Tag Archives: Newcastle United

Tales From The Bigg Market

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Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 20 December 2025.

With consecutive away trips to Cardiff and now Newcastle within five days, it was if these two fixtures were plucked out of the March 1984 football calendar for me to enjoy once again.

These two matches from over forty-five years ago still resonate.

Saturday 10 March 1984 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 31 March 1984 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

These were consecutive matches for me.

And so, it would be in 2025, too.

Tuesday 16 December 2025 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 20 December 2025 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Parky was unable to travel up to Tyneside for this one. I was up at about 4.45am, and I arrived outside PD Towers in Frome just as “05:59” changed to “06:00”.

I liked that.

Just in time logistics.

You know how it works by now.

We were blessed with completely clear skies for most of the long trip north, and this of course meant dry roads, a nice plus. There were no real traffic hold-ups. We stopped at Strensham Services in Worcestershire at 7.30am. There was a McDonalds breakfast, heartily wolfed-down by us both, and I filled my petrol tank. The weather outside was sublime.

I made great time. There was a comfort break at Woodall Services in South Yorkshire. I was loving this trip. Up onto the A1(M) and a hint of clouds to the north, and a hint of a rainbow too. One final comfort break at Durham Services, and then the approach to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The Angel of the North was at its brilliant rusty best, catching the sun, to my right. There had only been a few minutes of fine rain in the last few miles.

Jimmy The Greek had travelled up from King’s Cross, arriving at 11.30am, and had rewarded himself with a beer in the magnificent “Centurion Bar” at the train station. The plan was to collect him and then check in at the apartment I had booked to the west of the city centre.

I usually cross the river via the famous Tyne Bridge but on this occasion my Sat Nav took me over Redheugh Bridge which was further inland. For a few hundred yards, I found myself driving along Scotswood Road.

I couldn’t resist singing a couple of lines.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

This took me right back to my first Chelsea game when my father meticulously taught me the words to this famous Newcastle United song before the teams met at Stamford Bridge in March 1974.

I collected a smiling Jimmy at 12.30pm and we were soon checked in at the same apartments that we had used back in May. By 1.15pm, we were in an Uber heading down to the city centre.

Football fanciers often talk about “game management” these days, but for my perspective this weekend was all about “drink management.” I remembered the mess that I managed to get myself into in the small hours of our Sunday game at St. James’ Park last May. The kick-off on that day was at midday, and when PD woke me at 10.30am, I was in no state for football or anything. I was rancid. I promised myself an early finish on this Friday, ahead of another early kick-off on the Saturday, and on the Saturday, ahead of a long drive home on the Sunday.

We know Tyneside well by now. And although I wanted to “take it easy” – with PD’s full backing – I also wanted to visit a few new pubs too. So, I spent a while looking at the possibilities.

The quayside had been very well explored. In fact, we had virtually visited every pub along the stretch from the Wetherspoons in the west to the “Free Trade Inn” in the east.

The Wetherspoons on the quayside, “Off-Shore”, The Quilted Camel”, Bob Trollop”, “The Red House”, “The Crown Posada”, “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, “Akenside Traders”, “The Bridge Tavern”, “The Slug And Lettuce”, “The Head Of Steam”, “The Broad Chare”, “The Tyne Bar” and “The Free-Trade Inn.”

Fourteen pubs over one mile, all ticked off.

So, for this little session, I zoned in on the Bigg Market and I sorted out a pub-crawl that would not be too taxing.

Jimmy, PD and I started off at “The Beehive Hotel” at around 1.30pm. I had visited here in 2020 but needed to try it again. I had forgotten that this lovely pub has the cheapest drinks in the city. A trio of lads from The Eight Bells in Fulham were at a table and I shot over to say hello. My round of two “Cruzcampo” and one “Guinness” came to just £10.60.

I was falling in love with Newcastle once again.

Ryan from Stoke had seen that we were plotted up in “The Beehive” and joined us and stayed with us all night. The place was getting busy. We were perched on stools near the doorway. Space was at a premium. The last Friday before Christmas – “Black Eye Friday” – was heating up.

I had seen that my mate Foxy from Dundee had attempted to send me a message. About half-an-hour later, I then spotted that an image of a pint of Guinness had appeared on the chat. At that exact moment Foxy appeared right in front of me.

Our group was set.

Jimmy, PD, Ryan, Foxy and myself.

The five of us traipsed around five yards to a very quiet bar called “Pumphrey’s” and I supped another “Cruzcampo. Then, through an entrance between “The Beehive” and “Pumphrey’s” into the cobbled courtyard of “The Old George” and into pub number three. It was absolutely rammed, but thankfully we found a table. This fantastic pub is one of the city’s oldest and dates from the sixteenth century. It’s a rabbit warren of cosy rooms, and the place was heaving. By now, the football chat had veered off along several unexpected tangents, and the alcohol was flowing freely. From here, we edged along High Bridge to “The Duke Of Wellington.”

Then it was time for some food. Someone mentioned “Hooters” and although I rolled my eyes we were soon at a table, with me drinking another “Corona” as I nibbled on some mozzarella sticks. By this time, we had lost Foxy. The last time I saw him prior to this was in Dortmund. He tends to show up at random places and probably disappeared from the Bigg Market into some time-tunnel portal.

We had spent around six hours in the Bigg Market. It had been a blast. The locals? Friendly of course. The pubs? Welcoming. The drinking? We were just about in control, but only just.

“Where next Chris?”

I suggested “The Strawberry.”

“Great shout.”

Not only was it next to where Ryan was staying, but it was en route to our apartment too.

We clambered into an Uber and headed off to the fabled pub right next to the Gallowgate.

I remember that in the classic gangster film of 1971 “Get Carter” which was set in Newcastle’s underworld, Michael Caine’s character says to a rival “you’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape.”

Well, for those six hours we were Bigg men, and in increasingly bad shape.

There was time for a team photo outside “The Strawberry” and in we went. Who should be sat in a quiet corner of this pub but Gabby and Noel, and we sidled up next to them. Ironically, they had left a message on my Cardiff blog the previous morning.

I was aware that I needed to watch my intake, not wanting to over-do it. But I wasn’t sure what to drink.

“Surprise me Jimmy.”

Well, this didn’t go to plan really. He brought me back a rhubarb gin.

“Oh lovely.”

We stayed in “The Strawberry” for around two hours and we returned to our digs at around 10pm.

And that, for Tyneside, was an early finish.

I slept well that night.

I could hear Jimmy and PD at various moments in the morning, but I enjoyed a little lie-in. I was up at around 9.15am. We soon caught an Uber down to the quayside and were soon tucking into a large breakfast apiece at the well-visited Wetherspoons.

I wasn’t 100% but I was certainly in a much better state than in May.

We reviewed the previous night’s activity, and I was reminded that in “The Strawberry” – beneath the girders of the Gallowgate, right behind enemy lines – we apparently were told by one of the female bar staff to “keep the noise down”, such was the volume of our Chelsea songs.

“I don’t recollect that at all. Bloody hell.”

We then caught another Uber up to the ground. As we waited in traffic, I took a few shots of The Stack that has added more revenue to match-days at their stadium. The driver, bless him, took us right up by the away end. From there, we walked through the concourse to take the lift to the heavens.

I then encountered a problem. I had seen my digital ticket appear in my Google Wallet, but as I neared the ticket check, it had disappeared. Luckily, a fellow supporter suggested that I should delete the ticket from May, which was still in my wallet, so that there would be no confusion. This worked a treat.

We shuffled into the lift after a security check.

Jimmy and I said that we were PD’s carers.

“Does he need two, like?”

“Yes, Jimmy looks after his left leg and I look after his right leg.”

“Oh aye.”

“And he looks after the rest.”

In the bar in the heavens, we met up with Kev, Rich and Matt from Edinburgh; all Hearts supporters, but Chelsea too.

I was inside at around 11.45am and took my seat in around the sixth row from the front.

It was, dear reader, bloody freezing.

And foggy.

Those of us in the away end can usually spot the high land of Gateshead behind the Gallowgate End.

Not on this day.

The light grey seats of the stadium met the light grey steel of the stand roof, and the city down below was shrouded in a clinging grey fog, while the sky above was an impenetrable grey smudge.

The vivid green grass of St. James’ Park was the only colour of note on this bitterly cold day on Tyneside.

Our team was flashed onto the large screen to my left.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

There was a festive slant to the pre-match songs that boomed loudly out of the speakers, with songs by Shakin’ Stevens and Wham, but also “Our House” by Madness, maybe a nod to us visiting supporters. If so, a nice touch.

Then, bizarrely, some shite by Status Quo.

The teams were formally announced over the PA system, and we then were treated to the usual selection of pre-match songs at St. James’ Park.

“Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones.

“Blaydon Races.”

I can’t deny it; I mouthed along to these words.

I just couldn’t help myself.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.

Aa went to Blaydon Races, ’twas on the ninth of Joon,
Eiteen hundred an’ sixty-two, on a summer’s efternoon;
Aa tyuk the ‘bus frae Balmbra’s, an’ she wis heavy laden,
Away we went ‘lang Collin’wood Street, that’s on the road to Blaydon.

Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

Then, oddly “Hey Jude.”

The entrance of the teams.

“Local Hero” by Mark Knopfler.

I was right in the mood now…but still bloody freezing.

I seemed to be absolutely surrounded by Scottish lads, mainly Rangers but a few Hearts too. There must have been around a dozen beside me and behind me. Foxy was a lone Dundee United fan, but I had not yet spotted him at the stadium.

For the first time that I can remember, I was watching an away game by myself…Alan, Gary and John didn’t travel to this one. And it felt so odd.

The game began at 12.30pm and we attacked the Gallowgate. I was happy with our start, and our first chance came in the first minute as Cole Palmer attempted to lob Aaron Ramsdale from the left-hand corner of the box but although several Chelsea supporters thought it was going to drop in, it always looked like narrowly missing the target. The ball dropped on the roof of the net.

Sadly, in the next move of the game, Newcastle disposed Wesley Fofana just inside our half and moved the ball out to their right. Jacob Murphy sent over a stunning cross that Anthony Gordon met. I was purring at the excellent point blank save from Robert Sanchez, but the rebound sat up nicely for Nick Woltemade to tap in from close range.

Three minutes had elapsed and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

Two minutes later, we built a fine move down the left and Alejandro Garnacho fancied his chances outside the box, but the ball flew over the bar.

Just after, Malo Gusto was injured inside our box, and our players were irate when the referee Andy Madley let play continue. There was another Murphy cross that found Gordon again, but Sanchez leapt to produce a stunning finger-tipped save.

As the first half settled, we found it so difficult to build moves and seemed prone to collapsing into one almighty mess whenever the home team attacked.

Newcastle United managed to get the ball in the net via former Blue Lewis Hall, but Fabian Schar had impeded Sanchez in the build-up, so it stayed at 1-0.

We were chasing shadows by now and were second-best in all areas.

On twenty minutes, Gordon sent over a cross from their left and Woltemade’s run was perfect and his finish flashed inside the far post.

We were 2-0 down with not even a quarter of the game gone.

Bloody hell.

But wait. VAR was called in to review a potential offside. I wasn’t convinced. We waited for three minutes. The goal stood.

On twenty-seven minutes, a stupendous first-time volley from Schar but Sanchez saved well.

The away end throughout all of this was mainly silent. There had been some very half-hearted chants at the start but as the lacklustre performance on the pitch was played out before us, we just stood, with the cold clawing at our bones.

At last, on thirty-five minutes, a semi-decent chant.

“CAREFREE.”

Just after, we somehow produced a shot on goal. It was deflected and in one of those odd moments, the ball appeared to be going in towards the goal, but in fact was rebounding out of the penalty area. A few of us in the heavens were taken in.

Pedro Neto bundled the ball in, but used his hand, so the goal was immediately disallowed.

On forty-four minutes, a chance for Woltemade went begging as he lunged at a ball at the far post but failed to connect.

What a dire bloody first-half for us.

I chatted to Andy from Nuneaton at the break.

“I’m finding this harder to do, Chris. Maybe one day soon, I’ll give it all up.”

“I know mate.”

“It’s the travelling, really.”

“Andy, I love the aways though. Love them. It’s the homes that I find a bit of a chore.”

“It’s the other way for me. I enjoy the homes. I can get to London by train from Nuneaton in just under an hour. It means I can have a few drinks. I’m not driving. Nice.”

Garnacho had been disappointing in the first half. On several occasions he had the determination to get past the full-back, but often his touch let him down. On two occasions he ran out of pitch. I would later say to Kev that “it’s not like ice hockey and he can run behind the goal…”

There were no changes at half-time. For all our deficiencies, the home team had been very very good.

Within the first few minutes, I sensed that Palmer – who had been desperately quiet in the first half – was in a lot more space, perhaps because he was told to hold back a little. After just three minutes, running at a defender, he was crudely fouled.

OK, a chance. I settled myself. My tiny “pub camera” was at the ready. Both Palmer and Reece were over the ball.

We waited.

To my surprise, Reece approached the ball and struck it towards goal. I snapped. Imagine my – our – elation when it dipped over the wall, evaded Ramsdale’s dive and nestled in the nets.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

This signalled an awakening in the heavens. Whereas there had been moans and silence, now we sensed an unlikely comeback.

On fifty-one minutes, a fine break but the ball looked like it got stuck under Neto’s foot and the chance squirmed away.

Just after, Ramsdale made a fine save from James.

There was a rugged shoulder charge by Trevoh Chalobah on a Newcastle player that might have gone against us. Play was waved on.

On fifty-five minutes, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Enzo Fernandez and James moved to right-back.

We then took the game to the home team, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, with the home support growing nervous and then deathly quiet. James was now revelling in his right-back position, ably supporting the midfield when he could. Enzo just kept things moving. Caicedo looked stronger with each minute.

This was turning into a good old game of football, with attack and counterattack, time after time. There was a natural ebb and flow to it. We were all enthralled.

On sixty-seven minutes, Sanchez released a fantastic bomb of a pass towards Joao Pedro. It was inch perfect. With Malick Thiaw close, he headed the ball behind him, spun, and was away. It was a stunning piece of skill. I had mentioned in a previous blog how I liked his hold up play. Well, here he was holding up the ball for himself to run onto. I had memories of Mark Hughes heading the ball into space for him to run onto against Vicenza in 1998.

We saw him approach Ramsdale. I made the quick decision that I wouldn’t be able to grab my camera and take a snap. Instead, I concentrated on this joyous moment. I sensed a goal. After spinning away so magnificently, I knew our striker’s confidence would be rocketing as he cantered in on goal.

He steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

The shot was rolled close to Ramsdale, but past him.

We just waited, now, for the net to bulge.

PANDEMONIUM.

I punched the air continuously for what seemed like ages.

My elation, actually, surprised me. But it left me so happy.

So happy that a Chelsea goal, after 1,527 games, still means so much.

I turned the camera in on us and snapped a photograph of the screaming, gurning, cheering, shouting, smiling fans up in the heavens.

What a come-back.

