Tales From Walham Green

Posted on October 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 25 October 2025.

This would be Sunderland’s first visit to SW6 since the very last game of the 2016/17 season, a resounding 5-1 Chelsea triumph.

And with disruption on the London Underground taking place over the weekend, we decided to keep close to Stamford Bridge before our game against the Black Cats.

I had quickly visited the new “Walham Green” pub on the first day of the season, but it was too busy – and too hot, under the glass roof – and I didn’t enjoy it. However, on this occasion it was a much more enjoyable visit. I like what the Wetherspoon Company has done with the former ticket hall of the old Fulham Broadway underground station. For a while it hosted a market hall, with small shops, but the space has not been used for a few years. Thankfully many of the fittings have remained to this day, and just being in the building brings back so many lovely memories of attending games at Stamford Bridge in my younger days.

Walking up the slight slope, my parents alongside me, the colour of match day, the London accents, cigarette smoke, the chatter, the noise.

The ticketing booths have become the serving areas, underneath a glorious “To The Trains” sign, and even the brass coin wells are still intact.

The building was erected in 1888, and the station was named Walham Green until a change to Fulham Broadway in 1952, just in time for our first League Championship three years later. I have strong memories of watching the 1997 FA Cup parade outside the station and looking up at the many Chelsea supporters who had climbed onto the building to gain a good vantage point.

The old station was used in the opening minutes of the 1998 film “Sliding Doors.”

I joined Parky, PD, Jimmy The Greek and the two Steves for a drink or two from around 10.30am, and we were sat alongside an overflowing table of visiting Sunderland supporters. Another lone Mackem – with a full Sunderland tracksuit top on show – was denied service, and I guess there is a “no away supporters” ruling in operation, although there are no signs. The lads next to us were not wearing Sunderland colours or favours, save for one lad who had his home shirt covered up under a zipped pullover.

They were friendly lads and invited us to their local when we get to visit their hometown on the last day of this current season. I mentioned one fantastic pub we visited in 2016/17, and it turns out that their local is just a few yards away.

Before the season had started, surely the Wearsiders would have been among the favourites to be relegated but their early season form has been surprisingly good. With us not knowing which Chelsea team would show up against them, I – for one – was not being blasé about the outcome of this match.

Sunderland were one of the traditional giants of the English game, though they have not won a single major honour for over fifty years. For those of a certain age, who can ever forget their 1-0 FA Cup win against Leeds United at Wembley in 1973?

Their haul of six league titles equals our total, though the last of these was in 1935/36.

People talk of the powerhouses of the modern era, and the names of Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Manchester City and Chelsea are usually cited.

Yet in the first decades of the professional game in England and Wales, it was a little different. From 1888/89 to 1938/39, the most successful teams were Aston Villa and Sunderland with six titles each, then Arsenal and Everton with five, then Liverpool, Newcastle United and Sheffield Wednesday with four.

I always think that these old established clubs inherently carry a lot of gravitas, and it suits my traditionalist outlook on football when a sleeping giant emerges from years of heartache. In 2019/20, Sunderland sank to their lowest ever league position, eighth in League One. But now they were back.

The previous evening, I had briefly scanned the teams that are currently in the prime positions in the Championship, and I was pleased by the quality of teams – I mean stadia, really – that will be vying for promotion come May. Rather than the same old tired old teams, there is a refreshing blend of names that thrilled me.

The first nine are all crackers.

Coventry City : Frank Lampard’s current team were last in the topflight in 2000/2001, when they played at Highfield Road, a stadium I visited on three occasions. I once visited their current stadium in the FA Cup in 2009. Coventry is a good away trip for me, “up the Fosseway” and I am long overdue a visit.

Middlesbrough : much-maligned but we like our visits to Teesside. Their last top-flight season was 2016/17, but before that it was 2008/9. It’s certainly a cheap night out.

Millwall : I never went to the Den, and I haven’t visited the New Den. It’s about time I went. It will be an experience, for sure, and I have to tick it off at some stage surely? Their last year in the topflight was 1989/90 when I was in North America; a pretty good excuse for not going to the Den if you ask me.

Bristol City : only twenty-three miles away, but my last visit with Chelsea was over thirty years ago. Their last season in the top flight was 1979/80. I have only visited Ashton Gate three times with Chelsea; 1975/76, 1984/85 and 1995/96. I know a few locals who follow City. This would be a very enticing away fixture.

Stoke City : I love going back to my old college town, and this would be a pretty decent away day for me. There must be a few remaining pubs from those years that I can winkle out and revisit. Plus, I need to polish up my Stoke accent too.

Charlton Athletic : a ground that I last visited in 2002, and another trip that is long overdue. I have only visited The Valley twice and I haven’t seen any of it apart from the walk from the train station to the away end. To go there again would be lovely.

Preston North End : their last season in the topflight was 1960/61, and the last time that they were in the same division as Chelsea was 1980/81. I loved the remodelled Deepdale when we played them in the FA Cup in 2010, and a return trip would be excellent.

Hull City : another maligned city, but some great pubs near the marina, I am sure we could find some other pubs too. It’s not a bad stadium as it goes.

Queens Park Rangers : no issue returning here, maybe just for a one-off visit before they get relegated again no doubt. It’s a tight and cramped stadium, but quite unique these days. Whisper it, but it does have its charms.

If I had to chose three it would be Coventry City, Millwall and Bristol City.

After a nice and relaxing time in the first pub, we quickly moved over to “The Tommy Tucker” for more drinks. Here, I met up with Nick, Kimberley and Josh – last seen in Wroclaw – plus Angela, Andrew and Matt. Five out of six are from Fresno, Josh from LA. It was lovely to see them again. As I had mentioned in the Ajax report, a few went to see Dagenham & Redbridge play during the week, and Nick told me that a local chap was intrigued by their accents and a conversation ensued. It turned out that this chap was the manager of Depeche Mode, and of course I had to mention that Dave Gahan and Andy Fletcher – RIP – were Chelsea supporters.

With storm clouds gathering – looking out at the light steel of the Stamford Bridge roof, the dark clouds above were so dramatic – I made a move at about 2.15pm.

Thankfully, the rain soon passed but would return with gusto soon into the match.

We had seen the team on our mobile phones in the pub; I generally approved.

Robert

Reece – Josh – Trevoh – Marc

Enzo – Moises

Pedro – Joao – Alejandro

Marc

It was a ropey start to begin with, and Robert Sanchez made two wayward passes to teammates in the first few minutes. This encouraged the away team to attack, and I wondered what sort of afternoon was lying in wait for us.

Thankfully, a Sunderland move was quashed by an Enzo Fernandez tackle, and then Pedro Neto passed the ball out to Alejandro Garnacho.

As the young Argentinian raced down the left wing, and entered the penalty box, I muttered : “Go on Garnacho, be selfish.”

He must have heard me because he slammed the ball past the Sunderland ‘keeper to give us a 1-0 lead.

Phew.

The clouds had dispersed by now and the sun was out; Chelsea were 1-0 up and all was well with the world.

Garnacho looked the liveliest player in blue during the opening moments, but I was impressed, too, with Enzo’s intelligent promptings from his more central position.

We were the brighter of the two teams, and we caused a few problems at the Shed End. A thumper from Moises Caicedo was deflected wide.

The first fifteen minutes were ours, the first twenty minutes were ours.

However, on twenty-two minutes, a long throw-in on the far side was captured by my camera – “look away now” – and my camera also captured the confusion in our six-yard box as the ball bobbled against heads, though not shared here. The resultant loose ball was bashed home by Wilson Isidor. They celebrated in front of us. As I saw their red and white shirted players assemble, I momentarily wondered if I should take a photo. A tough one. I thought of the fans taking photos of opposing players celebrating with their mobile phones, and I didn’t want to be like them. But my conscience was clear. I wasn’t right next to the players. I would never take a photo of opposing players celebrating up close. I wouldn’t be part of the scene. I was fifteen yards away, out of shot. A quick snap.

It was a moment when my twin passions became embattled; me as a supporter, me as a photographer.

Oh well.

Not long after, a delightful ball in between our defenders by an unknown Sunderland player had me gasping – “the best ball of the game so far” – but the recipient, another unknown Sunderland player, could not finish.

PD : “we’re losing it here.”

Upfront, we were getting weaker.

The chap next to me – Josh from Dartford, formerly Margate and a Margate fan – made a very succinct point that it seemed that we had forgotten that we now had a physical presence up front and we didn’t want to play him in.

Poor Marc Guiu didn’t have much service at all.

We didn’t hit him early, we didn’t give him something to run on to, we didn’t cross towards him. I felt so sorry for him. Instead, he found himself coming short and impinging on Joao Pedro’s space.

On the half hour a frustrated “Come on Chelsea” rumbled from the Matthew Harding.

On forty-three minutes a riser from Trevoh Chalobah was tipped over.

There were grumbles at half-time and Gary, a few seats along, made the point of how slow it all was, and one of the main culprits was Reece James.

“A great player Gal, yeah, but his first touch is often at walking pace.”

[in the back of my mind : “but I guess he is told by Maresca to slow it down.]

Ugh.

But some bright news elsewhere; Frome Town were 3-0 up at Malvern Town.

GET IN.

And Josh was happy that Margate were 4-0 up (at the same level as my lot, but further east.)

The second half began, with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding.

A James free kick from the right caused havoc but a defender thumped the ball away.

There was a rapid break from Neto on fifty minutes, but with Garnacho alongside him and in a promising position, the ball was played behind him.

The Argentinian then curled a lazy shot over.

On 58 minutes, Estevao replaced Alejandro.

There was a lovely buzz that met his first few touches of the ball, and a chance quickly fell for him, but his shot was deflected for a corner.

Sunderland’s role in all of this was easy to fathom.

Defend deep – “low block” as per the nerds – and catch us on the break.

On the hour, noise at last.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

There was a fantastic sliding tackle from Young Josh, who was enjoying a solid game.

On seventy-six minutes, two more changes.

Jamie for Marc, not his day.

Tosin for Josh, a surprising one.

We dominated so much of the ball, but Sunderland defended like their lives depended on it.

A cross came in, the Sunderland ‘keeper punched it clear, Cucurella went down like he had hit by a heavyweight boxer’s glove.

Oh boy.

More changes on eighty-five minutes.

Tyrique for Pedro, surprisingly poor.

Andrey for Joao, disappointing.

And as the final twelve minutes came and went, and as we ate into the added six minutes of injury time, everyone was thinking the same thing.

“We’ll concede, here.”

I even said this to Josh :

“We’re attacking, they break, ball gets played across the box, they sweep it in.”

On ninety-three minutes, the ball was walloped high up towards Brian Brobbey. He had his back to goal, and was shadowed by Tosin, with Chalobah nearby, in the slips. I decided to snap – “look away now” – as he guarded the ball with his life.

Seconds, minutes, hours passed…the ball was zipped inside, square.

Chemsdine Talbi arrived to slide the ball painfully past Sanchez.

Oh fuck.

The Sunderland fans roared.

I texted some mates : “why did nobody have the hunger to track the runner?”

Chemsdine Talbi joined the ranks of Clive Walker, John Byrne and Gordon Armstrong as Sunderland anti-heroes.

Sigh.

A few days before this game, I had asked some mates if it was good or bad luck – I could not remember – for a black cat to cross your path.

The consensus was, definitely, bad luck.

On this day, I had to agree.

Tales From Us, Villa And The Cup

Posted on January 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 26 January 2024.

After a League Cup tie on the Tuesday, we now had an FA Cup tie on the Friday. Two cup games within four days, both at Stamford Bridge, 460 miles for me to navigate, it’s tough at the top.

Of course I enjoyed the 6-1 triumph over Middlesbrough on Tuesday, but I was certainly not getting carried away with the amount of goals that we scored. It was, after all, only Middlesbrough, a mid-table Championship team.

I was sure that if we managed to score against a far more formidable side in the FA Fourth Round tie, I would be celebrating more wildly.

But halfway through Friday morning I was struggling. After finishing the blog for the Middlesbrough game at 10pm on Thursday night, I was up at 4.45am on Friday in order to work an early 6am to 2pm shift in the twin worlds of logistics and office furniture. At about 9.30am, I was bloody hanging, stifling yawns and finding it hard to concentrate. I was dreading the drive to and from London. I would not be home again around 1am in the small hours of Friday / Saturday night. Thankfully the arrival of some pods for our office coffee-maker breathed new life into me.

I picked-up the chaps outside the pub opposite work and set off, feeling fine, feeling happy that work was over for the week, a Chelsea game a reward for my sleep-starved existence. The clear blue skies and bright sunshine invigorated me further and I was actually able to drive to London with a deep sense of contentment.

Alas, mind-numbing traffic congestion as I approached the Hammersmith roundabout halted our swift progress. I eventually dropped two of my passengers at “The Eight Bells” at 4.45pm and the remaining one outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge at just before 5pm. After parking up in virtually the same spot as on Tuesday, I dropped into “The Anchor” take-away for an unplanned saveloy and chips. It warmed me up, and gave me some fuel on a cold night in SW6.

I walked to West Brompton tube and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge. I spent from 6pm to 7pm in the company of PD, Glenn, Salisbury Steve and London Luke. Rich, from St. Albans – we go back to The Benches in 1984 – was there with his daughter Amber, nineteen, and James, fourteen. It would be James’ first-ever game. I had picked up tickets for the three of them from friends in the US who had bought them to raise their loyalty points for a game later in the season. The tickets came from Jacksonville to Axonville.

Boom boom.

Appearing at “The Eight Bells” for a midweek game at the Bridge was a first for us. The place was full of regulars. On the tube up to Fulham Broadway, it was no surprise to see Villa fans in our carriage.

