When I left the office on Friday afternoon, ahead of the game at Tottenham Hotspur on Saturday evening, a co-worker asked me about the match.
My answer was short and sweet.
“…dreading it.”
Our last two results had hardly been inspiring; an insipid display at home to Sunderland, and a very odd game at Wolves that resulted in a win but it didn’t leave many of us too enthralled. Then there is the nervousness that comes with these mighty games against traditional foes. I suspect that I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter heading to N17 that was slightly queasy about that evening’s game. As I said to a few people, “it depends on which Chelsea shows up.”
Despite the evening kick-off, I was still up early. To save time, PD had picked up Parky in Holt at 7.30am and I collected them both at PD’s house in Frome at 8am. I then drove down to Salisbury to collect Steve.
It was a decent drive up to London and I was parked up at Barons Court at 11am. We then caught the Picadilly Line north. The others were off to meet up with Jimmy the Greek and Ian in a pub at Arnos Grove at around midday. I had other plans.
I have wanted to visit a Philadelphia-themed bar/diner for ages, and so as I had some time to kill on this particular match day in London, I alighted at Tottenham Court Road and set off through Fitzrovia, a part of London I had never visited previously. From there, it took me around twenty minutes to reach “Passyunk Avenue”, the original Philly bar in London, now part of a chain of four. It’s not far from the British Telecom Tower.
I stayed an hour, and I really liked it. As soon as you walk in, you are immediately transported to a dive bar in the US. The walls are adorned with all things-Philly, and the draught ales are – as far as I could see – all US imports. Unfortunately, the Philly cheesesteak that I ordered was average, but I loved the place. In lieu of the time that I have spent in Philadelphia, not least in the closing weeks of last season, I thought it worth including in this match report.
I want to go back, and when I do, maybe I should take a photograph of Peter Osgood in his Philadelphia Fury days and ask the bar staff to find a place for it next to memorabilia of the Phillies, the Eagles, the ‘Sixers and the Flyers.
After my visit, I walked to Great Portland Street and took a train to Kings Cross. I bumped into Philippa, Brian and Martin on the tube, and they didn’t seem particularly confident of our chances either.
At 1.30pm I joined up with the rest of the lads in the pub. We used it before the Arsenal away game last season, and the less said about that the better.
We stayed until 4.15pm. It’s a big old pub, in the Arts & Craft style of the early twentieth century, and we perched ourselves at a central table. The only negative was the fact that a children’s birthday party, complete with shrill shouting, was taking place in one of the wings.
We covered a large and rambling list of topics, too many to list here, but at no stage in the afternoon – despite the others quaffing a fair few bevvies – did we become even slightly confident about the outcome of the game. I must admit that we had a bundle of laughs between the five of us, including a top trivia question that was posed by Ian.
“Who was the only person to appear on two different songs on the same edition of ‘Top of the Pops’ in the 1980s?”
We caught an uber and chugged slowly towards White Hart Lane. And no, that’s not an error, we ended up at White Hart Lane, the actual road, where we hopped out and then walked the ten minutes to the away entrance on Worcester Avenue.
Incidentally, you must wonder why the White Hart Lane moniker never made it to the new stadium. In fact, Tottenham’s new stadium is nearer White Hart Lane than the old place. I know it’s rather wordy, but “The Tottenham Stadium at White Hart Lane” covers all the bases and links the old with the new. As a comparison, I can think of “Orioles Stadium at Camden Yards” in Baltimore and that gets shortened to Camden Yards, and I think it would be the same at Tottenham.
Christ, that’s enough time talking about them.
What about us?
Here was the team that Enzo Maresca had picked for this crucial fixture in the Chelsea calendar.
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Marc Cucurella
Reece James – Moises Caicedo
Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho
Joao Pedro
The pre-match drinkers in the pub were all split up in various sections of the away quadrant. I found myself in the usual place at this stadium, low down along the side, alongside Gary and John. However, there was the added spice of being right next to the three-seat-no-man’s-land that separated us from the home fans in the East Stand.
There was the usual pre-match bluster from the announcer who peddles the usual Tottenham “to dare is to do” guff as he stood on the pitch wearing a shirt and a tie that look too tight, and also a vision of Thomas Frank on the huge TV screens urging the supporters to get behind the team.
Modern football, eh?
I had read reports of the home fans making a special effort for this match and wondered if there was a special tifo earmarked for us. As the teams entered the pitch, there was the 2025 staple of dimmed lights and flames, but nothing much else.
“Oh when the Spurs” boomed out, and this was their “YNWA” moment; noisy at the start but then – I hoped – quiet thereafter.
The game began, and as always, we attacked their monstrous South Bank in the first half.
Tottenham in white / blue / white, Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.
With me standing, and everyone in the home section to my left sitting, I had a completely unhindered view of the game to my left. It was a brilliant position.
A Tottenham substitution came after just seven minutes.
“Great, that has upset their plan.”
By the end of the first quarter of an hour, I realised that it was us that had easily dominated possession, and I mentioned to Gary and John that we had “quietened them down”, which is always a priority, but sometimes easier said than done.
If I had tentatively approached this game with my fingers crossed – and possibly my eyes, my arms and my legs, like a human pretzel – now I had the warming sensation that we had a decent selection of players out on the pitch and that, minute by minute, we were the more dominant force.
Despite not creating much in the way of clearcut chances, I liked our ball possession, the way we utilised the wide men, and the combative nature of our midfielders.
After twenty minutes, there had been just two efforts on the Tottenham goal, from James and Garnacho, but I was content with our start.
We continued to control the tempo and control possession.
Marc Cucurella was his usual energised self, just in front of us, throwing himself into tackles, encouraging others.
“He’s so reliable on a day like this,” said John.
“He gets it how much we hate this lot” I replied.
Tombsy, in the row in front, said “I was just about to say the same thing.”
It was odd that the atmosphere in most of the stadium was quiet, such is the way these days, but the away support was trying to get some songs going.
I took one photo of such a moment, with the Chelsea support teasing Tottenham; it was a shot of the East Lower, docile and seated, save for one lone supporter, standing by herself and giving us the finger.
On the thirty-minute mark, a shot from Joao Pedro, one on one with their ‘keeper, but Guglielmo Vicario managed to block.
A rare Tottenham attack followed, but Mohammed Kudus blasted over the bar.
On thirty-four minutes, with Moises Caicedo doing what he does best, the sense of anticipation within the massed ranks of the three thousand away fans rose, as he won back-to-back duels high up the pitch. There was one last drag back towards Joao Pedro, and the anticipation levels were magnified further.
Joao Pedro was free, in space, with the goal at his mercy. I inhaled in expectation. One touch, and then a shot.
Bosh.
His effort flew high into the net.
Yes!
I turned and raised both my arms and screamed at the Tottenham support to my left.
You can imagine how much I enjoyed that.
While the scorer celebrated with his teammates in the corner, I gathered myself, turned back towards my right and roared among friends.
Two things to comment upon here.
One, we absolutely go to football for moments like this. There is no similar sensation in our humdrum lives.
I have said it before; I am a goal addict.
Two, there was no comeuppance for my guttural roar of joy coupled with my stare and triumphal stance from the nearby home fans. There was no scowling, no gestures, no irate body language, no pointing, no verbal abuse, nor real signs of annoyance. In some ways it annoyed me.
Aren’t you upset, Tottenham?
To be honest, and I had suspected it for a while, but I think I was positioned next to “Tottenham Tourist Central” if the appearance and demeanour of the spectators to my left were anything to go by.
The Chelsea fans bounced and bellowed for the remainder of the half.
On forty-three minutes, a cross from Gusto on the right, and a shot close in from Joao Pedro. However, Vicario’s reflex save was excellent.
But it again annoyed me that there was no applause, not even the slightest ripple of appreciation, from the thousands in the home areas to my left.
Bloody hell, what has the game come to?
Just after, a super ball from Chalobah inside the full back, but Garnacho’s touch was heavy. Our often-derided young defender had enjoyed a fine half, but Wesley Fofana was even better, a real plus thus far.
The tackle on James by Betancur seemed late, and a melee ensued. Incoming texts suggested the yellow should have been a red.
“We’ve rattled them,” said John.
In stoppage time, Kudus curled a very rare Tottenham shot at goal – their first of the match thus far – but Robert Sanchez was equal to it and pushed the ball away adeptly.
In the concourse, at half-time, smiles aplenty with a few friends.
Ian and Jimmy the Greek, supping pints, happy.
I breezed past Philippa, Brian and Martin.
“Don’t know why we were so worried. Playing well, aren’t we?”
And then a quick chat with Nina and David – last seen in Philadelphia in June – and the rare luxury of a pint, probably my first this season.
Happy days.
The second half began, and we continued the dominance.
We created more chances than the first half, and the Chelsea crowd were louder too.
Reece put pressure on Tottenham and won the ball, and a great move developed in front of us. Caicedo, enjoying a monster game, then set up Enzo, but Vicario was his equal.
Next, a James cross from in front of us but Enzo headed over.
Then a shot from Neto in front of goal, a miss-hit, but it was saved by Vicario.
Then a low cross from Garnacho on the left that somehow evaded a final touch.
In a nutshell, we were all over Tottenham like a rash.
On sixty-six minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.
How we laughed on seventy-three minutes when Xavi Simons, the substitute, was substituted.
Despite our domination, I was of course worried about us only winning 1-0 and was a little reticent about joining in with the load chanting of “it’s happened again.”
With a quarter of an hour to go, a shot from Neto from an acute angle, then Reece curled an effort over.
James was enjoying a hugely dominant game and let’s hope those worrisome days of injury tweaks are in the past.
On seventy-six minutes, Romeo Lavia replaced Gusto.
On eighty-five minutes, Estevao Willian replaced Neto.
On eighty-nine minutes, Tosin Adarabioyo replaced Fofana.
Throughout the second period, there were boos aplenty from the home support and this warmed my heart.
However, it still stayed at 1-0.
After winning 4-1 and 4-3 at this place the past two seasons, this was too tight for my liking.
We had two outrageous chances to score in injury-time. First up, a quick breakaway down our right, and Estevao played the ball in to Joao Pedro, who moved it on towards Gittens. Surely this would settle our nerves.
The ball bobbled, Gittens swiped, and the ball flew crazily high over the bar.
Fackinell.
Then, Estevao to Enzo, to Joao Pedro, but another fine save from Vicario when it looked easier to score.
Thankfully, the final whistle soon blew.
We had done it.
Another one.
Another victory at the New Three Point Lane.
The domination continues.
The Chelsea players came over to celebrate with us, while I took a rather self-indulgent selfie in front of the meek and demoralised Tottenham supporters.
And now I could whole-heartedly join in.
“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”
Some numbers :
In the last eighteen games against Tottenham Hotspur in all competitions and all venues, Chelsea have won fourteen.
In the last seven visits to Tottenham Hotspur in the Premier League, Chelsea have won six.
In all our visits to their new stadium, we have won seven out of nine times.
Of my twenty-seven visits to “Tottenham Away (Love It)” my individual record is –
Played : 27
Won : 12
Drew : 7
Lost : 8
Gertcha.
We loitered around, as per usual, grabbing some chicken and chips at “Chickin Warriors” on the High Road so the crowds could dissipate.
We caught the 9pm train south at White Hart Lane to take us to Liverpool Street.
I spoke to a Dutch guy who had just arrived in London with his wife and son, and who had watched from the expensive seats above us. His son had been gifted a few items from the Tottenham club shop. I didn’t waste much time informing him which team I supported, and with a few Tottenham fans within earshot, I couldn’t resist dropping in a few mentions of us beating PSG in New Jersey in July. I also joked that there was still time for his son to eschew Tottenham and choose Chelsea instead.
I was getting some seriously dark glances from the locals, and I loved it.
We were back at my car by 10pm.
I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at midnight.
Back to Holt, back to Frome…I eventually made it home at 1.30am.
Oh – the trivia answer?
Alan Brazil.
“Tottenham, Tottenham” – the Tottenham Hotspur F.A. Cup Final Squad.
“We Have A Dream” – the Scotland National Football Team.
As with the last time that we played Liverpool at home, on Sunday 4 May, we had decided to forego our usual pre-match in “The Eight Bells” in favour of “The Tommy Tucker” because of logistical reasons. The closure of the District Line was again the cause, but we didn’t mind one iota. This pub is only fifty yards from Fulham Road and serves as a decent enough substitute for our usual boozer a mile or so to the south.
I was hoping that it would prove to be a lucky omen since we defeated the newly crowned champions 3-1 on that sunny day five months ago.
The day had begun in deepest Somerset with the rain lashing down outside, and with low dark clouds above. The outlook looked bleak.
Thankfully, the weather improved as I drove to London with PD and LP, so that by the time I was parked up, the skies were clear. Walking to the pub was a lot easier than I had expected with blustery gusts of wind the only negative. As soon as I reached the bar, I spotted Tommy Langley and we enjoyed a brief chat before he darted off to the stadium to commence his pre-match hospitality routine.
I stayed in the pub from 1pm to 4.30pm, and a few acquaintances joined us at our table, all of whom seemed to be called Steve or Dave.
We semi-watched the Leeds United vs. Tottenham Hotspur game on the TV screen that faced our table.
I was on the “Diet Cokes” of course and occupied myself with occasional peeks at my phone to see how my local team Frome Town were faring at Willand Rovers in Devon. During the week, on the Wednesday, I had enjoyed a cracking game of football between Frome Town and Bristol Manor Farm, our great rivals. My hometown team eventually prevailed 3-2, with a late goal from new fan favourite George Dowling, who rifled home on eighty-eight minutes after seeing an early 2-0 lead collapse. This gave Dodge our fifth win out of five in the league this season. Sadly, Willand won 1-0 and so I was downbeat about that.
With virtually every single Chelsea fan that I had chatted to expecting a loss against Liverpool, but hoping for a draw, I prepared myself for a bleak afternoon.
As I made the short walk from the “The Tommy Tucker” to Stamford Bridge, the wind was still blustery, and I was pleased that I was wearing my light jacket to fend off some surprisingly cold bursts.
I smuggled my SLR in using “Method 9/F” and quickly made my way up to The Sleepy Hollow.
It was 4.45pm. As I took a few photos of the dormant stadium from the very back row above our seats, waiting for things to liven up, I recollected a few things from that Liverpool game last May. It would prove to be dear Albert’s last-ever Chelsea game, and I thought back to him once again.
As friends drifted in, I chatted away, but none of us thought we would get much out of the game.
Enzo Maresca had chosen this starting eleven :
Sanchez
Gusto – Acheampong – Badiashile – Cucurella
James – Caicedo
Pedro Neto – Fernandez – Garnacho
Joao Pedro
With the appearance of the teams from the East Stand tunnel, we were treated to fireworks exploding from both roofs of The Shed and the Matthew Harding. The air turned a hazy blue/grey for quite some time, and the whiff of sulphur permeated our nostrils.
At 5.30pm, the game began.
