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.
Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.
We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.
We were in Wroclaw.
I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.
Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?
“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”
Parky immediately chimed in.
“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”
Howls of laughter followed.
Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?
Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.
Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?
It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.
Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.
We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.
Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.
We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.
On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.
On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.
I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.
We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.
With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.
We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.
After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.
In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.
We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.
The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.
Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.
Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.
You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.
Enough of these history lessons.
On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.
Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.
For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.
I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.
RIP Stephen Rouse.
The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.
Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.
The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.
Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.
Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.
We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.
Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.
When in Rome.
Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming up with the Tyrique George song.
At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.
At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.
At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.
Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.
PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.
Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.
My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.
I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.
I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.
The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.
We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.
It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.
Fackinell.
Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.
I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.
The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.
“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”
To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.
We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.
At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.
At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.
That made me laugh. What a small world.
We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.
Michelle led the way, and we followed on.
It was her finest hour.
We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.
I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.
If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?
At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.
At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.
Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?
Everyone wins. Everyone wins!
I hate modern football.
But here we all were.
Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.
Why were we here?
To see us win it all. Again.
Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.
Result.
I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.
The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.
Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.
Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.
The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.
Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.
Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.
I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.
I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.
“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”
It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.
The minutes ticked by.
There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.
The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.
Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.
I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.
“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.
Fantastic.
The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.
It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.
It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.
It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.
The desire was seemingly with them, not us.
Sigh.
Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.
The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.
“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”
“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”
On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.
At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.
Time to check the team again.
Jorgensen
Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.
Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?
Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?
Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.
I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.
At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.
I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.
On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.
Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.
They were together at West Ham United.
The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.
Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.
The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.
Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.
Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.
We looked poor.
There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.
Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.
But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.
Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.
Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.
On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.
The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.
Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?
Oh boy.
At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.
It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.
On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.
Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.
On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.
From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.
We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.
On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.
Levi Colwill for Badiashile.
Jadon Sancho for Neto.
No complaints from me.
We pushed on.
On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.
We were level.
GET IN.
Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.
Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.
On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –
“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”
He didn’t let me down.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.
We erupted again.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.
We were ahead.
Fackinell.
Our end boomed now.
“And it’s super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea FC.
We’re by far the greatest team.
The World has ever seen.”
Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.
Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.
“Get up, you fool.”
On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.
Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.
In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.
And we were 3-1 up.
More beautiful noise.
The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :
“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”
Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.
With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.
Lovely.
There was still more to come.
With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.
Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.
What a feeling.
Phew.
We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.
At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.
“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”
The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.
At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.
I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.
Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.
I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.
And what a night.
We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.
If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.
Europe really is our playground.
And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.
We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.
PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.
In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.
And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.
Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…
I will see some of you in Philadelphia.
Phackinell.
REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL
It seemed that everyone had been talking about our run of league fixtures that were looming on the horizon, stretching into December, and how difficult they would be. I had to agree. If I was pressed, I would have said that it was only our home game with Brentford, the first of these, that I thought we would win. The away games at Tottenham, Newcastle United, Manchester United and Everton would be tough. Our recent records at St. James’ Park, Old Trafford and Goodison are horrific. The home games against Manchester City and Brighton would be difficult too. We were undoubtedly in for a testing time.
My weekend began on Friday evening with a game at Frome Town’s Badgers’ Hill against Cribbs, from Bristol, in the First Round of the FA Trophy. Despite a rainy night in Somerset, another decent crowd of 408 saw the home team squeeze it 1-0, thanks to an own goal, and the away team missing a penalty. It was a game that wasn’t great on quality but which had me enthralled throughout.
I was up early the next morning for the 12.30pm kick-off against Brentford. I realised that by the time 3pm on Saturday would come around – the usual start time for the vast majority of games throughout the pyramid in England – I would already have seen two games.
For a change, I walked to West Brompton tube in order to get myself down to “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge, the first time that I had walked that way in ages. From the North End Road to West Brompton, I usually bump in to one person that I know and I wondered who it might be on this occasion. Lo and behold, it was Stuart, who only lives three-and-a-half miles from my house in a neighbouring Somerset village.
“Hello mate, how are you?”
Next up were lads from Gloucester, Stoke-on-Trent and Crewe.
“Alright, chaps?”
West Brompton serves a certain type of clientele at Stamford Bridge on match days. You don’t get many tourists alighting at West Brompton on their way to the game. The pubs on the nearby North End Road, and just off it, contain mostly old-school fans. It’s like they arrive at Chelsea via the back door. I like that.
I spotted a new building on the site of Olympia – “BBC Earth Experience” – as I approached the tube station. With rumours involving the development of Stamford Bridge in whatever guise starting to generate again, it was a timely reminder that eventually all available land at Earl’s Court will eventually be eaten up. I have a feeling that Stamford Bridge’s eventual redevelopment will be a huge test for many of us, especially if we have to decamp to Wembley or – worse – the London Stadium if a total rebuild is chosen. The alternative of building “one stand at a time” would mean that the current pitch footprint would not change, thus meaning that there would be a huge constraint in expansive increases in stand sizes.
I am not thrilled that the Clearlake mob will be in charge of this process. In fact, it fills me with absolute dread. Fackinell.
The pre-match in the pub was squeezed into just one hour for me, but the boozer was as packed as ever, and the boisterous mood of the clientele did not match our current league position. On the next table were a group of six or seven Brentford fans. You wouldn’t know it from their appearance nor behaviour, but I overheard a couple of them chatting about Players X, Y and Z while I got a round in. I didn’t recognise the names, but they weren’t Chukwuemeka, Nkunku nor Ugochukwu.
On the front page of the programme – back to its normal design this week after its odd revamp last week – there was yet another version of Mykhailo Mudryk’s “Christ The Redeemer” pose after his goal against the Goons last Saturday.
I was inside the stadium – a sunny day thus far despite rumours of rain – at just after midday. There was a chat with a few of the lads – Daryl now a grandfather, Ed now a father – as we waited for the game to begin.
Last week might have seen our two-hundred and eighth game against Arsenal, but this was only our twentieth game against Brentford. For me personally, it was my ninth such game.
However, the first time that I ever saw Brentford play was not against Chelsea at all. Back in 1987, on 24 January, I was lured up to Burslem to watch Port Vale play the Bees in a Third Division game. Living in Stoke – and the town of Stoke, not just the city of Stoke-on-Trent, it does get confusing, the five towns and all that – I always tended to watch Stoke City if the mood took me. After all, for two seasons – er, years – I lived right opposite the away end at the Victoria Ground. In my third year of study at North Staffs Poly, I had yet to visit Vale Park, and I knew that I would have to get at least one visit in during my stay in the area. Why did I chose Brentford? I was lured in because Micky Droy, the ex-Chelsea defender, was playing for Brentford in 1986/87.
I took the bus up to Burslem – grey buildings, grey skies – and paid £2.50 to get in. After all that, Droy wasn’t playing. He was injured. Bollocks. I heard a voice inside my head say “why in God’s name are you here?”
I watched from the Bykers Road end, a very ram-shackle terrace, as the home team won 4-1 in front of just 3,012. The star of that Vale team that season was their young striker Andy Jones who later signed for Charlton Athletic, though Robbie Earle, now a TV pundit, was playing for Vale too, himself a local from Newcastle-under-Lyme. I counted sixty-five away fans at the other end of the ground.
I wondered how many of the buggers would be at Stamford Bridge almost thirty-seven years later.
Kick-off approached and we were treated to the usual three songs before the teams appeared.
“London Calling.”
“Park Life.”
“Liquidator.”
In the lower tier of the Matthew Harding, a large flag surfed over peoples’ heads. It commemorated the passing of our former director twenty-seven years ago.
Then, an image of Sir Bobby Charlton appeared in black and white on the TV screens and the players stood, as we all did, to applaud his memory. There can’t be too many players who are remembered on two consecutive games. The day’s programme featured photos and a piece about the great player’s last-ever appearance for United that I briefly mentioned last week.
RIP Matthew.
RIP Sir Bobby.
We had heard that both Enzo and Mudryk were out, so Mauricio Pochettino shuffled his ever-decreasing pack once more.
Sanchez
Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Cucarella
Caicedo – Gallagher
Madueke – Palmer – Sterling
Jackson
“…or something like that.”
Those of us of a certain vintage keep talking about the football bubble bursting, but here was another “near as damn it” full house at Stamford Bridge, albeit with the crowd in a very quiet mood as the game started.
Chelsea were attacking the Matthew Harding in this first-half, a situation that I am always uneasy with.
We began brightly enough, with Noni Madueke soon involved, breaking in from underneath the East Stand, unsettling his marker, creating a little space and lifting a shot high towards the goal. We sighed as the effort smacked against the crossbar. Next up, Conor Gallagher advanced and put his laces through the ball, forcing the Bees ‘keeper Mark Flekken to fling himself down to the right and push the effort wide.
The play was half-decent, but the atmosphere was dreadful. It took eighteen minutes for the Matthew Harding to generate a chant or song of note. Brentford were just as quiet.
Lack of beer before a game has this effect.
Can all games begin at chucking out time at 11pm? Oh fuck, no, best not mention that idea, someone from Sky, Amazon or TNT might be reading this.
Cole Palmer, playing deeper this week, was involved in most moves, and his quick mind spotted the burst from Marc Cucarella. His chipped pass into the six-yard box was perfection, but the improving defender’s delicate touch was right at the ‘keeper. There were a few more half-chances, but despite our dominant possession, we lacked that killer instinct. Sterling was a little hit-and-miss. Nicholas Jackson often chose the wrong option, and became a peripheral figure as the half continued.
Around the pitch perimeter there were occasional displays depicting the most recent retro-kit launch. The 1974 white kit with green and red panels – actually only worn a bare handful of times – has been well-received, though am I the only one who finds it just a little odd that Chelsea are, in fact, highlighting and honouring a relegation season?
Fackinell.
It’s nice to see 1974 mentioned though; the year of my first-ever game. I bought a red / green / white scarf a few years back and I love it.
A couple of chances from Madueke and Palmer did not threaten.
At half-time, nobody in The Sleepy Hollow was too excited. I turned to Oxford Frank and admitted “I can’t see either side scoring.”
Did Brentford have any worthwhile attacks on our goal? I honestly could not remember any.
The second-half was awful and I really don’t want to dwell too much on it. I can barely remember such a tepid and frustrating performance.
The warning signs were there. From a cross from the right, Vitaly Janelt crashed a shot at goal, but the arm of Robert Sanchez saved us.
The pace of the game slowed right down.
Then, just before the hour, another neat move down their right resulted in a high ball towards the back post and we all watched as Ethan Pinnock leapt like a lord – he had so much space that it looked like he had sent a letter to the local council for them to clear any obstacles in his way – and headed the ball in emphatically.
There were fresh memories of Brentford’s previous two visits in the league, both away wins.
Surely not a third in a row?
“This was the game I thought we could win for fuck sake.”
We had been getting slightly more joy down the left flank than the right, so the manager replaced Axel Disasi with Reece James and Noni Madueke with Ian Maatsen. On the left, Cucarella was one of the brighter elements in our team. I grimaced every time Reece went for the ball.
Unsurprisingly, Brentford defended deep and with conviction now that they had got their noses in front. Their supporters provided some verbal encouragement. It was their voices that were heard.
“Chelsea get battered…”
In the home areas, the noise was not forthcoming.
I had become the sort of fan that I once derided. I sang in support of my team only occasionally and I hated myself for it.
Frustration on the pitch, frustration off it.
Fackinell.
Two more substitutions.
Lesley Ugochukwu for Moises Caceido, the first time that I have mentioned his name.
Debutant Deivid Washington for Marc Cucarella.
This lad has played just nine times for Santos, and now he is playing for Chelsea.
Righty-oh.
A shot from Reece James was slashed high. There had been few other attempts on goal in this half. Then, a mad few seconds in the Brentford box with a cross from the right and two stabs at goal but both were miscued. I had got frustrated with Jackson’s lack of movement as the game dwindled by. He looked interested at the start of the season. Is the Chelsea malaise that deep rooted into our psyche right now?
“I have to say Al, I was more involved emotionally with the Frome game last night. This is just dreadful.”
On a break, we were outnumbered, but a fantastic stop from Sanchez thwarted Yehor Yarmolyuk. Bryan Mbeumo then went close. By now, many Chelsea supporters were heading for the exits.
PD joked with Al that he would wait until the equaliser before he would leave but, with walking painful for him now, he left just after an extra six minutes were signalled. Alan began to move towards the exits too.
“See you Wednesday mate.”
Late on, we were awarded a corner and Sanchez trotted up for it.
The ball was cleared and Neil Maupay, a substitute, was in on goal. Sanchez did well to catch up with him and he made an attempt to foul / tackle the Brentford attacker but Maupay passed square to Mbeumo, who slotted the ball in to the empty net.
Oh bloody hell.
Not even VAR – a slight hint of offside, not in my photo – could save us.
Bollocks.
There were stern faces on the walk back to the car.
We were caught in a traffic jam as we attempted to squeeze ourselves out on to the A4. A journey that usually takes twenty minutes took an hour. I was then hit with awful driving conditions as I drove back down the M4, with torrential rain and then surface water getting worse and worse as the evening progressed. There was even a nervous navigation of a surprisingly deep and lengthy puddle due to a blocked drain, in my home village, just thirty seconds from my house.
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.
Leaving West London after the away game at Fulham on Thursday, I turned to PD and sighed as I said “at least we haven’t got to schlep all of the way up north for our next game, with it being an easy-to-reach home game against Palace.”
