Tales From Our House

Posted on May 24, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 16 May 2025.

With twenty-five minutes to kick-off, I posted this on “Facebook”.

Tonight is all about Albert who sat in this seat in front of me since 1997. Last week, Albert sadly passed away.

He was a lovely man and will be so sadly missed by all who knew him.

Rest In Peace.

The news about Albert’s passing had hit me hard, and during another early shift at work in Melksham, Wiltshire, I was quiet and subdued. I was preparing myself for a tough day ahead.

I had been awake since 4.50am when the alarm rang before a 6am to 2pm shift at work. My usual travel companions PD and Parky had travelled up earlier by train to get stuck into some drinking at “The Eight Bells” in the early afternoon. I had a decent drive up to London and only stopped for a Cornish Pasty at Reading Services. I was parked up just after 5pm and I then walked to West Brompton tube to catch the District Line down to Putney Bridge tube.

I had caught a glimpse of the promotional video of the new 2025/26 Chelsea kit and immediately suspected that the “Carefree Café” in the film was in fact “The River Café” opposite the tube station. It was closed as I crossed the road so could not peer inside to check the décor, nor talk to the owners, but I was pretty sure. This café, a lovely old-fashioned one, has been featured in a few media pieces over the years and so this added to my assumption that this was indeed where Cole Palmer had asked for his usual sandwich in the promo video.

I eventually squeezed through the door and into the familiar pub at about 5.40pm. The usual crowd were assembled. Everyone seemed well-lubricated. We briefly touched on the loss at Newcastle, but more focus was on the evening’s match with the decidedly poor Manchester United, the season finale in Nottingham, and of course another UEFA Final in Wroclaw.

This hasn’t been an overly exciting nor engaging season, has it? Yet here we all were with three games to go and talk of European football – via whatever means – next season, and it seems that this is nearly always the case.

Since 1997/98, we have only experienced two seasons without European adventures.

2016/17 and 2023/24.

We have been very lucky buggers.

Back in 1984/85, as the supporters assembled at Stamford Bridge on the evening of Tuesday 14 May, there were thoughts and dreams about Chelsea participating in European football for the first time since 1971, some fourteen years previous. With an up-turn in our fortunes in the closing games of that league season, a win against already-relegated Norwich City would probably ensure that Chelsea would finish in fifth place in the First Division and thus qualify for the following season’s UEFA Cup.

It had been an odd season for our opponents that year. They had won the Milk Cup Final yet were relegated alongside Sunderland and Stoke City.

On a terribly wet night at Stamford Bridge – I was listening to updates on my radio in my student flat in Stoke – we were tied 1-1 at the break via a goal from Mickey Thomas, but in the second-half Asa Hartford grabbed a surprising winner, to add to their first goal scored by Steve Bruce.

Chelsea 1 Norwich City 2.

It dropped us down to sixth place.

The gate was just 22,882.

My memory is that we would therefore need Liverpool, who had finished thirteen points adrift of Champions Everton, to beat Juventus in the up-coming European Cup Final on 29 May to take a second European Cup place and to allow us to slip into the 1985/86 UEFA Cup.

From 14 May 1985 to 16 May 2025, a gap of forty years and two days, European football was dominating our collective thoughts.

I wanted to be inside the ground early, to come to the terms with Albert’s absence, and I solemnly made my way in. There was one final “pat down” and my SLR had made it in once again. I made my way up the stairs to The Sleepy Hollow.

I gave Alan a hug.

We believe that Albert passed away in the days between the Liverpool and Djurgarden home games. Albert and his brother Paul were not in their seats for the latter game; they were used by others. I concluded, then, that Albert’s last Chelsea goal was that penalty from Cole Palmer against Liverpool when the scorer changed tack in the goalmouth and headed over to celebrate down below us.

I am sure that Albert loved those celebrations.

As kick-off against Manchester United approached, overhead there were no clouds. It was a pure, perfect evening in SW6. What a bittersweet feeling.

Albert often appeared late at games, clambering over the seats to reach his place in front of me.

Always there would be a shake of our hands –

“Alright, mate? / alright, Albert? / alright, son?”