Liverpool began brightly, and as they attacked our end, it gave the Chelsea supporters the chance to boo the new Liverpool striker Aleksander Isak at close quarters.
Then Chelsea began to make inroads, and there was an opening for Malo Gusto but he fluffed his lines when presented with a chance.
With an extended “sesh” having taken place in the boozers around Stamford Bridge – I had deposited the lads outside the pub at 12.15pm and they didn’t leave much before 5pm – there was a tipsy atmosphere inside the ground, and the noise was excellent, a complete improvement to the horrible Brighton atmosphere.
We had started to move the ball around well, with the two wingers looking mustard.
However, on fifteen minutes, a fluid attack took place in the centre of the pitch, well away from Messrs Garnacho and Neto.
Benoit Badiashle pushed the ball forward to Gusto, supplementing the midfield as is the style these days, and he in turn played the ball forward to Moises Caicedo. There was no shortage of red shirts around him, but he deftly created space and advanced. He pushed the ball on, gave the impression that he was about to let fly, but touched the ball again, possibly putting defenders off balance or of kilter, and let fly with a blast from twenty-five yards. As soon as he had taken that extra touch, the Red Sea had parted, and I was right in line with his thunderbolt as it slammed into debutant Giorgi Mamardashvili’s goal.
Euphoria from me, euphoria from everyone, and I was up and celebrating like a loon, only slightly troubled that I didn’t get a snap of the goal. I followed Caicedo’s triumphant run past Parkyville and into the corner, buzzing all the while.
What a stunner.
Bollocks to the pre-match gloom, we were 1-0 up.
Liverpool had their share of possession in the ensuing half-an-hour, but we did not let them create much at all. We were playing the best football of the season thus far, not allowing the red-shirted players much space, and kept the ball well when in possession. Enzo seemed revigorated in that first-half, but Caicedo was even better. Out on the wings, the tireless Neto kept asking questions of their left back, while Garnacho, right in front of the Scousers, was lighting up his wing with some nice movement.
There was a powerful block by Badiashile from a Dominik Szoboszlai shot. The often-derided defender was surprising us all with an accomplished showing alongside the equally impressive Josh Acheampong.
On thirty-three minutes, Liverpool found themselves in our box, and a shot was hacked away by the ever-reliable Marc Cucurella.
There was a lung-busting, and quite thrilling, run by Neto down his right flank, and he eventually cut the ball back into the box, with Virgil van Dijk beaten, but the chance went begging.
Just after, Garnacho curled an effort just wide.
By this stage, the three-thousand Mickey Mousers in the far corner were as quiet as I could remember.
Garnacho went down inside the box, but after a VAR review, the play resumed.
Isak headed the last chance of a pulsating half over Robert Sanchez’ bar.
We were supremely happy at the break.
Soon into the second half – I timed it as just twenty-one seconds – Chelsea lost possession cheaply and the Liverpool substitute Florian Wirtz set up Mo Salah, who had struggled to get involved in the first period, but the Egyptian striker fired wide.
Sensing a dip in our play, the Chelsea spectators at Stamford Bridge turned into Chelsea supporters and noisily got behind the team with a barrage of noise.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
This warmed my heart.
The visitors improved and enjoyed a spell on top, and Sanchez saved a long shot from Ryan Gravenberch. Then, a one-on-one race between Salah and Badiashile, but our former striker fired over with his usually trusted left-foot.
Ten minutes into the half, Badiashile was injured and was replaced by Romeo Lavia, with James sliding back alongside Josh in the centre of the defence.
Then, two quick chances down below us. Garnacho took a long ball down to perfection but his intended pass inside to Joao Pedro was poor. Then a lovely flowing move that began with Lavia and ended with Cucurella’s floated cross towards the far post, but Pedro Neto’s header was deflected over.
This was a great game.
The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t hating modern football quite so much.
A dink from Neto, and Enzo wide.
Sadly, on the hour, Liverpool crossed from our left and it looked like Cucurella’s leg changed the flight of the ball slightly.
I found myself commentating.
“Oh deflection…here we go…goal” as Gakpo rifled it in past Sanchez.
Bollocks.
So, back level, and it felt like we had been hard done by.
There were further changes.
On sixty-seven minutes, Acheampong was injured and was replaced by Jorrel Hato. I found it odd that Hato didn’t come in for Badiashile, but what do I know?
At this rate, Tommy Langley will come on to play in our patched-up defence.
This was a pulsating game, though, and it seemed to be in the balance.
What next?
On seventy-five minutes, I could hardly believe seeing a triple substitution.
Estevao Willian for Garnacho.
Jamie Gittens Pedro Neto.
Marc Guiu for Joao Pedro.
We went on the offensive again. It seemed to be Chelsea attacking at will now.
Gittens to Enzo, a cross that begged to be converted, but the chance passed.
Next up, a sublime long pass from James found Gittens, looking lively, and he brought a decent save from Mamardashvili. Estevao picked up the loose ball, danced towards goal, and floated a shot towards the far post that Mamardashvili managed to get fingertips on, and I managed to snap that exact moment.
With minutes passing by, PD asked for his stick and left early. He needs a good half-an-hour to slowly walk back to where I collect him on Lillee Road.
The Chelsea chances still piled up. A shot from Caicedo – shoot! – and Mamardashvili (I am sick to death of typing out his name) nudged it over the bar.
A corner from the far side, Enzo unable to convert with a difficult header.
I wondered if PD was not too far away from the stadium that he could hear the “oohs” and “ahhs” from the increasingly mesmerized home support.
Szobososzlai – the hirsute Hungarian henchman, a certain woolyback if his legs are a clue – then shot wide at The Shed End.
The assistant linesman signalled seven minutes of extra time.
PD was surely out of earshot now.
The lively Estevao sent over a magical cross towards Enzo, who contorted his body to fashion a header, but although Mamardashvili was beaten, the ball struck the post.
Ugh.
Ninety-six minutes were on the clock and PD must have reached the North End Road by now.
The last moments of this super game began.
An amazing move from the right of our defence, right through the team, found Cucurella on the left, who passed outside to Gittens, then to Enzo, who now controlled the ball amidst a crowd of opposing players. He waited and chose his moment. He spotted the run of Cucurella. The Spaniard whipped in a cross towards the far post, and I looked up. To my amazement and joy, I saw Estevao arrive, sliding and off-balance, but within a blink of an eye, the young Brazilian had the coolness of mind to push the ball over the line.
Mamardashvili was beaten.
The.
Crowd.
Exploded.
I pumped the air with my fists, bellowed some primaeval roar, lost in the moment. I then tried to remain cool to snap the melee over on the far side. What a scene. What madness. What a goal. What a finish. What a win.
I would later learn that PD had heard the roar along the North End Road.
“Chelsea Dagger” played, and I hated it, and the fans bounced along and I hated it more. But there were crazily mixed emotions, and I loved the buzz of it all. We were all taken to another place.
There was, worryingly, a mere whisper of VAR involvement, and the guy in front of me looked very concerned.
No. They can’t do that to us surely? Was Cucurella off? Surely not.
No.
The goal stood.
The whistle blew.
Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1.
I bloody love you, Chelsea.
Next up, “One Step Beyond” and everyone losing it.
I stayed behind for a few minutes, more than usual, long enough to hear “Blue Is The Colour” begin.
After a chorus or two, we made our way down the stairs in the north-west corner, and one song dominated.
Well, I didn’t watch any international football, that’s for sure.
Thankfully, the fortnight was over and Chelsea were back on the agenda. We were due to complete our “London Series” with the fourth match in a row against teams from the capital with a game at Brentford’s Gtech Stadium.
Unfortunately, PD was unable to get hold of a ticket, so it was only Parky who accompanied me up to The Smoke for this one.
“It’ll be just like the old days”, he chirped during the lead up to the weekend, harking back to those days from around 2008 when the Chuckle Bus consisted, in the main, of just the two of us.
With the game in West London not beginning until 8pm, I had decided to give any notion of a long day shuffling around a succession of pubs a miss and picked up Parky at 2.45pm. I am not getting any younger and I am beginning to feel the burden of arduous hours on the road.
Soon after collecting the old rascal, I was well aware that Frome Town were kicking off their FA Cup match at Shaftesbury in Dorset at 3pm. I had toyed for the idea of attending both games but decided that it was all too risky. Chelsea would be the priority on this day.
On the previous Saturday, I had driven down to the cathedral city of Winchester to see Frome meekly exit the FA Trophy. Winchester City, from the same division, had beaten us 2-0. Shaftesbury play in the same division as Frome too and I was hopeful that my hometown club would be victorious in this scene-setter to the evening’s main event.
I stopped at Membury Services near Swindon to check the score; losing 0-1.
I stopped at Heston Services near Heathrow to check the score; losing 0-1.
Bollocks.
It’s a very familiar drive into West London on the elevated section of the M4 and the sights are oh-so familiar. Rising to where John Prescott’s ill-fated “bus and taxi lane” used to terminate, I never fail to get a little shudder of excitement as I see the skyscrapers of the city in the distance. Closer in, the vast expanse of gleaming windows of the now vacated GSK Building occasionally reflects winter sunsets as I drive into London for evening games.
It’s quite a site and quite a sight.
Way to the north, I always peek to see the Wembley Arch, and in previous years I would always look to spot the floodlight pylons at Griffin Park just south of the M4.
I always check for what I call “the Seven Sisters”, a line of tower blocks to my right, a title that is a little off since there are only six of them, but I figure it’s the thought that counts. Also in view is what Parky calls “the pepper pot”, the tall tower that forms the centrepiece of the London Museum of Water & Steam.
Then, just a little further along, the expensive car dealerships, perched and overlooking the motorway.
It was at this point that I exited the M4, swung around the roundabout where the North Circular, the M4 and the A4 meet, and then turned back westwards to drop Parky off outside the “Bell & Crown” pub on the banks of the River Thames at Chiswick.
It was 5pm.
I had left my village in Somerset at 2.15pm.
Job done.
I edged further west to park up at Ferry Quays, and just as I did so, a score flash from Shaftesbury made me smile.
In the one-hundred and second minute of play, Sam Meakes had plundered a very late equaliser for Frome Town.
Lovely.
There would be a replay at Badgers Hill on Wednesday evening, and on that occasion, Frome would take precedence over watching Chelsea in Bavaria on the TV.
I met up with Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Minnesota Josh for an hour or so of chuckles, laughs and banter as the sun began its slow dip beyond Kew Bridge.
Within seconds of arriving, a beer was spilled from the low wall, and Josh’s sunglasses were knocked into the murky Thames below. In stepped Parky who hooked them out of the water with his trusty walking stick. I was hopeful that this moment would not be the most exciting few seconds of the entire evening.
We bumped into a smattering of other friends and acquaintances, and it was a gorgeous way to idle away around for an hour and a half.
Not much was said about the upcoming game; no point spoiling the moment, eh?
I left them to it as I fancied taking a few “mood shots” of the stadium. The walk up to the Gtech Stadium took me right along the border between Chiswick and Brentford, which are both covered by the London Borough of Hounslow.
Everything is so cramped at the Gtech Stadium, nestled underneath the M4, shoved between train tracks, narrow roads, and new high-rise flats. There is a splash of red at the box office and at the main entrance, but grey steel, grey windows, and grey cladding otherwise dominate the structure. The box office is recessed underneath offices to generate an extra little space, and the main entrance is inconspicuous. Blink and it will be missed. There is almost a sense of claustrophobia in this intimate part of West London.
I walked back out onto the main road and approached the away entrance, which is tucked away underneath the towering high rises that soon shot up in the void between the stadium and the M4. There was a ticket check, then a cheerful pat-down, and I was through. I had my Sony “pub camera” clasped in my fist and it was not spotted. I will only be able to bring my Canon SLR to games once the weather worsens and I can smuggle it under a jacket.
Down the steps to the away entrance, then into the surprisingly roomy concourse, then up the stairs to the upper concourse. Not a square inch of space is wasted at the Gtech.
I was inside the away seats at around 7.15pm. The Chelsea players were warming up a few yards away. This was a view that would cost the Dugout Club Wankers at Stamford Bridge thousands of pounds, but in the away section at Brentford it cost me just £30.
I was alongside Gary and John in the fourth row from the front and level with the corner flag, an excellent spot.
The team that Enzo Maresca had chosen was a head-shaker alright.
Sanchez
Fofana – Tosin – Chalobah – Hato
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Buonanotte – Gittens
Joao Pedro
The defence seemed ridiculously unfamiliar.
“Have you chaps met each other yet?”
The manager chose a first start of Jorrel Hato, a debut for Facundo Buonanotte, and persevered with Jamie Gittens.
On the bench, sadly, were the more esteemed Cole Palmer, Marc Cucurella, Reece James and Malo Gusto.
Was Maresca over-thinking, being too smart, resting players ahead of Bayern on Wednesday and United on Saturday?
Only time would tell.
There was the usual Premier League intro of “Insomnia”, forced darkness, strobe lights, them mosaics from the slender stand to my right.
Next, a shared “Hey Jude”, with both ends singing along.
The teams appeared to our left.
At 8pm, the referee Stuart Attwell whistled.
Rather than dilly-dally with a methodical pass back to a central defender, a Brentford player sprinted to receive the ball and walloped it forward. All of a sudden we were watching Wimbledon from 1988.
It came to nowt.
The Chelsea choir were in a noisy mood at the start of the game, and there was a particularly loud rendition of “OMWTM” that must have sounded decent on TV. We paraded a few of the old favourites but then fell into the predictable trap of singing about former players from years ago when the players from 2025 needed support. Frank Lampard, Dennis Wise and someone called Solomon Kalou were serenaded.
“It’s Salomon!” I shouted a few times.
On the pitch, there was a brisk start to the game with the debutant Buonanotte looking lively in the central position just behind Joao Pedro, who wasn’t really playing as an out-and-out centre forward because, you know, modern tactics, and all that, and instead played in the half-spaces that seem to exist in managers’ minds, if not on the pitch itself. As the half would progress, Joao Pedro got himself lost in these half spaces, while on the left Jamie Gittens seemed reluctant to exploit even quarter spaces.
But the start was decent enough, and a Joao Pedro shot was blocked, while at our end the lanky frame of Tosin similarly blocked an effort from the home team.
Moises Caicedo was his usual self, blocking, tackling, passing, a dream.
After a quarter of an hour, it was all us, and we were camped inside the Brentford half. However, all of the meaningful attacks were streaming down our right with Pedro Neto always available. On the left, Gittens was lost in the evening murk.
Brentford struggled to piece together much of their own, but then our form dropped and we struggled too.
On thirty-four minutes, I sighed as a ball from Trevoh Chalobah to Neto just didn’t have enough speed on it to give Neto the needed momentum. With that, the move broke down, and the ball was then played to Jordan Henderson. Now then, I have never thought too highly of Henderson, but I had to gasp at the excellence of his long ball towards Kevin Schade. It was absolutely on the money.
