, I found no solace in the fact that the link that I posted to the “Stop This Shite” petition in one of my most recent match reports garnered just five clicks…)

However, my spirits were immediately lifted by two lovely text messages :

Alan, Sarf London : “THTCAUN.”

Josh, North America : “THTCAUN.”

I replied “COMLD.”

Game on, let’s go to work.

The first reaction from the home support was aimed at the Ajax manager John Heitinga, in lieu of our fine work on the banks of the River Trent a few days previously.

“Sacked in the morning. You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

Shots from Jamie Gittens and Caicedo were aimed at the Shed End goal.

On twenty-seven minutes, with Caicedo again within distance, the crowd yelled “SHOOOOOOT” and shooooot he did.

I was right in line with his effort but didn’t see the deflection that took the ball away from Remko Pasveer in the Ajax goal.

The net rippled, 2-0 to Chelsea, and a nice run down to Parkyville by the scorer.

I hoped for more goals.

Alas, on thirty-three minutes, during a rare Ajax attack, Tosin Adarabioyo tangled with Raul Moro, and the referee signalled a penalty.

Ex-Burnley and Manchester United loanee Wout Weghorst was rather lucky as his shot went under the full-length dive from Jorgensen.

The penalty was their first effort on goal.

The Matthew Harding serenaded the scorer with “you’re just a shit Andy Carrol” and this chant was often repeated during the game; in the second-half, Weghorst was defending a corner, and he gave a smile and a thumbs-up, a nice reaction.

On thirty-six minutes, a fantastic cross from Gittens on the left set up Enzo but he was unable to get a good-enough touch.

On forty-five minutes, Gittens to Enzo again, but our Argentinian was scythed down by Weghorst. His lunge was accompanied by a large splash of rain that could be seen from one-hundred yards away, though not quite as prominent as in the Tom Finney photo from 1956.

Enzo stroked the ball confidently in.

In the sixth minute of injury time, Estevao was tackled twice on the edge of the box, and at least one of these resulted in a penalty. If it was the second tackle, it looked outside the box.

Whatever.

Enzo gave the ball to Estevao, who confidently lifted the ball into the left-hand top corner.

Blimey, 4-1 at half-time, and three penalties.

By this time, I had been chatting to Alan alongside me, and we shared a few Chelsea stories. I told him about this blog, and he mentioned a podcast that he is involved in. I spoke a little about Frome Town and Alan said how he loves the non-league scene too. He referred to a good friend, Adam, who follows Derby County and Mickleover Sports. Well, what a small world. I know a lad from Frome who lives in Derby, follows Derby County and watches Mickleover Sports too. It turned out that my mate, Mark, who visited us in the Eight Bells last season when Derby’s FA Cup game at Leyton Orient was called off, knew of Alan’s friend Adam. They live very close to each oter, a few miles apart maybe.

Here was proof that football, yet again, is a very small world.

At the start of the second half, Enzo Maresca made three changes.

Trevoh Chalobah for Tosin.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Tyrique George for Guiu.

With the game surely won in the first half, the second period took on the feel of a friendly, or at least a training match, with Ajax encamped in their half for virtually its entirety.

After only three minutes, Lavia played in Andrey Santos but the ball held up for Tyrique George to score, again via a deflected shot. Alas, I didn’t catch his long slide into our corner, but I did capture the aftermath.

5-1 to Chelsea now, and game over.

The rest of the half involved us warming to the talents of Estevao and sitting back to hope for extra goals.

Estevao did not disappoint. He displayed some great control in tight areas, and almost netted with a goal from an audacious bicycle-kick and another from a powerful drive that was touched over by the Ajax ‘keeper.

Jamie Gittens endeavoured to screw a shot past Pasveer from down below us, but all his continued efforts never paid off.

Reggie Walsh, barely seventeen, came on for Lavia on sixty-five minutes.

Despite the ease at which we took Ajax apart, the noisiest chant of the night, “Carefree”, on eighty minutes, came as a shock and a surprise, out of the blue even.

Stamford Bridge had been quiet on this European night, a shame.

The Ajax fans had made some noise all night long and increased the volume and intensity as the game neared its conclusion. I had no idea what they were singing about though; no doubt that much of it was about the hated Feyenoord.

The game came to its conclusion. There had been plenty of goals in this week of Champions League football and it was nice to be able to join in.