And what a second half that continued to entertain us and enthral us. Chances were created at both ends. Garnacho must have had three chances to score but either missed the target or shot tamely at Ramsdale.

Newcastle United changed their attack line; they were going for it too.

On eighty minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Palmer, who had faded a little.

It seemed that we were on top, but the home team created chances of their own. We had to rely on an amazing recovery by James who sped across the Gallowgate penalty area as if his life depended on it to nick the ball just before Harvey Barnes could fully connect.

Shots from Caicedo and another from Garnacho went close but not close enough.

This was truly breathless stuff.

The game ended with a couple of Newcastle chances.

There was also a late VAR review involving a tackle by James on Barnes that I didn’t really see. Thankfully the challenge was said to be fair.

It ended 2-2.

What a second half of football.

I loved it.

And yet again we came away from a Chelsea game talking about “a game of two halves” and how we manage to get ourselves into such ridiculous predicaments.

Not to worry, we descended the steps, I bumped into Foxy – and then lost him again – and we goaded the subdued home fans as they sloped past us at ground level.

“Two-nil and you fcuked it up.”

I bumped into Andy from Nuneaton, his face gleaming.

“See you next week, mate!”

We reassembled and dropped into a huge bar to the north of the Bigg Market. We sat outside and oddly the cold air didn’t seem to bother us as much as it really should have. Later we spent two hours in a comfy bar next to “Pumphrey’s” called “The Market Shaker” and relaxed over a few beers, or “Cokes” in my case.

Saturday night in the Loony Toon was just starting to warm up and this bar, I guess, was typical. Several groups of women appeared, in various stages of undress, as did a massive line of lads in a nativity-themed fancy dress parade, all holding hands, dressed as angels, wise men, Joseph, Mary, a donkey, a star, a bale of hay: bloody impressive.

Then a bloke in his fifties began strutting his stuff on the dance floor and was dancing like a lunatic. He clearly wasn’t dancing, or even moving, or breathing, in tune to the music. I then realised that he had the incredible knack of dancing to the previous song, like some ridiculous musical interpretation of a “Two Ronnies” sketch.

I joked with Jimmy that Foxy would suddenly appear from the cellar.

Of course, Foxy eventually showed up, and he stayed for a drink or two.

The Hearts lads left to catch their train. Jimmy left to catch his train. Foxy left us to head back to his hotel.

PD and I hopped a few doors down to indulge in a magnificent hot and spicey pizza that hit all the right spots.

We were back at our digs at 8pm.

There would be an early alarm call at 6am in the morning…

FRIDAY NIGHT

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Tales From A Weekend Away

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Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2025.

“I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long dive to Tyneside.”

With our place in the final over in Poland confirmed with a victory in Europe on the eightieth anniversary of VE Day, the three of us could now look forward to a four-day stay in Newcastle upon Tyne.

And there hadn’t been two games like this for a while, with the second a virtual continuation of the second.

It was a slow start. I navigated some road closures and traffic congestion as I headed towards the North Circular at Chiswick. From there, up and over the Hanger Lane Gyratory, close to Park Royal tube station, where my first-ever trip into Stamford Bridge gathered pace in 1974. By now, Parky was asleep in the back seat, but PD was keeping me company in the front.

I climbed up on to the M1, stopped at Toddington Services for a comfort break, then headed north and into the night. It was a decent drive, and I only started feeling a little tired as we drove past Durham. I stopped for a second time at Washington Services at 3.45am and enjoyed a ninety-minute power nap. Parky had grabbed lots of sleep, PD a smaller amount.

At 5.30am, refreshed, I drove into Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and was humbled at how excited I was. Within half-an-hour, I was parked up at Whitley Bay, and the three of us trotted over to the promenade to take in the cold and bracing sea air as the rising sun lit the sky and sea and land with its golden rays.

Dear reader, this was a bloody great feeling, over three hundred miles from home, with a head start on the weekend, and perfect weather all around us.

We then headed a few miles south to Tynemouth, recommended to me by a friend who lived locally, and we killed time with a coffee in the main street. We then sauntered over to a pub and gobbled down a full English breakfast.

There was a wait until 2pm to check-in to our apartment, but while we entered another pub for a drink at 10am, I received notification that we could check in early at 11am. I sunk my Diet Coke, the lads sunk their lagers, and I headed west.

We checked in, then decided to have a couple of hours’ sleep since we all knew that we needed it.

Showered and changed, we headed over to Ouseburn at 4pm and the weekend began in earnest. We called in at “The Tyne Bar” then headed the short distance to the “Free Trade Inn” where we spent a lovely time. This small pub is perched on a slight hill overlooking the River Tyne. Just after 6pm, my old college mate Graeme – with his daughter and her boyfriend – walked in and it was a pleasure to see him again. He is a native of Tyneside, lives in Whitley Bay, and was on the same geography course as me in Stoke in the mid-‘eighties. Despite chatting on Facebook for a few years now, this was the first time that we had seen each other since graduation in 1987.

We both remembered back to what we were doing in the autumn of that year. I was just about to set off Inter-Railing, but also selling football badges at stadia in Europe, while Graeme, oddly enough, was embarking on a short career in the quarry industry very close to my home area.

Our evening soon deviated from the plan. My friend Kim, who looks after the band China Crisis, had seen my photos of the city, and had quickly contacted me to see if I fancied going along to their show at The Glasshouse on the opposite bank of the river. I was in, and so was Graeme, and he would be joined by his partner Lynda too.

So, a change of plan. Parky and PD would spend the rest of their evening quaffing ales with some locals at the ‘Spoons on the quayside, while Lynda, Graeme and I spent a very enjoyable two hours in Gateshead reacquainting ourselves with the “Flaunt The Imperfection” album on the fortieth anniversary of its debut in 1985. Every song from the album was played along with some other favourites.

Ah, 1985.

The second-from-last match to be featured in my retrospective of the 1984/85 season features, ironically, a return to the city where Graeme and I spent those college years and the away game at the Victoria Ground on Saturday 8 May 1985.

I always thought that it was perfect that Chelsea’s last away game of the season would be in Stoke, the city where I would be living from September 1984. Throughout the season, I always had it in the back of my mind, a lovely end point to everything. It was, originally, going to be the very last game of the season, but due to Norwich City’s place in the Milk Cup Final, our home game with them was tagged onto the season, on the Tuesday after the match at Stoke. I was never going to attend that one.

For me, Stoke was the final game, and I found great comfort in that.

I remember going out on the Friday evening with a small band of college friends, and we ended up atop the hill at Penkhull. I remember meeting up with Pete, a Chelsea lad I knew, and his mate Mac, who was – I think – studying at our sister site in Stafford. It was a decent little pub crawl, and I was rather merry at the end of it. The thought of seeing Chelsea just ten minutes away from where I was living must have been just too much for me.

I was up early on the Saturday. This was another 11.30am kick-off. I needed to look smart for this last game of the season; I went with a pink Lacoste polo shirt and a mint green Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover, plus the obligatory jeans and Nikes. The Victoria Ground was nestled among a grid of terraced streets just south of the Stoke town centre, and in the following two years I would live in the street right outside the away end.

I suppose you could say that this was bound to happen; football bringing me home.

I made my way down to the ground and saw Dave and Simon from “The Benches” by the main gates of the forecourt of the away end. I think I must have bought seat tickets at a previous Chelsea home game, and I took position in the second row right behind the goal. For my season finale, this was more than perfect.

Sadly, we heard that a special from Euston had been derailed at Watford. My mates Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock arrived and took their seats next to me. Oddly, the police turfed everyone out of the very front row, so that left us in effectively the front row. This was odd, since there were Chelsea fans on the terrace below. It wasn’t as if anyone would throw anything at other fans in front. My mate Terry from Radstock was spotted in the terrace down below. I also saw my housemate Kev from Barnsley, suddenly appear on the Chelsea terrace. He was a Barnsley fan and must have been enticed in after hearing me wax lyrical about Chelsea all winter long. This pleased me.

A rumour went round that the match would be delayed until midday to allow those on the special to be admitted, but I don’t think they ever made it to Stoke, let alone the match.

I loved it that the three of us all wore Robe di Kappa pullovers. I remember I bought mine at a great little shop in Hanley that winter. Glenn still dotes about his navy one to this day, and he recently explained how he didn’t tell his gran how much it cost on a trip into the East End. Swan wore a pink one. Our mate Dave took a photo which I include.

Sadly, we learned in 2020 that Swan had passed away over the past few years.

After some decent wins of late, Chelsea was vying for a place in Europe, something that I could not have imagined when the season began in August.

The end boomed out a couple of “Ten Men Went To Mows” as the game began with us attacking the home Boothen End in the first half. We had a couple of chances but failed to score. Stoke City were an abysmal team this season and had been relegated weeks previously. The atmosphere seemed to be tense in the away end as we searched an all-important goal. However, the highlight of the first period was an insane save from Eddie Niedwiecki from Keith Bertschin right in front of us.

In the sixty-fifth minute, with Chelsea now attacking us, Pat Nevin was fouled outside the box. He floated a free kick in and who else but David Speedie rose to send a bullet header past the Stoke ‘keeper Peter Fox.

Euphoria.

Our song du jour was a new one, and where it came from I have no idea.

“To Europe, to Europe. Tra la la – la la la la – la la la la la la.”

We held on as the Chelsea end celebrated with song, though in truth it had been a patchy performance. Despite a healthy Chelsea presence in both seats and terrace, the gate was just 8,905.

Before I knew it, I was back in my student flat, and feeling flat, the season now over for me. A few friends joined me in the local for some post-game chat. Elsewhere, Manchester City won promotion back to the topflight by beating Charlton Athletic in front of 47,000 at Maine Road, while Tottenham lost 1-5 at home to Watford.

However, events would turn darker. This was the day of the Bradford City fire at Valley Parade, where fifty-six lives were lost during their game with Lincoln City. This was also the day of riots at Birmingham City vs. Leeds United when a young lad, attending his first-ever game, was killed, crushed by a wall at St. Andrews.

This were vivid, visceral, vibrant days, but also terrible days too.

Let’s get back to 2025.

The three of us, in our apartment on the long Westgate Road, slept in on the Saturday and eventually headed over the water to Gateshead at around 12.30pm. This was another hot and sunny day, and there were pubs to be visited. We began with a drink in “The Central Bar”, and followed this with a couple in “Station East” and one in “Microbus”, all very different, but all very welcoming and pleasant. Later, we strode up the hill for a couple in “The Tynesider” and we then ended our grand tour of Gateshead by spending a few hours in “The Grey Nag’s Head”.

A half-empty boozer, drinkers drinking, songs going, the sun creating patterns as the light dances off windows and mirrors, the chatter and laughter of the locals, the clink of glasses, and the whispers of a distant past.

At about 9.30pm – yes, we had been on it for around nine hours – I got the call from my mate Chris, an Everton fan who had just returned, ironically, from an away game at Fulham. I took a cab to meet up with him and his daughter in “The Newcastle Tap” opposite the train station. I stayed chatting with him for a good hour and a half.

Then, the fool that I am, I ended up with a few Chelsea mates in “Popworld” on the infamous Bigg Market. There was a late-night pizza with “Walton & Hersham Bob” before I apparently jumped a taxi queue and ordered a cabbie to take me home.

I eventually crawled in at around 2am.

I think.

On the Sunday morning, Parky woke me.

“It’s ten thirty mate.”

“Fackinell.”

My immediate thoughts?

“Noon. What a ridiculous time for a game of football.”

“Shit, that’s only ninety minutes away.”

“After the game, I am going straight back to bed.”

“Never again.”

We caught a cab at 11am and were soon walking towards the familiar steel and glass of St. James’ Park.

The three of us caught a lift, as always, up to the away section in The Gods.

There was time for a little joke. We were told to press the button for Tier Seven. We wondered what was in Tier Eight.

“The trophy room” I replied.

“But there is no Tier Eight.”

“Exactly, I replied.”

*Admittedly this would work better had they not won the League Cup Final on 16 March, but in the circumstances, it made us laugh.

I met up with a few friendly faces in the concourse, which looks out and over the greenery of Leazes Park, where there are plans to, maybe, build a new stadium for the team.

I spotted Alan in conversation with PD and Parky.

Sadly, Alan had some awful news for me, but needed to tell me face to face rather than via text or ‘phone. Albert, the lad who has sat in front of me in the Matthew Harding Upper since 1997, sadly passed away in the days after the Liverpool home match.

I was so sad. We hugged. Albert, a postman, had apparently been taken ill at work and, we think, soon passed away. We do not know the details.

I raised a glass of “Diet Coke” to his memory and it just seemed so pathetic.

With my head spinning with that news, and a general light-headedness from the drinking the previous night, I lethargically took my spot alongside Gary, John and Alan. I reached my place just as the mosaics were reaching their peak down below me, but I was in no mood to appreciate the scene.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Albert.

Before I knew it, the game had began below me.

Quick, the team.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I noted the “C-Section” defence and tried to think of a punchline. And then I thought of Robert Sanchez.

I couldn’t believe that Gary alongside me was wearing a shirt, a pullover, a jacket and a hat. He must have been roasting. As it was, he was soon roasting Anthony Gordon, likening him to Clare Balding. He had a point.

There was an early attack up at the Gallowgate End and Pedro Neto won a corner, but it was all to no avail. Soon after, we found ourselves scurrying around after a Newcastle break. Moises Caicedo tackled Gordon well, but the ball was picked up and sent out to Jacob Murphy. His low ball across the six-yard box was prodded in by Sandro Tonali.

Fuck it.

The locals roared, and I looked over to them to my right. They were going ballistic.

“E-I-E-I-E-I-O, UP THE PREMIER LEAGUE WE GO.”

I felt crushed so soon into the game.

And I thought of Albert.

To be honest, despite the importance of this game, I found it hard to concentrate. But this was such an important game. I mentioned to a few friends before the match that I had not known a league game at St. James’ Park with so much on it for both teams since that classic in 1984.

We looked lack-lustre and tired, and our away support were quiet and subdued. In fact, as the first half meandered on, I hardly heard a single shout from us. It was all too tame.

Cole Palmer, our great hope, misfired on a few occasions. A Caicedo shot bobbled wide.

This was horrible.

And I thought of Albert.

On thirty-five minutes, a high ball and an aerial challenge between Nicolas Jackson and Sven Botman. A yellow card for Jackson.

Then, a VAR review. And a red card for Jackson. It was all too far away for me to really see what had happened. Jackson seemed to take ages to eventually walk off the pitch.

Sigh.

We were really up against it now. In fact, did we have a chance at all? It didn’t seem like it. Everything seemed so flat. Bizarrely, the home team hardly showed much desire to go at us.

This was a really odd game.

I sat at half-time, quiet, in a reflective mood.

I remembered how Albert – for a while – used to time his toilet breaks with Chelsea goals so we would often urge him, if we were needing a goal, to pay a visit.

I remembered how I would often touch my telephoto lens against the back of his head.

“Sorry mate.”

He loved his trips to New Zealand every winter.

Bless him.