Oddly, I seemed to think that against Liverpool I clasped his hand with both of my hands, in the way that blokes sometimes do…

Down below us, the Dug-Out Club muppets were grouped behind the rope cordon to watch the players up close during their pre-match routines.

I’d want to be bloody playing for £12,000 a pop.

There was a photo of some very good friends that I have accumulated over the years.

Clive 2003.

Alan 1984.

PD 1984.

Ed 1995.

Daryl 1991.

Rob 2010.

My team.

I had no doubts that despite United’s very lowly position in the league, their supporters in the far corner, the red corner, would be making some noise all night. I had recently read a comment from a Brentford supporter who had praised the wall of noise provided by the away fans at the recent away game in West London. Manchester United have constantly been one of the noisiest sets of supporters at Chelsea for years now.

The clock-ticked away.

I sadly passed on the news about Albert to the two chaps who sat to his left. They had not heard. Eyes were moist.

The teams were announced.

Sanchez

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

George

So, Reece James back at right-back, and the youngster Tyrique George asked to lead the line.

Oh, Mason Mount was in the vaunted number seven shirt for United.

The twerp.

Before the game, the We Are The Shed gang had plastered bar scarves over the back of a thousand seats in The Shed, but as the teams entered the pitch, although the many Shed flags were waved, not many fans joined in by waving the scarves.

I am not too surprised.

Despite the probable protestations of our tourist section, we have never really been a scarf-waving crowd, not in the same way that – say – Liverpool and Arsenal are.

At 8.15pm, the game kicked-off.

With Mount’s first touch, a barrage of boos. Not from me, but there you go.

This wasn’t “Durie, 1991” levels of desertion…

The first chance of the game was perhaps unsurprisingly created by Cole Palmer, up against his boy-hood team, who steered a cross for Noni Madueke at the far post. The ball was bounced high and he found it hard to get his attempt on target. His shot was high, and my shot of his shot was too blurred to share. Let’s move on.

On eight minutes, a rather agricultural tackle by Enzo Fernandez on Bruno Fernandes went unpunished by the referee Chris Kavanagh, and I licked my lips at the thought of a no-holds-barred game of old-fashioned football. One can hope, right? In fact, I thought that the referee let quite a few rugged tackles from both sides go in the first part of the game.

United then enjoyed a decent spell and on fifteen minutes, Harry Maguire volleyed a cross from Fernandes in and reeled away as the United support roared. It was, thankfully, ruled out via VAR.

No celebrations from Alan nor me, though.

“Nah.”

We continued to be rather sloppy both in and out of possession. Patrick Dorgu, down below us, created a chance for Mount, but his effort was wide, and how we laughed.

Thankfully, these two chances having passed, United then defended deeper, and they lost their interest in attacking us. It was odd how the game tilted back in our favour. Perhaps the visitors were more concerned with a UEFA final of their own. They just seemed to drift away.

Chelsea, with Moises Caicedo in top form, slowly took control, though goal-scoring chances were rare.

On twenty-four minutes, a cross came out to Our Reece, who slammed a delightful shot goalwards – I was right behind its flight-path – but sadly struck the far post.

“Beautiful effort, that.”

James had been a little patchy, like many, in that opening period, but from that moment he seemed to improve.

By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency but were not really playing brilliantly. While others in my company were rudely chastising our players, I was a little more pragmatic. It’s not always about the quality at this stage of the season, but it’s all about the points.

My attention was caught by the LED adverts sliding their way around the perimeter of the pitch, backing up the 2025/26 kit launch.

“London. It’s Our House.”

Good ol’Suggs in the video, as the cab driver, and that classic song from 1982.

“Our house, it has a crowd. There’s always something happening and it’s usually quite loud.”

I wish. On this particular night, we were quiet. Compared to other seasons, United were relatively quiet too, but they were singing the whole time, unlike us.

The game continued on, but with not much quality on show.

A deflected shot from Palmer, a blocked shot from Enzo, another shot from Enzo, but offside anyway.

It seemed that neither team had the will to finish the other off.

Enzo was surprisingly poor.

At the break, I shared the opinion that if there was another St. James’ Park style improvement in the second-half, we would win.

At the break, Alan offered me a “Wispa” which I quickly devoured. After, I spotted that I had let the wrapper slip beneath my seat.

“That was careless.”