PSG 7

Barcelona 6

PSV 6

Chelsea 5

Liverpool 5

Arsenal 4

Bayern 4

Borussia Dortmund 4

Inter 4

Maybe here is a clue why some supporters don’t mind this elongated phase before we reach the more dramatic style of UEFA football that I grew up with. Is there a tendency for teams to be able to relax, now, knowing that each game is not quite so important? Who knows? Answers on a postcard.

I was absolutely drenched on the walk back to the car but thankfully didn’t feel too tired – a miracle – and eventually made it home at exactly at 1am.

Everyone on social media was seemingly upbeat about the evening’s game with a lot of the focus on the youth in our team, not least the three young scorers.

Whether we are good enough to secure an automatic place into the fabled round of sixteen in March, yes March, remains to be seen.

Onwards!

Podcast : https://www.youtube.com/@talkfootballpodcast

Tales From A Small Family

Posted on December 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Astana vs. Chelsea : 12 December 2024.

“Onwards and eastwards.”

These were my closing comments for the Tottenham Hotspur blog, as I typed away in a Heathrow hotel.

Eastwards, indeed.

I was up early on Monday 9 December, and soon wolfed down a breakfast. I made my way to nearby Stanwell, where my friend Ian – whose daughter Ella had taken my spares at Tottenham – had very kindly offered to provide a parking space for my car while I would be in Kazakhstan. Ian dropped me off at Hatton Cross, and I then double-backed on myself to Heathrow where I caught a 9.15am National Express coach to Stansted. It was worryingly cold while I waited at the bus stop at Heathrow, and I began to wonder how I would cope with the colder temperatures in Almaty. I didn’t catch much sleep during the night, so I was happy that I managed to drop off as we wound our way clockwise around the M25. It is a well-travelled journey for me; Stansted is often a departure point for European adventures.

I was soon checked-in at the gate for the first part of my mammoth journey. First up was a three-and-a-half-hour flight to Istanbul – Constantinople for you Jimmy – which was set to leave at 12.50pm. I spotted a few Chelsea faces, around ten, who were on the same flight.

Thinking of Marc Cucarella’s problems at Tottenham the night before, I told a few Chelsea lads “it’s going to be icy and snowy in Almaty – I hope you have picked the right shoes.”

I had been contented with my planning for this trip. I was out via Pegasus and back via Azerbaijain Airlines, all for £418. The apartment that I had booked in Almaty was just £95 for four nights.

The flight left a little late, at maybe 1.15pm.

I did not care; I was on my way.

There is always so much to check and double-check on these trips, but I could now relax and relax I did; I probably slept for 75% of the flight.

We were due to land at Istanbul’s Sabiha Gokcen airport – the one on the Asian side, how fitting – at 8pm local time. I was awake for the approach and was able to set my eyes on the glorious lights of Istanbul and the Bosphorus to my left. I could not make out the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia but I knew that “they were down there somewhere” and that was enough for me. I just made out the lights on the bridge that I walked across in 2014. The plane was buffeted in the wind as it approached the airport, and the landing was rather bumpy.

There was only an hour and a half to wait for the onward flight. I met a few more Chelsea who had flown in on an earlier Pegasus flight. There was probably fifteen or twenty Chelsea on the second flight which left at around 10pm.

Again, I slept for much of the five-hour flight. There was more legroom, more space, on this flight and I soon drifted off. I had the extra pleasure of a window seat so was able to use my chunky pullover as a pillow.

However, at the mid-way point, I woke and decided to flip up the window-blind. Down below me, to my right, seemingly within touching distance, was an incredible sight. A huge white city – everything was white – appeared and everything was so clear, so pristine, so bright. Was it all constructed from marble? A vision in the darkness of the night. Stunning. How I wish I had the nous to turn my phone on and take a few photos. The moment lasted only a few moments.

Was it a dream?

I slept on.

I was awake again as we approached Almaty and I spotted roads and houses sprinkled with snow as we descended. We landed ten minutes late at 5.25am.

“Hello Kazakhstan.”

There’s a phrase that I never ever expected to utter in my life.

As we made our way out into the airport, I braced myself for that first blast of cold air.

There had been a little confusion in the weeks approaching this trip regarding my baggage allowance. The messages that I received from both airlines were not clear. Rather than be stung with excess costs, I decided to go for the “least risk” approach and take a small ruck-sac. As a result, I was wearing my chunkiest pullover in addition to my warmest jacket. I looked like the Michelin Man as I walked into the relative warmth of the airport.