At the break, Reece James replaced Noni Madueke. Our formation looked pretty fluid, like a Saturday night out in Gateshead, and as the second half started, somehow, we improved.

And us, the fans, realised the severity of the situation and, maybe feeling rather guilty for our first half no show, royally got behind the team.

Soon into the second period, two things impressed me and maybe galvanised a new spirit in the team. First, there was that ridiculously sturdy but fair tackle by Our Reece. Then, not long after, that robust shoulder challenge by Our Moises.

On the hour, a beautiful pass found Cucurella on an angle but his studied drive was tipped around by Nick Pope.

“It’s all us now.”

The noise levels rose as the second half progressed and I was so proud of the volume of our support. Maybe the first half silence was a direct result of too many bevvies in the Bigg Market, too many gins in Gateshead, too many daiquiris on the Quayside and too many ouzos in Ouseburn.

“It’s Salomon!”

A fantastic tackle by Levi Colwill thwarted Newcastle at the Gallowgate End.

On seventy-five minutes, two changes.

Malo Gusto for Romeo Lavia

Jadon Sancho for Trevoh Chalobah

God know who was playing where.

The hometown fans aired a song from days of old :

“Sing yer hearts out for the lads.”

Enzo tested Pope but the shot was tipped over.

The home fans roared again :

“New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul.”

On eighty-seven minutes, the ball was worked from the left flank to the right flank and Gusto sent over a teasing cross. However, despite a free leap, James got under the ball, and it looped over.

FACKINELL.

That was our chance.

There was still time for one final twist of the knife. On ninety minutes, Bruno Guimaraes advanced and aimed. His shot took a deflection – weird how it could be seen from over one hundred yards away – and the ball looped in.

Bollocks.

At the end of the game, with the Geordies bouncing, the buggers then played “Parklife” and then “Chelsea Dagger” and I bet they thought that was funny.

So, it was not to be. Our poor recent record at St. James’ Park continues, and the home team strengthened their Champions League claims for next season.

I met up with the troops at the bottom of the fourteen flights of steps and we – Parky, PD, Rich, Matt, Rich’s nephew and me – sloped down to a bar for a few post-game drinks and a bite to eat. It would be a relatively early night this one. I think I was tucked up by nine o’clock, ready for the long haul down south on the Monday.

Next up, a Friday night date with Manchester United.

STOKE ON TRENT : 11 MAY 1985

NEWCASTLE ON TYNE : 11 MAY 2025

Tales From Those Famous Streets

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Chelsea vs. Djurgarden : 8 May 2025.

What of our Europa Conference semi-final second leg against Djurgarden of Sweden?

The build-up had been good. We had secured three consecutive victories in the league versus Fulham, Everton and Liverpool, and beat the Swedes 4-1in the away leg. We were facing a very exciting end to the 2024/25 season, with a European trophy and European places in our sights.

Right after the Djurgarden game at Stamford Bridge, there would be a four-day visit to Newcastle-upon-Tyne for the three of us, our favourite away game of them all. It didn’t take me long to work out that it would be pointless for me to return home to Somerset after the game at The Bridge and then drive north after minimal sleep during the day on Friday, battling heavy traffic all the way. Instead, I decided to plan to set off from Fulham on Thursday night and drive through the night to reach Tyneside in the small hours. PD and Parky were more than happy with this idea.

Once I had completed a 6am to 2pm shift at work on Thursday, after getting up at 4.30am, I collected the two lads from Parky’s house and pointed my car due east.

From the very start of my trip to London, it felt that the game against Djurgarden was a deviation, a bump in the road maybe, on my way to Newcastle.

And that felt strange.

I dropped the lads off at the bottom end of Fulham, after driving down the Fulham Palace Road and Fulham High Street, then edged north up through those famous streets, in our eyes, the streets that lead us to SW6; Fulham Road, Munster Road, Dawes Road, Lillee Road, Rylston Road. I remembered my Aunt Zena, on a visit to Somerset in her ‘eighties in 1994, when she mentioned that she once lived on Estcourt Road, as it met Rylston Road, and I loved the fact that I had a distant familial link to SW6, my faraway playground since 1974.

I popped into “Café Koka” near The Goose and quickly scoffed some tasty prawns and a summer salad.

Here we go :

“Memory Lane Café Number One.”

Chelsea vs. Sheffield Wednesday : Monday 6 May 1985.

I travelled down to this game by train on the Bank Holiday Monday. This would be a continuation of our very real rivalry against Sheffield Wednesday which had caught fire the previous season and had continued in the Milk Cup in 1985. Before the game, I took a few photographs of the stadium from the Fulham Road for a change. Needless to say, these have ended up on a few football stadium sites over the years. Chelsea conceded a goal via Mark Smith, but two strikes from Kerry Dixon gave us the share of the points. After the mammoth gates in previous games with Wednesday, I was hugely disappointed that just 17,085 were at this match.

I was feeling a bit weary, so popped into “Café Ole” for a lovely cappuccino.

“Memory Lane Café Number Two.”

Chelsea vs. Luton Town : Wednesday 8 May 1985.

Yes, dear reader, a second game at Stamford Bridge in just three days, the result of many postponements in a very icy winter. I did not attend this game, probably not surprisingly, but Chelsea won 2-0 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Pat Nevin, Sadly, the gate was just 13,789.

What with these stops on the way down the North End Road, I decided there would not be time to pop down to “The Eight Bells”, so I chatted to a few folks outside the ground and made my way in for 7.30pm. On the way in, I took a photo of a Union Jack flying on the Oswald Stoll, on a day that marked the eightieth anniversary of VE Day.

I made the mistake of mentioning to a couple of friends in The Sleepy Hollow that “they don’t seem to have brought many.” With thirty minutes to go to kick-off, there were only around four-hundred away fans in the far corner.

Then, ten minutes later, a very odd thing happened, and it was the precursor to the night’s “entertainment”. Around fifty away fans, lodged in the East Middle suddenly decided to hop over the fence between both stands and join up with the now growing number of Djurgarden supporters on the Shed Upper. I began to wonder how many Swedish supporters would be sitting in the home areas.

I had seen our team being shared on my phone while in the second café, and the presence of young Reggie Walsh was good to see. In a way, the often-maligned manager Enzo Maresca would be hammered for whatever team he picked for this second leg, with the boys already 4-1 up in the tie, our biggest first-leg lead in any semi-final surely?

This was the team he chose.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Badiashile – Acheampong

James – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Walsh – Sancho

George

A quote about “playing all the right players but not necessarily in the right positions” came to mind.

Alan had a lovely story from Stockholm the previous Wednesday. He was staying with Pete in a hotel very close to the stadium, and they heard that the players were going through some training drills in the evening. Pete’s son works for the club in the youth section. Alan managed to get pitch side and took some lovely photos with a few of the players. I knew that Reggie Walsh was a local lad, but Alan told me that he grew up as a kid on Dawes Road, one of the famous streets that I mentioned earlier.

That resonated with me.

He must be our must local lad since Jodie Morris, the North End Road, and Alan Hudson, Upcerne Road.

At ten minutes to eight, the three Chelsea songs boomed out.

“Blue Is The Colour.”

“Parklife.”

“Liquidator.”

By now, I had fully comprehended the scale of the invasion. There were maybe one thousand Djurgarden fans in the West Upper towards The Shed, and around five hundred towards the Matthew Harding. Throughout the night, we spotted hundreds in the East Upper, the East Middle, the West Lower, the West Middle. A conservative guess might well be three thousand in the away allocation and three thousand in the home areas. And they were making a hell of a racket.

I shouted down to JD : “like Tottenham in the West Stand in 1982”.

In a nutshell, this was the biggest show of away supporters that I had ever seen in the home areas at Stamford Bridge. It was, of course, all rather humiliating.

Next, the entrance of the teams, and the Conference League anthem which still reminds me of “Baltimora” by Tarzon Boy, a hit in 1985…don’t ask.

I noticed that there was a small block of Chelsea supporters waving blue and white bar scarves in the middle section of The Shed. At the time, I presumed that these were giveaways from a corporate lounge somewhere in the bowels of the stadium but I would later learn that this was part of a “We Are The Shed” initiative.

With the away fans booming their chants from The Shed and the West Upper, there was a surreal atmosphere to the match, and this was enhanced by the deep purple clouds massing above the East Stand.

The Djurgarden crowd set off a few white flares.

The game began but struggled to come to life. It was a plodding performance from us, no doubt borne out of the first leg result in Sweden.

Jadon Sancho, in a blistering turn of pace down the left, had me excited for more, and a lovely touch by Tyrique George was a joy to see. But these were rare gems on a night that really struggled to get going.

There were chances from George and Keirnan Dewsbury Hall, with Reggie Walsh looking neat and tidy. His playing style reminded me of Billy Gilmour.

The goal on thirty-eight minutes was the highlight of the first half. Tosin Adarabioyo played a long ball to George, who neatly took it under control and quickly moved it forward to Dewsbury-Hall. He tuned inside and adeptly scored via the post.

I think that it is very safe to say that of all the 2,733 Chelsea goals that I have seen scored live, few were celebrated so tepidly.

And there was a very subdued “THTCÅUN / CÖMLD” from Alan and me too.

However, we were now 5-1 up.

The first half continued with an array of half-chances, blocks and easy saves, of which Filip Jorgensen made one, a nice reaction save from a deflected shot.

We were keeping an eye on the other semi-final tie, and both Alan and I preferred Real Betis to Fiorentina.

“Those Italians can be a naughty bunch.”

At the break, Shimmy Mheuka took over from Marc Cucurella and the troops were shuffled around.

On fifty-one minutes, a riser from a Djurgarden player was aimed right at Jorgensen, and then three minutes later there was a shot from the very same place on the pitch that was deflected for a corner. Between these two chances for the visitors, Dewsbury-Hall forced a save with a strong header.

Then, in a lively spell, Jorgensen saved well from a close header, and then George displayed some great skill to create some space but shot wildly over.

A cross from Sancho, but George was unable to finish from close in, but offside anyway. This second half was much improved.

Djurgarden went just wide, and their support took turns to bark out their team name.

The Shed one moment, the West Upper the next.

“DJURGARDEN! DJURGARDEN!”

This riled our support and – at bloody last – Stamford Bridge made some noise.

Another shot for Dewsbury-Hall. I think I counted five efforts from him during the game. He was, surely, our most effective player, there, I said it.

On seventy minutes, Jorgensen tipped over another riser at The Shed End.

Then, two substitutions.

Trevoh Chalobah for Reece James, Genesis Antwi for Sancho.

Not long after, Josh Acheampong shot just over after a fine assist from Antwi. Late on, a shot from distance from Walsh, who I was glad to see got the full ninety minutes, and then one final effort from Gusto, over.

In previous years, in 1998, in 2008, in 2012, in 2013, in 2019, in 2021, there were massive celebrations on reaching a UEFA Final.

Not so in 2025.

This is a weird competition this one, and it had been, undoubtedly, a so-so game.

But we’re on our way to Wroclaw, to play Real Betis, and I am sure we will have a blast.

As I walked along Dawes Road, I could hear the booming noise of the Djurgarden support way back at Fulham Broadway, and I silently commended them for their ingenuity and fanaticism but can’t wait to hear what the club say about this massive breach of security.

I would not be surprised to hear that many tickets were sold via our co-owner’s company.

If so, that’s bloody shameful.

I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long drive to Tyneside.

“Memory Lane Café Number One.”

Tales From A Non-Game

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 16 March 2025.

From Arnos Grove To Arsenal :

My last of four trips to London within an eight-day period was for the derby in North London against Arsenal.

Virtually every Chelsea fan that I spoke with was not looking forward to this one. The memories of our heavy 0-5 defeat last season were still fresh in our collective minds and, no doubt, most would say that the current team under Enzo Maresca was in a worse state of health than under Mauricio Pochettino in the final two months of last season.

We would descend on the Emirates Stadium out of duty, and we carried little hope for much success.

Alas PD was again unable to make this trip. I collected Parky at 7am and we kept ourselves occupied with some typical chit-chat on the quick flit to London. There was a brief mention of Frome Town’s home game against a famous non-league team, Havant & Waterlooville, the previous day. Frome began brightly and scored after eight minutes with a goal from Albie Hopkins, but the visitors began to play some impressive football and equalised on the half-hour. At that stage, there looked like only one winner. Thankfully, Frome responded well and provided a dogged performance in the second period to grab a deserved 1-1 draw. My Chelsea mate Glenn attended, and liked it, and spoke of plans to see an upcoming away game in Basingstoke. The gate was a creditable 512.

Before we knew it, I was in Hammersmith, and we sloped into “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at 9.30am for – quite probably – the highlight of the day.

While Parky dined on bubble-and-squeak and a few other choices, I went for a full English.

Toast

Sausages – Bacon – Hash-Browns – Beans

Fried Eggs – Mushrooms

Black Pudding – Brown Sauce

Tea

A fine line-up, I am sure most would agree.

I then drove to Barons Court, and we caught a non-stop Piccadilly Line train straight through the metropolis and alighted at Arnos Grove, in Deep Norf, just before 11am. Here, we had plans to meet Jimmy The Greek and a selection of his mates. Arnos Grove station is an art deco classic. It’s circular booking hall reminded me so much of my first-ever Chelsea tube station – Park Royal in West London, where I caught my first-ever tube to Stamford Bridge fifty-one years ago to the exact day, Saturday 16 March 1974 – but the pub next door, The Arnos Arms, was an Arts and Crafts gem in its own way.

It was 11am and Jimmy was waiting for the landlady to open the front doors. We virtually had the vast pub all to ourselves. The others – Nick, Bobby – joined us and we sank a few drinks of various strengths in sullen contemplation of the day ahead.

We caught the train south and alighted at Arsenal tube just before 1pm. As always, memories of “The Greatest Away Game Ever” – Saturday 25 August 1984 – jumped into my head.

Ah, that season again.

I was in North London exactly forty years ago on Saturday 16 March 1985 but a few miles north visiting a school friend, Richard, who was studying at Middlesex Polytechnic in Tottenham. On that Saturday, Chelsea played at Watford, but I thought it would be rather mean to come down to visit him and yet disappear off for most of the day to see Chelsea play. Instead, we spent some time together by visiting Craven Cottage, a first visit for me, for a Second Division game between Fulham and Charlton Athletic. I can remember exiting at Putney Bridge, no doubt walking very close to The Eight Bells, as it was snowing, and then watching a very dour 0-0 from the home Hammersmith End. The gate was a shockingly low 6,918.

Up in Watford, Chelsea nabbed a fine 3-1 away win with goals from Kerry Dixon, David Speedie and a John McLelland own-goal. Richard is a lifetime Portsmouth supporter – for the past two season he has contributed a page in the club’s home programme as one of their in-house poets – and on that day his team won 3-2 at Grimsby Town.

I always remember that we reconvened after the game in his student flat and we heard that his mate Serge, another North London Greek, had been to watch his team, Arsenal, who had won 2-0 against Leicester City at Highbury. And I always remember immediately contrasting his life as a local Arsenal fan being able to watch his team with relative ease, whereas my expeditions to see Chelsea, from either Somerset or Staffordshire, were a little more difficult.

