Tales From The Football Road

Posted on October 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 20 October 2024.

That bloody concourse. That bloody away end. That bloody announcer. Those bloody anthems. That bloody song. Those bloody scarves. That bloody clock.

A day out on Merseyside, a day out in Liverpool, a day out at Anfield.

And a few other things to talk about too. But let’s do this chronologically; an all-encompassing review of six football matches played over the past forty years.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Good.

First of all, let’s go back to 1984.

The next match featured in my review of the 1984/85 season was the notorious second leg of our Milk Cup tie against Millwall. This took place on the evening of Tuesday 9 October 1984. With me being a student in Stoke-on-Trent, this was always going to be a non-starter. I was nineteen, and yet to see an evening game in London, and I was never going to start with a trip to The Den. Eight years before, I could vividly remember watching the highlights on ITV of the away game at Millwall in the first few weeks of the 1976/77 season. Not only did we lose 0-3, but there was plenty of crowd trouble to boot, pardon the pun. In fact, in the following forty-eight years, many who went to this game have described it as the most horrific experience of their football lives. The mention by a couple of friends of “meat cleavers” should illustrate what Chelsea were up against on that sunny afternoon in “Deep South” all those years ago.

Millwall away? No thanks.

On this particular evening in 1984, I worked away on an essay, disappeared down to the local for a pint and then returned back to the flat to hear that we had drawn 1-1 at The Den. Kerry Dixon scored for us. The gate was just 11,157 and I suspect that 99% of them were blokes and a sizeable percentage were nutters. There has always been talk of this being the most formidable Chelsea “firm” to ever attend an away game and who am I to doubt it. Radio 2 reported no trouble inside the ground but that Robert Isaac, a Chelsea youth player who was on my radar, had been stabbed outside by some Millwall loons. This deeply saddened me.

The story was that he and some friends were confronted by some Millwall lads and were asked to name Millwall’s reserve ‘keeper. None of them could oblige, and Robert was slashed with a knife across his back. He was rushed to hospital and fifty-five stitches were applied. Over the past fifteen years, Robert and I have bumped into each other on a number of occasions and he joined us for a pub-crawl before the 2018 FA Cup Final. He always says that his thick leather jacket saved his life that night. He would go on to play thirteen times for our first team, then a few more for Brighton.

Next up, was a far-less terrifying home game against Watford on Saturday 13 October. I travelled down from Stoke by train and watched from The Benches with my new gang of match-day companions from London and the South-East, all of whom I still keep in contact with. Before the match, none other than Boy George appeared on the pitch and took loads of homophobic abuse from the home crowd. The back-story was that a video was being shot that day for the Culture Club single “The Medal Song” but I have no recollection of this. Maybe I disappeared off to the gents while this took place at half-time. In the video, the band member Mikey Craig – in full Chelsea kit – scores a goal at The Shed End.

We went 1-0 up via the dependable boot of Kerry Dixon, but Watford came back well to lead 3-1 with goals from Richard Jobson, Kenny Jackett and John Barnes, who had a blinder. There was a late consolation goal from the dependable head of Kerry Dixon. The gate of 25,340 contained a miserly four-hundred away fans.

On the following Saturday – 20 March 1984 – Chelsea travelled down to The Dell in Southampton and lost 1-0 to a Steve Moran goal in front of 20,212. Over this weekend, I was back in Frome but did not travel down to the game. Out in town that evening, my diary informs me that I bumped into Glenn who travelled down to Southampton but didn’t get in. I suspect the game was all-ticket, and I had never planned on going. After all, it would have been rude to come back home for the weekend, my family keen to hear of my first month at college, but then to bugger off to Southampton all day on the Saturday. I also bumped into PD during the evening, who also travelled to Southampton, and got in. He said that the away end was packed and that we ought to have won. He told me that there was no trouble inside The Dell, but he was knocked out after the game.

Let’s fast forward to 2024. However, before we meet up with PD again, forty years to the exact day since I bumped into him in “The Wheatsheaf” in Frome, I need to talk about two games involving our home town’s football club.

On the Tuesday, I drove up to the river city of Gloucester to watch Frome Town play a league game at Gloucester City. I travelled alone, but met up with some Frome friends at the game, and also Chelsea mates Andrew and Martin who live locally and follow their home city’s team in the same way that I follow Frome. Alas, on a wet night, Frome succumbed to a goal in each half to lose 2-0 in front of a gate of 601. We remained mired in a relegation place, but there have been some signs of late of a little resurgence.

As the week developed, thoughts turned to the first game in a mammoth weekend of football. My friend Josh, from Minneapolis, was over for the game at Anfield on the Sunday but was coming down by train from London to see Frome Town play Poole Town on the Saturday. He travelled down last December for a Frome game and vowed to return. He is, in fact, one of a little army of Chelsea mates in the US who follow Frome – hello JR, hello Steve, hello Jaro, hello Rick, hello the other Josh, hello John, hello Phil, hello Bobster – and there has been one recent addition.

I have met Courtney, from Chicago, at “The Eight Bells” for two Chelsea games over the past three years, and on the Wednesday evening he confirmed that he would be attending the Frome Town vs. Poole Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea double-header too.

However, compared to Josh, his travel plans were far more stressful. He was flying over from Chicago, and was due to arrive in Frankfurt early on Saturday morning. He was then booked on a flight to Manchester, but hoped to swap to a London flight, and then drive down to Frome for the game. If not, he would be forced to land at Manchester at around 10am and then drive to Frome.

I woke on Saturday and soon texted both Americans. Josh was fine, and would arrive at Westbury just before midday, when I would pick him up. Courtney, however, unable to change his onward travel from Frankfurt, had arrived at Manchester at 10.15am.

I gulped.

“Poor bugger.”

With a section of the M4 being shut, I warned him that he would be diverted over The Cotswolds to reach Frome. I contacted a Frome director to reserve him a place in the club car park. It would be touch-and-go for him to make the kick-off. I was able to reserve him a car park place because…roll on drums…Courtney had splendidly sponsored the Frome match. Courtney, Josh and I were going to be wined and dined at the club at half-time, along with my two former school mates, the class of 1978 to 1983, Steve and Francis.

I picked up Josh at Westbury and gave him a little tour of my local village and my local town, including a pint at “The Three Swans” in Frome’s historic town centre. Meanwhile, Courtney was making good time and his ETA was to be around three o’clock. We then met up with Francis, and his mate Tom, at “The Vine Tree” for another quick drink before arriving at the ground a few minutes before kick-off.

It was a stunning day; warm temperatures, blue skies, and what looked like a decent crowd of over 500.

With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made really good time, and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.

The game was a very good one. Alas, the visitors went ahead in the tenth minute when our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips spilled a cross and there was an easy tap-in. However, just before half-time, Matt Wood – whose home kit Josh sponsors – slotted home from just outside the six-yard box from a George Rigg corner.

It was a case of all smiles at half-time as we got stuck into our jacket potatoes and chilli – thanks Louise!

With thoughts of our travel to Merseyside, I asked the two Americans a football teaser.

Q : which current league ground – the top four divisions – is closest to the River Mersey?

The answer follows later.

In the second-half, we decamped to our favourite spot in The Cow Shed, but a weak goal from the visitors gave them a perhaps undeserved 2-1 lead. We kept going, however, and were rewarded with a fantastic equaliser on the ninetieth minute when that man Matt Wood bravely headed in.

Pandemonium in the South Stand!

As match sponsors, we had the vote for Man Of The Match, but it was easy; Josh’s boy Matt Wood.

However, football can be a bastard.

In extra-time, a virtual copy of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips’ spill for the first goal resulted in a third, and winning, goal for the visitors.

This felt like a kick had been administered to the collective solar plexus.

Fackinell.

After the game, we were able to relax a little in the club house and I introduced the lads from the US to our board of directors. It had been a cracking afternoon and it was lovely for a couple of players, and the manager Danny Greaves, to meet Josh and Courtney. Courtney had been pleasantly surprised by the size of the stadium and the quality of the facilities, and he went off to buy a blue and white away shirt from the club shop. At 6pm, with a five hour drive up to his hotel in Liverpool ahead of him, Courtney said his goodbyes.

“See you tomorrow, mate.”

Honestly, it had been a lovely time, one for the ages.

But Sunday was another day, and it soon followed.

I was up at 6am, bright and breezy, and I soon spotted a text from Courtney. He had eventually arrived in Liverpool at 11.20pm after a couple of stops en route. I collected PD from his house and Josh from his hotel at 7am, and I collected Parky in his village at 7.30am.

After following our exploits via this blog since its inception in 2008, Josh has always wanted to join us in The Chuckle Bus for an away game, and here he was, sat next to Parky in the rear seats as I headed due north.

A week or so ago I decided that I would probably call this match report “Tales From The Football Road” because my journey would encompass a section of the M6, which is as near to a genuine and bona fide “football road”, for me anyway, in the UK. We would join the M6 in Birmingham, just as Walsall’s Bescot Stadium appears to the east, and it is the road that I use to take me to Chelsea away games against Everton, Liverpool, Manchester City and Manchester United, but also, historically, against teams such as Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers, Blackpool, Burnley, Wigan Athletic and Preston North End.

I am yet, however, to visit Edgeley Park, the historic home of Stockport County – where Chelsea played our first-ever league game in 1905 – and which is the closest league ground to the River Mersey.

The M6 took on a special importance on this weekend. It was the road that Courtney had taken on Saturday from the airport just south of Manchester to get down to Frome, and the road that he took back to his hotel in Liverpool.

The Football Road.

It certainly was.

As I headed past Bath, I was on the exact same route that Courtney had taken around fourteen hours earlier.

I tried my best to keep Josh entertained.

“You know Peter Gabriel’s song ‘Solsbury Hill’ mate?”

“Yep.”

I gestured outside.

“Well, this is it.”

We headed straight over the M4, into Gloucestershire, through some delightful Cotswold scenery. Thankfully the early rain eventually subsided. At Frocester Hill, the Severn Vale appeared down below. It was a breath-taking sight. Parky spoke about the Severn Bore and watching those that surf it, while I spoke about the river’s tidal range being the second highest in the world, but we then realised that we were becoming Severn bores.

We soon stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McDonalds breakfast at about 8.45am. I then ate up the remainder of the M5, but alas the floodlights of The Hawthorns were hidden by dense fog as the M5 ended and the M6 began.

“2017 and all that.”

As I passed Stoke, I was reminded of 1984 and I told PD that forty years ago to the very day we had chatted in one of Frome’s pubs about that game in Southampton. I asked of his recollections of that game.

He had indeed been knocked out after the game, but by a policeman on horseback. There was no real trouble, but after the match, the local Hampshire constabulary had caused a panic among the crowd leaving The Dell, and PD ended up on the pavement. Our mate Andy spotted him and helped him recover. Later that week, the CID interviewed PD at his house in Frome after many complaints by the public about the behaviour of the local police that day. These were the days when football fans, in general, were viewed as low-life scum by many in the police force and it was considered fair game for them to whack football fans. I remember being thrown against a metal fence at St. James’ Park by a Geordie copper after celebrating a little too enthusiastically after a Chelsea goal earlier in 1984.

I refuelled at Knutsford, then drove over the familiar Thelwall Viaduct. As we drove high above the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal, there was some local history for Josh. I explained how the Manchester cotton mill owners reacted to the higher rates being asked by Liverpool dock owners by forcing the construction of their own waterway, with docks at Salford, and how this heightened that particular inter-city rivalry.

Oh God, I was becoming the Mersey bore, now.

I drove onto the oh-so familiar M62 into Liverpool.

I was parked up, as I was on our last visit to Anfield, in a car park just off Dale Street just before midday, and just in time for the pubs to open. It had taken me exactly five hours to get from my house to the car park on Vernon Street. Above, blue skies and glorious sun. We had enjoyed fantastic pub crawls around Dale Street on PD’s birthday in January 2017 and January 2024, and we were back for more.

“Ye Hole In Ye Wall”.

This is rumoured to be Liverpool’s oldest pub, built in 1726. I treated myself to the first of two lagers for a change and it wasn’t long to wait for Courtney to arrive. I must admit, he looked rather tired, but he soon livened up.

“The Vernon Arms”.

Our third visit, the famous sloping floor, a chat with some local Liverpool fans at the next table, no animosity, all gentle banter. Josh recounted the story of the two of us having a drink in a bar opposite Yankee Stadium in 2012 for the PSG friendly, and meeting three young women who had brought little plastic bags of trimmed celery with them, having heard about it being a Chelsea “thing” yet completely unaware of “that” song and its full content.

“The Rose & Crown”.

A first visit, a little more chat with some Liverpool supporters, and we saw a late Kilmarnock goal defeat Rangers on the TV.

We needed to get ourselves parked-up, so I headed up to Goodison Park, via a slow drive-past Everton’s new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. We could only really see the shiny roof as there was a high wall blocking our view. I have been tracking its progress since I called by before our first away game in 2022/23. There are several old warehouses close by that we earmarked to be used for hotels in the near future. The stadium should revitalise that stretch of the river.

The Mersey played a little part in my family history.

I had spoken to Josh and Courtney about how my great great grandparents had left Somerset for a new life in Philadelphia in 1854. They boarded the maiden voyage of the SS City of Philadelphia from Liverpool, but it was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September, though – unlike the Titanic – no lives were lost. The Whites were to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.

Maybe next season, should Everton stay up, I will gaze out at the River Mersey from near the away end of the new stadium and think wistfully back to 1854.

“The Abbey”.

We visited this pub in the August of 2021 before a creditable 1-1 at Anfield, and I joined the lads in the cramped bar. Again, PD and Parky were talking to some locals. There was a quick chat with Tommie from Portmadoc about Rio de Janeiro, and then Josh and I met up with Courtney at the Dixie Dean statue at about 3.15pm.

We did a quick circuit of the old lady. This was their first-ever trip to Merseyside, and with this being Goodison’s last-ever season, it was only right that we circumnavigated the old place. I rattled off what seemed like a hundred different Goodison stories all at once and it is no surprise. I simply adore the place. You may have noticed.

Time was moving on and we needed to get our three arses up the hill of Stanley Park to Anfield. The wind was blowing now, but thankfully there was no rain.

Tommie’s brother, a staunch Evertonian, calls Anfield “Castle Greyskull” and as we approached it I could see his point.

Anfield used to be very similar to Goodison, nestled in among tight streets on all four sides. Now, because it has been able to expand, all of those adjacent houses have gone, and it sits atop the hill like a gloomy grey aircraft hangar, its two new and huge stands looming over everything. Goodison seems quaint and charismatic in comparison.

As we made our way towards the stadium, we could hear the music booming out from what I presumed was Anfield’s “fan zone”, which thankfully we have been spared at Chelsea.

“Stevie Heighway on the wing…”

Those bloody anthems.

Outside the away end, I passed over spares to Deano and I was inside at around 4.10pm. Despite the massive increase to the bulk of this newly-improved stand – the old “Annie Road” as the scallies called it – the concourse tucked behind the away end is still the same size, still cramped.

I took my place alongside John, Gary and Alan. A few familiar faces nearby, but lots of new faces too. The sun was high above The Kop and I wanted it to soon drop below the huge main stand. That bloody flag with the six European Cups made its way down the Centenary Stand, or whatever it is called these days. To my right, the humungous main stand, not one seat empty.

Fackinell.

“The Fields Of Anfield Road” again.

The entrance of the teams.

Scarves held aloft.

“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

Those bloody scarves.

A barrage of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea” but this was lost against the pumped tannoyed muzak of an Anfield game day, Gerry Marsden and all.

A minute of applause in memory of Peter Cormack, a player from my youth, a decent player.

Right, the team.

A big shock that Reece James was starting and Malo Gusto was shunted over to the left to keep an eye on Mo Salah, who now looked nothing like Mo Salah. Romeo Lavia in with Moises Caicedo, a strong midfield duo, er pivot. Pivot, right? That’s what all the nerds call it, right?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Tosin – James

Lavia – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Going into the game, I was confident, but was not that confident to think of a win. A draw would make me a happy man.

Being back in that bloody away end took me back to January when we were shellacked 4-1, and if Darwin Nunez hadn’t hit the woodwork on multiple occasions it would have been much worse.

It seemed odd not to see Jurgen Klopp stood in front of the Liverpool bench.

The game began and to my pleasant surprise we seemed to have most of the ball. But the home support, above us especially, were warbling out their old favourite :

“Fuck off Chelsea FC. You ain’t got no history.”

I chuckled to myself about their use of a double-negative.

Very early on, Liverpool broke and Tosin tangled with Diogo Jota just inside our half. The referee brandished a yellow, and I was so thankful that there was a Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, alongside the play, thus nullifying the threat of a straight red.

On eighteen minutes, Cody Gakpo was given the ball on a plate after a typical bit of madness from Robert Sanchez but his snapshot was hit right back into the arms of our worrying ‘keeper.

After a quarter of the match, it wasn’t much of a game, but we were still dominating most of the ball. Jadon Sancho on the left was often in space but did not use the ball wisely. Noni Madueke was more direct on the right. Cole Palmer was a peripheral figure. I liked the pairing of Caicedo and Lavia from the off, strong and resourceful.

It seemed like both teams were sounding each other out.

Salah went down in the box, but no penalty. Phew.

It was lovely to see Reece James patrolling the right-hand side of our defence and he slotted in well, showing some sublime early touches.

On twenty-nine minutes, Salah broke in from the right. I yelled at our defender to keep him outside. He came inside and shot. The ball hit Colwill but fell at the feet of Curtis Jones and Colwill made an attempt to nick the ball.

Penalty.

“Bollocks.”

Salah swept it in from the spot.

Liverpool 1 Chelsea 0.

“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”

Two minutes later, more menace from Salah as he crossed and Gakpo arrived late at the far post to prod home. Thankfully, Salah was adjudged to have crept offside. Phew.

The ball was pushed through by Caicedo to Jackson who wasted no time before smashing it high against the angle of near post and bar.

It was our first real attempt.

A couple of half-chances at either end.