“Yippy-aye-ay, yippy-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”

The weather was bitter, much colder than Tuesday.

There was a welcoming tune that greeted me as I reached the seats.

“Blue Monday” by New Order.

I was behind the goal in the Matthew Harding Upper again, but a few rows nearer the front and a few yards closer to the goal than on Tuesday. It honestly felt like only five minutes ago since I was last at Stamford Bridge.

In the match programme, Rick Glanville had written a very interesting article about Chelsea Football Club’s early desire for Stamford Bridge to host FA Cup Finals after it became apparent that Crystal Palace was not an appropriate venue. Lo and behold, we almost played in the first FA Cup Final – in 1920 – to take place at Stamford Bridge. Sadly, we lost 1-3 to Aston Villa in a semi-final that took place at Bramall Lane in Sheffield. That year, Villa defeated Huddersfield Town 1-0 in the final, a game in which my grandfather may have attended. I penned a few pieces about this in the 2019/20 and 2020/21 FA Cup campaigns.

My first viewing of an Aston Villa FA Cup tie against Chelsea took place in early 1987, an away game that ended 2-2. We won the replay 2-1.

The next FA Cup tie against Villa was of much more importance.

The 2000 FA Cup Final was always going to be a very special occasion. The final tie of the 1999-2000 competition was to be held at the original Wembley Stadium – chosen for Cup Finals after Stamford Bridge’s little run from 1920 to 1922 – for the very last time. The venerable old stadium, dating back to 1923, had hosted so many important and memorable football games in its eight decades. In its latter years, it was showing its age, but the thrill, for me anyway, of seeing the famous twin towers on FA Cup Final days evoked wonderful memories of past games and past glories. However, I totally understood the need to update the national stadium. As the season developed, I hoped that we would end up there for one final hurrah.

Season 1999/2000 was an eventful season for Chelsea Football Club. For the first time ever, we embarked on our first every Champions League journey. After winning a qualifier against Skonta Riga – I went to the home leg, not the away game – we were drawn in a group with Milan, Galatasaray and Hertha Berlin. I went to all home games, but no away games.

At the time, my job involved shift work and so I could not always get time off work to follow the boys. I still went to thirty-eight games, my highest-ever total, beating the thirty-five games of 1997/98.

In the league, despite walloping the then European Champions Manchester United 5-0 at Stamford Bridge, we flattered to deceive, finishing in fifth place and a hefty twenty-six points behind United who romped home. In the League Cup, we were sent packing in our first tie, a 0-1 home defeat by Huddersfield Town.

We qualified for the second Group Phase of the Champions League and were grouped with Lazio, Marseille and Feyenoord. I went to the game in Rome, a dour 0-0 draw. Winning that second group set us up for a semi-final with Barcelona. I was lucky enough to go to both games; sadly, a mad 3-1 victory at home was matched by a 1-5 reverse in Catalonia.

As the latter stages of the season were played out, Chelsea made solid progress in the FA Cup. We won 6-1 at Hull City – old Boothferry Park – then enjoyed a run of home games, and victories, against Nottingham Forest, Leicester City and Gillingham. This set us up for a semi-final against Newcastle United at Wembley. Two Gus Poyet goals sent us into the FA Cup Final in a very fine game that would have graced the final itself. Our opponents on 20 May 2000 would be Aston Villa who had beaten Bolton Wanderers on penalties in their semi-final at Wembley.

However, the FA Cup wasn’t all plain sailing that season. For the first time that I could remember, the all-important Round Three was played in early December, though I forget the reasoning, and this was met with a formidable backlash. Also, Manchester United were forced to compete in the inaugural FIFA World Club Championships in Brazil in January 2000 by the FA and so withdrew from the 1999/2000 competition. United drew a lot of flak for withdrawing but, in reality, their hands were tied. In hindsight, one wonders why United could not have entered a youth team in the FA Cup to give the competition some dignity. In my mind, the 1999/2000 FA Cup was played out with an asterisk against it.

It had been a decent campaign for Chelsea and I just wanted us to win the FA Cup against Aston Villa to give us some sort of reward for the season. Unfortunately, I found myself coming off a week of nights, finishing mid-morning on the Friday, and was rather tired as we assembled for a pre-match drink or two at “The Princess Royal” – no longer there – near St. Johns Wood tube station and Lords Cricket Ground. There were probably more Villa fans in the pub than us.

“Ugly bunch, aren’t they?” whispered Daryl.

We had our usual pre-match chat and I think I wasn’t the only one who was a mite nervous. In 1997, it felt that fate – Matthew Harding – was on our side, but this one was too tight to call. Villa, playing in their first FA Cup Final since 1957, had finished just one place below us in the league table.

We caught the tube up to Wembley and posed for photos in front of the gleaming white Twin Towers. We had the same end as in 1997. That would hopefully count for something. FA Cup Finals are always linked to odd superstitions.

Our team?

Ed De Goey

Mario Melchiot – Frank Leboeuf – Marcel Desailly – Celestine Babayaro

Roberto di Matteo – Didier Deschamps – Gus Poyet – Dennis Wise

George Weah – Gianfranco Zola

The normal right backs Albert Ferrer and Graeme Le Saux were both injured. The Aston Villa team – playing in peculiar broad stripes – included David James, Gareth Southgate, Dion Dublin, Benito Carbone and Paul Merson. Merson, the Chelsea fan, was making his second Wembley appearance against Chelsea in barely over two years. Of course, the much-loved Gianluca Vialli was our smart-dressed manager at the time. Note George Weah’s white boots.

In truth, this was a poor game. The first-half was very mundane with precious few strikes on goal. Chances increased after the break with Chelsea enjoying more of them. Midway through the second-half, Dennis Wise scored for us with a close-in prod after a James fumble and the place erupted, limbs everywhere. Sadly, after the euphoria there was misery as we saw that the goal had been disallowed for off-side. From a Gianfranco Zola free-kick on our left, there was another James fumble. Roberto di Matteo was on hand to quickly hook the ball into the roof of the net from close range. We celebrated again but it always felt like it wasn’t with the same intensity of the first disallowed goal. It seemed that all of our energy had been expelled when that Wise effort went in.

Strange game football.

God knows what we would have made of the spectre of VAR in 2000.

After the game, we witnessed some marvellous celebrations from the Chelsea players, who were as relieved as the supporters that the long season had harvested some silverware. For some reason, we all assembled at a pub near Paddington Station after the game. I think that the idea was to give the lads who were not staying up in London for the parade on the Sunday a little send-off before they caught the train west. We saw a few lads from Frome off. Glenn and I went back to stay at Alan’s flat in South London.

This FA Cup lark was alright, wasn’t it?

We had won in 1997 and again in 2000.

These were great times to be Chelsea supporters. I just tried not to think about that bloody asterisk in 2000.

Oh, one last remark about the two centre forwards from 2000.

George Weah was President of Liberia from 2018 until earlier this week.

Dion Dublin currently presents “Homes Under The Hammer” on the BBC.

Weah won that battle, no asterisk required.

We met Villa in one more FA Cup tie, the 2010 semi-final at Wembley. We used to drink in “The Duke Of York” for Wembley games in those days and seven of us memorably showed up in Lacoste polos. Snappy dressers, eh?

The game was an easy 3-0 win with us watching way above the halfway line, with all of the goals coming in the second-half. Thankyou Didier Drogba, Florent Malouda and Frank Lampard. It was a vital step in our march to the domestic double in 2010.

I am not sure how many Villa fans were in the 50,018 crowd at the 1920 FA Cup Final, but there were six thousand Villa fans at Stamford Bridge in 2024. They had the usual smattering of flags, but were not wearing quite so many colours as ‘Boro on Tuesday.

I was seated at 7.30pm.

“Disco 2000” by Pulp.

If this was a deliberate dig by the Chelsea DJ at Villa regarding the 2000 FA Cup Final, then fair play. I remember that in the late ‘nineties, in the car to and from Somerset to Chelsea, we changed the words.

“We’ll win the league by the Year 2000.”

It later became “we won the Cup in the Year 2000.”

We had seen the line-up, but Levi Colwill was injured pre-match. It resulted in a last minute change.

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Silva – Badiashile

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sterling

The pitch was watered right up until the last minute. Water gave way to flames. The players entered the pitch. Chelsea in royal blue and navy tracky tops, Villa in claret ones.

The game began.

We began OK, but then Villa had a little spell. A really well-worked free-kick (memories of John Sheridan in 1991) was played by the Villa captain John McGinn out to Alex Moreno out on the Villa left. His cross was met with a “down and up” header by Youri Tielemans (our nemesis in the 2021 FA Cup Final), but Djordje Petrovic palmed it over as the ball bounced up off the deck.

Phew.

Soon after, a short corner was worked inside and Moussa Diaby unleashed a shot at goal. The ball was deflected by Alfie Gilchrist into the path of Douglas Luiz, who tapped in from a few feet out. The Villa players ran off to celebrate down below PD, Parky and Co., and their fans roared.

However, after what seemed an absolute age, VAR chimed in. A handball? No idea. No clue.

We waited.

And waited.

No goal.

Phew.

No celebrations from me though.

This seemed to spark some life into us and we improved. At around the twenty-minute mark we had a lovely little spell. We admired a great move from Raheem Sterling to Enzo to Cole Palmer – a beautiful flick – and a pass that set up Noni Madueke. However, his studied low shot was met with a fine save by Emilio Martinez. A Villa defender made a balls-up of passing to his team mate after good pressure from the lively Conor Gallagher. The ball ended up at the feet of Palmer, but he was found wanting with a tame shot at goal, again cleared by Martinez.

Ugh. Martinez. The memory of that “non-Final” on the first day of August in 2020.

On thirty minutes, Sterling set up Palmer who reached the by-line but the incoming cross was somehow blocked. Raheem was having a mixed game. Sometimes you just feel that he often dribbles at players as his first thought rather than looking up to assess other options. He seems obsessed in beating opponents. On the other side, Madueke was full of flicks, turns, spins, but they didn’t always work out to the greater good.

It looked odd to see the central Palmer playing adrift of the others. He looked like he was sweeping up behind the Villa paring of Ezri Konsa and Clement Lenglet. A few years back, supporters would have wondered what on earth he was doing.

It was an intriguing half and I was enjoying it. After the disallowed goal, Villa seemed to go into their shell. We, however grew stronger and more confident.

Good work from Madueke in front of Parkyville and the ball was rolled back to Sterling, finding himself on the right flank, but his cross was headed by Benoit Badiashile straight at Martinez.

At the break, I was happy with our performance against a decent team. At times our passing was a little too slow for our liking. I couldn’t help think about that old adage about any move having a crucial moment when the ball has to be played. That moment was reached, and ignored, too many times for my liking. Our slow passing – at times, not always – seemed to allow the momentum to be lost. In the middle, Enzo and Moises Caicedo solid and involved, while Gallagher must have covered almost ever blade of grass on the pitch.

The Villa fans began loudly but soon quietened. Our noise wasn’t bad, especially the first twenty minutes.

There was music at half-time.

“Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division.

“There She Goes” by The La’s.

The second-half began. More decent stuff from us. Down the left, Enzo slid in Gallagher and the ball fell to Palmer on his favoured left foot. He guided the ball towards goal but it was always drifting past the far stick. A long cross from Matty Cash on the right was headed over by Moreno, unhindered, at the far post.

Midway through the half, Martinez’ clearance hit Palmer’s heels but he was unable to connect with the ball as it dropped back down to Earth. Groans from everyone. A huge chance had been missed.

In the first-half, Villa’s play seemed to drop away after their goal was disallowed. In this second-half, our performance seemed to lack lustre after this miss. Perhaps it was tiredness.

On 65 minutes, Ben Chilwell replaced the steady Gilchrist. The back four was realigned with Disasi moved to right back, Badiashile in the middle with Silva and Chilwell out left.

Cash was proving to be a handful and the full back was then set up by Ollie Watkins but, thankfully, his low shot was saved well, down low, a Petrovic speciality. The save was warmly applauded. From a corner, Konsa slashed wide of the framework. Villa were enjoying a good spell, but I was pleased that the home crowd noted their ascendency and dug in and provided the loudest support of the night.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

I could hardly believe my eyes as I saw Petrovic going long at goal kicks as the second-half continued, a sure sign that players were tiring.

On 77 minutes, Armando Broja replaced Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Madueke.

We seemed to be shot as an attacking force and neither of these latest two subs were able to make their mark. We defended resolutely.

A late sub, on 89 minutes, saw Carney Chukwuemeka replace Enzo.

It stayed 0-0.

We would have to reconvene at Villa Park in a week and a half’s time. So be it. At least we will be in the draw for Round Five.

As I left, the final song of my night rang out.

“Brimful Of Asha” by Cornershop.

Ah – a nice bit of symmetry. One of my friends from Wembley 2010 – Simon, pictured in the white polo, third from the right – directed the video of that song, a hit from 1997.

On the drive back in the car – a decent finishing time of 12.50am for me – we wondered how many we would get for Villa Park.

“More than the usual 3,000 no doubt.”

“Wonder if we will have enough time to pop into ‘The Vine’ too?”

Next up, back to the league and an away game at Anfield on Wednesday.

See you there.

2000

2010

2024

Tales From ‘Boro In Our Borough

Posted on January 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough : 23 January 2024.

My seat for the second leg of the League Cup semi-final against Middlesbrough was in row Q – the rear row all but one – of the Matthew Harding Upper and I was inside with about fifteen minutes to go. There had been a greater queue than normal outside. It was a very mild night in SW6. I was beginning to regret to regret wearing a bulky puffer jacket. Up the other end, in The Shed, were the brightly-coloured visitors from Teesside, around 5,000 of the buggers, their biggest turnout at Stamford Bridge since “that” game in 1988.

