Tag Archives: Nicolas Jackson

Tales From A Cold Night

Posted on by
3

Chelsea vs. Everton : 15 April 2024.

After the game at Bramall Lane on Sunday 7 April, I was again treated to a two-game football weekend. But this was no Saturday and Sunday double-header. No, nothing as easy as that. With modern football being modern football, this was one that featured matches on a Friday and a Monday.

The reward for working my first five-day week for a month – what a slog – was a Friday evening at Frome Town with a game against Bishops Cleeve, a team from near Cheltenham in Gloucestershire. After the dropped points at Exmouth Town the previous Saturday, this was a match that my local team just had to win. Thankfully, a Sam Meakes goal mid-way through the first half gave the home team a slender 1-0 win. However, it was a tough match, despite the visitors having a player sent off just before half-time. In the second half, the visitors enjoyed much of the possession, and everyone became more and more nervous with each passing minute. Thankfully, Frome’s defence were resolute and kept attacks at bay. The Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips, in fact, did not have too much to do. Frome, defending deeper than we thought necessary, took all three points, which kept the team at the top of the Southern League South. The attendance was a very pleasing 690, which took the home average up to 483 for the season. Frome have just three games left; if we win them all, we will be automatically promoted.

Saturday and Sunday came and went, but with some pretty hilarious football results along the way.

Newcastle United 4 Tottenham Hotspur 0.

Liverpool 0 Crystal Palace 1.

West Ham 0 Fulham 2.

Arsenal 0 Aston Villa 2.

I worked another early shift on the Monday. At 2pm, I set off from Melksham in Wiltshire with PD and LP. There was a little chat about the evening’s game with Everton, who last won a league game at Stamford Bridge almost thirty years ago. Did I expect us to win against the SW6-shy Toffees?

Yes. There I said it.

I dropped the lads off near “McGettigans” on Fulham Broadway at 4.30pm so they could enjoy a quiet drink with Salisbury Steve. My pre-match was spent at Stamford Bridge where I took a few photographs of the pre-match scene. Overhead, there was a clear blue sky, but despite the Spring sun, it was bitter. In fact, it was so cold, thanks to a raw wind, that I had to disappear inside the megastore for twenty minutes to keep warm. It’s a place that I hardly ever visit these days. I am still trying to get over the sight of a bloke, probably in his early thirties, with a small Chelsea crest painted on his face. Outside under old The Shed wall, I bumped into a few friends before I finally made my way inside the ground at 7.30pm.

As I walked up the steps to the MHU and made my way to my seat, I was serenaded – appropriately enough – by “Blue Monday” by New Order.

Perfect.

I wondered if there might be a Chelsea-themed sequence of songs, but no. However, the next three songs were decent enough.

“Going Underground” by The Jam.

“Echo Beach” by Martha And The Muffins.

“Call Me” by Blondie.

Ah, four favourites. Four classics. The person choosing the set list certainly knew his target audience; it always seems that the match-goers around me in The Sleepy Hollow are children of the ’eighties, in thoughts, words and deeds.

Then, “Money For Nothing” by Dire Straits.

Ugh. Oh well, four out of five ain’t bad.

It was still light as the kick-off approached. The lightshow and the flickering flames did not have quite the same impact in the evening dusk.

The teams appeared.

Us?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Them?

A smattering of familiar names, a few young ones, and two old ones; Seamus Coleman, aged thirty-five, and Ashley Young, aged thirty-eight. Young always looks like he has his legs on incorrectly.

Just before kick-off, Tommie Senior and Tommie Junior – from Riverside in California and last spotted at Sheffield United – appeared twenty-yards away in seats to my left. It would be their first match at Stamford Bridge; I had managed to get them tickets via a mate. They looked ridiculously excited. Alan and Clive sat alongside PD and little old me, the first time that all four of us had been present at Chelsea for a while.

The game began at 8pm. I wasn’t keen that we were attacking the Matthew Harding in the first-half.

Everton, dressed in an all pink ensemble that reminded me of Daytona Beach in the late ‘eighties, began quite brightly. In front of the three thousand away fans, a cross came in from the Everton right – that man Coleman – but Beto thankfully stabbed his shot over the bar.

On thirteen minutes, a magnificent Chelsea move was played out in front of us. Cole Palmer received the ball forty yards out, nut-megged one of the young Evertonians – Jarrad Branthwaite –  and adeptly back heeled a pass to Nicolas Jackson who quickly returned the ball to Palmer. I felt myself relax. Palmer’s body language reeked of self-belief and as he coolly and calmly slotted the ball towards the far post with a delicate flick of his left-foot wand, it seemed churlish for me to be worried about the outcome. The goal quickly came.

Chelsea 1 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

It was almost too easy.

Alan : THTCAUN.

Chris : COMLD.

Just after, Noni Madueke, who had begun positively, drilled a ball in from the wing. From our position high above the corner flag it appeared that the forward movement of Palmer had hindered the path of the ball into the net. Palmer looked momentarily deflated.

On eighteen minutes, we attacked again. Moises Caicedo to Mykhailo Mudryk and a burst down below us, and a pass to Jackson. The young striker’s shot was parried by Jordan Pickford, who used to be a goalkeeper. The ball sat up nicely for Palmer to nod emphatically home from just inside the six-yard box.

Chelsea 2 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

Alan had noted that his two goals had been scored by his left peg and his head, and so was already thinking ahead about a perfect hat-trick.

It was an open game. Chances were shared. Mudryk raced back well to hack away a goal bound effort off the line at the Shed End. Jackson, not shy to come forward, fired a blooter just over the bar.

On twenty-nine minutes, a terrible pass out of defence by Pickford was pounced on by Palmer of all people. He instantaneously accessed the situation. His GPS was spot on, as he quickly lifted the ball high over Pickford’s gurning face, and the flight of the ball immediately impressed me.

…thinking : ”this looks in.”

Yep, the ball dropped into the empty net.

A roar from the Chelsea crowd.

Chelsea 3 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

I looked over towards the Two Tommies; oh boy, they were loving it.

Alan : “was that his right foot?”

Chris : “yep.”

Alan : “Perfect.”

Stamford Bridge had taken a while to make some worthwhile noise, but now the place was rocking to one or two “Carefrees.”

We thought that the visitors had pulled a goal back but I quickly spotted a raised flag for offside.

Phew.

To their credit, Everton kept attacking, but they looked awfully exposed when we got on the front foot. On forty-four minutes, Marc Cucarella – most definitely an improved player from last season – sent over a cross towards the near post. Jackson brought the ball down with a really exquisite move, and swivelled smoothly before slotting the ball home. This was another beautiful goal. What a performance.

Chelsea 4 Everton 0.

At half-time, all was well in the world. I joked with the lads that I had not taken too many photographs of the game thus far, but 90% of them had been of goal celebrations. The actual breakdown was as follows :

Total photos : 58

Goal celebrations : 28

So, the actual percentage was 48% but never let the truth ruin a good line. In truth, we hadn’t exactly peppered the Everton goal with shots, but we found ourselves four goals to the good. In a season – or more – when we have bemoaned our lack of quality in front of goal, it was lovely to see our goals to shots ratio increase, if only for one game.

Baby steps and all that.

The second-half began and I was dreaming of a cricket score. I am sure that I was not alone. The new Chelsea midfield of Caicedo and Gallagher was performing well, allowing others to move forward to exploit the tiring Everton defence. We kept to the same script and were rewarded in the sixty-fourth minute when Madueke tumbled after a crude challenge by James Tarkowski. The referee quickly pointed to the spot.

The madness that then ensued caused unnecessary tensions in the stadium, both on the pitch and off it. While Palmer, who had fallen just before the foul on Madueke, gathered himself, there seemed to be a feisty altercation on the penalty spot between Madueke, Jackson, Silva and Gallagher. In everyone’s mind, Palmer was the obvious – and only – choice for the penalty. Madueke and Jackson seemed to have other opinions. Silva and Gallagher wrested the ball away from Madueke, who flounced off in a pathetic strop.

Palmer placed the ball on the spot.

Palmer scored.

Chelsea 5 Everton 0.

Palmer again, ole, ole.

Alan asked me to name the last occasion that we were 5-0 up at home in the league. I could only think of that magnificent game – better than this one – in November 2016 when we beat Everton 5-0.

(The correct answer was Norwich City in 2021 when we went in to win 7-0.)

Mauricio Pochettino made some changes.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Madueke.

Madueke had played well, but had blotted his copybook with his stupid tantrum on the penalty spot. I expected a few boos, but there were hardly any.

The Everton fans, wh had sreadfastly resisted the desire to return to Merseyside began to leave en masse.

More changes came.

Cesare Casadie for Palmer.

What a player this young lad is. Twenty goals for our number twenty this season, level with a certain Manchester City totem. The applause for Palmer was loud and sustained.

Ben Chilwell for Mudryk.

Not Mudryk’s best game, not his worst, he was applauded too.

Thiago Silva was serenaded on many occasions during the game, especially with him defending down below us in the second-half. I am sure that everyone wants to let him know how much he is loved in these last few weeks of his Chelsea career.

Two more late changes.

Alfie Gilchrist for Gusto.

Another decent outing for young Gusto, who was warmly applauded.

Deivid Washington for Jackson.

Jackson is getting there, there are improvements taking place, and he was applauded too.

In the ninetieth minute, a cross from the left by Chilwell eventually fell to Alfie Gilchrist. The youngster took aim and fired a strong shot past the hapless Pickford and a huge roar enveloped the stadium. It was, of course, his first goal in the first team. The scorer raced towards the corner flag and seemed to be accelerating as he ran on. I thought he was going to keep on running onto the West Stand forecourt and down the Fulham Road before eventually stopping at “Chubby’s Grill” or whatever it is called these days for a hot dog and onions.

Fackinell.

The joy in Alfie’s celebrations warmed us all up on a very fine night at a cold – Cole Palmer cold – Stamford Bridge.

Whisper it, but our team is slowly coming together. Those glimpses of quality are becoming more frequent. In our last two home games in the league we have scored ten goals. We have a difficult run of games to finish this season, but let’s see how high we can get.

Next up we meet Manchester City in the FA Cup semi-final at Wembley, bloody Wembley.

See you there.

Tales From A Golden Anniversary

Posted on by
2

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 11 March 2024.

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

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

“But I like Chelsea.”

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

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

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

In London.

At Stamford Bridge.

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

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

Just to hold those little match tickets…

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

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

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

The Chelsea team?

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

The gate was 24,207.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1970 was evidently a big year in my life.

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

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

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

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

Back to Chelsea.

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

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

We raised pints.

Chris : “Friendship and football.”

Ben : “Mates not millionaires.”

Chris : “Bates not billionaires.”

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

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

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

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

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

As in 1974, I walked towards the West Stand.

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

The Chelsea team?

28. Djordje Petrovic.

27. Malo Gusto.

3. Marc Cucarella.

2. Axel Disasi.

14. Trevoh Chalobah.

8. Enzo Fernandez.

25. Moises Cacedo.

20. Cole Palmer.

23. Conor Gallagher.

7. Raheem Sterling.

15. Nicolas Jackson.

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

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

It wasn’t like this in 1974.

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

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

As in 1974, Chelsea 1 Newcastle United 0.

It is not known how Danny celebrated the goal.

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

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

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

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

1-1.

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

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

“Hit one of the corners.”

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

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

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

Phew.

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

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

Snap, snap, snap, snap.

Nice one.

2-1.

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

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

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

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

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

What a goal.

3-1.

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

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

Two late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for the magnificent Palmer.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Jackson.

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

3-2.

Blimey.

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

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

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

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

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

Tales From Snow, Sun And Rain

Posted on by
3

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 2 March 2024.

The week was a busy one. Monday; travel back from London. Tuesday; work and a blog late that evening. Wednesday; an early start for work, the Leeds game, and a late return home. Thursday; work and a catch up on some sleep. Friday; work and a blog in the evening.

Saturday was another day, another football day, and another early start. However, on waking at 6am I was in for a surprise. Without any hint of a warning there was snow outside. I couldn’t immediately tell if the snow was light or heavy, but the snow on the road at the end of my driveway didn’t look too deep. PD and I exchanged texts. I warned him that I might be a little late. The plan had been to call at his house in Frome at 7am. I contemplated changing my route, keeping to busier roads, but as I drove out and through the village, it was clear that the snow was of no risk to myself or my car. In fact, it was starting to melt already. I called at PD’s house at 7.02am. Game on.

The match at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was a case of getting back to normal after the highs and lows – or vice versa – of games in the League Cup and the FA Cup. An away game in West London? What could be more straightforward than that, at least from a planning perspective.

We called for Parky at 7.30am and stopped at the local “McDonalds” in Melksham for sustenance. The trip to London was easy. There was no more snow, with only outbreaks of rain at times, as I made my way up the M4. There was drizzle at Heston Services. I had booked a “JustPark” spot on a private driveway in a cul-de-sac just yards from the River Thames from 10am, and I was parked up at 9.59am. If only the rest of the day could go as well.

This was Chelsea’s fourth match at Brentford’s new stadium and it seems like there have been more visits. Going in to the game, we were unbeaten; two wins and a draw. However, the Bees have had our number at Stamford Bridge in the top flight; three wins out of three visits. Despite them being in the midst of a poor run of form, and now with players missing, nobody expected an easy game. I know two Brentford season ticket holders. One, Chris – from work – was not expecting great things from his team. I could say the same about mine.

I had planned a gentle stroll along the northern bank of the River Thames. At about 10.15am, we found a window booth in “The Bull’s Head”, a quaint and quiet pub that seemed geared up to dining rather than drinking. There has been an inn on this site for over four-hundred years. The young lad serving us our drinks was a Brentford fan and was off to the game later. Outside, the rain. Inside, a few giggles. We were joined by our friends Aroha and Luke at 10.45am.

From there, a very short walk to “The City Barge”, another lovely pub, more open-plan than the first one, dating from the fourteenth century. We reached there at 11.45am and were joined by our friend Ricky. More chit-chat, more laughs. There were not too many football colours on show in these first two pubs.

At 1pm, we walked a couple of hundred yards west to “The Bell & Crown” which we visited on the previous two matches in December 2021 and October 2022. It’s another lovely pub, full of diners, but also football fans – Brentford fans – too. There were many red and white scarves on show. We spotted Cliff and Tim – Chelsea, no colours – enjoying a meal at virtually the same table as in 2022/23. Ricky chatted to me about his take on Brentford fans. Despite growing up in Hammersmith, he has only ever known a couple of them. They are an elusive breed for sure. He likened their support to that of rugby fans. A bit middle-class? A bit quiet? Maybe. I have always been surprised how quiet they are at Brentford.