At least we weren’t being over-run and over-powered like last season. This seemed like a slightly reticent Liverpool team.

In the closing moments of the first-half, as Sanchez rushed out to block from Jones, we were utterly amazed to see a penalty awarded, along with a yellow for our ‘keeper.

“That was just a normal block tackle, surely?”

VAR was called in.

No penalty. No yellow.

Very late on, Madueke broke down the right, Palmer withdrew to give himself some space and Madueke angled the ball to him. Was this the moment? Well, it was a moment but not the moment. Palmer’s shot glided just over the bar.

“Bollocks.”

The droll low burr of the Anfield announcer George Sephton, a presence at their games since 1971, introduced a younger and more excitable colleague to talk through a junior penalty-kick competition at The Kop at half-time. Sephton’s voice certainly evokes some memories. David James then saved a twice-taken penalty kick from a young Liverpool fan. The crowd booed. The announcer was in shock.

“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve just ruined that lad’s day.”

At the break, Pedro Neto came on for Sancho. My goodness, we certainly have options out wide. Soon into the second-half, just three minutes in, Caicedo picked out the run of Jackson and played a perfect ball through. Jackson advanced and calmly slotted past Kelleher. The away end erupted, but our joy was soon quelled by an offside flag. We waited for a VAR decision and, thankfully, it went our way. Jackson had stalled his run just right.

Goal.

Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.

With that, Jackson led a charge from the half-way line down to the Annie Road and the players celebrated wildly, while I hoped for a couple of decent shots with my pub camera.

Sadly, just three minutes later, a cross from Salah on the Liverpool right, caught the entire Chelsea defence out. The ball was swept right into a wide corridor of uncertainty, and the impressive Curtis Jones was able to take a touch and then prod the ball past Sanchez. I looked at the linesman in the far right corner but there was no flag.

“Bollocks.”

Liverpool 2 Chelsea 1.

On fifty-two minutes, three changes.

Renato Veiga for James.

Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.

Benoit Badiashile for Tosin.

“Were they preparing those subs before the goal, John?”

“Think so, mate.”

I was surprised to see Lavia being replaced. He had played well. Perhaps this was a precautionary measure.

There was a very loud “allez allez”.

It’s odd that we hear “YNWA” before games at Anfield, but never during the actual games themselves these days. When did that stop?

We had more of the possession as Liverpool seemed happy to soak it all up, but there were only quarter-chances from a Madueke shot from an angle and a Palmer free-kick.

I sensed that the home support was worried though; they seemed quiet and nervous.

The away support got behind the boys with our loudest chant of the game thus far, a fine rendition of “Amazing Grace – the Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” version.

I remember surging and strong runs through the middle from Caicedo, plus energy and directness from Neto on our left. Palmer was, alas, a passenger for much of the second-half. Neto’s effort trundled wide of a post.

On seventy-six minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Madueke, and Neto swapped wings. His play deteriorated on the right.

Palmer lobbed a free-kick into the Liverpool six-yard box but Veiga headed over from a good position.

We still kept going. I could not fault our application, even if the attack lacked real bite.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

My attention was drawn to the twin clocks that sit above the corner flags at The Kop.

Those bloody clocks.

I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time gazing up at those simple blocks of electric lights and I have done for years.

The extra-time ticked down, the time ticked away.

Nkunku almost touched the ball home, from a Neto cross, just a few yards to our left.

At the other end, Diaz picked up the ball and advanced.

“Don’t let him dance into the box.”

Thankfully his shot tantalisingly flew high and wide.

In the last second of the game, a shot from Malo Gusto was blocked and the referee blew.

Fackinell.

This had been my twenty-eighth visit to Anfield, and my record is relegation-form.

Won : 5

Drew : 8

Lost : 15

For : 28

Against : 45

I caught site of Courtney as we gathered together in the concourse. I am sure his weekend had felt just like a dream. He was to make his own way to Crewe and then catch a train down to London where he was working on the Monday and Tuesday.

I wished him a safe journey and thanked him for Saturday.

I didn’t envy his travel. Mind you, I didn’t envy mine. I still had around two-hundred miles to drive on this Sunday evening.

I stopped a couple of times to refuel – me, not the car – and I dropped off the lads before getting in at 12.30am. I was, of course, repeating Courtney’s breakneck mission on Saturday morning.

This football road.

Unfortunately, our football weekend had resulted in two defeats, but it had been a cracker.

There was international football ahead for Josh, and others in the coming week, with a trip to Athens for our game at Panathinaikos on Thursday.

I had an international game lined up too.

Merthyr Town vs. Frome Town next Saturday, ahead of Chelsea vs. Newcastle United next Sunday.

I can’t wait for either.

See you in the pub.

The Football Road : The Southern End

The Football Road : The Northern End

1984

2012

Tales From Two Tribes

Posted on September 23, 2024 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 21 September 2024.

It seemed odd to have no Chelsea midweek game after the Bournemouth match, especially since many other teams were embroiled in not only UEFA competitions but the Carabao Cup too. However, the away match at West Ham United’s London Stadium was reward enough for a barren week of football.

Although this stadium is undoubtedly my least favourite away venue – terrible sight-lines in addition to no Chelsea wins in all of my previous six visits – I was pretty positive about the day. As my working week ended on Friday, I was absolutely relishing the trip to East London. The malaise of the previous weekend had disappeared. Whisper it, but I could even sense a win. If that was to be the eventual outcome, the four of us were planning to execute a post-game victory ramble around the East End. That was enough to get me chomping at the bit for the day to start.

By some odd twist of fate, some forty years ago, Chelsea and West Ham United met in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I always remember that a chap called Baz who ran the Yeovil Supporters Club used to produce a small bi-monthly magazine, and in the pre-amble to the travel plans for this game, he subtitled it “When Two Tribes Go To War” after the huge Frankie Goes To Hollywood hit from that summer. Well, on Saturday 15 September 1984, the two tribes went to war in a game that is avidly remembered to this day, not least by me.

This would be the first time that I would see West Ham play and, while North London’s two teams had been developing a mutual hatred of each other both on and off the pitch for decades, Chelsea and West Ham had been doing the same, albeit in the Second Division, for a couple of seasons prior to 1984. Those 1979/80 and 1980/81 encounters – two Chelsea wins in the first season and two West Ham wins in the second – must have been lingering in the memories of those who were planning to attend the first match between the two clubs since a 4-0 West Ham win at Upton Park on Valentine’s Day 1981. To say that there were off-the-field scores to be settled would be a massive understatement.

I was up early for this one – some things don’t change – and I caught an early-morning train from Frome train station to Westbury with Glenn, and we then zipped up to Paddington. We made a bee-line for Stamford Bridge, arriving as early as 10am. As I was off to North Staffs Poly in a week’s time, I needed some photos for my NUS card, and so I used the photo booth at Fulham Broadway tube station. We walked down to a café at the bottom of the North End Road and for the first time in my life I sampled some pie, mash and liquor. This seemed ridiculously authentic for a nineteen-year-old lad from deepest Somerset; what a beautiful start to a top flight London derby. On walking up to the main gates at around 11am, we were aware of a large mob of casuals walking past us in the middle of the road; dressed to the nines, no colours on show, full of attitude, full of purpose. Without a doubt, we knew they were West Ham, the ICF. I remember one bloke bumped into me as he brushed past, but with the fear of their notoriety in the forefront of my mind, it was me who apologised.

After they had passed, we looked on as they ran a hundred yards or so towards the tube station and had a set-to with some newly-arrived Chelsea lads.

We waited in the East Stand forecourt as we saw another large mob of around fifty gents line up at a ticket office and attempt to buy tickets. The police had arrived by now and told them that no tickets were on sale and to disperse. The presence of a mob of away fans in the forecourt reminded me of the time in February 1977 when Millwall made an appearance, along with rushes and pushing and punches. As an eleven-year-old, this was all too exciting for words.

At one stage, the police closed the main gates, worried about a further influx of West Ham. Things were bubbling – pardon the pun – along for a while. Glenn and I got in the ground, into the relative safety of The Benches, at 12.30pm. There were some proper bruisers on parade that day, and us two teenagers were in no mood to get walloped, especially after a nasty experience at Bristol City that August.

Our capacity at the time was around 43,000 and I had predicted a gate of 32,000 the day before.

Once inside, it was clear that West Ham had brought the numbers. Our sweeping North Stand held 10,000 at the time and each of the four paddocks were swelling with numbers from an early stage.

At about 1.30pm, we noted that a mob of chaps had arrived en masse in the West Stand seats above us. For what seemed an eternity, they looked at us and we looked at them. At 2pm, they moved towards our right, towards the northern end, and punches were thrown at home fans, although the Chelsea seats were not full at all.

A slow deep song, previously unheard of, boomed out of the West Stand.

“ICF…ICF.”

I can’t deny it. It put the fear of God inside me.

They positioned themselves – maybe a hundred, maybe more – right behind us. I had been sitting in the very back row of The Benches, a few yards away. I looked at their angry faces and became concerned that they might well decide to throw some coins at us.

“Fuck that.”

Leggo, from Bedford, and I moved a few rows down.

On the other side of the pitch, about fifty West Ham showed up in Gate 13 in the East Lower but the police were soon in charge.

The game, played out in front of a very hostile atmosphere, was a cracker.

Us in 1984?

Niedzwiecki

Lee – McLaughlin – Pates – Rougvie

Nevin– Bumstead – Spackman – Thomas

Dixon – Speedie

West Ham fielded such stalwarts as Billy Bonds, Alvin Martin, Ray Stewart, Paul Allen and Tony Cottee. They played in all white.

It annoys me, forty years after the event that Trevor Brooking didn’t play in this match in; he had been a great player, one that I respected a little. Sadly, he had just retired at the end of the previous season, along with Kevin Keegan. Oh God, here come the memories of that bloody England vs. Spain game in 1982…I digress.

For some reason we attacked the Shed in the first-half. David Speedie was through but he was taken out by the West Ham ‘keeper Tom McAllister. The Hammers’ ‘keeper saved Colin Lee’s penalty kick, only for Lee to smack home the rebound. For some reason, the penalty had to be retaken. Bizarrely, the same thing happened again. Lee shot, McAllister saved, but Lee adeptly prodded home the rebound.

In the second-half, West Ham improved but a further goal, a lashed strike from Speedie on seventy minutes, made the game safe. With five minutes to go, Doug Rougvie was an unlikely provider of a deep cross that found an even unlikelier leap from Pat Nevin to head the ball in at the far post to give us a 3-0 win.

As this third goal went in, the West Ham mob behind us upped and left. Before we knew it, they had reappeared to our right, marching into the Shed at the Bovril Gate. A few punches were thrown at anyone within reach. It looked pretty indiscriminate. My pal Clive – who I sit alongside at Chelsea these days – took a battering after being pushed to the ground, but Chelsea soon re-grouped and chased them out.

Bizarrely, Glenn and I walked across the pitch – as did many – at the end of the game while the police tried to quell further scraps in The Shed, and we would get back on to the Fulham Road via the main gates. We made it back to Paddington intact and made the 6.05pm train to Bath, then to Westbury, then to Frome. On the way home, we chatted to two Bristol Rovers hooligans who had been lured to the bright lights of London for the game and had been part of the huge number in the away section.

The day had been massive. The gate was given as 32,411, yet we suspected that the Chelsea chairman Ken Bates had fiddled the figures; it felt nearer 35,000, maybe 40,000.

This had been a huge win for us. However, on the day, both Glenn and I always felt that West Ham had certainly made a big impression off the pitch – the buggers were certainly organised, their forte, their strong point – though in the ensuing years, Chelsea have always mocked the fact that they showed up way too early when the West Stand was full of normal fans.

That night, around the pubs of Frome, I bumped into a West Ham fan from school who, on hearing of the day’s events, summed it all up.

“The ICF did their job, then.”

I glumly nodded.

On this Saturday, just over forty years later, it was all about the football now. Hooliganism has almost disappeared from the national game, and it’s the actions of those on the pitch that are the focus of our attentions in 2024, though I am always aware of the symbiotic relationship between supporters and players.

Without supporters, we always say, football – and maybe footballers – are nothing.

After getting up early – 5.30am – I collected PD and Glenn at 7am. I drove past Frome train station, where our trip began in 1984 and onto collect Parky at 7.30am. We soon McBreakfasted at Melksham and we were on our way. While Glenn read my Bournemouth blog – that I had only finished the previous night – on his ‘phone, I updated the others on my December travel plans for Kazakhstan; out via Istanbul, home via Baku, and four nights in Almaty. I can’t wait. On the drive to London, the weather was miserable; full of dark clouds and rain. Thankfully, as we approached London it all brightened up considerably.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at 10.15am and, after our usual changes at Westminster and Canary Wharf, we reached Pudding Mill Lane station at 11.20am.

It’s a short walk to the London Stadium from here, and one which we are all familiar with. Unlike last season – just over a year ago – we were at the ground with tons of time to spare. Four foreign West Ham fans, all wearing various West Ham shirts, breezed past me. I detected accents from the southern US states. As they passed me, I spotted that one chap had “Lampard 26” emblazoned on his jersey.

My brain short-circuited.

“Lampard. Not our Frank surely? They hate him here. Maybe a reference to his father. But number 26?”

This just didn’t compute.

Security Check One : in.

Security Check Two : in, albeit after couple of dicey moments as the guy checked my camera.

I looked up and saw that “Lampard” was just ahead of me. I couldn’t resist a little chat.

“Hi mate. I have to ask why you have Lampard on your shirt?”

“He’s a legend, isn’t he? Like his father!”

I had no words.

Security Check Three : in.

But then a sniffer dog seemed interested in my camera bag. I was asked to accompany a bloke into a small tent where my camera bag, my wallet and my ‘phone were examined. I stood silent, bemused.

“You haven’t got any drugs, sir.”

“No.”

I almost expected them to ask if I’d like some.

We chatted to some pals in the large concourse; about the only thing they got right at this horrible stadium. PD and Parky were in the lower tier, I was towards the front of the upper tier, and Glenn was with Clive further back. For the first time, our tickets were sent via email and had to be repositioned inside an app on our ‘phones. It worked OK for me, but as Glenn was using a mate’s ticket, there was an uncertain period a few days ago when it appeared that the ticket – or rather a QR code – belligerently refused to appear on Glenn’s ‘phone. Eventually it was sorted.

With time to spare, I walked to the very top of the upper tier of the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand just to see for myself how awful the view is from the rear.

It is, as I suspected, horrific.

The sun was out, blue skies overhead, still positive vibes. I was stood alongside John and Gary in the third row of the upper deck.

Us in 2024?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Adarabioyo – Colwill – Fofana

Enzo – Caicedo

Sancho – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I had heard of a few of the opposing players, but not all of them. It’s a sure sign of my waning interest in top level football outside of the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club. After fifty years of going to games, it’s no bloody wonder my brain can’t take much more.

I hear this comment from so many people of my generation : “Teams from my youth roll off my tongue so easily but I really struggle to name many opposing players these days.”

As always at this stadium, we attacked the other end – The Bobby Moore Stand – in the first-half. The home team created the first chance of the game in the opening few minutes, but Roberto Sanchez saved well from Mohammed Kudos, whoever he is.

Then, a lightning break for ourselves. A free-kick was taken early. Chelsea – the cream shirts looking cleaner and whiter in the sun than last week – switched the ball from Jadon Sancho to Nicolas Jackson who sped away in the inside-left channel. He advanced and slotted the ball home, between the keeper Areola’s legs, and we were 1-0 up. He sped away, full of glee, and the home fans looked on despondently.

Snigger.

However, I was reminded of the times that we had gone ahead in this fixture only to concede goals later.

The home team came at us and created a chance for Crysencio Summerville, whoever he is, but we were full of ideas too. A forceful run from Jackson allowed a ball in to Cole Palmer who sadly stroked the ball just past the frame of the goal.

There was much to admire about our play and the home fans were beautifully quiet.

On eighteen minutes, the ball was played by Enzo Fernandez to Moises Caicedo in the middle of the pitch. He immediately saw the breaking Jackson and his pass was weighted to perfection. This was another Jackson versus Areola moment, though central this time, and our young striker clipped the ball past the ‘keeper with the outside of his right foot, thankfully captured on film by yours truly.

Get in.

A jubilant run past a fresh set of home fans.

A slide.

You beauty.

We were 2-0 up early.

As soon as had I picked up PD at 7am, I was confident we would win on this occasion. Should we do so, we were going to combine a post-match visit to a traditional pie and mash shop and then, probably, a first-ever visit to an infamous East End boozer “The Blind Beggar” where Ronnie Kray shot and murdered George Cornell, of the rival Richardson firm, back in 1966.

Were we safe? Maybe.

Chelsea continued to play well – especially strong through the middle – but the home team had a lot more possession during the final twenty minutes of the first period. I noted that Palmer was strangely quiet, often losing possession cheaply, and how deep he appeared to come for the ball. Often it felt like he was alongside Enzo and Caicedo in a three. I remembered Moises’ Chelsea debut at the same stadium last season, and what a shocker it was. He has progressed so well since and is one of our most admired players of late.

The home team weren’t especially good, but carved open a couple of chances. Jarrod Bowen fired over. A cool finish from Kudos was quickly flagged for offside. Our defence looked on top, but there were still a few jarring mistakes to keep us worried.

We eked out chances too. Sancho linked well with Jackson, but a shot was blocked, while Madueke ran and ran but failed deliver an end product. A lively first-half ended with another fine save from Sanchez.

There were plenty of Chelsea smiles at the break in the vast away end.

I was still sat, fiddling with my camera case, when Chelsea broke early into the second-half. The ball was pushed into the path of Palmer by the advancing Jackson. I hastily pulled the camera up to my eyes and shot. Then Palmer shot. The effort flew in off the near post as I rose to my feet.

Beautiful.

3-0.

Safe now.

I began thinking again of some pie and mash.

The goal signalled the end of whatever noise there was from the home areas. Joe Cole, commentating on the game in an open area to our left, was heavily serenaded. The West Ham crowd must hate that he is now revered as Chelsea and not West Ham, just like another person that we know and love.