And I wondered if Serge took all of that for granted. I really should have asked him.

I last saw him at Richard’s wedding in 1994, and I sometimes wonder if I might bump into him at Arsenal on any of my various visits.

I didn’t fancy risking my SLR again, so I just took my smaller “Sony” pub camera inside the stadium. We had a very similar spot to last season’s shellacking, close to the exit by the corner flag.

There wasn’t long to wait for this game to start. Alas, Alan couldn’t make this one either. I was stood next to John and Gary, and my good friend Andy from Nuneaton was right behind me.

I had a look around the stadium. It’s a large structure but is not as visually strong as it could be. There are much steeper stands, now, at Tottenham’s new pad and there will be even steeper stands at Everton’s new place. Although the upper tier, by nature, has a steep rake, the lower tier has a very shallow incline. Watching the game from this lower tier is not fantastic. The tiers seemed slightly lop-sided, disjointed even. There is almost some sort of optical illusion happening here. It seemed to me that the heavy upper tier had somehow squashed the lower tier and forced it to crumple and compress.

The teams appeared.

Us?

Worryingly, no Cole Palmer.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Sancho – Enzo – Nkunku

Neto

Another dose of round pegs and square holes, alas.

At 1.30pm, the game began and for the first time that I can remember, Chelsea attacked us in the Clock End in the first half.

Early on, Leandro Trossard was presented with a chance inside our box but shot wide of the target. On eight minutes, yet another “Sanchez In Poor Distribution Shocker” but he was able to recover admirably to save from Gabriel Martinelli.

On twelve minutes, Marc Cucurella lost possession and ought to have cleared, and it seemed that they had multiple chances to push the ball home but eventually shot over via Declan Rice.

“They’re getting past us too easily.”

Shots from Rice, again, and Trossard, again.

On twenty minutes, a corner down on the Arsenal right by Martin Odegaard was met with an unhindered leap by Mikel Merino at the near post, and we watched in horror as the ball dropped in at the far post.

Bloody hell. Arsenal scoring from a corner. Shocker.

There was immediate noise from the home areas, but this soon dissipated.

On twenty-four minutes, a shock to the system. Enzo raced forward and smacked a rogue shot that bounced wide.

This was soporific stuff.

On thirty-six minutes, the Chelsea contingent did their best to inspire the team who were struggling with virtually all aspects of the game.

ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!

Just after, Cucurella went just wide with a volley that squirmed just past the post.

The game dwindled on, only punctuated occasionally by an outburst from the watching thousands.

Then, a little spell of Chelsea pressure in the final moments of the first half.

However, this wasn’t much of a game at all. If Arsenal had punished us with some of those first-half chances, we would have been well out of it at half-time.

I turned around to Andy.

“Think of some of the great derbies around the World. Rio, Buenos Aires, Rome, Milan, great rivalries in those cities, great clubs. Then you see this, and it’s so quiet.”

It indeed was a tepid atmosphere.

At the break, no changes.

Well, the second half was worse than the first half. It turned into a “non-match”, so lacking in spirit and fight that it made me wonder why on Earth I had bothered.

The body language was just disgraceful. It pained me to watch it. No urgency, no talking, no “gee-ing up” of teammates. For some reason, a vision of Frank Lampard came into my head. An image of him, when things weren’t going our way, leaning forward, pointing, talking, encouraging, on edge, urging his fellow players to give extra.

This current team has none of this passion.

And this half of football had so few memories.

On sixty minutes, a brilliant save from Sanchez from Merino.

Just after, Arsenal manufactured some noise albeit by using the borrowed Liverpool chant.

“Allez Allez.”

Chelsea countered.

“Fuck all again, ole ole.”

Maresca made some – very late – changes and you had to wonder why.

Tyrique George for Sancho, his first mention.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku, his first mention.

Romeo Lavia for James, his first mention.

Tosin for Badiashile, his first mention.

With ten minutes ago, with the game on the line still, Chelsea did not change it up at all, instead relying on the sleepwalking of the previous eighty minutes.

Pass, pass, pass.

It was fucking disgraceful.

Out of the blue, George looped a high ball towards the back stick but Cucurella, as good as any, could not quite reach the ball.

The game fizzled out and no more goals ensuded.

Unbelievably, we were still fourth.

Good God.

We made it back to Barons Court at 4.45pm. On the drive home we were diverted off the M4, while we were listening to the League Cup Final from Wembley. While slowly navigating the narrow streets around Eton College, via intermittent and patchy Radio Five Live coverage, we heard of Dan Burn scoring for Newcastle United against Liverpool. As we eventually headed off the M4 towards Hungerford, half-an-hour later, we were quite happy that the Geordies had won their first silverware of any nature since 1969 and their first domestic trophy since 1955.

In season 1992/93, I attended three Newcastle United away games with my good mate Pete – Brentford, Bristol City, Swindon Town – and I was so pleased for him, and a few other good friends who follow the team. I have a small soft spot for them.

Pete watched the match in a Weston-Super-Mare care home with is father Bill, who was just eighteen when the Geordies won the 1955 FA Cup Final.

Well done them.

I reached home at 8.15pm.

I could not help but note how many fellow Chelsea supporters were using the adjective “tepid” to describe the game at Arsenal. It is a term I have used, and on many occasions of late.

We can’t all be wrong.

Next, a very long break for Chelsea Football Club.

We have no game for eighteen long days.

Perhaps it is for the best.

ARNOS GROVE

ARSENAL

Tales From The Doug Ellis

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Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 22 February 2025.

Those two away games at Brighton were tough, eh?

They really tested my support for the current regime. Let’s not make any mistakes about these two matches; they were two of the worst performances that I can remember seeing, especially when one considers the financial outlay that brought those players together.

Next up was an away match at Aston Villa. They are undoubtedly a pretty decent team, well drilled and well managed by Unai Emery, and so it is fair to say that I was rather underwhelmed about the trip up to Birmingham.

No, I’ll be clearer; I was dreading it.

However, my football brain since the Brighton game on Friday night had been mainly occupied by Frome Town rather than Chelsea with my attendance at two of my local club’s matches. A match at Walton & Hersham on the Saturday was followed with a home game against Gosport Borough on the Tuesday. On Saturday afternoon, a little before the 5.30pm kick-off in Witton, there would be another Frome Town game that would be in the forefront of my mind too.

Frome Town used to be a whimsical distraction from the serious business of supporting Chelsea Football Club, but my affection for my local team has grown in many ways over recent years.

As I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10.30am ahead of the trip to Birmingham, there was a little part of me that wished that I was, instead, planning my day around a visit to Badgers Hill at three o’clock rather than Villa Park at half-five.

Glenn had accompanied me to the Walton & Hersham match. He had travelled up on the Frome Town Supporters Club coach – we had a healthy following of around seventy fans present in the 624 gate – and then came back in my car. We both agreed that it had been a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. Frome dominated possession early in the game, but the home team enjoyed the best of the chances. In the second-half, Callum Gould tapped in a low cross from Rex Mannings to send the away fans into ecstasy, but the home team deserved a point after hitting the post twice and got their equaliser via a penalty. Two Chelsea mates of mine who follow Walton & Hersham, Rob and Martin, came to watch the game with us and there was a predictable share of banter about our two teams. Rob had visited Frome with Walton and Hersham earlier in the season. It was an excellent afternoon in the fringes of outer London.

To top it off, at the end of the game, the Frome contingent joined in with the home side’s raucous anthem.

“Hersham Boys, Hersham Boys.

Laced-up boots and corduroys.

Hersham Boys, Hersham Boys.

They call us the Cockney Cowboys.”

On the Tuesday evening, there was a repeat of the opening game of the league season when Gosport Borough visited Badgers Hill. This was a frustrating evening as the home team enjoyed much of the possession but lacked a cutting edge in attack. It ended 0-0, in front of an attendance of 379. It was a decent enough crowd on a bitterly cold evening. This left Frome second-from-bottom in the league table, but with a “must-win” game on the horizon, a home game against Marlow Town, the team below them in the league placings.

It would have been nice to be able to attend both games; the day brought back memories of us watching Frome Town vs. Bristol Manor Farm at 3pm and Aston Villa vs. Chelsea at 8pm last April.

We picked up Parky just after 11am and we were on our way.

With talk of Frome Town dominating a large portion of the morning chat, I warned the lads that I might have a very real conflict of interests in April. Frome’s planned last game of the season is a home match against league leaders AFC Totton – a game that we might need to win or draw to achieve safety – but Chelsea are due to play Everton at home that day. I told them that if Frome needed something from the Totton game, it is hugely likely that I would prioritise Frome over Chelsea.

There, I said it.

The moment has been coming.

Let’s hope that Dodge are safe by then.

We made our way, north, and just a few miles on from Strensham Services, I reminded Parky of a horrible moment in time just over ten years ago. On Saturday 7 February 2015, the two of us were making our way up to the away game at Villa Park. We had just stopped for breakfast at Strensham. Unfortunately, I received a call from a carer who had called in to assist my mother and had reported that my mother had taken a turn for the worst. We immediately did an about-turn, and I raced home. I reached a hospital in Bath just to see my mother be carried in from an ambulance and into A&E.

Ten years ago. It seems like five minutes ago.

I made good time on the drive up the M5, and my planned arrival at “The Vine” at West Bromwich at 1pm only mis-fired by a few minutes.

The plan was to spend around three hours at “The Vine”, which would allow the drinkers a nice period to sup some ales and talk bollocks, and another chance to taste their famous curries. Initially, we were not allowed in. The place was rammed with West Brom and Oxford United fans, and the doorman said there just wasn’t enough room for anyone else. However, Glenn worked his magic on another of the security staff and we slithered in.

Parky and PD supped up their beers, while Glenn and I sampled some food. Goat curry and pilau rice for me, all very nice.

There was talk of foreign fields. I am unable to get time off work to attend the away game in Copenhagen – I last visited it in 1985 – but PD and Parky are heading over, flying out from Bristol and staying four nights. I am sure they will have a blast.

At 2pm, the customers began to leave and walk to The Hawthorns. By 3pm, the place was deserted save for us four. It felt odd to see such a transformation in such a short amount of time.

Sadly, by 3.05pm, I heard that bottom-of-the-table Marlow were 1-0 up at Frome. Even worse, by 3.24pm, it was 0-2.

Bollocks.

Thankfully, at 3.30pm, Rex Mannings had pulled a goal back.

Frome Town 1 Marlow Town 2.

Game on.

At 4pm, we hopped into my car, and I headed east, right past The Hawthorns, and I wondered if this was the closest that I had ever been to a professional football match without going inside. This was marginally closer than those games that had taken place at Stoke City’s old Victoria Ground when I lived so close in the ‘eighties.

On the way to my “JustPark” spot just off Witton Road in Handsworth, we heard that Albie Hopkins had levelled the score down in Somerset. Just as I dropped the lads off near the Witton Hotel, we heard that Hopkins had nabbed another.

I punched the air.

Frome Town 3 Marlow Town 2.

Great stuff.

Sadly, by the time I had parked-up, Marlow had equalised. And that is how it stayed. Three consecutive draws for Frome in eight days. At least, Dodge had risen to fourth-from-bottom and were now just two points from safety. Back in late November, we were adrift by a country mile.

I took a few photos outside and made my way to the stadium, past those red bricked buildings that I have mused about in the past, and I found myself walking on a small section of a cobbled pavement opposite the old tram depot. Ahead, the bulk of Villa Park.

All the Chelsea tickets were digital for this game.

At 5pm, with my SLR smuggled in yet again, I was inside.

PD and Parky were in the lower tier of the Doug Ellis Stand, while Glenn and I were up top. Glenn and I swapped our tickets – which effectively meant that we had to swap our phones to appease an over-zealous steward – to allow me to sit, or stand, next to my good friend Terry. Terry was present at last season’s game at Villa Park. He is a local Birmingham native, and a former workmate. It didn’t seem ten months ago that we were stood next to each other at that entertaining 2-2 draw in late April last year. This would be my twenty-first visit to see Chelsea play Villa at their home stadium. I preferred the old Villa Park, no surprises there, but the new edition has grown on me slowly. I like the way that they have kept a few motifs from the old stadium, not least the off-centre tunnel which sits opposite the away section at the western side of the old Trinity Road Stand.

I can’t deny it, those old stadia that grew organically decade by decade, of which Villa Park is a prime example, still have a hold on me and I often lose myself in photos of old stadia, ancient terraces, those ornate grandstands, those sweeping terraces. Football stadia is my secret love, though I suspect that perhaps everyone has noticed by now.

Every stadium has a few secrets.

Villa Park?

It once used to house a banked cycle track and the upper reaches of the old north terrace used to consist of grass as late as the mid-‘seventies.

Football stadia, these cathedrals for the working classes, that come alive for a few hours every few weeks or so, have always entranced me. It’s an obsession within an obsession.

When I attended the Chelsea vs. Newcastle United game on Saturday 16 February 1985 – the latest in my 1984/85 retrospective – I wanted to document the current state of the Stamford Bridge stadium and planned to get into The Shed very early to do so.

My diary from that day brings back to my mind my match-day routine of my student days in Stoke as I travelled down to London. I caught the 9.20am train down to Euston, the fields full of snow. In fact, this was the only topflight game to take place on this particular day, such had been the devastatingly cold weather at this time. Maybe for this reason, I had hoped that around 30,000 might attend this fixture, but with hindsight I was being too easily influenced by the two massive games between the two clubs the previous season.

I caught a tube down to Oxford Circus and walked through Carnaby Street down to the “Aquascutum” shop at the bottom end of Regent Street – a couple of decades later, I would work with a woman who was a shop assistant there – with the intention of buying a trademark check scarf. Alas, the prices scared me to death. Scarves were a massive £55, and again with hindsight I suspect these were the cashmere variant rather than the normal lambswool, and I immediately realised that this price was way beyond my pocket.

Instead, keen to buy something in London on this bitterly cold day, I backtracked to Carnaby Street and purchased one of those leather and suede patchwork jackets that were all the rage at the time. Glenn had recently purchased one, The Benches was rife with them, I simply had to have one.

£32 later, I had one.

It’s the equivalent of £100 today apparently. That seems about right to be fair.  

Incidentally, I eventually purchased an “Aquascutum” scarf a month later, for a much more pleasing £15.

After my spell of West End shopping, I set off for Stamford Bridge and met up with Alan, Leggo and Uncle Skinhead outside the ground. At 1.10pm I entered The Shed and ascended the steps to take the panorama that I had planned.

The photos show the original layout of the old place, and I am lucky enough to remember it in its glory years.

That central alleyway in The Shed, but also the one at the rear of The Shed, the super-high floodlight pylons, those steps that were cut into the terrace to enable access to the members’ enclosure at the front of the West Stand, the barricaded unsafe portions of both end terracing, the low sweep of the North Stand, the Empress State Building, the steel of the massive Darbourne and Darke East Stand.

The photos show the ragged state of the pitch and Stamford Bridge looks freezing cold to this day.

