Tales From A Visit From The Vale

Posted on April 11, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Port Vale : 4 April 2026.

The hangover from the loss at Everton lasted longer than I had expected, but it is no real surprise. The Chelsea team performed at a very low level, there was my personal altercation with a fellow-supporter, and the sight of the Chelsea team playing in front of just five-hundred of our three-thousand fans at the end of the game didn’t sit well with me at all.

However, there was a full fortnight before the next Chelsea game and I would be able to enjoy three Frome Town games in that period. It felt like a busman’s holiday, of sorts, and a very pleasant one too. That I needed to squeeze in five days of holiday in that fortnight made for a very nice feeling indeed.

The first of these games took place on Tuesday 24 March at Falmouth in Cornwall. After my faux-pas in booking up the wrong dates for a potential two-day stay, I made this a lengthy “in-and-out” mission. I had time for a drink with a Frome mate on the quayside first, though, and was amazed how many Frome supporters had travelled to the game. On a very wet night, in a competitive match, Frome ran out 4-1 winners. My position in the covered main stand meant I kept dry, but others were drenched despite standing under cover. There is, indeed, no escape from horizontal rain.

My abiding memory of the game was how entertaining the match turned out to be. Despite a soft pitch and atrocious conditions, both teams went hell-for-leather. Hats off to the Falmouth Town support too, who made a racket even when losing heavily.

However, I again realised a major difference between football on this night at this game and at this level in general and that of the Premier League.

At the very top level, players are super fit, and play is often squeezed into a very compact area, with defenders sitting deep. Therefore, play slows down because there is such a lack of space. Often players are squeezed into only thirty yards of the pitch’s length. However, at Frome’s level, players are not quite so fit, conditions are not so perfect, and play is much more spread out spatially. Very often, players take up half of the pitch’s length. This results in more space and a greater variety of ways and methods to attack.

Leaving a sodden Falmouth that night, my love of the lower levels of football was strengthened. I had seen football “how it used to be played” and those memories kept me contented on the long drive home.

These days, as always, we don’t need sporting perfection; we just crave entertainment.

The next game in my Frome Town trilogy was a home match with Didcot Town on Saturday 28 March. On a gorgeous sunny day, watched by a lovely attendance of 608, two David Duru goals gave Dodge a 2-0 win against a stubborn Didcot Town team. It rounded off a fine week of three wins, and our unbeaten run now stood at twenty-five in the league alone.

The final match took place in Worcestershire in the village of Inkberrow on Good Friday, home to Sporting Club Inkberrow. On a very windy day and backed by around one-hundred and forty away fans, Frome stormed to a 3-0 lead in the first half in a fantastic display of attacking football. No further goals ensued, but this was a very comprehensive performance. It meant that my hometown team required just one more point in its remaining four games to become Champions and secure automatic promotion back to the Southern League Premier.

One moment struck a chord from this game, though. Losing 0-3 and with just minutes remaining, the Inkberrow players were streaming forward in search of a goal. Their spirit was amazing to see. As a stark comparison, I was reminded of many occasions when Chelsea are losing and we witness defenders and midfielders passing the ball painstakingly between them, none of them taking ownership of the moment, none of them looking to play outside the tedious regimen we find at that level.

Sigh.

With the Frome break now behind me, it was time to focus on the oldest football competition in the world; Chelsea were up against Port Vale at Stamford Bridge in the Quarter Finals of the FA Cup.

A game against Vale was long overdue, despite them being only the twelfth team that we ever played way back on 21 October 1905. Our history with them goes back as far as is almost possible to go. However, we last played the Valiants from Burslem in 1929.

This would be a massive game for them. It was their biggest FA Cup match for decades. I tried to think of a Chelsea comparison. Maybe our visit to the San Siro in 1999, when it felt like a rights-of-passage, a tilt at giants, a massive away game.

Vale would be bringing around 6,500, the entire Shed End, and it meant that Parky would be displaced.

On the way over to collect Parky from his village, I spoke to PD about this.

“I wonder which poor unsuspecting bugger is going to be sat next to Parky today, mate?”

We had a little giggle.

It was a clear run up to London on this Saturday morning. Midway through our journey I asked Parky where he was sitting.

“Matthew Harding, mate.”

“Whereabouts, Parky?”

“Dunno, let me look at my phone…U08”

“That’s our section.”

“Oh nice…Row D, Seat 371.”

“Fackinell, mate…you’re sat next to us. You must have Clive’s seat.”

We cracked up.

What were the chances of that?

“I wonder which poor unsuspecting bugger is going to be sat next to Parky today?”

Us, that’s who.

Oh boy.

