Mella & Vobster United | CHELSEA/esque

Chelsea vs. Everton : 26 April 2025.

This is a game that I might not have attended.

Had Frome Town needed points against AFC Totton for survival in Step Three of the non-league pyramid, there was a chance that I would be missing this Chelsea match. However, my hometown team’s presence in the Southern League Premier South was extinguished on Easter Saturday after the briefest of one season stays and so I was not required to make that heart-wrenching decision.

Chelsea won again.

It was a phrase that I hoped to be reporting after the game.

What of this day, then?

We didn’t really appreciate the 12.30pm kick-off as it would mean that the pre-match would be ridiculously squeezed into a ninety-minute period before 11.30am. Everton, revitalised under the returning David Moyes, would prove a difficult nut to crack, but after a little run of four unbeaten games, there was hope that Chelsea would prevail. Suddenly, a top five or six or seven finish was looking likely, despite my recent protestation of us finishing eighth.

I was up at 5.45am. I always aim to get to PD’s house in Frome bang on 7am and I am annoyed if I am even a minute late. I left my house at 6.43am. I still had to fuel up, but I shot over to Nunney Catch to do so and pulled up at his house in Frome at 6.59am.

Result.

After the game, the instruction from PD was to get him back to Frome as soon as possible so he could then drive down to a night of merriment in Burnham-on-Sea where he owns a static caravan.

“Should be back by 6pm, mate.”

To get to London as soon as possible, we ate our McBreakfast on the hoof to save precious minutes. We noted heavier-than-usual traffic going into the city at 9am. This was a very busy weekend in the capital; not only were Chelsea at home, but both FA Cup semi-finals were scheduled, the Eubank vs. Benn fight was taking place at Tottenham on Saturday night and the London Marathon was on the Sunday. However, I dropped the lads off on the Fulham High Street at around 9.45am. So far, so good.

I drove up from Fulham into Hammersmith and parked on Charleville Road once again, and then quickly walked to West Kensington to catch a tube down to Putney Bridge. I walked into “The Eight Bells” at 10.25am, aware that I had probably lost my usual seat at the table with Salisbury Steve, Lord Parky, P-Diddy and Jimmy the Greek.

Not to worry. I walked over to chat to two lads who I had invited along to the packed pub for their first-ever Chelsea pre-match. I have known Philip, from Baltimore, as a Chelsea mate on Facebook for a few years, and he was perched at a high table with his good friend Douglas. We chatted for the best part of an hour about all things Chelsea first and foremost, all things Baltimore, all things Philadelphia – ahead of the two games in June – and all things sport. We have a few mutual friends and so that is always nice.

The two lads loved the cosy intimacy of the pub, and we were able to regale each other of our Chelsea stories.

Phil became a Chelsea supporter right after the 1997 FA Cup Final triumph, and this resonated with me since I became hooked while at my village school around the time of the 1970 FA Cup win. I told them of how my fanaticism at an early age was remarkably intense. I told the story of me, at the age of five or six, receiving a Liverpool duffel bag from my paternal grandfather and being mortified that he had not realised my Chelsea fascination. I remember the annoyance of both parents too. Phil had a ticket for the Shed Lower during the 2019/20 season but never attended because of COVID. This would be his second Chelsea game in London, however, after the Palace semi-final in 2023. This was a game that I, ironically, did not attend as I was not allowed in with my SLR camera.

Douglas was out in Ghana in around 2006 when he became fascinated with that area’s love of Chelsea, via Michael Essien, his favourite Chelsea player, and so he soon chose us as his club. This would be his first-ever Chelsea game in the UK, though he might have seen us play a game in the US.

It was horrible to hear that both had to resort to expensive tickets in West View instead of watching their first-ever Chelsea games at HQ in the more traditional strongholds of the MHL or The Shed.

It seemed that there were coincidences throughout our chit-chat. Phil and I found out that we follow the same NHL team, the Vancouver Canucks (me very loosely), and that Douglas and I share the same birthday.

However, despite the three of us getting along so well, I did warn them.

“If we lose today, you’re not fucking coming back.”

They set off early, and then the rest of us headed up to Stamford Bridge around twenty minutes later.