I exchanged some sterling for the local tenge, and while I gathered my thoughts, I supped a large cappuccino. This spruced me up and, with the morning still ridiculously early, I was not sure what to do next. While I charged my phone, I chatted to Roy and we soon agreed to split the cost of a 9,000 tenge cab down to his hotel near the stadium where I could at least grab another coffee and try to work out a plan for the day.

We were on our way.

In the build up to this trip, I had been emailing a local guy – Vijay – who I have been in contact with since 2003. Vijay owns an office furniture company in Almaty and we had been planning a meet up during my stay. He had even suggested that I could crash at his house until my apartment became ready at 2pm.

We arrived at Roy’s hotel, with the old school stadium floodlights peaking behind in the morning mist. There was a stand-off with the cab driver – who now wanted 33,000 tenge – but Roy stood firm. It was around 7am.

Cathy arrived in the hotel foyer. She was staying there too. Reports of her first hotel breakfast were not too appetising. We chatted about our plans for the up-coming FIFA World Club Cup in the US, and I have no doubt that I will bump into Cathy in Philadelphia in the summer.

I messaged Vijay to say that I had managed to grab tons of sleep on both flights and so would look around the stadium and then take a leisurely stroll towards the city centre.

At around 8.30am, I called in to a nearby McDonalds. They have been renamed and rebranded as “I’m” (as far as I could work out) after the US/Russia sanctions following the invasion in Ukraine. There was no breakfast menu, and I struggled with a burger at such an hour, but the coffee warmed me. I felt that I was a stereotypical tourist – I hate this feeling – but I definitely needed to optimise locations with Wi-Fi on this trip. An attempt to fire up “Uber” and “Yandex” did not work.

Incongruous Western Christmas songs aired on the in-house radio, how surreal. I quietly observed the facial features of the locals; a real mix, what an exciting trip this will be.

My phone charged further, I set out into the morning air. The sky was still grey.

Within ten minutes, I reached the Central Stadium, where Astana play their games while their indoor stadium is being renovated. Everyone was happy that we were not required in Astana where the temperature can drop as far as -25 at times. Here, in Almaty, the range during winter is -5 to -15.

I took a few photos of the façade of the stadium and then waltzed in. The pitch was covered with a thick tarpaulin, and a few workers were shovelling snow. I was befriended by a couple of them, and one offered me a little white sweet.

I nervously popped it into my mouth.

Fackinell.

It tasted of salt.

I would later learn that it was made from goat’s milk. While their back was turned, I spat it out onto the running track.

The stadium was a typically bleak former Eastern-bloc structure, and my eyes kept wandering over to the section to the right of the classic columns behind one goal – the Northern end – where we would all be gathered in two days’ time.

Not surprisingly, my camera – my “pub” camera for this trip, I could not risk my SLR getting turned away on Thursday – went into overdrive. I hope that you like the photos. I think I was the first away fan to visit the stadium, but a few more visited it over the next two days before the game itself.

I then began my momentous walk back to the city centre. I aimed for Ascension Cathedral as my apartment was nearby.

Soon into my walk, a few locals waved at me and seemed to strongly suggest that I put a hat on. But I wasn’t too cold, not yet anyway. I soon stumbled upon another stadium – Dinamo, in blue – and it appeared that this hosted both ice hockey and football. There was the slow hum of traffic on the city’s grid pattern streets, and I took it all in.

Almaty. What do you have for me?

More opulent than I had ever imagined, many fine buildings, happy locals – Moscow, are you reading this? – and I was mesmerized by the mix of facial types…some Slavic, some Turk, some from further East, Mongolian, Chinese, Nepalese? Even some with European features.

We are all one big mixing pot, right?

Some students outside a university building were enjoying a cigarette break, and it is some while since I have seen so much cigarette smoke in one place. Nobody was vaping.

I put the jacket hood up, but felt constrained, and didn’t fancy that feeling. I actually enjoyed the feeling of the cold air on my cheeks. It was all part of the experience. Even my scarf was loosely tied around my neck. My bobble hat was in my pocket and I hadn’t even brought a pair of gloves for this trip, the simple reason being that I didn’t own one.

I was feeling fearless, kinda.