Fresh from his whistle-stop tour of Arabia and Amsterdam – talk about different ends of the spectrum in which to live – his decision to retire to Hounslow surprised me, but here he was with the ball of the game.
Schade was able to wriggle past the scrambling Tosin, and when the striker came inside, I only expected one outcome.
I did not see the ball hit the net, but I heard the roar.
Bollocks to you Jordan Henderson.
El-Ettifaqinell.
Just after, there was a rare chant from the home end.
It’s the one thing that has surprised me about Brentford in their new stadium. This is the time of their lives, their high-water mark, playing in a tight and compact stadium, set up for noise, but they are so quiet and timid. It was honestly a shock to be able to hear them.
We struggled to get back into the game in the last part of the first half, and the sight of a corner from Enzo grazing the post raised hardly a flutter.
This had turned into a hard watch.
I turned to Andy from Nuneaton.
“You wouldn’t cross the road to watch this if it wasn’t Chelsea, would you?”
There were multiple changes at the break, and a few of us were surprised that Gittens re-appeared for the start of the second period.
So, Mister Maresca, what you got?
Marc Cucurella for Hato.
Reece James for Fofana.
Tyrique George for Buonanotte.
It took me a few minutes to work out if there had been any fine tweaks to the positions. Was George now the striker, the half-striker maybe, with Joao Pedro behind? I wasn’t sure.
Soon into the second-half, George was released and did well to get a shot away from an angle. The reliable Kelleher was down well to touch it away for a corner.
Then came the first in a succession of “Reece James taking a corner” photos from yours truly and I don’t, thankfully, include them all.
Gittens then enjoyed his best run of the entire game, forcing a corner, but was then ironically substituted. On came the hopeful saviour, Cole Palmer.
God knows where everyone would play now.
Ah, I think I got it. Tyrique George moved over to the left, and Palmer moved behind Joao Pedro.
Am I right?
From row four, it wasn’t easy to slot everything into place.
Fackinell.
I captured a shot from Cucurella that was straight at Kelleher.
Our play improved immeasurably.
I, and probably hundreds of thousands Chelsea fans who were watching in TV Land thought the same thing.
“Funny that. Playing our best players. Playing better.”
Neto looked especially spritely down the right, away on that far side. On the hour, a cross from Enzo – improving after a dreadful first half – lofted a hopeful ball towards a leap of Joao Pedro. The ball broke to Palmer who swept it in with the minimum of fuss.
A roar from the Chelsea faithful, but no self-aggrandising celebrations from the scorer. He raced straight back to his own half.
Get in.
Just as I was jotting down a few notes on my phone, I looked up to see Robert Sanchez fall to his right and tip and effort from Schade around the far post, a magnificent stop.
I loved a run deep into the box in front of me, lots of flicks and touches, but the run from George just ran out of steam.
On seventy-four minutes, a clean run from Neto on the right and a perfect pass to Palmer. With the goal gaping, I absolutely expected the net to bulge even if I wouldn’t see it.
He shot.
A block, or a save, I know not. I just saw Palmer hold his head.
Ugh.
On seventy-six minutes, one final change.
Alejandro Garnacho for Joao Pedro, and so Tyrique George again moved into the middle.
Now then, Garnacho. Who remembers his first game for Manchester United? His debut was against us at Old Trafford in April 2022 when a late Cristiano Ronaldo goal gave them an undeserved 1-1 draw. Our new signing came on as a late sub in that game, and I remembered how a memorabilia collector who featured Garnacho among the players in his portfolio was happy to pay me £50 for my ticket stub knowing that he would later sell it on, autographed, as a memento from that debut.
I have called the young Argentinian “the peroxide plonker” in the past, and as he lined up on our left, I could not help reminding myself of this.
To his credit, the former United starlet impressed me greatly in the short time that he spent attacking our end. I kept thinking back to Jadon Sancho, another United mis-fit, and his promising debut at Bournemouth last autumn.
On this day, Garnacho – at least – showed plenty of desire to get past his marker and create havoc in the danger areas. More of the same please.
On eighty-six minutes, the debutant shimmied and rolled the ball back towards the penalty spot, but there was nobody there to meet it. I remember thinking “where is Frank Lampard when you need him?” but a Brentford clearance was far from perfect. The ball ended up rolling towards Caicedo. There was a touch to create space and to set himself up, and he then drilled the ball goalwards.
Did I see the net ripple? Of course not.
But I heard the noise and saw the gorgeous celebrations.
GET IN.
My camera was on hand, after I had punched the air a few times no doubt, to record the scene down below me.
Limbs, limbs and more limbs.
Beautiful stuff.
I spotted Enzo walking away, his arms around the shoulders of Garnacho, no doubt whispering words of encouragement in Spanish but with an Argentinian twang.
Soon after, Sanchez was able to scramble across his goal to maintain our slender lead.
Whereas there had been time-wasting from the home team at 1-1, now there was none of it. There was a renewed urgency in their play.
The away end was buoyant, and we were hoping that we could hold on. However, in the fourth minute of extra time, a long bomb of a throw-in on their left caused chaos inside our six-yard box and Fabio Carvalho pounced to stab home, the far post unguarded.
Oh bollocks.
Just after, Garnacho set up Palmer but he lofted the ball over.
A second winner was not forthcoming.
Time ran out.
Ugh.
This felt like a loss and all the other well-used cliches.
On a slow walk back to the car with Parky, I mentioned to a few friends that because of our poor first-half showing, perhaps we never really deserved the full three points on this day in West London.
And I suppose it was time to be pragmatic.
Whereas others were full of rage, I guess we all need to practice a little patience here. After all, it is just the start of another long season.
However, the irony of an extra-time equaliser saving Frome Town but of an extra-time equaliser robbing Chelsea was not lost on me.
We stopped at Reading Services at 11.45pm – what a crap time to be halfway home – and I finally reached my house at 1.30am.
I always look forward to the first away match each season. I will bump into a ton of mates at the first home game of a new campaign, but way more at the first away fixture. At such games, in pubs or on concourses or in the away section, it’s impossible to go more than a few minutes without seeing someone that I know. It’s all about big numbers in small spaces.
The first away fixture of the new season would be sending us out to the East End of London, and despite the inconvenience of a Friday evening kick-off, that was alright with me.
West Ham United vs. Chelsea at 8pm on a Friday night?
Oh, go on then.
I was parked up outside Barons Court tube station on Margravine Gardens at 5pm, and I fancied a jolt of caffeine before Parky, PD and I headed out east. Our usual café just across the way from this red-bricked station, where Parky and I chatted to Seb Coe after a game at Arsenal in 2012, was closing and so we tried “Gail’s Café” for the first time.
“If we lose tonight, we shan’t be coming here again” I warned my two mates. My football-going routines are full of such superstitions.
After some expensive but bland coffee, we caught a District Line train to Westminster, then a Jubilee train to Canary Wharf. On these two journeys, we were the only Chelsea fans. We saw a just a few West Ham. The ratio on this day would be around 60,000 to 3,000 or 20 to 1, so it was not surprising that we were the lone Chelsea contingent. At Canary Wharf, we ascended into the light at the airy train station and into the London of finance, tall tower blocks and evening commuters heading away to their homes in the suburbs.
We turned a corner and spotted the first Chelsea presence of the evening; Leigh, Darren and a few others, mainly from Basingstoke as far as I could see, were drinking at “The Alchemist” and although we were tempted to stop, the consensus was to head over to the stadium even though it was still two hours to kick-off.
“Nice to see you chaps though evidently not that much”, I exclaimed, smiling, as we left them to walk over to the Docklands Light Railway. Before long, we had boarded the driver-less train (I was hoping that West Ham would be equally devoid of a leader) and we soon found ourselves at Pudding Mill Lane, which not only acts as the destination for away fans going to the London Stadium, but also for those attending the ABBA arena too.
It was a quarter of an hour walk to the away turnstiles, and it’s all so familiar now. This would be my ninth visit. Because we were there so early, and the foot traffic was very quiet, the immediate surroundings seemed even more anaemic than usual. There wasn’t the usual hustle and jostle of a football crowd. There were no street vendors, no hawkers of tat, no grafters, no food outlets, no noise, no nothing. It was a bland approach to the stadium, which itself is as bland as it gets. I was never a fan, even in its Olympic year.
There were quick security checks – no SLR this time either, my Sony pub camera was clasped in my hand and nobody spotted it – and the three of us were soon taking a lift to the area outside the away turnstiles. Sharing the tight space was a lone West Ham supporter.
“Here we go for another nine months of hell” he grumbled.
“That’s the spirit” I thought, remembering how awkward it used to be back in the ‘eighties when home fans talked to you as one of their own, and you tried to say as little as possible. I remember settling down to some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” on the Barking Road in 1986 and the West Ham fan sitting opposite trying to strike up a conversation with me about Tony Cottee or Mark Ward, and me being very taciturn.
More checks, more security, but we were in. I did say to the lads that I had fancied walking around the stadium to see if there are any things worth seeing, but without thinking, I was pulled into the away concourse, like a moth to a flame.
West Ham’s London Stadium might be the worst football stadium in London, in the topflight, maybe in the whole country, but I do like its airy concourses outside the steps to the away seats, which provide plenty of space for fellow fans to assemble, drink, and share a laugh. We soon bumped into “Eight Bells” regulars Jimmy and Ian. The latter bought me the dearest Diet Coke ever apparently.
“Cheers mate.”
And there they all were; many familiar faces, far too many to name, ready for the battle against our London enemy.
Yes, I love away games.
And yet, it has not been a good summer regarding away games in the up-coming season. To cut a long story short, many in our support base have felt let down by the club. Firstly, news about the away season ticket took forever to be communicated by the club. Then came the horrific news that away tickets were non-transferable, with the added piece of news that sporadic ID checks would take place at away games, a repeat of what allegedly happened at Tottenham last December.
This panicked many people. Two friends who have been away season ticket holders for a while have very kindly offered me their away tickets over the past seven or eight years if they could not attend games. They immediately contacted me to say that if they could not transfer tickets, they would opt out of renewing in 2025/26. This was understandable. But it meant that I would not be able to help many close friends to tickets, including Parky and PD on occasion.
If you are reading this and have received away tickets from me in this period, they have more-than-likely come via these two mates.
Then, long after the away season ticket cut-off time, we found out that Chelsea Football Club had reneged on this ruling – in other words, away tickets could be transferred – but without any clear communication in the change to their stance.
Everyone I knew was livid, not least my two mates.
It is rumoured that during this period of uncertainty, around two-hundred supporters left the away scheme.
That hurts.
What hurts even more is the near certainty that many away seats in the Chelsea sections at stadia in 2025/26 will be on sale on third party sites for extortionate and obscene prices. By creating a period of uncertainty in the ranks, perhaps on purpose, it’s likely that the club succeeded in weeding out some of our most loyal fans to gain financially from moving tickets to third party platforms.
It sickens me.
I was inside the upper tier with a good forty minutes to go as I fancied settling myself and clearing my head. I had been awake since 4.45am and was feeling a little jaded. My seat was in a very familiar position; the second row of the tier, right in line with the touchline. I was sat next to John and Gary.
The stadium took forever to fill up. I hated the booming dance music that sucks all the life out of the pre-match. I remember the days when football grounds would be bubbling away before kick-off, with songs being sung, and players being serenaded. Not so in 2025.
At last, bodies appeared. The stadium filled.
We heard, late on, that Cole Palmer had injured himself in the kick-in, so he was replaced by Estevao Willian.
Our team?
Sanchez
Gusto – Adarabioyo – Chalobah – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Estevao – Joao Pedro – Pedro Neto
Delap
“Bubbles” boomed as the players entered the pitch, the longest walk in football.
Chelsea were in all black.
Although this new kit looks clean and neat from a distance, I am not a fan of its odd white “false collar” but I absolutely loathe the Chelsea Collection badge from 1986. It was hated, really hated, when it came along almost forty years ago and there was a real sense of relief when the “lion rampant” badge was reinstated on our centenary in 2005.
In many circles, it was known as the “Millwall badge” and it is obvious why.
I then thought back to the “World Champions” logo on the rear of the hotel wall at Stamford Bridge and it all made perfect – muddled – sense.
Never mind, the oddballs who collect Chelsea shirts like a mania will love it.
West Ham themselves looked a little odd. There were no light blue sleeves, nor much sign of light blue anywhere on their kit. Their kit reminded me of the one they wore in 1986 when they finished in second place in the old First Division, their highest-ever placing.
At 8pm the evening’s entertainment began, and – as always – we attacked the other end in the first half.
It’s so difficult to get our whole section singing as one at West Hame, since there is that hideous void between the two levels. I have always had seats in the upper section and the view from there is bad enough, so God knows what it is like thirty-five rows behind me. I have had contrasting opinions of the view from the lower tier. Some say it’s OK, some hate it. The away fans tried to get behind the players as the game began.
In the first five minutes, Chelsea edged possession but then came the sixth minute.
The ball was played in to Lucas Paqueta, a long distance out, but allowed to advance. I immediately sensed the danger and yelled out “block the space” but nobody heard me. Chelsea backed off and the West Ham player strode on. To my utter disbelief, he struck a brilliant shot – moving and dipping over the flailing and failing arch of Robert Sanchez – and the ball crashed in. To my horror, I was right in line with the path of the ball.
Gutted.
The scorer shot off to celebrate in the right-hand corner and the home fans were in ecstasy.
Well, bollocks. After our staid draw against Palace, this was a horrible way to start our next game.
Behind me, four fans howled “we hate Sanchez” and I just glared at them.
We huffed and puffed and tried our best to get back to level terms. On fifteen minutes, we were given a corner on our right and Pedro Neto aimed at the near post. I captured the moment that Marc Cucurella lept and headed the ball on – a waning skill these days – and we watched with glee as a Chelsea player, no idea who, headed the ball in as it dropped inside the six-yard box.
GET IN.
Then, a scare. West Ham broke down our left in front of us, and the ball was played square. I immediately thought the recipient was offside, so when the cross was turned in by Niclas Fullkrug, whoever he is, I was adamant that VAR would rule it out. There was a wait, but yes, no penalty. Jean-Clair Todibo, whoever he is, was just offside.
Phew, but fuck VAR right?
Five minutes later, we did well to win the ball in the inside-right channel and Joao Pedro flicked a great cross over to a Chelsea player to sweep the ball in. I was too far away to be sure who scored and was too busy celebrating to watch the scorer run to the corner flag where he was mobbed.
A blue flare was dropped from behind me into the void below and the sulphurous fumes filled my nostrils.
On the pitch, we began to purr. You know we played well when I use that word.
The Chelsea support was loving this. With each move, we grew in confidence. Lovely.
On thirty-four minutes, a nice little moment of interplay between Liam Delap and Estevao enabled the young Brazilian to dance away inside the box – quite beautiful – and send over a teasing cross that a Chelsea player swept into the goal.
We were up 3-1.
You beauty.