A Benches roll-call :

Richard, Dave, Paul, Alan, me, Leggo and Mark.

The game itself was not great. My crowd guesstimate was optimistic in the extreme. So much for 30,000. It was just 21,806. I made a note that around 1,500 Geordies were present, a good enough turn out in those days. The only goal of the game came on just two minutes. A Doug Rougvie cross from the left was headed out but Darren Wood swept it home from the edge of the box. Pat Nevin then hit the bar with a free-kick. The second half was poor, and I remember the highlight being the substitute appearance of Micky Droy as I was walking along the walkway at the back of The Benches to make an early exit into The Shed. Droy had not played a single minute of our previous campaign, the successful 1983/84 season, so this was a fine moment for the Chelsea fans present to serenade him and to let him know that he was loved. He came on for Gordon Davies, and my diary reports that his very first touch almost put Kerry Dixon through. Alas, also, I noted “Dixon was pathetic today.”

After the match, I caught the tube back to Euston via Notting Hill Gate and caught the 6.10pm train back to The Potteries.

I hope that the images of Stamford Bridge in 1985 bring back some sweet memories.

Incidentally, on Wednesday 20 January 1985, I set off from my flat in Stoke-on-Trent to attend the second leg of the Milk Cup semi-final against Sunderland. I bought a train ticket and then bought a ‘paper. Alas, I was staggered to see no game listed. I looked at a second ‘paper for clarification and again there was no game. It had obviously been postponed due to the weather. Thankfully, I was able to get my ticket refunded, but I returned home with my tail between my legs. I can’t imagine the same thing happening these days, eh? It illustrates how adrift I felt from the day-to-day London scene, marooned in Staffordshire.

Back to 2025, and the build-up to the game. A face from 1985 – Mark – was standing right behind me. I always remember that on one of my first visits to Villa Park in 1986 the two of us, arriving way early, did a massive perambulation of the entire site. The stand that we sat in was a much smaller structure than the current stand. The Witton Lane Stand was small, and a single tier. The Doug Ellis, on the same site, is much grander.

Glenn was down with Alan – another face from 1985 – a few rows in front of me.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucarella

James – Caicedo

Palmer – Enzo – Nkunku

Neto

“Or something like that.”

I wasn’t sure that placing Christopher Nkunku wide left would be of much use.

The usual pre-kick-off routine at Villa Park; “Crazy Train” and then flames in front of the Doug Ellis.

At 5.30pm, the game began with us attacking the huge Holte End.

We started brightly, with Enzo creating an early chance for Pedro Neto.

Alas, on eight minutes, Trevoh Chalobah seemed to land awkwardly after a leap for the ball and so was replaced by Tosin Adarabioyo.

A minute later, a quick Chelsea move was instigated by Moises Caicedo. Neto advanced down the right and he cut inside. I had my SLR to my eyes and saw the ball played across. Before I could blink, the ball was in the net, though I wasn’t sure if it had been scored via the boot of Neto or by another Chelsea player. I looked up to see Enzo looking quite delighted, so it was clear who had provided the killer touch.

The away choir sang his name.

“Oh, Enzo Fernandez.”

I liked the way we played in the first half. I thought that for much of it, Neto drifted wide to the right, and both Palmer and Enzo flirted with a central position. It certainly seemed a fluid system. We seemed to move the ball out of the defence a lot quicker and there was generally an upbeat mood in the two tiers of the Doug Ellis. In the first part of the game, there were a few neat inside-to-out passes from Reece James.

Villa, however, did create some chances, but Filip Jorgensen did well to block a couple of efforts from Ollie Watkins.

The home fans were quiet. Ridiculously so.

There was a decent curling effort from Enzo after good work from Nkunku. Cole Palmer advanced and sent a slow-moving shot just wide. There was an effort from Malo Gusto.

We were well on top and playing well.

Worryingly so.

A curler from Nkunku did not bother Emiliano Martinez.

At half-time, everyone seemed to be playing well, but Neil, stood next to Terry, was still not immune to worry.

“You just know that if they score the next goal, they’ll go on to win.”

I sighed and nodded in silent agreement.

At half-time, Marcus Rashford came on to replace Jacob Ramsey and occupied the same piece of terra firma that Nkunku had utilised in the first period.

The second half began, and Villa dominated early on. However, in the first eight minutes, Neto had two good chances to score. A fantastic piece of play from Caicedo set him up, but his shot was wide. Then, a lofted ball from Nkunku allowed another effort from Neto, but Martinez saved easily.

“If only.”

The away support continued to sing praises of past heroes, and I always think this should be done when we are coasting, winning easily, rather than in a close game.

“IT’S SALOMON!”

Sadly, on fifty-seven minutes, Matty Cash crossed out to Rashford, who volleyed across goal and Marco Asensio touched home. VAR upheld the goal after a hint of Rashford being offside.

Neil and I pulled “here we go” faces.

The Holte End came to life.

The stolen “Allez Allez” chant from Liverpool, but then the unique “Holte Enders In The Skoi.”

They were fucking loud.

Our play was withering away in front of my eyes. The Villa players seemed up for the fight.

However, on sixty-nine minutes, an effort from Palmer gave us hope, but it drifted just wide. Then, an even better chance came after Caicedo slipped the ball to the central Palmer. This looked a golden chance, especially as the advancing Martinez slipped. However, Palmer lost his footing too, and his shot was cleared by Ezri Konsa.

The deflated and disconsolate Palmer sat on the turf for several seconds.

Before Christmas, he would have finished, one suspects, with aplomb.

Seventy-five minutes had passed.

After the series of three Frome Town draws, I was contemplating calling this match report “Tales From A Week Of Draws.”

Jadon Sancho replaced Nkunku.

With five minutes to go, I think we all witnessed the quietest ever “One Man Went To Mow.”

But then, out of nowhere, came a loud and vibrant “Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea”, the Amazing Grace cut.

Stirring stuff.

On eighty-eight minutes, Villa broke and I sensed danger. I looked to the rafters and mouthed “here we go.” Thankfully, despite Rashford’s strong run and cross, Jorgensen spread himself and blocked well from a Villa player.

It seemed we were hanging on.

Alas, on eighty-nine minutes, a cross from that man Rashford on the left was volleyed towards goal by Asensio, close in, and despite my view being far from perfect, I sensed that Joregensen, despite his previous heroics, had let the ball squirm beneath him.

Fucksake.

Neil was indeed right.

“You just know that if they score the next goal, they’ll go on to win.”

There were a couple of late half-chances. In the very last moments of the game, we were awarded a free kick down below us. Reece James was waiting to take it. Yet, here we were, in the last few seconds of the game that had drifted away from us, and three or four Chelsea defenders were slowly walking to take their positions outside the Villa box.

Dear reader, I was fucking fuming. They weren’t even jogging, let alone sprinting.

“Look at these people!”

Just after, the final whistle blew, our third defeat in a row.

I stood, silent, for a few moments, and then packed my camera away. I said my goodbyes to Terry, to Mark, to Neil. Glenn came to meet me. Outside in the concourse, I spotted Uncle Skinhead brush past me, still going after all these years.

1985

PANORAMA

Tales From A Hot Ticket

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Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 10 November 2024.

The game at home to Arsenal had the feel of a real test. Here was an eagerly-awaited contest against an old foe, a historic London rival, but also a club that had enjoyed the upper hand over us of late. Since beating them 4-1 in Baku in 2019, our record in the subsequent eleven games was just two wins, just two draws but seven losses.

It was about time we had a little revenge. From a long way out, this absolutely felt like a big game, and a hot ticket.

My friend Aleksey, who had been lucky in acquiring tickets for the matches at Old Trafford and at home to Noah, was still in England for the Arsenal game, but as the weekend approached, we were struggling to find him a spare ticket. I had asked my usual two contacts but it just seemed that there were no spares out there.

Not to worry. He at least would be enjoying one game of football over the weekend.

At just after 11am on the Saturday, Aleksey alighted at Frome station after taking a direct train from London Paddington. There never was a direct train service in days of yore. I wonder what changed.

Alex was in deepest Somerset for the Frome Town game against Winchester City. He was another mate from the US who had been enticed down to my particular part of the West of England for a little dabble in the non-league scene. Hot on the heels of Phil, Courtney and Josh, Alex has adopted Frome Town as his non-league team of choice and was eagerly looking forward to the game at Badgers Hill.

We shot off for a superb breakfast at a local farm shop and we shared a very interesting chat about the game at both level one and level seven of our national sport. But there was also talk of his teenage years, in Moscow, when supporters of his team Spartak and other rival fans were engaged in battles throughout the city on game days. I can only imagine the carnage.

Alex was able to compare his experiences at the previous two Chelsea games. He absolutely loved being among the noisy and partisan Chelsea supporters at Old Trafford. When our equaliser came so soon after their penalty, the scenes startled him. He was punched in the ribs – unintentionally of course – and mentioned that a fellow-fan who was behind him ended up three rows in front; no mean achievement in these days of – painful – seating.

Noah, however, was a different story. Marooned in a sea of dopey tourists in the West Lower, he described it as a “train-wreck”, with people staring starry-eyed at The Shed and The Matthew Harding as the supporters therein took it in turns to sing songs of support, while the area surrounding him was a sea of tranquillity. Long-gone are the days when the West Lower could be relied upon to join in.

A low point for me personally on Thursday night was hearing a sizeable amount of the fans in the MHL carrying out that Arsenal chant about Tottenham.

Stop it.

Stop it now.

Thank you.

I gave Alex a little tour of Frome and the surrounding countryside, including a quick look at a fourteenth century castle in the village of Nunney, a fifteenth century church and a sixteenth century manor house in my home village of Mells, a little chat about the five-hundred-year-old house that I lived in until the age of twelve, and a few similarly historic buildings in Frome itself. The town itself dates from 685. We stopped for a pint at “The Three Swans”, which has stood since the seventeenth century, before joining a table of friends at “The Vine Tree.”

Our opponents were positioned just above us in the league table. They had won promotion via a play-off in 2022, just like we had in May of this year. This was a game that my home town team simply had to win.

As we approached the turnstiles, we heard the sad sound of the last post being played on a bugle in the centre circle. I was annoyed that we had missed the start of this. I promised myself there would be no repeat at Stamford Bridge the following day.

Although a fine crowd of 566 attended the game, unfortunately Frome Town succumbed to a solitary goal from Thomas Wright following a defensive error on the hour. At the final whistle, I slumped down to my haunches, an immediate and unplanned – er – knee-jerk reaction to a bitter defeat.

It felt like I had been kicked in the goolies.

Ugh.

However, Alex really enjoyed the conviviality of my local club, and the intensity and spirit of both players and supporters. I knew he would. There is so much to cherish about the non-league scene. I chuckled when I heard a gaggle of away fans in The Cowshed have a dig at the home support.

“Where’s your cathedral?”

After a drink in the clubhouse, we had an early-evening wander around the cobbled streets of the town centre before settling in at “The Archangel” for one last pint.

Tomorrow would be another day of football.

I collected PD at 8am and soon picked-up Alex at his hotel on the outskirts of Frome before collecting Parky, who was wearing a regimental tie ahead of his later attendance at All Saints Church in Fulham for the two-minute silence at 11am.

The four of us made our way to London, and I drove past the softly undulating countryside of Wiltshire and Berkshire. The roads were quiet. I fuelled up at Membury Services, and at around 10.30am, I got as close to the church and pub as I could; the local roads were jammed full of locals marching to the service.

Now in London, a spare ticket for Alex had still not materialised, and I was starting to give up hope.

I parked up and then walked down to Stamford Bridge to take a few photos and to chat to a couple of early-risers. On the way, I stopped for my second football fry-up of the weekend at the Memory Lane Café.

Forty-years ago to the exact day, Chelsea travelled up to Tyneside for a game at St. James’ Park. Newcastle United had been promoted alongside Chelsea in May and the two games involving the teams were the high spots of that magnificent season. In March of that year, over 36,000 attended the same contest, yet just 23,723 were at the fixture eight months later. I think this was my biggest disappointment of 1984/85; that the attendances didn’t really move up a level. In 1983/84 our home average was 21,120. A year later, in a division higher, it was 23,065. I was hoping for a steeper rise. At St. James’ Park, without the Keegan factor, it was worse. In 1983/84, they averaged a very impressive 29,856, but it dropped to 26,204 the following season.

On the pitch, Newcastle went 2-0 up in the first-half with goals from Neil McDonald and Chris Waddle, and although Kerry Dixon scored a consolation goal, it was another loss for Chelsea. Our record in the league thus far that season was 5 – 4 – 5, not the start that we had hoped for. At least King Kerry was still popping the goals in.

I reached the pub at midday and stayed until 3.30pm.

There was a real gathering of the clans again with the four of us joined by friends from Salisbury, Kent, North London, Buckinghamshire, Texas, Norway, Tennessee and Doncaster. I enjoyed chatting with Ian – Buckinghamshire – for the first real time. One of his previous roles was as the Chelsea Matchday DJ in the early-nineties, which I was not aware of. Drinks were flowing, though not for me of course.

Lo and behold, after weeks of trying to tease a spare ticket from someone, anyone, anybody, the little gang of lads on the next table had a spare for Alex.

Deal!

We were all happy now.

And relax.

We all hopped up onto the northbound platform at Putney Bridge tube and made our way to Stamford Bridge.

I was inside in good time. Again, I tut-tutted at the little gaggle of tourists watching Chelsea go through their pre-match shuttles and stretches behind a roped-off area by the West Stand, a few yards away from the pitch, having paid God knows what for the privilege.

The game’s gone.

It annoyed me that the usual pre-match songs were played just before the “Chelsea Remembers” letters were carried out by members of the armed forces. I had hoped for a period of silence before what should be a solemn time. Soon, images of Chelsea Pensioners appeared at The Shed End on a huge scale. Then some Chelsea Pensioners welcomed both teams onto the Stamford Bridge pitch. The tunics of those residing at the Royal Hospital are the only items of red clothing welcomed with open arms and open hearts at Stamford Bridge.

The Last Post.

Then gentle applause.

In all of these reminiscences of previous years, I cannot remember Chelsea Pensioners involved in those home games nearest to Remembrance Sunday. In fact, nor can I honestly remember last posts, nor two-minutes of silence. Does anybody?

There was, of course, a complete change of personnel since the Noah game on Thursday.

The team, as the old saying goes, picked itself.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

There was a bristling atmosphere as the game kicked-off, as it should be with a 4.30pm kick-off, and all of those extra pints being sunk.

I soon found it ironic that Kai Havertz was deployed as a false nine.

After just two minutes, Cole Palmer – on whom a great deal of our collective hope was resting – collected a ball from Romeo Lavia and advanced. He needed no encouragement to let fly. The shot was hit powerfully from thirty yards, but David Raya was equal to it, and tipped it over rather flamboyantly. Palmer, a possible injury doubt after Old Trafford, was back in the game.