I stood at the CFCUK stall for a few moments with a few acquaintances, good loyal and friendly Chelsea supporters all, as Kerry Dixon walked by. He wasn’t feeling too bright so was off home after a little spell with the hospitality team. He spotted a few faces and approached us.

“Ah, this is the hierarchy, is it?”

“More like the lowerarchy, Kerry” I replied.

With that, I took a few photos of the bustling scene outside the ground, hid my SLR, and entered via my usual “lucky turnstile.”

I was in at just gone midday.

On this occasion, Alan was up in Barrow following his Bromley in their last away game of this successful first season in the Football League. He had sold his ticket on the exchange to a lad from Latvia, proudly wearing a Chelsea trackie-top, and his sister was momentarily in my seat. Her ticket was towards the top of the stand. We moved things around and Clive took the spare seat in front so they could sit together. I sat next to PD who was eventually in Alan’s seat.

PD was the spectator-equivalent of an inverted full-back.

Rob told me that he was off to see Walton & Hersham directly after our game, another “double-header” successfully navigated. His team are, of course, in the Southern League Premier South, just like Frome for this season.

It was another cracking day in London. I looked over at the three-thousand Everton fans and wondered if this visit would end up following a well-worn pattern.

Everton’s last league win at Stamford Bridge was on 26 November 1994.

Should we win, again, today, it would be the thirtieth consecutive year of being unbeaten against them.

“No pressure, Chelsea.”

The teams entered the pitch.

No flames but flags in The Shed.

Us?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fenandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I posted on Facebook : “I’m playing right-back next week.”

The game began and I wondered where on earth the inspiration for Everton’s horrible dark grey and yellow kit originated.

Right then, we attacked The Shed.

In possession, we became a back three of Cucurella, Colwill and Our Trev moving over to the right, with Moises Caicedo joining up with Enzo and Lavia in the middle, and God Help Everton.

Joking apart, we began well and apart from an Everton free kick in the first few minutes it was all Chelsea for the first twenty minutes. Apart from a noisy flurry at the start from Everton, their support soon quietened down and they hardly sung a note.

On nine minute, a great early ball from Levi Colwill found Cole Palmer in an advanced role but he could not direct a shot on goal. I love us mixing it up occasionally, to keep the opposing defence on their toes. Pedro Neto was staying wide, and I loved it. On thirteen minutes, a positive run from Noni Madueke into a good position but Jordan Pickford was able to save at full stretch, the ball tipped around the far post.

The noise from both sets of fans had quietened by now.

We dominated possession and tried to open up the Everton defence. Virtually all their grey-shirted players were behind the ball, and space was a premium. I wondered if we were in for another hour or so of tedious chess play.

On twenty-five minutes, a free kick from the right and Pickford flapped and the clearance was poor but Marc Cucurella’s bouncing effort went just wide.

On twenty-seven minutes, Everton tried to build a rare attack, but a through ball aimed at Beto was intercepted well by Our Trev who pushed the ball to Enzo. He spotted the unmarked Jackson, left up field after an attack, and in space. The striker received the ball, turned, and with nobody coming to close him down, drilled a low shot into the goal. The dive from Pickford was in vain. To my joy, I was right behind the shot. I saw it all.

It really was a stunningly simple goal, but very well executed by the often-abused Jackson.

He ran off to celebrate and the Stamford Bridge crowd purred their approval.

Alan, in Barrow : “THTCAUN.”

Chris, in The Sleepy Hollow : “COMLD.”

And all was well with the world.

The game returned to its normal pattern, but I commented to Paul that “we have played worse than this during the season.”

It was decent stuff. Noni and Neto were causing Everton some concerns out wide, Enzo was aggressive and involved, while the returning Romeo Lavia was at his understated best, a modern day Johnny B. Cucurella was as playing to his usual high standards and Caicedo was Caicedo, probably my player of the year. However, Palmer seemed to be struggling.

I said to Paul that if someone, new to our team and watching for the first time, was told that one of our players was being heralded as one of the best young players in the world before Christmas, not many would guess it was our number twenty.

In injury-time, a header that ended up going ridiculously wide seemed like Everton’s first attack in ages, maybe since 1994.

At the break, I remembered two fantastic moments.

Firstly, the Everton player Iliman Ndiaye bamboozled his markers with incredible fleet-footed skill. The ball was touched quickly between feet, down near the touchline in front of the West Stand, and it was an impressive a piece of skullduggery that I have seen for a while.