At a second McCoffee stop – for the Wi-Fi honest…OK, and the toilets – I warmed up a little, but when I went back outside again, I wished that I had not come inside since it seemed twice as cold.

I walked on. The traffic was constant. I lost count of the times that I waited at lights to cross the busy roads.

Eventually, after a leisurely – and pleasurable – three-mile walk of two hours, I arrived at the glorious Ascension Cathedral. Out came my camera. It did not appear to be made of wood, but it is the tallest wooden Orthodox church on the entire planet. Inside – uh, oh…too warm – the richness of the religious decoration blew me away. A few locals lit candles. I said a prayer for all of us.

I had an hour to kill, so located the nearest bar – “Hoper’s” – which had just opened at 1pm. I am no fan of craft beer and wanted a simple lager. The barman Konstantin, a Russian from Almaty, suggested one from Blandford Forum in Dorset, which is – madly – the brewery where my grandfather worked before he moved to Frome.

Hall and Woodhouse, the home of Badger Beer – who would have thought that it would have got a mention on a trip to Kazakhstan? Once he heard my grandfather’s story, he grabbed my hand and shook it. There is a Hall and Woodhouse pub opposite where I work.

Anyway, alas – to Konstantin’s horror – he told me that the “Badger” lager was not available, so I made do with a disgusting Lebowsky lager from Russia. At least it only cost me £2.50.

I always say that the first few hours in a new foreign city simply cannot be beaten. I had revelled in my first taste of Almaty; a marvellous walk through alien streets, with alien faces at each and every turn, with the cold wind kissing my cheeks.

Konstantin played a Cocteau Twins song for me on the TV.

“Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops.”

I was in heaven.

At 2.30pm, I arrived at my lodgings – the smallest apartment ever, a room with a loo – just as the owner’s husband arrived to see if I was “in.”

I had arranged to meet Vijay at 7pm, so for a few hours I slept.

Every hour counts on these trips.

Vijay arrived in a cab at 7pm, but I was still struggling to get out of my one room apartment. I had to negotiate three locks, all with keypads, and I found it all rather discombobulating. I don’t know what the local word for “Fackinell” is but it is the only swear word, or version thereof, that I did not utter in a frantic ten minutes of number-punching and both clockwise and anti-clockwise twisting and turning.

Eventually, the prisoner was free.

I hugged Vijay and we disappeared a mile or so south. We ended up at “Bottle” on Furmanov Avenue where we spent a brilliantly entertaining couple of hours. Vijay told me all about his company – he formed it in 2000 – and we spoke about football and, er, furniture. He is a Manchester United supporter, ever since he read copies of “Shoot!” magazine, like we all did, in the early ‘seventies in his home city of Singapore. Unlike most Manchester United supporters that I meet, he has been to Old Trafford; not once but thrice.

We shared two bottles of red wine which complemented our horse steaks, which were accompanied by chips, spinach and asparagus.

It was simply beautiful.

He suggested that the beautiful white city that I saw from 35,000 feet was Ashgabat, the capital city of Turkemistan, and confirmed that is constructed completely of marble. I have checked the flight path from Istanbul to Almaty, though, and it doesn’t exactly correlate. It must have been Ashgabat, though. Surely there are no two cities like this.

Vijay fancied one more stop, so we visited “William Lawson’s” which was shut, but then ended up at “Mad Murphy’s” where I supped a pint of Staropramen. Vijay had to head home, but he dropped me at one last bar – “Guinness Pub” – where I spotted Punky Al and two of his mates, faces familiar, names unknown. I also spotted my friend James (who I first met in Baku, 2017) with Tom, a Manchester United fan from Frankfurt, and a Chelsea fan from Dublin, whose name escapes me.

“Barman!”

Two more pints of Krombacher lager were consumed amid frenzied talk of our football fascination. James and Tom had been in town since Friday and on Monday they took a minicab with others in a tour group to go horse riding in the mountains.

You don’t do that on an away trip to Leicester.

They kicked us out at about 2am. I walked home, down the hill, and got back into the apartment unscathed at 2.30am, but my head was spinning with what the night had given me.

I didn’t fall asleep until 4am.

I woke at around midday on that Wednesday but was tired. I honestly think that I had expelled so much nervous energy during the build up to this trip that my body was telling me to rest up.