While we attempted to overturn a narrow 0-1 deficit from the first leg on this Tuesday night in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, just twenty-four hours later, Fulham would be attempting to overcome a similar result in their semi-final against Liverpool. All of a sudden, our home borough was the centre of attention.

While latecomers took their seats, I remained quietly confident of us advancing to yet another Wembley Cup Final. And – of course – we hoped that Fulham would join us.

On the pitch, the ground staff in matching dark grey puffer jackets of their own prodded away at the wet grass using forks. Then the lights dimmed, and the 1-2 punch occurred.

Firstly, the pulsing electronic beat boomed out of the stadium’s speakers, the strobe lighting began and then the flames flashed into the sky.

Secondly, the “what the fookin’ hell was that?” from the away support.

It was a very colourful away support, with many of the ‘Boro bedecked in red and white scarves and with replica shirts on show under unbuttoned jackets. I remember a similar number of Tottenham fans at our semi-final in 2019, occupying those same two tiers, and with everyone dressed in dark jackets, a large unsavoury mob, almost looking like a European team. This lot were far more brightly attired. There were a few flags dotted around too.

“We Built the World.”

“You Make Me Happy When Skies Are Grey.”

“We Are Boro.”

My Middlesbrough mate Chris texted me :

“You’ll probably win the match, but I’ll be happy if we out-sing you.”

With the players of both teams on the pitch, they then moved to the centre circle and the PA asked us to remember one of our own.

I only ever saw Tommy Baldwin play once for Chelsea. On Saturday 10 October 1974, my second-ever visit to Stamford Bridge, Tommy played against Tottenham in a game that we won 1-0, the goal coming from an early John Hollins penalty.

The Chelsea team that day was :

John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins
Micky Droy.
John Dempsey.
Steve Kember
Tommy Baldwin.
Charlie Cooke
Ian Hutchinson
Peter Houseman.

It was also the only time that I saw John Dempsey play. Later that season, Tommy joined Manchester United on loan before drifting away from Stamford Bridge and finishing his career with a few games at Brentford. He had been a stalwart at Chelsea for eight years, playing almost two-hundred games as a bustling midfielder or inside-forward.

I often used to see Tommy Baldwin meeting up with other former players as they congregated together before darting off to engage in hospitality activities on match days. Unfortunately, Tommy had been unwell for quite a while and on Monday we heard that he had sadly passed away. He was seventy-eight. Tommy Baldwin was nicknamed “The Sponge” for reasons that were sometimes debated. There are those that said that it was because of his ability to soak up pressure, attack after attack, in his midfield role. But I suspect that those that knew him better, knew that this was a name derived from his ability to drink. I had read through the detailed obituary that appeared on the Chelsea website on Monday evening; it was a fine summation of his time as a footballer in Chelsea colours and illustrated his often-under-appreciated role in that most revered of Chelsea teams.

Although his name was not widely known outside SW6 circles – unlike Bonetti, Osgood, Cooke, Harris, Hollins, Hudson et al – his role in the functioning of the team was acknowledged by us all. He was as no footballing Corporal Sponge.

While his image appeared in black and white on the two TV screens, both sets of supporters applauded in his memory.

Rest In Peace Tommy Baldwin, The Leader Of The Team.

I scanned our team.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Chilwell

Palmer – Caicedo – Fernandez

Sterling – Broja – Mudryk

We attacked the Middlesbrough fans in the first-half. They were, unsurprisingly, noisy.

“That’s why we sing this song for the ‘Boro all night long.”

For the first ten minutes or so, it seemed like a seamless continuation from the game on Teesside a fortnight ago. They were sat back and we took forever to move the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, while the movement upfront was almost non-existent. A few pumps up field from deep did not hit targets.

There were a couple of worrying signs early on. Raheem Sterling was ball-watching during a ‘Boro attack, leaving his wide man ridiculously free but thankfully the ball stayed on the opposite side. Then, after getting sucked inside, Ben Chilwell had to race back – and across – like an express train as we were embarrassingly cut open down our left.

But we enjoyed a couple of efforts in this period; one from Mykhailo Mudrk, one from Chilwell.

Djordje Petrovic got down well to save to his right.

On fifteen minutes, a swish move down our right involving Cole Palmer and Raheem Sterling set up Armando Broja. From my seat, I could not see the fine detail, but only the ball ending up in the net. We would soon find out that Johnny Howson had stuck out a leg and had scored the goal for us. But, I did not celebrate. Such is the spectre of VAR these days – even when it is not being used – that my celebrations were dulled. Of course, there was no flag, no nothing. The goal stood. It came at just the right time because the supporters in the Matthew Harding were starting to get a little agitated and nervous.

Phew.

The tie was tied.

The rest of the first-half, unlike in Middlesbrough, certainly went to plan.

On twenty-eight minutes, some solid play between Sterling and Axel Disasi down the right set up a chance for Broja. His shot was blocked by a defender but Enzo Fernandez was on hand to slam the ball in. A slide into the corner from Enzo. I could celebrate that one.

Eight minutes later, Disasi broke up an attack with a superb tackle and passed to Sterling. As Sterling, who had enjoyed a mixed opening period, raced on, so did Disasi. Sterling played the ball back to our rampaging defender and his low finish put us 3-0 up. There was another slide into the corner.

“That makes up for the chances we missed in the first-half two weeks ago.”

It was all Chelsea now.

Some were singing “We’re Going To Wembley” but I resisted. It was a little too soon for me.

Middlesbrough tried to keep their shape but they suddenly looked tired.

Despite the away fans dominating the night for most of the first-half – the twin staples of “your support is fooking shit” and “shall we sing a song for you?” were often heard – they were silent now.

On forty-two minutes, Palmer pick-pocketed a Middlesbrough defender and casually, and coolly, swept the ball in to the net.

Chelsea 4 Middlesbrough.

Now I could join in…

“Que Sera Sera.”

It had been an excellent half. After that slow start, we had grown as the game progressed. Petrovic had made the one save when he was needed. It was a joy to see Chilwell patrolling the left flank, and just inside him Levi Colwill looked a steady centre-back. We had been treated to two trademark sliding tackles from Silva. Disasi had enjoyed his best half for ages. In midfield, Enzo and Palmer created a few chances with their intelligent play and Moises Caicedo – not the easiest player to appreciate – was very solid. Broja was steady if not spectacular. Sterling was back on his game. The only negative was Mudryk, as perplexing as ever, a mixture of breath-taking speed mixed with jaw-dropping slowness of thought.

But we were happy at the break.

Fackinell.

At half-time, Nonu Madueke replaced Mudryk.

“It’s probably for the best.”

The second-half began and I wasn’t quite sure how to behave. Did I want us to rampage away and score four more or conserve ourselves for the FA Cup game on Friday? In truth, we controlled the game without causing too much further damage to the scoresheet nor the away team’s morale.

On the hour, for the first real time, the whole crowd sang as one.

“CAREFREE.”

That’s more like it.

Some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chilwell.

Conor Gallagher for Broja.

On seventy-seven minutes, Gallagher played in Palmer down below me, who did not bother with the burden of an additional touch and – as cool as you like – side-footed the ball in. Soon after, a blue flare was thrown onto the pitch from the MHL. It made for a great photo opportunity if nothing else.

On eighty-one minutes, Gallagher passed to Madueke, who shimmied and danced past a marker before slamming the ball at goal. The shot took a large deflection.

Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 0.

I was impressed that the away fans had been singing in the build up to the sixth goal and continued doing so when the goal came and for a while after too. Fair play to them. The biggest compliment that I can give them is that they reminded me of us when we were in our hey-day.

There was even time for a late debut.

Leo Casteldine – “player number 54 where are you?” – replaced Sterling.

I am unsure if we were being intentionally ironic, but we sang :

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

Middlesbrough had two late goals; one annulled for offside but one stood, a fine low effort by Morgan Rogers.

At the whistle, Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 1.

I quickly gathered my stuff and headed out.

“Blue Day” from 1997 blasted out on the PA. As I headed down the multiple flights of stairs at the rear of the stand, I heard the sweet voice of Doris Day. It did not compute. The opening bars just made me think of “that” Leeds song.

I then got it.

“Que sera sera.

Whatever will be, will be.

We’re going to Wem-ber-lee.

Que sera, sera.”

On the Fulham Road, there was some boisterous behaviour, some name-calling, some gesturing, some punches, some arrests.

Outside the town hall, I spotted a female ‘Boro fan, arm in arm with her man – to possibly stop herself from falling over – who pointed at two Chelsea women and shouted “Chelsea Rent Girls!”

Well, I had never heard that one before.

We got back to the car and set off for home at 10.30pm. I would be home by 1am. We hoped that the little brothers from Craven Cottage would do the business in the other semi-final, but our business in our borough was over for a few days.

Next up, Aston Villa in the other cup on Friday.

See you there.

Postscript 1 :

There was a regret that I didn’t hear Tommy Baldwin’s song during the game. Admitedly it is best suited for pre-match beers in the pub or concourse, but we always used to sing it at games.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’re the Fulham Road supporters and we’re louder than The Kop.”

Postscript 2 :

Nice to see my two friends Annette and Mark featured in the evening’s programme. They sometimes act as my unpaid spell-checkers.

Tales From Forty-Four Years And Counting

Posted on January 16, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fulham : 13 January 2024.

On the long drive home from Middlesbrough last Wednesday, with the Semi-Final first leg defeat still fresh in my mind, I am not sure if I was overly brutal or just pragmatic about the rest of our campaign.

“Listen, we are a tenth place team. We’ll beat Middlesbrough in the second leg and get to the final but lose to Liverpool once we get there. We’ll lose to Villa in the FA Cup. And that’s our season done.”

However, by the time I had picked up the others – PD, Glenn, Parky, Ron – on the Saturday for the drive to London for the Fulham game at Stamford Bridge, my viewpoint had noticeably softened.

“Well, I saw the highlights on “YouTube” and let’s be honest, Cole Palmer should have scored two. It could so easily have been one of those games where we didn’t play particularly well but squeaked a narrow win. New manager, new players, let’s give it some time. We have seen worse.”

Thoughts turned towards Fulham. We have a bloody marvellous record against this lot and at Stamford Bridge especially. However, although I had recently read that our last defeat at home to Fulham was forty-four years ago, there was absolutely no chance of me mentioning this to the lads in the car, bearing in mind how they had chastised me for talking about my unbeaten record against ‘Boro.

The last home defeat?

Saturday 27 October 1979, a 0-2 loss in front of a very healthy 30,567 gate in the old Second Division.

44 years.

21 games.

13 wins.

8 draws.

0 defeats.

It’s a very decent record indeed. Going back further, to our first home game against Fulham in 1911, the total stats are equally impressive.

113 years.

45 games.

25 wins.

18 draws.

2 defeats.

The only other home defeat?

Saturday 7 March 1964, a 1-2 defeat in front of a disappointing 26,219 in the old First Division.

With the kick-off for the 2023/24 version of the “SW6 Derby” taking place at 12.30pm, the pre-match routine took on a different guise. When I had dropped into “The Old Oak” last week, Alan had informed me that its doors would be opening at 9am for the Fulham game. This news was met with nods of approval from my fellow passengers. So, at about 9.20am I dropped Parky and PD outside the pub, which is just over the border to the north of Fulham in Hammersmith. I then drove down the North End Road and the Fulham Road to deposit Ron at the main gates bang on 9.30am. I was parked up on Normand Road a few minutes after. We bumped into Liz and Pete just as they were parking up. Glenn and I soon disappeared into a packed “Café Delight” for a quick breakfast, a first-ever visit. There were a couple of familiar faces in there. The clientele then moved south to “The Clarence” or “The Old Oak.”

PD and Parky were supping pints of lager and we joined them at about 10.15am. More familiar faces were dotted around. I soon spotted Stu, a fellow season-ticket holder, who only lives four miles away from me. He sadly lost his wife Sue not so long ago – I went to Sue’s sixtieth birthday four years ago – and so I gave him a hug and offered words of sympathy. I spoke to Jonesy and Jocka, two lovely lads from the Nuneaton area, and we spoke a little about life – and Chelsea.

Jonesy pulled up a seat.

We mentioned the photos that I shared from the 1998 League Cup Final. We spoke about how quickly the time has gone since then.

“Twenty-six years ago.”

Jonesy stated the unbelievable truth that in another twenty-six years some of us won’t be around.

“Yeah. I’ll be eighty-four.”

And yet 1998 seems fresh in my mind.

“Life is accelerating away these days, mate.”

“Don’t worry, Jonesy. The way we are playing at the moment, the next ten years will drag like fuck.”

We laughed.

I met Mick from Hemel Hempstead for the first time and it was a pleasure. Mick has been reading these ramblings of mine for a while. He spotted me and came over to chat with the lads. It’s always nice to get positive feedback. I chuckled when he dropped one of my catchphrases in to the conversation.

At 11.45am we set off down the North End Road. A little mob of Fulham were – in football parlance – “giving it large” on their walk past outside the West Stand.

“Stamford Bridge is falling down.”

I just chuckled.

I took my place in The Sleepy Hollow. Two of the usual four – Alan and Clive – were unable to attend. Glenn had Clive’s ticket and a young lad called Dan from way up in Carlisle had taken Alan’s ticket.

“You’ve got some big boots to fill, mate.”

But Carlisle. Phew, that’s some train ride. Respect.

There was pre-match chat with Oxford Frank and we were both hoping for another three points to maybe edge closer, or even past, Manchester United and Newcastle United.