Secondly, not so far away from that part of the pitch, the ball was played quickly out of defence to Pedro Neto and he had the defender at his mercy. He was running at pace; the defender was back-peddling and was completely unsure which way Neto would push the ball. As a former right winger, I really appreciated that moment. Neto had the defender just where he wanted him with acres of space to run into. He tapped the ball a few times, just to prolong the agony. A quick shimmy one way, the ball went the other, and it was just like me against Gary Witcombe in a house football match in early 1978 all over again.

Bliss.

At half-time, my good friend Pete – from London, then San Francisco, now Seattle, I met him in Los Angeles in 2007 – came down for a few words and we made plans to see each other in Philly in June.

The game re-started.

What looked like a rotten corner from Neto on the far side, was rescued by Madueke at the near post and he almost turned and screwed a shot in, but Pickford saved with his feet.

On fifty-three minutes, a poorly executed back pass to Pickford saw Jackson one on one but Pickford was just able to clear in time. Just after, a fine Madueke cross into the danger area, but no Chelsea player was close enough to apply the coup de grace. Then just after this, Chalobah glanced a header just wide.

On fifty-three minutes, it was time for the much-maligned Robert Sanchez to shine. Beto was played in after an errant pass out of defence by Colewill. The Everton striker shot low from an angle but, thankfully, Sanchez dropped low to his right and kept it out at full stretch.

On sixty-seven minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia.

On sixty-six minutes, Reece to right back, Moises to the base of the midfield.

Once we had the ball, “budge up.”

A shot from Idrissa Gueye was straight at Sanchez. From his throw out, Caicedo ran strong and long at the defence, with defenders snapping at his heels, but his shot was wide. From the resulting corner, Cucurella forced a save from Pickford, the ‘keeper reaching up to gather.

On seventy-seven minutes, Madueke went down after a coming together of bodies, and we all thought he was play-acting. He was motionless for a while but then returned to the action. Then, within seconds, he was running at pace at the Everton defence and forced Pickford to make another fine, sprawling save.

Pickford had to save again moments later, this time keeping out Cucurella’s header from the resulting corner.

Everton’s support was roused by an upturn in their play, and we could hear them again. To be truthful, Stamford Bridge wasn’t noisy at all during this lunch-time game. During this second-half, we seemed to be a lot more sloppy, and made a few silly errors. We begged for a calming second goal.

Jackson thought he that had scored but it was chalked off for offside by VAR, no complaints.

On seventy-eight minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Madueke on the left.

On eighty-six minutes, another fantastic save as Everton went close with a volleyed, side-footed effort from Dwight McNeil.

Two late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

Tyrique George for Jackson.

There was another fine save from Sanchez from Youssef Chermiti in the closing moments.

One last free kick from Everton, a strong leap from Reece James, the ball was headed away, and that was that.

Chelsea won again.

“It’s a bloody good job they haven’t got a striker…”

There was heavy traffic as I headed up the North End Road and made my way home. All eyes were on the clock.

Returning home, I was to learn some fantastic news regarding two Chelsea mates.

Ian, who often drinks in The Eight Bells, was at Brackley Town for the day and saw his team beat Kidderminster Harriers 5-0 to gain promotion to the National League, the much-vaunted Step One. Like me, he had a tough decision – Brackley or Chelsea – but was rewarded.

Leggo, my mate from 1984/85, was at Bedford Town and saw his home team win 2-0 against Stourbridge and gain promotion from the Southern League Central to the National League South. It is worth noting that both Bedford and Frome were promoted from Step 4 last season and while Frome have sadly returned, Bedford have moved on. It’s an incredible story. Also, the club survived a belittling take-over bid from the moneyed, yet uncredible, Real Bedford in the past week or so.

Elsewhere, Rob’s Walton & Hersham beat Swindon Supermarine 4-1, and as for Frome Town, we lost 0-4.

To complete my review of the non-league scene, I have something a lot more local.

While Frome Town lost 1-0 to Weston-super-Mare in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, my village team Mells & Vobster United won the Somerset Junior Cup Final against fierce local rivals Coleford Athletic 3-1 during the week.

Oh, and I reached Frome at 5.58pm.