He agreed but then spoiled the mood a little as he mentioned a trip to Liverpool the week after.
We were undoubtedly going through a very tough spell. Not only had we been defeated in three consecutive games, there had also been the sad and traumatic passing of Gianluca Vialli the day after the first defeat. This was a short and difficult period in the history of Chelsea Football Club; eight days full of losses and loss. It was a horrible time.
As we headed towards Stamford Bridge we tried to be as positive as possible about the future, but I think we all knew that the day would be difficult. There would be undoubted sadness as the club paid its respects to our much-loved former Italian player and manager. This would be, I was sure, as emotional as previous similar days at Stamford Bridge when we remembered Matthew Harding in 1996, Peter Osgood in 2006 and Ray Wilkins in 2018.
The day began with a delay. Parky’s village was almost cut off from civilisation due to flooding on two roads but I was thankfully able to head off on a lengthy diversion to reach him. The rain was incessant in that first hour but thankfully the day brightened up and dried out.
We often talk about “must win games” but this one really was. Under-pressure Graham Potter’s charges really needed to triumph against Patrick Vieira’s team.
Was I confident? Only maybe.
Despite the delay at the start of the day, I was still able to drop PD and Parky on Fulham High Street just before 10am. I headed off to take a few photographs of the floral tributes and the mementoes left at the base of the large picture of Gianluca Vialli that had been moved from its usual position on the Shed Wall. This position is at the far left, position number one, and I have always like that. Many players have played more games and scored more goals for us, but very few have ever been as loved as Luca Vialli.
As I stopped by, my camera clicked a few times, but I then needed to stop all that and just be alone with my thoughts in silence. I adsmired the wreaths, the bouquets, the flowers. There were many Chelsea scarves and a few Italian flags. A woman approached and solemnly positioned a scarf on the floor. I noted a touching reference to the white vest that Dennis Wise aired after the 1997 FA Cup Semi-Final win against Wimbledon at Highbury imploring Luca to “cheer up” and this made me smile.
My eyes were moist in the biting winter air.
I met up with the usual suspects down at “The Eight Bells” at around 11am. There were the usual “Only Home Fans” signs back on the windows for this game.
Business as usual.
Unable and unwilling to share an alcoholic drink with PD, Parky, Rich and Matt, I took a leaf out of Andy and Kim’s book and got my kicks via a full English breakfast.
We left bang on 1pm, keen to witness all of the pre-match commemorations.
There were black and white photos of Luca on the way in. The match programme featured a lovely image of the man. Inside, many words were written about Luca.
I was in with half an hour to go before the 2pm kick-off and Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough” was played again. I spotted all of the Chelsea players – split into the starting eleven and the substitutes – wearing black tops with “Vialli 9” printed on the back, with the font used being the same as on the 1996/97 shirts, a nice touch indeed.
My mind wandered.
During the last few years of my mother’s life, as she battled dementia with a cheery smile, I got into the very enjoyable habit of attempting to stimulate her mind by using a Chelsea-based word association game :
I would say a first name, my mother would add a surname.
“Ron”…”Harris.”
“Peter”…”Osgood.”
“Pat”…”Nevin.”
“Frank”…”Lampard.”
“Gianluca”…””Vialli.”
“Gianfranco”…”Zolo” (always Zolo, God that made me chuckle.)
I had a wistful smile to myself. Mum never got Luca’s name wrong.
We had been advised to be in for 1.40pm when some former team mates would honour Gianluca Vialli. Well, that time passed with no on-field ceremony and I wondered if it had all happened earlier.
Some chap appeared on the pitch with a microphone and he spoke briefly about Gianluca Vialli, and then asked us to – ugh – “make some noise!!!” (with exclamation marks no doubt!!!) and the Matthew Harding quickly responded.
But then, what a mood killer, the PA blasted this into oblivion with “Park Life” by Blur. This was then followed by “Liquidator” and I grumbled away to myself. On a day of remembrance, it would have been lovely to have some silence ahead of the appearance of the teams with the supporters themselves being left to their own way of getting an atmosphere going.
Modern football, eh?
The teams appeared. We were shown a short video of Gianluca Vialli, with a nice voiceover.
“From the day you stepped through the door you set the standard at this club and captured our hearts.”
Goals and games were recounted, two goals against Liverpool in the Cup, one at Old Trafford, four goals at Barnsley, two goals at Tromso. The trophies came.
“Dreams came true under your management and you achieved your dream of becoming a Chelsea legend.”
Those incredible European nights were remembered.
“But above all Luca, you were a wonderful man. Charming, respectful, determined. You had a heart of gold that touched so many. Now our hearts are broken, but how lucky we were to have known you. Luca, we love you and we miss you.”
My eyes were moist again.
I wondered if Luca ever spotted my “Vinci Per Noi” banner that I took to many games from the summer of 1996 as our club became besotted with Italian footballers.
The Chelsea and Crystal Palace players made their way to the centre circle, solemnly followed by some former Chelsea players, of whom only Mark Hughes and David Lee did I immediately recognise.
Two large banners appeared at both ends of the stadium. The Chelsea players were each wearing “Vialli 9” training tops. A minute of applause was heartfelt, loud and respectful.
It was suddenly time to think about football. I had missed the team announcements so as the game started I pieced it all together.
“Kepa in goal, looks like a three of the new boy Badiashile, Silva and Cholobah, Hall way out left, Ziyech way out right, a midfield pairing of the immobile Jorginho and the very mobile Gallagher, Mount and Carney supporting Havertz…no wait, Ziyech is too far forward, must be a back four then. No, they are too wide. Let’s see how it plays out.”
There were clear blue skies overhead.
Alas no Alan nor Clive with us today so PD and I stretched out.
The game began.
8 minutes – a subdued atmosphere. I wasn’t sure if this was because of the inherent sadness before the game, the nervousness about our recent play or the fact it was an early kick-off.
9 minutes – there was a rather half-hearted “Vialli” chant that really only got going in earnest thirty seconds into the all-important ninth minute. It dawned on me that Luca last played for us almost twenty-five years ago and I wondered if this was the reason. Are those that loved him in his prime now priced out of attending Stamford Bridge? Or was it indifference? I didn’t want to contemplate all of this.
12 minutes – some decent stuff from Lewis Hall in an advanced role on the left, with a keen readiness to power past his defender.
14 minutes – we enjoyed a decent little spell with Hakim Ziyech showing a willingness to get involved and shimmy down the right wing.
17 minutes – complete silence. The moment lasted for quite a few seconds. It shocked me. No shouts from the crowd. Nothing.
18 minutes – no goal threats at all thus far with Chelsea enjoying more of the ball, but then Palace went close at the far post.
19 minutes – a fine shot from Michael Olise was superbly saved by Kepa and then a “star jump” from Kepa foiled Tyrick Mitchell.
22 minutes – at last an audible “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding.
24 minutes – a bout of head tennis in the Palace penalty area was followed by a strong swipe at goal by Thiago Silva but not only did his shot go wide, an offside flag was raised too.
27 minutes – a well-worked foray down our right brought purrs from the crowd but Mason Mount shot weakly at Vicente Guaita.
30 minutes – we had dominated the game but the visitors had easily had the best few chances.
31 minutes – so quiet.
32 minutes – a great deep cross from Ziyech, but Kai Havertz’ slow looper dropped just over the bar.
39 minutes – another good advance from Conor Gallagher, the ball ending up with a shot from Hall that flew just wide.
45 minutes – Kepa was called into action to tip a strong header from Jeffrey Schlupp over the bar, and we then broke and had a couple of late chances on the Palace goal that sadly misfired.
Thankfully there were no boos at half-time and there was even a little applause. I turned to PD and mused on the game thus far…
“We’re playing well, the mood among the fans around us seems to be reasonable, but is that because our expectations are really at not a very high level? You have to say, all our players today, they’re doing alright but are any of them more than a…”
I paused briefly, wanting to say 6, I thought briefly of saying 7, but I went with my gut reaction and said…
“6” just as PD said “6” too.
At the break, new signing Mykhailo Mudryk appeared on the pitch, draped in a Ukraine flag.
“All these runners, we just need a playmaker to hit them” I moaned for the ninety-fifth time since Christmas.
The second-half began.
53 minutes – there was a fine shimmy under pressure and cushioned lay-off from Badiashile that reminded me so much of Frank Leboeuf in his prime. The debutant was impressing me.
55 minutes – a fine punch away by that man Kepa from Wilfred Zaha. That was four great saves at least.
56 minutes – a shot down below us from Havertz but it did not worry the Palace ‘keeper.
58 minutes – the loudest “Vialli! Vialli!” chant of the entire day. Phew.
63 minutes – Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for Carney Chukwuemeka.
65 minutes – a corner down below me, some passes twixt Gallagher and Ziyech, a strong cross towards the penalty spot and my camera clicked as several Chelsea players jumped. The ball flew goal wards and the net rippled. There followed a run of relief to the corner flag and by the time Havertz had been swamped by team mates, the MHL was bellowing “Vialli! Vialli!” The header was a downward dab that Luca would have been proud.
66 minutes – Alan and I exchanged “THTCAUN” and “COMLD” via Whatsapp.
69 minutes – Dennis Wise, San Siro, you know the song.
70 minutes – a fine forward pass – honest, I saw it – from Jorginho set up Aubameyang but he was foiled by Guaita’s advance.
74 minutes – Hall set up Aubameyang but a shot was blocked.
75 minutes – the left-back went down with yet another injury to hit us. He was replaced by Kalidou Koulibaly.
80 minutes – a good free-kick was worked with the resulting cross being just too heavy for Havertz to connect.
81 minutes – a fucking superb block by Silva, what a man.
85 minutes – a superb diving save from Kepa thwarted Chieck Doucoure’s effort from way out.
89 minutes – Dave for Kai Havertz and Mateo Kovacic for Jorginho.
90 minutes – Palace continued to pile on the pressure with seemingly endless crosses coming in from their right. This was a nervous time, no doubt.
95 minutes – “Vialli! Vialli! Vialli! Vialli!”
96 minutes – a fine block from Trevoh Chaobah.
At the final whistle, I pointed with fore-fingers to the sky.
Phew.
A win for us.
A win for Luca.
A win for Chelsea.
We were OK; in fact, more than that, this was a better performance than in the recent run of games, but there is such a long way to go during this campaign. The match against Palace was our nineteenth league game of the season; only the half-way stage.
But a win is a win is a win.
And talking of wins…
Forty years ago to the day – Saturday 15 January 1983 – in addition to lamenting the recent news about the break-up of Stiff Little Fingers on the previous Thursday and after withdrawing my applications to several universities on the Friday, I was elated that Chelsea had defeated Cambridge United 6-0 at Stamford Bridge. The goal scorers were Mike Fillery with two, Joey Jones, John Bumstead, Alan Mayes and an own goal. The gate however was a disappointing 7,808.
In 1983, all was doom and gloom at Chelsea and SLF were no more.
I need not have worried. Last year, Chelsea were crowned World Champions and I saw SLF play a gig in my home town of Frome.
I have feared that I might have to write this particular match report for a while. Ever since we heard that Gianluca Vialli had left his post with the Italian Football Federation, and was then re-admitted to the Royal Marsden Hospital before Christmas, many of us suspected the worst. Alas, on the Friday morning after our home game with Manchester City, the saddest of news broke.
Gianluca Vialli had died.
I was told the news by a work colleague in our office. I put my hands to my face and sat silent for a few moments.
This was just horrible, horrible news.
I had mentioned Luca only a few days previously in my match report for the Nottingham Forest game; that memory from almost twenty-four years ago, a crowded car-park, a photograph, an autograph, the perfect gent.
In fact, I was rather sparing with my comments about Gianluca Vialli in that report. I sensed that he didn’t have long to live. Pancreatic cancer is an obstinate foe. I erred away from saying too much about the former Chelsea player and manager. I’ll be blunt; I didn’t want to tempt fate.
That I mentioned Gianluca Vialli, though, in my last match report written while he was alive seems right.
And it also seems right that the great man took his last breath in a hospital on Fulham Road, just a few hundred yards from Stamford Bridge.
Luca, how we will miss you.
Being a big fan of Italian football in the ‘eighties, I was aware of the curly-haired striker playing for Sampdoria of Genoa, and watched with interest as he took part in the European Championships of 1988 and the World Cup of 1990. The blues of Sampdoria, with Vialli the leading scorer, won their first and only title in 1991. My first actual sighting of the man took place when I travelled to Turin in May 1992 to see Juventus and Sampdoria eke out a 0-0 draw at the Stadio Delle Alpi. Sampdoria were only a few weeks away from a European Cup Final with Barcelona at Wembley and so put in a rather conservative performance.
Not long after the loss to Barcelona, Vialli moved to Juventus for a world record £12.5M. With Juve being my favourite European team, and with Italian football being shown that season on Channel Four for the first time, I was able to keep tabs on both the progress of him and the team. In 1995, Juve won their first Italian Championship since 1986. In late 1995, I saw Vialli play for Juventus at Ibrox against Rangers in a Champions League group phase game; the visitors won 4-0, with Vialli the captain, and a certain Antonio Conte playing too. I watched in the Broomloan Stand, in a home section, but very close to the travelling away support. The Italians were on fire that night.
At the end of that season, I watched the European Cup Final in a bar in Manhattan as Juventus beat Ajax on penalties in Rome. Just over a week later, I was over on the West Coast – I remember the location, Gaviota State Park – when a ‘phone call home resulted in me learning that Gianluca Vialli had signed for Chelsea.