But this is a great part of the world, a great location for a pre-game pub-crawl. I loved every minute of it. Brentford was quickly becoming one of my favourite away venues. In London, it would rank as number one, ahead of Fulham, Tottenham, Arsenal, Crystal Palace and West Ham – in that order – in the current top flight.

At 2.15pm, we set off for the game.

From the last pub near Kew Bridge to the stadium is only a ten-minute walk. The approach to the away turnstiles takes you along newly-cobbled streets, squeezed in beneath towering apartment blocks, an echo of the new Wembley that I have grown to despise. It’s an odd approach to a football stadium. Once through the first security checks, you plunge down steps to a lower level, then are shuffled along to find a turnstile that has less of a queue. It’s all very tight. The ground is hemmed in by two railway lines and a road. Sound familiar?

I was in at 2.40pm.

I was alongside Pete, John, Gary and Parky in row six of the east stand. We were behind the goal but not far from the corner flag. PD was across the way in the north stand. I saw familiar faces everywhere I looked. Luke and Ricky were in the last row where it rises up at an angle. There are odd angles everywhere at the Gtech. It even sounds like a geometric puzzle.

After hints of rain all day, it was at least dry as kick-off approached. I spotted a fan with a handmade sign that summed up the zeitgeist at Chelsea Football Club perfectly well.

“I don’t want your shirt!! I want you to fight for ours.”

Well said that man.

The team?

2. Disasi.

8. Fernandez.

14. Chalobah.

15. Jackson.

20. Palmer.

21. Chilwell.

23. Gallagher.

25. Caicedo.

26. Colwill.

27. Gusto.

28. Petrovic.

“Hey Jude” – an odd anthem – and the players entered to our left.

There were two team huddles.

Then a moment to reflect on the life of Stan Bowles, who recently passed away after a long battle with dementia at the age of seventy-five. Although he played most of his football at Queens Park Rangers, he also played at Brentford from 1981 to 1984 at a time when Ron Harris was the Brentford first team coach under Fred Callaghan. I saw Bowles play once against Chelsea, a horrific 1-3 home loss in the horrific 1978/79 season. He was some player; the definition of the football maverick of the ‘seventies. He might well be QPR’s most-loved player.

RIP.

The game began and I spent far too much of the early segment of the game trying to work out if Colwill, Chalobah and Disasi were a three at the back with Chilwell and Gusto as wing-backs, or if there was a flat back four with Chilwell in some advanced role that only he knew about.

The game began with Chelsea attacking the west end of the stadium. Chelsea dominated most of the early possession. I had to keep my eyes on the reinstated Ivan Toney, though. A ridiculous number of Chelsea fans had said that they expected him to score against us.

There was a half-chance for Enzo. It ended up going off for a corner. From the resulting cross, Axel Disasi headed on to the top of the net.

There was a rare chance for the home team, that man Toney, but Colwill snuffed it out. But then they improved a little and Yoane Wissa went close on two occasions. Then, from a long free-kick from the Brentford ‘keeper, a knock on and Wissa connected acrobatically. Thankfully, his shot was straight into the arms of Petrovic.

Nicolas Jackson twice found himself in good positions. On one occasion, he attempted one too many step overs and the ball was lost. Later, Conor Gallagher passed to Enzo, who set him up perfectly. Jackson rolled the ball past Mark Flekken in the Brentford goal, but seemed to take forever to decide which foot was best suited to knock the ball in to a waiting – and empty – net. We all groaned as Zanka arrived from nowhere to clear.

By this time, The Bloke Behind Me was annoying me with his constant berating of Jackson. It all got too tiresome, too tedious, too much.

There was bright sunlight now, with shadows appearing as the players danced in front of us. I wish I had brought my Ray Bans which had been stupidly discarded inside my car. Our hands shielded the sun instead.

On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful cross from the effervescent and bubbly Malo Gusto was met by the leap of Jackson, and I watched with a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction as the ball was headed down and in.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

After a few seconds of manic yelping, I quietly and silently turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and held a forefinger in front of my pursed lips.

The Bloke Behind Me smiled.

Brentford 0 Chelsea 1.

Phew.

The away section, all standing of course, roared – a la “Chelsea Agro” – a new chant.

“Malo Gusto. Malo Gusto. Hello. Hello.”

The heavens opened and we were treated to a wet end to the half, fans and players alike, despite the sun still shining. A metaphor for our season, our recent seasons maybe?

To annoy The Bloke Behind Me further, in the closing moments of the first period Jackson came in from the wing but could only force a save from Flekken.

It had been a decent-enough half. Gusto was the undoubted star, but Moises Caicedo had put in another solid shift. But it was no more than that; decent enough. We had tons of the ball, but we were not always linking in the right players at the right time. The home team were limited to a few testing breakaways.

The second-half began with Chelsea trying to attack the eastern end, where our 1,800 supporters were stood. However, our old problem of conceding soon after the break came back to haunt us. Just five minutes after the re-start, a ball was lumped into the box. It fell at the feet of Sergio Reguilon, who took a heavy touch.

“That could go anywhere.”

The Chelsea defenders were slow to react and Mads Roerslev rushed in to slam the ball home.

Bollocks.

Brentford 1 Chelsea 1.

Just after, we gave away possession way too easily and Vitaly Janelt had time to painstakingly shoot at goal. It hit the base of a post. Phew.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

The rain came again. But the sun stayed too. I sheltered my camera with my hand.

On the hour, that man Gusto raided down the right and found Cole Palmer. His side-footed effort had us dreaming and then squirming. It rolled a few yards past the post.

Fackinell.

Brentford peppered our goal via two efforts from Wissa and Reguilon. Our game was falling apart. On sixty-nine minutes, Reguilon was given far too much space out on the Brentford left and was allowed to cross. From a bouncing ball, Wissa scissor-kicked with great grace and the ball crashed into the net.

Brentford 2 Chelsea 1.

Oh bloody hell.

On seventy minutes, a tirade of negative noise from the Chelsea section.

“Roman Abramovich.”

“Boehly – You’re A Cunt.”

“Fuck Off Mauricio.”

“Jose Mourinho.”

I grimaced in silence. I suspect that I was not alone. There is a time for protest, but what became of the notion of turning up at Chelsea games and endeavouring, how bad the performance, to get behind the club and its players? I have mentioned this over the years and I have no qualms in mentioning it again.

“Players play. Managers manage. Supporters support.”

Isn’t that right? Please tell me otherwise.

We can moan like fuck in internet chat rooms, on forums, in pubs and bars, in coaches and cars, and we can bring placards to Stamford Bridge and prod them at directors and we can remonstrate and demonstrate before and after games, but – please – lets honour those ninety minutes as being the sacred time in which we try our hardest to support our players.

In the snow. In the sun. In the rain.

Fair weather. Foul weather.

Good times. Bad times.

On the pitch, we continued to struggle.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Chilwell seemed unwilling to close a player down, thus allowing a cross from the Brentford right. The ball was inch perfect. Reguilon rose between two defenders but his strong header hit the post.

I am bloody fed up of writing the names Reguilon and Wissa.

The beleaguered manager made some changes.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

Raheem Sterling for Colwill.

I liked the look of Sterling straight away. He posed questions that others were not keen to ask. Chances for Gallagher and Palmer. With eighty-three minutes gone and from a short corner – Mudryk to Palmer – the ball was looped in to perfection.

I saw two blue shirts jump. This was a goal. It had to be. Disasi crashed it in.

Yes.

Brentford 2 Chelsea 2.

Yes!

Almost ironically, the Chelsea crowd uttered a current favourite.

“Cus Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be Alright.”

Oh boy.

Chances continued – Sterling came so close after a twisting run into the six yard box – but the game soon ran out of time.

We met up in the away concourse and hobbled back to the car. We all shared the same opinions about everything.

“Fair result.”

“Poor game.”

“Two poor teams.”

My route up onto the M4 from the parking spot took me right underneath those towering blocks next to the away entrance, along that very same narrow road that we had walked along three hours previously. I was on the west-bound M4 in very good time – a quick exit is another reason why I like going to Brentford – and I was back home by 8pm, a very early finish for a change.

A wait now, but there is an anniversary of sorts on Monday 11 March.

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

See you there.

Tales From 1970 And All That

Posted on by
3

Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 28 February 2024.

After the defeat at Wembley on Sunday, we reconvened down at “The Eight Bells” in deepest Fulham – via a pint at “The Sawyers Arms” at Paddington – and although our spirits were low, a decent evening ensued. We spent three hours or so in the company of Johnny Twelve from California and also Rob and Karl from Hersham. Suffice to say, the drinks flowed and the smiles returned. However, on waking in the Premier Inn opposite the pub the next morning, I could not stifle a brief “I hate football” from flitting into my head.

But these were a busy few days for Chelsea Football Club.

Next up was our first FA Cup tie against Leeds United since the 1970 FA Cup Final and subsequent replay. It was a busy time for me too. As Monday passed and as I toiled over the Wembley blog late into Tuesday, I managed to “let go” of the result on Sunday and I tried my best to look forward to the game on Wednesday.

I was in early at work on the day of the game, but I could not get something out of my head. Back in 1986, Chelsea exited both domestic cups within the space of four days; we lost at home to Liverpool in the FA Cup on Sunday 26 January and at home to QPR on Wednesday 29 January. I sincerely hoped that there would be no repeat thirty-eight years later.

PD and Parky had enjoyed a pub lunch and PD had then picked-up Ron Harris at 1.45pm. At just after 2pm, in the car park of “The Milk Churn” pub in Melksham, I stood with Ron as PD took a photo of the two of us. It seemed right that on the occasion of the first Chelsea vs. Leeds United FA Cup game in fifty-four years, we should mark the start of the drive to Chelsea in this manner.

As I pulled out of the car park, I realised once again how absolutely lucky I am to be able to drive our captain from those glory years up to Stamford Bridge.

1970, eh?

While Ron was busy leading the team to those two classic games, I was just starting out on a football life of my own.

I began my school days at the age of for years and nine months, probably just before the Wembley Cup Final on Saturday 11 April. In the ensuing few months, I would choose Chelsea as my team, although the exact reason or reasons are not crystal clear. In my memory, it’s down to a list of a few motives. It has to be said that until school, my parents told me that I wasn’t particularly interested in football.

Maybe I liked the name “Chelsea”. Maybe, after the replay at Old Trafford on 29 April, some school pals told me that “Chelsea had won the cup” (there is no recollection at all of me watching it, sadly) or maybe I had worked out that Chelsea were a good team. In a nutshell, Chelsea were the talk of the town, or at least the school playground, in the April and May of 1970 and I became a fan.

I’ve had quite a journey, eh?

And here I was, aged fifty-eight and seven months, driving the captain of that team to a game against Leeds United so many years later.

As I approached London, I could not resist asking Ron a question.

“Ron. Of the two games at Wembley and Old Trafford in 1970, what is your one stand out memory?”

“After the first game, Dave Sexton told me that I would swap positions with Webby, who had been given the biggest run-around I had ever seen by Eddie Gray, and in the second-game he never got a kick.”

The response did not surprise me at all. It is the classic moment from both games aside from the goals.

The 1970 FA Cup Final is so iconic, so fantastic, and so important to the history of the competition and to Chelsea Football Club alike. But it is, undoubtedly, so important for me too, although I did not even watch the games at the time.

It was a game-changer.

I knew that Chelsea were issuing a programme for the game that would feature a cover photograph of the jubilant Chelsea players at Old Trafford, with Chopper holding the trophy alongside a few team mates, and I liked that. Sometimes Chelsea get it right.

As time moves on, though, it has been sad to see so many players from both teams pass away over the years. Of the twenty-two starters at Old Trafford, only ten remain.

Chelsea.

  1. Peter Bonetti : 20 April 2020, aged 78.
  2. Ron Harris – aged 79
  3. Eddie McCreadie – aged 83.
  4. John Hollins : 14 June 2023, aged 76.
  5. John Dempsey – aged 77.
  6. David Webb – aged 77.
  7. Tommy Baldwin : 22 January 2024, aged 78.
  8. Charlie Cooke – aged 81.
  9. Peter Osgood : 1 March 2006, aged 59.
  10. Ian Hutchinson : 19 September 2002, aged 54.
  11. Peter Houseman : 20 March 1977, aged 31.

Leeds United.

  1. David Harvey – aged 76.
  2. Paul Madeley : 23 July 2018, aged 73.
  3. Terry Cooper : 31 July 2021, aged 77.
  4. Billy Bremner : 7 December 1997, aged 54.
  5. Jack Charlton : 10 July 2020, aged 85.
  6. Norman Hunter : 20 April 2020, aged 76.
  7. Peter Lorimer : 20 March 2021, aged 74.
  8. Alan Clarke – aged 77.
  9. Mick Jones – aged 78.
  10. Johnny Giles – aged 83.
  11. Eddie Gray – aged 76.

I dropped off PD and Parky at the bottom of the North End Road and I dropped off Ron outside the main gates. As I slowly retraced my steps back to my usual parking place, police sirens were wailing.

Leeds were in town.

At about 5.15pm, I popped into an Italian restaurant on the Lillee Road – “Pizza@Home” – for the first time and I enjoyed some lovely food. I then dipped into “Café Ole” at the bottom of the North End Road once more for a large cappuccino. It was all about staying out of the rain for as long as I could. Funnily enough, there was a bundle of friends at “Café Ole” – Pete, Liz, Mark, Scott, Paul, Gerry, Tom, Leigh, Darren – probably all with the same need to keep dry.

I had a nice talk with Tom, the first one for ages.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at about 7pm. PD told me that, should we beat Leeds, we would play host to Leicester City in the Quarter-Finals.

Mixed blessings.

I was angling for a dream draw of Newcastle United at home on Saturday 16 March as it would mark the fiftieth anniversary of my very first game against the same opposition. But I was relatively happy with a home draw. I hoped that the game would be played on the Saturday though. Outside of a home draw, we all wanted Coventry City. Ah well, it was not to be.

PD ran through the team.

“We’re playing with three wingers. Sterling, Madueke, Mudryk.”

I had swapped out with Parky to allow him a seat next to PD in The Sleepy Hollow. There were around six-thousand noisy Leeds fans in The Shed, their largest away following at Stamford Bridge in over fifty-years, maybe ever.

At about 7.15pm, Ron Harris was interviewed pitch side with club historian Rick Glanvil as they spoke about the 1970 FA Cup Final and its place in football folklore. Amazingly, the replay was watched by 28.49 million people. It is at number six in the list of the highest-ever TV audiences in the UK, alongside royal weddings, royal funerals and England games. Apart from the “Matthews Final” of 1953, it is probably the most famous FA Cup Final of them all.

The usual dimming of lights and fireworks, but then the shock of Leeds in an all pink kit, albeit one with a shirt that resembled a polyester outfit from the ‘seventies that Mrs. Slocombe might wear at a Grace Brothers night out.