Work, blogs to squeeze in, photos to edit and upload, booking confirmations to check and double-check, a new phone to set up, a new laptop to plumb in, boarding passes, an Azerbaijani visa, emails, coach tickets, hotel bookings, packing lists, cameras, adaptors, Tottenham away, Heathrow, Stansted, Istanbul, Almaty, Baku, ticket vouchers, passports, travel, travel, travel.

I decided to postpone some more sightseeing on Thursday and Friday and went back to sleep.

I was out at 5.45pm, freshly showered and ready, and soon popped into a shop to buy a pair of gloves for £10.

From there, I enjoyed a lovely meal of meat and bean soup, then lamb ribs with potatoes and onions. With a “Diet Coke” – it shocked me that I didn’t ask for a beer – it came to another £10.

Up the road on Dostyk Avenue – not far from the final watering hole earlier that same day – I met up with around thirty Chelsea.

It was a blast.

Callum, an Eight Bells regular, Martin, Neil, Garry, Russ, Rich, Pauline and Mick from Spain, Scott, Gerry and Paul, Ben and James, Skippy from Australia, Only A Pound, and a lovely visit from the South Gloucestershire lot, Brian and Kev, Julie and Tim, Pete, and Dave from Cheshire.

And a few more too.

The Shakespeare was Chelsea Central in Almaty. Vijay had informed me that it was owned by the same guy as the Shakespeare in Baku, our main pub in 2019. Here, it was a fiver a pint.

That Wednesday in that Almaty pub was a proper hoot. On the way home, I called in to see the South Gloucestershire lot at “Hoper’s” for one last drink before I made tracks; their hotel was nearby, it was their “local”…Dorset, Somerset, South Gloucestershire…it must be a Wessex thing.

I made it back to the apartment at just after 1am.

I slept well.

Match day arrived and I was out at 10.45am. I dropped into a café for some pastries and a coffee – and Wi-Fi – and then continued my walk up the hill – phew! – to the Kok Tobe cable car, which everyone seemed to be visiting. The view at the top was excellent although there was a dirty brown fog hovering over Almaty. As in parts of Baku, I was able to smell the oil and gas in the air. The mountains to the south were spectacular, the skies were blue, and the temperature was bearable. My gloves and hat were in my pockets, my scarf was back in the hotel. I didn’t fancy being too hot, as I would be in a few bars very shortly.

I got the call from Jonesy, who had arrived via Antalya at 7am, and I began to walk north to the ticket collection place, but first made my way to see the Memorial Of Glory, close to the cathedral, en route. It is stunning and impressive.

From there, a twenty-minute walk to the collection point.

I lost count of the times I had checked my pockets for “wallet, camera, passport” during the day.

I gave Jonesy a hug and soon collected my match ticket. The club gave us a special commemorative key-ring, to say thanks” for making the effort to travel the 3,500 miles to Almaty.

A nice touch indeed.

Jonesy and I go back decades. I know that he went to Jablonec in 1994, but I met him a few months later. I remember that I always saw his name featured in “The Chelsea Independent” and his letters always resonated with me as being honest and succinct. Memorably we went with Paul from Brighton to Barcelona in 2000 when we almost made it to our first Champions League Final.

At the time, that day seemed like our biggest day ever.

I laughed when he told me that he bought a kebab at 7am from a kiosk as soon as he got in as it was the only place open.

We walked to The Shakespeare, arriving at around 3.30pm.

Cathy and Tombsy were sat outside having a fag, a perfect “welcoming committee.”

Inside, even more Chelsea. A hug with Luke, another Eight Bells regular, and a photo with Steve who I had not seen for a while. A hello to the previously un-named Gary. A chat with Spencer from Swindon about the US. Pete and I reminisced about him buying me a beer when we were 4-1 up in Baku and he then bought me one in Almaty, cheers mate.

Some had travelled via Frankfurt and Astana, some via Bishkek, some via Dubai, many via Istanbul.

There were a few local Kazakh Chelsea, but not too many.

We sat at a table to chat with Joe – a friend of Neil – and two of his mates. A gaggle of Chelsea joined us; a lad called Des now living in Qatar, plus some lads I semi-recognised.

Jonesy and I were blissfully content.

“This is the life, Jonesy.”

“We’ve been lucky, Chris.”

“We have, mate.”

The call went out to get a cab to a bar closer to the stadium. We just knew, from many personal experiences, how easy it would be to leave it too late and to get enmeshed in horrific traffic.