It truly felt that the stars were aligning.
Gianluca Vialli was to play for Chelsea. Just writing those words twenty-six years or so later still gives me goose bumps.
Of course, that 1996/97 season has gone down in Chelsea folklore for both happy and sad reasons. In addition to Vialli, the summer of 1996 brought new signings Roberto di Matteo and Frank Leboeuf to augment the previous summer’s purchases of Ruud Gullit and Mark Hughes. Our Chelsea team was certainly looking like it could seriously challenge for honours. But first, tragedy, and the death of director Matthew Harding. We all wondered if this would redirect the club’s focus, but not long after, Ruud Gullit signed another top-ranked Italian Gianfranco Zola, and the rest is history.
Ironically, we were stumbling a little before Zola signed. Looking back, I think it is fair to say that Hughes and Vialli were a little too similar in many aspects of their game, and it was the addition of Zola, a play-maker in addition to being a goal scorer, that allowed the team to reach its full potential. Manager Gullit certainly jiggled line-ups around to accommodate all three strikers, and on one memorable occasion, we were able to witness Chelsea alchemy of the very highest order.
Losing 0-2 at half-time at home to Liverpool in the Fourth Round of the FA Cup in January 1997, Gullit brought on Mark Hughes in place of Scott Minto and the triumvirate of Vialli, Zola and Hughes caused havoc in a scintillating second forty-five minutes. A swivel and turn from Sparky on fifty minutes, a delicious Zola free-kick eight minutes later, then two from Vialli on sixty-three and seventy-six minutes. Stamford Bridge was buzzing and we didn’t want the game to end. It is many Chelsea supporters’ favourite ever match. It often gets mentioned here and I do not apologise for it.
Of course we went on to win the FA Cup Final in the May of that year, our first trophy since 1971, and the appearance of Gianluca Vialli as a very late substitute for Zola resulted in the whole end yelling the great man’s name.
“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”
Things never stay the same, though, at Chelsea and before we knew it, Ken Bates had dismissed Ruud Gullit after just a year and a half in charge, and chose Vialli to take on the role of player-manager. I’ll be honest, I was a little concerned, but I need not have been. In a glorious period supporting my team, Vialli won the 1998 League Cup, the 1998 ECWC, the 1998 UEFA Super Cup, the 2000 FA Cup and the 2000 Community Shield.
There has been greater success since, but I absolutely loved the vibe around the club from 1996 to 2000 – “the Vialli years” – and it is probably my favourite period supporting the club, although as a one-off season 1983/84 will never be beaten.
We came so close in 1998/99, only trailing eventual champions Manchester United by four points, but finishing third. If only we had won and not drawn our two games against United, we would have been champions, and the barbs aimed at us in 2005 would have been less prolific.
There was a lovely mix of characters at Chelsea in that era. We played some superb football at times. Ruud called it “sexy”, but I think under Vialli it became a little “cheeky” with a mix of expansive football, quick breaks, rapid-fire passing, with quality everywhere. What do I mean by “cheeky”? Think back to October 1999, Chelsea beating Manchester United 5-0, with Wisey winding up Nicky Butt. That’s what I mean.
There was style and swagger, those two Chelsea cornerstones.
As a player, I loved Vialli’s power, technique, movement, work ethic and goal scoring prowess.
As a manager, I loved his cheerfulness, his honesty, his diligence, the way he called the players his “chaps.”
I loved his big Italian tie, his sweatband, his grey pullover, his penchant for wearing a watch over his cuffs.
I’ll admit it.
He was a man’s man.
We all loved him.
Again, Chelsea being Chelsea, nothing stays the same and amidst rumours of player power, Ken Bates sacked Vialli as manager in September 2000.
I had seen the great man’s first game as a Chelsea player at Southampton in 1996 and I had seen his last game as manager at Newcastle in 2000.
Thank you Luca. We had a blast.
Vialli – I believe – continued to live in London after his departure and also had season tickets at Stamford Bridge for some, if not all, of the subsequent years. In doing a little research for this edition, I was able to plunder some photographs from a midweek game at Stamford Bridge against West Bromwich Albion on 12 February 2018. At halftime, Neil Barnett paraded three stars from the late ‘nineties and it was a glorious occasion.
My eyes were set on Gianluca Vialli. I am pretty sure it was the first time that I had seen him since he left us in 2000.
My match report from that night is called “Tales From The Class Of ‘98” and features these words.
“They slowly walked towards us in the MH and I snapped away like a fool. Each were serenaded with their own songs. They lapped it up. My goodness, it is the twentieth-anniversary season of our ECWC triumph in Stockholm, one of my favourite seasons. It is hard to believe in these days of single-strikers and “false nines” that in 1997/1998 we had the considerable luxury of four strikers.
Gianfranco Zola
Gianluca Vialli
Tore Andre Flo
Mark Hughes
And five if we include Mark Nicholls.
Bloody hell, those were the days. A two-man attack. Beautiful. Let’s get to basics here; I’d much rather see two top strikers in a starting eleven for Chelsea rather than two top holding midfielders. Who wouldn’t?
That season, we were certainly blessed. And each of the four had their own qualities, and it was always interesting to see how Ruud, and then Luca, chopped and changed the front two.
Zola – those amazing twists and turns, those dribbles, that appreciation of space, those passes to others, those goals.
Vialli – those blind-sided runs, the constant movement, the strength of that body, the willingness to run and run.
Flo – surprisingly skilful on the ground for a tall man, his touch was excellent and he weighed in with his share of goals.
Hughes – the last of his three seasons with us, but still useful for his strength in hold-up play, his galvanising effect on the team, and eye for a goal.
Glory days indeed. I loved that team those players.
Gianfranco Zola, Tore Andre Flo, Mark Hughes, Gianluca Vialli, Dan Petrescu, Frank Leboeuf, Graeme Le Saux, Gus Poyet, Dennis Wise, Roberto di Matteo, Steve Clarke, Ruud Gullit.
If anyone had said to me in 1998 that, twenty years on, only one of those players mentioned would get into my team of greatest ever Chelsea players, I would have screamed madness.”
As I looked at other photos from that evening, I gulped when I saw a photo of my friend Glenn and little old me in the hotel before the game with Ray Wilkins, who would pass away less than two months later. That night took on a new resonance for me.
Going in to the FA Cup tie at Manchester City, the focus in my mind shifted. Rather than get obsessed, and down-hearted, about a potentially tough game I realised that the whole day was now about being one of the lucky ones to be able to share our collective love for a much-respected footballer and, above all, man.
And the tributes poured in on the Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Not one soul said anything negative about Gianluca Vialli. He was truly loved, so loved.
Sunday arrived and I collected PD and LP and a long day lay ahead. I set off from home at just before 9am. By 12.30pm, we were ordering three roast beef Sunday lunches at “The Windmill” pub at the Tabley interchange off the M6. Two hours were spent thinking a little about the game later that afternoon but also about our recent sad loss.
My 1982/83 retrospective features, fittingly, an FA Cup game. On Saturday 8 January 1983 – forty years ago to the day – we played Huddersfield Town from the Third Division at Leeds Road. We eked out a 1-1 draw with much-maligned striker Alan Mayes equalising in the second-half. The gate was a very decent 17,064, which came just after a season-leading gate of 18,438 for a home derby with Bradford City. In those days, FA Cup Third Round gates would often be the largest of the season for many clubs, barring local derbies such as this one. I miss those days when “the Cup” was truly special.
It took the best part of an hour to reach the stadium. The expected rain hadn’t really amounted to much, but on the slow drive past City’s old stomping ground and other familiar sights, the bright winter sun reflected strikingly on the steel of new buildings and the red brick of old. In the distance, dark moody clouds loomed ominously. The quality of light was spectacular.
I dropped off PD and LP outside the away end at around 3.30pm and soon parked up. I made my way over the long footbridge that links the smaller City stadium to the main one. I had previously made a mistake in saying that I had seen only Arsenal at seven stadia. Manchester City tie that record; Stamford Bridge, Maine Road, Wembley, The Etihad, Villa Park, Yankee Stadium, Estadio Dragao. If you count the old Wembley and the new Wembley separately, they take the lead with eight.
Another bloody trophy for them.
As soon as I reached the concourse at Level Three – the top tier – there were shouts for “Vialli.”
I have to say that our support for this game blew my socks off. I originally thought that with the game taking place at 4.30pm on a Sunday, and on the back of us taking over 5,000 to the stadium for a League Cup tie in November, there would be no way that we would sell our allocation of 7,500 tickets.
But sell them we did.
Absolutely fantastic.
I was stood alongside LP in the middle of the top tier, alongside Rob, in front of Pete, close to the Two Ronnies, while PD was in the middle tier. I was just glad to be watching from a different part of the South Stand and to not have hundreds of locals jabbering away at us all game long.
The place filled up. My ticket cost just £25, a good deal.
The team was announced.
Kepa
Chalobah – Humphreys – Koulibaly – Hall
Gallagher – Jorginho – Kovacic
Ziyech – Havertz – Mount
And some new names on the bench too.
City? A mixture of youth and experience, no Haaland.
So, a debut from Graham Potter for young Bashir Humphreys.
Shall I do the inevitable line about the manager asking if he was “free” for the game on Sunday?
Nah.
Kick-off approached, the players took to the field, I soon noted the players assembling on the centre circle.
“Ah, fair play City.”
There was an announcement from a voice saying that “Manchester City was sad to hear…” but I then lost the rest of the message as the Chelsea end applauded and sang.
There were images of Luca on the two corner screens; black and white images, that cheeky smile.
Bless him.
It is a mark of how I assumed that we would perform in this match that I thought that, all things considered, we had a pretty decent start to the game. Both teams began brightly. But on each of our rare forays into the City half (is it me, or does the City pitch look huge?) we quickly ran out of steam, with no target man to hit.
On nine minutes – as requested – the 7,500 strong away army chanted again.
Not too long after, a mightily impressive “OMWTM” rang out and I liked the fact that a few old school types sat down at around the “eight” mark. It always was better when we all got up on ten.
The City fans must have looked on in awe.
They then had the audacity to sing “YSIFS” and I groaned.
I wondered if the fixture was reversed and there was a 4.30pm kick-off in London, how many City would come down? Not 7,500 I am sure. In the FA Cup of 2015/16, City had brought barely 2,500 down to London on Sunday 21 February. Get my point?
On the pitch, City gained the upper hand.
After twenty-three minutes played, Rob and I were worried about a City free-kick about twenty-five yards out.
Me : “I don’t like this.”
Rob : “Especially Mahrez.”
Me : “There you go. Great goal.”
Sigh.
I will be honest, I didn’t see the handball from Kai Havertz that led to a VAR decision going City’s way not long after. Julian Alvarez struck from the resultant penalty.
In the back of mind : “at least we won’t suffer the ignominy of losing four consecutive FA Cup Finals this year.”
Sigh.
Chelsea were now chasing shadows.
On thirty-eight minutes, I saw a move cut its way through our defence.
“Oh that’s too easy.”
Phil Foden pushed the ball in from close range.
Game over.
Sadly, many Chelsea fans upped and left. This was my worst nightmare; our away end full of empty seats on national television. At the break, my friend Su from Los Angeles, made her way down to watch the rest of the game with Rob, LP and me.
“It’s character building this. By the time I see you again, you will be twice the woman you are now.”
It could have been more. We were awful and in so many different ways. I felt so sorry for the debutant Humphreys, who must have wished that he was needed in haberdashery or to look after Mrs. Slocombe’s pussy.
At the break, changes.
Denis Zakaria for Kovacic, surprisingly poor.
David Datro Fofana for Ziyech, truly awful.
But there were other appearances too, and my heart began to swell. Virtually all of the Chelsea supporters that had left after the third goal thankfully returned. Unbelievable stuff. Well done each and every one of you.
Proper Chelsea.
Good God, on fifty-five minutes Mason Mount shot at goal, deflecting wide, and I even caught the bugger on film.
On sixty-three minutes, more changes.
Omari Hutchinson for the ever dreadful Ziyech.
Carney Chukwuemeka for Mount.
Hutchinson showed a lot more confidence than on his meek appearance on Thursday. The new Fofana looked decent too.
On seventy-three minutes, another change.
Azpilicueta for Jorginho, the slow-moving and irksome irritant.
I found it hard to focus on anything really. The game seemed an irrelevance. The four of us kept our spirits up with gallows humour. Around us, there were loud songs for Thomas Tuchel and Roman Abramovich.
With five minutes to go, a foul by Kalidou Koulibaly gave City their second penalty of the game.
Manchester City 4 Chelsea 0.
Sigh.
With that, an exodus started but we stayed to the final whistle.
It was, in the end, all rather predictable. However, the mood in the away end was defiant throughout. The shouts in memory of Vialli were loud, and sung with passion, while there was anger and frustration at the current regime.
We left.
A chap with his daughter remained upbeat and suggested a surreal ending to this season and a very strange one in 2023/24.
“We win the Champions League but get relegated this season.”
“Ha” I replied…
”Real Madrid and Bristol City one week, Juventus and Rotherham United the next. Love it.”
On the walk back at our car I overheard a woman – a local City fan – talking to her husband and daughter.
“City fans singing about Chelsea’s support being effing shit…well, it wasn’t was it?”
“Thanks” I said.
She smiled.
I made good time as I wriggled out of the city.
How long did it take me?
“A pasty, two small Double Deckers and half a packet of Fruit Pastilles.”