Our team? It was the same as against ‘Boro apart from one change. Armando Broja was in to the lead the line, with Cole Palmer shifted to the wing in place of Noni Madueke.

27 – 6 – 2 – 26

8 – 25

20 – 23 – 7

In the Fulham team, one man stood out.

It was a cold winter day; a time for warm jackets, hats and caps.

Big Brother vs. Little Brother.

SW6 1HS vs. SW6 6HH.

Blues vs. Whites.

Pensioners vs. Cottagers.

Chelstam vs. Fulhamish.

There has always been a very special relationship between the two clubs. It was always said that for the local populations in and around Fulham, Hammersmith, Chelsea, Putney and Battersea, football fans would go to Stamford Bridge one week and Craven Cottage the next.

As payment for taking wedding photos at a Chelsea wedding back in 2020, I was gifted a huge case of football programmes, including some lovely Wembley Cup Finals and England internationals from the ‘fifties. They all belonged to one man, a friend of Mick, the groom. But of special note here is that among many Chelsea home programmes were hundreds of Fulham programmes, from the ‘fifties onwards, too. It illustrates how the support was shared between the two clubs.

However, they hate us these days.

On the other hand, we can’t be bothered about them.

Oh well.

The game began and for the first five minutes it felt like a continuation of the Middlesbrough game the previous Tuesday; tons of foreplay and no penetration.

We needed to get dirty.

The Fulham fans were bellowing about “One team in Fulham” and we responded, half-heartedly, with the usual “Come on Chelsea.”

It was all pretty timid stuff.

As the game began to get going, a shot from Enzo was blocked, and then the best move of the match resulted in a shot from Conor Gallagher rising over the bar at The Shed End.

We soon all admitted that we could see Willian – 20 for them, not 22 for us – drifting inside, down below us in familiar territory, dropping a shoulder and curling one in under the bar.

Shudder.

On twenty minutes, Armando Broja made a fine move towards the near post and flashed a header just wide of the goal. Until then, his lack of movement and lack of a physical threat was starting to wind me up.

Midway through the half, there were two Fulham efforts on the Chelsea goal to my left. The second came after a fine move had found Harry Wilson and it needed an excellent save from Djordje Petrovic at his near post.

Chelsea were unsurprisingly dominant, but there were only glimpses of decent play, of players combining well, of coherent patterns. Not for the first time I lamented the movement off the ball. On two occasions, if only Broja had realised it, he was in acres of space if he had feinted one way and then spun the other. A pass or two from Silva would have released him.

Willian came over to take part in a short corner. I rose to applaud him. As did many. I don’t go for singing songs about former players, but I certainly felt fine with applauding him just the once. The noise was loud. He clapped us too. I see nothing wrong with any of that. It shows us all in a good light, I think.

Two efforts from us; one from Cole Palmer, not at his best thus far, and a riser from Enzo, who was starting to show a lot more spirit to his performance.

A crunching tackle from Malo Gusto left Willian rolling in pain, but I was too far away to see the detail.

We were treated to a ridiculous turn and dummy from Moises Caicedo on Wilson. The look of pain on the Fulham player’s face was – er – a picture.

In the last moments of the first-half, Palmer advanced and was thankfully aware of Raheem Sterling screaming for the ball to be played into him. A lovely reverse ball set him up. It seems that the Football Gods have decreed that Fulham must always have a towering player called Diop in their team, and it was the 2024 version – Issa – who took an ungainly chop at Sterling just as he cut past him. From one hundred yards away it looked a penalty.

…in my mind : “either a penalty or a booking for a dive.”

The maligned Anthony Taylor pointed to the spot.

Phew.

Cole Palmer took the ball. His record with penalties is perfect for us.

He slotted it home.

GET IN.

The goal came at a perfect time. It meant that there were no boos at half-time. In truth, although not a vintage performance, I was quietly content with some of our play. In my mind, Enzo Fernandez and Levi Colwill were enjoying their best games for a while.

Baby steps and all that malarkey.

The second half began. There was a noticeable increase in intensity from the players, and the crowd, certainly in the Matthew Harding, responded well. In the first few minutes of the second period, Broja found himself in a central area of the box, but could not get a shot away. He was ridiculously marked but took an extra touch, as is his wont.

On fifty minutes, a bender from Palmer whizzed over. Two minutes later, Sterling rose so well and headed down and against a post, but was flagged for offside.

At the other end, a deflected Fulham cross from in front of their fans, but a resulting header flew over.

A couple of pacey Chelsea attacks, the fleet-footed Gusto involved on both occasions, but blocks from the Fulham rear-guard kept us at bay. This was an excellent spell from us.

On sixty-six minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Broja.

Palmer moved centrally as a false nine. From here, there were a few tricks and spins. I like him in a central role.

Just after, Colwill curled a shot over from the edge of the box.

We longed for a second goal.

Enzo continued his little resurgence. He showed a lot more spirit, fight, intensity, and drive. We need that. We need him creating from deep. We need Palmer creating further up field. Amongst everything, Conor Gallagher was on his game, closing down space, winning fifty-fifties, setting the tempo. Thiago Silva was magnificent as the second-half developed.

Madueke was often involved. I like the way that he uses his body, how he forces himself across defenders, using his upper body to barge past.

However, a rare Fulham chance caused palpitations. Andres Pereira found space in the box and passed to Raul Jimenez. The low shot was thankfully saved by Petrovic, who dropped to his right and threw out an arm. It was a really fine save.

On seventy-seven minutes, a roar as Ben Chilwell replaced Sterling. I spent a few minutes working out if our shape had changed. Chilwell for Sterling seemed to be a straight swap.

On eighty-two minutes, a nice run from Madueke set up Gallagher, who was rather hemmed in, but beautifully curled a shot at goal with the outside of his right boot. The ball curved and smacked the left upright.

Fackinell.

Colwill continued to impress. One ball out to the wing was immaculate, with just the right amount of fade for it to drop into the path of our player.

On eighty-four minutes, Enzo gave the ball up cheaply and it lead to a free-kick being rewarded by Taylor. It was central, right on the edge of the box. Who else but Willian took the ball. I hoped that it was too central for him to get a good angle.

I turned around to the blokes behind me.

“Here we go then. We have all been fearing this.”

He clipped the ball over the wall, but over the bar too.

I turned to them again.

“He has gone downhill, that Willian.”

We laughed.

Madueke forced a low save from Leno.

…inside my head : “shouldn’t we be closing this game out rather than chasing a second?”

Two late substitutions.

Nice applause for Carney Chukwuemeka, replacing Palmer.

Warm applause for Alfie Gilchrist, replacing Gusto.

It was all very fraught in the final moments of the game. A couple of Fulham free-kicks out on their right were slung into the box. The first one was sent deep, but after penalty-box pinball, the ball was hoofed clear. The second resulted in head tennis, but again our goal remained intact.

Taylor blew up.

Relief.

Back in the car, we were happy. It wasn’t a bad outing and we had marked our third consecutive league win in a row. We had beaten Fulham at Stamford Bridge yet again. We had risen slightly in the table. I headed back to the West Country a contented Chelsea supporter.

I stopped at Reading Services to hear that Frome Town were drawing 0-0 at home to Paulton Rovers. As I dropped off Parky, just after 5pm, I was to learn that my home town team had edged it 1-0. Lovely stuff.

I dropped off Ron. I often say to him, as I collect him to take him up to Stamford Bridge, “have you brought your boots?”

His stock reply to this is always “they couldn’t afford my wages, Chris.”

Well, on this occasion, perhaps it was just as well that Chopper had left his boots at home. The reason? Ron was playing for us on Saturday 7 March 1964 and also on Saturday 27 October 1979.

I didn’t like to mention it.

I dropped off Glenn, I dropped off PD. I reached home at just after 6pm.

It had been a good day.

Next up, that second leg against ‘Boro. Let’s make some bloody noise. See you there.

Tales From Ironopolis

Posted on January 12, 2024 by Chris Axon

Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea : 9 January 2024.

In the build up to our League Cup semi-final first leg at the Riverside Stadium, I had read somewhere that Chelsea had won every single one of the previous nine games against Middlesbrough, encompassing both venues and across all competitions. From February 2007 to March 2022, Chelsea had won them all.

Gulp.

In this most fragile of seasons, this is surely an an expected reaction.

Gulp.

Surely if there was a record waiting to be broken, here it was. This would be a misfiring Chelsea team playing at a hostile venue on a midweek night in the North-East against a team looking for revenge after fifteen years of hurt.

I did a little more research, but of a more personal nature. From May 1988 to March 2022, I had seen Chelsea play twenty-three times against Middlesbrough and – yes, you have surely guessed it – I was yet to see us lose against them across all venues and competitions.

Played : 23

Won : 20

Drew : 3

Lost : 0

Another gulp.

Should I even bother going to Teesside?

The ironic thing here is that the very first of these twenty-three matches on Saturday 28 May 1988, even though we won the game 1-0, still feels like a loss to this day; we had lost the Football League Division One Play-Off first leg 2-0 and so were relegated after the second leg. It was, undoubtedly, one of the worst days in our history and probably my worst Chelsea day of them all.

In the immediate aftermath of that day, however, Chelsea wreaked havoc on the fortunes of Middlesbrough Football Club with revenge in many forms; a Zenith Data Systems Cup win at Wembley in 1990, an FA Cup victory at Wembley in 1997 and a League Cup win at Wembley in 1998.

The game in 1998, when the League Cup was called the Coca-Cola Cup, was our last game against ‘Boro in the competition that now carries the title the Carabao Cup. Middlesbrough had been relegated to the second tier at the end of the previous season, but still had some decent enough players such as Paul Merson, Mark Schwarzer, Paul Gascoigne, Gianluca Festa, Nigel Pearson and Andy Townsend.

Pre-match was spent in The Globe on Baker Street. I remember being nervous before the game. I feared that Middlesbrough would be driven by revenge for the 1997 FA Cup Final loss against us. I need not have worried. We watched the game in the same corner of Wembley as the previous year’s FA Cup Final against the same opponents, though in a higher position in the enclosure. The Chelsea team, managed by Gianluca Vialli in a cool light grey suit with a big-knotted tie, lined up as below.

De Goey

Sinclair – Duberry – Leboeuf – Le Saux

Petrescu – Newton – Wise – Di Matteo

Hughes – Zola

Chelsea dominated the game, but Middlesbrough held on to a 0-0 score line in the regular ninety minutes. Thankfully, in the first period of extra time, Frank Sinclair became an unlikely Wembley hero, heading home a cross that Gianfranco Zola hooked back from the bye-line. In the second period of extra-time, I caught Zola’s low corner on film just before it was tucked home by Roberto di Matteo.

It always felt odd that after waiting twenty-seven years for a domestic trophy, we won at Wembley twice within ten months but against the same opponent and with the same score line.

That day at Wembley, almost twenty-six years ago now, is sometimes lost amongst our plethora of trophy wins but it was another important stepping stone as we continued to chip away at other clubs in that era.

Great times.

And well-loved players too.

I loved the team from that era.

Didn’t we look young. Not a grey hair in sight. And get this; six-year old Ed is now a father.

Gulp.

With a place in this season’s League Cup Final up for grabs, we soon made the conscious decision to stay the night once we had been drawn against Middlesbrough. I haven’t always attended the away legs of League Cup semi-finals due to various reasons, but there was no way I was going to miss this one. This competition probably represented our only realistic chance of silverware in 2023/24. I booked two days off work and then sorted out some accommodation in nearby Stockton-on-Tees.

I collected PD at 8am and Lord Parky at 8.30am. This was going to be a long old day. We stopped off a few times en route. Thankfully the clouds overhead did not result in much rain. I was happy to see clear blue skies after we drove past Sheffield. I arrived on Teesside at 2.15pm.

Our check-in time on Sheraton Park was at 3pm. There was just time for the first beer of the day at “The Horse & Jockey” on the Durham Road. We dropped our bags off and took a cab into Stockton-on-Tees. As luck would have it, our friend Simon – and my work colleague – was up in Stockton-on-Tees with work, overseeing the installation of some office furniture for a few days. He was able to nab a ticket in the away end. He joined us in “The Thomas Sheraton” pub in the centre of the town, which was once a courthouse but has now been “Wetherspooned”.

Sheraton Park. Thomas Sheraton. What is it with Thomas Sheraton in Stockton-on-Tees? It turns out that he was a famous eighteenth century furniture designer. How apt. We spent a couple of hours in this second pub and then popped around the corner into “The Hoptimist” – another apt setting, we were nothing but optimists on this cold night in Smoggy Land – before getting a cab into Middlesbrough. We joined up with Salisbury Steve, Salisbury Simon and Salisbury Sam in “Barracuda” for our fourth port of call of the evening. We didn’t stay too long here. There were a few Chelsea supporters dotted around. A few songs of defiance.

At 7.15pm, jackets were fastened and we set off. The walk, we hoped, would not take too long. The stadium was about a mile away. We marched under a railway bridge, then took a turn past some swish new buildings – Middlesbrough College – with the wind biting as it skimmed off the nearby River Tees. The blue of the Transporter Bridge was just a few hundred yards away. Signs to inspire the students were dotted around.

“Great ideas begin in Middlesbrough.”

I hoped that this was one of them. I needed convincing.

“Where alchemists were born below Cleveland’s hills. A giant blue dragonfly across the Tees reminds us every night. We built the world. Every metropolis came from Ironopolis.”

The local steelworks was once huge. The ICI plant towards the North Sea was huge too. Those days are gone now. The local Smoggies can only imagine the times when heavy industry in Ironopolis was the norm.

The stadium appeared across one final void of water. Time was ticking.