Hideous.

Time to sort the team out. I had a look.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Chalobah – Gilchrist

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Mudryk – Sterling

Jackson

I had forgotten that Ethan Ampadu was now full-time at Leeds United after three relegations on loan to Sheffield United, Venezia and Spezia. Eddie Gray’s great-nephew Archie was playing for the visitors. He is the son of Andy Gray, who I remember at Leeds, and the grandson of Frank Gray who I also remember at Leeds.

Conclusion : I am getting old.

The visitors in The Shed noisily shouted “We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds” and Enzo kicked the ball back to a team mate.

We were off.

The pink visitors attacked us in the Matthew Harding. Mudryk was in the “Number 10” slot, the space recently occupied by Cole Palmer.  We began on top.

I noted many empty seats during the first few minutes but most filled. There were, however a few hundred unused seats in the top corners of Westview all game.

I was just getting settled, making a mental note of all the songs that the visitors were singing at us, when a lumped ball from deep released Daniel James who had lost the back-tracking Alfie Gilchrist. The Leeds player lobbed the ball just wide of the goal frame.  

From the goal-kick following this miss, a typical Chelsea disaster of 2023/24 occurred right in front of me. Sanchez played the ball to Axel Disasi who he chose not to clear his lines, no doubt under instruction from the management. He played the ball into the feet of Moises Caicedo, even though there were three opponents close by. Possession was lost, Jaidon Anthony pushed the ball square to Mateo Joseph who slammed the ball past Robert Sanchez.

The away hordes roared.

After just eight minutes we were one-nil down.

The away end went through a few favourites.

“Should I be Chelsea, should I be Leeds, here’s what she said to me.”

“Let’s go fucking mental, let’s go fucking mental.”

“Marching on together.”

We tried to retaliate immediately, with Sterling setting up Enzo but his low effort flew past Ilian Meslier’s post.

On fifteen minutes, we constructed a really fine move down the right, with a smattering of one-touch passes. Jackson back to Disasi, to Gusto, inside to Jackson, to Madueke, to Caicedo and a killer pass to Jackson, who carefully guided the ball home.

Lovely goal.

It was back to 1-1.

Another shot from Enzo, but easily stopped by Meslier.

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

A slashed effort from an angle by Madueke that only hit the side-netting. Another shot from Madueke was so high and wide that it almost defied description. Mudryk went close at an angle. At a corner, Mudryk took Shedloads of abuse from the Leeds fans.

“You’re fookin’ shit, you’re fookin’ shit, you’re fookin’ shit.”

Leeds countered occasionally. For some reason, their right-winger James (he scored against us in his first game for Manchester United in August 2019) reminded me of Eddie Gray, his build and his running style.

On thirty-seven minutes, another fine move down our right. The ball was worked centrally at first, Caicedo to Chalobah to Madueke. As so often happens, he chose to dribble laterally, but in doing so encountered some space. He pushed the ball between defenders to Gusto on the right. A touch, a prod into Sterling, and a cutback to Mudryk, and a first-time finish, sweeping it low past the ‘keeper. Another great goal.

He stood in front of his detractors.

“Ви казали?”

We were 2-1 up.

The visitors were not impressed.

“2-1 and you still don’t sing.”

Leeds came again and James fired over from a free-kick. Jaidon Anthony ghosted in from the left and thumped one that just missed the far post.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

At the break, it was time to reflect on the first-half. We had scored two nice goals, but some of our build-up play was just too slow. Moises Caicedo was the best of our bunch, strong in the tackle, decent passing, holding it all together. We had done just enough.

Alas, in the second-half, we didn’t do much at all.

Leeds began the stronger and after a while it dawned on me that we had hardly strung more than two passes together. On fifty-eight minutes, with the Chelsea crowd not involved and docile, Ampadu swung a long cross over to Anthony. I was dismayed that Gusto did not make a stab at the ball, allowing a long cross towards the far post where Joseph was able to leap, totally unmarked, and head down and in.

It was now 2-2.

On sixty-one minutes, a double substitution.

Conor Gallagher for Madueke.

Ben Chilwell for Gusto.

Chilwell to left-back, Gilchrist to right-back, Gallagher to the middle, Mudryk to the left, Sterling to the right.

Our play went to pieces.

“We’re second-best here.”

A shot from Anthony was deflected but its trajectory stayed close to Sanchez.

Our passing was off, our intensity had slowed, we had stopped doing the small things. We looked so tired.

Mudryk crossed high but Jackson was always underneath it.

On seventy-four minutes, more changes.

Levi Colwill for Gilchrist.

Cole Palmer for Sterling.

Disasi to right-back, Colwill in the middle, Palmer on the left.

We still struggled. We all began to wonder about extra-time and penalties, another late night.

On the ninetieth minute, there was really fine play from Enzo who fought to retain possession on the left and he scurried forward. He spotted the run of Gallagher and slotted a beautiful pass into him. Gallagher’s touch was exquisite and despite being squeezed by two Leeds defenders, he lifted the ball over Meslier.

Get in you beauty.

Now it was our turn to scream and shout.

Stamford Bridge roared, but how I wished that it had been roaring all night.

In injury-time, a debut was given to Jimi Tauriainen, whose first moment of action was to foul a Leeds defender; obviously he had read the script.

Chelsea 3 Leeds United 2.

At the end, “Freed From Desire “ and “One Step Beyond”

We can’t really grumble about getting home draws all of the way through the two domestic cups this season can we? Eight out of eight.

Wimbledon.

Brighton.

Blackburn Rovers.

Newcastle United.

Preston North End.

Aston Villa.

Leeds United.

Leicester City.

During the day, I had joked to a few people about the game against Leeds.

“Yeah, looking forward to it. But what’s the end goal? Get to another Cup Final at Wembley and lose that one too?”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Outside, mobs of Leeds made their way back to waiting cars and coaches. I had not seen so many police at Chelsea in years.

On the walk back to the car, Ron Harris explained that Eddie Gray was with the Leeds board at Stamford Bridge and had asked to be linked up with his old adversary from 1970. The two former players spent thirty minutes in each other’s company. In fact, Eddie Gray did the exact same thing on his last visit to Chelsea last season. I admired that. These old warriors must love to meet up and share stories of that game and others.

“How old is Eddie Gray, Ron? Same age as you?”

“Couple years younger, I think.”

“Right.”

We walked on.

“Oh yeah, I remember now. When he played against you in 1970 he was younger. But after the replay, I heard that he aged significantly.”

Ron smiled.

I soon escaped from London and for the first time that I can remember I didn’t stop once until I pulled up at “The Milk Churn” at about midnight. I was home by 12.40am, a relatively early night.

Right then, back to the league now. Brentford on Saturday. See you there.

Tales From A Crazy Game

Posted on by
6

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 7 February 2024.

We weren’t expecting much from this FA Cup replay at Villa Park. Why would we be? In our previous two games we had conceded eight goals. There was, in fact, a real worry that we would become unstuck on a mighty scale.

I had worked an early shift, collected Paul and PD at 2.20pm, and then headed north. We stopped off at “The Vine” at West Bromwich at about 4.30pm. Our modus operandi was that if we were travelling over one hundred miles to watch a football game that we would probably lose, we had best find our fun elsewhere. The three curries, as always, went down a treat.

At around 6.45pm, I dropped the lads off as close to Villa Park that I could get and then double-backed on myself to park up. The plan was to walk all of the way around the stadium to take a selection of wide-angled photographs of the stands and to try to capture the essence of a midweek cup tie.

Villa Park, eh?

This is a ground that became synonymous with FA Cup semi-finals before the FA took the unfortunate step to host all semis at the new Wembley Stadium. We have played a few semis at Villa Park over the years dating back to our first one, a win, against Everton in 1915. There was then a long gap of fifty years followed by three games in quick succession. We then lost to Liverpool in 1965 and Sheffield Wednesday in 1966 before defeating Leeds United in 1967.

However, my first viewing of an FA Cup tie at Villa Park took place in early 1987. I travelled down to Birmingham with two mates from college in Stoke; Bob, Leeds United, and Steve, Derby County. I remember we posed for a photo outside the famous steps of the Trinity Road but the weather was too overcast and my camera was too cheap for the photo to be worth sharing. I had visited Villa Park for a tedious 0-0 draw in November 1986, but this cup tie was a great match. We had about 5,000 fans in a 21,997 crowd on the low terrace behind the goal and in the seats of the old Witton Lane Stand. We watched from the seats. We went 1-0 up in the first-half via John Bumstead but Villa equalised with twenty minutes to go via Neale Cooper. David Speedie then put us ahead on eighty-six minutes only for Steve Hunt to equalise again. We would win the replay at Stamford Bridge.

That game in 1987 was our last FA Cup tie against Villa on their home patch. However, we would play two semi-finals at Villa Park within six years during the Glenn Hoddle to Claudio Ranieri era.

In 1996, we assembled at Villa Park for the game against Manchester United. We were allocated the old Trinity Road Stand and three-quarters of the Holte End. Luckily, we had seats in the very front row of the upper tier of the Holte End, and I decided to take advantage of this position by creating a flag in honour of Ruud Gullit that I could drape over the balcony. Although the great man himself headed us into the lead in the first-half, United came back to win 2-1 with two goals in quick succession a quarter of an hour into the second-half via Andy Cole and David Beckham.

In 2002, our semi-final against Fulham was to be played at Highbury but our opponents took umbrage that the split of the 38,000 tickets at Arsenal’s stadium slightly favoured ourselves. They demanded that the game should be played at a stadium that allowed more equal allocations. Lo and behold, the two clubs from West London were forced to decamp to Birmingham on a Sunday evening with the game kicking-off at a ridiculous 7pm. I travelled up with a car load from Frome and we enjoyed a lengthy pre-match in the “Crown And Cushion” pub at Perry Barr. This pre-match is notable for the first-ever photo of Parky and myself together. We watched in the noisy upper tier of the North Stand as a John Terry goal just before half-time sent us to Wembley. The irony is that the attendance was only 36,147 and Fulham – of course – did not sell all of their tickets.

“Thanks, then.”

I took a few photographs on the walk through to the away end. Three police vans were parked on the roundabout near the Witton train station. Emiliano Buendia drove past in his car and some Villa fans close by went all weak at the knees. Amidst the throng of match-goers, a chap stood in the middle of Witton Lane with a “God Is Love” placard. I took outside shots of three of the stands but I did not fancy the trot down to the Holte End on this occasion. Time was moving on and I wanted to get inside to join up with the lads. I could sense an air of buoyancy amidst the home fans.

“The Giant Is Awake” is the current tagline at Villa Park and I suppose they have a point. They are playing their best stuff in years.

I was inside at about 7.30pm. As I spoke to a few fellow travellers in the concourse and in the seating area of the away section, nobody was confident.

I took my seat alongside the lads. We were towards the back of the lower tier and it was a decent view. Chelsea were given 6,298 tickets for this game as opposed to the standard 3,000 for league matches. It seemed that a fair few were going spare if the announcements on social media were a clue. I just hoped that there weren’t large swathes of gaps in our section. I soon realised that the split was around 3,000 in the usual areas of the Witton Lane / Doug Ellis but with around 3,300 in the top tier of the North Stand to our right.

There were occasional empty seats but this was a magnificent effort from our supporters. While the dynamics have changed – for the worse, for the worse – at home games, thank God that the football calendar can occasionally throw up an occasion like this where the bedrock of the club can get a chance to follow the team en masse.

The minutes ticked by.

There were a few rock anthems as the 8pm kick-off approached. Surprisingly, “Hi Ho Silver Lining” was aired – as it was at Wolves – but then “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne took over as the teams were spotted in the off-centre tunnel.

Villa then overdid it a bit. Not only were there plumes of smoke by the tunnel, but flames all along the pitch by the Doug Ellis Stand and – fackinell – fireworks in the sky above the stadium.

Not to worry, the six thousand Chelsea fans had a response.

“CAREFREE!”

On a serious note, all of this manufactured noise before kick-off might well look good on TV and it might excite children, but the problem is that it doesn’t allow for atmospheres to sizzle along nicely resulting in a crackling crescendo of noise – self-generated – at kick-off. Maybe those days are gone forever.

Sigh.

Our team? No Thiago Silva. No Raheem Sterling.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Chilwell

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Jackson

There were a few mumbles and grumbles about the starting positions of Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson, but – noticeably – nobody was bemoaning the absence of Raheem Sterling.

OK. Everyone stood. Not many gaps in the immediate area. A few late-comers. Many familiar faces. I still wasn’t confident, but here we go. I tried to juggle photographs with shouts and applause for the team.

“CAM ON YOU BLUE BOYS.”

The Chelsea players formed a pre-match huddle, and while they waited for captain Ben Chilwell to join them, I spotted Cole Palmer looking over at the Chelsea support in the Doug Ellis Stand. He seemed to be in awe :

“Bloody hell, they have turned up tonight alright. There’s thousands behind the goal too.”

However, not all parts of Villa Park were full. I soon spotted hundreds of central seats in the executive areas opposite not being used. That was just odd.

Soon into the game, with Villa attacking our end, a long cross found Alex Moreno unmarked at the far post, but rather than attempt an effort himself he decided to head the ball back across the six-yard box. A defensive head cleared.

It was a lively start to the game with Chelsea breaking with speed and intensity. Malo Gusto linked with Noni Madueke and worked the ball in to Palmer inside the Villa box at the Holte End. His shot was an easy take for Emiliano Martinez.

There was a header, shortly after, from Enzo but his compatriot Martinez easily fielded this effort too.

On eleven minutes, we won the ball out on our left. I stood on tip-toes to watch the move develop. Inside to Conor Gallagher who spread the ball into the path of Jackson. He ran and ran, and played a low ball towards Madueke. Although surrounded by Villa defenders, he wisely took a touch before knocking it back into the path of Gallagher. The shot rose steeply but we erupted when the net rippled.

Pandemonium.

Bodies and limbs everywhere. I had no hope of taking a shot of the players celebrating away in the corner.

We were winning. Fackinell.

I was so aware that Conor’s lack of goals is often cited by many as a major-downside. So I was doubly happy that the goal came from him. Lovely.

Villa came into the game but Djordje Petrovic thwarted their couple of attempts on goal including an angled volley from Ollie Watkins.

We continued to purr. On twenty-one minutes, Disasi found Madueke in tons of space. He turned and pushed the ball wide into the over-lapping Malo Gusto. His cross into the box – a relatively low trajectory – was met by the leap of Jackson. His angled effort crashed into the goal.

We were 2-0 up, oh my bloody goodness.

I saw the players celebrating through the forest of arms but I managed to cajole a photo or two out of my camera.

The away support boomed as we continued to dominate. I was really shocked by the lack of noise coming from the home areas though.

Nothing. I heard nothing at all.