The rain stayed away as I drove south and I made good time. We didn’t dwell too much on the defeat. But it certainly felt as if we were now supporting a different team and club, almost unrecognisable in fact. And that is not good.
As the reaction to another defeat hit social media, I was reminded that this was our first exit in the Third Round of the FA Cup since that shocking 3-5 defeat by Manchester United at Stamford Bridge in January 1998; our first game since 1970 as FA Cup holders. We were 0-5 down at one stage. But I still loved that 1996 to 2000 team. Oh for some of that spirit in 2023.
I reached home at 11.15pm. It had been a long, emotional, and sad day.
Next up, a local derby at Craven Cottage. See you there.
The busy month of October was continuing for Chelsea Football Club. The tea-time kick-off with Manchester United at Stamford Bridge would be match number seven with the two away games at Salzburg and Brighton to follow. On a personal level, this would be my seventy-ninth Chelsea game against Manchester United in total. I have seen Chelsea play against no other team more. It would also be the forty-third time that I would see us play Manchester United at Stamford Bridge. It seems relevant, acknowledging United’s rivalry with Liverpool, that this is the most games that I have seen against one team at home apart from Liverpool who weigh in with forty-seven games. In the grand total league table, Liverpool are right behind United in second place.
Manchester United 79
Liverpool 78
Arsenal 69
Tottenham 67
Newcastle United 53
By the end of this season, there might well be a tie at the top.
This would be Chelsea match 1,367 for me.
Of these, 11.5% will have been against either Manchester United or Liverpool.
One in ten games.
No wonder they say familiarity breeds contempt.
I saw that on the morning of the game, Mark Worrall said on “Facebook” that he rates the visit of Manchester United as his favourite home game. For me, it’s Tottenham, but I can understand why Mark named United. The aura surrounding the club has existed for decades and there is always a special buzz when United are in town. Due to the sheer number of their away support, especially when travelling en masse to away games became more popular in the ‘sixties and ‘seventies, there was no club that brought more away fans than Manchester United on their travels around the Football League. Stamford Bridge, surely, must have been a favourite destination for them. In those days, there was no rigid segregation at games and the Bridge was no different. But in those times, with the capacity at around the 60,000 figure, that large north terrace alone could hold fifteen thousand or more with ease. And on the occasions of United’s visit to SW6, let’s not kid ourselves, at times more than 15,000 United fans would flow through the turnstiles on the Fulham Road.
The first time that I remember seeing a Chelsea vs. Manchester United match on TV – on highlights, for those foreign readers, let’s not forget that the first live league football on TV in England only began in 1983 – was the last game of the 1972/73 season. I have written about this game before here – Bobby Charlton’s last-ever game for United, the comical knock-in from Peter Osgood at the Shed End, his shrug of the shoulders on his knees in the goalmouth – but it is worth telling again that at a three-sided Stamford Bridge, the gate was 44,000 (I didn’t have to look that up) and there must have been the best part of 20,000 United supporters inside.
The “Red Army” as they were known in the ‘seventies would flock to all of their away games in a way that no other club has done before or since. In those days of pay-on-the-gate admission and no segregation – certain ends were only suggested for fans to segregate, hence the rather loose adherence to this policy by the hooligan element of many teams – clubs could, and would, flood games depending on the circumstances.
I remember Liverpool flooding Molyneux in 1976 with 20.000 supporters. And it has come to light that in 1977, Chelsea were given the home end at Nottingham Forest by the police simply because enough had congregated there early in the afternoon. That must still hurt the Forest fans; we will find out, perhaps, on New Year’s Eve.
But no team did all this as consistently as United.
Much later, in the ‘nineties, when Wimbledon played at Selhurst Park, they attracted very low crowds, but this ground in south London became the favourite of Manchester United, and no-doubt its much-lampooned Home Counties support, as it was easy for them to access tickets in all areas of the stadium, year on year. It became the ‘nineties equivalent of Stamford Bridge in the late ‘sixties and early ‘seventies.
For example, in 1993/94 Wimbledon averaged 10,474, but the Manchester United game drew a massive 28,553. The following season, the figures were 13,246 and 25,380. It was a feature of London football at the time. No other London stadium had such a laissez-fare attitude to away support, nor the room anyway. By then, segregation was rife and away “takes” greatly diminished.
Stamford Bridge was still an exception though. And in the first few games of 1993/94, although the gate was 37,000 – ditto – for the Chelsea vs. Manchester United game, I would suggest that around 12,000 away fans were present. I can well remember getting into The Shed early and the north terrace was soon packed. I remember many United fans – no colours – being led out of The Shed for their own safety and escorted up to the north stand by the police. I never did find out how this procedure manifested itself. Was it simply a case of handfuls of United fans presenting themselves to stewards and pleading to be let into the north stand? I don’t know.
It was rather ignominious, being a Chelsea fan, seeing our ground swamped with United. In those days, football was about “how many did we take?” just as much as “how did we get on?” or “how did we play?”
I miss those days. You might have guessed.
The north stand probably held around 10,000 in those times. And the United presence that day was huge. There is no doubt that in addition to those United fans in the sweeping north terrace, there must have been a couple of thousand in the home seats and a residual amount in The Shed. I was stood next to one; my mate’s young brother who used to accompany me to a few Chelsea versus United games at the time. However, we will never know since United never scored.
In those days, it always pained me to see hundreds of United fans react to their team scoring in both stands; more so the East Stand to be fair, the nutters at Chelsea tended to go in the West Stand and only a brave away fan would sit there with the risk of getting slapped.
All of this is a very long way from 2022/23 where the police reduced the United away following from 3,000 to 2,400, though I am not sure why. I know that United have received many complaints over recent seasons for “consistent standing” at away games, but their spot in The Shed for this game was a “safe standing” zone anyway. Was it because the London Old Bill were admitting that they were unable to control three thousand? Who knows? It’s all very odd indeed. This move was very poorly received by the United away support, and quite rightly too.
I was in the stadium very early for this game. It had been a typical pre-match; a rush-around at the stadium and then to the pub with friends from near – Parky and Paul, Steve from Salisbury – and far – Ben and Mike from Boston, Bank from Bangkok, Mark from Spain, Luca and Robbie from The Netherlands, Andy and Josh from Orange County.
I was inside as early as 4.40pm. I soon decided to take a smattering of photographs of a virtually empty Stamford Bridge. Only a couple of thousand spectators, at most, were inside. As such, there was no atmosphere building anywhere. At the same comparative time at the 1993 game – effectively 2.10pm – the place would have been packed with the buzz building nicely.
Pre-match tunes, pre-match chants, pre-match songs, the gentle swell in numbers, the jostling for position, the anticipation rising.
I miss those days.
In 2022, there was music playing but elsewhere there was complete silence.
I took some photos from different angles of the same old features. I hope that you like them.
I soon spotted on my approach earlier in the day, out on the forecourt, there were rainbow-themed Chelsea kits welcoming supporters to a game when there was to be a nod towards equality in the game via the “Rainbow Laces” campaign. Out on the pitch, a banner with the Chelsea lion multi-coloured.
I wondered if the United support, vociferous with their “Chelsea Rent Boys” chants the past decade or more, would tone it down. I doubted it.
The minutes ticked-by. I was aware that I wasn’t as “up” for this as I should have been. I was a little wary of United’s recent run of form and of our two recent away, middling at best, performances. I think these thoughts dampened my spirits.
In the pub and elsewhere not only had I predicted a “0-0” but I would have been happy with a “0-0” too.
This was hardly a well-established United team. I wasn’t in awe of it. It was a mere shadow of former sides. And I thought the same of us really; my “tribute act” comment in the last episode, a throw-away line maybe, seemed to hit the spot.
The pre-match had no gravitas. There was no real thrill of what the evening would bring. It had the feel of a “run of the mill” game involving teams on the cusp of something better.
Graham Potter chose this starting eleven.
Kepa
Calobah – Silva – Cucarella
Dave – Jorginho – Loftus-Cheek – Chilwell
Mount – Aubameyang – Sterling
The United team? Who cared. I didn’t. But it looked like the retirement home for former Real Madrid players and that’s without “you-know-who” in the picture.
There was light drizzle just before the pre-match routines kicked in. It seemed to dampen the atmosphere further.
Before the entrance of the teams, a Matthew Harding flag travelled from east to west in the lower tier of the stand named after him. I have scanned the match programme four times now and I am yet to spot a mention of the death of our former director who was killed twenty-six years ago to the very day.
The fans in our stand, and those elsewhere, demand better.
Flames in front of the East Stand started flying up into the air – we had this American-style shite before Todd Boehly arrived and I guess we will have it after too – but at least my camera appreciated the reflections of the amber flames in the now sodden “Rainbow” banner on the centre-circle.
The game began.
I don’t always make notes on my ‘phone at every game, but on this occasion, I decided to. I suspect that the paucity of excitement on the pitch in the first-half and then throughout the game allowed me time to do so.
8 minutes.
Pierre-Emerick Aubamayang – I conjured up a short-hand of “pea” a few games back then completely forgot what it meant when I studied my notes later – was away but his effort was neither a shot nor a cross.
I wondered if his “peashooter” days were over.
9 minutes.
After Jorginho was beaten to a ball, and he tried to block, his body shape reminded me of the wonderful phrase from an ‘eighties fanzine that was used to illustrate a similarly derided midfielder, Darren Wood. His efforts to block the path of the ball likened him to a “stranded starfish.” It’s one of the great footballing phrases.
10 minutes.
Luke Shaw flashed wide.
11 minutes.
A half-decent “Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” to the tune of “Amazing Grace.”
17 minutes.
United were in the ascendency now. They were finding extra players with ease. Yet their tendency to over-pass reminded me of us.
19 minutes.
“No foothold yet, Al.”
21 minutes.
I tapped out a phrase that I hate and may I forever reside in hell; “unable to beat the press.”
23 minutes.
Another fine “Amazing Grace.”
25 minutes.
A strong United spell had evolved. We looked second best here.
26 minutes.
The Stamford Bridge crowd clapped in memory of Matthew Harding and our stand sung his name.
31 minutes.
A fine Kepa block from Marcus Rashford.
33 minutes.
Frustration all around.
37 minutes.
A substitution and Mateo Kovacic for Marc Cucarella. There was a change in shape to a 4-3-3. This met with our approval.
38 minutes.
A very messy chance, after United failed to clear, but Peashooter scuffed it wide.
39 minutes.
An Eriksen shot from distance was well wide.
40 minutes.
A cross from the left and a leap from Aubameyang but contact was light and off-target.
42 minutes.
The same player was played in with a ball rolled across the box but he could not quite reach.
44 minutes.
Anthony – a player that I am proud to say I know nothing about – shot from distance and, as it struck a supporting stanchion, my mind played tricks with me and I thought it was in. It certainly was a close one.
I was just pleased to get to the break at 0-0. We had been poor. United had bossed the middle section of the first forty-five minutes. I wasn’t so sure where a goal would originate. Maybe my 0-0 guess wasn’t so far off. A pal who sits behind me commented :
“Get any good photos that half? I suspect not.”
“No. Shite.”
Only two are shared here.
Things were better in the second-half, but I soon commented “we have dragged them down to our level.”
50 minutes.
A scare when Kepa raced out to reach a ball near our left touchline and we then nervously gasped as the ball was eventually passed out of defence. We took forever. The chance of a quick break, exposing space, was lost.
56 minutes.
United, I noted, were not as loud as in the past. I wondered if the missing six-hundred were the singers.
58 minutes.
Sterling elected to pass inside when a shot was probably the best option.
60 minutes.
The noisiest moment of the game, perhaps, helped escort Varane off the pitch.
62 minutes.
“Chalobah playing well, lads.”
64 minutes.
“We have looked tired from the start, really.”
70 minutes.
A header from Clever Trevoh skimmed the top of the bar.
71 minutes.
We were hitting a little spell now, easily the best of the game, and the noise grew with our intensity.
74 minutes.
Christian Pulisic for Aubameyang, not surprisingly.
75 minutes.
The ever-frustrating Ruben Loftus-Cheek lost the ball in a dangerous position but a Bruno Fernandes shot was saved so well by Kepa.
79 minutes.
Armando Broja for Raheem Sterling, not surprisingly.
84 minutes.
I captured the very start of the pushing and shoving by substitute McTominay on our boy Broja. But I was watching the flight of the ball when the man-handling reached silly proportions. I saw the referee point. Oh boy. What drama.
86 minutes.
Just like in Milan, Jorginho walked away with the ball as tempers raged in the United team.
87 minutes.
Goal. Get in you bastard. What a clean penalty.
88 minutes.
CAREFREE WHEREVER YOU MAY BE WE ARE THE FAMOUS CFC.
89 minutes.
The stadium was a riot of noise now alright. For too long, the noise had been shite.
90 minutes.
AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA. SUPER CHELSEA FC. WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.
94 minutes.
Chelsea unable to clear. A floater from the left. Two United players leap. That gut-wrenching feeling. The ball dropped into the goal. But no, wait, it came back off the post. And Kepa miraculously claimed it.
No.
Goal.
Bloody Casemiro.
Noise now from the two thousand odd in the away end.
95 minutes.
The Bridge was absolutely silent apart from 2,400 voices.
“WHO THE FUCK ARE MAN UNITED?”
At least there was nobody jumping up and being a twat in the home areas.
It was, sadly, a very fair result.
I reached home to see the game’s highlights on “Match of the Day” and it was the last match featured.