Despite some half chances for the home side, the game really was over.

Time for some changes.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Axel Disasi for Colwill.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo.

There was a fantastic crunching tackle from Marc Cucarella on some West Ham player or another that – although resulting in a booking – resulted in a big cheer from the away contingent. It showed, in one moment, the desire in the team. I also loved all of the blocks – players putting their bodies on the line and other clichés – that again showed a desire and commitment that is not always visible.

At last, after six previous visits to the London Stadium, I had at last seen a Chelsea victory on a lucky seventh visit. Our home games often seem nervy affairs at the moment, don’t they? Can we play all our games away from home please? Three out of three in the league now.

Alas, no.

We now play four home games in a row in three competitions.

Barrow.

Brighton & Hove Albion.

Gent.

Nottingham Forest.

Our next away game – Liverpool on Sunday 20 October – seems ages away.

With many of the home fans leaving early, there was virtually no wait at Pudding Mill Lane station after the game. We caught the Docklands Light Railway train to All Saints and soon located “Maureen’s Pie & Mash”, tucked away in a small ‘sixties shopping precinct in Poplar.

Last season, before the corresponding fixture, we called in at the more famous “Manze’s” on London Bridge Road, but I think the pies on offer at “Maureen’s” were even better. Last season, I decided to call the West Ham blog “Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1” but on this day it was a case of “West Ham 0, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 3.”

Who should walk in as we were sitting down to our plates of pie, mash and liquor but our friend Dane who sits just in front of me at Chelsea. He often visits this haven of traditional London fare. What a small world.

None of us were keen to head home, so we caught another train from Poplar to Shadwell, then another one to Whitechapel. The sun was still shining high in the sky and we walked through the bustling street market – all of human life was there – until we reached “The Blind Beggar” pub on a wide pavement at a junction. We were able to relax, despite being the football supporter equivalents of the South London-based Richardsons visiting the heartland of West Ham’s East End support. Glenn had visited this infamous pub years ago – which was once owned by Bobby Moore of all people – and knew where to show me the bullet hole in a picture frame on the wall that was, allegedly, the one that killed Cornell after passing straight through him.

Gulp.

I had to smirk when “Smooth Operator” by Sade – featured in the first blog of this season, Rio de Janeiro, 1984 and all that – was played while we supped on ales. I also laughed at the chalkboard advertising “shots” for sale.

We crossed the road for a pint in a second pub, “The White Hart”, in Bethnal Green now, and we enjoyed a few moments as we reviewed the day’s game, while admiring the considerable scenery, cough, cough.

With no rush to return home, we then decided to head into the city. Alas, we heard that there had been a “jumper” on the line near Earls Court so we would have to return to Barons Court by other means.

We visited five more pubs during a lovey evening ramble around Blackfriars and Fleet Street. The only downer was hearing that Frome Town had been walloped 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville.

“The Blackfriar.”

This narrow pub was packed so we stood outside with the sun reflecting off the towering superstructures on the other side of the River Thames.

“The Albion.”

We saw bits of an entertaining 0-0 game on the big screen between Crystal Palace and Manchester United. Then, outside, the astonishing sight of St. Paul’s Cathedral, floodlit and magnificent.

“Punch Tavern.”

The first of three pubs on historic Fleet Street and the realisation that this was quickly turning into one of our greatest London away days

“The Old Bell.”

A cramped pub, full of character, a cosy room and recollections of school days, football days and hopes for a reasonable season ahead.

“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”

This pub was rebuilt after the Great Fire Of London in 1666 and I knew that it is one of London’s most famous pubs. I had known of its existence for years but it was a dream to stumble across it on this most magical of pub crawls. The place was swarming with tourists, full of beer, full of wine, full of chat, but thankfully none of them were wearing a Frank Lampard West Ham shirt.

At around 9.15pm, we caught an Uber to take us back to Barons Court and our waiting car. This in itself was a magical trip for us out-of-towners. We drove past The Strand Palace Hotel, where my parents honeymooned in 1957, past Trafalgar Square – a blurred photo of Nelson’s Column – and along Piccadilly, past Hyde Park Corner, into Knightsbridge, past the Natural History Museum, past Harrods, past The Famous Three Kings on the North End Road.

We stopped at Heston for a light snack, then I drove west to Wiltshire and Somerset.

I eventually reached home at just after midnight.

September 15 1984.

Chelsea 3 West Ham United 0.

September 21 2024.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Fackinell.

See you on Tuesday.

Before The Game : 1984

The Game : 1984

Before The Game : 2024

The Game : 2024

After The Game : 2024

Tales From The First Day Of Autumn

Posted on September 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 1 September 2024.

Since we last spoke…

…two Frome Town matches.

On Bank Holiday Monday, a healthy 738 assembled at Badgers Hill, but the home team unfortunately went down 0-2 to our cross-county rivals Taunton Town. Frome weren’t outclassed but just lacked a killer punch in front of goal. Of note in this game was the return of Jayden Nielsen, who Frome signed from Bristol Manor Farm in the summer – a top signing in my opinion – but who then returned to his former club after only a few friendlies as a Frome player. Lo and behold, the player then quickly signed-for Taunton Town after only a few games for Manor Farm. I can only hope that Jadon Sancho has a bigger impact at Chelsea than Jayden Nielsen at Frome Town.

On the Saturday before the Crystal Palace match, I drove through the shires of Southern England to attend the FA Cup game at Easington Sports, who sound like a Sunday pub team and play in Banbury. They had defeated Bristol Manor Farm, of all teams, in the previous round and so would not be taken lightly. Frome conceded early, but equalised via a nice lob from striker James Ollis. Despite several excellent goal-scoring chances in the second-half, the away team could not put the game to bed. A replay would take place on the Tuesday after the Crystal Palace game.

The new season has been tougher than we had hoped at Frome Town but I am undoubtedly enjoying the games. They bring me great pleasure.

With games in August and September over one weekend, it seemed like I would be taking a footballing journey from summer into autumn. Whereas the Saturday match involved a journey through new pastures, new roads – some of them bumpy – and a new ground, not to mention sightings of detectorists and steam engine enthusiasts, and a few other Bank Holiday oddballs, the Chelsea game at home to Crystal Palace on the Sunday seemed very normal. With a 1.30pm kick-off, there would be another early start for us, but we still love our Chelsea trips even after all these years.

I dropped PD and Parky off at the bottom end of Fulham and then parked up near Normand Park. I darted into the “Memory Lane Café” at the bottom of the North End Road for a quick bite to eat. I have decided to keep my forty-year retrospective look at 1984/85 going throughout this season, but will tend to concentrate on the twenty-two games that I saw in person during that memorable campaign.

By the time of the first day of September in 1984, I had seen Chelsea play three games that season. I have briefly detailed the friendly at Bristol City and I have far-from-briefly mentioned the league opener at Highbury in the last edition. The next game to talk about is our home opener against Sunderland, complete with former Chelsea winger Clive Walker, which took place on 27 August, another Bank Holiday game.

After the tumultuous events of the Saturday game at Arsenal, here was another long-awaited occasion; our first match in England’s top flight since a home game against Arsenal – another 1-1 draw – in May 1979. I travelled up with my parents for this one – my father drove – and I paid for the three West Stand tickets at £6 a pop. I had worked all summer long in my first-ever job – packing yogurt at a local dairy – and so must have been feeling flush. My diary informs me of a couple of things that I have long forgotten. My father evidently bought us a couple of small lagers in the old West Stand bar – that long room at the south-western corner – and our small instamatic camera, that I obviously wanted to use to capture the historic occasion, unfortunately chose not to work, though this was probably because my father had dropped it on at least two occasions during the day. If only I had a photo of my father and I from that moment, supping on lagers, making small talk, having a giggle. It would have been priceless.

Our seats were very close to the sprawling North terrace, half-way down. I popped down to say “hello” to the four lads that we had met on The Benches during the latter part of 1983/84, and it thrills me to say that I am in contact with all of them to this day.

Alan – he sits next to me at all our games, we go everywhere.

Paul – I see him at a couple of times each season.

Mark – I see him at loads of games each season, he goes everywhere.

Leggo – I saw him at Luton last season, and we talk a lot about Frome Town and Bedford Town.

A helicopter – how flash – arrived on the pitch before kick-off with the Second Division Championship trophy, and it was thrilling to see John Neal smiling as he held it. Alas, the gate was only 25,554, and I was expecting at least 30,000. Sunderland had around five-hundred in one pen. Apparently we gave the returning Walker a fine reception.

There is a photo of Stamford Bridge on this day, no doubt from the helicopter, that often appears on the internet and it’s a real beauty, showing the shape of the stadium at that time. We took the lead early in the game when Paul Canoville shook off two defenders and touched the ball past the on-rushing ‘keeper, the ball only just making it over the line. Kerry Dixon had a goal cancelled for offside and Canoville then hit the bar. Our play weakened in the second-half, but I reported that my man of the match was Colin Lee, resolutely defending at right-back. Forty years on there is still a feeling of disappointment that we couldn’t breach the 30,000 barrier for this match.

One thing is for certain; my diary was not full of the myriad of nerdisms that followers of football now earnestly use as they describe modern football. No overloads, no pockets of space, no low blocks, no high lines, no high presses, no patterns of play, no transitions, no turnovers, no re-cycling.

It was a simpler game in 1984, undoubtedly more naïve, but I bloomin’ loved it.

On the return journey, we stopped off for more small beers at “The Pelican” pub on the A4, and another “Axon Family Chelsea Day Out” was in the books. Looking back, with hindsight, there wouldn’t be too many more over the years; a handful, maybe Arsenal at home 1987, Wednesday at home 1987, Swindon away 1988, Charlton 1988, Everton 1991. But these are just lovely memories from forty-years ago. Just to be able to share a lager with my Dad once more…at Chelsea. Bliss.

To complete the 1984 story, on the following Friday, on the last day of summer, Chelsea played Everton in an evening game at Stamford Bridge. I did not attend, but my diary tells me that I travelled in to Frome to watch the game – it was live on TV, a treat – at a mate’s house. Again, I was disappointed by the attendance – just 17,734 – as Everton, playing in swish silver Le Coq Sportif shirts – won 1-0 with a goal from Kevin Richardson. Later that night, in the pubs of Frome, I bumped into Glenn who was wearing a Pierre Cardin roll-neck that he had purchased for £3 “off the back of a lorry.”

Fackinell.

Forty years on from these seminal moments in our lives, we had all assembled in the pubs, bars and cafes around Stamford Bridge once again. I had a little flit around the stadium before going down to the local. Dave – another of The Benches “crew” from 1984 – dropped in to see LP, PD, Salisbury Steve and little old me at “The Eight Bells” and we had a lovely pre-match for a couple of hours. We discussed the Europa Conference draw and especially the three away trips. All of our eyes are locked on an away day to Kazakhstan, with Greece a possibility and Germany unlikely. Dave saw the team and set me up for guessing it.

“It’s the team most of us would pick.”

I guessed it correctly, apart from me forgetting we had signed Pedro Neto and opting for Mykhailo Mudryk instead.

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

With industrial action taking place, we then had to wait a while to catch a delayed train from Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway. We got in just before the teams entered the pitch. Before I knew it, I was at my seat alongside PD – alas no Clive nor Alan on this occasion – and the players were soon doing their pre-match huddling.

The game began. Bright sunshine. Yet the floodlights behind both goals were on; answers on a postcard. Three-thousand away fans, one flag – “Whyteleafe Palace” – and not too many empty seats anywhere after the late arrivals finally settled.

The first fifteen minutes all belonged to us. We played some decent progressive stuff. Cole Palmer was the first player to go close, curling a sweet low shot just past the far post that I managed to catch on my pub camera. The appearance of my “reserve camera” was all due to the weather. I have no need for a jacket on hot days like these, so there was no way to smuggle my usual SLR in. Have I told you all how much I adore modern football?

Adam Wharton, who apparently plays for England, forced a save from Robert Sanchez on fifteen minutes.

“Ah, I see Will Hughes, the albino, is playing for them. I remember him at Derby years ago.”

On twenty-one minutes, Wesley Fofana’s long ball – good, let’s switch our ways to attack – found Noni Madueke and he advanced into the box, but with defenders chasing him, he was unable to replicate a successful prod like Paul Canoville’s from forty years ago. The ball skidded past the far post.

Just after, Neto to Enzo and a lovely lofted ball towards Madueke, whose clip on the volley was well-saved by the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson. Brilliant football.

Then, twenty-five minutes in, a great move. Levi Colwill won possession deep in his own half and released Madueke on the right. He raced past his man, advanced, and steered the ball inside to Palmer. I shouted “Jackson’s free” and he must have heard me. A pass to our striker and a neat finish at the far post. The linesman kept his flag down. I instantly dismissed the threat of VAR.

I punched the air.

“GET IN.”

Half-way through the half, a drinks break.

Two cold lagers with my Dad would have been lovely.

There was more decent play from us as the first period continued. I noted how Neto was hugging the left touchline, but was probably underused. A lot of our attacks came down the right.

On forty minutes, there was a fine through ball from a Palace player – Hughes I think – that was beautifully cut out by Madueke in his own box. The ball was collected and played inside to Colwill who was striding into the midfield. In a split second I thought of the phrase of “Total Football” and I had visions of Ruud Krol playing right-half while Johann Cruyff covered him. The ball was played from deep right to far left, and the move was a joy to watch. It all ended with a cross from the left and a header from Jackson which was saved by Henderson. Alas, no goal, but the move of the match.

PD was purring; “brilliant.”

It had been a good half of football, no doubt. It warranted more than the one goal.

There were none of the usual moans at half-time in The Sleepy.

These were saved for the opening moments of the second-half when Hughes, already booked, pulled down the advancing Palmer in a central position. No second yellow. The resulting free-kick, on film, drew another fine save from Henderson, arching his back to tip it over. From the corner, Colwill headed down and wide, clawed away by Henderson, also on film.

From that moment, our play fell apart and we looked a poor shadow of ourselves. The away team got going and we looked second best.

Rob, from Melksham, had joined us in the second period, and he commented “we’ll need to score two or three to win this.”

On fifty-three minutes, Wharton shimmied into the box, and the ball rebounded out to Cheick Doucoure. His shot was blocked by Fofana but the ball fell nicely to Eberechi Eze, who immaculately dispatched a curler into the goal, past the despairing dive of Sanchez, who quite possibly was reacting to a shot five minutes earlier. Anyway, he was late for this one too.

It was 1-1.

Bollocks.

The Stamford Bridge crowd – quiet, of course – at least responded with a defiant “CAREFREE” but then went back to our normal noise levels and our normal behavioural patterns.

I have grimly noticed, especially at home games where I am almost always sat, that my watching position at Chelsea games these days is often with my arms semi-crossed, with one arm up to my chin, looking like a prize knobhead, like a connoisseur at an art gallery or museum, or an adjudicator at an intensive interview session, or a chess player awaiting the next move from an opponent.

What a prick.

What have I become?

“Just old, mate.”

At least I wasn’t holding a pair of glasses in my hand and chewing on the tips like an ultimate art gallery wanker.

I wish I was more animated and involved but football these days can invariably be a dull sport and a dull spectator sport.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

Thank God for the odd moments of spontaneity, of intuition, of grace and beauty, those moments that get us agitated and off our seats.

The game grew scrappy. The rangy Palace attacker Jean-Phillipe Mateta was developing quite a battle with either or both of our centre-halves. I like a good old-fashioned battle.

On 58 minutes, a substitution.

Joao Felix for Neto, quieter now.

We were exposed on a couple of occasions as Palace ran at us.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the injured Malo Gusto.

This necessitated a shift in personnel that took me too many damn minutes to work out.

“Can you buggers stand still for a minute?”

On seventy-six minutes, another rapid Palace break and the ball was played inside to Daichi Kamara. His powerful shot was hit straight at Sanchez, but it appeared that his butter fingers had lost the ball. Thankfully, there had been enough of a block for the ball to deflect over. Phew.

Felix floated around but flattered to deceive. Palmer was crowded out and forced to come deep for the ball. He would later, in frustration, kick the ball against the hoardings and get booked. It was one of those days.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

The game continued on, and we all grew nervous. What had happened to the Chelsea from 1.30pm to 2.15pm? Enzo, who started well, had been a metaphor for our demise.

In the eight minutes of extra-time, the game came to life. Eze went close but Cucarella blocked. Then, Nkunku raced forward centrally and passed to Jackson who smashed the ball against the side netting.

Late on, a beautifully clipped ball from Enzo in his own half was played ahead of Jackson. He raced in on goal but his shot – on film, just – was parried by Henderson.

Bollocks.

So, a weekend of 1-1 draws.

Next up, Bournemouth away at 8pm on a Saturday night, but before that there will be four Frome Town games in 2024 and two Chelsea games in 1984.

See you there, or then.

Tales From Highbury 1984 & Molineux 2024

Posted on August 29, 2024 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 25 August 2024.

I was in the midst of a very busy spell of football. After the Chelsea game at home to Servette on Thursday, I drove to the outer reaches of London on Saturday to see Frome Town gain a very creditable 1-1 draw at Chertsey Town. There would be another Frome Town game, a home match with county rivals Taunton Town on Bank Holiday Monday, but sandwiched in between the two Frome games was Chelsea’s first away fixture of the season at Molineux, the home of Wolverhampton Wanderers.

I picked up PD at 9am and I picked up Parky at 9.20am.

However, I cannot lie; my mind had been full of a game that had taken place some forty years ago to the very day. I had woken at 7am, but I soon spotted that two friends – well done Stu, well done JD – had already shared thoughts on the monumental events of Saturday 25 August 1984 on “Facebook.”

On this day, Chelsea played our first game in the top flight of English football in over five years. Adrift in the Second Division, at times it looked like we would never return. But return we did. And how.

My post on “Facebook” ran like this :

“My Dad dropped me off at Bath Spa station. The train to Paddington with lads from Trowbridge. A pink Lacoste polo, light blue Levis, Nike Wimbledon Supremes. Chelsea everywhere on the tube. Lads on parade. Out into the sun at Arsenal. The queue at the turnstiles. Like sardines in a tin on the Clock End terrace. An 11.30am kick-off. The noise. The togetherness. The madness of Kerry’s goal.