We, not surprisingly full of it. However, songs about Willian, John Terry, Frank Lampard and Cesc Fabregas? Really? Save those for the last five minutes of games when we are winning 4-0 plus please. The Willian one was a real shocker.

I took great pleasure in seeing Enzo get more and more involved. Just two examples of his play; the first a cushioned control of the ball with his instep that screamed quality, the second, a first-time transfer of the play from left wing to right wing that told me that he was full of confidence.

Alongside him, Moises Caicedo was enjoying his best game for us, adeptly swatting Villa breaks, tacking hard, turning and passing. And then Gallagher, a one-man search-and-destroy unit, full of energy and running. It was a very fluid and powerful midfield indeed.

The natives were restless and I was loving it.

Chilwell, finding himself on the right, moved inside and unleashed a shot that whizzed just past the near post.

On thirty-three minutes, Madueke hugged the far touchline as he accelerated away after picking up a loose ball level with our penalty box. He skipped past a challenge and continued his run. He passed to Palmer whose shot was at a relatively easy height for Martinez to save.

On a rare break, Watkins set up John McGinn, but Petrovic tipped it over.

At the half-time break, there were nothing but happy faces among the travelling army. It had been, no doubt, the best half of the season by far. Against a decent team, too, let’s not forget.

Ozzy serenaded us with “Crazy Train” once again as the teams took to the pitch for the second-half.

The home team began brightly and I can honestly say that after a quick attack in the first minute I heard the Holte End for the first discernible time.

“Yippee-aye-eh, yippe-aye-oh, Holte Enders in the skoi.”

We applauded them.

On fifty-four minutes, a foul on Enzo. The free-kick was a long way out. I wanted Palmer to take it, but Enzo stood with Chilwell. Chilwell peeled away and Enzo took aim. As did I.

Snap.

I looked up to see the ball fly over the wall and dip majestically into the top corner with Martinez beaten.

What a goal.

The away sections again boomed.

Zola-esque.

I snapped his euphoric run down to our corner. I sensed the meaning of his actions immediately.

“Look at me. I’m Enzo. I’m staying.”

Ah, bloody lovely stuff.

I instantly forgave him for the yellow card that followed him taking his shirt off. Sometimes emotion gets in the way of accountability and rational thought.

The Chelsea supporters on the side stand piped up.

“North Stand. Give Us A Song. North Stand North Stand Give Us A Song.”

Lovely stuff.

We were through. And we just could not resist a nod to our next opponents.

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…”

Amongst all this, a word for the much-maligned duo of Axel Disasi and Benoit Badiashile. Their best games for ages too. There was even a song, only a few days after many for rubbishing his recent performances.

“Brought us back a centre back. Benoit Badiashile.”

We’re a fickle bunch aren’t we?

On sixty-five minutes, a song for a former player that I could fully get behind.

“VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI! VIALLI!”

Some late substitutions :

72 : Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

75 : Raheem Sterling for Madueke.

Moreno rose at the far post but his looping header landed on top of the net rather than inside it.

More substitutions.

81 : Thiago Silva for Palmer.

87 : Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

Villa had a late flourish and in injury-time, Moussa Diaby coolly slotted in at the Holte End.

Aston Villa 1 Chelsea 3.

A roar at the final whistle. What a night. Roared on by over six thousand our team rose to the occasion and played some gorgeous attacking football. Why can’t all away games be like this?

Leeds – you are next.

2023/24 FA Cup Round Five

Blackburn Rovers vs. Newcastle United

Bournemouth vs. Leicester City

Chelsea vs. Leeds United

Coventry City vs. Maidstone United

Liverpool vs. Southampton

Luton Town vs. Manchester City

Nottingham Forest vs. Manchester United

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Brighton & Hove Albion

Walking out of the stadium after the game brought back memories of other away triumphs over the years. Everyone was singing – “sign him up for eight more years, Chelsea boys are on the beers” – and I sensed a swagger in our step, that good old Chelsea swagger of old. There’s nothing like it. We walked back to the car and we followed the old rule of being able to walk wherever you want after an away win.

Up to the roundabout, out into the road, the cars can stop for us.

The swagger was back.

1996

2002

2024

1996 – Part 2.

It came to light after the game at Villa Park that a sports photographer – working for “Action Images” – had taken a photo of my “Ruud Boys” flag from behind the goal.

I spotted that a cropped version of it soon appeared in a copy of “Total Football” later that year.

I didn’t ask for royalties.

1996 – Part 3.

The former Wimbledon striker Dean Holdsworth once had an affair with glamour model Linsey Dawn McKenzie. At a game at Selhurst Park in the 1996-1997 season – I wasn’t there – the Chelsea fans were full of rude comments about this romantic liaison. In the “Daily Sport” newspaper – that beacon of journalistic integrity – the following day, there was a photo of Linsey Dawn McKenzie (baring all) with a headline to the effect of “How dare Chelsea fans be rude to both Dean and me?”

The editor chose to illustrate her tirade at the Chelsea fans with a picture of some Chelsea fans, set just behind a large photograph of Linsey Dawn and her quite substantial charms. The photo that the editor chose was from the Villa Park semi-final. It was the photo of my Ruud Boys flag. Or rather, a close-up photo of Glenn and me (looking, strangely, straight at the camera). The story goes that Glenn was sitting with his workmates during a tea break when one of them opened up the middle pages of his “Daily Sport” to exclaim –

“Hey, Glenn – there’s a picture of you and Chris Axon next to Linsey Dawn MacKenzie here.”

Next up, a game at Selhurst Park once again; Crystal Palace away on Monday evening.

See you there.

Tales From Bedfordshire

Posted on by
4

Luton Town vs. Chelsea : 30 December 2023.

Luton Town, eh? What’s the back-story here then?

“They’ve come a long way, baby.”

Those idiots that think some sort of “closed shop” European Super League is the rightful and logical next step in the evolution of football really miss the point. My plain and simple objection, shared by many, is that it would end the natural and organic progression of teams, such as Luton Town, through national pyramid structures across Europe.

Let us not forget that in season 2008/9, Bournemouth, Brentford and Luton Town were all plying their trade in the old Fourth Division. Fifteen years later, all three clubs are playing in the Premier League, the top table, alongside more established and historically successful outfits. This is to be heartily applauded. Luton Town were even relegated that season and spent the next one in the National League. Their rise through five divisions is a magnificent yet humbling story.

As some sort of comparison, this is the equivalent of Stockport County, Salford City and Forest Green Rovers playing in the Premier League in fifteen years’ time. And here’s the thing; Chelsea playing Stockport County in a regular league fixture thrills me a lot more than us playing Barcelona (again and again and again, ad infinitum, ad nauseam…). I love the way that our football has given rise to a good number of teams that have spent many years in nether regions of the Football League and seen them reach the top division. Since 2010, Chelsea have played regular league games against Blackpool, Wigan Athletic, Bolton Wanderers, Reading, Cardiff City, Swansea City and Huddersfield Town not to mention the three teams already mentioned. These names are not powerhouses. They are small to mid-sized clubs that occasionally have a run of form and get a chance to tilt at giants. I think this is wonderful.

Our game at Luton’s cramped Kenilworth Road would be our third and final game over the Christmas period. The hosts had enjoyed a mini-revival of sorts, winning two games in a row against the two Uniteds of Sheffield and Newcastle, whereas our last two games had resulted in a loss and a win.

We set off from Frome at 7.30am. On the drive up to Bedfordshire, we discussed the game but I was not particularly swayed one way or the other. A win would be lovely, a draw would be bearable, a loss would be disappointing if not totally unexpected.

There were mixed feelings about our last encounter at Kenilworth Road; it came in the FA Cup in March 2022 and although I was excited to be able to tick off a new ground, the news that Roman Abramovich would be forced to sell the club hit the headlines that very evening and dampened the mood. With hindsight, a narrow 3-2 win seemed almost irrelevant that night, despite us all enjoying the win at the time.

The weather was pretty miserable during our three-hour journey. Alongside me were the usual ones this Christmas; PD, Parky and Glenn. A ridiculous amount of time during the morning was spent trying to sort out a ticket for the game for Sir Les from Melksham. There was a spare, but it was stuck in Newport in South Wales. We tried to solve the conundrum. The first thought was for Les to drive over to collect it but there was not enough time. Grabbing at straws, I then sent a photographic image of the ticket, its bar code and also its QR code to Les and left it to him to try to scan it at the turnstiles. I didn’t hold out much of a hope.

I had booked a “JustPark” space outside a nearby house from 11am and I arrived with a quarter of an hour to spare. The weather was still rotten; overcast and drizzly, grey. Luton was grey too. It is not a town to easily admire. Luckily, the ground was only a fifteen-minute walk away. We soon found ourselves outside the away turnstiles on Oak Road. I chatted to a few familiar faces.

I spoke to Andy, who I first got to know almost thirty years ago.

“In our time, in those Second Division seasons, teams like Luton, plus Watford, QPR and teams like that were our main rivals for promotion. And we always seemed to struggle against Luton.”

One Chelsea win in ten Second Division games in the period from 1975/76 to 1981/82 would back that up. In the two seasons that we were in the top flight – 1977/78 and 1978/79 – during those years, they were still in Division Two. They seemed to be perpetual foes. I never liked playing them.

There was no news from Les. I wondered where he was.

I met up with Alan and Gary, alongside Terry Wine Gums, and a few other faces walked past.

I was waiting in the light drizzle for one person in particular. Back in the mid-‘eighties when a whole gang of us used to assemble centrally on the back row of The Benches – Alan, Glenn, Paul, Simon, Dave, Rich, Mark, Swan and little old me – there was another lad who was in our group. Leggo was from Bedford and used to go home and away. He was part of my match-day routine. We were a tight little set. I remember that while he was on duty with Chelsea down in Devon for a pre-season game at Plymouth in 1985 or 1986, he was set upon by local thugs and his leg was broken. He stopped going for a while and then our paths didn’t cross quite so often. I think I stopped seeing him when I went back into The Shed around 1988. I eventually presumed that he had given up going.

Then, in “The Goose” before a game against BATE Borisov in 2018, I happened to spot Leggo. I couldn’t believe it was him. It took a while but we connected on “Facebook” and chatted a little. Like me, he watches his local non-league team. He watches Bedford Town and I watch Frome Town and both teams play at the same level within the Southern League structure. Hopefully we might both get promoted this season and end up playing each other in the Southern League Premier in 2024/25. We were in that division together in 2011/12 to 2013/14.

I was lucky enough to get hold of a spare ticket for the Luton game and, since Leggo lives in Bedford, I offered it to him. He was so happy. I was pretty sure that Glenn had not seen him since around 1986, and Alan a few years later. I sincerely hoped that this reunion of sorts would be a lovely end to 2023.

I saw Leggo slowly walk up Oak Road. Alan greeted him and they gave each other a lovely big hug. It was a very special moment.

I darted inside, keen to start snapping away, but I was well aware that I didn’t really want to replicate every photo that I had taken on my one and only previous visit almost two years ago. I made my way through the security and bag check, then through the turnstiles. The gate was manned and I had to show my ticket rather than scan it. I quickly messaged Sir Les to tell him. This would not be an easy manoeuvre for him at all. I feared the worst.

I made my way down to the unreserved seats. I caught up with PD, Parky and Glenn. They were a little more centrally positioned than for the FA Cup game in 2022. Alan, Gary and Leggo joined us. Five of us in a row, with Alan and Leggo stood behind.

The Magnificent Seven.

I had a chat with a few others. All the usual faces were here. How many tickets did we have? Around one thousand I believe. We took up two thirds of the Oak Road Stand.

At midday, with half-an hour to go, the pre-match PA started. “I Predict A Riot” by the Kaiser Chiefs was first up. I raised my eyebrows. Mention Luton Town to many football fans and a few key words roll off the tongue.

“Millwall riot, plastic pitch, all-ticket, David Evans.”

For a while, Luton Town – despite their fine football under David Pleat – were a very disliked football club. The Millwall riot pushed them into a corner and their chairman David Evans instigated a “members only” scheme, which did not sit well with the football public at the time. There were claims of an unfair advantage, especially when this home-only support was combined with a plastic pitch that suited Luton more than their visitors.

In light of all this, “I Predict A Riot” was a rather tongue-in-cheek start to the day’s events. We were then treated to twenty minutes of standard stadium / dance music crossover, from “Freed From Desire” to “Insomnia.”

Still no news from Sir Les. I wondered if he was near.

“In the pub, leaving now.”

Our team seemed half-decent.

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Caicedo – Gallagher

Madueke – Palmer – Jackson

Broja

Ross Barkley was playing for the home team.

As he walked over to take his place on the subs’ bench, Alfie Gilchrist was serenaded.

“He’s one of our own.”

Then came the entrance of the teams. Unlike in 2022 there was not an overly raucous atmosphere. Two years ago, Luton’s game with us in the FA Cup was a high-water mark for them, but there are high-water marks every month at Kenilworth Road this season. Maybe their poor season, until of late, has drained some of the buzz out of them.

Their tight stadium, hemmed in on all sides by terraced streets, has been altered since our last visit. To our left, a decent new stand, but only five or six rows deep. There was a small section of fifty away fans closest to the Oak Road Stand. I recognised a few of them.

Cathy, Dog, Pete, Nick, Robbie, Donna, Colby, Robert, Pam, Sam.

The main stand to my right was a very odd structure. It is cranked at each end, giving the impression of three separate sections. The end seats, tight above each corner flag, must be excellent places to watch the action. They reminded me of old bandbox baseball stadia like Ebbets Field where spectators could hear the cursing of the batter or the thud of the ball in a catcher’s mitt. Those seats overlooking the away end were festooned with many flags of St. George and I expected some noise from the locals within.

The Luton home shirt now has a vertical white stripe, harking back to their much-loved kit from the mid-‘seventies. This year’s kit has black shorts, not navy, though and I am not sure why there is that misfire. Unlike in 2022, we had decided against our home colours and were kitted out in the mint green away colours.

At 12.29pm, a message from Sir Les.

“In mate.”

Bloody hell.

Before the game, with every team having played nineteen games – the half-way stage – we were in tenth position. A win would keep us locked in that position. There is no punchline.

The game began.

We started brightly, attacking the other end, and we began noisily.

“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away…”

Noni Madueke, after his fine cameo against Palace, wriggled on the right and set up Conor Gallagher but his shot was blocked by the Luton ‘keeper Thomas Kaminski.

Despite an early kick-off, the floodlights were on, and the sky was Tupperware grey. The noise from the thousand strong away support continued nicely. At the FA Cup game in 2022, bodies were crammed everywhere. This time it wasn’t so bad.

Cole Palmer launched an early sighter at the Luton goal but cleared the target.