I met up with the lads in “The Eight Bells”, but there was a different vibe on this occasion. The Oxford vs. Cambridge boat race was taking place on the Thames, starting at nearby Putney Bridge, and so the pub was overflowing with pretty young things supporting both universities. There was also a smattering of Port Vale fans in the pub, causing no problems, and this added an extra dimension.

When it was revealed in the summer, the Port Vale home shirt gained lots of attention for its class and style. Up close it is even better. I spotted that the back of the shirt is sponsored, in feint gold, by my alma mater, the University of Staffordshire. Back in the ‘eighties it was known as North Staffs Poly. Because I always lived close to the Victoria Ground in Stoke, I always gravitated to Stoke City – I think I saw them play around seven or eight times in my three years in The Potteries – and never felt like supporting the “obscure but trendy” option of Port Vale. In fact, I only ever saw them play once while living in the city.

Back in 1987, on 24 January, I was lured up to Burslem to watch Port Vale play Brentford. 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 choose 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 just sixty-five away fans at the other end of the ground.

Now, almost forty years later I would be seeing Port Vale play once more.

I chatted to a couple of “Stokies” in the pub and one of them mentioned how poorly his team were playing, mired to the bottom of the third tier.

“If you score one early, we will crumble.”

The pub was full of visitors from Vale and the Varsity, and it was a nice change. I even found myself watching the boat race on the TV, with memories of my childhood, eager to spot Craven Cottage on the TV screen.

Before the game began, there was a respectful mention of former Chelsea goalkeeper Tony Godden who had recently passed away, aged just seventy. Tony came in to our team in 1986 to offer some experience and played around thirty games. I liked him a lot. He went down in Chelsea folklore by saving two penalties within a few minutes of each other at the Stretford End in a game on 28 September 1986, a game that I attended while living in Stoke.

RIP Tony Godden

I can’t lie; despite Port Vale’s lowly position in League One, I was still worried about the outcome of this match. It had the potential to become the biggest banana skin of them all. Forget Orient in 1972 and forget Bradford City in 2015. This could be the biggest.

Which team did Liam Rosenior select?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Tosin – Hato

Santos – Lavia

Estevao – Palmer – Neto

Joao Pedro

This was surely a good enough team to beat the lowly Valiants?

In the game at Inkberrow on Good Friday, Albie Hopkins pounced on just twenty-two seconds to put Frome Town ahead, and Chelsea got off to an absolute flier in this game too. Pedro Neto fired in a corner in front of the travelling Vale fans at The Shed. The Vale ‘keeper Joe Gauci flapped not once but twice, and the ball broke to Jorrel Hato who smashed home from close range. Just sixty-four seconds were on the clock.

Chelsea 1 Port Vale 0.

Alan, next to Parky : “They’ll have to come at us know, duck.”

Me, next to Alan : “Come on my little diamonds, duck.”

There was that early goal. I wondered if they would indeed crumble.

We were dominating the early portion of the game, putting the visitors under pressure. A shot from Cole Palmer was blocked.

They countered occasionally, and a cross-come-shot from Rhys Walters whizzed across the six-yard box but here was no Port Vale player present to tap in. A header flew past the post from Connor Hall. But we never looked under threat.

On twenty-one minutes, Palmer set off on a central run, but resisted the urge to shoot on a few occasions, eventually ran out of steam, and lost control. A year or more ago, I felt sure he would have pulled the trigger. It illustrated his form of late, a product of both a lingering injury and a fall in self-confidence.

Just as the frustration was rising in the Stamford Bridge stands, Pedro Neto dug in to beat his defender on the right and crossed for Joao Pedro. He took a touch, pirouetted, dummied to shoot, then slotted home. It was a lovely goal.

Chelsea 2 Port Vale 0.

On thirty-nine minutes, a rare shot from Romeo Lavia, but a pathetic shot too, right at their ‘keeper.

Just after, on forty-two minutes, a ball forward – HOLD THE FRONT PAGE – by Tosin was beautifully touched by Malo Gusto into the path of Joao Pedro. Gusto had continued his run and drifted wide. Joao Pedro played in Gusto whose low shot was pushed out by Gauci towards Palmer. His stab at the ball was deflected in by the lunge of defender Jordan Lawrence-Gabriel.

Chelsea 3 Port Vale 0.

Game over? Surely.

Soon into the second period, we witnessed a lovely move. We won the ball and it was played out to Joao Pedro. His quick touch set up Santos to play in Estevao, who had been relatively quiet in the first half, but his left-footed shot grazed the post. Just after, Palmer was centrally located near the “D” and studiously aimed a shot towards the same post. It turned into the slowest shot of the season. Gauci ate it up.

