Fulham vs. Chelsea : 7 January 2026.
This match at Craven Cottage would be the first of six consecutive games in London, and for this I was truly thankful. There have been some long hauls over the past month or so, including Leeds, Newcastle and Manchester, and I was looking forward to this spell in the capital.
These games are coming quickly in the month of January, and the club will play a total of nine matches this month.
On the Monday after the game at the Etihad, the club interviewed Liam Rosenior, and on the Tuesday morning it was announced that the former Fulham player who was in charge at our sister club Strasbourg would be unsurprisingly joining us. The length of the contract, of six years, baffled me, but much of modern football leaves me baffled so I tried not to dwell too much on it.
Liam Rosenior, then.
I remembered him from his time at Fulham, but struggled with his spells at other clubs. My first ever game at Craven Cottage with Chelsea was in the 2004/5 season and I quickly checked to see if our new manager was playing on that day over twenty-one years ago. In fact, he was a non-playing substitute. As an aside, I really enjoyed that match, with Arjen Robben on fire, and we won it 4-1. I chuckled when I realised that I recognised virtually all the Fulham team that day. The surnames were listed and I quickly barked out their first names.
Mark Crossley
Moritz Volz
Zat Knight
Zesh Rehman
Carlos Bocanegra
Steed Malbranque
Mark Pembridge
Papa Bouba Diop
Luis Boa Morte
Tomas Radzinski
Andrew Cole
The only two I struggled naming were Carlos Bocanegra and Andrew Cole; I thought it was Andy. Of course, these days I would bloody struggle to name many of the Fulham team’s first names. Sigh.
Anyway, enough of this shite.
Welcome to Chelsea Football Club, Liam Rosenior.
Best wishes for a long and successful career on the Fulham Road.
…stop sniggering at the back.
Incidentally, I used to feel haunted every time that I heard the Rosenior name, including when Liam first came to my attention when he played for the local Bristol City team in 2002. You see, dear reader, his father Leroy played – and scored – against us in a 1-4 defeat at Upton Park on a Bank Holiday Monday in May 1988. That defeat effectively consigned us to a play-off position in a fight to avoid relegation that season. And we all know how that worked out.
In twenty years’, time, I hope that the name Rosenior doesn’t haunt me further.
I worked an early shift and collected PD and Parky at 2pm. I updated the lads on Frome Town’s fine win at Bishops Cleeve the previous night. I fuelled up at Reading Services, and enjoyed a good run in. I dropped them off at “The Eight Bells” at just before 4.30pm.
After parking up at 5pm on Gowan Avenue, I trotted the fifteen minutes down the Fulham High Street to meet up with the lads. A group of five slow-moving Fulham fans were in my way and I sped past them. I hoped it was a metaphor for the evening’s match. I peered into “The Golden Lion” with its “Home Fans Only” sign, then crossed the great divide as I passed “The Kings Arms” and “The Temperance” – away fans – and approached “The Eight Bells” with its “Only Away Fans” sign.
At 5.15pm, I was in, and shot round to join up with PD, LP, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Texas Aleksey. I stayed about an hour, and it was lovely to see so many other Chelsea faces appear in our local. It seemed like we were having a little party in the front room of our house and word had got out. It was splendid.
I found it funny that Scott, Gerry, Martin and I were last together in a bar outside Yankee Stadium in the South Bronx in July, and here were all were again in a pub near Craven Cottage in South Fulham in January.
Things, sadly, would take a turn for the worst.
My friend Chris in North Carolina – formerly of Windsor – messaged me at 5.45pm to inform me that a mutual friend, Mick Collins, had passed away after heart surgery the previous night. I was shocked and stunned. I first met Mick, who retired a few years ago, in Chicago in 2006 for our game against the MLS All-Stars, and our paths would cross on many occasions, in the US and in England. He was a lovely man and will be sorely missed.
RIP Mick Collins.
This was the last of Texas Aleksey’s run of games on his trip and this would be his inaugural visit to Craven Cottage. We all left the pub within a few minutes of each other, but while Jimmy walked ahead with PD and LP, I wandered through the park with Aleksey. It was a bitterly cold night alongside the River Thames.
I took a few photos outside the familiar red brick frontage on Stevenage Road.
I was in at 7.15pm.
Such is the benign nature of Fulham’s support, that it is only at Craven Cottage where home and away fans can walk side-by-side once through the turnstiles and inside the concourse behind the stand.
Very Fulhamish.
However, I wasn’t impressed with my view; although I am an away season ticket holder, I was right down by the corner flag alongside the lower tier of the Riverside Stand.