The greatest domestic away game in our history.

Chelsea are back. Chelsea are back. Hello. Hello.”

PD and Parky were there too, though their memories were scant. In my pre-amble to this season, I remarked that I might float some memories from previous seasons into this 2024/25 campaign, but there is no way that I could resist some heavy thoughts about the Arsenal game from forty-years ago.

However, this game was so immense, so historic, so huge that a whole book has already been devoted to it. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of the match in 2009, “Chelsea Here, Chelsea There” was published and I was lucky enough to contribute a few words.

Compared to the timid atmosphere at games these days, both PD and I – as we neared Birmingham – both admitted that “modern football is shit.”

Wolves away 2024 may not be Arsenal away 1984, but I was still relishing it all. If I was to methodically rank all of the Premier League stadia that I have visited by various criteria, I am sure that Wolves’ Molineux stadium would be in the upper quartile. If I took into consideration each away stadium’s location, its design, its sense of place – effectively how unique it is – its quirkiness, its atmosphere, its accessibility, its history, I am positive that Molineux would score pretty high. Before the season began I quickly listed my favourite top flight venues and my least liked.

Favourites?

Everton, Brentford, Fulham, Brighton, Wolves, Newcastle.

Least liked?

West Ham, Manchester City, Southampton, Arsenal.

I first visited Wolverhampton while on a train journey to Stoke in the summer of 1984 – the greatest summer ever in case you are not aware – and I am sure I did my best to locate the floodlight pylons of Molineux on that journey, which was a game we all played in those days.

I like that Molineux is close to the city centre, even though it is difficult to find pubs close to the stadium, and I like the old gold colour scheme. I like that it is virtually on the same spot as the old Molineux with its cranked main stand, huge South Bank and the stand with the multi-spanned roof. Now that really was a stadium with a sense of place, like many were in the early years of football stadium construction.

We were parked up at the nearby Broad Street Car Park at 12.30pm and were soon hobbling down to the stadium. The other two shot off for a pre-match drink while I had a look around. I liked the eventual refit of Molineux in the early ‘nineties – it took ages, from 1979 in fact – but I am not too sure that the large and ugly North Stand adds to its charm. For the first time I walked past the Billy Wright statue outside the main entrance and up the steady slope towards the city centre. From here, it’s possible to get a real sense of how the original stadium utilised the natural slope of the land. Even know the North Bank is just built on earth.

I could not help but notice the various shades of yellow / gold / orange that Wolves have used over the years, as evidenced by some of the replica shirts being worn by the home fans. I can’t help but think that the club needs to nail down that old gold variant’s pantone reference and nail it against a brick wall somewhere.

On the same subject, our home kit colour seems to be a little “off” this season. More of that maybe later.

There was a slight “stand-off” with a steward – “a camera?” – but I was in.

Inside, there was talk of “Arsenal 1984” just as much as “Wolves 2024” and I liked that my “Facebook” post elicited some responses regarding the sartorial choices of the day.

Ian : “Ellesse polo, Lois light jeans, Nike Wimbledons.”

Timmy : “Benetton polo, light blue Kappa pullover, blue jeans, Nike Wimbledons.”

Jimmy : “Light blue Tacchini top.”

It is my biggest regret that my camera – I took it to Ashton Gate – was not with me at Highbury in 1984.

Unlike the sun-drenched terraces of Arsenal forty-years ago, it was lukewarm and wet in the moments leading up to kick-off at Molineux. It didn’t seem five minutes ago that I was tut-tutting at the divs wearing blue and white Santa hats on Christmas Eve and the awful signage on the North Bank balcony :

“Our Loving Devotion Guides Our Lifelong Dream.”

Fireworks in front of us. I captured a shot of the flames creating “A Big W” – and the second “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” reference of the new season. Ominous? We’ll see.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mydryk

Jackson

Or something like that.

I spotted the number six on the back of Levi Colwill and momentarily thought of Thiago Silva.

If only, eh?

For some reason, Noni Madueke was violently booed during his first touches on the far side. We began well, and Madueke ran deep before forcing a save from Jose Sa. The incoming corner was headed on at the near post – snap! – and Nicolas Jackson was loitering at the far post to head in. Barely two minutes had elapsed.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

On nine minutes, there was a leap from a Wolves player – Yerson Mosquera – with Colwill beaten, but the ball flew over. That should have levelled it. We played the ball out wide in the opening quarter but Mykhailo Mudryk in front of us in the Steve Bull Lower flattered to deceive. He was full of promise, but not much else.

A fine save from Sanchez on twelve minutes. With both teams attacking at will, this was a lively encounter. At times our midfield was woefully by-passed.

Jackson was looking a handful, but sometimes to himself.

We heard on the terrace grapevine that Madueke had been disparaging towards the city of Wolverhampton on social media, hence the boos from the locals. He obviously wasn’t sharing my placing of Wolverhampton in any upper quartile of anything.

There was a ridiculously delayed offside decision after Matheus Cunha had scored. There were shots on goal at both ends. Madueke was proving to be a real threat on the right unlike Mydruk on the left.

It was breathless stuff.

On twenty-six minutes Mr. Pink arrived next to me with his “lucky away” Pink polo shirt, shades of me at Highbury in 1984. With that, we lost possession, the ball broke to Rayan Ait-Nouri and he crossed for Cunha to sweep the ball past Robert Sanchez.

“So much for your lucky shirt!”

The play continued to go end-to-end. With me placed near the half-way line, my head was moving as quickly as a spectator on Centre-Court at Wimbledon.

On forty-one minutes, a great Wolves move found Cunha but we were indebted to a lunge from Colwill to deflect the shot onto the bar.

On forty-four minutes, a quick kick from Sanchez found the raiding Jackson in the inside-left channel. One touch from him, a beautiful flick with the outside of his foot as the ball bounced up, played in the supporting Cole Palmer. Again, the ball bounced nicely and Palmer expertly lobbed Sa with an exquisite finish. Watching the ball bounce into the goal was a heavenly moment. I love occasional long balls to keep the defenders on their toes and this move was magnificent.

Sanchez – Jackson – Palmer – BOSH.

Amazingly, the home team equalised deep into extra-time when a free-kick was played into our six-yard box and Strand Larsen, who looks sixteen, poked a leg out and steered the ball in.

It was a mad first-half.

At the break, I was sat relaxing when I recognised the intro to one of my favourite songs. I called over to Alan.

“Johnny Marr.”

True enough, here we were, in 2024 and here was a lovely echo of 1984.

“That’s easy money, that’s easy money.”

It had been an eventful first-half, plenty of attacking intent but some dreadful defensive decisions too. I turned to Gal and said “it’ll finish 5-5.”

At the break, Enzo Maresca replaced the lack-lustre Mudryk with Pedro Neto. I was expecting a barrage of boos, but I didn’t detect much animosity.

Very soon into the second period, Jackson passed to Palmer and there was a short pass outside to Madueke got us all excited. I luckily had my camera to my eyes and it suddenly dawned on me how close to goal he was. He shuffled the ball inside onto his left foot – no surprises – and shot at goal. There was a slight deflection off Ait-Nouri but we watched as the ball hit the back of the net.

Madueke’s run to the away support was joyful and I tried my best to take a few shots through a forest of arms and hands.

The game became scrappy and, despite the lead, it is always difficult to orchestrate any chanting and singing in that long elongated lower tier at Wolves.

However, on fifty-eight minutes, we witnessed an almost exact copy of Madueke’s first goal. Caicedo nicked a ball away from a Wolves midfielder and passed to Palmer, who in turn pushed the ball on to that man Noni. This time he chose to shoot, through the legs of Sa, with his right foot.

Get in.

More lovely celebrations, a slide this time.

Palmer himself went close, striking the outside of Sa’s post after breaking into the box after a ball from Jackson.

On sixty-three minutes, again a Palmer to Madueke moment, and an almost exact copy of the fourth goal. Enzo won a loose ball, Jackson prodded it to Palmer. You know the rest. Palmer to Madueke, a right footed thump low into the goal.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 5.

Noni raced away, picked up a spare ball to signify his hat-trick, and wallowed in the warm applause from the away faithful.

I reminded Gal of my 5-5 prediction.

But I also spoke about our memorable 5-2 win in the first month of the Lampard reign in 2019, almost five years ago, and I also remembered a 5-0 win under Claudio Ranieri in my first-ever visit to Molineux in 2003.

A substitution on 68 minutes :

Joao Felix for Jackson.

“Don’t get sent off this time.”

A substitution on 76 minutes :

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.

Wolves thought they had scored with a finely struck volley from Mario Lemina but it was disallowed for an offside in the build-up. It has to be said that the Wolves support was so quiet in that second-half.

I loved the way that Neto hugged the left touch-line. He raced through and smashed a shot against Sa’s post. On eighty minutes, he out-strode his markers beautifully and dragged the ball back for Felix to smash in.

Bloody hell.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 6.

Two substitutions on 83 minutes :

Christopher Nkunku for Palmer.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

At the end of the game, I tried to remember how many times I had seen Chelsea score six away from home.

This was only the fourth time :

21 August 2010 : Wigan Athletic 0 Chelsea 6

30 August 2014 : Everton 3 Chelsea 6

9 April 2022 : Southampton 0 Chelsea 6

25 August 2024 : Wolverhampton Wanderers 2 Chelsea 6

On the walk out of the stadium, the younger element was full of noise, and I let them cheer. These are still odd times for us Chelsea fans. I think it helped that all of the starting eleven at Wolverhampton were players from the previous season, not new. I think it helped me get behind the team a little more. The bond between players and supporters is a delicate thing but it was strengthened on this performance.

No European travels for me this week. I am having a rest. See you in the pub on Sunday.

Tales From A Few Fleeting Moments

Posted on May 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 19 May 2024.

This was turning into a very enjoyable end to the 2023/24 season. The last five days of it were packed full of Chelsea. On the Wednesday, we travelled down to Brighton and on the Sunday, there would be the final game against Bournemouth. But tucked into the middle, on the Friday, was a bonus day.

The Chelsea Foundation, who look after former players through the Chelsea Players Trust and oversee the club’s charities, education projects and Chelsea in the wider community, recently found out that we have been taking Ron Harris up to Stamford Bridge on match days since the autumn of 2021. As a gesture of thanks, they invited a gang of us up to the Cobham training centre. They gave us a range of dates to choose from, and it transpired that Friday 17 May was the best fit. You can just imagine our elation. I was lucky enough to visit Cobham way back in 2008 with a few friends from the UK and the US, but this would be a first visit for my match-day companions from the West of England; Glenn, PD and Parky. We went up in one car. In the other car, was the Harris family; Ron, his daughter Claire, her partner Dave, Ron’s son Mark and Mark’s young son Isaac. Joining us at Cobham was Gary Chivers, Ron’s match-day companion, who was with his young daughter.

We had an absolute blast on a perfect sunny day. We met academy chief Neil Bath, and a few of his staff. We chuckled when Ron introduced Paul to the academy hosts as “my minder.” You know you have made it in life when Chopper Harris calls you his minder.

The day started off in 1970. Let me explain. Recently, the youth teams of Chelsea and Leeds United met in a cup final, and there was a concern that the Leeds youngsters would be more “up for it” than the Chelsea lads. To rectify this, to illustrate the very real rivalry that exists between the two old enemies, the lads were shown footage of some of the tastier moments from the 1970 FA Cup Final Replay. We loved seeing the film, none more so than Ron, and there were many funny moments as we watched tackle after tackle, with legendary players clashing, a real blast from the past. It must have had the desired effect as Chelsea won the game 5-3. We saw footage of the youngsters’ match; there were some fine goals but some rugged tackles too, Leeds didn’t stand a chance.

In a surreal moment, we hopped into a fleet of little golf buggies and embarked on a tour of the huge complex, making sure that we didn’t crash into the players’ expensive cars. Not for the first time I found myself driving Lord Parky. We spotted the first team in a training session away to our right. The complex is massive. A full forty people are on the ground staff alone.

We spent a few moments with Cesc Fabregas who happened to be visiting the training ground. I told him that all four of us were at Burnley for his Chelsea debut in 2014 for “that pass” to Andre Schurrle. There was then a frantic period as the current first team squad made their way to the changing rooms. Each one, though, met with Ron Harris, and we tried our best to say a few words to as many as possible. Ron spent quite a while with Conor Gallagher and Cole Palmer. I took the usual smattering of photos. Nicolas Jackson was especially friendly. Loved his attitude. My big moment came when I tentatively approached Thiago Silva for him to sign a recent home programme; Tottenham, the great man on the cover. He took time to painstakingly sign in his unique way with his name, number and a flourish before handing the programme back to me.

“Obrigado.”

I was happy. Mission accomplished.

I must admit that Reece James looked a little sheepish after his sending-off against Brighton. We managed to spend an incredible five or six minutes with Mauricio Pochettino, who spoke easily and naturally with us as if we had known each other for ages. He talked about the development of the team, the way things have started to gel, and plans for the US Tour in the summer. He could not have been nicer. I loved the hug that he gave Ron Harris.

“We hope you are here next season, Conor.”

“So do I.”

We were treated to a lovely lunch in the same canteen as the academy players. PD tucked into a FAB ice-cream on the house, an image that will make me laugh for years.

Everyone that we met were so polite, so attentive, so personable and there was a cool and calm professionalism about the entire complex. We left on an absolute high, sure that the immediate future of our club was in good hands. I drove the boys home, almost not wanting the day to end. We stopped off for a couple of early-evening pints at a pub alongside the canal in Devizes. It was a fantastic end to a perfect day and it totally restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club.

Sunday – Munich Day – soon arrived and we were on our way to London at a ridiculously early time. Despite a 4pm kick-off, I was up at 5.30am to pick up PD, Ron and Parky by 7.30am. I dropped Ron off outside the main gates at about 9.45am and I was soon parked up. I spent a little time chatting to a few friends on the Fulham Road and at Stamford Bridge. I was quick to relay the positive vibes from Cobham. There was a quick and impromptu photo-call with Ron at the hotel with some friends of a friend from Dundee; their first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge and they were boiling over with excitement.

On a day when Thiago Silva would be making his last-ever appearance in Chelsea colours, I made sure that I took a few photographs of his image on the wall by the West Stand forecourt.

Then, a tube down to Putney Bridge to meet the troops in the pub. Friends from near and far joined us, and I detected a happier atmosphere in the boozer than is always the case. We were, after all, chasing our fifth win a row, and the confirmation of European football in 2024/25.

The global scope of Chelsea’s support was well-represented.

Russ – Melbourne, Australia.

Brad and Sean – New York, US.

Richard and Matt – Edinburgh, Scotland.

Sara and Danny – Minneapolis, US.

Even and Roy – Oslo, Norway.

Kyden and Jacob – Tampa, US.

No drinks for me of course, but the lads were filling their boots. The laughter boomed around “The Eight Bells.” At around 3pm, we set off for the final time of this roller-coaster of a season.

A tube to Fulham Broadway, a walk up to the turnstiles, the sun out, where is there a better place on Earth?

Chats with a few folk who sit close by. Again, positive vibes. The end of season run-in was not as problematic as we had feared.

The team?

In order to accommodate Thiago Silva, Malo Gusto was unfortunately dropped. Mudryk was out after his injury at Brighton. He was the one player that we did not clock at Cobham.

Petrovic – Chalobah, Silva, Badiashile, Cucarella – Caicedo, Gallagher – Madueke, Palmer, Sterling – Jackson

The surprising thing was that there had been virtually no mention of the title race. Was Manchester City’s win against West Ham as straightforward as we were hoping? Only time would tell. However, the outside chance of Arsenal winning the title for the first time in twenty years was lurking in the back of my mind, and maybe others too. I think we made a pact with each other to keep silent. I also had a whimsical notion that Tottenham would do the ultimate “Spursy” thing and fall on their own sword at Sheffield United, thus giving us the chance to finish above them.

There were colourful displays at both ends of the pitch devoted to the captain for the day.

Thiago Emiliano da Silva.

The great man signed for us while we were ensconced at home under COVID, and I did not see him play for Chelsea in the flesh until the FA Cup Final in May 2021. Just a few weeks later, I remember watching out in Porto as he fell to the floor in the closing moments of the first-half. Inwardly, I shared his tears as he pulled his shirt up over his face before walking off. Thankfully, we scored just three minutes after and he would win his sole Champions League medal after all. Since then, he has been a colossus, a giant, a cool leader at the helm of an oft-troubled defence and team and club. We will miss him so much.

Anyway, the game began.

In the opening few moments, Stamford Bridge was a noisy cauldron in celebration of Thiago Silva. His standard two songs rang out and we all joined in.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

“He came from PSG.”

After all that had happened the previous week, I found it difficult to fully concentrate on the game that was being played out on the gorgeous green of Stamford Bridge. I felt a little tired, a little dazed. Was this one game too far for me?

This was my eighty-seventh game of the season.

Chelsea 51; for the first-time ever, I had not missed a single game.

Frome Town 35; my most-ever, beating last season’s twenty games, and an absolute belter of a season.

Exeter City 1; and quite easily the worst of the lot, my reward for going to a game in which I had zero interest.

We began brightly, and there was a shot from Nicolas Jackson and one from Cole Palmer. Both did not trouble the away ‘keeper Neto. The first was hit right at the ‘keeper, the second drifted past the far post. Raheem Sterling was buzzing around, and it was a nice reminder of how he can play if he is in the mood.

In the opening fifteen minutes, we had completely dominated possession, possibly at the 90% level. But in the stands the noise had been reduced to a whisper.

“Football in a library” sang the three-thousand Bournemouth supporters.

Yep, guilty as charged.

Sterling went down inside the box, but VAR adjudged it to be a clean challenge.