Gabriel Martinelli – why do I always think of Marinello? – was getting himself into some early space out wide and Arsenal were posing a few problems. Then, some respite and a lovely sweeping move with Palmer the instigator. He moved the ball out to Pedro Neto, a familiar pass of late, and a deep cross was met by the leap but a misdirected header from Noni Madueke. The crowd groaned.

Some intricate footwork out on the left from Neto – scintillating to see – eventually gave him a few inches of spare space and he sent over a hugely impressive cross towards the far post. If Kerry Dixon, even now at the age of sixty-three, had been able to meet it, we would have taken the lead. Alas, the inch-perfect cross found the head of Malo Gusto who is unfortunately a full back and not a centre forward. The ball flew over.

Poor passing out of defence, that old problem, meant that Arsenal were able to gather the ball and it all resulted in a shot from Martinelli from an angle, but Robert Sanchez was able to fling an arm at the ball and swat it away. From the break just after, Madueke wasted an opportunity.

“Good game, this.”

Just before the half-hour mark, we seemed to collectively lose concentration at an Arsenal free-kick. The ball was pushed through to Havertz, and despite seemingly being knocked off balance, he managed to poke the ball past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

VAR was our saviour, but there were no celebrations nor screaming nor shouting from me.

Phew.

It was bad enough seeing Havertz scoring a couple against us at Arsenal in May. Seeing him celebrating at Stamford Bridge was momentarily worse.

There were pantomime jeers at the corner flag down below me as Declan Rice took a corner or two.

Palmer sadly failed to clear the wall on two separate occasions as the first-half continued. He had drifted out of the game a little.

No goals at half-time, but I think we probably edged it despite the phantom goal from Havertz.

Soon into the second-half, we were treated to a couple of crosses. The first from Madueke out on the right was acrobatically met by Wesley Fofana, arguably enjoying his best game yet, but his volley required the touch of a Dixon boot. The ball was hooked over the bar. A second cross was gathered by Reya.

The quality disappeared from our game for a while.

On the hour, as at Frome the day before, the visitors took the lead. The ball was steadily worked from Havertz on the Arsenal right out to Martinelli, who was one of two Arsenal attackers completely unmarked inside the box on the right. He shot cleanly past Sanchez at the near post.

Crap.

Here we go again.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 1.

An Arsenal player called Timber, whoever he is, ran unfettered and went close with a long shot.

There were shouts around me.

“Change it!”

I mentioned to Clive that it was so noticeable that our three games against the three leading teams thus far appeared to be pointless, so to speak.

While PD was getting more and more angry with each passing minute, Clive was disappearing into a vortex of despair.

I thought to myself “is it really that bad?”

On sixty-seven minutes, two substitutions.

Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.

Mykhaioo Mudryk for Madueke.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

There was a switch in positions. Mudryk showed up on our side of Stamford Bridge on the Chelsea left, while Neto became inverted, but hopefully not introverted, in front of the East Lower on our right.

It rapidly paid dividends.

Neto, relatively deep, played the ball to Enzo. Arsenal were nowhere close, poor from them. Enzo prodded the ball into space for Neto to run onto. One touch from Neto, the goal begging for a shot. A swing of the left leg, and a fine connection. The low shot crashed past the despairing dive from Raya at the near post.

Ecstasy in the Matthew Harding. Euphoria in the West Stand. Bedlam in the East Stand. Pandemonium in The Shed.

Poor Neto did not know what to do, nor where to run. He ended up in front of the East Lower with a high jump.

Get in.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 1.

Phew.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge now.

There was an inviting low cross from Bukayo Saka – the first time that I have mentioned his name – out on Arsenal’s right that evaded, thankfully, everybody as it made a lonely journey through a packed box. The cross evoked the phrase “corridor of uncertainty” and I am still amazed that nobody touched the ball goal-wards.

Another cross from the Arsenal right was headed down by Mikel Merino, whoever he is, and Sanchez gathered just before Havertz could get a touch.

Not long after, a clear offside as Nicolas Jackson – the first mention – ran through. A worryingly high percentage of the supporters housed in our end of The Bridge cheered. I fear for the human race.

On eighty-two minutes, Reece James took over from Gusto.

A little head tennis in the box, but Arsenal survived.

A very late substitution.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

A cross from the Arsenal right, a shot from Merino, a great save from Sanchez, but the ball fell to Leandro Trossard. In my mind I was waiting for the net to bulge. He blazed it over. Offside anyway.

Fackinell.

In the ninety-fifth minute, a similar second-half story. A low cross from out on the Arsenal flank, this time the left, and a great cross right into “the corridor” but not a worthwhile touch, and offside anyway.

As you were.

Although, in fact, not as you were.

Since last season Arsenal have worsened while we have improved, no doubt.

When I got back to the car, I was flabbergasted to see that we had reached third place in the Premier League.

There is a cartoon that often does the rounds on the internet of an elephant up a tree, but of course that image never entered my mind at all.

Never.

Honest.

We have a break, now, until we all meet up again at Leicester City on Saturday 23 November.

See you there.

Tales From Two Trips

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Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 27 October 2024.

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.

Our team?

Sanchez, Gusto, James, Chilwell, Fofana, Lavia, Caicedo, Madueke, Palmer, Neto, Jackson.

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.

See you in the away ends.

GOAL ONE

GOAL TWO

Tales From A Golden Anniversary

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Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 11 March 2024.

I became a Chelsea supporter just after the 1970 F.A. Cup Final. It stemmed from the interactions between myself and the other children at my village school in Somerset in the immediate aftermath of that iconic game. Perhaps I had heard that Chelsea were a good team or maybe I just liked the sound of the name. Whatever the reason, it soon became clear to my parents that I was a keen supporter of the “Pensioners” or the “Blues” in those early years.

Chelsea were my team. I suspect that my early devotion shocked my parents, who were not really into football at all. I can remember the horror when my paternal grandfather brought me back a Liverpool duffle bag from a coach trip to North Wales in the summer of 1971, not long before he passed away, and how he received the ire of both my parents and myself.

“But I like Chelsea.”

“Well, your mother told me to buy you something to do with football.”

I am sure that I didn’t reply with the expression “fackinell” at the age of six years old but I probably thought something along those lines.

I have no memory of the loss to Stoke City at Wembley in the League Cup Final at Wembley in 1972, but I remember the season-opener against Leeds United in the August of that year and I well remember the FA Cup tie with Arsenal in March 1973. My fanaticism grew with each year, each month, each game. I was given a Chelsea kit in around 1973. Imagine my absolute elation when – without prompting from me – my parents announced (either on Christmas Day 1973 or soon after) that they would take me to see Chelsea play.

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

I still get chills when I think of that feeling over fifty years later.

By a cruel twist of fate, of course, both my idol Peter Osgood and also Alan Hudson had left Chelsea in February of 1974, a month ahead of my Chelsea debut on 16 March against Newcastle United. I was upset, but the thought of seeing the team in the flesh more than made up for this. My mother had written to the club asking for ticket and travel information and I still have the letter that the club sent back, nicely embossed with the club crest, to this day. In due course, the West Stand benches tickets arrived, priced at just 60p each.

Just to hold those little match tickets…

My first game sticks with me for so many reasons. I can recall waiting in line at the bottom of the West Stand steps at the turnstiles. As the West Stand was the stand with the TV gantry, I wasn’t particularly sure what the stand looked like. I distinctly remember walking up the banked steps as if it was yesterday…I can recall the sense of anticipation, the noises of the crowd and specifically the blue paintwork at the back of the stand, the blue of the turnstiles, the blue of the souvenir huts…just writing these words I am transported back to my childhood.

We walked behind the West Stand, right to the end (the seats were laid on top of the terraces and the access came right at the top of the stand) and I caught a glimpse of the pitch and the inside of the stadium which had previously been obscured from view. I was mesmerized. We walked down the access steps and found our seats…six rows from the front, level with the penalty spot at the North Stand end.

We had a black and white TV set at home and of course it was breath-taking to see Stamford Bridge bathed in spring sunshine and in glorious colour. The East Stand was still being built on the other side of the pitch. There was a smattering of away fans mixed in with Chelsea fans on the North terrace to my left. I remember the closeness of those fans to me.

The Chelsea team?

  1. John Phillips.
  2. Gary Locke.
  3. Ron Harris.
  4. John Hollins.
  5. Micky Droy.
  6. David Webb.
  7. Chris Garland ( sub – Ken Swain.)
  8. Peter Houseman.
  9. Steve Kember.
  10. Ian Hutchinson.
  11. Charlie Cooke.

The gate was 24,207.

What do I remember of that afternoon? I remember the middle part of The Shed twirling their blue and white bar scarves. I remember the goal after ten minute; a header close in from Ian Hutchinson, which bounced up off the ground before crossing the line. I remember two or three Newcastle fans, resplendent with black and white scarves, being sat right in front of me. I remember shouting out “we want two!” to which one of them replied “we want three!” I remember thinking “did I stand up and celebrate the goal correctly?” after the Chelsea goal. I promised myself that if there were to be further goals, I would celebrate better…I guess I wanted to fit in. A second goal came along and I stood up and shouted, but it was disallowed. I think that the two Geordies smirked as I quickly sat down.

I remember a “Topic” chocolate bar at half-time. I remember Gary Locke doing many sliding tackles in front of us in the second half. I remember debutant Ken Swain (previously unheard of by me) as a second-half substitute. I paid just as much attention to the songs coming out of The Shed as to the play on the pitch. Generally, I remember the overwhelming feeling of belonging…that this was right, that I should be there.

As the game ended and the crowd drifted away, I know that as I reached the very top of the steps, I looked back at the pitch and the stands with wonderment and hoped that I would be back again. My mother bought me a “Chelsea The Blues” scarf at one of the souvenir huts behind the West Stand as we slowly walked out. I wore that same scarf in Stockholm for the 1998 ECWC Final, in Moscow ten years later for the CL Final, and also at the 2015 League Cup Final just a few days after my mother’s passing.

I can remember that we enjoyed a hamburger meal at the Wimpy Bar (a big extravagance, believe me) on Fulham Broadway. Even to this day, I always look over at the site of it as I walk to Stamford Bridge. We caught the tube train back to Park Royal and then home to Somerset, but that is a blur.

So, Saturday 16 March 1974…it was the day that my love affair with Chelsea Football Club jumped a thousand notches. In truth, my life would never be the same again.

And here we all are, almost fifty years later and another match against the black and whites from Tyneside. I have explained before how annoyed I was that the exact fiftieth anniversary of my first ever game against Newcastle United narrowly missed an exact hit. There was, then, a hope that we would get them at home in the FA Cup on Saturday 16 March. But that missed too.

On the exact fiftieth anniversary, I will hopefully be watching a game at Frome Town against Yate Town. That’s not a bad place to be. I saw my first-ever “proper” game at Frome Town in the early part of the 1970/71 season.

1970 was evidently a big year in my life.

Talking of Frome Town, on the Saturday before this year’s game with Newcastle United, I drove down to Bideford on the North Devon coast. It was a long old drive – almost two and a half hours – but very enjoyable. Just me and my thoughts, a little music, the Saturday all to myself. I paid a quick visit to “The Appledore Inn” just a few hundred yards away from the ground. In October 2020, I drove to Bideford for a Wednesday evening game but later that night in a nearby B&B I had a mild heart attack, to be followed by another a few days later. By the Saturday, I was in hospital in Bath awaiting surgery. On the Monday, two stents were fitted. So this trip to Bideford was always going to be an emotional one for me. I had visited the same pub in 2020 and I made a point of sitting in the same seat in the pub as in that previous visit. A few Frome friends arrived – Mark, Sumo, Steve, Stuey – and I told them this story. They asked why I was sat in the same seat. I suspect they thought it was tempting fate.

It was my way of saying “I am still here” and I lightly tapped the table.

The game was a scrappy affair, but a headed goal from James Ollis after Jon Davies dug out a deep cross from the goal-line gave Frome a huge three points. I watched the game from the impressive main stand, high above the action, with my old school mate Steve – our friendship really fired up in the Lower Sixth when we both realised that our football knowledge put us in a class of our own – and we chatted about all aspects of the sport.

The second-half had its share of hairy moments and I even invoked a heated exchange with two locals as their ‘keeper re-enacted a Schumacher / Battiston assault – from the 1982 World Cup – on substitute Sam Meakes. The ‘keeper was duly sent off and Frome held on. It was a hugely enjoyable afternoon in the North Devon drizzle. Around sixty Frome fans travelled. I loved it.

Back to Chelsea.

On match day, I collected my fellow passengers at 2pm in the pub car park opposite work and by 4.30pm all three had been deposited in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. I met up with PD and Parky in “The Elephant & Barrel”, formerly “The Rylston”, alongside Salisbury Steve and two lads from Boston in Massachusetts. I have known Ben, the Chapter Head of the Boston Blues, since around 2011, but this was my first meeting with Danny, who was at Stamford Bridge for a game for the very first time. It seemed right that on this occasion there was a Chelsea debutant in the party.

There was a nice mix of old and new; old pub, new pub, old friends, a new friend, old memories and new ones.

We raised pints.

Chris : “Friendship and football.”

Ben : “Mates not millionaires.”

Chris : “Bates not billionaires.”

Danny wanted to hear a few stories, so I shared a few. I have several to choose from, cough, cough. We spoke about Newcastle’s awful record at Stamford Bridge in the league.

“Apart from the Papiss Cisse masterclass in 2012, they have not won here in the league since 1986.”

I was at that game in 1986, a 1-3 loss, and Ben was at that 0-2 game in 2012. I shuffled in my seat a little.

I devoured a chicken and gooseberry curry with coconut rice and the others supped some ales. It was a lovely pre-match. At around 7.15pm, we made our way down to the ground.

It is one of my biggest regrets that there is no photographic evidence of my first-ever Chelsea game. This is particularly surprising since my parents took hundreds of snaps of my childhood, yet somehow the camera was forgotten on that most momentous of occasions. I made sure that Ben took one of me outside the main gates to mark the – almost – anniversary of that match fifty years ago. The obligatory one of Danny at his first game soon followed.

As in 1974, I walked towards the West Stand.

I was inside, in The Sleepy Hollow, at 7.45pm.

The Chelsea team?

28. Djordje Petrovic.

27. Malo Gusto.

3. Marc Cucarella.

2. Axel Disasi.

14. Trevoh Chalobah.

8. Enzo Fernandez.

25. Moises Cacedo.

20. Cole Palmer.

23. Conor Gallagher.

7. Raheem Sterling.

15. Nicolas Jackson.

A simple 1 to 11 is much better, isn’t it?

Yet again, the usual pre-match routine : The Clash, Blur, The Harry J. Allstars, the dimming of the lights, electronic pulses, flashes, flames, all culminating in “what the fookin’ ‘ell was that?” from the Geordies.

It wasn’t like this in 1974.

There was a quick chant of “We are the Geordie, the Geordie boot boys” and the game began. I quickly spotted a post by Ben on my ‘phone featuring his view of the game and it was clear that they were just below me in the MHL. There was a miss-hit from Djordje Petrovic in the first fleeting moments and the ball sliced away for a throw-in. We all grimaced.