This little area is full of tourists – It’s easy to tell – and I wondered which ones I would become fixated upon as they looked across at the travelling support, open-mouthed, at the volume and humour of our support. It’s a game I always play at Craven Cottage if I am towards that stand.
Of course, it was the Tyrique George chant that got us all energised last season, and I wondered if the youngster might be included in the squad to act as a catalyst for noise if no other reason.
Well, no. He wasn’t even on the bench.
With Liam Rosenoir watching in the stands, Calum McFarlane took charge for his second game and chose this team :
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto
Trevoh Chalobah
Tosin Adaradioyo
Marc Cucurella
Andrey Santos
Moises Caicedo
Pedro Neto
Enzo Fernandez
Cole Palmer
Liam Delap
So, Enzo in the hole and Cole out wide. I suspected some abuse from the home fans for Tosin.
Was it just me, or did others feel like we would be treading water in this game as we waited for the new man to take over? I expected a hard game against Fulham and predicted a tight 1-1 draw.
Pre-match, some flames flew up into the sky in front of the Riverside Stand while the PA played what sounded like an ACDC song. What could be further from Fulham than ACDC? I think a song by the Brotherhood of Man would have been more fitting. The players marched across the pitch from the cottage, and yet more flames and fireworks zipped up into the cold black sky. The bloke on the PA was even more “shouty” than our dickhead at Stamford Bridge.
Fackinell.
Fulham play in an all-white kit these days, so it was a nice-and-simple whites vs. blues battle on this evening in deepest SW6. The home team attacked us in the Putney End in the first half, and they engineered a shot on goal in the very first minute when Harry Wilson shot low at goal, but Robert Sanchez saved easily.
Just after, the first of many Roman Abramovich chants got going in the away section of the stadium.
Then, the usual chants for players who were not on the pitch, what an odd custom.
I barked out “It’s Salomon.”
In the first fifteen minutes, we dominated possession but with no real effort on goal.
Then, as we neared the twenty-minute mark, two corners on our left in front of the Hammersmith End from Enzo caused a few problems for Bernd Leno. After the ‘keeper clawed at the ball to save it from reaching Liam Delap, another corner swung in and he watched as an Andrey Santos header hit the bar. Another corner was not so problematic and went behind for a goal-kick. With Chelsea having camped out in the Fulham box for a few minutes, Leno spotted a one-on-one and smashed a long ball forward towards Wilson. He was in a simple battle, a running duel, with Cucurella who had been his usual combative self in the opening quarter of the match. To our horror, Cucurella pulled at an arm and Wilson went down.
It was on the edge of the box, and Cucurella was the last man. We were rather unsighted, but the referee gave a straight red. Phone messages arrived to say the same thing.
“Stupid defending. Definite red.”
Thankfully, a VAR check denied Fulham a penalty. Wilson only hit the wall with the free kick.
Calum McFarlane replaced Santos with Jorrel Hato, who slotted into left-back.
Fulham then penned us in for the next period of the game. They dominated possession but didn’t really hurt us.
On thirty-five minutes, more Roman Abramovich chants, quickly followed by one demanding that Eghbali went forth and multiplied.
The mood was getting fractious in the Putney End.
On forty minutes, a decent break involving the hard-working Delap and Enzo, but a tepid shot from Palmer at Leno.
The game deteriorated and I pondered how truly awful the Fulham badge truly is. It sits there atop the gable of the old Leitch stand, now the Johnny Haynes Stand – an exact replica of our old East Stand – and I just shook my head. It looks like it was designed by an eight-year-old in a school detention.
A Fulham effort from Emil Smith-Rowe flew over the bar.
Six minutes of injury time were signalled.
Fulham put the ball in our net via Wilson, but Raul Jiminez looked offside to everyone around us. The Fulham fans roared as the players raced away, and after what seemed like ninety seconds, a VAR sign was flashed up on the screens. Why it took so long I will never know. It seemed to an increasingly cynical me that they waited for the Fulham players to finish celebrating – “great TV, let’s not spoil that” – before VAR was signalled.
All part of the modern football experience, all bloody shite.
Thankfully, VAR ruled offside.
Phew.
Being so low down – the bottom fifteen rows have a shallow rake – I couldn’t get many decent photos at all. As Chelsea attacked us in the second half, I hoped for an improvement.
In the first minute of the second period, a break and Pedro Neto fired over. Just after, a daisy-cutter from Wilson was deflected wide of Sanchez’ goal for a corner. Enzo sent in a corner, but Hato’s header was glanced over.
I found myself momentarily checking some scores – “United losing, Tottenham losing” – and looked up to see a Jiminez leap, alone, that resulted in his header nestling into the corner of the goal.