On seventeen minutes, Jackson poked the ball forward perfectly into space for the lively Sterling to chase. Neto was out early and cleared, but was under pressure from Conor Gallagher. The resulting swipe lacked direction. The ball reached our half, where it found Moises Caicedo. The midfielder pushed the ball forward, just over the half-way line, and thumped a high ball towards goal. With Neto scrambling back, and a spare Bournemouth defender chasing too, the ball perfectly nestled into the Shed End goal. I will be truthful, it looked a goal as soon as it left his foot.

GET IN.

I captured his jubilant run and leap. What a way to score his first Chelsea goal.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

We heard that Manchester City were 1-0 up and then 2-0 up within twenty minutes.

“We’re gonna have a party…”

The away team attacked occasionally, but we didn’t seem in danger. I made sure that I took a few photos of Thiago Silva down below us.

The away fans were still moaning.

“1-0 and you still don’t sing.”

I was still struggling a little to get into the game and our players looked a little tired. Bournemouth seemed to improve as the first-half continued. A speculative long-range shot from Ryan Christie glanced the top of the bar, there was a block from Trevoh Chalobah, a save from Djordje Petrovic.

At the end of the first-half, we heard that Arsenal were losing at home to Everton and there was a sudden input of noise.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

But then the mood changed when it became City 2 West Ham 1 and Arsenal 1 Everton 1.

Please God, no.

At the break, we were relatively content. With just a point required to secure European football once more – out of the question for me and many others until very recently – we were on track.

On forty-eight minutes, the seemingly rejuvenated Sterling was put through in a wide position and danced his way down below us in The Sleepy Hollow and into the box.

“Go on, Raz.”

From a ridiculously tight angle he finished beautifully, although Neto will be annoyed at the ball going right between leg stump and off stump.

Barely thirty seconds later, Bournemouth scored when a shot from Enes Unal was deflected off the unlucky Benoit Badiashile and into the net. Could Cucarella have done better? His slight slip allowed Unal to come inside.

Bollocks.

The game drifted a little. At least there were no significant updates from the UAE Air Company Stadia.

On the hour – at last! – a loud “CAM ON CHOWLSEA” followed by an equally loud “Carefree.”

We then heard that City were 3-1 up and we could relax a little.

Mauricio Pochettino made three substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Madueke.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Caicedo.

Christopher Nkunku for Sterling.

I captured the header from Nkunku, from a Palmer free-kick, that just missed the goal frame.

At the other end, Dominic Solanke – who was applauded by many as he came on as a substitute – really ought to have done better but his low shot went wide of the far post.

Chances came at both ends and the game became a lot closer than we had hoped. We created chances for Gusto and Nkunku. There was a fine low save from Petrovic up the other end.

Another substitution.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

Huge applause.

The lad from Manchester has been a revelation. He will be the main reason why I pay any attention to the European Championships in Germany later this summer.

Late on, substitute Casadei forced an error and the ball fortuitously fell to Gallagher who forced a decent save from that man Neto.

There was a header, from distance, a little similar to John Terry against Barcelona in 2005, from Thiago Silva and although we prayed for a perfect end to his Chelsea career, there was no Ricardo Carvalho on hand to spoil Neto’s view and the effort was ably saved.

Drat.

At the death, a lightning break from Bournemouth down their right caused added anxiety. The ball was played in to Dango Ouattara but Petrovic parried the low effort away. Christie was following up but a perfectly-timed scything tackle from Gallagher denied the chance. However, the ball bobbled out to Solanke who – thank God – blasted the ball over.

Alan and I looked at each other and gasped.

The added time came and went, and we had made it.

City champions, then Arsenal, then Liverpool, then Villa, then Tottenham, then us.

“We’re all going on a European tour.”

There was not too much time to wait for the farewell speech from Thiago Silva. He walked on to the pitch with his wife Belle and their two boys – a guard of honour from his team mates of course – and took a few moments to steady himself.

It is a mark of the man that virtually everybody had stayed behind for this. Often when there is a lap of honour at the end of a season such as this – no trophies – many drift off. But it again restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club to see so many supporters, evidently including many in the corporate areas such as West View, stay to witness his farewell speech.

There were ripples of applause throughout the speech and a big and booming finale greeted his closing words.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

What a man. What a player. What an athlete. What a professional.

These last four years have been as mad as they come, but his presence has been like a beacon for us Chelsea supporters.

Thiago – you will be missed.

We left the stadium. I popped around to collect Ron from outside the hotel, and we slowly walked back to the waiting car.

It had been a fine end to a testing season. We were all relishing the prospect of some European travels in the autumn – at least – in whatever competition we end up in. And we were all looking forward to, hopefully, a summer of stability, with thoughts of progression into 2024/25.

On a personal note, I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years.

Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.

I make no apology for dovetailing Frome’s games in with Chelsea’s games during this season. Hopefully the readership of this blog appreciates the contrasts and the extra narrative that it provides for my Chelsea rambles.

And thanks to everyone for keeping faith with me again this season. It’s a labour of love all this. It is part of my Chelsea routine. I take photos and I write. It’s what I do.

I am currently up to 1,952,777 words on here.

Next season, I will get past the two-million-word mark.

Fackinell.

As an aside, I have noticed a couple of things this season.

Firstly, there have been more and more “clicks” on the homepage, meaning that many of the good people who read these tales do not rely on Facebook links to access this website. I like that. It means they don’t need a prompt.

Secondly, despite these tales beginning life on the Chelsea In America site in 2008, there has been a continual reduction over time of viewers in the US.

In the first full year of CHELSEA/esque in 2013, the US comprised of 7,437 out of 16,895 total views. Yet so far in 2024, the US’ numbers are just 4,184 out of 26,010 total views.

2013 : 44%

2024 : 16%

But I am not worried. Viewing figures remain robust and healthy, with more and more from the UK with each passing season. That’s great. We are, after, all – despite the owners – a UK club.

Oh, the owners.

Do I have to?

These match reports always end on the day of the game; either at the final whistle, on the walk back to the car, on the drive home, or after watching “Match Of The Day.”

If there is anything that occurs the next day that requires comment, I shoe-horn it in to the next edition. But, as my next edition will not be for three months, I had best turn my attention to the events of Tuesday 21 May 2024.

I could write a lot. I could write a little. What to do?

It just struck me that it is something when 95% of opinions shared by Chelsea supporters on social media that evening backed Mauricio Pochettino, the former Tottenham manager, as opposed to backing the Chelsea board.

Yes, he did not rush to win us over, but I liked his view that he wanted to earn respect from us rather make some superficial “kiss the badge” statement or be pressurised into a sound bite. He was his own man and I kind of respected him for that. We told him at Cobham that we realised that it would take time this season. He got us into Europe. We reached one cup final. The last two months have generally been superb. The odd blip? Growing pains.

I leave with my “Facebook” post that evening.

“I feel so blessed to have been able to see a decent man go about his work last Friday. The clowns in charge of the club have left me confused and sad, angry yet helpless.

Good luck Mauricio, for a few fleeting moments it just felt right.”

Best wishes for a fine summer everyone. This football fancier will return in August with hopefully a tale or two to tell from Brazil featuring Thiago Silva.

Keep The Faith.

Cobham

The Eight Bells

Stamford Bridge

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth

Obrigado Thiago Silva

Tales From The Hot Corner

Posted on May 12, 2024 by Chris Axon

Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2024.

Warning : there is a lot of red in this match report.

The Arsenal shellacking was only just two-and-a-half weeks ago, but such has been the sea change in our performances and the collective confidence in our team, that as we approached the final three games of the season, my thoughts could be summed up in just three words.

Three more wins.

If we could win the final two away games at Nottingham Forest and Brighton, plus the final match of the season at home to Bournemouth, then European football would be a strong possibility at Chelsea next season. And, whisper it quietly, but the current campaign would be marked as a success.

With my usual match day companions PD and Parky out in Spain for PD’s eldest son Scott’s Stag Party, this was a very rare solo trip for me. The kick-off in Nottingham was scheduled for 5.30pm and so I had lots of time on my hands. I decided to call in at Bicester en route for a little retail therapy, and as I left my Somerset village at 10.30am, my route to Nottingham was hardly the most direct. My car set off east, past Stonehenge and then up the A34 past Oxford, to Bicester, and beyond. As I drove past the signs for the Kassam Stadium to the south of Oxford, my mind flew back to the summer of 2004, almost twenty years ago, for Jose Mourinho’s first Chelsea game of note. It’s hard to believe that the 2004/5 title season is so long ago.

My companions throughout my day’s driving would be Tracey, Elizabeth and Beth; I had lined up a few CDs to play in the car and I decided to keep it clean and simple.

Three female voices.

Tracey Thorn, Elizabeth Fraser, Beth Gibbons.

The weather was fine, football was on my mind, and it drifted.

I went back to the drive-home from the West Ham game last Sunday. Up at Wembley, my mate Alan was watching his non-league team Bromley take on Solihull Moors to gain promotion to the Football League. Bromley had gone 1-0 up while the West Ham game was being played out, but the game had ended 2-2. We listened to the commentary of the extra-time period as we drove back along the M4. There were no more goals. It would go to penalties. Bromley missed an early effort, but went on to win 4-3. As the winning penalty went in, I punched the air. At the Hungerford exit, I pulled into a lay-by and texted Alan my congratulations. Exit 14 on the M4 will now forever be known as the Bromley exit.

All of these roads, all of these footballing memories, criss-crossing England and criss-crossing in our minds.

On my way under the M4, my mind drifted further and it was no surprise that it flowed back to Bank Holiday Monday when my local team Frome Town played Bristol Manor Farm in the Southern League South Play-Off Final. In the semi-final, we had easily dispatched Mousehole 3-0, and as I made trips to Stamford Bridge for the Tottenham and West Ham games in quick succession, my mind was otherwise full of Frome.

I met up with a few friends for a drink in a couple of establishments before the game. The anticipation was huge. On-line tickets sales had reached 1,000, then 1,400. Originally, I had expected over 1,500 but as the day dawned it appeared that a ridiculous gate of 2,000 might be reached. We got in at 2.30pm, and a quick look up at the Clubhouse End revealed an already buzzing pre-game atmosphere. The sight made me purr.

I watched the red shirts of my home town team in the first-half all alone having lost the other friends in the tumultuous crowd. I positioned myself next to the Ultras in the seated stand behind the eastern goal. Unfortunately, the visitors went ahead on just eleven minutes when Jayden Nielsen, a tormentor from two years ago when Manor Farm won 3-1 at Frome in that year’s semi-final, played in a ball for Ben Bament to tap in. Thankfully, on twenty minutes Matt Smith swung in a perfect corner for captain Sam Teale to head home. The rest of the first-half was a scrappy affair with few chances as the heavens opened.

In the second-half, I met up with my mates under the roof of The Cowshed and Frome turned the screw. Kane Simpson hit the post, James Ollis headed over. Then, Teale was fouled but Zak Drew saw his effort saved by former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. Thankfully, two close-in pokes from Simpson on seventy and seventy-six minutes saw the home team romp to a 3-1 triumph. The gate? An immensely impressive 2,235.

It had been a perfect afternoon. The pre-match nerves gave way to satisfaction, pride and relief. It was my thirty-fifth Frome game of the season, easily my most involved season, and one that I have enjoyed so much. It has provided a lovely alternative to the often cynical brand of football that is played at the top level in England. Non-league football is on the up, and I can’t wait to embark on another season in August when we will re-join the Southern League Premier and meet old foes such as AFC Totton, Dorchester Town, Swindon Supermarine and Winchester City again. We were last at this level in 2019.

Chelsea fans of a certain vintage often cite 1983/84 as our greatest-ever season. From a Frome perspective, 2023/24 will be hard to beat.

One extra story from Bank Holiday Monday. In the other Southern League Play-Off Final, the Central lot, Bedford Town defeated Waltham Abbey 2-1 in front of 2,052. Bedford are supported by my old Chelsea mate Glenn, aka Leggo, and it was perfect that three lads from the Chelsea Benches in 1983/84 were now celebrating promotions from their three “other” teams forty years later.

A perfect couple of days, no doubt.

After stopping at Bicester for an hour, I made my way up past Silverstone to join the M1 at Northampton. At Leicester Forest Services, I bumped into three good Chelsea mates Rob, Rob and Martin.

Very soon, I had turned towards Nottingham and those eight monstrous cooling towers at Ratcliffe-On-Sour. Their curves were catching the sun perfectly. I drove in over Trent Bridge, past the cricket ground, the floodlights visible, then the stands and lights of the City Ground and Meadow Lane. I was parked up at 4.15pm. Perfect.

On the short walk to the City Ground, I heard a loud roar, so much so that I stupidly wondered if there was a Notts County game taking place. I soon realised that West Ham had equalised Luton’s early goal. The shouts of relief were from Forest fans in various locales near the stadium. I took a few photos; scene setters. Further shouts told of further West Ham goals.

Forest were safe.

By the way, they like their replica shirts at Nottingham Forest. There was bloody red everywhere.

I made my way to the away turnstiles and said hello to a few friends; JD from Ascot, Darren from Crewe, DJ from London, Aroha and Luke from The Eight Bells, Ricky from London, Dave and Colin from South London, Liz and Pete from Camberley, Pam, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, and Stuart from Kilmersdon, just four miles away from me. Dave and Glenn sidled past.

At the security check, my SLR was waved in and I met Jason to collect a spare for Brighton on Wednesday. I was soon inside, in the sun-bleached hot corner, alongside Gary, John and Alan.

“Wish that sun would disappear behind that stand or some clouds, this is going to be a tough watch.”

Despite wearing sunglasses, I would be forever cupping my hand over my eyes at this game.

The team? It was the same one as against West Ham United last Sunday.

Petrovic, Chalobah, Cucarella, Silva, Badiashile, Caicedo, Gallagher, Madueke, Palmer, Mudryk, Jackson.

The home team contained Ola Aina and Callum Hudson-Odoi, former Chelsea youngsters.

The home support – I easily remembered how loud it was last season on New Year’s Day – was booming, especially in the corner of the main stand next to us. This was going to be a rocky game, this.

The teams walked onto the pitch.

Forest in red, white, red, their “Garibaldi” shirts mirrored in the stands. Chelsea in Eton blue.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent.”

The pace was booming.

At 5.30pm, the game started.

This was a warm evening by the banks of the Trent, and that sun made viewing difficult. We were low down too, with a difficult view of the pitch. Yes, a tough watch.

The home team began well and Djordje Petrovic needed to be alert to race out to pluck a lobbed effort from Chris Wood from the air.

On eight minutes, away on the far side, Cole Palmer sent through a ridiculously perfect through-ball for Mykhailo Mudryk to run onto. It was so well played, so delicious, that he did not have to break stride to strike. The ball was tucked in, low, at the far post. I roared but simultaneously chastised myself for not having my camera on hand to snap the goal. I made up for it with a shot of Mudryk’s leap of joy.

Nottingham Forest 0 Chelsea 1.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us naaaa.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Both teams had spells on the ball. On fifteen minutes, Benoit Badiashile attempted to nibble a Forest player as he broke into our half. A free-kick and a booking for Badiashile. Gary was livid. Sadly, we were all livid as the free-kick was floated in and Willie Boly ran through and met the ball with an easy header at the back stick.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 1 Chelsea 1.

The home support roared.

“The reds are staying oop.”

The first-half was an odd forty-five minutes. We enjoyed much of the ball, but did not cause many problems at all. I felt that Thiago Silva reverted to type and hovered with the ball at his feet on too many occasions, and we rarely played the ball quickly. Moises Caicedo found it hard to get going too. His thrust was gone. Too often we passed and passed. Marc Cucarella joined the midfield but the result was that he just helped to clog things up.

The two wingers were frustrating to watch. Mudryk often stood alone on the far side and we often chose not to use him. He needed to be further up field, on the last man, on the lip of the offside trap. With Cucarella off the wing, venturing inside, was he told to resist bombing up the flank? I don’t know. On the right, the left-footed Noni Madueke, was not greatly-used either.

Wingers can be so frustrating to watch. And their role has changed over the years. We are now in the purple period of inverted wingers. I suppose Arjen Robben was our first inverted all those years ago. How he used to love to cut in. Now, we have wingers cutting in to shoot, no longer always aiming a deep cross to hit the leap of a big man in the box. I miss those days.

I used to play as a right-winger in my school days and the idea was always to get around the outside to cross. Coming inside was never an option. I was decent for a few years, and I made my school debut as a ten-year-old in a team of twelve and thirteen years in the Spring of 1976, and played as a right winger for a few seasons. Sometimes I played as a second striker alongside a lad who went on to play one game for Bristol City. But I was happier as a wide player.

I was proud to make the first starting XI of the first team in our inaugural year at Frome College in the 1978/79 season. However, I can remember my report card at the end of that season when I played mainly in the first team but then slid out into the second team at the end for a couple of games. The PE teacher wrote that I had the ability to beat a man and put in a cross, but had virtually no confidence in my ability. I was mortified. I just wished that he had taken me to one side to explain all this to me rather than hanging me out to dry at the end of the school year. After that, I drifted along in the second team, my confidence shot to pieces.

I guess I was the world’s first introverted winger.

The first-half pottered along, and the home fans were still in good voice. They chose to make their feelings known about the rumours of the club moving to a new 50,000 stadium on the city outskirts.

“Stand up for the City Ground.”

“Toton’s a shithole, I want to stay here.”

There were only a few efforts on goal from us. Nicolas Jackson was set up by Palmer but was thwarted. A long range effort was tipped over by the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sells. It felt like Forest had more shots on goal than us in that warm – but tepid – first half. Gallagher was booked for a “nothing” challenge on Hudson-Odoi.

It honestly felt a little like a training game. To our right, a few red and white beach balls had been tossed around during the first-half and it often felt that the players would rather be in Benidorm with PD and Parky. Well, not Benidorm per se, but you get my point. I was a little underwhelmed by it all to be honest.

Chelsea attacked us in the second-half.

Forest clipped the outside of Petrovic’ post with a long range effort but we rallied and seemed more intent to break quickly. Palmer was played in by Caicedo, looking much more involved now, but volleyed high.