With Nicolas Jackson employed on the left-wing, at times not so far away from us, I sensed that he seemed a little more effective. In those early exchanges he seemed to be playing with a little more nous. On twelve minutes, a searching ball from Palmer set Jackson free and he was allowed to advance down the left. His shot from an angle was saved easily but the Luton defence did not clear the ball. It ended up at the feet of Palmer who did not need much time to drill it low and in at the far post.

GET IN.

The Chelsea support screamed and shouted.

Phew.

Alan and I were stood around four yards apart and so our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine took on a new look. We improvised a rather nifty mime and we had a proper giggle.

Ross Barkley, already showing that he was the main playmaker for Luton, blasted over from a free-kick.

After twenty minutes of play, the home support was still quiet. It came as a shock. I had expected more from them.

Thiago Silva inadvertently flicked on a cross from the Luton right but there was nobody gambling to take advantage. Luton had a little spell, but we kept them out. I lost count of the number of times that Barkley rolled his studs over the top of the ball before shimmying and losing a marker. Glenn shouted over :

“Barkley is running their show.”

Andros Townsend was coming in for a bit of stick from the Chelsea support but he took it well.

Gallagher ran off an injury to his leg after seeing his shot blocked. Moises Caicedo gave away a brainless free-kick but thankfully Barkley misfired again.

A chant from the travelling support :

“You have to stay here. We get to go home.”

On thirty-seven minutes, we purred at a really fine counter-attack down our left. Colwill to Jackson to Caicedo – one touch football – who then released Colwill down the wing. His first-time pass was hit square to Palmer. He took a touch but moved it on intelligently to Madueke in the inside-right channel. He danced and shimmied a little, knocking his marker off balance, before slamming the ball into the roof of the net.

You beauty.

The rest of the half was a little scrappy and with lots of free-kicks. A Chelsea effort seemed to be cleared off the line.

At half-time, we were happy.

“All players 7/10.”

At half-time, I saw Liz, Pete, Margaret and Roy appear in the side seats.

An exciting early break from Malo Gusto down the right looked like causing a threat. However, with four team mates in decent positions, the right back took it too deep and a defender blocked the final ball. Tahith Chong – with the Cucarella locks – ran unhindered at us and played the ball out wide. Townsend was unmarked but thankfully Silva was able to block when the ball eventually dropped at the far post. Those in the away end began tensing up a little.

The home team had more of the ball in the second-half and we were not as potent on our rare breaks.

I noticed planes ascending through gaps in the cloud and waited for a perfect shot of Djordje Petrovic taking a goal-kick just as one flew overhead.

The Chelsea support were a little quieter.

We watched as a whipped-in Luton cross from their left rolled tantalisingly through the six-yard box but missed everybody.

Phew.

On the hour, Christopher Nkunku replaced Broja who had not really been too involved. I would later comment on the drive home that he had spent a lot of his time on his arse. Jackson stayed out wide. There was a decent run and shot from him.

With twenty minutes remaining, a super move. I often want early balls played centrally by the defenders and Axel Disasi, taking a free-kick, spotted Jackson spare and so drilled the ball to him. He did well to spin away from his marker and played in Palmer. I saw him advance, roll his studs over the ball to glide past the ‘keeper, but could not see the finish.

I heard the roar.

Luton Town Chelsea 3.

The players celebrated wildly with the fans in the front row just yards away. Great scenes. At least one of the several photos that I took paid off.

“Sign him up for eight more years. Chelsea boys are on the beers.”

And then it all got a bit crap.

Another cross from their right and Elijah Adebayo headed home. Groan. But then VAR was consulted and the goal was cancelled. No cheering from me.

Madueke hit over.

I got my “up, up and away photo” at last as Petrovic launched one.

A cross from the Luton right now, and a header from Adebayo that rattled the bar. It rattled us too.

“Come on Chels!”

Alas, from a corner that quickly followed, Barkley glanced a header in.

Game on? Maybe.

With ten minutes to go, Enzo replaced Madueke. I thought to myself “if only Enzo could dominate the Chelsea midfield in the same way that Barkley dominates the Luton midfield.”

There was yet another cross that caused us worry. This time it came from the left foot of Alfie Doughty from a free-kick. Carlton Morris connected but his header came back off the bar, though I suspected that Petrovic had managed the slightest of touches. Our goal seemed to be living a very charmed life. A two-on-one down our left and a low cross was cleared. Then, Chelsea defending so deep now, the ball was crossed from the Luton right. It was dinked up. A header at the far post from Doughty. I expected a goal. Petrovic scrambled over to save but the ball was knocked in at the far post by Adebayo.

Fackinell.

Game on? Yes.

Luton had scored goals in the eightieth and eighty-seventh minute. This was quite ridiculous.

“Come On Lu’-on, Come On Lu’-on, Come On Lu’-on, Come On Lu’-on.”

Six minutes of injury time were signalled. Our nerves were being stretched out of shape. This was a tough final few minutes.

Alfie Gilchrist replaced Palmer.

The minutes ticked by. Alan showed me “five minutes” on his stop-watch. The game continued. One final punt up field and it came down to a battle of the two Alfies. Their Alfie dallied and our Alfie pounced. The ball was won and then hacked away. There was a roar from the thousand. And there was another roar when the referee blew up just after.

Phew.

Next up, a good old-fashioned FA Cup tie against another of the lowly teams that float up and down the Football League.

Chelsea vs. Preston North End.

See you there.

Tales From Memory Lane Café

Posted on by
2

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 27 December 2023.

The drive up to London had been horrible. Due to traffic congestion throughout the journey, and not helped by persistent rain, it took four hours rather than the usual three. I had set off from my house at 10.30am, then collected the three others, but wasn’t parked up on Mulgrave Road until 2.30pm.

We were in town for the delayed Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace game, pushed forward a further day from Boxing Day. As I battled the rain and spray I was able to tell the chaps all about the game that I had seen on Boxing Day, the local derby between Frome Town and Melksham Town. It was a mad but deeply enjoyable encounter that resulted in two players from each side being sent off, plus the visiting Melksham manager too, and a 2-2 draw in front an attendance of 696, the highest home league gate of the[i] season. It had it all. I was breathless at the end of it. Proper football.

I made my way down the North End Road, the rain almost stopped, and decided to call in for an all-day breakfast at “Café Olé” for the second time this season. As I sat at the table, I tuned in to the café’s wi-fi to put out a post on “Facebook.” I wanted to detail what was happening exactly forty years ago to the day.

On 27 December 1983, we played a game against Portsmouth at Stamford Bridge. I uploaded a couple of photos with a little narrative. I then realised that it was in this same café back in November before the Manchester City game, in the exact same café, the exact same table even, that I had detailed a similar “forty years ago” moment on “Facebook.”

So, 1983/84.

For my generation it’s everybody’s favourite season, and I will be dipping in to its reach seam of memories occasionally during this campaign. I originally wrote about that season in greater depth during my 2008/9 match reports on its silver anniversary. There will be a few more “memory dips” this season. Let’s go back in time…

I travelled up with my parents…they had seats in the East Lower, but I had decided to get in amongst the boisterous and noisy supporters in The Benches, for the first time in fact since my first ever game in 1974. Up until that point, all of my games that season had been in The Shed, but both Glenn ( who was staying in London with his grandparents ) and myself fancied a change. Portsmouth, newly-promoted and with Mark Hateley and Alan Biley upfront, would bring a good following to The Bridge and we were both looking forward to some banter with the away fans on that huge slug of terrace to our left.

And – it would give us a chance to get in amongst the trendies.

Yep – December 1983 against Pompey was when I was brought fully up to speed with the football fashions of the time. Both Glenn and myself had entered the season completely oblivious to the movement which had been developing, unbeknown to us, in the main football cities since 1977.

Since then, many books have been written and many magazine articles devoted to this vibrant sub-culture; ”the thing with no name” one Manc has called it…but I can only describe it from my perspective.

Most youth trends are music based. God knows, Britain in 1983 had many; there had been the Mod revival of 1979, skinheads, suedeheads and two-tone / ska boys and girls were in abundance, the punks were still around from 1977, there were those into heavy metal with their long hair and denim, the Goths were around, there was rockabilly, psychobilly, soul boys ( definitely a London phenomenon )…then we had the lighter end of it all – the new romantics, with girls – and boys – who dressed like make-up was going out of fashion…hip hop was making inroads from across the Atlantic too.

But – as Glenn and myself were to find out over the remaining months of that most seminal of footy seasons, here was a movement which was solely based around what young people wore to football. It was a tantalisingly “underground” movement – that’s what made it so amazing to us. None of my friends back in Frome would be clued up about it for years and years.

The season was fermenting most beautifully; not only were Chelsea playing some great football, I was also going to more games – and now this.

“What – a totally new way of dressing up, based on football? Yes, please. Where do I sign up?”

There’s no point trying to reinvent history – up until December 1983, I really had no clue, though Glenn had met some casuals on an away day to Carlisle I believe. However – looking back – I guess by some kind of fashion fluke, I could have been mistaken for a football trendy. I have a photo of myself, taken on holiday in the summer of 1981 in Italy with my two Italian pals Tullio and Mario with me wearing a polo shirt, cords and a pair of Dunlop Green Flash. If I squint and avoid the glaring mistakes, I guess I could be mistaken for a football trendy. But I’d really have to squint hard. The horrible bog standard English schoolboy haircut gave it away. If I had been in the know, I would have realised that The Wedge was the way forward. There are people in their forties who coolly claim that the whole movement, the whole football thing, began with The Wedge in Liverpool in 1977. Who am I to argue? However, during the summer of 1983, I had helped myself to a great new haircut…before it the standard fringe and hair over the ears…we all had this haircut. Horrible it was. But, I decided to change all that…get a side-parting and sort myself out. Without really knowing it, my transformation from clueless fan to wedged-up trendy was beginning.

So – The Benches 1983 – a crisp sunny winter morning, my first Chelsea Xmas game and Glenn and myself clocking all of the hitherto unnoticed fashions of the time.

Why were those lads only wearing light blue jeans, many with side splits over their trainers? Look at all those pastel-coloured jumpers. They’re either “Pringle” ( small lion rampant, how Chelsea ) or “Lyle & Scott” ( yellow eagle ). I had only ever heard of “Slazenger. Why are all the trainers either “Nike” or “Puma” or “Adidas”? Wait, what are they? “Diadora”? Never seen them before.

Then the hairstyles…those side-partings, those huge flopping fringes, the famous flick… lads with hands in pockets, posing, walking up and down the Benches like a catwalk…what is that badge…a crocodile? And another! What is that?

John McEnroe’s “Sergio Tacchini” and Bjorn Borg’s “Fila”. Desert boots. Scarfs. Ski-jackets. Bright colours. Swagger.

Glenn and myself were hooked. Funny – at the time, it really was the cult with no name. Glenn called them “trendies”, quite correctly as it happens…but the cult was never really sure of itself…I would learn later – after much research – that “the football trendies” were known as “casuals”, “scallies”, “perries”, “dressers” and “trendies” depending where you were in the UK.

And here’s the thing – it was all about football; the terraces, the away games, the specials, the buzz, the noise, the colour, the lifestyle.

Chelsea versus Pompey at Xmas 1983 opened my eyes. The game ended 2-2 and has almost gone down in casual folklore. Pompey always seemed to have a photographer in their 6.57 firm and there are a few from the north terrace that day in circulation. Kerry Dixon infamously missed two penalties during the match but the one abiding memory is of a lone Pompey fan sauntering in, high on the terrace, hanging on to a fence, gesturing to us down below and wearing a pink pullover.

My diary from that day records our words to him as ”who’s the poser in the pink?” but this has since changed in popular culture to “the wanker in the pink”, as featured in a line within John King’s “The Football Factory.”

Several years ago, I chanced finding a photo from the game – both teams were wearing exquisite Le Coq Sportif kits – showing Kerry going up for a header with the West Stand in the background. I wondered if I might be spotted in the crowd. I zoomed in and found myself, way right, almost out of shot. I loved seeing myself from all those years ago, complete with floppy wedge.  I include it here. I don’t like including photos on this site that aren’t mine but I make exception on this occasion. I include a few photos from Fulham Broadway of the Pompey mob, the North Stand – which, alas, I never stepped foot on – and the game.

Ah the memories.

Back to 2023.

I soon found myself catching a train from that same southbound platform at Fulham Broadway to join up with the lads at “The Eight Bells.” There was just time to take a couple of photos of the old station exits, including the ancillary one that was only used on match days. It bypassed the booking hall and went straight from platform to street level in a steep ascent. I had taken an outside shot too, to complete the picture. It’s an almost forgotten and un-noticed feature of the old station that I am sure 90% of current match-goers simply do not notice. That and the old Shed wall; that’s all that’s left from my first visit to Chelsea in 1974.

I reached the pub at about 3.45pm. Glenn, my mate from beside me on The Benches in 1983, was with Parky, PD and Salisbury Steve in “The Eight Bells” with some German lads who have featured in these tales before. Ben used to work for a company on the Swiss border that I used to contact for onward shipping of our furniture. He has visited Chelsea a number of times; the last time in 2019. He was with Jens and Walt, who we had met before, plus another chap called Michael. Everyone was getting on famously, despite the barmaid mischievously putting a couple of “WW2” films on the pub TV for their viewing pleasure. They were howling with laughter. Kyden originally from Kent, but now living in Florida called by for a drink and a chat. The pub wasn’t too busy. We rarely, if ever, visit this pub for an evening game. Top marks to Salisbury Steve who was first in at 11.30am. That’s pretty keen for a 7.30pm kick-off, eh?

I was shocked, and saddened, to see a huge poster advertising a PSG club shop in London on the northbound platform as I alighted at Fulham Broadway. There are no words.

I was inside Stamford Bridge very early at about 6.30pm. I waited for the troops to arrive. For a team that has seemed to have had our number on occasion recently, I was staggered to read that we had won our last dozen games against the Stripey Nigels in all competitions; I hoped it would be unlucky thirteen for them.

Nobody, though, seemed confident.

Our team was announced, and there was a full first team debut for Christopher Nkunku.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Colwill

Caicedo – Gallagher

Maatsen – Nkunku – Mudryk

Jackson

…”or something like that.”

Ben, Jens and Michael were around fifteen yards away to my right but Walt was down in The Shed. There was the usual “lightshow and flames bollocks” before the teams entered the pitch.

At 7.30pm, the game started and Crystal Palace began brightly attacking the Matthew Harding. They enjoyed a couple of efforts on our goal.

“Colwill is too tall for a full-back.”

On eight minutes, we were treated to a magnificent turn of pace from Mykhailo Mudryk who slotted a perfect pass through for Ian Maatsen. It ran away from him a little but he poked a toe at it as the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson raced out. Sadly, a Palace defender recovered to clear from just a few yards out.