Neto slammed a fine strike at Gauci.

The Matthew Harding, oddly, taunted the Vale support.

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

This was odd since the home support had hardly sung a note all afternoon.

On fifty-seven minutes, Gusto was found in some space and lofted a fine cross towards the ridiculously un-marked Tosin. The defender rose well and headed down well. It was a neat finish.

Chelsea 4 Port Vale 0.

Soon after, the old favourite echoed out throughout Stamford Bridge.

“Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be.”

Not so long after, a mightily loud “Vale ‘Til I Die” rang out of The Shed. It was their loudest moment. None of them had left, either. They were staying put.

Estevao, sent in by Neto, forced a save from Gauci.

On the hour, Liam Rosenior made some changes.

Alejandro Garnacho for Pedro Neto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Dario Essugo for Palmer.

There were moans after Estevao played in Garnacho, who planted the ball over the bar.

Fackinell.

There later followed many instances of that crouching dribbling style of the Argentinian down below me.

On sixty-five minutes, Estevao hit the other post after being set free, and after twisting and turning inside the box. This young lad has such talent. His smile is infectious. I hope he stays with us for a while before others come calling.

From nowhere, the Stamford Bridge crowd at last generated some noise.

On sixty-nine minutes, an Estevao corner, a Santos leap, an easy goal, but awful defending again.

Chelsea 5 Port Vale 0.

On seventy-four minutes, a rare shot from a Vale player; a firm strike was well-saved by Sanchez, pushed out for a corner.

On seventy-eight minutes, a debut for Ryan Kavuma-McQueen, who replaced Romeo Lavia, quelle surprise.

On eighty-two minutes, a lovely ball set up Garnacho who struck a shot against the post, only for Estevao to tuck in the rebound. There was a suspicion of offside, but VAR disagreed.

Chelsea 6 Port Vale 0.

I chuckled when the visiting fans taunted us :

“Is there a fire drill?”

On eighty-five minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

In the last minute of the match, strong hold-up play from Delap set up Garnacho who was up against a lumbering Vale defender. He tumbled, and a penalty was signalled.

It looked to me like Garnacho had to argue with Delap about who would take the kick. In the end, Garnacho took the ball, and we waited.

I almost expected him to dribble the ball in.

But no, a confident strike.

Chelsea 7 Port Vale 0.

I would like to say “magnificent” but the opposition were truly atrocious.

They were lucky to get nought.

Right then…

Charlton Athletic, Hull City, Wrexham, Port Vale.

Who is next?

The Frome Trilogy

Chelsea vs. Port Vale

Tales From An Easy One

Posted on March 2, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Southampton : 25 February 2025.

Straight after the away game at Villa Park, Chelsea were up against Southampton at Stamford Bridge with just two days of rest for players and supporters alike.

Aston Villa Saturday evening, Southampton Tuesday evening.

No time to breath.

I worked another early shift – up at 4.45am, work from 6am to 2pm, kick-off 8.15pm, back to bed God-only knows when – and a little part of me doubted my sanity. If ever there was a game to politely miss, it might be this one. We were on a run of three straight losses and Southampton were so far adrift of safety that they were hardly an exciting attraction. I recalled the away game in early December when we won an odd game 5-1, and some easy-to-please supporters were swooning with a new Enzo Maresca chant. It was clear, then, how poor the Saints team in 2024/25 would prove to be.

But I would be there, in my seat in The Sleepy Hollow, where I have been for most games since purchasing Seat 169 / Row D / Block 9 in the summer of 1997. Apart from the enforced absence of the COVID era, I haven’t missed too many. I would guess I have missed around twenty games since August 1997; through holidays, work commitments, occasional spells of illness, taking care of my mother in her declining years, but none through a simple “I can’t be bothered.”

“It’s what I do.”

Unfortunately, His Lordship was unable to attend this one. At about 4.30pm, I dropped PD off down by The Eight Bells. I wasn’t quite sure what my pre-match would entail, but I was pleased to be able to park up in exactly the same spot as against West Ham United three weeks earlier, right outside “The Elephant & Barrel.”

I took a photo of the setting sun bouncing off both the Clem Atlee and the Empress State Building to complete my recent triptych of Chelsea pre-match sunsets. As with the photographs, I posted it on Facebook under the title “And All The World Is Chelsea Shaped” after the XTC song of a similar title.

There were a couple of comments that soon followed about the band and the song.