Alan groaned.

At the break, “Our House” was played in the stadium.

“Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, in the middle of our street,

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, in the middle of our street.”

It was now around 9.15pm, and the second-half began.

Annoyingly, United began on the front foot. On fifty-one minutes, Mount screwed a good chance wide. Amad Diallo, who had almost impressed me, set up Fernandes but his shot sped past the far post.

Not long after, down below us, Tyrique George – not really in the game, bless him – ran after a ball, and Andre Onana ran to cover. The result was a penalty, but then not a penalty, and I yawned my way through the whole sorry tale.

The game continued, but with only hints at quality.

I turned to Alan and mentioned that Sanchez had not really had too much to do, and Alan gave me a withering look.

On sixty-nine minutes, off went Mount and Casemiro, whose face always looks like it has been injected with something catastrophic.

Two minutes later, at the end of a massive spell of possession, as the ball reached Pedro Neto – who had been increasingly involved during this half – I picked my trusty SLR up and focussed on the winger. He danced one way and then the other and I snapped. Next, the ball was played inside to Our Reece. I had my camera focussed on him, and was aware that he had lost the substitute Alejandro Garnacho was an exquisite “see you later” spin, but then snapped as he released a cross that would drop into the danger zone in the six-yard box, or just outside it. As the ball hung in the air, I readjusted and snapped as the leap of the continually impressive Marc Cucurella flashed before me. I was able to witness the beautiful moment as the ball rippled the net, Onana somehow beaten.

Stamford Bridge reacted with a guttural roar, and so did I.

I then tried to flip immediately back to that of ice-cold photographer and snapped away as the scorer raced away over towards the far corner, the noise booming.

I quickly took a photo with my phone of the Cucurella header from my SLR – typically blurred – and shared it on “Facebook.”

For Albert.

Right after, probably as I was fiddling with camera and ‘phone, Madueke was released by Palmer and found himself one-on-one with Onana. He slammed it past the near post. Had that one gone in I am in no doubt that Stamford Bridge would have been launched into the atmosphere and would have landed in another time / space portal.

There is nothing like the adrenalin rush of two goals scored in quick succession.

Chances were exchanged as the game, at last, came to life, with Neto forcing a fine save from Onana, while Sanchez saved from Amad.

Some late substitutions were made by Enzo Maresca.

Romeo Lavia for George.

Palmer moved forward.

Malo Gusto for Neto.

Gusto went sprawling, pictured, but no penalty.

We held on.

A poor game, mainly, but one that was lit up by that magnificent winner. Our opposition was the worst Manchester United team that I have ever seen live.

In the pub it felt odd to be saying “see you next season” to those I would not be seeing in neither Nottingham nor Wroclaw, and as I walked back towards my car off Rylston Road, the sign at Fulham Broadway saying “Have A Safe Journey Home” seemed ridiculously final.

However, this had, indeed, been our final home game of the season, but where has the time gone?

Regardless, our home record in the Premier League this season has been remarkably good.

P 19

W 12

D 5

L 2

The two losses were against Manchester City and Fulham. Maybe our house is regaining its status of a decade or so ago.

“Our house, was our castle and our keep.

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house, that was where we used to sleep.

Our house, in the middle of our street.

Our house…”

After some typical delays underneath the M4, I didn’t get home until 2.15am and I eventually get to sleep at 3am. I had been awake for twenty-two hours and ten minutes, but it was all worth it for that spin, that cross, that header.

I will see you in Nottingham and I will see you in Wroclaw.

Let’s go to Europe.

Tales From A Stroll Down The North End Road

Posted on October 9, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 6 October 2024.

Well, I have to say that even though we couldn’t quite score the goal that would have won us the game against a spirited Nottingham Forest team, there is no doubt that I really enjoyed this match. At the end of it all, as I was on the way out of Stamford Bridge, I mentioned to a few friends that it had developed a real “old-fashioned” feel to it, and the second half especially. My friend Rob breezed past me and called it a “breathless” game of football and I knew what he meant. I suspect that it is a phrase that I have often used to describe certain football matches.