We hopped into a cab – five of us – and headed for the “Paulaner Brauhaus” which was, on paper, a fifteen-minute journey. Soon into the trip, Jonesy – quite unannounced – disappeared outside for a gypsy’s kiss – “I’ll catch up with you” – but we never saw him again that night. The cab kept moving, Jonesy kept slashing, what a horror show.

After a whole bloody hour, during which time the cabbie even stopped for fuel, we made it to this other pub. The traffic was virtually grid-locked but we had made it.

Toilets!

The bar was half-empty. The beer was served by local girls in full Bavarian garb.

I ordered some beers. We were on good ground; I told the lads that we had frequented the Paulaner beer hall on 19 May 2012.

Who should be in the bar but Des & Co., who offered us some of their two meat platters.

Beautiful stuff.

God knows what it consisted of, though.

With the kick-off at 8.30pm, we were still in the bar at 7.50pm. We put a spurt on and did the mile and a half or so in around fifteen minutes. We didn’t feel the cold.

By 8.10pm, I was through security, I had taken my first photo of a local fan, and I was searching for Alan, Gary, Pete and Nick.

Relax everyone, I work in logistics.

I found the lads easily. I stood between Gary to my left and Alan to my right.

So, here I was, here we were.

Chelsea versus Astana at the Central Stadium in Almaty, Kazakhstan. The furthest that any English team had travelled for an official UEFA game? Yes. Only in Tokyo in 2012 had I travelled further for an official Chelsea game. I looked around. It wasn’t a full house. We had heard that Chelsea had sold 475 tickets. My guess is that around 200 were from the UK. There was no segregation though. There were bona fide Astana fans mixed in with us in the Chelsea bit.

It felt like I recognised a bigger proportion of the Chelsea fans from the UK than the Chelsea players dressed in all black on the pitch.

Our team? It included two full debuts. Welcome Josh and Sam. It was a first sighting of Carney since his injury at West Ham in August 2023.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga

Dewsbury-Hall – Rak-Sakyi

Pedro Neto – Chukwuemeka – George

Guiu

My Boca Juniors hat was on. My newly-acquired gloves were not yet being called into action. My Aquascutum scarf was in my room. At last, though, some of the expensive and cold-weather resistant designer clobber that many of us have horded over the last few decades of the casual movement were at last being properly tested.

My chunky green CP Company pullover was covered by my super warm off-white Moncler jacket. I was nice and toasty. There were still cold kisses on my cheeks, but all was good. The terraces were still dusted in snow, and I would later learn that the stadium manager would be sacked because of this. But my toes were not too cold…yet.

The game began.

We attacked the other end.

The stand to my left reminded me a great deal of the “distinti” at the old Communale in Turin. In fact, this stadium reminded me of the former Juventus ground so much.

Chelsea began the far livelier and attacked at will. With the action down the other end, I found it difficult to watch the intricacies of the game. Sadly, I knew my photo quality would not be too great.

On fourteen minutes, a goal.

Pedro Neto played a ball forward on the right to Marc Guiu on the right. He kept his footing as he danced forward on an icy pitch before entering the penalty area, drawing the ‘keeper and slotting the ball nicely home from just inside the six-yard box.

Alan and I did our usual “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine amid frozen laughter.

Soon after, Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall passed to Neto who accelerated away from his marker before crossing low for Guiu to bundle in at the near post. This goal was later given as a Aleksandr Marochkin own goal.

At this stage, I dreamed of Jeunesse Hautcharage heights.

A few more Chelsea shots threatened the Astana goal.

On thirty-two minutes, I heard the first “Astana” chant.

Four minutes later, Charles Chinedu tested Jorgensen from outside the box.

A song from the Chelsea North Stand in Almaty :

“It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.

It’s fackin’ cold.

It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.”

I was coping OK. My gloves were still in my pockets.

Efforts from Acheampong and Chukwuemeka warmed us up (actually, no they didn’t, don’t be twat, Chris) and then from a corner on our right from Kiernan Stately Home, I caught the leap from Renato Veiga to put us 3-0 up.

“Free header.”

Just before half-time, Astana had a rare spell in our half, not so far from us. Their captain Marin Tomasov shimmied inside our box, and I caught his approach on film. His whipped shot hit the far post but rebounded in. The roar of the crowd was loud and hearty.