We all got in with about five minutes to go. It would appear that we had just missed the pre-game mosaics, no doubt resplendent with matching “Pigbag” soundtrack.

I took my place in the stand alongside Ian, a lad that I have got to know over the past few years and who is my “go-to” source for any extra tickets that I might need. I am sure many of you know him. He is soon off to the Ivory Coast for the Africa Cup of Nations. It would be the first time that we would be watching a game side-by-side.

The first thing that caught my eye was our colours.

“Fucking Tottenham kit.”

Chelsea in navy blue.

Sigh.

Our 2024 team to play Middlesbrough?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Gallagher – Sterling

Palmer

This was only my sixth visit to the Riverside Stadium. It is a big regret that I never saw us play at Ayresome Park. This was an unwelcoming a place as any according to most reports, snuggled alongside terraced houses and with ambushes aplenty from streets and alleys alike. But I wish I had gone. Ian told me that his first visit was the 2-7 loss in early 1979, a game that marked the return of Peter Osgood from Philadelphia Fury.

The game began. We attacked the end to our right. The home fans were immediately loud and hostile. We were all stood, of course, but after a flurry of Chelsea songs and chants, we soon quietened down.

I thought that our shape was often a 4/3/3 with Gallagher alongside Enzo and Caicedo.

An early mistake by Levi Colwill on the far side let in a ‘Boro attacker but thankfully Djordje Petrovic easily gathered.

Ian and I had a side-conversation about the way football is going these days and we briefly touched on the almost inevitable moment when we might be forced to give it all up. We admitted that I was lucky in that I have Frome Town.

“You seem to enjoy it more” said Ian.

Gulp.

The game struggled to find any pattern and despite dominating possession, we struggled to link our play. There was little invention, nor penetration. Everything was so damned sluggish. At last a chance for Cole Palmer, playing as a false-nine, but his low effort from just outside the box did not really bother the home ‘keeper.

The home fans to our left roared at us.

“Your support is fucking shit.”

The noise in our section was indeed embarrassingly quiet.

More of the same followed. Lots of ineffectual Chelsea keep-ball, resolute Middlesbrough defending, an occasional break from them. Our noise still didn’t materialise. I sang more than some, but less than others. I think the poor show on the pitch sucked the life out of us. And yet that is no real excuse. We should have been much more involved.

A chance! An errant back-pass was intercepted by Palmer but he slid the ball inches wide when we were all expecting a goal.

On thirty-seven minutes, a long ball from Middlesbrough caught us sleeping. Isaiah Jones, who I remember from the FA Cup game in 2022 at the same stadium, won the race to slide a ball back from the goal-line and Hayden Hackney prodded the ball in from close range.

The home support boomed.

Both Ian and I noticed that the PA guy described Hackney’s goal as “Middlesbrough’s first goal” – the cheeky blighter.

A long shot from Moises Caicedo went just wide. A shot from outside the box from Enzo was spilled by the ‘Boro ‘keeper, but to our absolute horror, Palmer knocked the ball over from right under the bar. There was still time for another Palmer miss; a fine ball in from Caicedo, but after turning inside, Palmer finished tamely at the ‘keeper.

There were virtually no pluses points from that awful first half. Middlesbrough were compact and aggressively ate up any space that we might have hit. Our play was ponderous and poor.

Many many grumbles at half-time.

PD did not like that we played with no physical focus in attack; I wonder why Mauricio Pochettino chose to leave Armando Broja on our bench?

That said, I was still hopeful – if not too confident – that we would get a goal in the second-half.

It was virtually all one-way traffic in the second period. The Chelsea choir were still waiting for inspiration. A cross from Enzo, a tame header from Noni Madueke but an easy save for Glover.

On the hour, I noted our first really loud and coherent chant of the entire game.

“Hello, hello – we are the Chelsea boys.”

I snapped to capture a low effort from an off-balance Conor Gallagher.

A double substitution soon after.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

Armando Broja for Madueke.

I grew frustrated with Mudryk, too easily sucked in to the middle when his true value is to surely stay out wide to either stretch the defence out or to exploit the space. We had almost constant possession in the final half-an-hour. But our play kept going around in ever-decreasing circles. We lacked a cutting edge as we have done for what seems like years.

A shot from the disappointing Sterling curled high and wide.

In the last minute, Alfie Gilchrist replaced Disasi.

At the final whistle, boos from many in our section, but I was just numb.

I posted on Facebook that “I walked in merry. I am sober now.”

It was a terrible performance, on and off the pitch. It was, if I am truthful, the quietest Chelsea away support that I can ever remember being part of. That’s rotten. That it was for a cup semi-final makes it even more horrible.

We mumbled and grumbled to a few mates as we made our way outside.

“Blame me lads. I knew that my unbeaten run against this lot would end tonight.”

The night was cold, but a bacon cheeseburger – with onions – soon warmed me up. I liked it so much that I bought a second one.

We met up with Simon and caught a cab back to our respective digs and called it a night.

At least Frome won.

1998.

2024.

In memory of David Dicken, father of Chris, grandfather of Michael, who sadly passed away in 2023.

This photograph is from the Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea game on 20 October 2007.

Rest In Peace.

Tales From Manchestoh : Ci’eh

Posted on May 24, 2023 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 21 May 2023.

There was an old-fashioned 1982/83 feel to Saturday afternoon, the day before our game at the Etihad against Manchester City. I sat on my sofa in the living room and listened to Radio Five Live for the football commentary and was more than happy to hear that a lone Taiwo Awoniyi goal – the thorn in our side last Saturday – would condemn Arsenal to a 0-1 defeat at the City Ground, and thus hand the Premier League title to Manchester City.

City were champions and Arsenal weren’t. Perfect.

It of course meant that City were not looking to get over the line against us on the Sunday, a scenario that would have struck fear into myself and countless other Chelsea supporters. With them chomping at the bit, I dreaded it. There were thoughts of a cricket score. In the new circumstances, I hoped that Pep Guardiola would take the foot off the accelerator and also play some fringe players with two cup finals still to fight for this season.

That said, I am struggling to remember a game where I was so convinced that we would lose. As I set off to collect Lord Parky and Sir Les at around 9.30am, I was of the opinion that I would be happy losing 0-3. Even in the darkest of days of yore, I don’t think I was ever as downbeat – “pragmatic” – as that.

We were on our way from Melksham at 10.15am and the drive up to Manchester – Manchestoh to the locals – went well. The skies were brilliantly blue and sadly brilliantly sky blue too. We stopped for a very filling pub lunch at the Tabley Interchange on the M6 – the landlady recognised us from the FA Cup game in January – and I then drove on to our usual parking spot off the Ashton New Road. It felt odd to be playing City – Citeh, or Ci’eh with the full-on glottal stop of the locals – in an away game this late in the season. The last time I had seen us at City in May was in 2001. There was a lone game behind closed doors in May 2021 but that doesn’t count in my book.

With us playing at them so late in the season, and the weather being so nice, the locals had dispensed with the usual coats and jackets of a Manchester autumn, winter and spring. Many were wearing replica shirts – not just the current edition – to an extent that I don’t usually see at City.

I sorted out tickets for both Manchester games – we return on Thursday against the other lot – with Deano and headed in. I was perched in the first few rows of the upper tier at 3.30pm.

The Chelsea team was announced on the TV screens.

Kepa

Fofana – Silva – Chalobah

Azpilicueta – Fernandez – Loftus-Cheek – Hall

Sterling – Havertz – Gallagher

The City team was announced too and it immediately pleased me. There were fringe players throughout their line-up. There was a hope that City would not function to their full capability.

For some in the Chelsea support, this would be a third visit to this stadium during the current campaign. I looked around and I was pretty impressed with our turnout, which was surely over the 90% level; not bad for an end-of-season game in the circumstances.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, there was a medley of songs as flags were twirled down below us behind an Italian-style banner that proved difficult to read from behind.

The Dave Clark Five : “Glad All Over.”

Queen : “We Are The Champions.”

The Beatles : “Hey Jude.”

The teams appeared and flames flew into the air along the touchline directly in front of me. I missed the guard of honour amid my photographic manoeuvres.

Then, the old standard.

“Blue Moon.”

Officially we were in the fourth row but as the front two were covered in nets, we only had one row of spectators in front. To be honest, it was a splendid view. There was barely a seat not being used in the home areas, and the vast bowl was bathed in sky blue. It is an impressive stadium. With City looking to expand to around 63,000 with the addition of a third tier at the northern end, I wonder if they will do a Barcelona and dig down to increase capacity further; there is certainly tons of space. That would get it up to around 68,000 I suspect.

Pre-match chat with a few friends uncovered the fact that I was not the only Chelsea fan who would be happy with a 0-3 defeat.

Sigh.

The match began. The fans immediately behind us were sat and so, for the first time for ages and ages, I sat at an away game.

There was a bright start from City but we had a couple of promising forays into their half too. I soon spotted a new City song.

Snap : “Rhythm Is A Dancer.”

I couldn’t quite work out the words though.

Must be that Manc accent.

Ten minutes had passed. I turned to Gary :

“Well, we’ve made it to ten.”

Two minutes later, an attempted pass out of defence from Wesley Fofana ended up at the feet of a City player and the ball was soon zipped by Cole Palmer to the advancing Julian Alvarez and the Argentinian, surely at home in sky blue, purposefully steered the ball low past Kepa.

Sigh.

“Here we bloody go.”

Our confidence then disintegrated so easily and the home team dominated for most of the first-half.

“City. Tearing Cockneys apart. Again.”

This was a hard watch. I remained sat. There wasn’t a barrage of support from our three tiers at this away game. We were all there in body, but the spirit was yet to emerge. Not many Chelsea chants pierced the warm Manchester air.

Another new song from City. Status Quo? Give me strength.

“City’s won three in a row.”

There was a flurry of City attempts on goal. A lob from Phil Foden just cleared the framework. Palmer looked lively and his shot was booted off the line by Trevoh Chalobah.

With the home crowd buoyant with their team’s domination, several sections of the ground “did the Poznan” but Chelsea responded with a doggedly defiant “Carefree.”

Dave was getting roasted by the kid Palmer down below me. A trusted “7/10 every game” player, Dave shoudn’t really be anywhere near the first team these days. I chatted to Gary about him.

“Maybe Frank just needs players who he thinks he can trust. I dunno. It’s a mystery.”

I guessed that Benoit Badiashile was injured. I would rather have him in the three and move Chalobah over to right wing-back.

“Why isn’t Mudryk playing? City are bound to come at us. All that space he could exploit.”

Gary sighed.

The noise levels lessened. At times it was quiet. A few inflatable bananas were tossed around. This had the definite feel of a dead rubber game.

I was sorely wondering if we might go the whole game without an effort on goal. On half-an-hour, Raheem Sterling broke but his weak effort rolled away for a goal-kick. He was then played in by Kai Havertz but his shot was ably saved by Stefan Ortega.

To be fair, our play improved in the closing moments of the first-half.

A deep cross from the left by Lewis Hall found the completely unmarked Conor Gallagher who stooped to head at goal. The ball hit the near post and appeared to be pushed out by the ‘keeper.

Our support improved.

“Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea – Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”

At half-time, one of Manchester’s favourite sons was remembered.

Andy Rourke, who played bass guitar for The Smiths, passed away in New York on the Friday. He had been suffering with pancreatic cancer for quite a while. As a member of one of my very favourite bands, I was obviously upset to hear of his death. He was only fifty-nine. It is a deep regret that I never saw The Smiths live, but they provided the soundtrack, along with the Cocteau Twins, to my youth. I am seeing Johnny Marr in Frome in August. I remember that on a visit to Manchester in late 2006, I visited Salford Lads Club prior to a game at Old Trafford and the caretaker had mentioned that Andy Rourke had visited the previous day, using its recording studio. This is the nearest I got.

“Barbarism Begins At Home” was played at the very start of the break, with Rourke’s funky intro making me unsurprisingly emotional. I glanced up at a banner away on the upper balcony of the main stand.

“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.”

RIP.

There were no substitutions from either manager at half-time.

The game continued along strange lines. City seemed happy to play within themselves while we tended to have more of the ball in attacking areas than the first-half, and our support rallied a little. But the match was played out in an odd atmosphere.

Kalvin Phillips, starting his very first league for City, hit the same part of the goal frame as Gallagher as the second half began.

John Stones appeared for City. We feared that more would come on. We definitely played better in the second-half. A few runs, Ruben looking half-decent, and a couple of shots from Hall peppered their goal. There was a strong run from Sterling but another weak effort.

On sixty-eight minutes, Mudryk replaced Gallagher and Madueke replaced Sterling.

The City support applauded Raheem off; a nice touch in the circumstances. I am not so sure many Chelsea would have applauded him on.

Mudryk blasted high when clean through.

City made three substitutes; on came Haaland, Rodri and De Bruyne.

Their fans were full of it.

“Erling Haaland. He’s scored more than you.”

Gary chirped : “Fuck me. John Stones has scored more than us.”

At some moment in the second-half, Hall slipped as Alvarez advanced and slotted home, but VAR easily spotted the arm that controlled the bouncing ball. A few Chelsea left when this soon-to-be-disallowed goal went in but I was really happy with how many of us stayed right to the end.

We then made a flurry of substitutions.

On came Koulibaly, Chukwuemeka and Pulisic.

Pulisic sent over a fine ball but a diving prod from Dave, of all people, was blocked on the line by Foden.

Thinking to myself : “bloody hell, we could have got a point here.”

At the final whistle, thousands of City fans invaded the pitch despite being warned continually about it.

We walked slowly back to the car.

One young City fan walked along in the middle of the road, arms aloft.