Hudson-Odoi, keen to impress no doubt, had looked lively in the first-half, and his cross allowed Morgan Gibbs-White’s header to hit the post. Unbelievably, the rebound was smacked over from beneath the bar by Wood.

Fackinell.

There were substitutions :

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile, with Chalobah moving alongside Silva.

Now it was our turn to hit the woodwork, a free-kick from Palmer and a glancing header from Silva.

So close.

Then, Hudson-Odoi cut in from the left and dropped a fine effort goal wards. It dipped drastically and clunked on top of the bar.

Fackinell.

Not so long after, on seventy-five minutes, the former Chelsea starlet moved inside again onto his right foot – “get closer to him!” – and dinked a really fine effort in at the bottom right-hand corner.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 1.

The home hordes boomed again. These fans were the loudest that we had encountered all season.

Time was running out and those three wins were looking rather optimistic. However, we had played better, faster, more intelligently as the second-half developed with Palmer showing that he is the main orchestrator. At the back, Silva was his cool self.

Two more substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Reece James for Gallagher.

My immediate thoughts : “why bring on Reece with just two games left this season? Let the bugger have a complete rest until August.”

On eighty minutes, the ball was played in to Sterling, who had looked keen and animated since his arrival. A touch to take the ball away from his marker and then a shot – another dink – and the ball hit the net.

YES!

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 2.

There were no celebrations from the scorer. Time was running out.

Just two minutes later, Caicedo splayed a first time ball out to the right where James was free. His clipped and inch perfect cross was headed home with aplomb by Jackson – old school cross, old style header, old school bosh – and the Chelsea end exploded.

GET IN.

Before I knew what was happening, the scorer copied Axel Disasi’s run into the crowd at Crystal Palace. Chelsea fans ran down to the front, limbs were flying, I rather pathetically pointed my camera in the general direction of the melee while boiling over with joy at our ridiculous turnaround.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 3.

As the supporters returned to their seats and as the players slowly walked away, Jackson was yellow-carded, the latest in a long line of silly bookings. I can forgive him that one though.

What a buzz.

The home fans above us and to our right were stunned.

The chances still came as the last few minutes, then injury time, was played out. These chances for both teams gave the game a ridiculously frantic ending.

But we were safe.

Despite the promise of a lap of honour from the Forest players after the game, many home supporters made their way to the exits.

“That’s right. Fuck off home to watch Eurovision” chirped Gary.

On the walk out of the away end, the Chelsea swagger was back. There were laughs with many mates. It had been an odd game, one that had gathered momentum as it wore on, but those scenes down below us in the hot corner when we got the winner will be talked about for ages.

All of a sudden, this difficult season is becoming a lot more palatable. Earlier, supporters complained of feeling distanced from our players.

But bridges are being built.

This feels more and more like our team, our club.

I got back to the waiting car at 8pm after walking alongside hundreds of red-shirted locals muttering away to themselves. I was soon heading towards those large cooling towers.

I put a new Cocteau Twins CD on.

“Feet Like Fins” boomed out as I drove over the bough of a long hill, the evening view ahead, the M1 in the distance, these roads criss-crossing with memories. A car with a “CFC” number plate drove past. I smiled to myself.

God, I love these football trips.

I was on the M1 at 8.30pm. The Sat Nav even took me down the Fosse Way, skirting Coventry, rather than the ultra-boring M42. I decided to extend the evening and so indulged in an hour long stop at “The Bell Inn” at Moreton-In-Marsh for a very very rare pint of lager as I reviewed the day’s activity and post-game reactions on my ’phone.

I eventually reached home at about 12.30am.

Next up, Brighton away on Wednesday.

See you there.

LEVEL EIGHT

LEVEL ONE

Tales From Archie’s First London Derby

Posted on May 6, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 5 May 2024.

With my good friend Alan’s absence from the Chelsea vs. West Ham game due to Bromley’s participation in the National League play-off final at Wembley, there was an extra space in The Sleepy Hollow. Clive had originally given his ticket to Glenn, but it was Clive who picked up Alan’s ticket. Confused? Yeah, me too.

So, the upshot of all that is that there were now five heading up to London in my car for the second London derby in four days. I collected PD and then Glenn at 6.45am, Ron at 7am, Lord Parky at 7.20am.

By 9.20am, I had deposited three of the passengers near “The Eight Bells” and one at the gates to Stamford Bridge. I parked up and darted into the “McDonalds” for a bite to eat and a much-needed coffee. There was a quick chat with John and his son.

“Odd feeling today. I said to the chaps in the car that I was really confident today, but they were having none of it.”

I had a quick chat with Marco at the “CFCUK” stall, a few words with Steve at his programme stall, a brief chat and catch-up with a few former players in the hotel, and a drink with Donna, whose daughter Tallulah was one of the match mascots on this warm and sunny day in West London. I didn’t have my Canon SLR with me on this particular day; the baggage checks are getting more and more draconian and for reasons that I will keep to myself, I didn’t want to risk it. I would be making do with my smaller Sony camera and so, sadly, wouldn’t be able to take any close-ups of Tallulah as she made her way onto the pitch.

With the tubes kaput, I was forced to take the 414 bus down to Putney Bridge. I strolled into the pub just before 11.30am. The boys – joined by the Normandy Division of Ollie and Julien – were already getting stuck into some beers. It was Ollie’s birthday the previous day. To celebrate, I bought a round of shots. A few more rounds of shots would follow.

I, of course, was driving so nothing alcoholic for me.

I took a photo of the lads and posted it on “Facebook.”

I titled it : “Fooligans.”

My friends Aroha and Luke were in the pub, in the far corner, and they were with their two-and-a-half-year-old son Archie, who was bedecked in a blue Chelsea top. This was to be his third Chelsea game, and his first London derby. I have known Aroha and Luke for over ten years or more, and it was a joy to see them bringing their little lad to Chelsea.

At just after 1pm, we set off to catch the 22 bus to Stamford Bridge. Archie was hoisted on top of his father’s shoulders and he joined in with the chanting. I loved that.

However, the bus trip didn’t go as planned, and we seemed to take forever to reach the appropriate point on the King’s Road. Eventually we got off. Very soon, the support struts of the roof at Stamford Bridge could be seen, and I looked back at just the right time to see little Archie’s face light up as he pointed at the sight ahead.

Dear reader, it was such a beautiful moment.

The wonderment and excitement on his little face will be etched on my brain for a long time. We said our goodbyes as we opened up on to the Fulham Road and we made our way in. Lo and behold, nobody stopped me at the second, usually more thorough, bag check at the bottom of the steps to the MHU.

Oh well, I was in.

However, such had been the delay on the bus that I was only just in. As I walked up the final few steps to The Sleepy Hollow, “Liquidator” was booming.

I know I work in logistics, but this really was a little too “just in time” for my liking.

We had heard that Thiago Silva was starting, and the defensive line had been shuffled to accomdate him.

Petrovic

Chalobah – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

The bench looked ridiculously stronger than against Tottenham on Thursday.

As the game began, I promised myself to make a note of the movements of comrade Cucarella, who – unbeknown to me – had been adopting a new position further infield once we were in possession in the past one-and-a-half games. The nerds were going wild about it on social media; plainly I had missed the email. I have to say how impressed I was with Cucarella’s scurrying back to his left-back berth once possession was lost, but I noted that even in the first ten minutes, his man was way clear on the right-hand touchline on one occasion. You would think it would be a high-risk strategy, but the wide man was only noticeably unmarked on one other occasion during the whole game.

The West Ham three-thousand started to sing about being “Champions of Europe” and we all guffawed with laughter. I am still unsure if their version is due to them being deluded or a nice effort at self-deprecating irony. For the future of mankind, I hoped for the latter but feared the former.

Fackinell.

In some ways, with no SLR, the pressure was off me to try to get a few killer photographs. The smaller camera was, in my eyes, simply not up to the task. I decided not to take as many photos. On this day, I would take just forty-five photos from the ninety minutes. I usually take three times that amount. I relaxed a little. I still made a note of a few key moments on my ‘phone, but this would be a different kind of game for me. I would be less of a photographer, more of a fan. If that is fucking possible.

There was a little light-jousting in the first quarter of an hour, but I was soon being gloriously entertained.

On fifteen minutes, Noni Madueke created just enough space to lift a cross towards the penalty spot. Nicholas Jackson took a swing but his effort was blocked and the ball came out to the waiting Cole Palmer. I think I inwardly relaxed. Did I expect a goal? Truthfully, yes. Our little diamond instinctively swept the ball in with a gentle swipe towards the far post.

The net rustled.

Areola must have felt a tit.

Chelsea 1 West Ham United 0.

Just after, the head of Jarrod Bowen got to the ball from a corner from Emerson – who? he? – down below us. The header flew in, but thankfully cannoned back off the bar.

Phew.

At around this time, I leaned forward and told Albert in the row in front of me about Clive’s teaser from Thursday. To my shock, Albert only took six guesses and about five minutes to guess the five England players, the “G-Men” from the ‘eighties. I slapped him on the back.

“Well done, son. Well impressed.”

With that, Clive managed to lose the grip on a cup of boiling hot chocolate and a large portion of it spilled onto Albert.

“Easy, Clive, no need to be like that.”

Unfortunately, there are no photographs of the incident.

We were all howling.

With twenty-five minutes gone, we were playing some lovely football. Everything seemed to be knitting together nicely. Efforts from several players rained in on the West Ham goal.

We spoke a little about the day in 1984, almost forty years ago, when West Ham, and more importantly the ICF, visited in vast numbers and despite Chelsea winning 3-0 on the day, it felt that we had been embarrassed a little. Clive took a few hits in The Shed that day. Glenn and I admitted that we were in the safest part of the ground that day; the benches. West Ham, at various times, were in all other parts of the ground. Shudder.

Forty years ago, Fackinell.

On the half-hour mark, a long move saw us creep up the pitch. It was begun with a firm first-time side-foot out of defensive from Thiago Silva, and it really pleased me. It was right on the money. The move developed, mainly down our tight, and although the ball was momentarily lost, it was soon regained. Palmer struck a low roller to the feet of Madueke, but when the ball was semi-cleared – a little similar to the first goal – it ran nicely to Coner Gallagher, who smacked it home on the volley.

Blue & Whites 2 Clarets & Blues 0.

A little knot of Essex Blues behind me were loving it.

Six minutes later, a deep corner in front of the away support from Mkhailo Mudryk was headed back into the six-yard box by Thiago Silva – a resounding leap and header, pure poetry – and the ball ended up in the net. I was a little unsighted, but that man Maduke, had got the final touch.

The Richardsons 3 The Krays 0.

I was up and celebrating with the lads behind me. That little walkway behind my seat has seen some exuberant celebrations over the years and here was another one.

I was up and celebrating another chance just after, as Gallagher smacked a shot from a Palmer cross, after more beautiful twists and turns on the right, against the bar. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t really know what had happened.

But – oh boy, we were purring.

Conor was through, one on one, but fell too easily.

Bizarrely, Bowen hit the Chelsea bar again, just before the break.

At half-time, the warm buzz of quality football. Bliss. A few West Ham fans had already left.

Just three minutes into the second-half, a magnificent ball from deep from Trevoh Chalobah – the sort of ball that I have been wanting to be played for so long – evaded everyone, but dropped into the path of Madueke inside the box. Rather than finish himself, he played the ball square to Nicolas Jackson, who coolly pushed the ball home. Jackson had been a constant worry to the West Ham defence and the goal was richly deserved.

Fulham Broadway 4 Pudding Mill Lane 0.

Up came a massively entertaining chant, slightly-altered from Thursday.

“West Ham get battered, everywhere they go.”

I spotted a little show-boating from Palmer in the middle of the pitch, and the match began to resemble a training game. I wanted more goals – “let’s humiliate them” – but I think that the intensity dropped, and that’s not surprising really.

West Ham threatened our goal with a few half-chances. There was a great save from Petrovic from a James Ward-Prowse free-kick.

Bowen gained an unlikely hat-trick by hitting the bar once again; this time via a slight deflection. Not with his right foot though, so not a perfect woodwork hat-trick. Must try better.

Substitutions took place late in the game.

Cesare Casadei for Madueke.

Christopher Nknunku for Mudryk.

On eighty minutes, Moises Caicedo won the ball and pushed the ball into the path of the raiding Jackson. To my eyes, it looked offside, and so when Jackson finished coolly, I was not celebrating with too much enthusiasm. There was a massive wait for VAR to confirm…no offside, goal. Kurt Zouma – who? he? – had played him on.

Joe Cole 5 Carlton Cole 0.

More substitutions.

Axel Disasi for Thiago Silva.

Malo Gusto for Chalobah.

Alfie Gilchrist for Palmer.

This was another lovely Chelsea performance and it was a joy to watch from the stands. In the end, my photos weren’t too bad and I include some here of course.

On the drive home, we eyed our last three games and we dreamed of three more wins, and maybe, Europe.

Next up, a solo trip to Nottingham.

See you there.

PS – Archie loved it!

Tales From Another 5am To 1am Special

Posted on May 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2 May 2024.

I think it is fair to say that many of us in the Chelsea fraternity had been dreading the home game with Tottenham Hotspur. But then the away game at Aston Villa, and especially the second-half performance, gave us all some hope. I certainly approached the game with a lot more expectation than, for example, I could have possibly predicted after the 0-5 shellacking at Arsenal a week or so before.

I was up at just before 5am to work an early shift. The drive in to our own special part of London SW6 was as easy as it gets.

My pre-match was spent in very unfamiliar surroundings. PD and Parky, for the recent Everton game, had chosen to drink in “McGettigans” opposite the old booking hall of Fulham Broadway tube station. It is a pub that I had only ever visited on one occasion before; in the summer of 1997, with a new trophy to admire in our trophy cabinet (and only the fifth trophy in ninety-two hears I hasten to add), a little band of us did a Stamford Bridge tour. After, we decamped into “Bootsy Brogan’s” – the former “White Swan” – for a reflective pint. Over the years, the pub’s name changed a few times, but I had never returned. It has remained as the strangest of boozers. It is located perfectly for match days, a decent size, yet to this day I know of nobody at Chelsea who use it, nor who ever have. It’s a real enigma, like Chelsea Football Club itself.

I had popped in for a bang average pizza on Lillee Road and then joined up with PD and Parky, plus Salisbury Steve and Luke, at “McGettigan’s” just before 6pm. It was as I had remembered it from 1997, a big rambling pub with multiple floors. I eventually located my friends who were way down in a booth in the lower levels. Typically, there was no familiar, or even semi-familiar, faces on show. We had a good natter. Luke flicked up the Chelsea team on his mobile phone. A lot had been made of the injury list before this game, so – in a way – the team almost picked itself. There was one change from Villa; Alfie Gilchrist – who sounds like a Sarf Landon villain – in for Thiago Silva. With fourteen players out, it looked a decent enough team. On the bench was a host of youngsters, some of whom I was not familiar with.

We spoke about plans for the last four games of the season and the time soon passed. This was a 7.30pm kick-off – an earlier one than usual, good – and so we left the pub at 7pm.

I picked up several copies of the match programme on the way in. There was a photo of Thiago Silva on the cover, and the programme included a feature on a proper dodgey character on pages 22 and 23.

The kick-off soon came around.

Before the game got going, Alan and I brought each other up to speed with our second loves.

Alan has a season ticket at Bromley in the National League. He first started watching his local team in around 1979 when they played at a much lower level. He has enjoyed their resurgence in recent years. On Sunday, Alan is attending the National League play-off at Wembley against Solihull Moors. The prize is a place in the Football League. Alan will therefore be missing the West Ham game. I have spoken to Alan in the past about missing a Chelsea game because of Frome Town. It hasn’t happened yet, but I am sure it will.

Talking of play-offs, the previous day – Wednesday 2 May – I had watched Frome Town play Mousehole at home in the one game semi-final of the divisional play-offs. On a wet night, Frome blazed into a deserved 3-0 first-half lead via two goals from James Ollis and one from Kane Simpson. This was a sturdy, dominant performance with three well-taken goals. It was a different game in the second-half, and despite a sending-off for George Rigg, the home team held on. The gate was a magnificent 1,099. It was the second gate of over one thousand at Badgers Hill in just five days. On Bank Holiday Monday, Frome meet old-foes Bristol Manor Farm, in the play-off final. We are expecting the gate to top 1,500. Revenge is in the air since Manor Farm defeated us in the semi-finals two years ago.

Just before the game began, the two teams did their huddles, but the Tottenham one was down in front of their fans. I had not seen that anywhere before. I remember how Celtic were the first team, to my knowledge, to do the huddle in around 1995/96, and it was their “thing.” Since then it has been adopted by virtually all teams. The first time that I can remember us doing a huddle was when we played Vicenza in the ECWC semi-final in 1998, with us all dressed in yellow, on a rainy night in SW6.

The latest in a long line of Chelsea vs. Tottenham games kicked off. This was my forty-first Chelsea vs. Tottenham game at Stamford Bridge since my first one in October 1974, and I had only seen us lose three times; in 1978, in 1986, in 2018.

The noise was thankfully buoyant. The “Willian” song was sung loudly by the Matthew Harding, not because of the player but because of the dig at Tottenham. It got the game off to a raucous start.

We attacked the three thousand away fans and the three thousand home fans in The Shed. We almost got the game off to a dream start. Alan and I had spent a few seconds discussing how we don’t always play to Mykhailo Mudryk’s strengths, but he sped clear down the left and passed to the on-rushing Nicolas Jackson. In a flurry of activity, a shot was blocked and a rebound landed at Cole Palmer’s feet, right under the bar from our perspective. To our disbelief, he wasn’t able to correctly adjust and his effort excruciatingly flew over the bar. I was stood and my hands instinctively cupped the back of my head. Why do football fans do that when a shot dramatically misses the target? Is it intuitive or is it developed over time? I was just aware how much of a cliché I looked.

A proper “head in hands” moment.

There was a phenomenal dribble down the left from Mudryk, but he really should have passed outside to a free team-mate, and his effort blazed over. There was a riser from Noni Madueke. Then an effort from Gilchrist, another rising shot, that flew over.