Chelsea and United, the last game on “MOTD”? The absolute shame of it.
I am sure that I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter who wasn’t a little fearful going into the 2022 FA Cup Final against Liverpool at Wembley. On the early morning drive into London – I collected PD as early as 6am – the feeling was of worry and impending doom. As has been proven by the league table – “the league table does not lie, it just sits down occasionally” – we are a fair distance behind both Liverpool and Manchester City this season, as we were last season and the season before it. Additionally, a defeat at the hands of the Scousers would mean a record-breaking third consecutive FA Cup Final loss. And that thought was just horrible too.
But, bollocks to all that, we were off to Wembley again and we kept ourselves contented with the usual badinage of wisecracks as I ate up the miles. I was hopeful that one of the great FA Cup Final weekends was upon us. We all live in hope, right?
But first, a walk down memory lane.
1972.
The first FA Cup final that I can ever remember watching took place in 1972. It was between Arsenal and Leeds United. My best friend Andy was an Arsenal fan, though I can’t honestly remember wanting them to win. I was a neutral. I can still remember a few bits about the day. I was six, coming up to seven, and already a mad-keen Chelsea supporter. I remember that it was the centenary of the first competition that took place in 1872, though of course not the actual one-hundredth final due to the wartime interruptions. I remember representatives of all of the previous winners parading around the perimeter of the old Wembley pitch with flags. I was proud to see the Chelsea flag. Leading up to the final, Esso were running a promotion celebrating the game. Collectible coins – to go in an album – were rewarded for petrol purchases. Suffice to say, I must have pleaded with my father to only fuel up at Esso for a few weeks. I still have the album, completed, to this day.
I remember Allan Clarke, from around the penalty spot, scoring with a diving header and David Coleman exploding “one-nil” as if the game was over at that exact moment. I can recall Mick Jones dislocating his shoulder as he fell awkwardly attempting a cross and hobbling up the steps to the royal box, bandaged like a mummy. Fifty years ago. Bloody hell. Looking back, this is the very first club game I can remember seeing live, though I am pretty sure the England vs. West Germany game just one week before it is the first full game I saw live on TV. Or at least the first I can remember seeing.
I think.
1973.
The FA Cup Final was huge in those days. It was the only club game shown live on TV – both channels – and would remain that way until 1983 apart from rare one-offs. On a trip to London in the autumn of 1973 we called in to see Uncle Willie, my grandfather’s brother, at either his house in Southall or at a nursing home at Park Royal (where my father would park for my first Chelsea game in 1974, but that is – and has been – another story.) After the visit, my father granted my wish to drive up to see Wembley Stadium. That I had not asked to see Stamford Bridge is surprising from fifty years away, but I am sure that my father would have been intimidated by the thought of traffic in those more central areas.
Wembley it was.
I can vividly remember sitting in his car as we wended our way up to Wembley. On that fateful cab trip to Wembley for the “aborted” FA Cup semi-final recently, I half-recognised the journey. I have always had a heightened sense of place and a recollection and memory of places visited in other times.
I remember Dad parking off Olympic Way and me setting eyes on the magnificence of the historic stadium. It sat on top of an incline, and the twin towers immediately brought a lump to the throat of the eight-year-old me. I remember walking up to the stadium, the steps rising to the arched entrances, the dirty-cream colour of the walls, the grass embankments. I veered left and possibly tried to peer down the tunnel at the East End, an end that would become known as the “lucky tunnel end” for FA Cup Finals over the next few decades. The stadium was huge. However, it needed a bit of a clean-up. It looked a bit grimy. But I loved the way it dominated that particular part of North London. The visit has stayed etched in my mind ever since even though I was only there for maybe twenty minutes.
“Come on Chris, we need to head home.”
I can almost picture my father’s worried look on his face, chivvying me on.
1997.
Our appearance in the 2022 FA Cup Final provided a perfect time to recollect our appearance in the much-loved 1997 FA Cup Final; the quarter of a century anniversary.
Here are my recollections.
The 1996/97 season was a beautiful one, but also a sad one. The death of Matthew Harding in October 1996 hit all of us hard, and the immediate aftermath was tough on us all. Remarkably, our spirits rose not so long after Matthew’s tragic death when we signed Gianfranco Zola from Parma. It felt like, in the same way that getting Mickey Thomas in 1984 completed that wonderful team, the signing of the Italian magician helped complete the team being assembled by Ruud Gullit.
The FA Cup run was the stuff of legends. I went to most games.
West Brom at home : an easy win, 3-0.
Liverpool at home : the greatest of games, losing 0-2 at half-time, we turned it round to triumph 4-2.
Leicester City away : a 2-2 draw, I watched on TV.
Leicester City at home : Erland Johnsen’s finest moment and a Frank Leboeuf penalty gave us a 1-0 win in extra-time.
Pompey away : a 4-0 win in the mist, I watched on TV.
Wimbledon at Highbury : 3-0, a breeze, Zola’s twist to score in front of us in the North Bank.
On the Thursday before the Cup Final itself, we watched Suggs perform “Blue Day” on “TOTP” and the pleasure it gave us all is unquantifiable. Everything was well in the world, or in my world anyway. In the January of 1997, I was given a managerial job in my place of employment, a bit more dosh to follow the boys over land and sea, and maybe even Leicester next time.
On the Saturday of the final, a beautiful sun-filled morning, Glenn drove to London with two passengers; our friend Russel, eighteen, about to sit his “A Levels”, and little old me. I was thirty-one with no silverware to show for years and years of devotion to the cause. We parked-up at Al’s flat in Crystal Palace, caught the train at the local station, changed at Beckenham Junction and made our way to “The Globe” at Baker Street via London Bridge. We bumped into a few familiar faces from our part of the world – can you spot PD? – and enjoyed a sing-song before heading up to Wembley Park.
Funny the things I remember.
Lots and lots of singing on the way to Wembley. We felt unbeatable, truly. Ben Shermans for Daryl and myself. Lots of Chelsea colours elsewhere. I had just bought a pair of Nike trainers and I had not worn the bastards in. They pinched my feet all day long. We posed for my “VPN” banner underneath the twin towers. However, I tried to hoist it once inside, using small sticks, but was immediately told to hand it all in at a “left luggage” section in the concourse. Our seats were low-down, corner flag. Unfortunately, I had a killer headache all bloody game.
The Roberto di Matteo goal after just forty-three seconds was insane. Limbs were flailing everywhere. Oh my fucking head.
The dismal 1994 FA Cup Final was recollected, briefly. For that game, we only had about 17,000 tickets and it seemed that all neutral areas were United. In 1997, all the neutral tickets seemed to be hoovered up by us. Not sure how that worked to this day. I remember virtually nothing about the game except for Eddie Newton’s prod home at our end to make it safe at 2-0.
When Wisey lifted the famous silver pot, twenty-six years of waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting were evaporated.
It was always going to be “Matthew’s Cup” and so it proved. At the time, it was the best day of my life. Since, I have had two better ones; Bolton in 2005 and then Munich in 2012. But for anyone that was supporting the club on Saturday 17 May 1997, it was a feeling that was pretty indescribable.
So I won’t even try. Just look at the fucking pictures.
After the game, I remembered to collect my banner but I don’t remember how we reached Fulham Broadway. It seemed that all of the bars around the stadium had closed. We weren’t sure if this was because there was no beer left or if the police had said “enough.” One image stays in my mind. The Fulham Road was still closed for traffic and a sofa was sat in the middle of the road. Thankfully, we de-camped to our pub of choice that season, The Harwood Arms, and Pat and his three “Sisters of Murphy” let us in.
If there is a more blissful photo of Chelsea fans from that day – Neil, me, Daryl, Alan, Glenn outside the pub – then I would like to see it. We made it back to South London via Earls Court and God knows where else. We watched the game, taped, when we reached Alan’s flat late that night. We fell asleep happy.
On the Sunday morning, the big man made us breakfasts. We all hopped into Glenn’s car and made our way back to Fulham with “Blue Day” playing on a loop the entire day. Both Alan and I took our camcorders for the parade. The film I have of us driving along Wandsworth Bridge Road, Chelsea bunting everywhere, is a wonderful memory of another time, another place, lost in time.
We plotted up outside the old tube station. The double-decker with Chelsea players stopped right in front of us. Photographs. Film. Everyone so happy. Fans wedged on shop roofs. Almost hysteria. Chelsea shirts everywhere. A wonderful weekend.
2022.
I made good time heading East. The roads were clear. As I was lifted over the Chiswick flyover, we all spotted the Wembley Arch a few miles to the north. Maybe it thrills the current generation in the same way the Twin Towers used to thrill others…
In the pub against Wolves, some friends from the US – step forward Chad, Josh and Danny – said we could kip in their AirB’n’B for the Saturday night. The plan was, originally, for me to drive up and back and therefore be unable to partake in a few bevvies. This kind offer solved that problem. But this wasn’t just any AirB’n’B…this was a little studio flat right underneath the old Shed Wall at Stamford Bridge.
“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley” was about right.
But first a magic breakfast at a café in Hammersmith.
Sausages, fried eggs, baked beans, bacon, hash browns, mushrooms, two rounds of toast and a mug of Rosie Lea.
I looked over at PD.
“I say this so often. Hope this ain’t the high spot of the fucking day.”
We weren’t sure.
I drove to Baron’s Court, parked up, then we caught the tube to Fulham Broadway. We soon bumped into the Minnesota Triplets. We left our bags in the apartment and set off. The Americans were waiting, nervously, for their tickets to arrive via royal mail post.
Time for a photo outside the Bovril Gate.
“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley.”
I had planned a little pub-crawl that mirrored the one in 2018 that we had enjoyed before our win against Manchester United. We made our way to London Bridge. “The Mudlark” next to Southwark Cathedral was closed, so at just after 11am we made our way to one of London’s glorious pubs “The Old Thameside Inn” where we met up with Russ from Melbourne, the Kent boys, Steve from Salisbury, Dan from Devon and the three Americans. The weather was red hot. There were the usual laughs. After an hour or so, we sought shade in “The Anchor At Bankside”, another riverside favourite.
Six pints of “Peroni” hardly touched the sides.
But we were still all loathe to talk about the game.
Thankfully, I had seen very few Liverpool supporters at this point; just one in fact.
At around 2.15pm, we set off for Wembley. A Jubilee Line train from London Bridge took us straight up to Wembley Park, a repeat of 1997.
I lost PD and Parky, and walked with Steve up towards Wembley for a while. Whether it was because of the abhorrent abundance of half-and-half scarves being worn by many, or the fact that the famous vista of Wembley from distance is no longer as spine-chilling as in decades gone by, or just…well, “modern football”; I was having a bit of a downer to be honest.
Wembley is now absolutely hemmed in by flats, hotels, restaurants. There is no sense of place about the new gaff at all.
After my issues with getting in against Palace, this one was easy. No searches, straight in. I took the elevators up to the fifth level, with no bloody Scouser sliding in behind me like at the League Cup Final.
We were in ridiculously early, at about 3.30pm or so.
I was so pleased to Les from nearby Melksham. He had ‘phoned us, distraught, at 6.30am and asked us to keep an eye out for a spare. His ticket had gone ten rounds with his Hotpoint washing machine the previous evening and was much the worse for wear. Thankfully, he kept the stub – there’s a stub? – and Wembley were able to reprint it.
As the seats filled up around us, a surprising number of friends were spotted close by.
The two Bobs, Rachel and Rob, Kev, Rob Chelsea, Dave and Colin.
I was, in fact, in a Wembley section that was new to me; the north-east corner of the top tier. This would be my twenty-fourth visit to Wembley with Chelsea apart from the Tottenham away games. Of the previous twenty-three, I had only been seated in the lower deck on five occasions. And the East/West split has provided vastly differing fortunes.
The West End 14 : Won 11 and Lost 3
The East End 9 : Won 4 and Lost 5
So much for the lucky “tunnel” end. The West End at new Wembley was clearly our luckier-end.
Pah.
The seats – the ones in our end, or at least the ones in the lower tier, would be baking, with no respite from the sun – took ages to fill up. It annoyed the fuck out of me that every spare foot of balcony wall in the Liverpool end was festooned with red flags and banners. Our end was sparsely populated.
Chelsea tend to go for geographical locations on our flags honouring fan groups in various parts of the UK and beyond. Liverpool tend to go with white text on red honouring players and managers. Obviously, you never see St. George flags at Anfield, nor at Old Trafford for that matter.
The kick-off approached.
With about half an hour to go, we were introduced to a spell of deafening dance music from DJ Pete Tong, who was visible on the giant TV screens, seemingly having a whale of a time. The noise boomed around Wembley. This annoyed me. Rather than let fans generate our own atmosphere in that final build-up to the game, we were forced to listen to music that wasn’t football specific, nor relevant to anything.
It was utter shite.
“Pete Tong” infact.
With minutes to go, the Liverpool end was packed while our end had many pockets of empty red seats. Surely not the biggest ignominy of all? Surely we would sell all our Cup Final tickets? I had a worried few minutes.
The pre-match, the final moments, got under way.
The pitch was covered in a massive red carpet. Ugh. More bloody red.
I joined in with “Abide With Me” though many didn’t.
“In life. In death. Oh Lord. Abide with me.”
The only surprise was that said DJ didn’t mix it with a Balearic Anthem from the ‘eighties.
With the teams on the pitch, and Chelsea in all yellow – why? – it was now time for the national anthem. Again, I sang heartily along to this even though I am no fervent royalist. I wanted to be respectful and to add to the occasion.