On the walk along the crowded Fulham Road, I bumped into a stranger and almost tripped him up. We struck up a conversation and agreed that it had been a decent game. He thought that we had played within ourselves in the first half, though I had actually enjoyed it, but we then spoke about the frantic nature of the second period, when – in my words – “it took on a life of its own.”

I met up with PD and LP in the car, and we all shared the same opinion; in these days of occasionally flat games of football, if we couldn’t see our team win, then at least it was good to witness an entertaining match.

This Chelsea game was the second match of my weekend. On the Saturday, I watched Frome Town for the first time in three weeks, a home FA Trophy tie against Havant & Waterlooville, a team that had beaten us 5-0 at their stadium in the league just a fortnight ago. In a tight game, the visitors went ahead with just ten minutes to go, but James Ollis equalised in the last minute. Alas, the home team lost 5-4 in the resultant penalties. The gate of 293 was a little disappointing but to be expected in light of a dip in performances over the past month. Unlike in 2023/24, there would be no FA Cup nor FA Trophy runs for my hometown team this season.

After I had parked up on Mulgrave Road, I took a short-cut via the Clem Atlee Estate, next to The Goose, and soon found myself walking south down the North End Road. Out of nowhere, I doctored the words to “Blue Day” and sung a new version to myself.

“The only place to be every other Sunday is strolling down the North End Road.”

I had a little smirk to myself. In some ways, the North End Road is just as much part of the Chelsea experience as the Fulham Road. With that, I looked over to the other side of the road and who should be walking alone in the other direction but my great friend Alan, who has been sitting next to me at Chelsea since 1984.

I shouted over to Alan and he looked around to see who was calling his name.

“Al!”

I crossed the road and we chatted.

“I’m off to the ‘Clarence’ to see Gal, you off down the ‘Eight Bells’ mate?”

“Yes mate. What time did you get back from your game yesterday?”

“About 8.30pm.”

While I was at Frome Town, Alan was up in Lancashire watching his other team Bromley eke out a 0-0 draw against Fleetwood Town in League Two. He had left his house in South London at 4.30am for that expedition, making my departure at 6.45am for the Forest game seem much more comfortable.

We chatted about both Saturday games and then went on our way.

“The only place to be every other Sunday is strolling down the North End Road.”

“Meet your mates, have a drink…”

A Chelsea song had just sprung to life.

I dropped into the café at the bottom end of the North End Road.

It’s as good as any a time to talk about the next match from our 1984/85 season, which had taken place exactly forty years ago to this very day. On Saturday 6 October 1984, we travelled to Carrow Road in Norfolk, the home of Norwich City. Unlike Alan, who attended this match, I spent the day up in Manchester, visiting a mate from Frome who had just started a course at Manchester Poly. I spent the afternoon nervously awaiting the score updates on radio and TV. It’s weird how some stadia evaded me long periods over the past fifty years. I never made it to Carrow Road until the momentous 2004/5 season. Whisper it, but I am still to visit Portman Road in Ipswich.

On that autumn day forty years ago, there is not much to tell. We drew 0-0. The gate was just 16,871.

I took the tube down to Putney Bridge where I spent a decent two hours crowded around our usual table in the “Eight Bells”. Our two guests on this particular day of Chelsea football were Jimmy from Southgate in North London and his pal Paul from Doncaster in South Yorkshire, and we all shared plenty of laughs alongside PD, LP and Salisbury Steve.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 1.30pm, in plenty of time for the 2pm kick-off. Enzo Maresca had changed the team 100% from the game against the gentlemen of Gent. This absolutely felt like our “A Team”.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I remembered the 0-1 home defeat against Forest just over a year ago. I remembered the tight game at the City Ground in May. This lot had just won at Anfield. A win, any win, please.

Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

Forest in red / white / red.

A game between the European Cup Winners of 2012 and 2021 and the European Cup Winners of 1979 and 1980 began.

We attacked The Shed and it was a bright enough start. In the initial period, Enzo Fernandez and Jadon Sancho were seen to be developing a little relationship on the left, while as the game developed there was also some nice understanding between Cole Palmer and Noni Madueke on the right.

I soon photographed a twisting run from Sancho on the left that ended up being guided out of the Forest penalty area by their defenders. Soon after I caught a more direct run from Madueke that resulted in a shot being drilled wide of the near post.