Another race to the corner flag, more celebrations, more fist-punching from me, more snaps of the lads in black.
I thought back to New Jersey.
Another first-half with three goals.
I realised that I had sat the entire first half, leaning on the safe-standing rail in front of me, but totally engrossed in everything. It had been a cracking game thus far. As the players left the pitch at the break, there were audible boos from the home section.
We eventually learned that the three scorers were Joao Pedro, Pedro Neto and Enzo Pedro Neto, whoever he is.
What would the second half bring? Hopefully more goals.
To be honest, the second period was just funny.
We continued as we had finished. Enzo, though, shot over with a good chance.
On fifty-four minutes, a corner from Enzo down below us and the West Ham player in orange – their goalkeeper apparently – flapped at the ball. Moises Caicedo was on hand to smack the ball in.
More crazy celebrations.
Beautiful.
I remembered the poor bloke’s horrible debut on that sunny Sunday two years ago at the same stadium. Since then, what a revelation he has been.
Just four minutes later, a Pedro Neto corner from down below us, mayhem in the West Ham box, and the ball fell for Chalobah to smash in from close range.
5-1.
Heaven.
More celebrations in Chelsea-ville.
With half-an-hour to go, we hoped for more goals, but no. It wasn’t to be. But we didn’t care. To be honest, the home team conjured up a few chances, but we never looked like conceding.
The hapless Graham Potter was serenaded by the Chelsea faithful. Has there ever been a more lack-lustre personality linked with Chelsea Football Club? I think not.
Substitutions were made.
62 : Andrey Santos for Delap
69 : Reece James for Gusto.
69 : Wesley Fofana for Chalobah.
69 : Jorrel Hato for Cucurella.
A good chance for Estevao, running freely, but a mis-control and a touch too many and over. Ugh.
We didn’t care.
77 : Jamie Gittens for Estevao.
I spoke to the bloke to my left.
“This must be our biggest ever win at West Ham. Does it even up that 0-4 loss to them in 1986…that year again…no, I guess it doesn’t.”
I had answered my own question.
The last part of the game drifted away, as did a good proportion of the home fans.
My player of the match was Pedro Neto. His efforts up and down the wing were the stuff of legend.
At the end of the game, just happiness and smiles.
“Top of the league, lads.”
However, it has to be said; how poor were West Ham?
I trotted out to the concourse and went to use the gents before the trek back West. One of the idiosyncrasies of the gents at West Ham is that the toilets are like a maze, a never-ending pattern of urinals, going on forever. You’re lucky to get out. I reckon it’s one of the reasons why West Ham have gates of 62,000 every game. There was one bloke in there from the final day of the 2012 Olympics.
I met up with PD and Parky and we re-traced our steps. The first DLR train was an odd mix of West Ham fans and ABBA fans. People were dolled up for their night out and were wearing gaudy make up with bright and lurid fashions from the successful era of the mid-‘seventies to the early-‘eighties. The others were the ABBA fans.
From Pudding Mill Lane to Canary Wharf, the night now dark, and the return journey to Westminster, which always seems to be like something out of a dystopian sci-fi horror, then back to good old Barons Court at 11.30pm.
“Gail’s Café” passed its test.
I reached home at 2.20am and I fell asleep at 2.45am.
Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.
We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.
We were in Wroclaw.
I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.
Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?
“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”
Parky immediately chimed in.
“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”
Howls of laughter followed.
Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?
Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.
Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?
It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.
Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.
We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.
Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.
We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.
On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.
On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.
I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.
We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.
With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.
We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.
After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.
In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.
We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.
The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.
Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.
Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.
You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.
Enough of these history lessons.
On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.
Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.
For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.
I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.
RIP Stephen Rouse.
The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.
Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.
The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.
Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.
Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.
We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.
Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.
When in Rome.
Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming up with the Tyrique George song.
At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.
At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.
At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.
Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.
PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.
Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.
My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.
I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.
I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.
The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.
We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.
It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.
Fackinell.
Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.
I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.
The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.
“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”
To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.
We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.
At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.
At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.
That made me laugh. What a small world.
We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.
Michelle led the way, and we followed on.
It was her finest hour.
We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.
I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.
If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?
At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.
At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.
Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?
Everyone wins. Everyone wins!
I hate modern football.
But here we all were.
Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.
Why were we here?
To see us win it all. Again.
Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.
Result.
I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.
The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.
Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.
Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.
The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.
Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.
Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.
I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.
I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.
“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”
It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.
The minutes ticked by.
There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.
The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.
Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.
I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.
“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.
Fantastic.
The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.
It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.
It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.
It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.
The desire was seemingly with them, not us.
Sigh.
Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.
The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.
“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”
“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”
On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.
At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.
Time to check the team again.
Jorgensen
Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.
Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?
Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?
Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.
I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.
At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.
I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.
On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.
Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.
They were together at West Ham United.
The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.
Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.
The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.
Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.
Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.
We looked poor.
There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.
Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.
But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.
Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.
Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.
On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.
The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.
Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?
Oh boy.
At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.
It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.
On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.
Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.
On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.
From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.
We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.
On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.
Levi Colwill for Badiashile.
Jadon Sancho for Neto.
No complaints from me.
We pushed on.
On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.
We were level.
GET IN.
Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.
Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.
On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –
“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”
He didn’t let me down.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.
We erupted again.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.
We were ahead.
Fackinell.
Our end boomed now.
“And it’s super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea FC.
We’re by far the greatest team.
The World has ever seen.”
Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.
Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.
“Get up, you fool.”
On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.
Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.
In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.
And we were 3-1 up.
More beautiful noise.
The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :
“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”
Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.
With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.
Lovely.
There was still more to come.
With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.
Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.
What a feeling.
Phew.
We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.
At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.
“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”
The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.
At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.
I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.
Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.
I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.
And what a night.
We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.
If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.
Europe really is our playground.
And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.
We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.
PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.
In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.
And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.
Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…
I will see some of you in Philadelphia.
Phackinell.
REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL
With twenty-five minutes to kick-off, I posted this on “Facebook”.
Tonight is all about Albert who sat in this seat in front of me since 1997. Last week, Albert sadly passed away.
He was a lovely man and will be so sadly missed by all who knew him.
Rest In Peace.
The news about Albert’s passing had hit me hard, and during another early shift at work in Melksham, Wiltshire, I was quiet and subdued. I was preparing myself for a tough day ahead.
I had been awake since 4.50am when the alarm rang before a 6am to 2pm shift at work. My usual travel companions PD and Parky had travelled up earlier by train to get stuck into some drinking at “The Eight Bells” in the early afternoon. I had a decent drive up to London and only stopped for a Cornish Pasty at Reading Services. I was parked up just after 5pm and I then walked to West Brompton tube to catch the District Line down to Putney Bridge tube.
I had caught a glimpse of the promotional video of the new 2025/26 Chelsea kit and immediately suspected that the “Carefree Café” in the film was in fact “The River Café” opposite the tube station. It was closed as I crossed the road so could not peer inside to check the décor, nor talk to the owners, but I was pretty sure. This café, a lovely old-fashioned one, has been featured in a few media pieces over the years and so this added to my assumption that this was indeed where Cole Palmer had asked for his usual sandwich in the promo video.
I eventually squeezed through the door and into the familiar pub at about 5.40pm. The usual crowd were assembled. Everyone seemed well-lubricated. We briefly touched on the loss at Newcastle, but more focus was on the evening’s match with the decidedly poor Manchester United, the season finale in Nottingham, and of course another UEFA Final in Wroclaw.
This hasn’t been an overly exciting nor engaging season, has it? Yet here we all were with three games to go and talk of European football – via whatever means – next season, and it seems that this is nearly always the case.
Since 1997/98, we have only experienced two seasons without European adventures.
2016/17 and 2023/24.
We have been very lucky buggers.
Back in 1984/85, as the supporters assembled at Stamford Bridge on the evening of Tuesday 14 May, there were thoughts and dreams about Chelsea participating in European football for the first time since 1971, some fourteen years previous. With an up-turn in our fortunes in the closing games of that league season, a win against already-relegated Norwich City would probably ensure that Chelsea would finish in fifth place in the First Division and thus qualify for the following season’s UEFA Cup.
It had been an odd season for our opponents that year. They had won the Milk Cup Final yet were relegated alongside Sunderland and Stoke City.
On a terribly wet night at Stamford Bridge – I was listening to updates on my radio in my student flat in Stoke – we were tied 1-1 at the break via a goal from Mickey Thomas, but in the second-half Asa Hartford grabbed a surprising winner, to add to their first goal scored by Steve Bruce.
Chelsea 1 Norwich City 2.
It dropped us down to sixth place.
The gate was just 22,882.
My memory is that we would therefore need Liverpool, who had finished thirteen points adrift of Champions Everton, to beat Juventus in the up-coming European Cup Final on 29 May to take a second European Cup place and to allow us to slip into the 1985/86 UEFA Cup.
From 14 May 1985 to 16 May 2025, a gap of forty years and two days, European football was dominating our collective thoughts.
I wanted to be inside the ground early, to come to the terms with Albert’s absence, and I solemnly made my way in. There was one final “pat down” and my SLR had made it in once again. I made my way up the stairs to The Sleepy Hollow.
I gave Alan a hug.
We believe that Albert passed away in the days between the Liverpool and Djurgarden home games. Albert and his brother Paul were not in their seats for the latter game; they were used by others. I concluded, then, that Albert’s last Chelsea goal was that penalty from Cole Palmer against Liverpool when the scorer changed tack in the goalmouth and headed over to celebrate down below us.
I am sure that Albert loved those celebrations.
As kick-off against Manchester United approached, overhead there were no clouds. It was a pure, perfect evening in SW6. What a bittersweet feeling.
Albert often appeared late at games, clambering over the seats to reach his place in front of me.
Oddly, I seemed to think that against Liverpool I clasped his hand with both of my hands, in the way that blokes sometimes do…
Down below us, the Dug-Out Club muppets were grouped behind the rope cordon to watch the players up close during their pre-match routines.
I’d want to be bloody playing for £12,000 a pop.
There was a photo of some very good friends that I have accumulated over the years.
Clive 2003.
Alan 1984.
PD 1984.
Ed 1995.
Daryl 1991.
Rob 2010.
My team.
I had no doubts that despite United’s very lowly position in the league, their supporters in the far corner, the red corner, would be making some noise all night. I had recently read a comment from a Brentford supporter who had praised the wall of noise provided by the away fans at the recent away game in West London. Manchester United have constantly been one of the noisiest sets of supporters at Chelsea for years now.
The clock-ticked away.
I sadly passed on the news about Albert to the two chaps who sat to his left. They had not heard. Eyes were moist.
The teams were announced.
Sanchez
James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
George
So, Reece James back at right-back, and the youngster Tyrique George asked to lead the line.
Oh, Mason Mount was in the vaunted number seven shirt for United.
The twerp.
Before the game, the We Are The Shed gang had plastered bar scarves over the back of a thousand seats in The Shed, but as the teams entered the pitch, although the many Shed flags were waved, not many fans joined in by waving the scarves.
I am not too surprised.
Despite the probable protestations of our tourist section, we have never really been a scarf-waving crowd, not in the same way that – say – Liverpool and Arsenal are.
At 8.15pm, the game kicked-off.
With Mount’s first touch, a barrage of boos. Not from me, but there you go.
This wasn’t “Durie, 1991” levels of desertion…
The first chance of the game was perhaps unsurprisingly created by Cole Palmer, up against his boy-hood team, who steered a cross for Noni Madueke at the far post. The ball was bounced high and he found it hard to get his attempt on target. His shot was high, and my shot of his shot was too blurred to share. Let’s move on.
On eight minutes, a rather agricultural tackle by Enzo Fernandez on Bruno Fernandes went unpunished by the referee Chris Kavanagh, and I licked my lips at the thought of a no-holds-barred game of old-fashioned football. One can hope, right? In fact, I thought that the referee let quite a few rugged tackles from both sides go in the first part of the game.
United then enjoyed a decent spell and on fifteen minutes, Harry Maguire volleyed a cross from Fernandes in and reeled away as the United support roared. It was, thankfully, ruled out via VAR.
No celebrations from Alan nor me, though.
“Nah.”
We continued to be rather sloppy both in and out of possession. Patrick Dorgu, down below us, created a chance for Mount, but his effort was wide, and how we laughed.
Thankfully, these two chances having passed, United then defended deeper, and they lost their interest in attacking us. It was odd how the game tilted back in our favour. Perhaps the visitors were more concerned with a UEFA final of their own. They just seemed to drift away.
Chelsea, with Moises Caicedo in top form, slowly took control, though goal-scoring chances were rare.
On twenty-four minutes, a cross came out to Our Reece, who slammed a delightful shot goalwards – I was right behind its flight-path – but sadly struck the far post.
“Beautiful effort, that.”
James had been a little patchy, like many, in that opening period, but from that moment he seemed to improve.
By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency but were not really playing brilliantly. While others in my company were rudely chastising our players, I was a little more pragmatic. It’s not always about the quality at this stage of the season, but it’s all about the points.
My attention was caught by the LED adverts sliding their way around the perimeter of the pitch, backing up the 2025/26 kit launch.
“London. It’s Our House.”
Good ol’Suggs in the video, as the cab driver, and that classic song from 1982.
“Our house, it has a crowd. There’s always something happening and it’s usually quite loud.”
I wish. On this particular night, we were quiet. Compared to other seasons, United were relatively quiet too, but they were singing the whole time, unlike us.
The game continued on, but with not much quality on show.
A deflected shot from Palmer, a blocked shot from Enzo, another shot from Enzo, but offside anyway.
It seemed that neither team had the will to finish the other off.
Enzo was surprisingly poor.
At the break, I shared the opinion that if there was another St. James’ Park style improvement in the second-half, we would win.
At the break, Alan offered me a “Wispa” which I quickly devoured. After, I spotted that I had let the wrapper slip beneath my seat.
“That was careless.”
Alan groaned.
At the break, “Our House” was played in the stadium.
“Our house, in the middle of our street.
Our house, in the middle of our street,
Our house, in the middle of our street.
Our house, in the middle of our street.”
It was now around 9.15pm, and the second-half began.
Annoyingly, United began on the front foot. On fifty-one minutes, Mount screwed a good chance wide. Amad Diallo, who had almost impressed me, set up Fernandes but his shot sped past the far post.
Not long after, down below us, Tyrique George – not really in the game, bless him – ran after a ball, and Andre Onana ran to cover. The result was a penalty, but then not a penalty, and I yawned my way through the whole sorry tale.
The game continued, but with only hints at quality.
I turned to Alan and mentioned that Sanchez had not really had too much to do, and Alan gave me a withering look.
On sixty-nine minutes, off went Mount and Casemiro, whose face always looks like it has been injected with something catastrophic.