A lovely shimmy inside from Madueke and a left-foot curler that I thought was just going to sneak in, but it narrowly missed the top left corner.

This was good stuff from Chelsea. I need not have been worried.

On twenty-four minutes, I was surprised that Conor Gallagher and not Palmer, dolloped a long ball at a free-kick towards the far post.

My first thoughts : “too far, that.”

But I still clicked. I caught the moment that Trevoh Chalobah rose like a salmon – talking of clichés – and beautifully headed across the Tottenham ‘keeper, whoever he was, and into the net.

The stadium roared as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Tottenham support.

Good work, son.

After the celebrations had died down a little, the mood changed.

VAR. Possible off-side.

Up came my hands to cup my head again.

We waited.

And waited.

Then a VAR check for a foul.

Memories of that VAR mayhem in the first-half at their place this season.

Boos.

One of the reasons why I hate VAR is that referees now have a reason to defer the decision-making process if they – and their linos – are unsure.

“Let VAR decide. Fuck the fans. They can wait.”

The goal stood, but I never cheered, nor did Alan, nor PD.

Who the fuck cheers a VAR decision?

Next, a close one from Mudryk, but just off target.

On the half hour, one song boomed around The Bridge.

“STAND UP IF YOU HATE TOTTENHAM.”

We continued to out-pace, out-think, out-play Tottenham for the rest of the half, but they did have two, late, rare attacks. A header from somebody, and a Chalobah block from another, those Tottenham players without names.

In the closing minutes of a really entertaining game, Clive posed a question to get us thinking.

“Name five England players from the ‘eighties whose surname began with the letter G.”

…mmm, the ‘eighties, my era, when I cared for the national team, let me think.

“One is easy, the other four not, one player played just one time.”

Alan soon got the easy one. Over the half-time break, and then into the second-half (it felt odd being distracted from the football) I managed to get the other four. Admittedly, I guessed around six or seven times incorrectly, but I got them. Clive and I often send ourselves photo teasers on “WhatsApp” to keep our minds fresh; it’s usually players or grounds. It’s our little way to stave off dementia.

Just after half-time, I was happy. I had guessed the last one.

“YES! FUCK DEMENTIA!”

There is no doubt that Tottenham bossed the first part of the second-half and we were limited to the occasional rare break, often including Madueke and Jackson, not so much Mudryk. But we held firm and limited Tottenham to the odd half-chance. There was a rare chance for Palmer but he leaned back as he shot and the ball was well high.

As the game wore on, the away fans found their voice. Just before the hour, we heard their uber-dirge for the very first time.

“On when the Spurs…”

There was a shimmy, a body-shake, from Palmer that almost defied description. He is so casual, so laid-back, almost indifferent to what else is going on, and he then produces moments of utter charm and delight. He is a real talent. Without him, this season really would have been difficult.

But Tottenham were in the ascendency now. On the hour, we were hanging on.

Alan : “If Tottenham don’t win this, it’ll be a miracle.”

I was reminded of “that” game in 2018, when we scored first yet they came back to score three, with two at The Shed End.

Ugh.

On seventy-two minutes, the industrious Marc Cucarella won a free-kick outside the box. Palmer shaped to take a shot, and I shaped to take a shot with my camera.

He caught it, I caught it.

The ball slammed against the bar, bounced up, but Jackson showed sublime predatory skills and hung in the air to nod the ball into the open corner. This was down below us at our end. We had a perfect view of this.

It dropped in.

I yelled and ascended the steps to my left, punching the air. I then had my wits to capture the run and slide by the scorer into the corner.

Oh boy, what a moment.

In truth, we scored at just the right moment. Tottenham had been on top, but were, now, surely beaten. A few of their fans decided to leave.

The rest of the game?

I have to say that Tottenham’s finishing was absolutely woeful. In another game, they could have tied it up. But this was Tottenham, at Chelsea, and after all these years, after all these games, there must be now, surely, something in the THFC DNA that says “no.”

The place grew noisy, noisy as hell.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Everywhere they go.”

Now, this was as noisy as I have heard it all season I think. Teenagers from Ruislip and Rayners Lane, schoolkids from Stoke Poges and Surbiton, battle-hardened former skinheads from Walworth and Wandsworth, grandmothers and grandfathers from Oxford and Cambridge, loyalists from Frome and Trowbridge, Stamford Bridge first-timers from New York and New Delhi, locals from Fulham and Pimlico, all joined together in song.

And one more for luck.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

There were three late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

Josh Acheampong for Gilchrist.

Jimi Tauriainen for Jackson.

More profligate finishing for Tottenham in front of The Shed gave the game a comical ending.

This was a very decent Chelsea performance.

Cucarella magnificent, Caicedo rejuvenated, Gallagher relentless, Palmer with understated efficiency, Jackson running and fighting, Chalobah firm and steady, even Badiashile was cool under pressure.

Colour me happy.

All the Tottenham lot had disappeared by the time I collected Ron outside the hotel. We walked up the North End Road among beaming Chelsea fans. Parky and PD were happy. Alas, the M4 was shut at Reading and so my cruise home was delayed. I eventually got in at 1am; another 5am to 1 am special. But I loved it.

Next up, another London derby.

Chelsea vs. West Ham United.

See you there.

Pub

Programme

“I’m from a small village in Somerset and I became a Chelsea fan – like many of my generation – as a direct result of the FA Cup win in 1970. I don’t remember the game, I just remember being around the school play yard immediately afterwards and somebody said Chelsea had won the Cup. I don’t know what, but something stuck – maybe it was the sound of the name. I was coming up to five at the time and my parents weren’t really into football, but with each passing season I became more of a fan. Then, on Christmas Day in 1973, my parents announced that they were taking me to a game, and just thinking of that now reminds me how excited I was to be going to Stamford Bridge. We only had a black-and-white TV set at the time and I don’t think I was prepared for the full colour experience that was going to hit me!

My dad was a shopkeeper in Frome and he wasn’t able to get too much time off work, but he arranged things with his boss so he could drive us up to London on March 16, 1974 – the 50th anniversary of which has recently passed. I was as excited as any eight-year-old possibly could be. I remember the tube ride to Fulham Broadway after we had arrived in London, and finally feeling like a Chelsea fan for the first time. I’d never had the chance to prove that to anybody before. We had tickets on the benches, in the West Enclosure, Row 6, towards the North Stand. At that time, the East Stand was being built and, with the TV cameras being on the West Stand back then, you never really saw what it looked like until you went. We won 1-0. Hutch [Ian Hutchinson] scored after about 10 minutes, from a cross, and I can still picture it – he kind of headed it down into the goal. My dad was only able to get time off work for us to come up twice a year, but I started to go more often once I was in sixth form.

Then I was at college in Stoke-on-Trent for three years in the mid-Eighties, which enabled me to go and see a fair few away games as well. My favourite season was 1983/84 and that was a real rite of passage campaign. I was 18, starting to go to pubs and make friends around the area. Chelsea fans from Wiltshire and Somerset always stick together because there weren’t many of us around at the time, and we still do to this day. Another important year was 1997 – getting silverware again after all those years. I was a Chelsea fan when we won the European Cup Winners’ Cup in 1971, but I don’t remember anything about it because I was only six. I remember nothing of the League Cup loss to Stoke the next year either, but I remember the cup quarter-final against Arsenal in 1973 – Osgood scored the goal of the season in the draw at the Bridge, then we lost the replay at Highbury. I remember all the near misses, the League Cup semi-final losses against Sunderland and Sheffield Wednesday, in 1985 and 1991. That’s why 1996/97 was such a memorable season, because we started to chip away at the top clubs and we had some fantastic players: Wise, Gullit, Vialli, Hughes, Zola. Magnificent. That whole FA Cup weekend we stayed up at my friend’s in south London and they were just magical times.

Growing up, I’d had one of those old pub mirrors in my bedroom – a Chelsea one – and every morning I’d gaze at it and think, “Will we ever win more than the four trophies on that mirror?” It always felt like if we could replicate ’70 and ’71 that would be quite a thing, so winning in Stockholm in 1998 to do the FA Cup and Cup Winners’ Cup back-toback again was a wonderful night. We’ve had so much success since then, and I don’t have space to go over it all here, but I’m still making that journey from Frome now, as a home and away season-ticket holder. I enjoy the good times but I don’t get too down when we don’t do so well. Football is such a fantastic thing and I’ve met so many good friends over the years. It’s all the other stuff that keeps us going – meeting up in the pub, the friendships and the laughter.

Among the friends I’ve made is someone who brings the story full circle. Ron Harris lives near me and he now comes up to games in my car. He was playing in the first game I ever went to, so it’s really quite surreal for me to be driving up to Chelsea, look in my rear-view mirror… and there’s Ron Harris sitting in the back seat.”

The Five England Players

Paul Gascoigne.

Eric Gates.

John Gregory.

Paul Goddard.

Brian Greenhoff.

Tales From St. George’s Day

Posted on April 26, 2024 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 23 April 2024.

I was up early, around 4.45am, with yet another long day ahead. As I pottered about the house in a semi-conscious state, for some reason I kept thinking of that ridiculously chirpy – certainly for 5am on a week-day morning – Arsenal ditty that goes on about “playing football the Arsenal way.” I wasn’t sure why this was; some nervous reaction, maybe. But I soon adapted this to make it very specific to the particular date of the game.

“Playing football the Arsenal way. Thrashed by Chelsea on St. George’s Day.”

It scanned OK. I put it in my metaphorical back pocket to use on social media, hopefully later in the day. Then, with work started at 6am, the little ditty occasionally floated back into my mind. For some unfathomable reason, I shared it during the day in the office with Matt, the Arsenal supporter, and how he didn’t ridicule me is a miracle.

Oh God. What was I thinking off? Hardly any Chelsea fans had much hope of us winning at the Emirates Stadium later that evening.

Despite a slow but gradual upturn in our league form over the past eight games – four wins and four draws – this was always going to be the toughest of games, and the fixture loomed over us for weeks after the initial date of 16 March was set aside for an FA Cup game.

After the narrow defeat at Wembley on Saturday, the three of us were philosophical as we made a record-breaking exit from the national stadium, the quickest-ever escape from our seat at full-time to Marylebone and then to my car at Barons Court.

“I’m not losing any sleep about losing 1-0 to City today. We did OK. We should have won it.”

The Arsenal away game quickly followed on the Tuesday night. It was the first of seven remaining league games.

Arsenal – away.

Aston Villa – away.

Tottenham Hotspur – home.

West Ham United – home.

Nottingham Forest – away.

Brighton & Hove Albion – away.

Bournemouth – home.

Despite our upturn in form, and expectations, this was a tough run-in, and if I was honest, I didn’t fancy us to win more than a couple. West Ham at home, and then? I struggled to name a second game. Bournemouth at home? Maybe.

Only PD and I travelled up from Somerset for this game. We were parked at Barons Court again, bang on 5pm, and our pre-match pre-amble took in a coffee at a café outside the station, before hopping on to the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus, where we dropped off for a drink at “The Queens Head” before returning to the tube network and alighting at Arsenal. The tube carriage was full of Arsenal on the last stretch. I saw a young kid with a Chelsea shirt peeking out from underneath a jacket and nodded.

The usual slow walk up the claustrophobic slope at Arsenal tube and then out into the early evening sun, blinking at the brightness. Here, I wanted to time travel.

I turned left, and I visited the past.

I walked along Gillespie Road, with its brown-bricked terraced houses, with neatly-painted doors and window frames, that have stood since before the days of Woolwich Arsenal’s abandonment of its south-side beginnings and its sudden arrival at Highbury in 1913. I like the fact that this little stretch of terra firma is still utilised on Arsenal match days. There are food huts and merchandise stalls, many utilising the concreted front gardens along Gillespie Road and it is a hive of activity. The place is a riot of colour, albeit the wrong colour. I was undoubtedly reminded of my first-ever visit to Highbury in August 1984, almost forty years ago. I trudged past the void that used to lead to the old North Bank, and then turned up the slight incline of Avenell Road. My camera went into overdrive as I photographed the splendour of the art deco façade of the imposing East Stand. It is such an impressive sight. Memories of 1984, and paying at the turnstile to get into the Clock End with around 16,000 other Chelsea supporters on that blisteringly hot day in the greatest of our collective summers.

In 1984, Chelsea were back. And how.

There were memories of sitting in the sauna-like conditions of the top tier of the Clock End for the Wimbledon game in 1997 too. Believe it or not, that was my only Chelsea win at Highbury. There were eight visits with Chelsea against Arsenal, but only four draws and four losses. I used to hate them singing to us about winning the league in black and white. Sadly, I did not get a ticket for the Champions League game in 2004.

1984 and 2004, forty years ago and twenty years ago, time travel indeed.

I walked past the Arsenal tube station once again.

I was back in the present, like a modern day Mr. Benn. We slid past the site of the entrance to the old West Stand on Highbury Hill – shoe-horned between houses – and then a left-turn and onto Drayton Park. More merchandise stalls, more red. A few boisterous shouts from supporters of both teams. The modern buildings of an Arsenal ticket office to my right, then the slow walk up to the wide open approach to the new stadium.

My mind had allowed me to wallow in the past, and it was now to check out the present.

To the left, brick terraced houses, 1930’s architecture, Alex James in baggy shorts and Herbert Chapman busts in the marble halls.

To the right, glass and steel, the new stadium, towering stands, nearby high-rise apartments, but also a nod to the past too, a statue of Herbert Chapman in quiet admiration of the new home.

Outside, I handed over tickets to Ray, and one of his mates took a photo of us.

PD, Chris and Ray with Herbert in the background.

There was a gaggle of worried Chelsea fans nearby; JD with Jayne and Liz, plus Neil Barnett.

“Have you seen the team?”

I had, and the concern was the defence.

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher – Mudryk

Jackson

The focus was on the central-pairing of Axel Disasi and Benoit Badiashile. Yes, I was worried. I quickly glimpsed at reactions to the team on social media. There was concern that Thiago Silva, who had performed admirably at Wembley on Saturday, had been dropped. I had a wry grin to myself as I remembered how the social media experts had decided a month or so ago that Silva should be dropped from the Chelsea team and told to gracefully retire.

Maybe the old guy was carrying a knock, maybe he wasn’t at a 100%. The dropping of Trevoh Chalobah was a little more mystifying.

But no Malo Gusto and no Cole Palmer. Gulp.

I made my way in past the security checks – I didn’t fancy risking the SLR again, my small Sony “pub camera” would have to suffice – and hoped for the best with the Disasi and Badiashile pairing. It’s probable that our first-choice at the back in a flat-four, should they ever be fit at the same time, would have been Levi Colwill and Wesley Fofana this season. Fofana doesn’t even feel like a Chelsea player at the moment, such has been his enforced absence. Will we ever see him again?

I was inside at 7.30pm, a bitter wind suddenly providing surprising gusts of cold. My seat was right next to the wide exit adjacent to the corner flag. It provided me with an interrupted view of the Clock End goal, which I quickly decided may not be for the best.

Five of us in a row : Alan, John, Gary, PD, me.

I spotted some faces around and about.

The PA warned about consistent standing, and reminded us to be aware of who we might be standing next to and that some spectators are not able to stand.

“And I can’t stand Arsenal.”

Just before the teams came onto the pitch, Joe Cole and Rio Ferdinand, on “Sky TV” duty, walked behind the goal from a previous position and headed right past me and into the guts of the Clock End using the exit tunnel. Joe Cole was serenaded by us all and he reciprocated by hugging a couple of Chelsea supporters. The Arsenal match mascot – Gunnersaurus – appeared fleetingly too, disappearing into the same void as the former players.

Long neck, small head, a gormless expression, big feet, clumsy, probably a very small brain.

But that’s enough about Rio Ferdinand.

A little music; “Hells Bells” by AC/DC and “London Calling” by The Clash.

Piped music, music for the fans, not songs by the fans, then flags on the pitch and flames alongside it. The modern football package. I bet Herbert Chapman would have hated it.

I noted that Kai Havertz, keeping his number 29 shirt, was starting for the home team.

All along, in the car, in the pub, all of the pre-match, I had mentioned that I wanted us to keep them out for twenty minutes.

They attacked us in the Clock End in the first-half. And they attacked us early. Firstly, Havertz went sprawling in the box after the most negligible of challenges from Badiashile. He was offside anyway.

However, in what seemed the next worthwhile attack, Declan Rice ran deep into our box. Alfie Gilchrist was exposed, and had two Arsenal players to occupy his mind. Rice passed it to his left to Leandro Trossard, who seemed within touching distance of us in the front few rows. I expected a cross. Maybe Djordje Petrovic did too. Trossard whipped the ball towards the goal and I, and no doubt Petrovic, grimaced when the net rippled.

Oh, for fuck sake.

Arsenal 1 Chelsea 0.

Just four minutes had elapsed.

The home team absolutely dominated the opening quarter of the game, and we were run ragged. Bukayo Saka impressed me. A fine save down low from Petrovic foiled Havertz. It was only a miraculous selection of last-minute blocks, lucky deflections, wayward Arsenal efforts, and great reaction saves from Petrovic that stopped Arsenal from going further ahead. There appeared to be hardly a seat not being used on this cold night in N5 and the home crowd, still believing that the title race was on, were baying for blood.

Then, almost inextricably, we began to improve. We won loose balls – “turnovers” in modern parlance, is this a fucking baking competition? – and hinted that we might be able to get behind Arsenal. Madueke, hardly flavour of the month at Chelsea these days, received lots of the ball but struggled to produce an end product. Half-way through the first-half, a scintillating run by the similarly chastised Nicolas Jackson up the left touchline had me gasping. I could hardly believe my eyes. His pace was spellbinding. I remembered a similar run at Villa in the FA Cup replay by Madueke on the other flank. In the end, his cross from the goal-line struck the post after deflecting off Gabriel.

The place was noisy. There were the usual Arsenal dirges, but Chelsea tried to quell their racket.

“We won 4-1 in Baku.”

Arsenal came again, a fine save down low from Petrovic foiled Havertz. Then, a deflected shot off a Chelsea defender happened to hit Petrovic who was well-placed.