With my awful voice booming out, I did not hear the Liverpool end booing it. But I was soon reliably informed by many that they were.
There was a time in the ‘seventies, at the height of the era of football fans revelling in being anti-social, that supporters often sang club songs over “God Save The Queen” but no team actually booed the national anthem at Cup Finals.
Liverpool seem to love doing it. It’s their “thing.” And while I can understand that some sections of the United Kingdom feel unloved and disenfranchised, it is this feeling among Liverpool Football Club supporters of them being “special cases” that grates with me and many. Do supporters of clubs from other currently and previously impoverished cities throughout England take such great pleasure in such “anti-Royal / anti-establishment” behaviour?
Save it for the ballot boxes, Liverpool fans.
Stop besmirching the name of your club and your city.
As Tracey Thorn once sang “narrow streets breed narrow minds” and there must be some awfully narrow streets around Anfield.
There were flames as the pre-match nonsense continued. It meant the opening minutes of the game was watched through a haze.
Those seats were still empty in our end.
FUCK.
We lined up as below :
Mendy
Chalobah – Silva – Rudiger
James – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso
Mount – Lukaku – Pulisic
A big game for Trevoh. A big game for Christian. A massive game for Romelu. Happy to see Mateo starting after his gruesome injury at Leeds United.
Liverpool began very brightly, attacking us in the east, and at the end of the first ten minutes I was supremely grateful that they were not one, or more, in front. They peppered our goal. We were chasing shadows and other clichés. However, Chalobah did well to recover and thump a goal-bound shot from Luis Diaz away from inside the six-yard box after Edouard Mandy had initially blocked the shot. A rebound was flashed wide. At the end of this opening flurry, I counted five decent attacks from the men in red.
We were hanging on.
Thankfully, ten minutes later, all of our seats were now occupied.
That temptation of “one last pint” at Marylebone is always a tough one.
I have often thought that our current team lacks a little personality, undoubtedly compared to certain teams that we have known and loved over the years. It often feels the current crop are missing charisma – even Quaresma would be half-way there – and I really wanted the team to show some mettle and get back into this game. The Liverpool fans were by far the loudest in the opening quarter and I wanted us, the fans, to show some charisma too.
We improved, both on and off the pitch.
A decent move down the right, probably the best of the match thus far, involving James and Mount set up Pulisic but his delicate shot rolled just wide of the far post. Next up, Pulisic set up Alonso but Alisson blocked after a heavy first touch from our raiding wing-back,
Chelsea were now much louder while Liverpool had quietened down considerably. It became a cagier game in the last part of the first-half, but I thought it a good game. This is however based on the fact that we weren’t getting pummelled, that we were in it.
My worst, worst, nightmare was for us to lose…pick a number…3-0? 4-0? 5-0?
But this was fine. Silva was looking as dominant as ever. With him in the team, we had a chance right?
More of the same please, Chelsea.
Into the second-half, we blitzed Liverpool in the opening few minutes, mirroring what had had happened in the first-half, though with roles reversed.
A smart move allowed Alonso, always a threat to opposing teams in the opposition box, but so often a threat to us in our own box, drilled one wide. Pulisic then wriggled and weaved but Alisson again foiled him. The scorer against Arsenal in 2020 – a game I often forget about for obvious reasons – was getting into good positions but needed to find the corners.
The third of three decent chances in the first five minutes of the second-half came from a free-kick from a tight angle, with Alonso slamming a direct hit against the crossbar.
“Fucksakechels.”
The wing-backs were often the focal points, and we were finding space in wide areas. This was good stuff.
Diaz screwed one just wide.
“CAREFREE” absolutely boomed around Wembley.
A young lad standing behind me initiated a loud “Zigger Zagger”; good work, mate.
We were in this game. All along, I had toyed with the Football Gods by silently wishing for a penalty shoot-out win as revenge for this season’s League Cup Final defeat.
The game continued, but we couldn’t quite keep the attacks going. There were only half-chances. But I still thought it a decent tight game.
On sixty-six minutes, N’Golo Kante replaced Kovacic.
Diaz, again a threat, bent one wide of the far post.
A few players were looking tired now, as was I. My feet were killing me. With less than ten minutes to go, Diaz cut in on our left and slammed a shot against Mendy’s near post.
A largely ineffectual Lukaku was replaced by Hakim Ziyech with five minutes to go.
A deep cross from the horrible Milner, on as a substitute, evaded everyone and David Robertson hot the back post. Another curler from Diaz always looked like going wide. It is so weird that even from one-hundred yards away, the trajectory of shots can be surmised.
I guess I watch a lot of live games, eh?
The referee blew up for full-time.
My wish for penalties – down our end please – looked a strong possibility.
The red end sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” before the first-period of extra-time and we prepared for an extra thirty-minutes of terror.
Football, eh?
More tired bodies on the pitch and up in The Gods. The two periods of fifteen minutes were not of high quality. Were both teams hanging on for penalties? Were we all?
We went close from a cross on the right but a Liverpool defender hacked it away before Pulisic could make contact. I loved how Kante chased down a Liverpool attack out on their right. What a player.
I painfully watched as Alonso just didn’t have the legs, try as he might, to match the pace of his marker as a ball was pushed past him.
Dave replaced Chalobah and Ruben replaced Pulisic.
The players were now dead on their feet and so was I.
Then, a bizarre substitution in the last minute of the game.
Ross Barkley for Ruben.
I think that I last saw him at Bournemouth, pre-season.
The referee blew up.
Another 0-0.
I got my penalties, and – thankfully – at our end too. I hoped that Liverpool would lose in the most tragic way possible.
Alas, alas…
We began OK with Alonso striking home. Then Thiago scored. Dave hit the post and our world caved in. I was dumbstruck as I saw more than a few Chelsea fans walk out. Wankers. We then exchanged goals – James, Barkley, Jorginho – with Liverpool but with their last kick, Sadio Mane’s strike was saved low by Mendy.
Hugs with the stranger next to me.
He beamed : “That’s for those that walked out.”
Sudden-death now.
Ziyech : in.
Jota : in.
Mount : saved.
Tsimikas : in.
We were silent. The Liverpool end roared. Red flares cascaded down onto the pitch. We trudged silently out, up to Wembley Park, a horrendous wait in a warm train, oh my bloody feet, and back – trying to rely on gallows humour to get us through – eventually to Earl’s Court for a few drinks and some food. It was our year in 1997 but not in 2022.
Nor 2021.
Nor 2020.
Three FA Cup Final defeats in a row. We have now played in sixteen of them, winning eight and losing eight. After our dominance from 2007 to 2012 – four wins – we need our fucking lucky West end back.
The three of us eventually got back to Fulham Broadway at about 10.30pm and met up with Josh, Chad and Danny.
From Wembley to Stamford Bridge, the return journey over, we fell asleep under The Shed Wall.
My alarm sounded and I was soon up. This was another early kick-off at Chelsea. Our second of five matches in fifteen days matched us against Norwich City, a team who – along with Watford, West Brom and Fulham – seemed destined to spend their eternity bouncing between the top two divisions.
This trip to London was going to be slightly different. A little explanation is needed.
Back in the days when I was working in a factory’s Quality Assurance department in the nearby town of Westbury, I started to hear stories of Chelsea legend Ron Harris running a small holiday complex centered around a fishing lake in the nearby town of Warminster. On the eve of our 1994 FA Cup Final with Manchester United, I visited “The Hunter’s Moon” with my copy of the 1970 Cup Final programme, intent on meeting Ron – who I had never ever met before – and getting him to sign it. I remember walking in, and my first view of Chopper was of him clearing some plates away from the small dining room next to the bar area. He duly signed the programme and I can easily remember his words.
“You’re a Chelsea fan, then?”
“Yes.”
“Bad luck.”
I spent a fair bit of time talking to his wife Lee, who I remembered from a couple of player profiles in match programmes from the ‘seventies. I was, of course, hoping that the meeting of our 1970 captain would bring us luck; so much for that plan as we were walloped 4-0 in the Wembley rain. Over the next few seasons, we began calling in at “The Hunter’s Moon” en route back from Chelsea. On one memorable occasion, Ron cajoled us into continuing our drinking and volunteered to drive us back to Frome later that night. We would return to collect Glenn’s car the following morning.
Glenn’s voice of disbelief as we reached his front room lives with me to this day.
“Ron Harris drove us home!””
I remember Ron invited Glenn up to the club’s ninetieth anniversary celebrations with him in 1995, and there were chats with both Peter Osgood and Tommy Langley at Ron’s over the years. He drove Glenn and I up to a game at Chelsea in around 1999.
I didn’t see Ron too much for a while after he moved out of “The Hunter’s Moon” – there was one memorable night with Ron, Ossie and Kerry in 2005 – but I then began seeing him again on the odd occasion at Chelsea. In February 2009, he was due to do a gig before our game at Anfield and asked me if I fancied a lift up to Liverpool. I, of course, jumped at the chance. Although I reported on that match in a blog at the time, I didn’t fancy coming over as a Billy Big Bollocks, so referred to Ron as “Buller” – the nickname bestowed upon him by the players, which was used rather than “Chopper” – and nobody guessed who was driving me to Merseyside. We lost 0-2 that day, those two bloody Torres goals right in front of us.
Meeting up with Ron in Manhattan in 2012 before a Chelsea game at Yankee Stadium was – looking back – a rather special moment. Ron played in the first game that I ever saw in 1974. He played in each one of my first seven games from 1974 to 1976. In fact, of the seventeen games that I saw Chelsea play during his time at the club, he started thirteen, came on as a sub in one, was a non-playing sub in one and missed only two.
Mr. Chelsea ain’t half of it.
There was a Chelsea vs. PSG supporter’s five-a-side game at Chelsea Piers during those few days in New York. I was lucky enough to play for the Chelsea team and after the game I couldn’t help a cheeky dig at Ron.
“I saw you play thirteen games for Chelsea Ron. Didn’t see you score a single goal. You’ve seen me score today. Just one game.”
We both laughed.
After moving south to the coast at Mudeford, Ron returned to Somerset at Shepton Mallet a few years back and now lives just nine miles away from me in Wiltshire, between Westbury and Trowbridge. A few weeks back, his daughter Claire contacted me and asked if I fancied sharing the driving on match days. We agreed midweek games would be difficult due to my work times and Ron’s need to be at Chelsea a few hours before kick-off. We agreed that I could take him to as many weekend games as possible.
Chelsea versus Norwich would be the first one, a tester for timings if nothing else.
So, when I set off at 6.30am, my first port of call would be for Paul at 6.40am, my second would be for Ron at 6.55am and the third one would be for Parky at 7.15am.
All aboard the Chopper Bus.
We usually stop for a bite to eat on the A303 on the way to London, but after hearing that Ron needed to be at Chelsea for his corporate activities at 9.30am, we made haste and made a beeline for Stamford Bridge. I have known for years that Ron is a stickler for being on time – “I’m only ever late for my tackles” – so this didn’t faze me.
There was quality chat in the Buller Bus all the way to London. I kept looking in my rear view mirror as I sped past Stonehenge and all of the familiar sights and saw Ron sat alongside Parky.
Yeah, it was surreal.
Ron ran through some stories and talked of a few managers. He was no fan of Danny Blanchflower – new fans, Google away now – nor Geoff Hurst. As we rose up onto the M3 at just about the same location I heard “That’s Entertainment” last Saturday I remembered one particularly awful season.
“Yeah, in 1978/79 we were shit weren’t we?”
After a few seconds, I realised what I had said. Ron had played virtually every game that season, often as a defensive midfielder.
“Fucking hell Ron, just realised you were playing that season.”
Ron’s smile in the rear view mirror was wide.
As we passed Twickenham, Ron told the story of how manager Dave Sexton took the players one afternoon to the home of rugby to see the Varsity game between Oxford and Cambridge universities. He wanted to show the players how the rugby backs used the overlap as a potent form of attack. For those not into rugby, like me, it is so odd that the attacking players play at the back.
Stupid bloody sport.
Ron was full of praise of Sexton, by far his most admired manager in his nineteen years in the first team at Chelsea. He was certainly one of England’s first tactical gurus, who would win two cups while at Chelsea with Ron his captain.
At 9.20am, I dropped the three passengers off opposite the CFCUK stall at Fulham Broadway.
Perfect.
I went off to park up on Normand Road and then caught the tube down to Putney Bridge. I had booked a table for 10am. I arrived at 9.50am to see around twenty regulars waiting for the boozer to open.
Again, perfect.
Did I say that I work in logistics?
For just a tad under two hours, we relaxed and enjoyed the pre-match. I could chill out now. I won’t deny that there was a little extra pressure on my driving on this particular day. The three of us ordered breakfasts. I will be honest; it was my first full-blown breakfast since my heart attack just over a year ago. The food was bloody lovely. As is so often the case, we were joined by a few mates from near and far.
Shawn – who I met for the first time at that New York weekend in 2012 – and his brother Dan are from Boston and lucked-out on utilising some cheap flights and then coming up trumps on the ticket exchange. They sat alongside us and tucked into a full English too. We were joined by Rich from Edinburgh and Ed from Essex. We had a whale of a time.
The dedicated driver, I was on coffees and Cokes. The time whizzed past. Up onto the platform just as a train pulled in. We were soon at Fulham Broadway, we were soon inside.
Perfect.
At around 12.15pm, I was relieved to hear the PA announce that there would be a minute of applause in the memory of Matthew Harding before the game.
The crowd sang.