Two minutes later, at the end of a massive spell of possession, as the ball reached Pedro Neto – who had been increasingly involved during this half – I picked my trusty SLR up and focussed on the winger. He danced one way and then the other and I snapped. Next, the ball was played inside to Our Reece. I had my camera focussed on him, and was aware that he had lost the substitute Alejandro Garnacho was an exquisite “see you later” spin, but then snapped as he released a cross that would drop into the danger zone in the six-yard box, or just outside it. As the ball hung in the air, I readjusted and snapped as the leap of the continually impressive Marc Cucurella flashed before me. I was able to witness the beautiful moment as the ball rippled the net, Onana somehow beaten.
Stamford Bridge reacted with a guttural roar, and so did I.
I then tried to flip immediately back to that of ice-cold photographer and snapped away as the scorer raced away over towards the far corner, the noise booming.
I quickly took a photo with my phone of the Cucurella header from my SLR – typically blurred – and shared it on “Facebook.”
For Albert.
Right after, probably as I was fiddling with camera and ‘phone, Madueke was released by Palmer and found himself one-on-one with Onana. He slammed it past the near post. Had that one gone in I am in no doubt that Stamford Bridge would have been launched into the atmosphere and would have landed in another time / space portal.
There is nothing like the adrenalin rush of two goals scored in quick succession.
Chances were exchanged as the game, at last, came to life, with Neto forcing a fine save from Onana, while Sanchez saved from Amad.
Some late substitutions were made by Enzo Maresca.
Romeo Lavia for George.
Palmer moved forward.
Malo Gusto for Neto.
Gusto went sprawling, pictured, but no penalty.
We held on.
A poor game, mainly, but one that was lit up by that magnificent winner. Our opposition was the worst Manchester United team that I have ever seen live.
In the pub it felt odd to be saying “see you next season” to those I would not be seeing in neither Nottingham nor Wroclaw, and as I walked back towards my car off Rylston Road, the sign at Fulham Broadway saying “Have A Safe Journey Home” seemed ridiculously final.
However, this had, indeed, been our final home game of the season, but where has the time gone?
Regardless, our home record in the Premier League this season has been remarkably good.
P 19
W 12
D 5
L 2
The two losses were against Manchester City and Fulham. Maybe our house is regaining its status of a decade or so ago.
“Our house, was our castle and our keep.
Our house, in the middle of our street.
Our house, that was where we used to sleep.
Our house, in the middle of our street.
Our house…”
After some typical delays underneath the M4, I didn’t get home until 2.15am and I eventually get to sleep at 3am. I had been awake for twenty-two hours and ten minutes, but it was all worth it for that spin, that cross, that header.
I will see you in Nottingham and I will see you in Wroclaw.
We were in for an alluring climax to the season. With two straight wins in the league on the bounce – not anticipated by me and probably many more – we were right in the thick of it in the scramble for Champions League and Europa League placings. Our next match, our ninth league game in London on the spin, was against newly crowned Champions Liverpool.
While huge parts of our Chelsea nation obsessed about the guard of honour, I shrugged my shoulders; it would all be over in less than ten seconds.
What with the closure of the District Line south to Wimbledon, there was a change of plan for our pre-match. “The Eight Bells” was jettisoned in favour of “The Tommy Tucker”, a mere Ian Hutchinson throw-in from the West Stand forecourt on Moore Park Road. I dropped PD and Parky right outside at just before 11am and then switched back on myself and drove over to my favourite breakfast spot, “The Half Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road. If the other two lads could enjoy a four-hour session, then at least I could enjoy a full English.
I made it inside the pub at around 12.30pm, and the highlight of the time spent inside this busy boozer was the realisation that 1972 Olympic gold medallist Mary Peters was a few yards away. I can well remember watching her hop, skip and jump her way to her a gold in the pentathlon all those years ago.
For Mary Peters and Chelsea Football Club, Munich will always be a special city.
I left the pub earlier than the rest and reached the concourse just as Newcastle United scored a late, VAR-assisted penalty, to equalise at Brighton. Still, not to worry, a draw there did us a favour.
I reached my spot in The Sleepy Hollow, having smuggled my SLR in yet again. Before I settled in my seat, I took the camera out and took a few shots. However, a steward had evidently seen me and rather apologetically said “I have been told to tell you not to take use a professional camera.”
I smiled and replied “OK.”
At the end of the game, I would have taken 127 photos, but it was OK, I don’t get paid for any of the buggers.
I guess I was inside with a good forty-five minutes to go. There seemed to be many more obnoxious half-and-half scarves in the MHU than normal, and I feared the worst. I suspected an infiltration by you-know-who. Way atop our little section of seats, a father sat with his four-year-old son, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt under his jacket. I tut-tutted and tried to find someone else to be annoyed at. I didn’t take long. Sat behind me were four lads, two with half-and-halves, who seemed to be ignoring Chelsea’s pre-match kick-in down below us, instead focussing on the Liverpool players at The Shed End. By now Clive was alongside me, and we suggested to them that they were Liverpool fans. Their reply wasn’t in English, but they seemed to intimate that they were fans of football and soon dispersed. They must have had seats dotted all over the MHU.
The build-up to the match seemed to be rather low key in the stadium. The Liverpool fans were massed in the opposite corner, and one banner caught everyone’s attention.
IMAGINE BEING US.
Righty-oh.
The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. My light rain jacket kept out the chilly gusts.
By some odd twist of fate, forty years ago to the exact day, Chelsea were also pitted against Liverpool, but on that day in 1985 the match was at Anfield. More of that later.
The week before that game, on Saturday 27 April, Chelsea played Tottenham Hotspur at Stamford Bridge.
Let my 1984/85 retrospective recommence.
Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 27 April 1985.
For all of the big names coming to play us in matches at Stamford Bridge in that return to the topflight, none was bigger than Tottenham. It was the one that was most-eagerly awaited of all. And yet the problems of that era contrived against us. After the near riot at the Chelsea vs. Sunderland Milk Cup semi final on 4 March, there was a full riot at the Luton Town vs. Millwall FA Cup tie on 13 March, and football hooliganism was the talk of the front and back pages. Considering the history of problems between the two teams, the league game with Tottenham was made all-ticket with an 11.30am kick-off.
The result of this, much to my complete sadness, was that this crunch match against our bitter rivals only drew a crowd of 26,310, a figure that I could hardly believe at the time.
Sigh.
I watched from the back row of the West Stand benches with my match day crew and took plenty of photos.
Before the game, as a celebration of our ninetieth birthday – admittedly a month and a half late – we were treated to some police dogs going through some manoeuvres on the pitch (how apt) but also the Red Devil parachute display team, and if I am not mistaken one of them managed to miss the pitch and end up on the West Stand roof. I am sure some wag wondered if the guilty parachutist was Alan Mayes. Some blue and white ballons were set off in front of the Tottenham fans and we all looked on in bewilderment.
“Let’s just get to the game.”
Ski-hats were all the rage in 1984/85 and one photo that I took of Alan, Dave, Rich and Leggo has done the rounds on many football sites over the years.
The match, in the end, wasn’t that special. Tottenham went ahead via Tony Galvin in the first half but a Pat Nevin free kick on seventy-five minutes gave us a share of the points.
A week later, the action took place two-hundred or so miles to the north.
Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 4 May 1984.
In 1984/1985, I only went to five away games due to finances, and the visit to Anfield was one of the highlights for sure. Liverpool were European Champions in 1984 and reigning League Champions too. They were in their pomp. Growing up as a child in the ‘seventies, and well before Chelsea fans grew tired of Liverpool’s cries of history, there were few stadia which enthralled me more than Anfield, with The Kop a beguiling wall of noise.
No gangways on The Kop, just bodies. A swaying mass of humanity.
Heading up to Liverpool, on an early-morning train from Stoke, I was excited and a little intimidated too. Catching a bus up to the stadium outside Lime Street was probably the nearest that I came to a footballing “rite of passage” in 1985. I was not conned into believing the media’s take that Scousers were loveable so-and-sos. I knew that Anfield could be a chilling away ground to visit. Famously, there was the “Cockneys Die” graffiti on the approach to Lime Street. My first real memory of Liverpool, the city, on that murky day forty years ago was that I was shocked to see so many shops with blinds, or rather metal shutters, to stave off robberies. It was the first time that I had seen such.
The mean streets of Liverpool? You bet.
I was deposited a few hundred yards from Anfield and took a few photos of the scene that greeted me. The local scallies – flared cords and Puma trainers by the look of it, all very 1985 – were prowling as I took a photograph of the old Kop.
Travelling around on trains during this season from my home in Stoke, I was well aware of the schism taking place in the casual subculture at the time. Sportswear was giving way to a more bohemian look in the north-west – flares were back in for a season or two, muted browns and greens, greys and blues, even tweed and corduroy flares – but this look never caught on in London.
At the time, I always maintained that it was like this :
London football – “look smart.”
Liverpool and Manchester football – “look different.”
I walked past The Kop and took a photo of the Kemlyn Road Stand, complete with newly arrived police horses. You can almost smell the gloom. Note the mast of the SS Great Eastern, which still hosts a fluttering flag on match days to this day.
The turnstiles were housed in a wall which had shards of glass on the top to deter fans from gaining free entry. Note the Chelsea supporters’ coach and the Sergio Tacchini top.
I paid my £2.50 and I was inside at 10.15am.
To complete this pictorial tour of Anfield before the game and to emphasise how bloody early I was on that Saturday morning – it was another 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive drinking and, ergo, hooliganism – there is a photograph of an empty, waiting, expectant Anfield. I guess that the photograph of the Chelsea squad in their suits was taken at an hour or so before kick-off. This is something we never see at games now; a Chelsea team inspecting the pitch before the game. I suspect that for many of the players, this would have been their first visit to Anfield too. Maybe that half-explains it.
My mate Glenn had travelled up with the Yeovil supporters coach for this game and we managed to find each other, and stand together, in the packed away segment at Anfield. My mates Alan, Paul and Swan stood close by. We were packed in like sardines on that terraced section of the Anfield Road that used to meet up with the Kemlyn Road, an odd mix of angles. Memorably, I remember that a lot of Chelsea lads – the firm, no doubt – had purchased seat tickets in the Anfield Road end, mere yards away from us, and a few punches were thrown. Even more memorably, I remember seeing a lad from Frome, Mark – a Liverpool supporter in my year at school – with two others from Frome only yards away in those very same seats.
The look we gave each other was priceless.
I see Mark at lots of Frome Town games to this day.
This was a cracking game. We went behind early on when Ronnie Whelan headed past Eddie Niedzwiecki and we soon conceded two more, both via Steve Nicol. We were 3-0 down after just ten minutes.
Welcome to Anfield.
We then played much better – my diary noted that it was the best we had played all season – and Nigel Spackman scored via a penalty at The Kop. Our fine play continued after the break, and Kerry Dixon slotted home in the six-yard box. Alas, a quick Liverpool break and a cross from their right. Ian Rush stuck out a leg to meet the ball at the near post and the ball looped over Niedzwiecki into the goal. My diary called it an exquisite finish and who am I to argue? I suppose, with hindsight, it was apt for Rush to score a goal at The Kop in my first ever game at Anfield. Writing these words forty years later, takes me right back. I can almost remember the gnawing inevitability of it.
Five minutes later, on about the sixty-fifth minute, Gordon Davies volleyed a low shot into the corner down below us.
Liverpool 4 Chelsea 3.
Wow.
We played so well in the remainder of the match but just couldn’t squeeze a fourth goal. We had outplayed them for a large part of the game. I remember being really surprised that Anfield was so quiet, and The Kop especially. Our little section seemed to be making all of the noise.
“EIO, EIO, EIO, EIO.”
“Ten Men Went To Mow.”
In that cramped, tight enclosure, this was a big moment in my life. I left Anfield exhausted, my throat sore, my brain fizzing with adrenalin, my senses heightened, drained.
We were all forced to take buses to Edge Hill, a train station a few miles out of Lime Street. Once there, I spotted a Chelsea lad that I recognised from Stoke, waiting with the rest of our mob, and preparing their next move, back into the city no doubt.
It took me forever to wait for a train that took me back to Crewe, where I needed to change for Stoke. I was, in fact, one of the last two Chelsea fans to leave Edge Hill that day.
These are some great memories of my first trip to Anfield.
Over the following forty years, I would return twenty-seven more times.
Back to 2025, and this was my fiftieth game against Liverpool at Stamford Bridge.
We lined up with a very strong formation, with the return of Romeo Lavia squeezing Moises Caicedo to right back and keeping Reece James on the bench.
Sanchez
Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella
Lavia – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Liverpool were a mixture of familiar names and not-so-familiar names. I think I can name every single one of their 1985 squad, much less their 2025 version.
There were boos as both teams took to the pitch. I just stood silent with my hands in my pockets.
Within the first thirty seconds, or so it seemed, a pass from deep from Virgil Van Dijk set up Mo Salah. He attacked us from the right before attempting a low cross that was well gathered by Robert Sanchez.
This was a noisy Stamford Bridge, and the game had begun very lively. After just three minutes, we witnessed a beautiful move at pace. Romeo Lavia came away with the ball and slipped it through to Cole Palmer. The easy ball was chosen, outside to Pedro Neto. He advanced and I looked over to see Nicolas Jackson completely unmarked on the far post. However, after moving the ball on a few yards, Neto spotted the Lampardesque run of our current number eight and our Argentinian was able to kill the ball with his left foot and stroke it home with his right foot, past the diving Alisson, and Stamford Bridge went into orbit.
This was an open game, and Madueke’s shot whizzed past the post while Robert Sanchez saved well from Cody Gakpo.
Liverpool enjoyed a little spell around the fifteen-minute mark, but we were able to keep them at bay. I loved how Lavia and Caicedo were controlling the midfield. On twenty-three minutes, a magnificent sliding block from Trevoh Chalobah robbed Liverpool a shot on goal.
As the half-hour approached, I felt we were riding our luck a little as balls bounced into space from defensive blocks and clearances rather than at the feet of the opponents.
On thirty-one minutes, Noni Madueke played a one-two with Marc Cucurella, and his shot was inadvertently blocked by Jackson. The ball ran on to Caicedo, who dropped a lob onto the bar from the byline down near Parkyville.
On forty-one minutes, a snapshot from Neto hit the side netting. Just after, Jackson played in Madueke, who rounded Alisson to score, only for the goal to be chalked off for offside.
By now, the Liverpool lot, despite a flurry at the start, were quiet in their sunny corner of the stadium.
Liverpool did not seem to be creating as many threats as expected, and I was quietly confident at the break that we could hold on for a massive three points. I loved how Neto was playing, out wide, an old-fashioned winger, and Lavia, Caicedo and Enzo were a solid, fluid and combative three when we had the ball. Some of Jackson’s touches were, alas, woeful.
Into the second half, a magnificent burst from Madueke down in front of us – just a joy to watch – but a weak finish from that man Jackson. Just after, Nico slipped in the box. Just after, a fantastic dummy by Madueke out on the line, a little like Jadon Sancho at Palace, but he then gave the ball away cheaply.
Wingers are infuriating buggers, aren’t they?
At the other end, we watched a lovely old-fashioned tussle between Salah and Cucurella on the edge of our box.