It was 5pm, with still quite a wait until the game began. I decided to dive into “Koka” once again for a pizza. I spotted Gary walking on the other side of the North End Road and he came over for a quick chat. After my bite to eat, I walked up to “The Elm” to enjoy a drink and a catch-up with Gary, Alan, Daryl, Chris, his son Nick and Simon. I hadn’t seen them all together for a while. This was the only the second visit that I have ever made to “The Elm”. It’s ridiculously small, with the world’s smallest gents’ bogs to go with it.

One of the comments about my “Facebook” post came from Pete from Swindon, who I had spotted drinking in a quiet corner of “The Elm” and so I went over to chat to him. Many years ago, he had worked with XTC’s singer Andy Partridge in a department store in the town. I asked if Partridge still lives in Swindon.

“Yes, he still lives in the town. You’d see him around Swindon if you ever visit.”

“Ah, I don’t visit Swindon and I don’t visit it as often as I can.”

Pete smiled.

I was inside Stamford Bridge in good time. Fair play to the Saints faithful; three-thousand strong.

Karl, a friend who lives up on Tyneside, came down to my seat to say a few words. He was here with his young son Harry who was attending his first-ever game at Stamford Bridge. Ironically, Karl explained that Southampton would have been the first team that he would ever see Chelsea play at Stamford Bridge, but the game in early 1995 was postponed. I remember this well, since I had driven up from the West Country on my own for this, only for the match to be called off due to a waterlogged pitch or a frozen pitch, I forget what exactly.

I have been lucky; in almost 1,500 games, only four were called off with me at – or near – the stadia.

West Ham Away – 1986.

Watford Home – 1986.

Southampton Home – 1995.

Aston Villa Home – 1998.

In the early ‘eighties, it seemed that football schedules were often hit with postponements due to frozen pitches. Season 1984/85 was certainly hit by a few. On Saturday 23 February of that season, Chelsea travelled to play Coventry City at Highfield Road. I forget the reason for my non-attendance, but perhaps I had not been able to afford it. I had hoped for a 14,000 gate but just 11,430 showed up. We lost 0-1, a revenge for our 6-2 defeat of Cov earlier in the season. The game is memorable for the first start of the season for Micky Droy after his cameo appearance the previous Saturday. In fact, there is a great photo of Micky Droy with Coventry City’s Stuart Pearce, a photo that covers the Football League from Droy’s debut in 1970 to Pearce’s final game in 2002.

Back to 2025.

Clive was unable to make this game, so I was alongside Alan and PD.

Us?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

Without Jackson nor Guiu fit, our “team full of wingers” were asked to adapt their games once more.

There had been rumours in the build-up to this match that many tickets were going spare, but as the minutes ticked towards the kick-off time, it was obvious that most seats were filled.

Good effort.

At the ridiculous time of 8.15pm, the game began.

The light yellow shirts and the dark shorts of the Southampton team brought back instant and disturbing memories of the “Iniesta” game against Barcelona in 2009. Soon into the match, the Matthew Harding tried to sing three different Chelsea songs at the same time, and it seemed wholly appropriate as Chelsea struggled to link passes and link players. The “team full of wingers” seemed to be doing their own thing. It was, suffice to say, all a bit frustrating.

We soon spotted a potentially physical battle between our own Tosin Adarabioyo and Paul Onuacho – “bless you!” – and in these days of slight and spritely attackers this was perhaps something to relish.

An old school battle.

Jadon Sancho, out on the right, advanced and fizzed in a cross towards the far post but the ball skidded away with nobody remotely close to the ball. In fact, the Southampton fans in row ten of The Shed Lower were closer than any Chelsea player on the pitch.

Pedro Neto was the most fluid of our attacking four, but in general the first ten minutes or so were full of misplaced flicks and kicks.

On fourteen minutes, the gargantuan Saints striker – at 6’7” he was built like the proverbial brick out-house – created some space inside the box but his effort was well over the bar.

“Good defensive clearance that, Onuacho.”

“Bless you!”

“Thank you.”

On twenty minutes, an encouraging move at last. Enzo Fernandez received the ball and combined a beautiful drag-back with a quick turn and was able to set up Cole Palmer. Unfortunately, despite steadying himself, his left-footed shot was ridiculously wide of the left-hand post. He had slipped just at the key moment.

Just after, Palmer found himself just eight yards out, but Aaron Ramsdale blocked the shot superbly. From the resulting Enzo corner, Tosin rose at the far post and headed across the goal. Rushing in at the far post was the previously quiet Christopher Nkunku, who bravely headed in despite the presence of a Saints defender.

There was a VAR wait, but the goal stood.

We were one-up.

Al and I went through our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine.