On thirteen minutes, a very fine move carved Palace open. A majestic turn / drag-back from Malo Gusto had the crowd purring and the right-back then set off up field. A little fortune saw the ball continue to Nkunku, who had two stabs at getting the ball between two defenders into Gusto, who had ridiculously continued his run from the inside-right channel to the inside-left channel. His perfect low cross was pushed home by Mudryk.

GET IN.

We roared but he seemed subdued. There was no trademark Chelsea run to the corners. The central celebration seemed odd.

Not long after, a terrible pass from Nicolas Jackson – intended for Nkunku I think, but it hit a Palace player – did his cause no good whatsoever, but thankfully the move that followed fizzled out.

On twenty-one minutes, Mudryk was in on goal after good passing from Caicedo and Jackson but Henderson saved well. There was a roller from Jackson across the goal but wide of the far post. Next, at last some consierable styrength and doggedness from the currently maligned Jackson who battled off the challenges of two Palace defenders and set up Nkunku, who was not able to get a shot away.

This was decent stuff from Chelsea.

Pass the smelling salts, nurse.

And it was reassuring to hear genuinely positive reactions from the crowd. Stamford Bridge was clearly not a riot of noise, but there was warm applause from our surprisingly intricate and pleasing passing movements.

A pass from Gusto to Maatsen, but wide.

In the last ten minutes of the half, the game died a little. The frustrations from the crowd returned. Nkunku seemed peripheral now. Maatsen looked out of place out wide, often afraid to take his man on, too often happy to play the ball back. I spotted how slow Moises Caicedo is with the ball.

“Seen treacle move quicker.”

For all of Conor Gallagher’s energy, we missed a playmaker.

“Oh please exploit the spaces out wide.”

What I’d give for someone to loft a ball into those wide open spaces for a willing wide man to attack.

A sturdy tackle on Maatsen by Chris Richards released the ball for Palace. A deep cross towards the far post from Jordan Ayew always looked like causing us grief. Michael Olise, lively in the half-thus far, was scandalously unmarked and he had time to chest the ball down and smack past Djordje Petrovic at the near post. Caicedo had lost his concentration. Terrible defending.

It was 1-1 at the break.

So, moans at half-time. The relative positivity from the first half-hour had evaporated. It seemed to be the same old Chelsea of 2023/24.

One step forward, several steps back – and sideways.

In the first minute of the second period, I spotted how easy it was for the Palace attackers to roll off our defenders.

After a few more minutes of toil, I said to PD “there is nothing unexpected about our play.” All of it was without invention, without a spark, all of it in front of the defensive lines.

On fifty-three minutes, a Palace free-kick went just wide.

“We could lose this, boys.”

I looked over at the Germans; at least they were still awake.

Benoit Badiashile – he had impressed me at the end of last season, but has played poorly of late – allowed Jean-Philippe Mateta to roll off him and break. Badiashile and also Disasi raced after him but could not stop a shot on goal. Petrovic saved well at the near post.

A debut for Romeo Lavia on the hour, replacing the really poor Maatsen. Thiago Silva replaced Colwill at the same time.

Gallagher pushed up, Lavia sat alongside Caicedo and immediately looked more mobile and interested than his new midfield partner.

On sixty-six minutes, Gusto was so tenacious to stop a rapid break. Whisper it, but a few of us would not be unhappy if Gusto replaced Reece James in the long-term. We love Reece but his play has stalled for a while. He is so injury-prone and is too quiet for a captain. Gusto was enjoying a really excellent game.

More substitutions with twenty to go.

Noni Madueke for Nkunku.

Armando Broja for Mydryk.

More than a few supporters : “how is Jackson still on the pitch?”

Jackson then missed a one-on-one. Gallagher prodded the ball centrally – a great ball actually, one we had been missing – but the young striker fluffed his lines and his shot faded wide. Jackson fell into the netting and probably wished that the goal would swallow him up. Shortly after, we thought there was redemption.

A cross from Silva was deflected but Jackson pounced at the far post.

A roar.

We celebrated wildly.

He celebrated wildly down below.

He slid.

He crossed himself.

He closed his eyes.

He pointed to the sky.

He was mobbed by team mates.

I took some half-decent photos.

Then, after about a minute or so, to my disbelieving eyes : VAR.

Silence in my brain, sadness in my heart.

I was still stood, but slumped back against my seat.

No goal.

Oh do fuck off.

A save from Olise by Petrovic after an error by Silva.

Broja rippled the side-netting.

Late on, Madueke – who had looked lively – fell just inside the box after a corner. There had been a challenge, but I did not really see it. I could not judge its severity. With Madueke down, Palace broke with four against one. The referee played on. I screamed expletives. I’m good at that. That chance thankfully passed, but then VAR was signalled. I am tired of VAR now. I didn’t applaud nor cheer.

Eventually, a penalty was given.

Again, no cheer from me.

Jackson took the ball. Gallagher took the ball. Then Madueke, the fouled, took the ball. He looked confident. A staggered run-up. I clicked.

Goal.

I cheered now alright.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Eighty-nine minutes had passed.

Bloody hell.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

One last substitution.

Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

The young lad certainly made a strong impression in his first fleeting minutes as a first-team player. There was the “gee-ing up” of team mates, at least one crunching tackle, and much running around like a man possessed.

Alfie. Alf. Welcome to the show, son.

There was just time for one last save from Petrovic, again down low at the near post, again from Olise.

It finished 2-1, a well-won victory if not an easy one.

We rose to tenth place. It is, I think, where we will be come May.

Next up, an away game at Luton Town and a visit to the Oak Road End once again. I will see some of the lucky ones there.

1983

2023

Tales From Christmas Eve

Posted on by
2

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 24 December 2023.

There was much negative press surrounding the Premier League’s decision to allow Sky TV to move our match at Molineux to Christmas Eve. I felt sorry for those normal match-goers from both sides who had made solid arrangements for other activities on that day and were now forced to either change plans or miss the game completely. The problem stemmed from the fact there had been very little precedent for such a game. The last Premier League game to take place on Christmas Eve took place in 1995 at Elland Road with a game between the two Uniteds of Leeds and Manchester. Chelsea’s last game on 24 December was way back in 1966, a 1-2 defeat by Liverpool at Stamford Bridge. So, as plans for Christmas were discussed in Chelsea households in the autumn, there was minimal thought that Chelsea would be playing away to Wolverhampton Wanderers on any other date other than Saturday 23 December.

Then Sky TV gate-crashed the party and a change to the date of the game was made. Match-going fans went through a range of reactions; from being dumbfounded, to being irate, to being sad. Existing travel plans would need to be re-hashed and there is no doubt that many a relationship endured a few tense moments. I suspect that train and coach timetables were studiously scanned anew.

As it happens, the change did not really affect me too much. In fact, I came out of it for the better. With us playing on the Sunday, our Boxing Day game at home to the Stripey Nigels was to be shunted back twenty-four hours, taking place on the evening of Wednesday 27 December. This, ironically, would allow me to attend the Frome Town vs. Melksham Town Derby on Boxing day.

On the Friday evening, away in some distant part of Bristol, I attended the Frome Town away game at Cribbs. A draw would take us top. Unfortunately, despite dominating possession Frome had no cutting edge – sound familiar? – and the home team won the encounter 1-0. It was the home team that would go top of the division.

I almost forgot that games were being played on the Saturday as I wrote up my match report from the eventful Newcastle United cup tie.

Sunday – Christmas Eve – soon arrived. I set the alarm for 6am and at just after 7am I stepped outside into the dark to wait for Glenn to arrive to drive up to the Black Country. I soon clambered into the back of his black VW van. PD was riding shotgun alongside Glenn. Unfortunately, Parky was unable to join us on this trip.

We stopped off for a brief McBreakfast en route at Strensham – the place was deathly quiet – and Glenn rolled up outside “The Bluebrick” pub just to the east of the Wolverhampton city centre at 10am.

On the drive up, Glenn had earmarked our next three games as all being “winnable” but I wasn’t so confident and neither was PD.

The pub, an adjunct to a new hotel, soon became swarmed with away fans. This was a dedicated “Chelsea fans only” boozer. We visited it back in April ahead of the return of Frank Lampard as manager for his second stint as manager. I remembered, all too easily, the sense of optimism in that early April sun. How soon that feeling dissipated. Our last two visits to Molineux have been dreadfully unattractive games of football.

We spotted a few usual faces at the pub. There was a little talk about the League Cup semi-final against Middlesbrough. I have already booked up cheap digs in Stockton-on-Tees for the away leg. There is still a healthy appetite to see us – especially away – despite this poor season. Over the two games, we would have to fancy our chances against ‘Boro. Our away take should be over the usual league allowance of 3,000. Hopefully we will have 3,500 or more up there. It will certainly be different from the 650 who were “allowed” in for that odd FA Cup tie back in 2022.

This was only the fourth game out of twenty-two this season where I was able to have a drink. The three pints of lager were a nice change. We stood inside as the weather deteriorated a little.

We set off for Molineux at about 11.50am. I had a spare ticket that I was able to hand over to Gemma who lives in nearby Birmingham outside the away turnstiles. There was a little chat with a few mates. There was scant optimism. I was inside at about 12.30pm. I immediately spotted Bank from Bangkok – he was at the corresponding match last season – and it was good to see him again. Blue and white Santa hats, printed with the date of the game, were being handed out to the away contingent.

I picked up one but promised myself that I would only wear it if it began raining.

“Please don’t rain.”

Glenn and PD took their position to be alongside Alan, Gary and John away to the right, while I stood next to Gemma equidistant between the half-way line and the South Stand which used to be the site of a huge bank of terracing in Wolves’ heyday. There is always a lot of conjecture on various football forums about which end had the highest capacity when terraces existed. The three front-runners always seem to be Liverpool’s Kop, Aston Villa’s Holte End and Molineux’ South Bank. I think it is widely agreed that The Kop was the widest, the South Bank went back the furthest, but the Holte End was the largest. There are currently plans to continue the large double-tiered Stan Cullis stand around the other three sides. Until then, the once neat Molineux looks a little lopsided. The Stan Cullis Stand doesn’t sit well on the eye.

The away following is positioned along the length of the pitch in the lower tier of the Steve Bull Stand, the oldest part of the modernised stadium, constructed way back in 1979. Getting a song together at Molineux is always a tough ask. This particular day would be no different.

A friend – Daryl – had quoted the words to a Slade song earlier in the day on Facebook and I had this song – “Far Far Away” – reverberating in my brain all morning. Slade were from the Black Country, though, so at least I suppose that it was apt. Before the game, the Molineux DJ played a Midlands-themed section of songs.

There was Slade again and the festive classic “Merry Xmas Everbody” which was released in December 1973. It brought back some sweet memories of that particular Christmas. It is undoubtedly my favourite festive time. I had managed to avoid making an arse of myself in my only appearance at a school nativity play, held in the village hall, and this magnificent song from Slade at “Number One” quickly evokes my warm feelings from that particular year. I can vividly remember being at school and announcing that Slade’s classic had gone to the top of the pile, taking over from “I Love You Love Me Love” by another glam-rock singer who will remain nameless. But the main reason why Christmas 1973 is so fondly remembered is that my parents announced that they would take me to Stamford Bridge for the first-ever time in the New Year.

Yes, Christmas 1973 was lovely.

Fifty years ago.

Oh to be eight again.

The Slade hit from all those decades ago was quickly followed by “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” by Wizard, another Midlands band, and this reached number two behind Slade in 1973.

Next up, “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin, a nod towards Robert Plant – born locally – and an honorary vice-president of Wolves to this day. I spotted Plant chatting to a villager outside the local pub in my village that he was staying in for the Glastonbury Festival in 2022.

Next up, a crooner from Tupelo Mississippi, not the Black Country, and “The Wonder Of You.”

I was wondering if it should be-remixed as “The Wonder Of Yow.”

I whispered to the bloke next to me –

“Just play ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ and be bloody done with it.”

After the golden flames appeared in front of the Steve Bull Stand, “Hi Ho” appeared on the playlist and how the locals loved it.

“Hi Ho Wolverhampton!”

I reminded Gemma that “this lot were fined last year for the homophobic stuff, weren’t they?”

Over in the stand to the right, there were banners honouring Derek Dougan and Billy Wright, along with Steve Bull, Wolves’ most favourite sons.

It was a mild and overcast day. The grey skies closed in on Molineux.

Chelsea appeared in the deep blue away kit for the first time.

“Looks too Tottenham to me” I thought.

Up close there are the geometric lines that would not have looked out of place on a sci-fi poster from the mid-‘eighties.

“One for the nerds” I thought to myself.

Our team?

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Ugochukwu – Gallagher

Sterling – Palmer – Jackson

Broja

Or something like that. At times Broja ran the wide channels. At times Jackson did. Who knows?

We attacked the old South Bank that used to hold almost 30,000 in the first-half. Renamed the Sir Jack Hayward Stand it now holds a lot less. In a far corner there is an open-air segment that holds around a thousand hardy souls.

In the first ten minutes, there were a couple of half-chances for Nicolas Jackson – “pull the trigger!” – and Armando Broja that left the Chelsea faithful mumbling words of distress.

Some of those wearing the Santa hats – of which there were many, I fear for humanity – began swirling them above their heads, which brought back an image of scarf-twirling from my first game in 1974 – and this was met by ridicule from the South Bank.

“What the fookin’ hell was that?”

And then, I was just able to decipher this –

“We can’t say it, you know what you are.”

After a quarter of an hour I turned to Gemma and said “I hate to say it but we have so much of the ball but carry no threat at all.”

However, Wolves breaks were cut out pretty easily by the Chelsea defence. Levi Colwill doesn’t convince me as a left-back though. He hasn’t impressed me greatly this season. Raheem Sterling enjoyed a few pacey bursts down in front of us, but his end product was shocking.

On twenty minutes, Jackson completely miss controlled a ball into him, with nobody close. The frustration rose. The home fans began booing Sterling after he fell too easily in the box. The abuse was loud. I looked at Sterling for a reaction. There was nothing.

The Chelsea fans backed him :

“Raheem Sterling, he’s won more than you.”

I liked it that we were sticking up for him – not the easiest player to warm to – but then realised that all of the trophies that were being referenced had been won with Manchester City.

Er.

On twenty-eight minutes, a free-kick from the man Sterling. It flew over the wall. It was the sort of free-kick that needed to be clipped, not struck through.

A silly foul on a Wolves player just outside our box resulted in a free-kick that thankfully came to zilch.

On thirty-one minutes, the defining moment of the half, if not the whole game. From a goal-kick, Joao Gomes was pick-pocketed by Sterling and we watched as he raced away in a central position. To his right, supporting him, were Palmer and Jackson. Surely a goal would follow here. Unbelievably, Sterling chose not to pass but to shoot. Agonisingly, the Wolves’ ‘keeper Jose Sa got down to block. I don’t really want to include the photo in my match gallery but feel I have to.