Only one winner, there.
“He eats Paella, he drinks Estrella.”
On fifty-six minutes, Palmer shimmied into the right-hand side of the box and sent over a low cross towards Madueke. He touched the ball goalwards, but in the confusion that followed Van Dijk slashed at the ball and it ricocheted off Jarrell Quansah and into the goal, not that I had much of a clue what on Earth was going on. I just saw the net ripple.
It was an odd goal, in that nobody celebrated too quickly, as the spectre of VAR loomed over us all. The build-up to the goal included so many instances of potential VAR “moments” that I think it conditioned our thinking.
To our relief, no VAR, no delay, no problems.
But – VAR 1 Football 0.
Sigh.
Not to worry, we were up 2-0, and I had to ask the lads if they could remember the last time that we had beaten Liverpool in a league game at Stamford Bridge. Nobody could.
On the hour, Jackson worked himself into a great position but selfishly tried to poke the ball in from a very tight angle.
Liverpool, coming out of their shell now, enjoyed some chances. A great diving header from Levi Colwill denied them a shot on goal, and then they wasted a free header from a Salah cross.
On seventy minutes, another great slide from Our Trev denied them a shot. He was enjoying a magnificent game.
Another Liverpool header went wide.
This really was an open game.
On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Nico, who is soon to enrol in the parachute regiment.
More Chelsea chances came and went. A shot from Madueke was blocked, a rasper from Sancho was saved well by Alisson, Palmer wriggled free and somehow hit the post from a ridiculously tight angle.
This was breathless stuff.
Another shot from Palmer, who looked rejuvenated.
“He wants it now.”
On seventy-eight minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Lavia, who had been a revelation.
On eighty-five minutes, a free header from Van Dijk, from an Alexis Mac Allister corner, and they were back in the game.
This caused our hearts to wobble, and as the game continued, we watched with increasing nervous concern. Just after, the next move, Palmer forced another save from Alisson, who was by far the busier ‘keeper.
A fine move, but Neto shot over.
On eighty-eight minutes, Reece James took over from Enzo, who had enjoyed another fantastic match.
The battle continued.
“COME ON CHELS.”
Six minutes of injury time was signalled.
Fackinell.
Not to worry, in the very final minute, Liverpool attempted to play the ball out from the back and Caicedo closed down and got to the ball just in front of a defender. The defender, however, got to Caicedo just before the ball.
Penalty.
Cole Palmer stroked it home, his first goal since January.
He ran towards the goal and turned towards the East Stand but I summoned up all of my psycho-kinetic powers to entice him over to us, under The Sleepy Hollow.
I spotted two of the four foreign lads sitting close by, full of smiles, and I felt I owed them an apology for thinking that they were Liverpool fans. I gave them the thumbs up. They reciprocated.
This was a lovely day and a lovely match, and perhaps the best performance of the season thus far. We bounced out of Stamford Bridge and I subconsciously found myself singing Chelsea songs on the stretch from the West Stand forecourt to the tube station, just like in the old times.
During this footballing weekend, I would be seeing my fortieth Frome Town game and also my fortieth Chelsea game of this 2024/25 season.
On the Saturday, Frome Town – the Dodge, the Scarlet Runners – were up first. There was a home game at Badgers Hill against Chertsey Town, who were just above the relegation drop zone, while Frome were struggling to get out of it. There have been a whole host of “must-win games” for my hometown team of late, but this really was it; an absolute “must-win game”. We were staring into the abyss, this was the point of no return, and a whole many more drastic cliches.
I met up with a few Frome Town regulars – Sumo, Asa, Trotsky, Francis – at the nearby Frome Cricket Club, and my presence there was intended to facilitate a little good fortune. The last time I visited the Cricket Club was before the successful Play-Off Final win last season. I hoped for a similar outcome.
Trotsky is a Brentford fan and so would be at both of my games over the weekend. We had heard that Chertsey would be bringing two coaches of supporters down to Somerset and so I was hoping that we would see a similar gate to the 659 against Hungerford Town a week earlier. Once inside it was soon apparent that the gate would be considerably less. The sunny and warm weather – usually a boon – had probably enticed potential spectators elsewhere.
We began the game well, full of attacking intent, and managed to get the ball into the goal on two occasions, only for both to be called back for offside. Unfortunately, a defensive slip allowed the visitors to go 1-0 up, and Frome found it difficult to get back into the game. At half-time, I changed ends and watched the second half in front of the clubhouse. Alas, only a small smattering of half-chances were forthcoming and as the atmosphere grew quieter and quieter, the grim realisation of yet another 0-1 loss (our fourth in a row) grew nearer. The elusive goal didn’t materialise. The gate was announced as 490, a mite disappointing if I am honest.
At the final whistle, my little group of friends stood motionless, unable to move.
This one hurt.
Frome Town have four games left: two at home against Dorchester and Totton, two aways at Swindon and Plymouth. Realistically we need to win two of these four to give ourselves even the slightest hope of survival.
We live in hope.
Saturday became Sunday and it was now Chelsea’s turn.
Our game at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was our middle match in a stretch of nine consecutive league games in London. However, our run to the end of the season clearly isn’t easy. In fact, before the game with Tottenham I mentioned to a few mates that – “without being too dramatic, nor negative” – I couldn’t see where we were going to get a win in the remaining games.
And then along came Tottenham, and Tottenham were Tottenham, and it was ever thus.
The kick-off in West London was at 2pm, and I had purchased a “JustPark” space on Oliver Close (the same close as last season if not the same house) from 11am and we envisaged a little pub crawl next to the Thames once again.
There was a lie-in of sorts – I was still up for 7am – and PD was collected at 8am and Lord Parky at 8.30am.
On a sunny morning, we enjoyed the regular route up to London; a McBreakfast at Melksham, up onto the M4, thankfully now free of speeding restrictions east of Reading, and the familiar sights such as Windsor Castle, the planes at Heathrow, the elevated section of the M4, the Wembley Arch to the north.
Everything was going to plan until I drove close to the Brentford stadium on Lionel Road, then took a road parallel to the Thames at Kew, only to find that the only access road to Oliver Close was shut due to road enhancements on Thames Road. My two passengers exited the car and walked on to the nearest pub, “The Bull’s Head”, a few hundred yards to the east. Try as I might to access Oliver Close via another nearby road, I was defeated. Instead, I had to backtrack west, head over Kew Bridge, not once but twice, and then head back the way I had come and up onto the M4 as it became the A4. From here, I drove eastwards for a mile or so and then veered off at the next exit. From here, a mile and half west to my parking spot on Oliver Close. This detour took me around twenty-five minutes, and all because of a closure of no more than twenty-five yards on Thames Road.
I wondered if such a painfully slow approach to my final destination would be mirrored by Chelsea’s attempts to penetrate the Brentford penalty box later.
I reached “The Bull’s Head” at 11.30am. Inside, at the same window seat overlooking the river as last season, my two travel companions were sharing laughs and matchday pints with Salisbury Steve and Southgate Jimmy. I slotted in alongside them and we reminisced on the Tottenham match, while trying to muster up a little enthusiasm for the afternoon’s attraction.
We spent a good hour or so there, then dropped into our main haunt at Brentford, “The Bell & Crown”, which we were visiting for probably the fourth or fifth time. There was a relaxed mix of home and away fans at this pub, but there were no Chelsea colours on show, as is our style. The sun was out, it was getting warmer and warmer.
Bliss.
We chatted to a few mates – Rob, Cal, Cliff, Chidge, Tim – and the general vibe was undoubtedly this :
“Do we have to go to the bloody football? Can’t we just stay here?”
Time was moving on, so we made our way up to the away turnstiles which are hidden away between cramped and towering flats, giving the stadium a claustrophobic and cramped-in feel, and down a few steps. You enter the stadia way below street level.
Again, I decided against a potential row with an over-zealous steward by leaving my SLR at home, instead smuggling in my Sony pub camera inside the stadium by hiding it in the palm of my hand.
Amidst the security checks, I heard this.
“Can I see inside your wallet?”
I was taken aback.
What? What was I hearing? My wallet?
I mouthed “sure” but I was fuming. Where else in the UK would somebody be asked to show the contents of their wallet? While attending a theatre? A cinema? An agricultural show? An art gallery? A shopping mall? A library?
Fackinell.
I joked with a mate “I wish I had a nude photo of his mother inside my wallet…”
I was soon inside the packed concourse. And then something lovely happened. At Stamford Bridge on Thursday, amidst all the photos of the celebrations after the Enzo match winner, there was one fan who dominated the photos of the scene down below me in the first few rows of the MHL. A lad in a yellow Chelsea shirt – the crisp one from 2021/22 – was right next to Enzo, his face a picture of absolute ecstasy.
A friend suggested that I needed to use social media to find him.
Well, within a few seconds of entering the away concourse at Brentford, I found him. I took his email address and promised to send him a selection of images.
Fantastic.
It’s all a bit weird at Brentford. From the concourse, you must ascend a flight of stairs, even to access the lower section of the away corner. I soon found my place alongside John and Gary. We were only a few rows from the corner flag.
Oh God, the sun was bearing down on us in that lower section. Despite wearing some “Ray Bans”, I soon realised that my vantage point for this game was pretty crap, especially considering the shadows underneath the main stand on the far side of the pitch and the dazzling sun elsewhere. We were so low too. I soon decided that I wasn’t going to enjoy the view at this game.
Our team?
It was hardly our first team. It shocked me.
Gusto at right back but James at left back. No Palmer. No Jackson. It took me ages to realise that our shape had been tweaked to allow three in midfield.
Sanchez
Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – James
Fernandez – Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall
Madueke – Nkunku – Sancho
There was a shared “Hey Jude” and the match began, with – for once – Chelsea attacking us in the first half.
Before we knew it, a chance for Christopher Nkunku from a James free kick on the right, but he arrived late at the far post and his header flew off and towards Oliver Close. It would be our only effort on goal for a while. At the other end, Brentford themselves enjoyed a couple of half-chances. Their front two of Bryan Mbeumo and Yoane Wissa were already up to no good; they needed to be watched those two.
On seven minutes, the away section boomed with a loud “One Man Went To Mow” but the play on the pitch took a while to get going.
Jadon Sancho, down below us, was urged to “skin” his marker but Gary quipped “he couldn’t skin a banana.”
What is it with wingers that won’t outpace their markers these days, one of the greatest sights in football over the years?
Oh yes, of course, stats say that balls crossed from the by-line are less likely to result in goal-scoring chances than balls slowly moved around the periphery of the penalty box ad nauseum until a half yard of space is created. I remembered my journey through Chiswick a few hours earlier as balls were passed to wide men to central defenders, to midfielders, to false nines, to inverted wingers, to hell and back.
Fucksake.
I wasn’t enjoying this at all.
The pitch was a hideous mix of bright sunshine and dark shadows, I was starting to get baked, my proper camera was at home, and Chelsea were boring me fucking rigid.
A few songs that heralded past players were sung.
“It’s Salomon!”
The home team conjured up a few half-chances as Chelsea toiled. A Sanchez error – quelle surprise – but then a great recovery as he spread himself to save from Mikkel Damsgaard. Brentford suddenly looked the livelier. Mbeumo cut inside from the right and should have done better with a shot that he screwed wide. The mood in our section deteriorated.
At one point in the first half, I could hardly believe my eyes as a Chelsea defender in the left back position – was it you Reece? – crossed a ball right across the Chelsea box, a mere five yards from the goal-line, right over the heads of attacking players to a defender on the other side of the box, himself no further than five yards from the goal-line.
Oh my God.
This was terrible to watch.
Two nearby Chelsea supporters, caught up in a prolonged and heated discussion, almost came to blows.
“Will you stop swearing?”
Really? At football? Fackinell.
We bellowed in desperation.
“ATTACK!”
“ATTACK!”
“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”
“ATTACK!”
“ATTACK!”
“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”
Just after, on thirty-four minutes, Noni Madueke took our advice and did so.
The Chelsea choir responded, and it was truly cringeworthy.
“We’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot – we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot.”
Just after, Madueke was clean through – one on one – but was cleanly tackled.
Brentford, from a corner, had a header cleared and it looked like we were hanging on. The frustration on the terraces grew. Many players were picked out for comment, with Nkunku and Sancho the most likely to be chastened. In the middle, by comparison, Moises Caicedo shone like a beacon.
Late on, a James free kick, but a Tosin header was glanced wide with the entire goal at his mercy.
That Madueke effort, I think, was indeed our only shot on target.
Meanwhile, also in West London, Fulham were surprisingly gubbing Liverpool 3-1 at half-time.
Way back in 1985, West London was my focus again.
Exactly forty years ago, on Saturday 6 April 1985, Chelsea played West London neighbours – and Hammersmith & Fulham neighbours – Queens Park Rangers in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I remember this day well. I met up with Glenn in Frome and we got a lift with two lads from Radstock – Terry and Swan – who then drove us to a spot on the A303 where Terry parked his car in a lay-by. We then caught the Yeovil Supporters Coach up to London from there. I visited the now long-gone “The George” pub at the corner of Fulham Road and the North End Road for the very first time. For a few short years – until 1988 – it would become my first Chelsea “local”.
After the hooliganism at the Sunderland game, the West Stand Benches were closed for a few weeks (and the famous concrete slabs were installed) and so we watched in The Shed. Pre-match, I chatted to Alan and Paul, we saw Leggo and Mark, and Dave came down to chat to us too.
All of these lads still go to Chelsea to this day.
I love that.
This was a poor game, and an especially poor first-half. The QPR team, playing in those Dennis the Menace red and black hooped shirts, included three former Chelsea players; Gary Chivers, Steve Wicks and Mike Fillery. Thankfully Kerry Dixon broke down the right at the Shed End in the seventieth minute and cooly finished to give us a slender 1-0 lead. We had to rely on a splendid Eddie Niedzwiecki save, late-on, to secure the three points. The gate was 20,340 but I expected less. As can be seen in the photos, QPR only partially filled two of the four pens in the away end. Their following was no more than 2,000.
By contrast, our away numbers at Loftus Road were embarrassingly more, year after year.
Back to 2025, and changes at the start of the second period.
Enzo Maresca’s odd choice of resting Nicolas Jackson for Thursday’s game in Poland – presumably – lasted just forty-five minutes. He replaced the dismal Nkunku.
Soon into the second period, the move of the match. I loved the way that a runner – Sancho I think – raced outside and took his man out of the picture, allowing Gusto to push on inside. A neat pass, then, to Dewsbury-Hall who found Jackson with a perfect long ball. However, Nico shot just wide.
A corner and a headed chance for Trevoh Chalobah went wide.
It was so difficult to see what on Earth was happening in the dark shadows at the other end. The sun was still beating down. I felt my skin buzzing. This was an uncomfortable watch.
You will note that there are no photographs featured from the second half of this game. In fact, I took very few of the whole match. Maybe the Frome ones compensate a little.
I approved of the Kante song being adapted for Caicedo.