On thirty-one minutes, I had to admire a fine cross from a Saints player down below me that found the head of Onuachu – “bless you!” – but Filip Jorgensen saved the day with a fantastic leap and tip away.

On thirty-three minutes, nice work from Sancho enabled Palmer to receive the ball and I willed him to finish using his favoured left foot from the right of the Saints goal. Alas, his low shot ended up a few feet wide of the far post.

In baseball parlance, Palmer was 0 for 3 thus far.

Not to worry, just three minutes later, Nkunku played a fine ball into the inside-left channel into the path of Neto, who slammed the ball, first-time, between the post and the ‘keeper.

A very fine goal.

I didn’t catch the Neto goal on film, but just before the break I was delighted to photograph another goal. Neto curled in a free kick from the left and Levi Colwill rose unhindered at the far post to head past Ramsdale.

Click.

Goal.

A run to the corner.

Click, click, click, click, click, click.

It hadn’t been the best of performances, but we were three-nil up.

If it was possible, Southampton were even poorer in the second half than the first.

On fifty minutes, a Nkunku header was pushed over by Ramsdale and then Palmer’s shot went straight to the ‘keeper.

“Palmer, swinging, caught : 0 for 4 in his plate appearances so far.”

On fifty-five minutes, decent play by Nkunku set up Palmer, but he appeared to be leaning back as he connected, and the ball was skied over the bar.

“Palmer, an easy out : oh for five.”

Neto, through on goal, stumbled.

Going forward, Southampton were nothing. They were, perhaps, peaking from behind their parked bus.

Some substitutions on sixty-eight minutes.

Tyrique George for Neto.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Sancho.

George impressed with his running and close control. He enjoyed a shot – sadly blazed over – and set up Nkunku. His efforts soon convinced the Matthew Harding to sing his name.

“Tyrique George – he’s one of our own.”

On seventy-eight minutes, some decent play by George down the Chelsea right, just inside the box, allowed the youngster to look up and spot an un-marked Marc Cucurella. It would have been easier for the full-back to smash the ball home with his right foot, but he took a touch for safety and swept it home with his more trustworthy left peg.

Chelsea were four to the good and there was a roar from the Stamford faithful. Cucurella is obviously loved by his teammates, and he enjoyed the hugs and handshakes.

I wasn’t sure about his Charlie Chaplin / penguin impersonation though.

We live in odd times.

Two very late substitutions and a debut.

Mathis Amouogu for Caicedo.

Josh Acheampong for Enzo.

A couple of late chances were exchanged, and then one final very very late substitution and another debut.

Shumaira Mhueka for Enzo.

The debutant almost scored with a header with his very first touch at the top level.

A late free kick for Palmer in prime Palmer territory was saved by Ramsdale.

“Oh for six.”

Sigh.

It stayed 4-0.

I don’t know about others, but sometimes I find myself driving along a road, and I spot a docile pigeon sat on the road ahead. I drive on, hoping that the sight of my car, the noise of my car or the vibrations on the road from the car initiate a sudden sense of panic and worry and the pigeon flies off to seek safety elsewhere.

Sometimes, the pigeon is a very stupid pigeon.

Sometimes, there is oncoming traffic.

Sometimes it is impossible to avoid the pigeon.

Sometimes, I grit my teeth and drive over the pigeon, hoping that it miraculously escapes.

Usually, in such circumstances, I look behind and see a flurry of soft white feathers floating up into the air behind me.

Southampton Football Club; you are a very stupid pigeon.

We crept up to fourth place.

My post on Facebook was an easy one.

“Four goals. Fourth place. Fourkinell.”

No game for me for almost two weeks now.

I’m off for a lie-down.

Tales From Burslem To The Bridge

Posted on October 31, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brentford : 28 October 2023.

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.

Treacherous waters ahead…

Tales From A Goal And A Win

Posted on October 1, 2023 by Chris Axon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good food in there, innit?”

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

Our team?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Disasi – Colwill – Chilwell

Ugochukwu – Caicedo

Maatesen – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

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

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

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

Fackinell.

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

The game kicked-off.

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

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

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

After a Chelsea attack, the ball was played back.

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

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

Fackinell.

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

“Needs to be stronger.”

Palmer advanced but his shot was weak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get in.

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

Phew.

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

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

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

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

Raheem Sterling replaced Mudryk.

Then two more changes.

Conor Gallagher for Maatsen.

Enzo for Palmer.

Both had played well on the night; positive signs.

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

Armando Broja replaced Jackson.

Another promising show from him.

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

A volley from Joao Pedro was blasted over.

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

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

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

But so much for a new ground.

We were paired with Blackburn Rovers at home.

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

See you in The Eight Bells.

The Rylston