Sorry.

To make matters worse, a weak shot from Gallagher from the follow up was easily saved by Sa.

The Chelsea support bellowed their anger towards Sterling.

I muttered my two penn’orth : “I can’t even begin to work out how many years I need to work to earn what he earns in a week.”

I hate modern football.

There were a few half-chances at the end of the first-half. Petrovic hesitated but was then let off. Palmer shot over. At least he is not afraid to shoot.

It had been a pretty dire half.

My pre-match prediction of a 0-0 draw seemed to be spot on.

Just as the second-half began, the two Bobs resumed watching from two rows in front of me. I took a photo. They smiled. I suggested to them that I will never see them happy ever again.

There were a few Wolves chances. After Thiago Silva gave up possession cheaply, a shot from Gomes touched a post as it was deflected off Ugochukwu. Then a strong header directed with pace at our ‘keeper at the near post from Toti but Petrovic blocked well. They had enjoyed the brighter start to the half.

On fifty-one minutes, a corner – one of a few – from the Wolves right. The ball fell centrally, but there was no Chelsea presence, no Chelsea leap, no Chelsea anything. Mario Lemina rose unchallenged to glance the ball in.

Bollocks.

Approaching the hour, Mauricio Pochettino shuffled the pack.

Christopher Nkunku came on for Ugochukwu and Mykhailo Mudryk replaced the poor Broja. I wondered, as did many, how Jackson was still on the pitch. Mudryk took up residency on the left and we tried our hardest to will him past players. On sixty-five minutes, Nkunku stabbed a half-chance at goal but it was deflected and then cleared off the line. Just after, receiving the ball centrally, Nkunku chose not to shoot but to pass to Palmer who chose not to shoot but to pass to Sterling who chose not to shoot but…you get the message…he took a touch, an extra touch that flattened the angle, and the Wolves defender Craig Dawson blocked the low shot. The ball spun high and over the bar.

Expletive. Expletive. Expletive.

It seemed to be all Chelsea by now, but we were not creating much. For Frome Town on Friday read Chelsea on Sunday. A Malo Gusto error let in a Wolves strike, but it was saved.

More substitutions.

Ian Maatsen for Colwill.

Benoit Badiashile for Gusto.

Noni Madueke for Jackson.

I didn’t join in the applause that greeted Jackson’s substitution, but many did. Each to their own, eh?

With the influx of new players, it seemed like a new team out there, certainly in the attacking third. I wondered if it was asking too much to expect them to gel, to fit together, to create chances. The Chelsea support, hardly making much of a contribution all game, were roused a little and tried to inspire the players.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

A crazy extra eleven minutes were signalled.

“Fackinell, we’ve got homes to go to.”

Madueke was full or running and looked a threat. He launched a curler that sadly swept past the Wolves goal.

On ninety-three minutes, Wolves carved us open way too easily down to my left. As the move developed, I had this sudden fear of them scoring and the Chelsea crowd leaving en masse. I must have a sixth-sense. A cross was played in. It hit the heel of Badiashile – what a calamity – and sat up nicely for Matt Doherty to slide the ball home.

Goal.

People left.

Fackinell.

The South Bank seized the moment.

“Take your hats and fuck off home.”

I inwardly smiled.

Gits.

As is so often the case, the team chasing an equaliser soon scored after conceding another goal. The substitute Nkunku adeptly headed home a fine cross from Sterling, who had also managed to stay on the pitch despite almost half-a-team-full of substitutions.

Virtually the last action of the whole horrid game was a thumped free-kick by Gallagher that was easily claimed by Sa, all dressed in pink like a stick of Blackpool rock.

It would seem that we are only seeing glimpses, occasional glimpses, of this team playing half-decent football at the moment. It is a huge worry. As we approach the half-way mark in this totally underwhelming season, I see us finishing no higher than our current position of tenth. The half-way mark will be reached at home to Crystal Palace on Wednesday.

See you there.

Tales From The Boys From Somerset, Wiltshire And Normandy

Posted on by
4

Chelsea vs. Sheffield United : 16 December 2023.

I was in early again, at around 2.30pm, and I soon found myself talking to Oxford Frank. I was finding it hard to find much enthusiasm for the game against Sheffield United in light of the recent two matches, and defeats, against Manchester United and Everton. Frank was in the same frame of mind too. As many have said, this doesn’t seem like our Chelsea at the moment, nor has it for a while. Our players, our myriad of players, are struggling to find any noticeable improvement in their play and many fans bemoan how distant we feel from these same players. They are meant to be our heroes, but I wouldn’t really want to go out for a drink with many of the current squad, with one or two possible exceptions. Never has the “us and them” relationship felt so strained.

I joked with Frank that I wished that I could, in fact, be teleported at 2.45pm away from my sacred second home at Stamford Bridge – and after enjoying a lovely pre-match in deepest Fulham – to attend the visit of league leaders Wimborne Town to Frome Town back in Somerset. Then, back to SW6 to catch up with my mates to drive them home again.

And it had been a very fine pre-match. I was at Stamford Bridge early. The theme of my early morning photographs from a grey London was of the stalls selling scarves, colours and memorabilia along the Fulham Road. These add a little vibrancy to the game-day vibe, though are goods that none of my pals bother with, the odd fanzine an exception. There were chats with Steve, Kim, Cliff and Marco as I loitered for a while. Nobody was particularly looking forward to the game against lowly Sheffield United per se, but it didn’t stop us smiling and digging some laughs from our current position.

I spent a couple of hours or so in the pub. What a raucous little place it turned into. The boozer was packed. Most were locals, or at least the usual match-day crew, and all of us found some degree of gallows humour amidst our plight. The Normandy Division – Ollie, Julien and Jerome – were over and we thoroughly enjoyed their company.

Amidst the laughter, I looked at Ollie and gestured to the few packed tables near us.

“Ici, c’est Chelsea, mon ami.”

He understood.

“C’est vrai.”

Not the players, us…

Mates not millionaires.

I had not met Jerome before, but he was welcomed. We are doing our bit for “entente cordiale” and it is a pleasure. We agreed, however, on one thing.

“Fuck PSG.”

What a horrible club.

Inside Stamford Bridge, the away fans seem subdued. There were hardly any flags. I think that they already know their fate this season. This would be only the fifth time that I would have seen the Blades at Stamford Bridge. The most infamous, for them, was the 3-2 win for us in May 1993 that condemned them to relegation. I detailed that one four years ago so there is no need going over old ground again.  The last visit was a 2-2 draw in early 2019/20. Chris Wilder was back in charge again, given another stab at a very tough task.

Surely we would beat Sheffield United?

PD was adamant that if we were to lose – a nadir that nobody needed to witness – we would be relegated. I wasn’t quite so gloomy.

Amid yet more injuries, Mauricio Pochettino selected the following starting eleven.

28 – Gjodje Petrovic

2- Axel Disasi

5 – Benoit Badiashile

6 – Thiago Silva

26 – Levi Colwill

23- Conor Gallagher

25 – Moises Caicedo

7 – Raheem Sterling

10 – Mykhailo Mudryk

20 – Cole Palmer

15 – Nicholas

On the bench, for the first time, was Christopher Nkunku and as the day developed I found it sad to read how many Chelsea supporters on social media could not spell Nkunku correctly. God knows how they pronounced it.

One dear friend even struggled with Eden Hazard.

Don’t ask.

So, my teleporter not in action, I watched as the Chelsea vs. Sheffield United game kicked off. This was a busy month for us – eight games – and one that could either send us further into misery or give us some degree of hope for the future.

I was happy to see the visitors in red and white striped shirts, a nice nod to a bloody lovely Admiral kit from the mid-‘seventies that my local village team wore for a while.

“COME ON CHELS.”

For the first fifteen minutes, attacking The Shed, there was a very similar vibe to Goodison. Tons of possession, almost total this time, but awful passing and movement in the final third. There were two God-awful corners from the troubled foot of Mykhailo Mudryk, one from each side I think, that failed to clear the first man. My annoyance was bubbling away and starting to grow.

A shot from distance from the busy Conor Gallagher did not test the Blades’ ‘keeper Wes Foderingham, hit centrally, and there were groans. This first real effort took a quarter of an hour to materialise.

The away fans were quiet, perhaps with good reason. I tried to listen in for a rendition of “Greasy Chip Butty” but heard nothing. It never appeared all match long.

On twenty-one minutes, there was a lovely burst inside from Mudryk but his blast high and wide – very wide – drew more groans.

Cameron Archer approached the area down below us in The Sleepy Hollow and I snapped as he sent a curler in on goal, but Petrovic saw it fly wide of his far post. It was a rare attack indeed.

Mudryk then slid past a glut of defenders but on reaching the goal-line, was unable to pick out a ball to anyone in blue. Frustrating stuff.

The home crowd were virtually silent.

Sigh.

One of the Sheffield United players was called Jayden Bogle.

Top marks.

Jackson was naively caught offside. Moans.

This was terrible to watch.

I hated the lack of movement. I hated how Raheem Sterling was often alone in so much space on the right but was often ignored. Nobody played well, despite the sporadic bursts from Mudryk. It annoys me that he has been with us for around ten months and I can’t ever remember seeing him smile. Cole Palmer tried his best with his promptings but runners were immobile.

It was all so frustrating.

On the half-hour, a Sheffield United low cross slid across the six-yard box but thankfully nobody was on hand to apply the necessary touch.

Mudryk went closer. There was genuine applause from us as we saw the ball narrowly miss the target. We are all willing him on. The noise finally came.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I joined in.

Moises Caicedo slid in Nicolas Jackson with a fine ball, but Foderingham just beat our man to the ball.

It had been a rotten half of football.

Poor movement, no intensity, a disappointing quality of passing, all played out in front of a docile atmosphere. Despite the manager’s tactical plan, full of stratagems and ruses, there is no legislation for poor passing from the players. I wondered if the ticket man on Fulham Broadway station could perform better.

Down in deepest Somerset, at least Dodge were 2-1 up.

Just before the break, Jackson went wide and there was more genuine applause.

I spoke to Oxford Frank at half-time. It was all negative. A chap nearby called it “dogshit football.”

Soon into the second-half, a fine move allowed Palmer to shoot, but the effort went narrowly wide, deflected for a corner. The crowd in the Matthew Harding made a racket now, and we hoped for more.

Not so long after, Palmer set Sterling off on a fine little run at the heart of the Blades’ defence. He moved wide, to the touchline, then delivered a fantastic ball back into the six-yard box. At last a move that was joined-up. Palmer had continued his run and tapped the ball in.

GET IN.

Lovely noise, lovely celebrations.

And then…the grim spectre of VAR.

Oh do fuck off.

The goal stood.

I didn’t celebrate.

On the hour, just seven minutes later, a couple of crisp passes found Palmer who cut in on his favoured left foot. I expected a shot but the ball was dug towards Sterling. I clicked as Sterling – and Gallagher – were sent flying. A Sheffield United defender – hello Anel Ahmedhodzic, how are you? – awkwardly headed the ball towards the goal and Foderingham scrambled down low to claw the it away. Palmer was on hand to gather and prod the ball square. By this stage, my subconscious mind had already suspected a foul that VAR would get its grubby paws on, so as Jackson tapped in from a yard out, I did not celebrate one iota.

Thanks VAR and all those who decreed it a fucking necessity. You have spoiled my football. It’s choking the life out of the game.

We bellowed “Carefree” – however – like our life depended it.

Then – ugh – VAR was signalled. For a foul, I think.

Overruled.

I did not cheer.

More noise. Phew.

Chelsea 2 Sheffield United 0.

On sixty-seven minutes, Foderingham raced out to thwart the run of Sterling, set free from a great ball from deep from the much improved Caicedo, at last showing us his full arsenal of skills. This was much better now. The shackles were off. Badiashile, Disasi and Caicedo all had good moments. There were surprisingly fast bursts from Disasi and Caicedo.

Excellent.

Enzo replaced Mudryk, who was nicely applauded off.

Just after, Petrovic leapt to his left to palm away a free-kick from someone or other. It was, surely, his only real save of note the entire day.

One of the Sheffield United players was called Auston Trusty.

Bogle and Trusty.

Fucking love it.

As the game continued on, my attention began to wander a little.

Armando Broja replaced Sterling.

We were treated to a lovely little cameo from Enzo over on the far touchline, skipping out of trouble with a few delightful touches and feints.

The visitors managed to prod the ball in but I immediately spotted an offside flag.

Palmer again created havoc in the inside-left channel but Broja managed to miss from right underneath the bar, the miss of the season and all others. There were two more late chances for Broja and Jackson. Even the visitors had a second shot on goal.

Fackinell.

There were two more late substitutions.

Ian Maatsen for Jackson.

Malo Gusto for Palmer.

Again, both were applauded off.

It ended 2-0.

Altogether now…”phew.”

Sadly, Frome Town could not hold on to the lead and sadly drew 2-2. Maybe it was just as well the old teleporter was unavailable after all.

Outside, a mild night, and the visiting fans were in a noisy and belligerent mood.

“Hate fuckin’ Cockneys, United hate fucking Cockneys…”

I wondered what they thought about those from Somerset, Wiltshire and Normandy.

Next up, a League Cup tie at home to Newcastle United on Tuesday.

See you there.

Dedicated to the memory of two fine fathers.

Reg Axon – born one hundred years ago, 16 December 2023.

Walt Sampson – father to Kris, who has come along to games with me in the past, died 22 November 2023.

Tales From One To Remember

Posted on by
Reply

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 November 2023.

After the euphoria and shock of our 4-1 victory at Tottenham Hotspur on Monday, we were now presented with another equally tough opponent. The league fixture list had provided us with a home game against the current English and European Champions Manchester City. During the first few miles of our drive up to London, PD set the scene.

“I think Man City today will be more of a test to see where we are.”

But I replied.

“Well, to be fair, we said that about Tottenham.”

However, Manchester City are the current benchmark for English football and they have been for a few years now. We held that mantle, relatively briefly in retrospect, in 2004/5 and 2005/6 and now find ourselves at a position in the pecking order not too dissimilar to around 2001/2 and 2002/3. We are seemingly adrift of the main bunch of contenders, chipping away at whoever we come up against, and so be it.

The day before the City game at Stamford Bridge, I attended my sixteenth Frome Town game of the season, an easy 3-0 home win against the current league leaders Willand Rovers in front of a slightly disappointing crowd of 436. It pushed my home town team into second place in the table. On the Sunday came my fifteenth Chelsea game of the season.