At half-time, I wandered off and took a few shots of some nearby fans. Nick and Gary had their own mission at the break. Word had got out that there were free cups of tea at half-time for Chelsea fans, but they glumly returned to our spot on the terrace to say that it had all gone by the time they had reached the front of the queue.

The second half was a dull affair as temperatures plummeted to -11.

Ouch.

I got the impression that a lot of the home fans at the other end left during the break, Maybe they had heard about the free tea at the our end.

Ato Ampah replaced the lively Neto.

Soon into the half, a dipping effort from Tomasov was well saved by Jorgensen.

The pace slowed as the pitch frosted further. Everyone did well to stay on their feet. There were no Cucarella fuck-ups in this game, thankfully.

On sixty-eight minutes, a few sections of the home crowd tried to start a wave.

“Fuck off.”

Tyrique George on the left had a lot of the ball, and Stately Home now bossed the midfield.

On sixty-seven minutes, Harvey Vale – I remembered his debut at Brentford – replaced Carney.

My feet were getting colder, and my hands were now stuffed inside my pockets. Still no gloves though.

On seventy-eight minutes, I noted Astana’s best move of the match, down their right but Jorgensen saved well.

Shim Mheuka Replaced Guiu.

On eighty-six minutes, Kiano Dyer replaced Rak-Sakyi.

In truth, I did not have a clue who some of these players were. Not to worry, they didn’t know me either.

It had been a professional show from these lads, and thankfully there were no significant injuries on the pitch. Off it, I am not so sure; the night was still young.

We applauded the team, some of whom were still a mystery to me. It’s a shame that they could not get closer, stranded on the pitch, like relatives waving at an airport terminal.

I gathered my things and gingerly edged towards the exit.

“See you Sunday, Al.”

Out into the night, with no taxi aps to my name, I was resigned to a long walk back to the centre, and The Shakespeare would probably be as good a place as any to aim for. However, about twenty minutes into my walk, two local Chelsea lads caught up with me – it wouldn’t have been hard, believe me – and told me that there was a meet up at “Bremen Bar”, a place that Cathy had mentioned on Tuesday.

I was up for this. My flight home wasn’t until 2.35am on Saturday morning. We set off and arrived at around 11.30pm, an hour after I eventually left the stadium. The bar was packed full of Chelsea fans from all over. Mainly locals, but some from Belarus, but some from Russia, and Mongolia, plus around ten or so from the UK. I soon made friends. More beers. Some songs.

In fact, lots of songs.

The two lads with the “Belarus” flag were pretty decent with the “Chelsea Ranger” and I loved that the “Thiago Silva” song was probably the loudest of the night. I dared sing about Peter Osgood scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far, and my voice almost held out until the end. A group of English lads got going with the “Florent Malouda, Louda, Louda” chant and my voice definitely could not reach the high notes.

I felt like a broken man.

I mentioned to a few lads that I have taken Ron Harris up to Chelsea in my car and I had a nice idea to Facetime him, via his son Mark.

At about 12.15am, Ron Harris appeared on my ‘phone in Almaty and I think it is safe to say that a couple of the local lads almost feinted.

Fantastic.

Oh – a guy called Tim wanted a mention…a pleasure.

The place gradually thinned out.

At about 2.30am, a few of us took a cab to another bar, “Gastreat”, but this was a twenty-minute drive right past the football stadium again and out into the southern suburbs.

By this stage, I wondered if I would ever see my apartment again.

We stayed here for another two hours, and I met a few more lovely Chelsea folk. I had met Alex from Oxford and Bryn, from London I think, at the previous bar, but we chatted some more. There was a guy who surreptitiously handed me a Moscow Blues sticker. They must be quite rare these days, eh? This chap knows Only A Pound and Cathy too, and I loved that. I loved that someone in Moscow knows two of Chelsea’s finest in London.

I turned to him and said :

“We might be a big club but we are a small family.”

It genuinely feels like that. The match-going fraternity know each other and look after each other. It’s a great small family.

One of the local lads, who looked like Enzo Fernandez, called his wife to take a few of us home. She soon arrived. Back through the streets of Almaty we travelled once again.

I reached my apartment at 6am.

What a night.

Because of my very late finish, my last full day in Almaty took on a new plan. Vijay had very kindly invited me to his company’s end of year party at 7pm, very close to where we had enjoyed a meal on Tuesday. I did nothing during the day except sleep, not surprisingly, and I eventually stirred at around 4pm.