“One Matthew Harding. There’s Only One Matthew Harding.”
Our much-loved vice-chairman was killed twenty-five years ago. Where does the time go? It remains one of the most horrible times of my life. Only the deaths of my parents, my gran, and maybe of Peter Osgood, have left me more desolate. There was a montage of images of Matthew and a few reflective voice-overs. I am not sure if anyone remembers, but on the Saturday before the helicopter crash on the Tuesday, we lost 2-4 at home to Wimbledon. Before that game, there was a minute’s silence in memory of a stadium disaster in Guatemala during the previous few days. I often thought it poignant that Matthew Harding would have stood silent that day.
I have written about Matthew Harding before here; about how I met him once, how his wife Ruth replied to my mother’s sorrowful letter after his death, of what he meant to us all at Chelsea.
On the Saturday after the crash, I placed a bouquet amongst many others in the East Stand Forecourt.
“Matthew.
With Love And Appreciation.
We Will Never Forget You.”
Before the game with Tottenham, emotions were high. We decamped to Matthew’s favourite pub, The Imperial on the King’s Road, and I raised a pint of Guinness to his memory. This would soon become my drink of choice at Chelsea for many years (I think, as my own special mark of respect) and the minute’s silence before the game – the second in eight days – was pure emotion.
High up in the stand bearing his name, twenty-five years on I had a little moment to myself.
Rest In Peace, Matthew Harding.
With fifteen minutes to go, “London Calling” and then “Parklife” changed the mood a little.
The team news came through.
Mendy
Rudiger – Silva – Chalobah
James – Kovacic – Jorginho – Chilwell
Mount – Hudson-Odoi
Havertz
With five minutes to kick-off, the Matthew Harding banner surfed the lower tier while the balcony confirmed “One Of Our Own.”
The players stood in the centre circle. The crowd applauded.
It took me back to those years of Hoddle, Harding, Hughes, Gullit and – for Glenn and little old me – Harris. To complete the reworking of the “Harris, Hollins, Hudson, Houseman, Hutchinson and Hinton” years, we drank in The Harwood in those days too.
These were great – it has to be stated – “pre-success” times at Chelsea. I loved the team in that era. It was the saddest thing that Matthew died just six months before our first success in twenty-six years.
How he would have enjoyed Wembley 1997, Stockholm 1998, Bolton 2005, the double in 2010, Munich in 2012, Amsterdam in 2013, Baku in 2019 Porto in 2021.
The song again.
“One Matthew Harding. There’s Only One Matthew Harding.”
Sigh.
The game began.
Norwich City only had around 1,500 I think. I bet they soon wished that they hadn’t bloody bothered. Malmo on Wednesday were poor, but I think Norwich were even worse.
We began brightly.
The visitors didn’t look interested from the off. Their players looked off the pace. They lolloped around like zombies in a film, unwilling to walk faster than they need to, almost in a trance-like state. Their fight was absolutely missing. How Billy Gilmour has only played four games for them this season is a travesty. Of their players, I only recognised Krul and Pukki, a sure sign of my fading knowledge of football outside of SW6 these days. It’s an age thing.
We were jabbing away nicely at the flabby gut of the Norwich defence from the off, and our play brought applause on a mild autumnal day. Callum Hudson-Odoi was involved early on and we began trying to puncture the back-line. On just nine minutes, crafty approach play from Callum ended up with a cross into the box. Mateo Kovacic won a second ball and played it to Mason Mount on the edge of the box. His well struck swipe flew low into the goal, and I was in right in line with its path.
Get in.
Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”
Norwich’s response was lukewarm. We had virtually all of the ball and were finding spaces to exploit. There were a few poor choices of final balls, but we were purring when Kovacic released a superb pass from deep into the path of an on-rushing Hudson-Odoi. He relaxed, looked at the goal, and adeptly threaded the ball past Krul and into the waiting net.
“Brilliant.”
Two-nil and coasting.
More please.
Callum found Mount, but Krul saved.
A first shot from Norwich via Ozan Kabak on thirty-six minutes troubled those in the Harding Upper more than Edouard Mendy.
The noise in the stadium had quietened. These early starts often follow this pattern.
We then witnessed one of Dave Sexton’s overlaps. This one involved Mason Mount playing the ball to Reece James and this allowed the rampaging wing-back to advance and deftly chip the ball over Krul. It was a fine goal, but one I almost missed as I was mid-conversation with Clive.
But 3-0 it was.
And three academy players too, though it wouldn’t dawn on me until later. It’s an age thing.
There had been goals, but Alan and I had spoken about how often we seemed to be wanting to wait and play a perfect ball, rather than shooting on sight. How we missed a Frank Lampard. We were happy with three, of course, but we could have scored more for sure.
At the break, in the Matthew Harding Upper :
Me to Tim : “after Wednesday, when we should have scored six, we simply have to score six today.”
At the break, in the away dressing room :
“Farke knows how we’ll win this.”
The second-half began and we certainly improved, though soon into the game the noise at Stamford Bridge had reduced almost completely.
Fackinell.
We peppered the Norwich goal with a few teasers, but had to thank that man Mendy once again as a Ben Chilwell played in Rashica who ran onto the ball and it appeared that he just needed to round Mendy to score. However, our magnificent man intercepted with an outstretched limb. The crowd roared and so did our ‘keeper.
Just before the hour, Norwich afforded us way too much room and a move involving James and Kovacic played in Chilwell down below me. No volley this time, but a drilled carpet-burner flew into the net.
Four.
Keep’m coming Chels.
Our Callum was finding oodles of space on the left and, five minutes after our last goal, he broke inside the box once again. A low cross was deflected in off the luckless defender Aarons. The ball was just out or reach of the equally luckless Krul and the ball spun into the net.
Five.
Callum looked embarrassed.
Next up in this action-packed demolition job, Norwich were down to ten men after a rugged tackle on James by Gibson saw the referee Madly reaching for a red card.
The crowd were involved now alright. The atmosphere was bubbling away nicely.
On the hour, the loudest chant of the day thus far.
“Champions Of Europe, We Know What We Are.”
A minute later, louder still.
“Carefree.”
The game safe, on came three substitutes.
Ruben Loftis-Cheek, Ross Barkley and Hakim Ziyech replaced Jorginho, Havertz and Hudson-Odoi.
There was a lovely sing-off in The Shed.
“We’re the middle. We’re the middle. We’re the middle of The Shed.
“We’re the West side. We’re the West side. We’re the west side of The Shed.”
“We’re the middle. We’re the middle. We’re the middle of The Shed.
“We’re the West side. We’re the West side. We’re the west side of The Shed.”
“We’re the middle. We’re the middle. We’re the middle of The Shed.
“We’re the West side. We’re the West side. We’re the west side of The Shed.”
“We’re the middle. We’re the middle. We’re the middle of The Shed.
“We’re the West side. We’re the West side. We’re the west side of The Shed.”
“We’re the middle. We’re the middle. We’re the middle of The Shed.
“We’re the West side. We’re the West side. We’re the west side of The Shed.”
“We’re the middle. We’re the middle. We’re the middle of The Shed.
“We’re the West side. We’re the West side. We’re the west side of The Shed.”
I was just waiting for the Whitewall…
On the pitch, our team was suddenly full of Frank Lampards. Shots from new boys Barkely and Ziyech – with three whipped-in efforts – caused Krul to leap every which way possible to stop further embarrassment.
But there was time for yet more drama.
A neat one-two played in Rudiger and his shot seemed to be blocked by a defender’s arm. We waited for the VAR decision.
Penalty.
Mason Mount waited, and shot strongly but Krul saved well.
After a few seconds, we realise that the referee was told that the ‘keeper had stepped off his line. Therefore, a re-take, and this time Mount bashed it home.
Six.
During these routs, there is often an injury-time goal and this was one of those occasions. A sweet move involving Ziyech, who looked inspired in his twenty-minutes on the pitch, set up Loftus-Cheek, who advanced, drew the ‘keeper before selflessly squaring for Mason to prod home for his hat-trick.
Seven.
Another VAR wait; a suspicion of offside. No. Seven it was.
Bloody hell.
On reflection, even though the last two games had yielded eleven goals, the tally ought to have been so much more. On Wednesday, we could have scored seven. Against Norwich, we could have scored ten. I can’t remember two more one-sided, consecutive, home games. Norwich City, it pains me to say, were the worst league team that I may well have ever seen us meet at Stamford Bridge.
They were lucky to get naught.
I met up with Mister 795 outside the hotel and we slowly made our way back to the car on Normand Road. Ron was equally scornful of the opposition.
“The club should dip their hands in their pockets and pay for those tickets.”
There was a message from Steve in Philly.
“Chris, if you could travel back in time and tell your teenage self that one day you would be taking Ron Harris to and from Chelsea matches, what would teenage Chris have to say”
The answer was easy.
“Fackinell.”
I battled the traffic to get out past the M25, but made great time on the return journey. There was a lovely mixture of chit-chat and laughs all the way home. Ron Harris will do well in our Chuckle Bus.
I dropped Parky off at 6.10pm, Ron at 6.30pm, PD at 6.45pm, and I was home at 7pm.
The perfect day continued as I found out that Frome Town, who were 0-2 at half-time at Cinderford Town came back to win 3-2 with a Kane Simpson hat-trick. And I was also able to sort out a couple of tickets for mates for the United game next month. It really was a nigh-on perfect day.
Next up Southampton at home on Tuesday and then the long-awaited expedition to Tyneside on Saturday.
In the pubs beforehand, there was not one Chelsea fan that I spoke to who thought that we would be victorious in the game with Liverpool.
“They’re so far ahead in the league that they can afford to play their first team, rather than rest players.”
“They’re light years ahead of us.”
“We’ll be lucky to get naught.”
“Expectation level is nine below zero.”
“Could be another Bayern.”
But complete and total negativity was not the order of the evening.
There were a couple of pluses.
In “The Goose”, Parky, PD and I chatted to some of the lads from our home area. Does anyone recollect the story of Sir Les, and a few others, getting stuck in a lift before a home game before Christmas? They were stuck in there for virtually the entire first-half. Well, I am pleased to report that Chelsea rewarded these fans with a corporate style package for the Everton home game which is coming up in Sunday.
Well done Chelsea Football Club.
There was also some good work from the club regarding the pricing of this FA Cup fifth round tie with Liverpool. Initially, as with previous seasons, it was announced that all FA Cup ties would be priced at £30. When Liverpool came out of the hat, the club decided to up the tickets to £40. There was an immediate uproar and the Chelsea Supporters Trust, alongside the original Supporters Club I believe, soon petitioned the club to re-think. Within twenty-four hours, there was a statement to the effect of the club getting it wrong and the price returning to the £30 level.
Well done again Chelsea Football Club.
We made our way down to Simmons to chat with the others. It wasn’t as busy as I had expected. As I waited for friends to arrive, I spotted that the 1970 replay – often a favourite at “Simmons” – was being replayed on the TV screens. It is still the fifth most viewed TV programme in the UK, ever.
That’s right. Ever.
During the few days leading up to the evening’s game, it dawned on me that the last time we played Liverpool at home in the cup was the famous 1997 game. Many of my generation mention the 1978 third round win – 4-2 – when an average Chelsea side surprisingly defeated the then European Champions. I was not at that game, but can remember the joy of hearing about our win as the news came through on the TV. Next up, in the story of games in the cup at Stamford Bridge between the two teams, was the equally memorable 2-0 win in 1982. Chelsea were a Second Division team that season, and Liverpool were again European Champions. I was at that one. And I have detailed that game on here before. It was seismic. What an afternoon.
Next up was a fourth round tie in 1985/86 that we lost 2-1 which is probably best remembered for Kerry Dixon injuring himself and, probably, not quite being the same player ever again.
It’s worth noting that we haven’t played at Anfield in the FA Cup for decades.
The last time was in 1966.
Then came the fourth round tie on Sunday 26 January 1997.
It is a game that evokes wonderful memories among most Chelsea supporters; it was a real “coming of age” moment for club, team and fans alike. Chelsea, under new manager Ruud Gullit, were still finding our collective feet under the talisman and Dutch legend. During the league in 1996/97, we had lost 5-1 at Anfield in the autumn but a Roberto di Matteo strike gave us a deserved 1-0 on New Year’s Day. In October we had suffered the sadness of the loss of Matthew Harding. We were winning more than we were losing, but by no great margin. Liverpool were a better team than us in 1996/97. They would go on to finish fourth, we were to finish sixth. We had easily defeated First Division West Brom at home in the third round.
We – Glenn, my mate Russ and little old me – watched the Liverpool game unfold from the last few rows of the Matthew Harding Lower. It was a terrible view to be honest, the overhang meant that we watched the game through a letterbox.
Chelsea started with Gianfranco Zola and Gianluca Vialli up front. We played with Scott Minto and Dan Petrescu as wing backs. Liverpool fielded players such as David James, Jamie Redknapp, John Barnes, Steve McManaman, Robbie Fowler and Stan Collymore. They were a tough team. But, with us having the home advantage, it was evenly matched. Or so we thought. With Liverpool attacking the temporary seats in The Shed in the first-half they soon galloped to a 2-0 lead after just twenty-one minutes. I think it was McManaman who missed an easy chance to make it 3-0. Chelsea were out of it, and the atmosphere in Stamford Bridge had quietened severely after the early promise.
It was as flat as I had ever experienced.
At half-time, Gullit replaced Scott Minto with Mark Hughes, went to a 4/3/3 formation, and Sparky proved to be the catalyst that sparked a revolution. He turned and smashed a long range effort in on fifty-minutes.