It was an open game. Down at our end, Robert Sanchez saved easily from a Ryan Yates header. I sensed that Palmer wasn’t enjoying the best of starts, and others in the Chelsea team caught the eye. All of a sudden the twin pillars at the back Levi Colwill and Wesley Fofana resembled a partnership, and even the often-maligned Enzo buzzed around brightly.

Malo Gusto crashed a shot goal wards but it was routinely blocked. Another shot from Madueke curled over the bar as it was swung in towards the far post. Another shot from Gusto, but another shot that was high of the goal frame.

While Clive got us some hot chocolates, we continued to dominate and I thought that we were playing the ball quicker with fewer dawdling touches than in previous games.

Then, a Forest break but a shot right at Sanchez. Another easy save.

With the end of the first half approaching, Madueke – the biggest threat – raced away down the right and set up Enzo, whose shot was saved by Matz Sels in the Shed End goal.

Madueke, again driving deep into the box, set up Palmer but his shot was blocked by former blue Ola Aina. The ball rebounded off the post, and just as we were all expecting it to be prodded home, Sels recovered just in time to scoop the ball off the line.

At the other end, we had to thank Colwill for blocking an effort by Yates.

I had enjoyed the first-half. There were hints of some progressive football. The full backs Cucarella and Gusto were nicely involved in our attacking play.

At some point in the first-half, Palmer had exhibited a piece of skill that left me dumb-founded, and it was worth the admission money alone and other clichés.

At half-time, I bumped into Suk. Back in 2015, Alan and I spent a day with Suk out in Israel as we went on a never-to-be-forgotten trip to Jerusalem and Bethlehem. We remembered that I had bumped into Suk strolling down the North End Road – that place again – around five years ago. Alan last saw him at a bar in Tel Aviv as we devoured some Lowenbrau lagers some nine years ago. It was a pleasure to see him once more.

What of the second half then?

With Chelsea attacking the Matthew Harding, Moises Caicedo had the first chance of the second period but his daisy cutter was well wide of the goal.

On the forty-ninth minute, there was a deep free-kick from the Forest right. As soon as Nicola Milenkovic got a downward nod, I just knew that we were in trouble. Just as I correctly sensed danger when Havant & Waterlooville broke away on the Saturday, my sixth-sense was correct on Sunday. A poke of a leg from the journeyman Chris Wood was just enough to push the ball into the net.

Chelsea 0 Forest 1.

“Bollocks.”

The place hadn’t been too noisy, but I was proud with the way that the home support responded.

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

On fifty-seven minutes, Palmer found Madueke. He advanced and cut inside his marker and beautifully struck a shot that just crept inside the far post. I caught the strike on film, celebrated with a fist pump, and then shot away as the scorer ran towards the Chelsea bench, some of whom looked pleased that he had scored. There had been mutterings around me about Madueke needing to pass the ball rather than always look to shoot, but this is Football 2024 and this is what inverted wingers are supposed to do.

Chelsea 1 Forest 1.

The home support was engaged now, and the noise increased. This in turn seemed to invigorate the team. We hit a purple patch. Enzo to Madueke and a header but right at the Forest ‘keeper. Nicolas Jackson – the quietest attacker thus far – sped forward and played the ball to Sancho. His excellent cross was perfection but Madueke relaxed a little too much and the ball ballooned over the bar.

On sixty-three minutes, craziness in the Forest penalty area as a host of Chelsea strikers found it impossible to apply a finish as the ball ricocheted around bodies and legs.

Enzo then sent over two horrible – and pathetic – corners from down below us in The Sleepy that failed to beat the first defender. After a decent enough first half, the Argentinian was enduring a horrific second half, and watching him was just as horrific.

We had to wait around seven minutes for a Forest player to receive attention at a free-kick and it was not the first time that the away side were roundly booed for their time wasting.

With twelve minutes to go, with Jackson looking to burst ahead into space, James Ward-Prowse combined our three national sports of football, rugby and cricket and thwarted the Chelsea attacker by bizarrely grabbing the ball from under his feet.

It looked a red, it was a yellow, but a second yellow.

Off he went.

On eighty-one minutes, the first two Chelsea changes of the game.

Joao Felix for Enzo.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

I liked the applause when Our Callum was substituted just after.