“Ederson and Ake. Walker and Akanje. Ruben Dias, Johnny Stones. Best defence in Europe. We’re Manchester City. We’re on our way to Istanbul.”

…remember Porto, lad, remember Porto?

Sadly, my car was hemmed in back at the car park and so we had to wait for all of the post-match celebrations to end. We stepped inside a rancid pub – “The Grove Inn” – which was full of extras from “Shameless” and reeked of bleach. As we stood silently at the bar, City lifted the trophy on the TV screen to our right. Oh boy.

We had a little banter with the locals; to be fair they were OK. Eventually, bodies appeared outside and we finished our drinks.

“Take care. Hope you pump United in the Cup Final.”

I didn’t pass on my wishes for the Champions League Final though.

I suppose we set off at around 7.15pm. I drove west and then made my way south. There had been a lot of talk between the three of us about football – Chelsea – in the ‘eighties on the drive up to Manchester and there were a few mentions on the return trip home.

Concluding my retrospective about one particular season from that decade – 1982/83 – is the final match of the campaign, the home game with Middlesbrough on Saturday 14 May 1983. Going in to the game we knew that a draw would see us safe. The visitors were one point ahead of us, one place ahead of us, but needed a draw to be safe too.

In the match programme, there was much praise for the fans that had travelled up to Bolton the previous week. The three thousand-strong support represented a full quarter of our average home gate that season and would be the equivalent in today’s money of us taking 10,000 to an away game. The programme honoured those loyal fans who had travelled on the “special” that year by listing the ninety-seven supporters who had gone to at least fourteen of the twenty-one away games with the club. Despite the five London teams in the Second Division that season – Charlton, Crystal Palace, Fulham, QPR and us – there was a definite northern feel to the division that year. Utilising the club special would have been an easy way to save money. I know four of the ninety-seven; Paul Holder, Russell Holbrook, Patrick Gordon-Brown and Kev O’Donohoe, and I am also aware that although my match-day neighbour Alan Davidson qualified for the roll-call, for some reason he was inexplicably excluded, a fact that gnaws away to this day. Kev won a raffle from this list of heroes and the prize was a season ticket to The Shed for 1983/84. He has recently told me that he traded up – paying the difference – for a much more agreeable and fashionable Gate 13 season ticket.

Only three of the ninety-seven are female and I have never seen so many Steves and Daves in one list.

On another page in the Middlesbrough programme, there is a brief mention of my friend Neil Jones, who is wished a happy birthday by his parents. Jonesy recently told me that his actual birthday was spent in the seats at Bolton the week before. That must have a fine birthday present.

In the centre pages, there is a photo of Seb Coe presenting the “Player Of The Year” award to Joey Jones. From an ignominious start and a sending-off at Carlisle United in late October, Joey certainly worked his way into our collective hearts in the remaining seven months of the season. Just below is a picture of Breda Lee and Mary Bumstead.

I would listen to Radio Two, as it was in those days, during the afternoon for score updates. Going into the game, I had hoped for a 10,000 crowd.

The match ended 0-0, thus securing the safety of both teams, and I remember being really pleased that 19,340 attended the game.

Thus, our top four home gates in 1982/83 really were decent.

Fulham – 29,797

Leeds United – 25,358

Queens Park Rangers – 20,821

Middlesbrough – 19,340

However, the dismal run of attendances in the winter had a terrible effect. Our home average levelled out at 12,672. This was narrowly lower than the 13,132 of 1981/82 and the 13,370 of our very first season of 1905/06. Apart from the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/2021 – two league games with an average of 6,000 – these have been the low points in our 118-year history.

We ended the season in eighteenth place, easily our worst-ever placing in our history. We were just two points clear of safety. That Clive Walker goal really did make all of the difference. The three teams relegated to the Third Division were Rotherham United, Bolton Wanderers and Burnley. At the top of the table, Queens Park Rangers were promoted as champions, with Wolverhampton Wanderers and Leicester City filling the other two automatic places. Our neighbours Fulham narrowly missed out by one point in controversial circumstances. Losing 0-1 at Derby County, the home fans invaded the pitch with a minute of the game remaining and the referee signalled the end of the game. At one stage, Fulham were looking a safe bet for promotion.

Elsewhere, Liverpool won the League Championship despite a recent trailing-off of form, finishing eleven points clear of Watford and then Manchester United. Their 2-1 loss at Watford was their fifth loss in seven games.

As for Manchester City, they lost 0-1 at home to Luton Town at Maine Road in front of a massive 42,843, and were relegated to the Second Division.

In some parts of Manchester, the image of David Pleat, dressed completely in beige, still brings convulsions of terror to this day.

OK, Yahni’ed – you’re next.

Tales From Stamford Bridge To Wembley

Posted on May 21, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 14 May 2022.

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.

1997

2022

Tales From The 677

Posted on March 25, 2022 by Chris Axon

Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea : 19 March 2022.

Our FA Cup quarter final tie at Middlesbrough’s Riverside Stadium would necessitate our first visit to Teesside in over five years. PD and I had enjoyed the last one; we stayed the Saturday night and got to witness the joys of a night out in Middlesbrough before our narrow 1-0 win on the Sunday evening in late 2016. PD liked it so much that he has been using the photo of him in the first row of the away section as his cover photo on Facebook ever since.

This time, Parky was joining us. Although I swore blind that I’d never drive up and back to Middlesbrough ever again, after doing this for a match in 2008, due to a variety of reasons that are just too dull to explain here, I was damn well doing it again.

In the build up to this game, it still felt that we were at the centre of a massive storm. However, we did not help ourselves. The club’s pathetic request for the game to be played behind closed doors drew warranted disdain from all quarters. At a time when we should have been quietly going about our business, on and off the park, this just gave others the chance to label us negatively. It was a massive PR own-goal. Sometimes the actions of those at our club defy description.

After a tough few days at work – our office was hit with COVID and sickness – at last the weekend arrived. Parky and I are away season ticket holders but PD’s presence was in doubt. Thankfully, a spare became available from a usual source and the three of us were headed to Middlesbrough. We would be part of, surely, our smallest domestic away following in decades. There were games at Luton Town in the mid-‘eighties when away fans were effectively banned, but a few Chelsea – OK more than a few – still attended via a variety of means. I am unsure how many got in.

I also remember a game at Anfield in the autumn of 1994 when The Kop was closed and I believe our official away allowance was ridiculously small. I watched that game with a Liverpool mate in the main stand that night. From memory we only had about four hundred.

Around seven hundred were due to get in at Middlesbrough. Not for the first time did I feel blessed to be able to attend.

I am a lucky man.

Middlesbrough, eh?

Smoggy Land. The Smog Monsters. The Smoggies. Ironopolis. The huge ICI plant. The ‘Boro. Pak Doo-ik of North Korea scoring against the Italians in 1966. George Camsell and Wilf Mannion. Don Revie and Brian Clough growing up mere streets away from each other. The Ironsides. The 1973/74 promotion team of Jack Charlton. The white bar on the chest of their jerseys. The players Frank Spraggon, Alan Foggon and John Craggs. An industrial wasteland in the ‘eighties. John Neal and Tony McAndrew. The locking of the Ayresome Park gates in 1986. The team of Gary Pallister, Bernie Slaven, Stuart Ripley and Tony Mowbray. The play-offs in 1988. Juninho and Ravanelli. The Wembley games. The Zenith Data, the FA Cup, the League Cup. The Riverside. Roy Chubby Brown. Their League Cup win and the Europa Cup journey under Steve McClaren. The Transporter Bridge. Bob Mortimer. Chris fucking Rea. Club Bongo. The chicken parmo.

I called for PD at eight o’clock and LP just after. A journey of exactly three-hundred miles was ahead. My fellow travellers came armed with a few tins of cider for the trip north. I thoroughly enjoyed this drive. The weather was magnificent; clear blue skies to start, hardly a cloud appeared all day, dry roads, a great feeling of freedom. We stopped for some breakfast bagels at Strensham on the M5 at 9.30am and I was soon hurtling around Birmingham on the M42. The half-way point was reached as I neared the M1 just south of Nottingham. I stopped to refuel at Woodall Services, then headed straight up the A1. The road into Middlesbrough, with the North York Moors visible past Thirsk, and then the approach into Smoggy Land.

We chatted away. But there were the inevitable periods of silence when I was left alone with my thoughts.

The very first time that I saw us play Middlesbrough was that infamous play-off game at Stamford Bridge in 1988. I have detailed that game at legth previously.

My first sighting, though, was a little nearer home.

In 1986, Bristol Rovers were turfed out of their Eastville stadium, never to return, and began playing at Twerton Park, the home of Bath City. Before I returned to college in Stoke in that September, my school friend Steve coerced me to attend a Rovers game against Middlesbrough in the then Third Division. It was a midweek match and I believe less than 4,000 attended. ‘Boro themselves were going through a very rough time, the worst in their history, and were limping along financially from one game to another. I watched from a side terrace as ‘Boro won a decent game 2-1. The one thing that I remember from that night was that Graeme Souness – himself ex-Middlesbrough – and the new Rangers manager had been spotted in the seats above. That he had travelled down from Glasgow – probably by car in those days – on a scouting mission blew my mind. He was no doubt keeping an eye on Gary Pallister.

I hated Middlesbrough in 1988. They spoiled my life, or at least that summer. While many football fans were getting all loved up on ecstasy, I was depressed, so depressed, and fearing life in Division Two. Again.

I have only ever met three Middlesbrough fans outside of match days in my entire life.

My college mate Chris is from nearby Thornaby and I shared digs with him from 1984 to 1987. A distant branch of his family – “Dickens” – sponsored the ‘Boro shirt in those tough times of 1986. Keith was a work mate in Trowbridge at the time of the 1997 and 1998 Wembley games who got undue stick from me. Then, weirdly, there was a lad called Andy from Saltburn, who I first bumped into at a youth hostel in Washington DC in 1989, only for him to come strolling into a bar in Orlando a month later. This football world is a very small world indeed.

I was parked up at around 1.15pm. Not only was my spot equidistant between pub and ground, but also free. After a couple of text messages, we met up with two Chelsea mates in “The Resolution” – which we visited in 2016 – and formed a little Chelsea enclave in a solidly home crowd. It felt like the whole town was buzzing. ‘Boro were enjoying a decent season and were undoubtedly “up for the Cup” on this sunny day. Many ‘Boro lads were in their finery; the boozer was awash with Adidas trainers, Armani jeans, Paul & Shark tops, CP sweatshirts and the ubiquitous Stone Island patch was everywhere. But despite all this, the locals were welcoming.

We chatted to Matty – a dead friendly local from Darlington, er Darlo – and a few of his mates. Pride of place went to Robbie, yet to miss a ‘Boro game in forty-two years. That meant that he was at Twerton Park in 1986. Respect.

With an hour and a half to go, we set off for the stadium. It was only a twenty-minute walk. While the others headed inside for a bevvy, I circumnavigated the stadium for the first time. Statues of Camsell and Mannion proudly stand next to those very same gates from Ayresome Park that were locked by bailiffs in 1986 with the club’s future on a precipice.

I especially wanted a photo of the blue steel of the famous Transporter Bridge over the Tees. I was able to frame this impressive structure within the circles of a couple of public art installations that resembled dream catchers.

The ‘Boro faithful were dreaming of Wembley again as they rushed past me.

The waters of the river lapped the banks as the stadium was bathed in sun ahead of me. I slowly made my way to the away turnstiles. I passed a photo of old Ayresome Park on a section of the perimeter wall with a row of seats from the old stadium in front. Sadly, I never made it to Ayresome Park, nor Roker, and friends tell me it was a fearsome place in other decades; the play-off game in 1988 especially. With hindsight, the two stadia of Sunderland and Middlesbrough – despite being the two lesser clubs of the north-east behind Newcastle United – were far more impressive than St. James’ Park.

I made my way in and soon chatted to some of the 677.

DJ outside.

Al, Gal, Andy, Tim in the concourse.

Others inside the seats.

Waves and thumbs up to a few.

This was my fifth visit to the Riverside. It’s OK, but oh so bland. Five visits and three different sections for us away fans, being pushed east each time. Our small section was above a corner flag.

The other four games were easy wins. I hoped for one more.

Oh yeah, the game. Other matters had dominated my thoughts until then. The sun shone brightly before eventually falling behind the west stand roof. It was a warm evening on Teeside.

The PA was ridiculously excitable.

“The Chelsea team are now in the tunnel.”

Shocker.

“The ‘Boro team are now in the tunnel.”

Bloody hell. You need to get out more, mate.

As the teams entered, red and white shiny mosaics to my left. Lots of noise.

“Papa’s Got A Brand New Pigbag.”

The Chelsea team?

Mendy

Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Silva – Sarr

Kovacic – Loftus-Cheek – Mount

Ziyech – Lukaku – Pulisic

There was applause for Ukraine. There was no silliness from the 677. Phew. Matty had told us all about the ‘Boro right back Isaiah Jones, who was evidently one to watch. Funnily enough, I remembered him from a Queen of the South vs. Hearts game I watched on BBC Scotland last season. Don’t ask.

So, Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea and 30,000 vs.677.

I was pleased to see ‘Boro still employing the white band on their jersey. It’s their thing.

The game began. It was warm enough for me to take off my coat and top; just a T-shirt would suffice until the second-half. I was stood next to PD and Parky. From getting out of my car at 1.15pm, I would be standing until well after the game, gone 7pm.

We began brightly. We used space well as we attacked and the mood inside the away section was positive. There were songs from the start though none immediately, for Roman Abramovich. Matty had told us that their weak link was their goalkeeper Joe Lumley and he was getting tested early on. The home team responded with a few corners.