“Game on.”
Then Gianfranco Zola slammed in an equaliser eight minutes later.
The atmosphere was red hot by then.
Despite the gate being just 27,950, the place was booming.
Gianluca Vialli scored on sixty-three and seventy-six minutes – euphoria – and we ended up as 4-2 winners. Liverpool, their fans all along the East Lower in those days, did not know what had hit them.
I would later watch that second-half on grainy VHS again and again and again.
Up until that point, my two favourite Chelsea games – out of the then total of two hundred and sixty-five – were the FA Cup games in 1982 and 1997.
Lovely memories.
That win over Liverpool in 1997 gave us confidence and with further games against Leicester City at home (I went), Pompey away (I couldn’t get tickets) and Wimbledon in the semi-final at Highbury (I was there) we marched triumphantly towards Wembley for the 1997 FA Cup Final with Middlesbrough. And through it all, Matthew Harding’s presence was with us all.
Heady and emotional moments?
You bet.
My friend John, a lecturer at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, arrived at about 6.30pm. I last saw him at Ann Arbor for the Real Madrid game in 2016. He was visiting London, Liverpool and Manchester for a few days with some students who were on a “Soccer: Media, Art & Society” course that would go towards their various degrees.
“Soccer: Media, Art & Society.”
Yeah, I know. What a course. Where can I sign up? It sure beat the “Cultural Geography” and “Transport Geography” sub-courses I took at North Staffs Poly from 1984 to 1987.
John was keen for me to talk to his six students – three lads, three lasses – for a few minutes about football, its heady sub-culture, its fads and fancies. I enjoyed it, though I can’t see myself as a lecturer in the near future, not without a bit more practice anyway, and not without a script.
I briefly mentioned the story of my grandfather attending a match at Stamford Bridge, and how I genuinely think it could well have been the 1920 FA Cup Final, one hundred years ago this year.
I hoped that the atmosphere would be good for them on this night in SW6. I always remember a League Cup semi-final in 2015 between the two teams and the noise was sensational all night. I hoped for a repeat. Apart from John, who comes over every season, this was the students’ first ever game at The Bridge.
At about 7.15pm, I downed the last of my two small bottles of “Staropramen” and headed off to Stamford Bridge.
There were six thousand Scousers in the area, though I was yet to see one of them. I guess they were doing their drinking in the West End and Earl’s Court.
Alan and I soon realised that the place was taking an age to fill up. There were yawning gaps everywhere. Even with ten minutes to go, we wondered if the paranoia over the Corona Virus had deterred many from travelling into The Smoke.
“Chelsea will be the death of me.”
The team news came through.
Arrizabalaga
Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Zouma – Alonso
Gilmour – Kovacic – Barkley
Willian – Giroud – Pedro
So, Kepa back in, an enforced change in personnel, a rather aged front three, and a start for young Billy Gilmour.
Like the 1997 game, this was live on BBC1.
I spoke to a few friends close by in that period before the pre-match rituals kick in and, again, nobody was hopeful.
Nobody.
Within the last few minutes, the place suddenly filled to capacity.
There was more 2020-style pre-match nonsense. The lights dimmed, almost darkness, fireworks, the teams appeared.
Blues vs. Reds.
South vs. North.
Chelsea vs. Liverpool.
(In the slightly off-kilter parlance of the modern day: “Chels vs. Red Scouse.”)
As the floodlights returned to full strength, I spotted white socks. As the tracksuit tops were taken off, I spotted the dogs’ dinner of the normal 2019/20 kit. Where was the promised 1970 kit, the beautifully understated blue with yellow trim?
Where the fuck was it?
My heart sank.
It seems that Chelsea Football Club – two steps forward, one step back – had been less than truthful about our 1970 kit.
Who thought that we would be wearing it throughout this season’s FA Cup campaign?
Everyone?
Yeah, thought so.
What a fucking disgrace.
So, this season – three kits, and one kit to be worn just once.
I only bought the shorts, and I am yet to wear them, but I felt for those significant others who bought the range. They shot off the shelves, didn’t they?
And, the sad thing is, I was really looking forward to seeing us in that kit once again.
I vented on “Facebook.”
And here are a few responses :
Michelle : So wrong I’m sure it was marketed as an FA Cup kit ! The club have taken the fans for mugs yet again,
Lottinho : Absolute joke. Pathetic on the club. Strictly for £££.
Karn : It’s bollocks. Still, glad I bought it though – lovely shirt.
Alex : As predictable as it is disappointing
Kelvin : So cynical how Chelsea avoided making that clear when they were marketing it.
Jake : All about the money, mate. That was a class kit
Lee : Utter bastards
The game began.
Liverpool were an instant reminder of another team in all red from last Tuesday. I silently shuddered. The away team, with a heady handful of familiar players but also a couple of unfamiliar ones, began the livelier and moved the ball in and around our defence. There was an early, relatively easy, save from Kepa following a strike from Sadio Mane. But at the other end, The Shed, Willian drove at the defence and forced a good save from Adrian in front of the Liverpool hordes.
They had their usual assortment of flags, including one of Bill Shankly who – I cannot lie – I used to love to hear talk about football was I was a mere sprog.
The game heated up.
A Willian corner from our left was glanced on my Dave, and the ball spun wide. Only on the TV replay were we able to see how close both Olivier Giroud and Antonio Rudiger got to adding a decisive touch.
Liverpool, despite their large numbers, were relatively quiet and it surprised me.
We enjoyed a great little spell. Ross Barkley thumped centrally at goal, but Adrian saved.
A lovely flowing move, instigated by the poise of young Billy Gilmour, cruising through a pack of red shirts before coolly releasing Pedro, resulted in a fierce shot from Willian, but Adrian was again able to save well.
“Gilmour. Excellent there, Al.”
This was turning, early, into some game. It had all of our full and undivided attention. I wondered what John was making of it in the West Upper.
After twelve minutes, I leaned over towards PD.
“Open game, innit?”
There was a reassuring nod of agreement from him and also Alan alongside me.
Barely after me commenting, the game stepped up a gear. Attempting to play the ball out of defence, we put pressure on the wall of red. Barkley forced a slip and the ball fell to Willian. His optimistic shot flew at Adrian, but whereas just thirty seconds before he had saved well, this time the ball bounced off him, and flew into the goal.
GET IN.
Willian danced away and in front of the livid Liverpudlians.
Livid Liverpudlians. Is there any other type?
Stamford Bridge was bouncing. What joy.
Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now, like.”
Chris : “Come on my little diamonds, la.”
Could we make it three out of three in the FA Cup against reigning European Champions?
1978, 1982 and 2020?
We were going to give it our best shot by the looks of it.
The game continued to thrill, and we could – ever so slightly – begin to enjoy it all with that slender lead.
Gilmour, getting into it, tackling hard, kept the ball alive and helped win a free-kick after a foul on Ross Barkley. A fine effort from Marcos Alonso sailed narrowly wide.
On around twenty minutes, pure pinball in the Chelsea box as shot after shot tested Kepa. A double save, a save, another save. All within a few seconds. It was dramatic and glorious stuff, though in the light of day two of the shots were hit straight at him.
What a game.
Mane, the biggest Liverpool threat by some margin, wriggled through our defence like a little eel and forced another excellent save from Kepa who was, dramatically, the centre of attention. Williams made a poor effort to connect with the rebounded shot. We had survived another scare.
A lot of the standard Chelsea and Liverpool songs were getting aired towards the end of the first-period and it absolutely added to the occasion.
“Fuck off Chelsea FC, you ain’t got no history.”
“Steve Gerrard Gerrard, he slipped on his fucking arse.”
There was gutsy defending from our players, and this was turning into a rather old-fashioned game of football with a lovely balance of cut and thrust, raw energy and honest attacks. Pedro was as involved as anyone, and after a few early miss-fires, was causing all sorts of problems. Giroud was a one man battling-ram. But the undoubted star of the first-half was young Billy Gilmour. Billy the kid was everywhere. An absolutely stunning performance.
Mateo Kovacic was injured, to be replaced on forty-two minutes by the fresh legs of Mason Mount.
Liverpool, after a string start, were visibly starting to become less of a threat.
As the first-half came to a close, I had a question for Alan.
“Wasn’t Lalana in the Teletubbies”?
At the break, all was well with the world. Previously worried faces had changed. There was a lovely buzz in the air.
On Saturday 24 April 1920, on this very same site, if not this very same stadium – but certainly one which was in situ for the 1982 game, those lovely packed terraces – my grandfather stood on the great slug of the West terrace with his old school friend Ted Knapton alongside him. It was half-time, and the score between the two teams – Aston Villa, who he favoured, and Huddersfield Town – was 0-0. It had been an exhilarating game of football for my grandfather, though the spectacle of seeing fifty-thousand spectators in one sports ground had proved to be the one abiding memory that he would take away with him.
Fifty thousand people.
And virtually all were men, and so many had fought in the Great War.
My grandfather was twenty-five years old. He silently gazed out at the main stand on the far side, the open terraces behind each goal, and looked behind him at row after row of fellows in caps and hats, some with the colourful favours of the two competing teams. A claret and blue rosette here. A light blue hat there.
Fifty-thousand men.
It struck home.
My grandfather had just that week spotted a local girl, a few years younger than him, who was beginning work in the manor house of his home village. She was a young cook, with a lovely smile, and had caught his eye.
My grandfather was a rather quiet man. He looked out at all those faces. He did not speak to his friend Ted, but he – at Stamford Bridge on Cup Final day 1920 – had decided that the stadium, indeed the whole of England was full of men, and the thought of one of them asking the young cook out before he had a chance to utter a shy “hello” ate away at him.
He had survived the Great War. He lived in a great village and now this great spectacle had stirred him in a way that he had not expected.
“You had better get your act together, Ted Draper. On Monday at lunch time, I think I will ask Blanche if she would like to accompany her to next weekend’s village dance. I can’t be second in that race.”
Almost one hundred years later, the players of Chelsea and Liverpool reappeared on the pitch. Could our lively form continue into the second-half? We bloody hoped so, but there was another enforced change early on. Willian, injured – oh our bloody injury list – was replaced by Jorginho, and there was a shift of Mason Mount out wide.
The game continued with the same noisy support cascading down from the stands. The Matthew Harding seemed particularly up for it, no doubt aided by some interlopers from The Shed who had been displaced by the northern hordes. The game had lost little of its attraction in the first half. On the hour, a fine cross field ball from Dave opened up the Liverpool defence but Mount was scythed down. I honestly thought that the position of the resulting free-kick would be too central, too flat. But to my surprise, Mason dug one out. Sadly, the fine effort bounced on top of Adrian’s bar.
So close.
On the hour, too, a loud and beautiful chant was aired for the very first time.
“One Billy Gilmour. There’s only one Billy Gilmour.”
Just three minutes later, with Chelsea defending, Pedro – bless him – nipped in to win the ball and Giroud jumped so well to move it on. The ball fell at the feet of Ross Barkley, still in his own half. I reached for my camera.
“Here we go.”
I sensed a huge chance.
Barkley ran on, and on, and with Pedro in acres to his right, I half-expected a slide rule pass. But he kept running, despite being chased by two defenders, and with one recovering defender goal side. He kept going. A shimmy, a shot – CLICK.
Adrian was beaten.
A goal.
Oh get in you bastard.
I was full of smiles, but clicked away. I had only recently mentioned to Alan that “I bet Barkley would love to score tonight.”
His slide was euphoric.
Up the fucking Toffees, up the fucking Chelsea.
Chelsea 2 Liverpool 0.
Just beautiful. The goal had come at just the right time. Liverpool had been clawing their way back into it a little.
Another lovely chant was bellowed from the lungs of the Matthew Harding Lower.
“One decent Scouser. There’s only one decent Scouser. One decent Scouser.”
Bliss.
Incredibly, from a Liverpool corner, Rudiger headed strongly out and Pedro – bless him – picked up the pieces, and his little legs went into overdrive. I reached for my camera once more.
“Here we go.”
His legs pumped away, but as he ate up the ground I sensed he was tiring. His shot, after a long run, lacked placement and Adrian easily saved.
In the last segment of the match, with Liverpool fading, Giroud capped a very fine performance indeed by forcing himself to reach a lovely pass from Dave, strongly fighting off challenges, but Adrian was able to touch the effort onto the bar and down.
Liverpool were chasing a lost cause now. Late substitutions Firmino and Salah added nothing.
It was Chelsea who finished the stronger, with shots from Mount and Giroud continuing to test Adrian. Gilmour had a quieter second-half, but one dribble late on made us all so happy.
“One Billy Gilmour.”
Indeed.
Reece James replaced the fantastic Giroud in the final few minutes.
The final whistle signalled the end.
“One Step Beyond.”
It had been a game for the ages.
As we bundled down the steps, and onto the Fulham Road, everything was fine in our world.
Into the last eight we went.
Yet another FA Cup appearance? It’s a possibility.
In 1920, the FA Cup Final stayed at 0-0, and Aston Villa – much to my grandfather’s approval – won 1-0 in extra-time with a goal from Billy Kirton.
However, as my dear grandfather Ted Draper travelled back by train with his pal that evening, back to beautiful and bucolic Somerset, he had another match on his mind.
On the Monday, he met with his new love, and nervously chatted.
He would later marry Blanche in the summer of 1925. My mother Esme would arrive in 1930, and the rest, as they say in Liverpool, is history.