In 1974, I had to wait ten minutes for my first-ever Chelsea goal. In 2024, Danny did not have to wait as long. After just six minutes, Cole Palmer flicked his brush towards the right wing, painting a lovely ball out to Malo Gusto, who advanced. His low cross was kicked away but it could only reach Palmer. I felt that he didn’t really fancy a shot at goal with his right foot, but he smacked the ball goal wards. Nicolas Jackson was in the line of fire, but a nimble adjustment meant that his slight flick of a leg allowed the ball to slip past Martin Dubravka in The Shed goal.

As in 1974, Chelsea 1 Newcastle United 0.

It is not known how Danny celebrated the goal.

The first-half summed up much of our season. It was good in parts, yet frustrating too.

Our blind determination to play it out from the back wound most fans up, and there was a cheer when Petrovic went long on one occasion. Much has been written about this “playing out from the goal line” this season, but we have not remotely perfected it. It annoys me, as it did in this game, to see Jackson with just one man close to him, in yards of space, yet a quick punt up field is hardly ever chosen as an alternative way to attack. On the occasions when Petrovic decided to go long, he annoyingly waited until the Newcastle defence was set. The art of a quick break seems to be lost in 2024.

We enjoyed most of the chances, however fleeting. A shot from Jackson was claimed by Dubravka. A run from Palmer picked out Enzo in a decent central position but his effort curled over the bar.

The visitors’ efforts were rare. However, on forty-three minutes, the Chelsea defence went into circus mode. The otherwise impressive Gusto attempted keepie-uppy and lost control. Trevoh Chalobah then lost the ball too and it was not cleared. The ball was flicked to Alexander Isak, who danced inside and smacked a fine shot past Petrovic at the far post. They celebrated down below us.

1-1.

Just after, an early ball – at last – to Jackson who did ever so well to dribble past Dubravka and slot home. Alas, he had not beaten the offside trap. No goal.

In the last move of the half, nice interplay between Palmer and Gusto resulted in a deep cross to the far post. A fine header back from Conor Gallagher set up Raheem Sterling and as he took a touch and closed in on goal I could only think of one thing –

“Hit one of the corners.”

He didn’t. His shot was right at Dubravka.

I was relatively happy with the performance at half-time. I had seen a lot worse this season. There had been, as always “glimpses” of decent play. In the programme – some really decent articles at the moment – there were lovely pieces on Hughie Gallacher and Colin Lee.

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding. However, it was the visitors attacking The Shed who engineered the first chance. Chalobah cheaply surrendered the ball, and it was moved out to the left. Miguel Almiron raced away but his angled riser was pushed over by Petrovic.

Phew.

A teasing run from the fleet-footed Palmer took him deep into the Newcastle box but his low cross evaded everyone. Sterling was on the end of a swift break but he seemed to lack conviction and was forced wide. His weak shot missed the goal frame.

On sixty-three minutes, an incisive ball from Enzo found Palmer. Before we knew it, he had touched the ball on and then swept a low shot effortlessly towards goal. The ‘keeper was beaten. It was a lovely finish and the place erupted. To my joy, the scorer raced over to our corner to say hello.

Snap, snap, snap, snap.

Nice one.

2-1.

Palmer has certainly made this season a lot more palatable. Imagine 2023/24 without him. Shudder.

A long ball out of defence by the redoubtable Gusto was superbly headed on by Jackson. Sterling raced through and was clear, one on one with Dubravka. My camera was poised. Alas, he dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, and lost his way. Eventually, his shot was cleared off the line.

Dan Burn had a rare chance for the visitors. The towering defender headed wide.

On sixty-nine minutes, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling. There was an odd mixture of applause and mild booing. Answers on a postcard.

On seventy-six minutes, Jackson broke with a flash of speed out on the left. My camera tracked his fine run. The ball was played square towards Gallagher, but Mudryk arrived on the scene like a runaway train and took the ball on. His momentum carried him forward. A slight shimmy and Dubravka was sent sprawling. He rounded the ‘keeper and slotted in from an angle, with a defender unable to hack away.

What a goal.

3-1.

I screamed and screeched as I held my camera close and snapped. Who says geezers can’t multitask?

Mudryk was on fire, full of confidence, and mesmerized us all with another burst of speed but was unable to finish. We all want him to succeed so much.

Two late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for the magnificent Palmer.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Jackson.

Sadly, the otherwise solid Marc Cucarella lunged in and allowed a blast from distance from Jacob Murphy. It arrowed into the Shed End goal. It was some strike.

3-2.

Blimey.

Thankfully, the six minutes of extra-time soon passed and we held on.

At the end of the game, just before “Blue Is The Colour” segued into “Freed From Desire”, I spotted Ben and Danny down below. Their smiles were wide.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

I enjoyed the evening. It wasn’t perfect, but we showed enough to warrant the win. I wasn’t that impressed with the visitors. It had been 4-1 to them in November and it was 3-2 to us in March. We edged the League Cup tie in December. There might even be another game yet, in the FA Cup, later this season.

Talking of which, the FA Cup follows on Sunday with a game against Leicester City at Stamford Bridge. See you there.

Tales From Chelsea World

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Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 19 December 2023.

The League Cup Quarter-Final at home to Newcastle United was positioned just before the rush of football games over Christmas and the New Year. In this heady period – from Friday 22 December to Monday 1 January – there would be three Chelsea games and three Frome Town games for me to attend. It’s what Christmas is for, right?

The visiting Geordies would be backed by a strong following of around 5,500 in The Shed but their team were beset with injuries. Chelsea, too, were missing several first-teamers. It was a match that intrigued me. It was a game that we could win. It was a game that could propel us into an unlikely Semi-Final. But Newcastle United would be a tough opponent despite their missing players.

An early shift behind me, I deposited my three passengers off at two different locations at Chelsea World; the first-two were dropped-off on Bramber Road, just a short hop to the evening’s base of “The Rylston” on Lillee Road and the third one was deposited right outside the main gates at Stamford Bridge. As I slowly drove back along the Fulham Road, I snapped the view of the West Stand, its forecourt and the milieu of Christmas lights falling like snow from the stand’s facade, the neon lights and the club crest, the milling crowds, a bright Christmas tree, and the Peter Osgood statue.

It felt like I was driving home for Christmas.

SW6 may not be my home, but sometimes it feels like it must be.

Not wanting to collect an unwanted parking ticket I drove around for twenty minutes and then parked up on Mulgrave Road bang on five o’clock. I met up with PD, Parky and Salisbury Steve in “The Rylston” just after 5pm.

The kick-off was at 8pm. We had three hours to relax. By an odd quirk, this pub – nestled under the flats of the Clem Atlee Estate – is run by the same pub management company as our usual haunt “The Eight Bells” further south. The Yellow Panda Pub Company has just these two in their portfolio. The lads worked their way through a few lagers, while I had the usual non-alcoholic offerings that accompany my match days. Food was a third off between 3pm and 6pm so a decent picante pizza was less than a tenner. It went down well.

I looked around at the clientele and it was very different from “The Eight Bells.” Our usual domicile, right down the bottom end of Fulham, is full of what could quite rightly be termed “old school” Chelsea support; virtually all blokes, decidedly working class, hardly any Chelsea colours on show, ribald laughter booming. In contrast, “The Rylston” attracted a more varied demographic; more couples, a few Chelsea shirts on show, a more middle-class vibe, hushed tones.

I could not help feel that these two pubs had swapped their clientele. Once an estate pub – I remember it as looking pretty rough, at least from the outside, “The Rylston” still has one of the poorest estates in London on its doorstep. It has, however, undergone a tidy re-vamp over the last decade. I like it a lot. By contrast, “The Eight Bells” is located, to my eyes, in a more affluent adjacent area.

I can almost hear the “compare and contrast” instruction from a social geography course at poly in the ‘eighties.

As we left the pub at about 6.45pm – a mild night – I took a few photos of the lads. I could not help but notice the black and white pub sign. I remembered the Panda from the pub company. Was I tempting fate ahead of the tie against the black and white hordes. At least a single magpie didn’t ominously appear. We made our way along Lillee Road, a red London bus drove past, the Clem Atlee to our right, the towering Empress State Building ahead. Another London bus flew by. We were deep in Chelsea World. I smiled.

Driving home for Christmas.

We were all in at about 7.15pm.

As the away fans were encamped in The Shed, Parky had been transplanted to the Matthew Harding. As against Brighton and Blackburn Rovers, I took his ticket and he took mine so that he could sit alongside PD and Alan in “The Sleepy”; my seat was centrally towards the goal. I spotted Luke, another Shed End regular – who used to sit very close to Lord Parsnips until last season – and so I took a snap of them being reunited at the other end of the stadium.

There were the Newcastle fans, set up in two tiers, at The Shed, and a decent showing on a Tuesday night in London. They brought a few flags, including a very odd one that featured the letters “NUFC” and an image of a woman with a tooth missing.

At 7.50pm, “London Calling”, “Parklife” and “Liquidator.”

The usual – kinda cringe worthy by now – light show and accompanying flames welcomed the teams onto the pitch.

Our Chelsea eleven?

Djordje Petrovic.

Axel Disasi – Thiago Silva – Benoit Badiashile – Levi Colwill

Moises Caicedo – Conor Gallagher

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Raheem Sterling

Nicolas Jackson

In the Newcastle United team was Tino Livramento but not Lewis Hall. Despite some players missing, they still boasted Miguel Amiron, Callum Wilson and Anthony Gordon, all undoubted threats.

It was a lively start. An unmarked Gordon managed to get a shot in on the goal that we were defending down below us but it was deflected for a corner. On six minutes, Gallagher saw his curling effort bounce against the Shed End crossbar. We began well. There was a Newcastle cross from their right that didn’t drop for an attacker to pounce but it had me worried.

Not long after, calamity. From a cross from the bye-line from Disasi, we gave up possession and Newcastle broke with pace. Callum Wilson, however, had Caceido chasing him and the twin pillars of Silva and Badiashile closing in on him. This pincer movement failed. He ghosted past Silva. Badiashile then seemed to get his legs tangled. I watched in horror as the ball was adeptly curled with the outside of his foot past the forlorn dive of Petrovic.

Fackinell.

It seemed the unluckiest of goals to concede, but now we were up against it.

We were immediately treated to an absolutely magnificent sliding tackle from Silva, and if I was to say that it was worth the admission money alone I would stand by my comment. Pure class.

A twist and a shot at the near post from Palmer. There was a nice “one-two” between Sterling and Caicedo on twenty-seven minutes but his roller just evaded the goal frame. Just after, another shot from Sterling was blocked after a decent break down the right.

These chances were few and far between though. I was again frustrated to see Sterling in acres of space but criminally under-utilised. Our build-up play lacked guile.  The two centre-backs seemed to be touching the ball every five seconds.

“Slow, slow, quick, quick, slower.”

At least the Newcastle threat had dwindled; they were quite content to defend deep.

“LOW BLOCK” shout the FIFA nerds.

Yeah, low bock, whatever.

Fernandez was surprisingly substituted on thirty-two minutes and was replaced by Armando Broja. There was a shifting of personnel and Sterling popped up on the right, taking over from Palmer. Jackson was shunted out towards the East Stand. I speculated if he would be better positioned behind the East Stand.

The noise from us wasn’t great. There were a few attempts at getting something started.  I couldn’t decipher much of it, but the away fans were making a fair old racket.

“Noo-cassel You-nited. We’ll nevah be defeated.”

As the first-half continued, I moaned to the chap next to me “one-hundred and ten passes and its going nowhere.”

Jackson was having a minimal impact, aside from getting caught offside. There had been one, just one, excellent run from him – that both the bloke next to me and I had spotted – but which was not spotted by the man on the ball. We longed for the movement of Crespo or Vialli.

“Proper strikers” he murmured.

It was so noticeable that, even with Broja on the pitch, we were loath to send crosses into the Geordie box. I wondered that we would need Zaphod Beeblebrox loitering at the far post before we started crossing high balls into the mixer.

At the end of the first-half, Broja’s goal was called back for offside, Newcastle had two efforts on our goal, and Palmer supplied, probably, one of the highest ever crosses seen at Stamford Bridge, only for Jackson to head it over at the far stick. Perhaps if he had two heads he would have fared better.

At half-time, there were moans.

“We aren’t hitting our front players quick enough. By the time we play the bloody ball, they are fully marked.”

At the break, Malo Gusto replaced Colwill at left-back.

The chap next to me said that if Reece James was to be out for an extended stay, as is likely, Gusto would be an able replacement. I could not disagree. He has been a good addition this season.

Soon into the first-half, there was nothing but praise and applause for the much-maligned Jackson who chased a Newcastle break from Gordon and put in a timely tackle way inside our own half. Fair play to him. I was not upset when Gordon would soon be substituted.

Bursting down the right, that man Gusto played in Broja who set up Jackson. He swivelled nicely but his GPS let him down, the shot missing the near post by a yard or so. A minute after, Jackson prodded the ball through to the rampaging Sterling, but his low shot was pushed – low down – past the far post by Dubravka.

There was noise now.

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

You know the tune.

Stamford Bridge was alive and it felt like a proper game, a proper cup tie.

On the hour, another magnificently-timed sliding tackle from Silva. More glorious applause.

“Come on, keep up the intensity Chels.”

By now, Newcastle’s attack had virtually ceased.

The noise continued. At last Christopher Nkunku made his Chelsea debut, replacing Jackson.

A big roar.

It seemed like the second coming of Christ.

I turned to the chap to my right.

“No pressure.”

Ten minutes later, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Sterling and Ian Maatsen replaced Disasi. Gusto moved to the right. Mudryk was soon attempting to dance down the left. Was I confident of us getting an equaliser? Maybe. Only maybe.

Into the last ten minutes, the atmosphere had noticeably quietened. Perhaps the Chelsea faithful were not confident of that equaliser. Mudryk found himself our main threat. A teasing cross was headed, almost disastrously, into his own goal by Livramento.

On eighty-nine minutes, a wriggle from Gallagher – our best player, he was everywhere – and a coming together of bodies but no penalty.

There were four minutes of injury time but I had hoped for more.

Four minutes? Fackinell.

The bloke next to me couldn’t hold it in any longer, and excused himself. He got up, we shook hands, and off he went. I like these temporary friendships that we make at football. I’ll probably never see him again, but it is always nice not to be sat next to a dickhead, of which there are many, at Chelsea. At away games, those temporary friendships always tend to solidify over the years.

Into injury time, a deep cross from the nimble and mobile Gusto was aimed at the far post. For some reason that only he knows, Keiran Trippier reacted oddly to the ball as it bounced up in front of him. He seemed to be shocked that the ball would take its trajectory. Mudryk, just behind him, reacted quickly.

My heart-beat increased. I gulped some air. I stood.

The ball sat up nicely.

The Ukrainian walloped it in.

Fackinell.

GET IN.

The Bridge boomed.

The scorer ran past the lucky ones in the front row at pitch side and continued his run over to the West Stand, not usually the place to aim for. Shades of Micky Thomas against Sheffield Wednesday in 1984.