Fackinell.
Fifty-five minutes had elapsed.
I liked the way that our support responded with the loudest chant of the night from us.
“And it’s super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea FC.
We’re by far the greatest team.
The world has ever seen.”
Well, in New Jersey in July maybe, perhaps not in Fulham in January.
A Fulham shot whipped past Sanchez’ left post. Many home fans presumed it was in. Thankfully, the side netting rippled from the outside only.
On the hour, more Roman Abramovich chants.
And then the other one.
“Fcuk off Eghbali, fuck off Eghbali.”
A pass from deep from Tosin, and Palmer intelligently stepped over it and allowed it to run to Delap who cantered away at the Fulham goal. The young striker went for placement and not power, but Leno got an arm to it and a covering defender headed away.
I want to see more early balls to Delap for him to run onto; surely it is his strength?
Then, the chant of the night, perhaps of the season, or at least the recent weeks.
Zeitgeist at Fulham.
“We don’t care about Clearlake.
They don’t care about us.
All we care about is Chelsea FC.”
On sixty-five, Reece James replaced Enzo who, apart from those flighted corners, had done little.
Then another chant aimed at Clearlake but one man in particular.
“You’re not wanted here.
You’re not wanted here.
Fcuk off Eghbali.
You’re not wanted here.”
A low shot from Moises Caicedo, who himself had been unusually quiet thus far.
From right in front of me, no more than twenty feet away, Neto – minus ‘tache these days – floated in a near-post header. Under pressure from the leaping Gusto, Antonee Robinson could only flick the ball on, and it smacked against the far post. I could not see a jot, but I saw the reactions to a Delap goal.
GET IN YOU FCUKER.
I tried to take some worthwhile photos of the players celebrating but only really succeeded in snapping us fans.
We’re the important ones anyway, right?
It was 1-1, my prediction on the night.
On seventy-five minutes, Josh Acheampong for Gusto and Joao Pedro for Palmer. Unfortunately, Cole had struggled and didn’t look his old self. He seemed frustrated too, which is clearly not a good sign.
Of the two teams, it was Fulham who then upped their challenge, and we had to resort to some desperate defending, hacking away balls, blocking shots and throwing bodies at crosses. There was one absolutely magnificent “star fish” jump from Sanchez that foiled an effort from close in.
“There’s only one Robert Sanchez.
One Robert Sanchez.
He used to be shite.
But now he’s alright.
Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”
This was tense stuff now.
On eighty-one minutes, Sanchez dropped quickly to save well from Smith-Rowe but the rebound fell nicely for Wilson, who had been a threat all night, and he shot low past Sanchez.
I screamed “OH NO.”
Bollocks.
Interestingly, I looked over to my left to the tourist section and only a very small proportion of the one hundred or so fans closest to me were up and celebrating.
Were many of them Chelsea supporters?
Maybe, but perhaps unlikely.
I suspect most just happened to be in London and fancied a game of football to add to their list of boxes to tick. A Premier League game these days sits right alongside a Harry Potter studio tour, a coach trip to Stonehenge, a visit to Harrods and a plate of fish and chips.
£150 or more later, they sat in stoney silence and perhaps wondered what all the fuss was about.
Nine minutes of normal time and four minutes of injury time did not result in any worthwhile Chelsea effort on the Fulham goal.
This ended as a 1-2 loss.
It was Fulham’s third win against us in the past eight encounters after being winless in the previous twenty-one games.
For a club that has never won a major honour in one hundred-and-forty-seven years, this might be the nearest they come to anything worthwhile.
Bless’em.
As I made my way up the steps at the Putney End, and out into the concourse, the PA system played “Good Times” by Chic and I mouthed an obscenity.
One Chelsea lad barked “the Fulham lot are buzzing. One of them has cracked open a cheeseboard” and I had to smile.
I raced off to collect my car from Gowan Avenue and soon picked up my two mates on Findlay Road. We were soon on our way. I reached home at 12.45pm, a relatively early finish compared to recent trips.
It was a weak performance and nobody except Sanchez really shone. The reason for this malaise? Who bloody knows? We are, as ever, a confusing club and a confused club, and I can churn out the usual platitudes about hoping that the new manager can sort everything out, but he is untested at this level and will find himself under huge pressure if things do not go as Clearlake wish.
I wish him well, but…
Our next match is against Charlton Athletic in the FA Cup Third Round on Saturday, one of the great days in the football calendar. It will be my first visit to The Valley since the opening day of 2002/3.
I’ll see some of you there.
HOME AND AWAY
DEEPEST SW6
GOOD TIMES