On the quarter of an hour, the ball broke to Hakim Ziyech down our right. I saw Mason Mount itching to be found.

“There’s the pass. Mason wants” I yelled and I am positive that my voice was heard.

Ziyech pushed the ball into space perfectly. Mount advanced and spotted the fine run of Romelu Lukaku. The cross was perfect, low and fast, right on the money. Lukaku swept it in.

Get in.

We were one-up early on and the 677 roared. I leant forward and shared some positive stuff with Eck.

“Perfect move that. A ball into space. A great run from Lukaku. We don’t do that enough.”

Of course Middlesbrough were guilty of leaving their defence exposed but it was so good to see us executing a classic counter-attacking move. Beautiful.

The home team did not lie down. They almost constantly attacked us down the right via that man Thomas. A few more corners, with Lukaku going all Drogba and heading away on one occasion.

There was a good election of songs emanating from the 677. We were holding our own.

On the half-an-hour mark, we watched as Mateo Kovavic broke purposefully in that urgent way of his. He spotted Mount, breaking square, and the ball was then pushed out to Ziyech. The winger came inside.

A shout from Eck.

“Hit it Hakim.”

He did. And how. The shot dipped and swerved and away from Clumsy Lumley and into the net.

GET IN.

Were we safe? It absolutely felt like it. Time for more celebrations and the continuation of more songs.

“Kovacic our Croatian man.
He left Madrid and he left Milan.
He signed for Frank, said fuck off Zidane.
He signed for Chelsea on a transfer ban.”

Lukaku almost made it three from close-in, but was denied after a ‘Boro defender cleared his goal bound shot off the line.

“How did that not go in?”

It had been a class first-half. Thiago Silva was calmness personified. Rudiger attacked every ball, and sometimes every defender, as if his life depended on it. Eck and I agreed that Mason hasn’t really pushed on this season in quite the way we had expected but was enjoying a fine game. The home fans were occasionally quiet and when these moments happened, we seized our chance to be heard.

It was a pleasure to see Shari and Skippy from Queensland in Australia around the half-time break.

“Bonzer.”

As the second-half began, my Lacoste top was zipped up. The night was getting a little cooler now. The second period promised much but delivered little. I fancied more goals from us, but we rarely hit the free-flowing stuff of the first forty-five minutes.

To be fair to the home fans, they dug in and absolutely sang their hearts out as the second-half got going. I think we were all impressed.

For a while, they sang a song and we did our version. They were our cheerleaders. Minus the pom poms.

But there were also reminders of 1997.

“When Wise Went Up.”

“One Di Matteo.”

And then a new one.

“We’re on our way, we’re on our way.
To Paris, we’re on our way.
Seven seater, car or train.
Tommy’s gonna fly the plane.
All I know is Chelsea’s on our way.”

And then as an answer to “Pigbag.”

“Fucking Useless.”

I remember little of the second-half apart from the banter between away fans and home fans, with the occupants of the BBC studio to our left getting a few hefty helpings too. I could hardly believe it when 677Steve in South Philly texted me to say that he couldn’t hear us on the TV broadcast.

Luke was leading a new chant :

“Chelsea’s got no money, we’re gonna win the Cup.”

Four substitutions from Tuchel.

Timo Werner for Pulisic.

N’Golo Kante for Kovacic.

Kenedy for Ziyech.

Harvey Vale for Lukaku.

Only in the last ten minutes were there audible chants for and against Roman.

Chelsea : “Roman Abramovich.”

Middlesbrough : “Fuck off Abramovich.”

Timo had a couple of late chances and as the game petered out, Mendy made his first real save of the night. The home team had been poor, but we had shown commendable spirit throughout.

The pounding that the club has received from outside of late has undoubtedly engineered a magnificent team spirit with Tuchel now a much loved, much admired and respected leader.

After a period of me struggling to warm to him, I am now resolutely a paid up member of Team Tuchel.

We are privileged to have him.

We slowly walked back to the car as the night grew colder still. The car park was grid-locked so we spent a while in a local “Pizza Hut” where we bumped into Roy – Brighton, Palace – and Margaret yet again. After almost six hours on my feet, I could relax. When I eventually set off at 9pm, the traffic was clear. While PD and Parky slept, I drove south. I was diverted on the M1 into the outer reaches of Leeds.

Ah, 1970.

I refueled my car at Tamworth Services. A couple of Red Bulls got me home.

I reached my house at around 2am.

It had been another good day.

Tales From The Working Week : Monday

Posted on May 9, 2017 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough : 8 May 2017.

Our last five league games of this wonderful season were to take place on two Sundays, two Mondays and a Friday. We would be whores to the TV money yet again. But I hoped that this odd pattern would not disrupt us on our stride towards the title, which seemed a lot more attainable after West Ham’s surprising win at home to Tottenham on Friday.

It left us requiring two wins from our remaining four league games to ensure our sixth league championship.

The first of these games was against relegation-threatened Middlesbrough on the Monday, followed by a game at West Brom on the Friday. These were two monumental bookends to a potentially fantastic five days.

In my comments about Chelsea, I often use the phrase “let’s go to work” to convey a sense of duty to the common good. There is inevitably a back story to this. When I was even more in love with Italy than I am now – if it is possible – I remember seeing a travel programme in 1988 called “Rough Guide” detailing the industrial and commercial stronghold of Milan. There was talk of the “rampanti” – the young and feverish young businessmen, intoxicated by business but also consumed by Italian style. They were the Italian equivalent of “yuppies” (remember them?) I guess.

As one of the presenters said : “The protestant work ethic has gone crazy in Catholic Italy.”

Around the same time, I vividly remember reading a guide to the same city that mentioned that instead of wishing each other “good morning” or “good day”, the business folk of Milan would often utter the Italian equivalent of “let’s go to work” and it immediately struck a chord.

And I am sure that Antonio Conte would approve. And so this would be a working week like no other. From Monday to Friday, Chelsea Football Club would be focused. At the weekend, following the game at The Hawthorns, there might be a chance to relax.

My working week began with Wembley on my mind. My main task on the day of the Middlesbrough game was to purchase Cup Final tickets. I was so absorbed on this objective that I completely forgot to pack my camera for the game later that evening. I would have to make do with my mobile phone. A lack of focus such as this would have been frowned upon by Antonio, no doubt. It is a good job that he is not my boss.

By the way, who thought that in this match report about our game with Middlesbrough – a win and we would consign them to the Championship – that my first comments about 1988 would be concerning Italian yuppies?

1988.

Let me explain, if it needs to be explained.

We began 1987/88 in good form but after Christmas we fell drastically down the league. Under manager John Hollins, things went from bad to worse. Chairman Ken Bates replaced Hollins with Bobby Campbell for the last month or so of the season. At the time, the First Division was being trimmed from twenty-two teams to twenty teams over two seasons. Additionally, it was the second year of the Football League play-offs, which featured teams from the top two divisions playing off over two legs. Chelsea finished fourth from bottom of the First Division in 1987/88 and met Blackburn Rovers in the first round of the play-offs. They were easily dispatched. In the final, we met Middlesbrough, who had beaten Bradford City in their first round. At Ayresome Park, we lost 2-0. In the return leg, I fancied our chances to over-turn this. Our team contained some half-decent players such as Steve Clarke, John Bumstead, Pat Nevin, Kerry Dixon, Gordon Durie and Tony Dorigo. On paper we were no mugs.

In late May 1988 – a fortnight after the Cup Final, virtually the last game of the season – over 40,000 assembled at Stamford Bridge on a bright and sunny afternoon to see if Chelsea could claw back the two goals. I watched, alongside Alan – just like in 2017 – as Gordon Durie guided the ball in after only a quarter of an hour. The noise was deafening. We were watching from the back row of the benches, willing the team on, kicking every ball, heading every clearance. I can remember that such was the appetite to see this game that The Shed was packed early on. Shamefully, the club decided to open up a section of The Shed terrace that had been closed under the safety of sports grounds act for years and years. My photograph of The Shed from the day shows the ridiculous density of people in the rear portions of The Shed and also the overflow, standing on a terrace that should not have been used.

The club had decided to do this for the league game with Charlton Athletic a month or so earlier too. My dear parents, as late arrivals, watched that game from that section of The Shed, sitting on a terrace that had not been used since around 1979.

Remember this was a year before Hillsborough. Not only Sheffield Wednesday snubbed ground regulations in those days.

On that day in May 1988, we tried and tried but could not break Middlesbrough down despite having tons of possession. Their side, containing Gary Pallister and Tony Mowbray at the heart of their defence, rode their luck and held on. They were followed by around 7,000 away fans who were packed into the sweeping north terrace to my left.

At the end of the game, and with Chelsea relegated to the Second Division for the third time of my life, we did not take defeat well.

At the final whistle, hundreds of Chelsea fans scaled the fences at The Shed and raced on to the pitch, and ran at the away fans. I remember some stewards opened up some exit gates at The Shed. Of course, only a very small percentage of our fans bothered to trespass on to the pitch. Most were in a state of shock at our demise. Most just looked-on aghast. I remember feeling a mixture of emotions. I was just so sad that we were relegated. There was no desire for me to get on to the pitch. I dare say that a lot of this was bravado and posturing by the Chelsea fans, rather than a desire to go toe-to-toe with ‘Boro, who were, of course, unreachable, penned in by themselves.

This was immediately before the UK’s 1988 Summer of Love when a fair proportion of old school hooligans throughout the UK found dance music and ecstasy and gradually turned away from knocking lumps out of each other for a while. This was an era of jeans, trainers, Rockport boots, Timberland shoes, England “Invasion of Germany 1988” T-shirts, denim button-down shirts, jade away shirts, and a subtle selection of new casual brands such as Marc O’Polo, Chevignon and Chipie. This was pre rave, pre Smiley-face, pre acid-house, and at times all very grotesque.

“We’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose” was about right.

So – relegation. What a bitter pill to swallow. In 2017, we have thoughts of The Double. In 1988, there was only double-denim.

Outside, as I marched dejectedly down the Fulham Road, the venom from the waiting Chelsea fans outside the away end was palpable. There would be running battles for hours after. By which time, I had returned to Paddington for the train home, feeling totally depressed. We had become – and remain – the only team to finish fourth from bottom of the top division and still be relegated.

One wonders how millions of modern day Chelsea fans would cope with all that.

In Germany, a few weeks later, England were humiliated in the European Championships and there was mayhem as the English hooligans fought the locals and opposing fans alike. At the start of the 1988/89 season, Chelsea were forced to play our first six home games with no spectators allowed in The Shed nor North Stand.

They were pretty bleak times.

Oh, and worst of all, we sold Pat Nevin to Everton in the summer too.

I think it is fair to say, from a football perspective, 1988 was the worst summer of my life.

Fast forward to May 2017 and we live in a different universe.

Outside the stadium, I had bumped into my pal Jason from Texas – over for one game only – and we headed over to The Chelsea Pensioner to meet up with Kathryn and Tim from Virginia, themselves over for one game only. We skipped past a twenty-five strong bunch of Chelsea fans, all scarves and replica shirts, from Poland. In The Butcher’s Hook, the mood was of quiet confidence, though if I am honest, I was still a little nervous. We heard that N’Golo Kante was not playing, nor even on the bench.

I joked that we would win 1-0.

Scorer : Kante.

What a superhuman season he has had.

Unlike in 1988, ‘Boro had only brought 1,500 fans, and one flag. Very poor.

I was hoping for a red hot atmosphere from the very start, or from even before the start. I was a little dismayed, but not at all surprised, that the noise levels were not as tumultuous as I had hoped as the game kicked-off.

There was an early foray into our half by Middlesbrough, but our first real attack was a joy to watch. We moved the ball quickly and purposefully from centre to right to left and Marcos Alonso crashed a volley towards goal, only for us to gasp as the ball was deflected by Brad Guzan on to the bar

In the early stages, ‘Boro looked to release their right winger Adama Traore as often as possible. He looked a bit useful. Alan said that he was reminded of Forest’s Franz Carr – ugh, a 6-2 loss at home in 1986, Jon Millar still has nightmares.

I noted that Middlesbrough’s awful shirt ideally represents their gradual decline this season; that ridiculous white diagonal goes from sixteenth place to nineteenth place.

Slowly, the noise picked up.

Chelsea : “We’re top of the league.”

‘Boro : “We’re going down.”

Chelsea (missing the joke ) : “You’re going down.”

Alonso was finding tons of space out on our left. Sadly, a second effort did not trouble Guzan. Pedro was everywhere, picking up the loose ball, passing it on, involved. He may not be our most influential nor best player this season, but he surely embodies the Conte work ethic like no other. Cesc Fabregas, heavily involved, was stroking the ball around majestically. Eden Hazard set Fabregas up, but his low shot was well off target.

The same player then set up Diego Costa, but his teasing and tantalising cross just evaded the lunge from Diego. In The Sleepy Hollow, I turned and demanded answers from my fellow fans :

“How the fuck did that not go in?”

A lovely long ball, across the box, from Fabregas found Diego Costa, who steadied himself and stroked the ball home.

There was the opening goal. Get in you bastard.

Vic Reeves : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Bob Mortimer : “Come on my little diamonds.”

The crowd was in the game now. A medley of songs rang around the stadium.

“Tottenham Hotspur – we’re coming for you.”

“Tottenham Hotspur – we’re waiting for you.”

“Tottenham Hotspur – we’re laughing at you.”

Another goal quickly followed. Dave looped another long ball over the heads of everyone and picked out Alonso. Stretching at the bye-line, he did well to connect at all. Imagine our joy, and relief of course, when we saw the net ripple.