It was with a great deal of sadness that I packed up and locked up, then made my way out and up the hill for the final time. I was the first party-goer to reach the restaurant, and as the others arrived, one by one, not a word of English between them, I moved further and further away from my comfort zone. I looked out of the window at the night traffic crawling along and at the ever-changing colours of lights being projected onto a public building opposite. At last, Vijay arrived and I could relax a little.

This was another great night. Vijay sat me next to a guy that once worked for him but had moved on to work for a pharmaceutical company but was still friends. And he was a Chelsea fan. Like many at the game, this was his first sight of Chelsea. He watched from the stand to my left. I can’t imagine the thrill of seeing your favourite team, from three and a half thousand miles away, playing in your home city.

We chatted – thankfully a few could speak and understand English – and enjoyed some fine food. I loved my braised beef cheeks (and the chocolate fondant was to simply die for, darling). One by one we were asked to make a toast. I was truly happy to be able to spend some time in the company of Vijay, who is quite a character, and to try momentarily to understand the dynamics of that part of the world. I said a few things.

One of the guests, Russ, was very quiet and hardly said a word all night. When it was his turn to stand and make a toast, I feared what he might do. He had been drinking Monkey Shoulder whisky, alongside another co-worker, but what he said was pure poetry.

He stood. Everything was quiet. Still. Silent.

He pointed at the tumbler of whisky.

“The ice is cold, still. The whisky is hot, fire. Together, it works.”

I knew what he meant.

“We are all different, but in good company, we produce magical moments.”

At around 11pm, Vijay said the horrible words :

“Your car is here, mate.”

That was tough. It was a touching moment, surprisingly so. Everyone had made me so welcome.

I said to Vijay “I’m quite emotional” and he smiled.

“We are emotional people.”

Gulp.

I went around the room and said my goodbyes. Vijay walked me out to the waiting cab and we hugged one last time.

Thanks, Vijay.

Thanks, Almaty.

It felt like I was the only English person at Almaty International Airport in the small hours of Saturday 14 December. Thankfully, there were no problems with passports, boarding passes, bags and everything else. I made my way through to the departure gate but the 2.35am flight to Baku was delayed, maybe for around an hour.

As I waited, I felt drowsy. I could not wait to get up onto the plane and get some shut-eye. We eventually boarded at 3.20am and the plane took off around 4am. The plane caught up a little. It was meant to land at 5.25am but did so at 6.40am.

For the third time in my life, I took a cab from Heydar Aliyev airport to the north-east of Baku, along Heydar Aliyev Avenue, past the Socar-Tower – it is full of office furniture that I helped supply in 2014 – and into the city.

It virtually never snows in Baku but it was snowing now.

Fackinell.

This somewhat curtailed my sightseeing opportunities a little. I based myself at the Hilton Hotel, where I had previously visited but not stayed, on both previous trips, and took advantage of their Wi-Fi.

I ventured out to the promenade and spotted the Flame Towers in the distance. It was like a dream to be honest. There was even time to visit a friend that I made in 2019 and to spend a few lovely moments with their three-year-old son, plus a brief stop-off at the wondrous Heydar Aliyev art gallery and conference centre, one of my favourite buildings.

I was back at the airport at around 4pm and was now ready for the last stage of my momentous trip. Back in England, it was midday, and Frome Town were preparing for a home game against Swindon Supermarine. My flight back to Blighty was set to leave at 6.25pm, and it left on time. I hoped that there would be some great news on my ‘phone about the Frome result as I landed later in the day at Heathrow.

Again, I slept well on the six-hour flight home. Just after touching down at Heathrow, I received the wonderful news :

Frome 3 Swindon Supermarine 0.

Our second league win on the bounce.

Lovely.

It was around 8.30pm and I needed to get myself to my car. The buses were sporadic, a cab would cost me a whopping £40.

“But it’s only a mile and a half away, mate.”

Not to worry, I unbuttoned my jacket, let the air in, and walked back to the car. It took me the best part of an hour, and I did feel a little like Alan Partridge striding down the dual carriageway to the Linton Travel Tavern, but after the week of travel that I had encountered, it was nothing.

I reached home just before midnight, the end of most certainly the longest day of my life.

Where next Chelsea?

CENTRAL STADIUM