It rained all of the way up to London, but thankfully by the time I had parked up on Bramber Road and walked down the North End Road to pop into “Café Ole” for a bite to eat, the rain had completely abated. We had set off early on this Remembrance Sunday. Parky had wanted to attend the service, or at least the two-minute silence, at All Saints in Fulham, a stone’s throw from “The Eight Bells” and where we attended the hundredth anniversary of the cessation of World War One before the Everton game on 11 November 2018.

As I ploughed into a full English, instrumental versions of songs by James Blunt and Glenn Medeiros provided a backdrop that I didn’t really appreciate; I wanted something a little more “football” and something to stir me a little, something with a bit more bite. As the anaemic muzak continued. I flicked through bits and bobs on my ‘phone and soon realised that the day marked the fortieth anniversary of one my favourite-ever Chelsea games.

All those years ago – Saturday 12 November 1983 – Chelsea played host to Newcastle United in the Second Division. I reviewed season 1983/84 in my match reports of season 2008/9, but this game is so important to me – and to others – that I think it is worth sharing again.

“I was unemployed throughout the season…but had been to the home games against Derby in August and Cardiff in October. The biggest game of the season was to be against Arthur Cox’s Newcastle United. They were the favourites for promotion and boasted Keegan, Beardsley, McDermott and Waddle; a good team. I had travelled up alone for the first two games, but had arranged to travel up by train with Glenn, from Frome, for the first time for the Geordies’ game. We would have reached Chelsea at about 10.30am and I distinctly remember having a cuppa in the old “Stamford Bridge Restaurant” with him. Two Geordies were sitting with us.

“Keegan will score a hat-trick today, like.”

I remember we got inside the ground when the gates opened at 1.30pm. Even to this day, I can remember peering out on a misty Stamford Bridge, Eurythmics playing on the pre-match show, in amazement how many people were “in early.”

By 2pm, The Shed was getting very full. Back in those days, we were used to average gates of around 12,000 in the Second Division. In April 1982, we infamously only drew 6,009 for a league game. In the First Division, in 1983-84, even champions-to-be Liverpool only drew 32,000. Football was at a bit of a low ebb. The recession was biting. After narrowly avoiding relegation to Division Three in May, however, Chelsea were rejuvenated in the first few months of 1983-84 and the Chelsea support was rallying around the team. We drew 30,628 for the Newcastle game in November 1983…a monster gate, when the average Division Two gate was around 11,000. We watched from The Whitewall.

Chelsea slaughtered Newcastle 4-0 and I fondly look back on that game as one of my favourite games ever. We absolutely dominated. Mention this game to anyone who was there, though, and they will say two words.

“Nevin’s run.”

Just before half-time, with us leading 1-0, Pat Nevin won a loose ball from a Newcastle attack in the Shed penalty box on the West Stand side. I would later read a report from “When Saturday Comes” founder Mike Titcher that Pat had nut-megged Keegan ( but I can’t confirm this ) and then set off on a mesmerizing dance down the entire length of the pitch, around five yards inside the West Stand touchline. This wasn’t a full-on sprint. Pat wasn’t that fast. At five foot six inches he was the same height as me. Pat’s skill was a feint here, a feint there, a dribble, a turn, a swivel, beating defender after defender through a body-swerve, a turn…it was pure art, a man at his peak…he must’ve left five or six defenders in his wake and I guess the whole run lasted around twenty seconds, maybe more…he may well have beaten the same man twice…each time he waltzed past a defender, the noise increased, we were bewitched, totally at his mercy…amazingly he reached the far goal-line…a dribble of around 100 yards. He beat one last man, looked up and lofted the ball goal ward. Pat’s crosses always seemed to have a lot of air on them, he hardly ever whipped balls in…his artistry was in the pinpoint cross rather a thunderbolt…a rapier, not a machine gun. The ball was arched into the path of an in-rushing Kerry Dixon. We gasped…we waited…my memory is that it just eluded Kerry’s head and drifted off for a goal-kick, but some tell that Kerry headed it over.

Whatever – it didn’t matter. On that misty afternoon in West London, we had witnessed pure genius. I loved Pat Nevin with all my heart – still my favourite player of all time – and most Chelsea fans of my generation felt the same.”

Despite our successes over the past twenty-five years, 1983/4 will never be surpassed as my favourite ever season.

I had a little wander up to Fulham Broadway. There were chats with Chidge and Marco, while DJ shoved a copy of “CFCUK” in my hand. Marco and I reminisced about that game forty years ago and I retold the story of the Geordies in the café; we were stood in 2023 right opposite to where that self-same café stood in 1983. 

I took a few “scene-setter” photos then caught the tube down to Putney Bridge.

I stepped foot inside “The Eight Bells” at 12.30pm. PD had been there since 11am. Not bad for a 4.30pm kick-off. The pub was full of like-minded souls; virtually all chaps in our forties, fifties and sixties, but with a few young’uns too, and I noted some gents with ties, jackets and medals – including Parky – who had called in after the church service. The music here was far better than in the café. Soon into my three hours in the pub, we were treated to “Alternative Ulster” by Stiff little Fingers and tons more tracks from my – and our – youth followed. I flicked through “CFCUK” and enjoyed reading articles by Marco, Chidge and Tim Rolls. I loved Tim’s phrase “amortisation groupies” in a piece about the club’s financial outlay finding approval from the kind of people that seem to suddenly know everything.  It’s always a good read.

The rain held off on the way to the stadium, the air still misty and so similar to the pre-match feel of the game forty years previous.

We were inside early, at about 4pm I suppose. I have recently bought a new ‘phone and I had to re-enter details to enable me to gain access to the stadium’s free Wi-Fi. It disturbed me a little to see that in the drop-down menu of reasons for my visit, which I had to tick, “football” was not listed. After huffing and puffing for a few seconds, I reluctantly selected “entertainment and events.”

Good grief.

As I looked around, a chap wearing a River Plate jersey and a Chelsea scarf caught my eye. I went up to have a word with him. Martin was from Buenos Aires, a River season ticket holder, and on his honeymoon; his wife had a ticket in The Shed, they were unable to get two together. We traded barbs and laughs about Boca and River. I showed him photos of my trip to his home city in 2020. He was here, plainly, to see Enzo Fernandez. Where I favour the blue of Boca, he tends to favour teams in red – “Arsenal” – but here he was wearing a blue Chelsea scarf and that was good enough for me. This was his first-ever game in England. The players were warming up down below me and he shouted out “Enzo!” a few times, but the music was blasting and there was no chance that he could be heard.

The rain had held off, and we prepared ourselves for the unique way that our club is able to call on the services of the Chelsea Pensioners as we remembered the fallen. I surely can’t remember two minutes of silence at games in November forty years ago; this seems a relatively new development.

The “Last Post” followed a seemingly brief moment of silence. As at the Frome Town game the day before, the bugler played every note to perfection.

After, a roar.

“Come on Chelsea.”

Us?

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

This was almost the same team that won at Tottenham, albeit with a little tinkering at the back. Manchester City eschewed the chance to wear one of their dayglow kit alternatives and went with their sky blue home kit.

The game began.

It was a very decent start indeed with Chelsea aggressively involved all over the pitch. There was a shot from Reece James within the very first minute. Nicolas Jackson, derided in some quarters of late, was sniffing at every opportunity to gain a yard, to edge ahead of his man, to create a chance. It was noisy, reassuringly so.

“These late kick-offs are great. Gives everyone the chance to have a few more scoops in the pub.”

There was, however, an odd chant from the three thousand City fans in The Shed.

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

It immediately confused the rest of the 40,000 crowd since not only have we won it, we have won it twice, the last time against City – as if anyone needs reminding.

Were City “in” on a private joke? Surely this was the explanation. I wondered if it was akin to Manchester United fans singing “Who the fuck are Man United?” and left it at that.

Chelsea, the Matthew Harding, responded with –

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

We had the upper hand in the first quarter, moving the ball quickly, looking sharp, playing as a unit. Cole Palmer and then Conor Gallagher had attempts at Ederson’s goal. Whisper it quietly; we were on top.

Then, on twenty-five minutes – the pace relentless – there was a clash of heads between James and Disasi down below me and I was focussed on the injury prone James. Almost as an afterthought, I looked over to see a cross just miss the far post and Thiago Silva clear, while more bodies fell to the floor in the immediate area. I re-focussed on the two defenders on the ground. After a few moments, the rumour went around that the referee had signalled a penalty.

Who? What? Where? When? How?

As always, the punters within the stadium were the last to know what was going on. After a wait, Erling Haaland – maybe two touches until now – swept the ball in. Nobody expected him to miss. Despite our fine play, we were losing.

Chelsea 0 Manchester City 1.

Soon after, a free-kick, and James curled one goal wards but Ederson flicked it over.

I said to Clive “Zola would have scored.”

From the corner that followed, Gallagher sent in a delivery with pace. Thiago Silva was unmarked as he edged forward to meet it and supply the deftest of touches, his glancing header nestling in the bottom far corner. We erupted and I was boiling over as I photoghraphed his slide past Parky and the resulting celebrations in the corner. We love our corner celebrations at Chelsea, eh?

Royal Blue 1 Sky Blue 1.

No more than five minutes later, Enzo – who was getting stuck in defensively – won the ball and pushed the ball to Palmer who then found the advancing James. His low cross was bundled in from close range by Sterling. The place erupted again. We were ahead.

Munich & Porto 2 Istanbul 1.

GET IN!

Chelsea shots peppered the City goal, but that man Haaland had the goal at his mercy, only to draw a quite magnificent save from Robert Sanchez down low. We all expected him to score. Phil Foden then curled one past a post. This was a super game.

Alas, we fell asleep at a corner, taken just below me. The ball was played back to an un-marked Bernardo Silva, their main play-maker thus far, and his first-time cross was headed home via the leap of Manuel Akanji. It seemed all Chelsea defenders were too busy marking other City players.

Thiago 2 Bernardo 2.

Oh boy.

It had been a relentless first-half.

At the break, the inhabitants of The Sleepy Hollow were upbeat and positive. This had been a fine game of football thus far. I did however say to a few friends :

“If somebody had said we would see four goals in this half, I would have been supremely worried.”

The second-half began and just after I took a wide-angle photo of a free-kick from out on our left, the ball was lost and City broke at pace, with Foden slipping in that man Haarland to convert from close range. He celebrated with the away fans. I felt sick.

Celery 2 Bananas 3.

City now dominated and I feared another goal. However, we clawed our way back into things and were absolutely buoyed on the hour by a scintillating shimmy into the box from Palmer, slaloming past close defenders, but with a shot that was stopped by Ederson, the Illustrated Man.

The applause rang out. It was, maybe, a condensed version of the run from Pat Nevin forty years ago.

Mauricio Pochettino made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

After a tentative performance at Tottenham on Monday, Reece was more gung-ho in this game, defending more rigorously and using his speed and strength to challenge his foes. Enzo had started well, but seemed to be tiring. The injection of the Ukrainian was just what we needed. Not long after, a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played into Moises Caicedo. He found Gallagher with a square pass, who let fly from outside the box. Ederson spilled the ball and two Chelsea players pounced. It was Jackson who stabbed the ball in.

The place erupted once again.

More photos, interspersed with me screeching and yelling. After his slide, I turned and punched the air. Fans all around me were losing it.

Sean Lock 3 Eddie Large 3.

The rain fell now, but the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was electric.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team the World has ever seen.”

So loud.

“Flying high up in the sky, we’ll keep the blue flag flying high.”

I looked around to see Martin, the Argentinian, singing songs of praise to our beloved Brazilian.

“Ooh, Thiago Silva.”

His smile was wide; a great sight.

…inside my head : “Fuck Arsenal.”

There was a massive shout for handball – Kyle Walker, inside the box? – on seventy minutes but maybe that was an optical illusion visible only to a thousand or two in the Matthew Harding. To say I was bemused would be an understatement.

Jack Grealish had replaced Doku for City on the hour mark and now Mateo Kovacic replaced Julian Alvarez. I was amazed that there were a few boos, but these were rapidly outnumbered by a large burst of clapping and applause. He was well liked, most of the time, at Chelsea was our Croatian Man.

The game moved into its final minutes.

Malo Gusto, tearing in, slammed a curler high and wide of Ederson’s goal.

On eighty-six minutes, the ball came loose just outside our penalty box, Rodri slammed it towards goal and it took a huge deflection off Thiago Silva and left Sanchez stranded. My heart sank.

“Oh God. Not even a point.”

What a bitter pill.

Blue Flag 3 Blue Moon 4.

Armando Broja replaced Caicedo.

Palmer dropped back into midfield, but Pochettino was certainly going for it. This was such an enthralling game. Very few left early. A lengthy eight minutes of injury time was signalled.

“Come on Chels.”

We urged the players on. The noise was relentless. This was incredible stuff. Broja had looked a handful and with time running out, Sterling – a magnificent performance throughout – clipped the ball in to him. Ruben Dias made a rough challenge and it looked a penalty from the off. The maligned Anthony Taylor pointed to the spot.

There was, then, an unseemly kerfuffle as both teams crowded the referee and a player from each side was booked in the melee. The always confident Palmer took the ball. By now, I was feeling the pressure. But I am glad that my heart was showing no signs of palpitations nor was there tightness in my chest. I looked around. There was tension on the faces of many.

“Come on Cole. Come on my son.”

He advanced. I clicked. He scored. I yelled. I clicked some more.

What a fucking game of football.

Palmer & Sterling 4 Ake & Kovacic 4.

Not so long after, and with Les replacing Nicolas, the hated Taylor blew up. The game was over. I was exhausted, again. I was exhausted after Tottenham, I was exhausted after this to. Surprisingly, “Blue Is The Colour” was not played at the end. Instead, “Park Life” accompanied our joyful exit from the stands.

The memory of this game would surely live with us for a long time.

I stopped by the Peter Osgood statue to sort out tickets for upcoming games, and shook hands with a few mates who were just as exhausted as myself. Thankfully, the rain soon abated and I walked back to the car in the dry.

There have been a few 4-4 draws of late, eh?

2007/8 : Chelsea 4 Aston Villa 4

2007/8 : Tottenham 4 Chelsea 4

2008/9 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4

2019/20 : Chelsea 4 Ajax 4

And now the best of the lot on Remembrance Sunday 2023.

At last – at bloody last – it looks like our arid period of poor football has ended, though of course this is only two games in a week after months upon months of stultifying fare. But there were so many positives to take from this game.

My favourites?

Palmer – fantastic, the future.

Cucarella – another blinder.

Sterling – sensational, please keep it up.

Gallagher – tireless, relentless, a leader.

James – strong, resolute, back to his best.

A mention for the manager too. I like him. I hope he likes us. It’s a romance just waiting to blossom.

On the way back in the car, we were purring at our performance and we looked forward to a full fortnight of relaxation before the daddy of all away trips, Newcastle United.

“It’s good they will come at us because we struggle against teams who sit back.”

See you there.