We were 2-0 to the good. Fackinell.

“Another goal now Alan, and we could score a hat-full.”

Efforts from Moses – running into space on the right – went close and that man Alonso curled a free-kick just over. We were well on top.

All of that pre-match worry seemed ill-placed. It had been a lovely half of football.

Soon into the second period, we went close again, with the effervescent Pedro lashing a ball against the top of the bar from twenty yards. Alonso’s shot was almost touched in by Diego. The look on our forward’s face was of pure agony. Gary Cahill was next to test Guzan, shooting with power from thirty yards. It seemed everyone wanted a touch of the ball. How different to last season. Man of the moment Fabregas touched a shot wide. Amongst all this, Eden Hazard was having a relatively quiet game, save for a mesmerizing spin away from a marker and a strong run, which was typically ended by a clumsy challenge. Hazard, of course, is heavily marked these days, but other players are primed to intelligently exploit the space he leaves elsewhere.

With twenty minutes of the game remaining, another lovely move ended up with Fabregas clipping a delightful ball towards Nemanja Matic. He chested it down and smashed it home.

Three-naught. Get fucking in.

The crowd sang “We’re gonna win the league” and I joined in.

Hazard was substituted by Willian (we have a song for him, Tottenham, if you are watching.)

Pedro fired over. Moses went close.

I turned to Alan : “It could have been seven, tonight.”

David Luiz raced up field and clearly wanted to score. It was one of those nights. This was a very mature performance from Chelsea. We looked at ease in our own skin, at ease with each other. There had been a couple of silly defensive errors in the first-half from Cahill and Luiz but they soon redeemed themselves. ‘Boro’s infamously goal-shy attack did not get a sniff.

Some of the away fans could be heard singing a song of never-ending support. A few Chelsea around me clapped, but were soon dwarfed by louder shouts of disdain. We had revenged 1988 but in truth our Wembley victories in 1997 and 1998 had sorted that out years ago.

Nathaniel Chalobah replaced Pedro and, to a hero’s welcome, David Luiz was replaced by none other than John Terry (we have a song for him, Tottenham, if you are watching.) Every one of JT’s three or four touches were warmly applauded. I was pleased that a gaggle of pals from the US had seen the captain play, albeit for only a few easy moments. Everywhere we purred, none more so than Alonso, Pedro and Cesc.

Alan : “That young lad Kante will struggle to get back in for Friday.”

In the end, it was a cake-walk. A walk in the park. A piece of cake.

I commented to Alan that it seemed so strange that our humiliation of Tottenham last season – that goal, that game – has been mirrored, although on a far grander scale, throughout the past few weeks of this season.

“It is almost as if last May was a dummy run for this May. Bloody love it.”

There was a gorgeous and joyous atmosphere as we walked down the Fulham Road. There were hugs and handshakes with a few good friends. That horrific walk from 1988 could not have been more different.

One game to go, Chelsea, one game to go.

Is it Friday yet?

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Tales From The Riverside

Posted on November 23, 2016 by Chris Axon

Middlesbrough vs. Chelsea : 20 November 2016.

My last trip to Middlesbrough was eight years’ ago. On that day in the autumn of 2008, with Luiz Filipe Scolari in charge, we won 5-0 and it was a cracking performance. On that particular occasion, I made the stupid decision to drive up and back in the same day. Five hours up, five hours back, and only a few miles’ shy of a six-hundred-mile round trip.

“Never again, never again.”

Eight years later, I had soon decided that Middlesbrough would be an overnight stay, as would Sunderland a few weeks later.

Not long in to the long drive north, I confided to PD that I was really looking forward to the football. Now this might seem an odd statement, but very often – and it seems to be increasing all the time – it is the “other stuff” that I get excited about these days. The banter, the craic, the laughs, the camaraderie, the pub-crawls, the beers. The pleasure of being in a different stadium, a different city, every two weeks is part of the fun too. A chance to experience new things, new sights, new sites. And although there were the joys of an overnight stay in Middlesbrough – “stop sniggering at the back” – to look forward to, I can honestly say that the magnificence of our recent performances had got me all tingly. After the beautiful demolition of Everton, the dreaded international break had come at a particularly unwelcome time.

I just simply yearned to see us play again.

I am a rare visitor to Teesside. I never ever made it to Ayresome Park, and this would only be my fourth ever visit to ‘Boro’s new stadium on the banks of the River Tees alongside the famous Transporter Bridge. On my first two visits in 2002 and 2007, I stayed in Scarborough and Whitby. There had been three wins out of three. But I was not taking Middlesbrough lightly. If ever there was a potential Chelsea banana skin, this was it.

Five straight wins and then a tough trip to the North-East on a wet and cold Sunday afternoon? It had “Fyffes” written all over it.

I eventually pulled in to Middlesbrough at around 3.30pm on the Saturday afternoon. PD and I had enjoyed our trip north, listening to the Manchester United vs. Arsenal draw on the radio – happy with points dropped by both teams – and it did not take us long to be toasting “absent friends” in our hotel bar. Friends Foxy and Ashley from Dundee soon joined us as we tentatively made plans for the evening. There were cheers as Liverpool dropped points at Southampton, which meant that a win for us on the Sunday would mean that we would reclaim our top spot. A win for City at Palace was expected. We took a cab into town, and Harry bloody Kane scored a winner for Spurs at home to West Ham just as we were deposited outside “Yates.”

“Well, that has spoiled the taste of my next beer.”

“Yates” was pretty empty. There were a few other Chelsea inside, but all was quiet. We sat at a table overlooking a pedestrianised street, deep in the city centre. In two hours, I just saw two people walk past.

“Lloyds” was next and a lot livelier. More beers. More laughs.

As the night deteriorated further, Ashley and Foxy headed on back to the hotel at around midnight, but PD and I kept going. We stayed a while in one pub – a local told me that it was “the roughest pub in Middlesbrough” – but it seemed OK to me. I could hear Parky’s voice :

“It was the kind of pub where the bouncers throw you in.”

Lastly, we visited the infamous “Bongo Club” but soon realised that we were reaching the end of our night.

We sniffed out a late-night takeaway, and avoiding the local “chicken parmo” speciality, scoffed some late night carbohydrates before getting a cab home.

Back in my hotel room – Room 101, I had to laugh – I set my alarm for a 9am breakfast.

The time was 3.38am.

“Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

It had been a bloody enjoyable night. Ten hours of drinking. Where did the time go?

Answers on a postcard.

You know when you have had a proper skin full the night before, when you wake up the next morning and there is not the faintest memory of an overnight dream. During the working week, my first waking moments are often coloured by the dreams I had experienced while asleep. A memory here, a vague thought there, maybe a recollection of some sort of sequence of events. Well, at 9am on Sunday 20 November, there was simply nothing.

A complete blank.

“Too drunk to dream.”

Oh boy.

We breakfasted, then headed out. As I was on driving duties, I would be on “Cokes” for the rest of the day. In truth, after just five hours’ sleep, I was hanging. At least there was no discernible hangover. I was just tired. It was going to be a long day.

In “The Pig Iron” near the train station we had our first match day drinks. It was another very cheap pub, but there was a rather unpleasant smell in the bar. A few Chelsea were present. But there were also a few local lads, sporting their finest livery, and I was quite happy to move on.

Back to “Yates” and it was a lot livelier, with many Chelsea arriving over the next few hours. Friends Kev and Gillian arrived from Edinburgh. I was gulping down the “Cokes” and eventually started feeling a little more awake.

I whispered to a few fellow fans “I can safely say that Middlesbrough has lived down to expectations.”

Other Chelsea fans had stayed the night in Newcastle, Durham, Whitby. They had possibly made the wisest choices. To be fair, although the town was hardly full of much architectural or cultural delight, the locals were very friendly. In one of the boozers the previous evening, I had even encountered a ‘Boro fan who admired John Terry.

I wished that the gents toilets in “Yates” were better though.

“It’s got a shallow end and a deep end.”

It was 3pm and we caught a cab to the stadium. It was a bleak and damp afternoon in Teesside. We bumped into a few friends and then headed inside. The away fans are now along the side. We had sold out long ago; three-thousand at Middlesbrough on a Sunday in November was indeed an excellent showing.

We had turned-up. Would the team?

There was a fair bit of noise in the concourse and in the away section. There was an air of invincibility. The Liverpool draw had definitely given us a bounce to our step.

We had heard that the team was unchanged yet again.

In Conte we trust.

PD and myself were right down the front in row one. It would be a different perspective for me. I had a constant battle with a steward though; he didn’t like my camera.

The teams soon appeared, with Chelsea wearing a charcoal grey training top over the unlovable black away kit.

Before kick-off, there was a perfectly-observed minute of silence for the fallen. I had noted that around thirty soldiers, in camo fatigues, had been given a block of seats in the end adjacent to us. As the teams broke, the noise boomed around the stadium. To my left, in the area where away fans were once housed, there was a section of the home crowd who were waving flags; it was, I suppose, their “ultra” section, though I am not sure if they would call themselves that.

We stood the entire match.

“Oh, my feet.”

Middlesbrough certainly have an awful home shirt this season, with that silly low swoosh come sash on the players’ stomachs. It reminded me of ice hockey’s greatest ever player Wayne Gretzky, who always used to tuck the right-hand side of his shirt in, leaving the left-side loose.

Anyway, as shirts go, this one is pants.

Middlesbrough started the strongest I thought. It looked like their left-winger was going to be a constant source of irritation for us. On two occasions he slipped past Cesar Azpilicueta. With a front row vantage point, it was fascinating to see the physical battle of the two as they raced together, arms flailing, legs pumping. Negredo had the first real chance of the game, but his low centre evaded everyone.

Eden Hazard was unceremoniously clumped from behind and he remained down, worryingly, for a while.

Both sets of fans were in fine voice. Middlesbrough had a few of their own songs, but their local dialect made deciphering the words difficult for some.

“What are they saying?”

I was able to assist :

“We’ve got some shit fans, but yours are the worst.”

For a while, both sets of fans seemed to be overlapping the same tune with different lyrics. The old ‘Boro favourite “Papa’s got a brand new pigpag” easily segued into “Victor Moses.”

It was a rather slow start for us, but gradually we began to turn the screw. Midway through the half, we were well on top. Middlesbrough’s spell of possession seemed ages ago. Just before the half-hour mark, Moses played in Pedro who was only about ten yards out. I expected him to score. He slammed the ball high, but Victor Valdes flung his arm up, and finger-tipped the ball over.

“What a save.”

Negredo rose well, but headed wide, but Chelsea were now dominating possession despite few real chances. Moses, enjoying a lot of the ball, blazed over.

The weather sharpened and my feet got colder and colder. There were a few spots of rain. Up went my hood.

Victor Valdes went down after a challenge, and it looked like he would be needing attention. I seized the moment. With half-time approaching, I decided to beat the half-time rush.

While in the gents in the under croft at the Riverside Stadium at around 4.47pm on Sunday 20 November 2016, I heard a roar above.

“Is that us?”

“Dunno.”

News travelled fast : Diego Costa.

There was a mixture of elation and despair.

“Bollocks, I’ve come all this way and I missed the goal.”

I quickly re-joined PD.

“Good goal?”

“A tap in from a corner.”

The half-time whistle blew immediately after.

At half-time, Chelsea were buoyant.

“We are top of the league. Say we are top of the league.”

As the second-half started, I couldn’t help but notice that there were two or three Middlesbrough fans in the section to my left constantly pointing and gesturing at some Chelsea fans in the away section close to me. A couple were going through the age old “you, outside!” malarkey. I suspect that their new-found bravery was quite probably linked to the fact that thirty soldiers were standing behind them.

The noise continued, but became murky with taunts and counter-taunts of “a town full of rent boys” and “Adam Johnson, he’s one of your own.”

Ugh.

It was still 1-0 to us, and as the game continued, I was convinced that Middlesbrough would equalise.

David Luiz was enjoying another fantastic game for us, heading cross after cross away, and then passing out of defence intelligently. On one occasion, he hopped and skipped past one challenge, before finding Diego Costa with a beautiful cross. His perfectly-weighted header set things up for Pedro, who smashed a volley past Valdes, but we watched as the ball agonizingly crashed down from the bar.

Moses then thrashed over again.

“Need a second goal, PD.”

We were still the better team, but there were moments when Middlesbrough threatened. Traore wasted a good opportunity and blazed over, but soon after Negredo raced forward and we held our breath. A low shot was battered away by Thibaut Courtois, his first real save of note during the game to date.

I was still worried.

As the clock ticked by, 1-1 haunted me.

Conte made some changes in the final ten minutes; Chalobah for Pedro, Ivanovic for Moses, Oscar for Hazard.

Middlesbrough had a few late surges, but our magnificent defence held firm.

At the final whistle, I clenched my fists and roared, along with three-thousand others.

It had been a war of attrition this one. The recent flair only appeared fleetingly, despite much possession. Middlesbrough looked a pretty decent team, but lacked a spark in front of goal. We knew we had passed a firm test on a cold evening on Teesside. Six league wins on the trot, and – most incredibly – not one single goal conceded. The noise emanating from the Chelsea fans as we squeezed out of the gates at The Riverside and into the cold night was a reflection of our lofty position but also in honour of our ability to eke out a narrow win when needed.

Diego Costa’s goal made it four wins out of four for me at Middlesbrough and – amazingly – I have never seen us lose to them home or away.

A cheap and cheerful burger outside the away end helped restore my energy and I slowly joined the legions of cars heading south. I managed to keep any tiredness at bay and the drive home, eventually getting in at 11.45pm, was remarkably easy.

It had been a decent weekend in Middlesbrough.

Tottenham – you are next.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

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