“Moises will win you the ball…”
On the hour, two more widely applauded substitutions.
Cole Palmer for Dewsbury-Hall.
Pedro Neto for Madueke.
So much for resting them for Thursday.
These two additions soon combined; Palmer to Neto, a curler palmed away by Mark Flekken in the Bees’ goal. Then, a minute later, another Neto shot at Flekken. James headed at the Brentford ‘keeper from a Neto corner, the ball at a comfortable height for a reflex save. Palmer curled an effort just wide of the post.
After a dire first-half, we were at least creating a few chances.
More Chelsea half-chances, and then a Brentford break. A decent save from Sanchez but offside anyway.
On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella for James.
Who would be playing on Thursday? It was far from clear.
Just after, from a Chelsea corner, another rapid Brentford break, right through the middle of our defence. Mbeumo lead the charge and passed outside to Wissa. I think we all feared the worst here. Thankfully, the much-maligned Sanchez stuck out a strong arm to parry. It was a fantastic save.
Brentford then enjoyed two clear goalscoring chances.
Keane Lewis-Potter, who sounds like he should be more suited to rain-affected cricket matches, set up Sepp Van Den Berg who attacked the ball inside the six-yard box, but his header miraculously bounced down and over the bar.
Then another near-miss as Wissa headed over.
The game was coming to life in its final minutes.
In the dying moments, up the other end, two late Chelsea chances. Enzo created space but thumped his shot wide. In the last move of the game, and indeed the last kick of the game, Palmer twisted and turned, took aim, but his curling effort floated just over the bar.
From my position, it appeared to be going in.
I was getting ready to jump for joy.
It didn’t. I didn’t.
It ended 0-0.
Miraculously, we ended the day in fourth place, and I can’t explain it.
This was another footballing double-header of a weekend, involving two away days, five-hundred and twenty miles in the hot-seat and almost fifteen hours of driving.
On Saturday, Sholing vs. Frome Town in the Southern Premier League South.
On Sunday, Manchester United vs. Chelsea in the FA Premier League.
Before all of this, in the office on Monday, there was a shriek of dismay from yours truly on hearing that Erik ten Hag had just been sacked by Manchester United. The four – four! – United fans in the office were a lot happier. How we all wanted the Dutch manager to still be in charge for our game on the Sunday. Alas, it was not to be.
I had a grand day out down on the south coast at Sholing. Despite going down to ten men when Matt Wood was sent-off, the Frome Town team played so well, with new signing Archie Ferris adding some physicality to the attack and loan-returnee Rex Mannings playing his best game since his move from Chippenham Town. The home team missed a penalty in the second-half, and then in the last ten minutes, substitute Curtis Hutson crashed a dipping shot from well outside the box to send the thirty away fans delirious. Alas, in the ninety-fifth minute, the home team poked home an equaliser. Frome are still mired in a relegation dogfight but the month of November contains matches against teams that we might well be able to get some wins against.
My match-going pal at Chelsea, Alan, had a football-double-header too, and one which needs a mention. Very early on Saturday morning, Alan left his house in order to catch the Bromley supporters coach up to Rochdale to the north of Manchester. The two teams played an enthralling FA Cup tie. Bromley went 2-0 up early on, but were losing 3-2 as injury-time began. Two goals in the ninety-first and ninety-second minutes gave Al’s team a wonderful 4-3 victory. While I was driving home to Frome, Al was heading back to London.
And on the Sunday, both of us would be heading north to Manchester.
This would be my twenty-ninth United vs. Chelsea match at Old Trafford. It is my most visited away venue. Alas, my record in these games is as similarly shocking as on my trips to Anfield.
Won – 5
Drew – 9
Lost – 14
The reading is more depressing when you consider that on my first two trips to Old Trafford in 1986, we won both times. This means that over the last twenty-six personal visits to Old Trafford, Chelsea recorded just three wins.
Gulp.
Alan and myself would be with each other on the Sunday in the away enclosure at Old Trafford, and we were sitting alongside each other at Stamford Bridge forty years ago to the exact day too.
On Saturday 3 November 1984, I travelled down by train from Stoke for the home game with Coventry City, back in the days when the Sky Blues were an absolute fixture in the top flight. They played football at the highest level from 1967/68 to 2001/02 without a break.
On that day, I took a 0920 train down to Euston, arriving at 1130, and noted lots of casuals milling about. In those days, Euston was a battle ground for various firms – all without colours – and it could be a dicey moment walking over the concourse and down into the underground. Nobody wore team kits in those days, but many went for the small metal badges which were all the rage. You wore these as the only outward sign of which club you were with.
These were magnificent times for this burgeoning yet undercover football sub-culture.
It was simple but smart; an expensive pullover – it was changing that autumn from pastels to muted colours – and a polo shirt. Mid-blue jeans – a change from the light blue ones of the summer – and then Adidas, Diadora or Nike trainers. This was “the look” in the autumn of 1984.
I took my camera to the game for the first time since the West Ham game in September and took a pre-match photo of my mates Leggo, Stamford and Alan on the Benches, not too far from where I saw my first game ten years earlier.
When I aired this photo on a Chelsea Eighties page on “Facebook” a while ago, the lad who is looking at the camera beyond my three mates got in touch. He was surprised to see his face. He got in touch and the rest is history. Incidentally, the lad to the left holding the match programme is Leggo, or Glenn, and he has recently retired. I will be meeting him before the Noah game on Thursday.
Chelsea began well, but the visitors were 2-0 after half-an-hour. They had an unlikely trio upfront of Bob Latchford, Cyrille Regis and Peter Barnes, all of whom had starred at other clubs. However, Chelsea soon hit back, scoring via a Kerry Dixon far-post header. Just before half-time, a Pat Nevin cross, a Dixon header, and Keith Jones touched in the equaliser.
We had to wait twenty-five minutes into the second-half for a further breakthrough; a goal from David Speedie. Then Kerry made it 4-2. At this stage, many left to queue up at the ticket office for Tottenham away tickets. I remained on the deserted Benches to see Kerry break through to make it 5-2 and then Keith Jones stabbed a loose ball in to make it 6-2.
It had been a great game, with Pat Nevin in imperious form. The win was much-needed after a dip in our form. The gate was 17,306, a bit better than my 16,000 prediction before the game. My diary tells me that I counted just one hundred away fans.
On the previous Wednesday, Chelsea had drawn 2-2 at Fellows Park against Walsall in the League Cup. Although it was just down the road from Stoke, I didn’t attend. I wasn’t yet ready for my first-ever midweek game. There were goals from Colin Lee and Pat Nevin in front of 11,102, and there was a fair bit of trouble, as we called it in those days, I seem to remember.
Forty years later, I had collected Glenn at 10am, and Parky at 10.30am on the way to Manchester. PD was missing this away day; instead he was in Cyprus at his son Scott’s wedding. We stopped for drinks at Strensham, but as I neared Birmingham, I was warned of heavy traffic ahead and so took a detour through the Black Country. I re-joined the M6 just north of where the current day Walsall play at the Bescot Stadium. The pre-match plan was to stop at the Tabley Interchange for a Sunday Roast, but with people to meet from 3pm, time was running away from us. Glenn shared out some Somerset Pasties and we had these on the hoof.
Spinning around the M60, I could not resist singing a few lines from a couple of Smiths songs, just before we hit the traffic that was backed up at the exit for Stretford.
Old Trafford is a conundrum. It’s in Stretford, which is part of the metropolitan borough of Trafford in Greater Manchester, but it isn’t in Manchester, the actual city.
Confused?
Talk to Carlos Tevez.
After five-and-a half hours, I eventually arrived and I was parked up at just after 3.15pm. We walked through the familiar Gorse Hill Park and out onto the Chester Road, the heady smell of autumn leaves underfoot.
This is indeed a well-trodden journey.
Soon we were close.
The acrid punch of vinegar on chips at the take-aways near the crossroads leading to Sir Matt Busby Way. The fanzine sellers. The half-and-half scarves. The grafters. The match day colours. It was all so bloody familiar.
I met up with Aleksey, originally from Moscow, now from Houston, and in the UK on a work trip to Aberdeen and other locales. He will be adding to the game at Old Trafford with a game on Thursday at Chelsea, a game at Frome on Saturday, and – maybe – a game at Chelsea on Sunday. He’s a keen follower of this blog – “thanks mate” – and it was good to see him again.
With me leaving at 10am, it was a ploy to have a lie-in, to have a little rest before the drive north, and the timings had been pretty decent. On the way in, I had admitted to Glenn and Parky that “it’s nice to be able to take our time strolling up to Old Trafford. Not rushing. Well, not Aleksey. He’s from Moscow.”
Next up, I had to hand over some tickets to Deano, who had not yet arrived. This gave me a twenty-minute window of opportunity to do a complete circuit of Old Trafford, probably for the first-ever time.
I took a shot of the Holy Trinity statue of Charlton, Best and Law as it faced the Matt Busby statue under the megastore and the East Stand, which used to house the away paddock in days gone by.
Next, a photo of the Alex Ferguson statue under the huge stand that bears his name. This used to be the United Road stand, the one that was so modern when it appeared in the mid-sixties, the one featured in the Albert Finney film “Charlie Bubbles”, and featuring a game against Chelsea in 1967. The original United Road is long-gone now. I once drove along it around twenty years ago. The transformation on this side of the ground has been phenomenal. It seems like a different place now, a modern monolith to the United brand.
Then, I aimed myself towards the Stretford End. My recollections of this stand from the two FA Cup semis in 2006 and 2007 are scant, but it’s a really horrible structure, faced by a vast car park, not unlike the feel of a San Siro, but without the architectural merit. Great blocks of black, grey and red, as if designed by a Lego enthusiast. There even appear to be huge handles on the stand, maybe to lift the end up and deposit it elsewhere in the vicinity if a threatened new stadium ever gets built. Then, a puzzle for me. I didn’t know that there was a statue outside the Stretty, as the home fans call it, and I didn’t recognise the figure depicted on a plinth. I got closer. It was Jimmy Murphy, a name I remember from the immediate aftermath of the horrors of 1958.
I wondered if any of the four United fans in the office were aware of this statue.
I was annoyed that it caught me unawares.
Then, the last leg, through the oddly-named Munich Tunnel, underneath the oldest stand from the original 1910 structure. There were chants of “Chelsea Rent Boys”, how boring.
I caught up with Deano at around 4pm, just after a United fan had aimed another “Rent Boy” chant our way and just after said United fan was marched away from the ground by two stewards.
United fans jostled past us, occasionally shouting derogatory words.
I thought to myself how so many United fans look like Syd Little.
I queued up underneath the Munich Clock, and was inside at around 4.15pm after a slow and rigorous security check. SLRs are banned at OT, as are all cameras, but I won that battle.
I soon met up with Alan, looking remarkably chipper after his three out of four weekend coach trips from hell. Alan was stood next to Gary. John was further along, next to me. To my left were Little Andy and Big Colin. Glenn was a few yards away in the row behind me. Parky was ten rows behind me.
I took a phot of Alan – with Glenn – to go with the photo of him forty years earlier. Back in 1984, it was either a Burberry scarf or an Aquascutum scarf on the terraces of England. I always favoured the latter. I bought one in 1985 and it lasted five years until it was stolen in Italy. I bought another one ten years ago. Alan sported his Aquasutum scarf, a nod to the fact that, in the long game, Aquascutum has remained at the top of the pile, whereas Burberry never really recovered from its nadir in the post Brit-Pop era.
The sky was grey and it marched the cold grey steel of the roof supports above us all.
Old Trafford, what have you got in store for me this time?
With ten minutes to go “This Is The One” by the Stone Roses gave way to “Take Me Home” by John Denver.
Not an easy segue, that one.
Oh well, maybe a lot of match-going Mancunians think they have the gait and swagger and street cool of Ian Brown, whereas in reality so many of United’s match-day support resemble John Denver, and Syd Little.
“Take me home, United Road, to the place I belong. To Old Trafford. To see United. Take me home, United Road.”
The teams appeared.
We were as expected, the line-up the same as against Newcastle a week earlier.
The game began, and as per usual we attacked the Stretford End in the first-half. I had to laugh when after just four minutes, Cole Palmer – the hometown anti-hero – attempted a very similar pass to Pedro Neto that had us all so enthralled last week, but a covering defender stuck out a leg to rob us of a repeat.
I thought we began well, and we had more of the ball than United. Palmer was involved early, but there was a poor cross from him. Just after Moises Caicedo robbed the ball in midfield and played in Palmer, who had a free run on goal, but dithered a little, and Matthijs de Ligt was able to block.
On fourteen minutes, Noni Madueke rose to meet Palmer’s corner at the near post, and his header crashed against the bar – though, in reality, it was difficult to tell in the Stretford gloom – and Levi Colwill slashed at the rebound but it hit the side-netting.
The natives were quiet, and the three-thousand away fans had a dig.
There was an error from Andre Onana at the other end but we blazed over. Then, Robert Sanchez came dramatically at a cross, punching the ball away in a “Superman Pose.” Half-chances came and went. Marcus Rashford over-dribbled into the penalty box. After a swift move from United, Sanchez saved well, but there was a suspicion of offside anyway.
Nicolas Jackson, quiet thus far, was in on goal but there was a heavy touch. Palmer was next up, but after carrying the ball for an age, he too was reluctant to shoot. Eventually his effort was blocked.
But we were in this. Being in it at Old Trafford is half the battle.
I loved the way Caicedo and Romeo Lavia were playing. Caicedo breaking things up, showing dogged tenacity, nicking balls, moving up. Lavia eating up space, rangy, a presence, quick.
There was another surreal touch from Palmer on the half-way line, another pass to himself, the audacity of the kid. He was then wiped out by a reckless challenge by Manuel Ugarte, whoever he is.
Pedro Neto, good in parts, was then taken out with a horrible tackle from Diogo Dalot.
Just before half-time, Bruno Fernandes smacked over a deep cross to the back stick from the left wing, only for Rashford to volley against the bar, and over. Most worrying of all, Reece James had not tracked him. The experiment with the captain at left-back had generally left us scratching our noggins.
During the half, my little self-contained unit of Andy to my left and John to my right had talked through our play and, despite a massive reluctance to strike on goal, were relatively happy with our play. With United under a new manager – albeit the interim Ruud van Nistelrooy – we were worried about conceding early and getting the home support roaring.
That never happened.
Yet elsewhere, others evidently thought we had been poor. It’s odd how this sometimes happens at games. At games, you are caught up in the moment, in the actuality of everything, and I think that the first feeling is the need for survival at big venues like United or Liverpool or City. I think that I sometimes get too positive, too early, and then stick with that mindset. At Old Trafford, at half-time, I was content. John was happy, I was happy. Clearly others weren’t.
At the break, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Marc Cucarella. Reece James stayed in the same small strip of Greater Manchester but on the right and not the left.
The inverted full-back nerds were probably having a field day in TV land.