I loved the way that Alfie Gilchrist took out an Arsenal player on the touchline. It brought back memories of how Doug Rougvie marked his debut by taking out Viv Anderson at Highbury in 1984.

We managed to put together a few attacks, with Enzo Fernandez occasionally playing the ball intelligently forward. Crosses came into the Arsenal box but oh for a target man. And how we missed the intelligence of Palmer, tucked in behind. When we reached the final third, we just seemed to run out of ideas.

We closed the first-half reasonably well. A shot on target from Marc Cucarella came out to Enzo who drilled a shot just wide.

At the break, I tried to be as up-beat as I could. I think I knew, deep down, that it could have been more than 0-1.

Elsewhere, down in deepest Devon, Frome Town’s promotion rivals Wimborne Town were at AFC Tavistock in a match that they had to win to guarantee the league title and automatic promotion. If that was achieved, Frome Town would be forced into the play-offs. It was 1-1 at half-time.

The match began again with Chelsea attacking us in the Clock End. The initial action was at the other end, though. Petrovic was called into action early, and saved well from a Havertz poke, but on fifty-two minutes, the ball stayed alive from an Arsenal corner and Ben White smashed a loose ball in.

Arsenal 2 Chelsea 0.

Worse was to follow. Five minutes later and a rapid Arsenal break. The impressive Martin Odergaard slotted a perfect ball for Havertz to run onto, with Cucarella and Badiashile chasing his shadow. The former Chelsea player smashed the ball high over Petrovic and into the goal.

Arsenal 3 Chelsea 0.

Lots of Chelsea left.

Madueke set up Jackson inside the box, but chose to go for the near post than the far. The side netting rippled and we spat out some vitriol.

On sixty-four minutes, Saka passed inside the box to Havertz, who took the briefest of touches before drilling the ball in off the post. I saw the number “29” on his shirt as he ran towards the North Bank and glowered.

Arsenal 4 Chelsea 0.

I had visions of a huge defeat. I wanted us to stop the bleeding.

Time for two substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk, as yet un-mentioned in this match report.

Trevoh Chalobah for Enzo.

On seventy minutes, a hideous moment. One touch football; Saka to Odergaard, a chip to White, and a ridiculous lob over Petrovic into the goal. It reminded me of that blooter that Tony Adams scored at the Highbury Clock End in 1998, the git. I hope that it won’t coincide with another Arsenal league title.

Arsenal 5 Chelsea 0.

Oh God, no more. Please.

Thinking : “we beat them 6-0 in 2014, ten years ago, please not six.”

This was horrible. The stadium was as noisy as I have ever heard it.

“We’re the North Bank, we’re the North Bank, we’re the North Bank Highbury.”

“We’re the Clock End, we’re the Clock End, we’re the Clock End Highbury.”

More substitutions.

Thiago Silva for Gilchrist.

Cesare Casadei for Madueke.

It was around this time, around 9.30pm, with more and more Chelsea vacating the away end, that I solidly stood against the wall to my left, not really paying too much attention to the game, and started to search for updates from Devon.

Tavistock were 2-1 up. Get in.

But then, bollocks, Wimborne had equalised with about six minutes to go.

The action on the pitch drifted on. Thank God Havertz had been substituted, but on came Jorginho. Stop twisting that knife, Arsenal.

I summoned up the courage to squint at the Wimborne Town Twitter feed, and there it was.

94 minutes : Tavistock 3 Wimborne Town 2.

My heart jumped. It soon became the final score.

What a mixture of emotions, though. I was hating the events at Arsenal in that horrible second-half. We just disappeared and wilted. Arsenal were well worth their win. I was just relieved that the home team didn’t go for the jugular.

The final nail in the coffin was Arsenal cheering every one of our passes in a late, late move that we put together.

Ugh.

With seven minutes of extra-time signalled, I asked PD if we should leave. We were the only ones left in our immediate area. From memory, I had only left early at a very small number of games in my Chelsea history. This was game 1,445.

The others?

Chelsea vs. Bolton, 1981 – to catch a coach at Earls Court at 5pm, we were 2-0 up.

Sunderland vs. Chelsea, 1999 – to beat the traffic, we were 1-4 down.

Manchester United vs. Chelsea, 2008 – to beat the traffic, we were 0-2 down, we lost 0-3.

West Ham vs. Chelsea, 2012 – I had had enough, post Di Matteo sacking, we were 1-2 down, we lost 1-3.

We trudged slowly up the steps. I must have looked pitiful.

I mouthed to a few good friends “I don’t like doing this.”

To be fair, PD has been suffering with his hip recently, and an elongated wait at Highbury & Islington tube would have been horrible. We walked down the Holloway Road as fast as we could. We reached there at 10.15pm. The Victoria Line to Green Park, then back onto the Piccadilly Line to Barons Court, getting back at just before 11pm. I would eventually get home at 1.30am.

I can’t deny it, the result in Devon had cheered me up no end. As I drove along the M4 and the A4, through those old towns, I could not help but to babble away to PD like a fool. To sum up, if Frome Town claim a win at home to Bristol Manor Farm on Saturday and Wimborne Town fail to win at Melksham Town, just sixteen miles away, Frome Town will be promoted.

Saturday 27 April promises to be a heavy day of football.

From Frome Town to Aston Villa.

I can’t bloody wait.

Tales From The Sweet FA

Posted on April 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 April 2024.

“Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light.
Wind was blowing, time stood still.
Eagle flew out of the night.”

It was just before 7.45pm on Wednesday 17 April and the PA at Larkhall Athletic’s picturesque Plain Ham ground, high on a hill, surrounded by narrow lanes, played Peter Gabriel’s 1977 debut single. It heralded the appearance of the home team and their visitors Frome Town for the evening’s local derby. This was all very apt since Solsbury Hill is just visible beyond the northern side of the ground now that a line of trees has been cut down since my last visit.

Fresh with memories of Chelsea’s fine 6-0 against an admittedly poor Everton team, I had assembled alongside a healthy turn out of Frome followers to urge the team on towards another three points in the quest for promotion to the Southern League Premier South. But this was a nervy occasion. Frome added to the worry by conceding a cheap goal after just three minutes and did not really get going in a disjointed first-half. Substitutions were made as the second-half progressed and, thankfully, we looked a lot more efficient and purposeful. We threatened with a few pacey attacks. Thankfully, stalwart Matt Smith – out for eighteen months until very recently – smashed home a late leveller. Frome could have edged it in the very last move of the match but James Ollis’ stooping header just missed the target.

The draw was a fair result, but the worry was that with just two regular season games left, Frome were looking leggy and tired. On Saturday 20 April, on the day that Chelsea were to play Manchester City at Wembley in the FA Cup semi-final, Frome would travel to Wimborne in a top-two clash. The fixture had captured the imagination of the Frome faithful and large numbers were to travel.

However, I had the FA Cup on my mind. It would undoubtedly be my focus for the weekend.

Then, on the Thursday, the FA upset the apple cart. News filtered through concerning the atrocious decision of FA Cup replays from the first-round being scrapped from next season, apparently after precious little consultation with clubs in the FA umbrella. This annoyed me and so many others. It seemed to me that the Football Association make so much noise about diversity and inclusiveness, but this announcement suggested that the World’s greatest and most revered national knockout competition is increasingly geared towards the moneyed elite only.

This decision will help to kill the romance of the cup – “if only we can scrape a draw and get them back to our place” – to say nothing of the horrible effect on vanishing revenues. Additionally, the FA in their infinite wisdom announced that the final would not be played on a stand-alone weekend as a season finale. It all reeks of looking after the top clubs at the expense of all others. Another nail in the coffin for the once magnificent FA Cup? It certainly seems like it.

Which brings us to another reason why the FA Cup has been on a downward spiral for a couple of decades now. Our semi against City would be at Wembley, and I hate this. Wembley should be saved for finals alone. I don’t care one iota about the oft-spoken but embarrassingly mumbled words from the FA about getting more fans to see the semi-finals, the move to Wembley is all about money and nothing more.

Chelsea vs. Manchester City? Play it at Old Trafford, capacity 74,300.

Coventry City vs. Manchester United? Play it at Cardiff, capacity 74,500.

Semis at neutral venues used to be fine occasions. Chelsea in the Holte End at Villa Park in 1996 and in the North Bank at Highbury in 1997? Bloody fantastic times.

It’s hard to believe that the same sport, under the auspices of the Football Association, can induce such a difference in emotions, with different feelings of belonging, at the two levels that I actively support it; Chelsea in the Premier League, Frome Town in the Southern League South. It is a modern-day football conundrum and I am not sure that I have the patience to solve it.

However, certainly at the professional level, the FA know Fuck All – sweet FA, sweet Fanny Adams – about what makes football special. I would not trust them to do anything in our interests. But the same could be said of UEFA and FIFA. I dislike them all with a passion.

Despite all of this nonsense, Saturday 20 April was set up to be some sort of footballing day of destiny for me, and it seems that we have had a few of those over the years. I collected PD at 8am, I collected Parky at 8.30am. The plan, though not solidified, was to meet up with some friends as the day got going. However, the day in London was always going to start with a fry-up at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at around 10.30am. We arrived on the dot. Despite a very tasty breakfast – bacon, egg, baked beans, black pudding, bubble and squeak, two rounds of toast, a mug of strong tea, £8.40 – in the back of my mind was the gnawing realisation that a breakfast in the “Half Moon” equated to a Wembley defeat, dating back a few years now. It’s a tough habit to break, though.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at around 11am and we made our way to Earls Court for 11.15am. Salisbury Steve was further north at Edgware Road and wisely decided not to double back to Earls Court. We strode into “The Blackbird” – not an unfamiliar pub to us – and I got the first round in, but was shocked to see that a single pint of “Peroni” was £7.45, probably the dearest I have ever paid in the UK.

We were joined by friends from Columbus in Ohio; Andrew, Steve, Neil and Adrian. This was a first visit to England for Adrian. I made sure he realised how lucky he was to get a ticket for this game. We trotted around the corner to “The King’s Head” which only I had visited previously. We stayed here – we had the whole place to ourselves for the first half-an-hour – for a couple of hours. We had a lovely chuckle. It’s a great pub.

Originally, this weekend was geared up for a Brighton away game and Steve, who is getting married in September, was using the weekend as his “stag do”; we had been invited along. Due to our progress in the FA Cup, those plans took a hammering. But here we were. I noted what was playing on the jukebox; Paul Weller’s “Wildwood.”

“Raise your glasses boys. Here we are in a London pub. Off to Wembley to see Chelsea, four of you for the first time. Paul Weller on the juke box. Life is good.”

Steve told a great story. He knew that PD and I had heart issues over the past few years and so he spoke of a friend who had had a heart scare and was now looped up to a heart monitor. He was sitting at home one evening, alone. All of a sudden he hears “beep” and he is immediately worried. After a few seconds, another “beep”. He had been told that if he has a heart attack, to brace himself, so – fearing the worst – he gripped a nearby chair. Another “beep” and then another.

“Beep.”

He then realised that it was his young child’s electronic toy beeping as its battery was low.

Fackinell.

Oh God, we were howling.

We caught a tube up to Marylebone, changing at Paddington, and we made a bee-line for “The Allsop Arms” where we knew some mates were based, with not much of a line at the bar. We stayed here from about 2.30pm to 3.45pm. From 3pm, I was wired into Frome Town and Wimborne Town’s “Twitter” accounts, bracing myself for good – or bad – news.

Beep.

“Matt Smith and George Rigg recalled.”

Beep.

“A cagey opening.”

Beep.

“No goals at half-time.”

We made our way up to Marylebone, catching the 4.15pm train to Wembley Stadium.

While on the ten-minute train journey, my mate Francis texted me.

Beep.

“One mother-fucking-nil to The Dodge.”

Oh you absolute beauty. The lads alongside me were pleased too. On the packed train, there were plenty of Chelsea chants but one song dominated.

“We’re gonna have a party when Arsenal fuck it up.”

I sang different lyrics.

“We’re gonna have a party when Wimborne fuck it up.”

Sadly, as I was walking up towards Wembley Stadium train station, Francis texted again.

Beep.

“They’ve equalised.”

Beep.

“Gate 2,307.”

This stunned me. What an amazing attendance for a level eight game.

As I found my seats in the top tier of the south-west corner at 4.50pm, one last text.

Beep.

“Final score.”

It was time to fully focus on Chelsea now.

The team was announced.

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Gallagher

Jackson

So, the cool head and the cool feet of Thiago Silva got the nod over other options – despite Axel Diasi’s masterclass of a defensive performance at Manchester City a few months back – and the manager had chosen to play Conor Gallagher wide left. Raheem Sterling’s absence spoke volumes.

City? Erling Haaland wasn’t playing; not even on the bench. Good.

Kick-off approached. A City song – seemingly stuck in the mid-‘seventies – was aired on the PA and there was no singalong from them. Instead a loud and proud “Carefree” drowned it out. This, of course, pleased me. On every visit to Wembley, I make mental notes about the vocal performance of the two competing teams.

Advantage us.

Our song, “Blue Day”, was cheered.

Two displays took over the two ends of the stadium. Our mosaic looked a bit patchy, their banner looked decent.

In the West End :

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS. THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”

In the East End :

“THE BEST TEAM IN THE LAND AND ALL THE WORLD.”

“CITY ARE BACK. CITY ARE BACK.”

I wondered if City were stickering up that end in preparation for the United fans who would be occupying the same seats on the Sunday. There were inflatable bananas, how 1989, bouncing around in City’s lower tier. There were empty seats in both ends but many more in the City end.

At 5.15pm, the game began.

We probably started the strongest with Gallagher breaking past his last man, Kyle Walker, a couple of times and Nicolas Jackson wriggling free with his pace but shooting at Stefan Ortega. There was a long-range effort from Cole Palmer but it was not nearly as well executed as against Everton a few days earlier.

Phil Foden was set up by Kevin de Bruyne with a fine through-ball but the City urchin was thankfully forced wide and the covering Marc Cucarella, enjoying a really fine first twenty minutes, headed the ball away.

Before the game I had been quietly confident of us doing well and as the first-half developed I was more than happy with our play.

Just before the half-hour, the loudest chant of the evening thus far :

“And its Super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”

Good stuff.

At around that time, in a quiet moment, I heard the City lot sing “Blue Moon” but that was honestly the only time I can remember hearing from them until very late in the game.

Enzo Fernandez had begun so quietly that I had forgotten that he was on the pitch. However, another quick break ensued when he played in Jackson. His touch took him too far to the left and he could not get a shot in. In the end, the promising move fizzled out when his cross across the box was hacked away.

Groans.

However, our support remained at decent levels. On thirty-seven minutes, the whole end got together in a bone crushing “Amazing Grace.”

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

Stirring stuff.

We were surely winning the fight between the two sets of fans.

The mercurial Palmer had been linking up well with Noni Madueke and also the dependable Malo Gusto. Our right flank was looking strong. A shot from Madueke was blocked by John Stones.

Then, Palmer found himself in a little space inside the box after a fine move involving Trevoh Chalobah but his shot at goal was weak and at the ‘keeper.

Bar a few defensive errors, and a couple of Manchester City efforts, we had played well. City, after their Champions League exit on Wednesday, were looking tired. We just needed to be a little more confident and to run at spaces a little more. I chatted a little to the bloke behind me. We both admitted that although Nicolas Jackson is far – very far – from the finished article, he is a handful and has shown glimpses.

Glimpses. That word again.

A couple of old-school football tunes were aired at the start of the half-time break.

“Blue Monday” from 1983 – Manchester City?

“A Town Called Malice” from 1982 – Chelsea? Certainly Frome Town.

But then this normality came to a crushing standstill when a constantly smiling DJ played a set down to my left in front of the Chelsea supporters. Dance music boomed out – I recognised Rozalla and “Everybody’s Free (To Feel Good) from 1991 and the inevitable “Insomnia” by Faithless from 1995 – but this just seemed to be a ridiculous addition to a football match.

Oh well, at least she seemed to be enjoying herself.

The second-half began with our team attacking us.

Very soon into the restart, Jackson was presented with two excellent chances to score. Gallagher stayed strong and played him in. He ran in centrally and I am sure we all felt that a goal was possible. Alas, his low shot was too near the City ‘keeper and the chance passed. However, from the same move, Palmer chipped the ball into the six-yard box and the stooping Jackson headed the ball down but straight at Ortega.

Fackinell.

On the hour, a super-loud version of “Super Chelsea.”

Music to my lug-holes.

A free-kick to Chelsea about thirty yards out made me wonder if Palmer would go for goal. Indeed, he decided to shoot. The ball struck the wall and flew off for a corner. But wait, there was a VAR check for a handball, which surprised me.

No penalty, but – baffling – no corner either.

Jack Grealish danced inside the box and rolled the ball to Foden. A low shot was nicely kept out by Petrovic, who had not really been tested too much until then.

Doku, on for Grealish, was given far too much time as he advanced. He shot at an angle but Petrovic hacked it away.

I was stood, many were stood. I had been stood the whole match in fact. The game got older, nerves tightened.

Some substitutions.

Axel Disasi for the injured Gusto.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the tiring Madueke.

De Bruyne blazed a shot wide. He had had a stinker.

On eighty-four minutes, Doku was again given far too much space – “get closer!” – and he found De Bruyne. His cross was pushed out by Petrovic at the near post but the ball fell agonisingly for Bernardo Silva to smash home.

Bollocks.

Immediate thoughts of Virgil Van Dyke scoring one just two minutes from time at the same goal in late February.

Sigh.

Now the City fans could be heard.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella, probably my player of the match.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo, another disappointing performance from him.

We chased the game, eight minutes of extra time were to be played, and I absolutely loved the fact that virtually no Chelsea supporters left before the final whistle. There were a few raids on the City defence, but our attempts ran out of fizz.

To sum up our lack-lustre end to the game, and with just seconds remaining but with virtually everybody bar Petrovic up, Mudryk floated a free kick from down below us over everybody and the ball embarrassingly went off for a goal-kick.

Bollocks.