Stay still my beating heart.

Fackinell indeed.

Ninety-three minutes had elapsed. This was indeed a late-late show. I immediately thought back to a Les Ferdinand equaliser for the Toon Army, equally late, in an FA Cup tie in January 1996. Revenge for that, maybe?

Before we could breath, the final whistle sounded. I hoped for the penalties to be taken down our end. There seemed to be a longer-than-usual delay.

The players walked to the half-way line and faced the Newcastle followers in The Shed.

Ugh.

I remembered an FA Cup loss on penalties at The Shed against Everton in 2011.

I prepared my camera for its big moments.

Cole Palmer – a confident strike low to the right, tucked just inside the post.

1-0.

Callum Wilson – down the middle, git.

1-1.

Conor Gallagher – a short run up but a smash high, phew.

2-1.

Keiran Trippier – “you little prick” might have out him off, a drive wide of the left-hand post.

2-1.

Christopher Nkunku – a confident smack high left, welcome to Chelsea my son.

3-1.

Bruno Guimaraes – a stop/start run up, but struck just inside the right-hand post.

3-2.

Mykhailo Mudryk – a brief approach, stroked to the left, surely evoking Didier in Munich for us all.

4-2.

Matt Ritchie – confidently struck, but flamboyantly saved by Petrovic, magnificent stuff.

Yes!

Within the space of sixteen minutes, we had come back from the dead. Into the League Cup semis we went. Thousands of puns simultaneously erupted all over Chelsea World about Djordje and the Geordies.

This was a stunning turnaround. But it was a reward for our dominance in an increasingly noisy and enthralling second-half.

“Freed From Desire” boomed around Stamford Bridge and there was a lot of untidy body movements in the Matthew Harding Upper. Then “One Step Beyond” and even more shocking behaviour.

But I didn’t mind.

Outside, there were so many Chelsea smiles and a massive sense of release.

“Freed” indeed. Maybe the DJ was right.

Fackinell.

Our team and our club continue to confuse us all, but this win seemed so important. I am not going to naively suggest it might save our season but stranger things have happened. It might just get the positivity flowing again.

As I drove home, we learned that Middlesbrough had beaten Port Vale and Fulham had edged out Everton.

We often underplay the importance of the League Cup these days, but surely no Chelsea fan currently does. I can’t wait for the semi-final.

See you there.

Postscript 1.

In preparing for this write-up, I stumbled across the realisation that in September 2010, we came from 1-3 down to get to 3-3 in a League Cup game against Newcastle United at Stamford Bridge only for Shola Ameobi to score on ninety minutes to give the visitors a 4-3 triumph. Shockingly, I have no recollection of this game.

Postscript 2.

As I reached my car on Mulgrave Road, I had opened up my boot and threw my jacket in. There, in a corner, I spotted a black and white bobble hat – a free-gift from a visit to see Queens Park at Hampden a year ago – and I smiled. I need not have worried about me tempting the Footballing Gods with those black and white references pre-match. I had already committed a cardinal sin, but thankfully I had not been punished.

Tales From 1973/74 And 2023/24

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Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 25 November 2023.

Where does the back story begin for this game? How about October 1973? Let me explain.

No matter what this season brings, no matter how successful, how disappointing, or even how uneventful this campaign turns out to be, it will always be an important one for me. For this particular Chelsea devotee, all eyes are on March 2024 as it will mark the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game.  

My first one was a home game with Newcastle United on Saturday 16 March 1974, and if the current fixture list remains unchanged, I will be celebrating this major milestone with an away trip to Arsenal on Saturday 16 March 2024. It could have been so much better though. In this season’s fixtures, Chelsea host the Geordies just a week before this date on Saturday 9 March. Damn the FA and damn their fixture lists.

So – to set the scene perhaps, here’s a little mention of 1973/74 and the reverse fixture of my first game. On Saturday 20 October 1973, Chelsea travelled to Tyneside in a Football League Division One encounter but unfortunately lost 2-0. The feared striker Malcolm Macdonald scored a brace in front of 32,154.

The Chelsea team that day was as follows.

John Phillips, John Hollins, Eddie McCreadie, Steve Kember, David Webb, Ron Harris, Tommy Baldwin, Alan Hudson, Peter Osgood, Peter Houseman, Chris Garland.

It pains me to see the names Hudson and Osgood listed as I sadly never saw them play for Chelsea. I never saw Eddie McCreadie either.

Fifty years later, another trip to St. James’ Park had been planned for a while. This was another game involving an overnight stay – or rather three of them – although Parky was forced to miss out due to a hospital appointment. On the Friday, I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 8am and began the long drive north. Luckily, it was a fine and sunny day and the drive was a joy. We had booked some digs in Felling, Gateshead, and I was parked outside the house at 2.15pm.

Over the past few years, the area has become familiar to me. On a trip to see Chelsea play at Newcastle in January 2020, I met a local lass, and I have been visiting her a little since then. This trip to the Newcastle area would be my fifth visit of the year. I celebrated my last two birthdays with Julie in the city of Durham and there have been a few nights out in The Toon and the surrounding area.

However, back in July, I wanted to visit a location – alone – that I think about every time that I see a game in Newcastle.

On 11 June 1957, Hughie Gallacher, the former Newcastle United and Chelsea striker, walked in front of an express train at Low Fell, in Gateshead, and was instantly killed. He was just fifty-four years of age. After a phenomenal career, in which he scored 24 goals in just 20 games for Scotland, he returned to the North-East – his last games were for Gateshead – but found life outside of football to be very difficult. I have always been fascinated by Gallacher and I bought “The Hughie Gallacher Story” by local journalist Paul Joannou a few years back. What lead to his suicide? In a fit of rage, he had thrown an ashtray at his son Mattie, drawing blood, and had been denied access to him. This haunted Gallacher and for many weeks he could be seen pacing the streets of Low Fell in a daze.

I felt that I needed to visit Low Fell.

It took me a while to find the location of where the incident took place on the main London to Edinburgh line. I drove in and around Low Fell for a while, imagining Gallacher walking those same streets almost seventy years earlier. I stopped near the railway and parked close to a bridge. I took a few photographs. On my very first visit to Newcastle in March 1984 – ah, another anniversary of sorts – I would have travelled on this very same piece of railway on a Chelsea Special, without knowing the sad story enacted here.

What I found amazing was that St. James’ Park, at the top of the hill in Newcastle, was clearly visible from Low Fell. And, if I let my imagination work away, I wondered if the St. James’ Park floodlights would have been visible as Hughie Gallacher climbed up on to the railway track on that fateful day in June 1957.

Hughie Gallacher was idolised at Newcastle United. The club’s record gate of 68,386 marked the return of the diminutive striker to St. James’ Park after his transfer to Chelsea. On Wednesday 3 September 1930, that huge crowd saw the local team defeat Chelsea 1-0.

In July this year, I had a quiet moment of remembrance in honour of the one Chelsea player from our distant past that I wish I had seen play.

On the Friday night in Newcastle, after a little session at a warm and welcoming pub in Felling – waiting for our mate Rich to arrive by train from Edinburgh – we dotted around the crazy city centre, meeting up with a few usual suspects, before finally getting back to our digs at around 2.30am.

We awoke late, and tired rather than hungover, before catching a cab into town. Our digs were just a few hundred yards from the Gateshead Stadium, home to the current Gateshead team. We breakfasted at The Quayside pub, where we met up with Steve and the Two Bobs, plus a few pals from Minneapolis, over for a week of Chelsea games.

This was to be, of course, our first game since the hated international break. I spent my “free” weekend watching Frome Town play Worthing in the FA Trophy. In another stupendous match at Badgers’ Hill, Frome drew 2-2, and won 4-3 on penalties to advance. Later that evening, PD, Glenn, Parky and I watched From The Jam in the town centre. It was a very special day. On the Monday, we drew Torquay United in the next round, easily Frome’s most prestigious game in my living memory. I can’t wait to attend that match, luckily taking place on the Saturday before our visit to Everton on the Sunday.

Although modern football continues to bewilder and sadden me in equal measure, I still find the act of attending games with good friends so addictive.

You might have noticed.

There was just time for a solitary drink in the Crown Posada, deep under the bridges on the quayside at the bottom of the hill. This lovely old pub gets a visit from me every time I return. As we were supping our lagers, Led Zeppelin IV was being aired on the old-fashioned turntable on the bar.

“Stairway To Heaven” was played and it felt really incongruous. Not a football song. Not a football moment.

“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold.

And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven.”

It made me wonder if her name was Amanda Staveley.

We caught a cab to the stadium at about 2.15pm. The cabbie, from Morocco, claimed he was a Chelsea fan, but was able to reel off a few of the former players that he had met in London in the Gullit and Vialli years. And there was me thinking that it was just a ploy to get a big tip.

The stadium is so close to the city centre. I love it.

Never mind stairways to heaven, we just wanted to get our arses in the lift to the top tier. Once there, there was the usual meet and greet with a few familiar faces in the bar areas. As we walked into the top tier with ten minutes to go the kick-off – perfect timing – the pounding “Blitzkrieg Bop” by The Ramones provided a fine accompaniment.

If this was heaven, I was happy.

Next up, “Blaydon Races” boomed out.

This took me back to 1974. I can well remember my father teaching me the words to this well-known Geordie song, no doubt during the time leading up to that very first game. It would have been further engrained in my memory bank by the time Newcastle United played in the 1974 FA Cup Final two months later.

“Gannin alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

I shook hands with Alan and Gal. No John on this occasion. We were in the third row, just wide of the goal.

The familiar view, more familiar for me now. This was my fifteenth visit to this stadium and I looked south to the high land of Gateshead, Felling to the left, with Low Fell just about visible between the towering roofs of the Gallowgate and the Milburn Stand – no, not the railway line – and a church spire right at the top of the hill. I have had some good times here. Julie and I are sadly not an item anymore, but a thought about her too. With that, the PA boomed with “Going Home : Theme Of The Local Hero” – and I turned to Paul and said –

“Some city this.”

I will admit, I was a bit emotional.

Fackinell.

A massive flag crowd-surfed in the lower tier below me as the two teams appeared.

Back in March 1974, the visitors to Stamford Bridge memorably wore hooped socks. They have chosen white ones this season, so we were forced into wearing blue ones.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Fernandez – Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

Time to think about the game. I had previously mentioned that after four goals against Tottenham and City, were we in line for four more against the Geordies? I was of course joking. This would be a tough one. We agreed that a draw would be fine. But – a big but – a win would be seismic.

The game began.

They attacked us, the old Leazes End. We attacked the Gallowgate.

It was a busy, lively first five minutes. I was keen to find positive signs to assuage any fears of a poor performance. I continue to live in hope. There was a shot from Conor Gallagher – wide, no Hughie incarnate – and we traded a few punches with the home team. Every time the recalled Benoit Badiashile touched the ball, his song cascaded down the terraces from behind me.

“In a Lamborghini…”

It was a decent start, but on thirteen minutes a ball was threaded through for a Newcastle United player to tap home. In my mind, the scorer was offside. I expected the lino’s flag to be raised. I waited in vain. There was no flag, no VAR decision. We were 1-0 down. The goal scorer was Alexander Isak. It was, I believe, their first effort of the game. The home crowd had been pretty quiet but now they found their voices.

We tried to find spaces and Raheem Sterling was particularly busy. After one advance down the left, he was fouled just outside the “D” by Kieran Trippier. I settled my nerves to time a photograph as he shot. The ball dipped over the wall and the Toon ‘keeper Nick Pope did not move. The ball nestled into the goal.

A guttural “YES” from me and a clench of both fists. The scorer ran away to a corner, and team mates joined in. He was booed for the rest of the first-half.

It developed into a decent half. I disliked the way that Cucarella was often exposed with a wide man often in space. But Cucarella seemed to be trying his best, full of endeavour, I could not fault that. The man from Brighton, though, never ever seems to make a regular bog-standard block tackle. The bloke is forever scurrying after people.

I thought Cole Palmer was having a quiet game.

I caught a terrible miss from Joelinton at the far post on film. The goal was gaping. He really should have done better.

The best move of the match followed, the ball pushed one way and then the other, with Reece James eventually setting up Enzo who sadly shot too close to goal and Pope tipped it over. Later, a terribly weak effort from Gallagher with his left foot was scuffed past the post. I could see Hughie Gallacher pointing at the goal and shouting in rage.

Just before the break, a Trippier free-kick touched the top of the bar.

It had been a decent enough half.

The night began to fall during the break. And as the second-half began, the temperature fell too. There are safe-standing barriers throughout the away section in the Leazes now, but the trick on an afternoon like this was to avoid touching the exposed metal. Hands were stuffed deep inside pockets. My camera was used sparingly.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. It sadly dawned on me that we were not in this now. The second-half was being punctuated by free-kicks and there was little flow. What football that there was came from the home team despite very little backing from the home support.

On the hour, a cross from James Gordon – a very fine cross, it has to be said – was met by a free-header from Jamaal Lascelles, who firmly planted the ball wide of Robert Sanchez.

Now the bloody Geordies sung.

“E I E I E I O – Up the Premier League we go.”

Not a minute later, Thiago Silva slipped, Joelinton pick-pocketed him, and easily struck the ball past Sanchez.

Silence in my head. Silence in our end.

St. James’ Park was in heaven now.

The noise was deafening. I wondered what the visitors from Minneapolis thought of the noise, the city, the whole buzz.

Sadly, many Chelsea left.

“Thanks then.”

A triple substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gallagher

Armando Broja for Jackson

Moises Caicedo for Ugochukwu

While I found myself looking back at the faces of a few familiar supporters in the rows alongside me and behind me, I missed the foul by James that resulted in a second yellow.

Silence in my head again.

Numb.

Levi Colwill for Palmer.

Mudryk had a couple of runs from deep but typically ran out of gas and ideas.

On eighty-three minutes, with the spritely Gordon running at full pelt, I uttered the immortal line.

“Don’t let him come inside.”

At that exact moment, he came inside. His low shot was perfectly placed beyond the despairing dive of Sanchez. There’s that fourth goal.

Fackinell.

Newcastle United 4 Chelsea 1.

Noni Madueke replaced Sterling.

The game ended. It was cold now. A few handshakes. A few nods. Not good Chelsea. Not good at all.

“Terrible second-half.”

This was the worst Chelsea defeat that I had ever seen at St. James Park. The worst in our history was a 5-0 reverse in October 1974. Ah, back to 1974 again. Perhaps I had best stop talking about it. We made our way down to street level. There had been no stairway to heaven on this visit to Tyneside. Not for us anyway. We walked down Barrack Road outside the glass and steel of the Milburn Stand, then stopped by for a cheeseburger with onions at a stand outside the Gallowgate.

We walked all of the way down, through the Bigg Market – a few locals wished us well, “have a good night lads” – finally stopping at a familiar chip shop right at the bottom of the hill.

While The Toon was in full flow, we caught a cab back to Felling.

But there will be another time in Newcastle. Another visit. It’s a favourite city.

Next up, a home game against Brighton next Sunday.

See you there.