Ten minutes in, a ball was hoofed high into the air, and the entire stadium, not least the players, had the same thought; that ball was going off for a throw-in. The ball came down, from high, and the ball was given to Palmer, who spread the ball out to the left to Neto. He pushed on before smacking a low shot just past Onana’s far post.
The Chelsea support groaned.
But the volume was definitely turned up a notch.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
On sixty-four minutes, we heard the Stretford End – together, loud – for the very first time. There had been a few “Viva John Terrys” and a few “Three In A Row” chants from the chorus to our right, but the Stretford End had been so quiet. Now they spoke.
“U – N – I – T – E – D, United are the team for me.”
At last.
With that, Alejandro Garnacho shot straight at Sanchez, right in front of them.
On seventy minutes, John and I had a little chat.
Chris : “Think it’ll be 0-0.”
John : “Yeah. Or we’ll let them in.”
At that exact moment, Casemiro dropped a long ball at the feet of Rasmus Hojlund. He took a touch to his right, Sanchez dived at him, it looked a penalty all day long.”
The referee, who had let so much go, often in our favour, pointed at the spot.
The horrible twat Fernandes easily slotted home.
There were two quick substitutions, too quick for me to immediately notice.
Mykhailo Mudryk for the disappointing Madueke.
Enzo Fernandez for the tiring Lavia.
I took a photo of Palmer waiting to take a corner on seventy-four minutes. I had a little idea I shared with John.
“Instead of everyone breaking and the ball going down the ‘keepers throat, why not let the players break towards goal but then pump it into the gap for Caicedo to head in?”
The ball came across. An unknown United defender headed it out. The ball fell towards Caicedo. He didn’t waste any time. He volleyed. The ball thankfully stayed low. The ball crept in at the far post.
Perfect.
Our end exploded.
Rarely have so many made so many ridiculous limb movements. I punched the air. I roared. I punched big Col in the stomach a few times.
Unable to snap the players celebrating on the far side, I turned the camera on us.
Faces of unfettered joy.
Get in.
The noise was all Chelsea now.
Next, a ball out to Garnacho, at an angle, who couldn’t get the right strike on the ball, and it flashed over the bar. It reminded me so much of a late Ole Gunnar Solskjaer equaliser from almost the same position, the same angle of strike, in the autumn of 1997.
A few moments later, Enzo skied a shot over the bar after being set up by Jackson, who surprisingly -I think – stayed on for the whole game.
A reckless challenge by Lisandro Martinez – nice Butthead haircut, mate – on Palmer towards the end of the game raised our temperatures, and we could hardly believe that a red was not issued.
In the closing moments, Fernandes fired ridiculously high into the Stretford End.
The 1-1 draw was a fair result. The consensus as we headed up the slope of the forecourt was that this was a poor United team – probably the poorest that I have seen in decades – and with a little more attacking verve we could have nicked it. I loved Moises Caicedo, now emerging as a real crowd favourite, who was my man of the match even before the goal. A mention for the tireless running of Pedro Neto. And a mention of a typically energetic and spirited performance by Marc Cucarella in the second-half.
Cucarella is the yin to Palmer’s yang.
These two approach the game with different temperaments and energy, but they are all part of this emerging Chelsea team.
Is it good enough?
I don’t know, and we certainly won’t be able to make any decision on Thursday when the B-List take on Noah.
I wolfed down the best football burger ever, a bacon-cheeseburger with onions, pure Mancunian heaven, and we reached the car at 7pm. The traffic was worse than usual as we exited out. I didn’t reach the M6 until 7.40pm. Not to worry, I made steady progress and via a couple of stops, I was home at just before midnight.
This was the oldest fixture in my particular book of Chelsea games. My first-ever game was Newcastle United at home in March 1974. This one would be my forty-third such fixture. In all of those previous forty-two matches, Newcastle’s record at Stamford Bridge has been wretched.
Chelsea have absolutely dominated this fixture.
Won : 28
Drew : 10
Lost : 4
Unlike my record at Anfield the previous Sunday, this was championship form.
With a 2pm kick-off at HQ, we were headed to Stamford Bridge once again. At 7am, I collected PD and Glenn. Alas, Parky was unable to join us on this occasion.
This was would be home game number 878. If I stop and think about the magnitude of those numbers, I feel slightly light-headed.
For a change, I drove up via the “southerly-route” to London, skirting Warminster, over Salisbury Plain, past Stonehenge, onto the A303, onto the M3 and in to London itself, past Twickenham, past Rosslyn Park rugby, past the Marc Bolan memorial at Barnes, and over Putney Bridge, where I dropped the lads off at around 9.10am. I was parked up at 9.20am, just two-and-a-half hours after leaving my house in Somerset.
There was a quick breakfast at “Café Ole”, and I then joined PD and Glenn in “The Eight Bells” at just after the 10am opening time.
During the Anfield report last week, there was talk of PD and Glenn and the Southampton away game in 1984. That loss, on the back of another loss against Watford and a draw at Millwall, meant that I was starting to get a little concerned about our form. Whereas we had stormed to promotion from the Second Division previous season, our early 1984/85 performances were rather mixed.
Forty years ago, again to the day, on Saturday 27 October 1984, Chelsea played Ipswich Town in a First Division game at Stamford Bridge. Thankfully, we won this one 2-0 in front of 19,213. I didn’t attend this one. I spent the day in Stoke, and heard about Kerry Dixon’s two second-half goals on my pocket radio. Darren Wood, one of only two signings since the previous campaign, made his debut in this match. On the same afternoon, Everton beat Manchester United 5-0 at Goodison, and the football world sat up and took notice. They had won the FA Cup against Watford in May and were starting to impress.
Soon after I arrived in the pub, the first of a few mates called in. Johnny Twelve, from Long Beach in California, fresh from the game in Athens, squeezed his considerable frame alongside us. With Johnny a Dodgers fan, and me a – rather lapsed – Yankee fan, there was a little talk of the World Series which was being played out in Southern California and the South Bronx.
Luke called by. Then Jimmy The Greek, full of interesting tales of his recent holiday in Sicily. Then, Tim from Melbourne, deep down in the Southern Hemisphere, accompanied by his mate Nigel from the slightly nearer Southern reaches of Merton. It was fantastic to see Tim again – another Yankee fan – after a few years. Glenn and I had met him over in Perth for our game in 2018.
Next to arrive was Rob from Hersham. I was only with Rob last Tuesday. He had driven down to Frome with two mates to attend the Frome Town vs. Walton & Hersham game. I met up with them in an old hostelry in the town centre and we then watched a thoroughly entertaining match. Frome went 1-0 up, only for the away team to equalise and then go ahead. As the fog descended, Frome kept going with dogged perseverance and, backed by the noisiest crowd this season, grabbed a deserved equaliser via Curtis Hutson. The gate was only 294, but the noise of the crowd and the commitment of the players produced a life-affirming moment. The clawing fog added to the drama. I really enjoyed this match.
This was followed by an away game on the Saturday at Merthyr Tydfil in South Wales. Pen-y-Darren Park, which hosted Football League football in the ‘twenties, has been on my list of “must-do” football venues for a while. On a gorgeous autumnal day, I appreciated the drive over the new Severn Bridge and the drive alongside the River Taff – parts of the scenery reminded me of a few drives through Appalachia – and I enjoyed the stadium even more. It is a beauty, and a monster of the non-league scene.
Believe it or not, as the weekend was approaching, I mentioned to a few close friends that I had been looking forward, in all honesty, to the trip to Pen-y-Darren Park more than the trip to Stamford Bridge. I am not sure if it shocked me, but I think it shocked them.
This was to be visit #1 versus visit #878, after all.
I think that helps to explain it a little.
Alas, Frome succumbed to four second-half goals to lose 0-4, and to cause more tremors of concern for our future in our current division. As if to rub salt in the fresh wounds, I had to endure “Liquidator” as we exited the deep terraces of that classic non-league ground. The locals had been friendly enough, though. Walking back to the car, I chatted to two Merthyr stalwarts about the game and as I stopped to get inside my car, one of the old chaps offered me a few “Roses” chocolates for the return drive home. You don’t get that at West Ham or Tottenham.
Rob and Johnny Twelve were joined by the other Rob – they come as a pair, these two lads – and Jimmy was joined by Doncaster Paul and his son. Lastly, Josh from Minneapolis appeared for one last pint before it was time to leave.
The more the merrier, I say.
At just after 1pm, were soon on the District Line train to Fulham Broadway.
This was another beautiful day, and the sunshine was a lovely addition. There were a few noisy Geordies making their way to the away section as I made my way in. I reached my seats at 1.40pm, just right.
This was a busy day of football in the nation’s capital.
Arsenal vs. Liverpool.
Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.
Crystal Palace vs. Tottenham Hotspur.
West Ham United vs. Manchester United.
London’s five biggest teams, plus the powerhouses from the north-west. I have a feeling that this series of fixtures would not have been similarly scheduled forty years ago.
Of course, the big surprise was seeing Reece James at left-back.
In the away team were our former players Lewis Hall and Tino Livramento.
The usual three songs were played.
“London Calling.”
“Park Life.”
“Liquidator.”
The twenty-eighth anniversary of the passing of Matthew Harding occurred during the week and so a large flag was displayed in the stand that bears his name.
RIP Matthew.
Never Forgotten.
At 2pm on a beautiful Sunday in SW6, the game began.
Soon in to the game, there was advice from Alan sitting alongside me to Noni Madueke, who had been set up by Nicolas Jackson.
“Cut inside and ping it.”
The shot was fired at the ‘keeper Nick Pope.
Soon after, just as PD and Alan were reminiscing about Phil Driver and his best-ever Chelsea performance in the 6-0 win against the Geordies in 1980, Jackson slid the ball to Cole Palmer, who – from a difficult angle – managed to gently steer a low shot in off the far post.
I celebrated, I took photos of the celebrations, but Alan was stalling his celebrations for the moment.
VAR.
A wait.
No goal.
Hmmmppphhh.
It annoyed me that a detailed explanation of the VAR decision appeared on the TV screens a full ten minutes after the event.
Not to worry, we were playing well and dominating the game.
On eighteen minutes, I was watching through my camera lens and was able to take a succession of key photos as a dreamlike move developed. Malo Gusto won the ball and played it to Palmer. Our kingpin, our sublime orchestrator, turned and soon spotted the forward movement of Pedro Neto. His pass dissected not only two Newcastle defenders but the space-time continuum. In fact, the space-time continuum has still not recovered, and has been scratching its head ever since. The ball was played to perfection. However, Neto needed to ride a possibly wild tackle from Fabian Schar and then took one touch before gliding the ball across the penalty box, thankfully devoid of defenders, and the perfectly-time run of Jackson resulted in a solid first time prod into goal.
GET IN.
The talk of 1980 had probably been working away subconsciously, because I immediately likened it to the Gary Chivers goal, played along vaguely similar lines, from that 6-0 game in October 1980.
Alan and I were bubbling over.
“They’ll have to come at us now, pet.”
“Come on my little diamonds.”
Newcastle briefly threatened, but we kept going. Neto shot at Pope, and then did ever so well to dig out a cross that Gusto failed to convert.
The away team improved a little and enjoyed a few chances, and just after the half-hour mark we allowed the Newcastle team far too much space. A move developed down below me. Harvey Barnes passed to Hall and his low cross was touched home by Alexander Isak, who had not been spotted by Reece James. Had the captain, recently under fire, switched off? It would appear so.
Bollocks.
VAR could not save us.
It took over ten minutes for the explanation of that decision to appear on the TV screen.
I loved the way that Moises Caicedo won a tackle, got a give and go with a team mate, and rampaged forward before shooting over. These rare displays of direct football are a nice change to the lateral pass-pass obsession.
If there is space in front, exploit it.
Who can forget that ridiculous touch from Palmer on the half-way line that almost defies description? This was another time/space mystery as he poked a ball past a defender, into space, only for him to carry on with the ball as if the defender was invisible.
What a talent.
During the half, which was extended by a mighty seven minutes, there had been two instances of utterly woeful distribution from Robert Sanchez. I wonder if that man has shares in the company that makes defibrillators.
There was, also, one memorable occasion when he rushed out to head a bouncing ball away, but we all expected the ball to bounce over his head, cartoon-like.
Oh boy.
It was 1-1 and tantalisingly level at the break, though I thought we had edged it.
Soon into the second-half, the impressive Romeo Lavia nicked a ball from a Newcastle player in the centre-circle. Alan had just offered me a bar of chocolate, but a good Chelsea move was developing here. The ball was now at Palmer’s feet, not so far away, and he took off. I had just broken off a chunk of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, and was just about to pop it into my mouth, when I had a brain flash.
“If we score here, either that chocolate is going to fly out of my mouth or I am going to choke.”
I threw the chocolate to one side.
With that, Palmer nonchalantly drilled the ball in between Pope and post.
GET IN.
What a goal from Cole.
Stamford Bridge was noisy again.
At least I caught his celebrations on film.
Soon after, a fine cross from Noni but a header from Neto hit a post, though I thought that it was excellently saved by Pope at the time.
Madueke drove inside from the right but a shot was saved easily by Pope, who was the busiest ‘keeper at this stage.
There were a couple of substitutions.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Madueke.
Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.
On seventy minutes, it appeared that luck was on our side as a header from Isak ended up at the foot of a Chelsea defender who was on hand to clear. Soon after, a similar goal-bound effort was hacked away too.
Marc Cucarella for Gusto.
Christopher Nknunku for Jackson.
In exactly the same way that I appreciated the songs and chants of encouragement from the Frome die-hards against Walton & Hersham, I loved the fact the Chelsea support reached a crescendo in those last fifteen minutes when we could all see that the away team were searching for a way to get an equaliser. That is what support should be all about.
It’s not rocket science.
Isak, after another “episode” from Sanchez, really should have nabbed that equaliser as he rounded the ‘keeper with an open goal ahead of him. Thankfully, the combined forces of Colwill and Caicedo saved the day.
Stamford Bridge roared its approval.
In the closing moments, nobody around me expected VAR to uphold a penalty decision after Nkunku went down.
No penalty.
In the last moment of drama, deep into a further six minutes of extra time, Joe Willock rose at the far post but his header back across goal was headed dramatically over his own bar by the returning captain, James.
Phew.
On a day of lovely losses for both Tottenham and Manchester United, Chelsea momentarily appeared in fourth place. And although, I had been looking forward to the trip to Merthyr marginally more than the trip to London, there is no doubt that I was more emotionally involved in the Chelsea game than the Frome one. If we had conceded a late equaliser, I would have been crushed.
This was a fine win against Newcastle. All of the plaudits were for Cole Palmer but I loved the way Lavia and Caicedo dominated the midfield. Praise for Jackson too, once again a scorer.
A quiet week lies ahead for me, with no trips to Brislington with Frome nor Newcastle with Chelsea.
I need the rest.
Next up, for me, two aways at Sholing near Southampton and at Old Trafford, near Manchester.
CHELSEA/esque 