A pause to remember that initial Lampard ensemble that caused us so much joy, but which was then taken away from us in a COVID-related hurry; Tomori, Christensen, James, Mount, Gilmour, Abraham, Hudson-Odoi, it was lovely while it lasted.

With three minutes to go, a ridiculous touch from Palmer – it defies description – on the edge of the Forest box set himself up for a shot which was lashed at Sels. The ball came back out to Palmer and Sels saved again.

Stamford Bridge was rocking.

The next drama was the uproar at the side of the pitch, though I did not really see what had ignited the melee. I saw Palmer slump to the floor and initially presumed that he was injured. I shot a series of photos that show a lot of irritated millionaires.

Thirteen minutes of extra time were signalled.

“Come on Chelsea.”

The stadium roared again.

Some late substitutions.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Sancho.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

Tosin for Colwill.

On the right, Pedro Neto sent over a cross that Felix headed down but wide. Then, at the other end, a venomous shot from Neco Williams that Sanchez palmed away magnificently.

This game, suddenly, was up for grabs.

Next, a gut-bursting run along the left touchline from Mudryk and an inch-perfect cross for Nkunku. We were up celebrating a late winner but we watched a brilliant save at full stretch from Sels. Nkunku was motionless on the Stamford Bridge turf. We knew how he felt.

Fackinell.

The rain was falling now, Stamford Bridge a misty dream.

Then a short corner, and Gusto lashed at goal, but Sels lept and touched the wicked strike over the bar.

Phew.

Breathless stuff indeed.

A long-range shot from Palmer narrowly missed the frame of the goal.

At the other end, a shot right at Sanchez.

“This could go either way.”

From a Forest short corner, a cross from Aina, and Jota Silva was completely unmarked at the near post. His header was at goal, but Sanchez threw himself down to his right in a movement that reminded me of the Banks save from Pele in Guadalajara in 1970. This save was the best of the lot.

It was an absolute stunner.

The last twenty minutes of this game was just ridiculous. It was as entertaining a period – without goals – that I had witnessed for some time.

Alas, it ended as a 1-1 draw.

We go into the second International Break in a very pleasing fourth place, but we have some very tough games ahead over the next period.

Our next game is at Anfield on Sunday 20 October.

See you there.

JADON SANCHO

NONI MADUEKE

THE GOAL

HANDBAGS

Tales From An Unhappy Birthday

Posted on March 15, 2022 by Chris Axon

Norwich City vs. Chelsea : 10 March 2022.

Just after midnight on the day of our game at Carrow Road, I posted on Facebook the following :

“Happy Birthday Chelsea Football Club. Let’s celebrate it with a win later today.”

This was going to be another long old day. I had booked the day off work but was unable to get Friday off too. So it meant that I would be driving straight back after the match. I envisaged around ten hours’ driving in total. I did wonder if we’d completely fill our section, what with the game being only recently re-arranged, but that was soon to be the least of my worries.

I collected the gruesome twosome and by 9am we had stopped for a McBite to eat in the Wiltshire town of Melksham. Just as we were leaving, a friend messaged a group of us on WhatsApp to say that the government were putting sanctions on Roman Abramovich. My immediate reaction was that I wasn’t wholly surprised. But then, within minutes, the word was that it didn’t look good for us. It didn’t look good at all. I quickly turned my ‘phone off and recommenced the long drive east. PD, alongside me in the passenger seat, relayed some snippets of further information. Only season ticket holders were to be allowed at Stamford Bridge, the club shop was to be closed, but also – most worryingly of all – came the news that we couldn’t be sold.

PD summed it all up : “We’re fucked.”

Driving along the M4, nearing Swindon, I advised the chaps to turn their ‘phones off too. In the way that bad news travels much faster than good news, I suspected that the morning would soon be rife with awful rumours and doom-laden opinions about the immediate future of Chelsea Football Club. For a good hour or so, my car has never been quieter on the way to a Chelsea game. All three of us were stunned.

“And on our bloody birthday too. Stick the knife in and turn it, why don’t you?”

And yet. And yet, I could not help think of the poor people of Ukraine, who were at that very moment in time getting shelled by the Russian invaders. A part of me knew that in the very grand scheme of things the comings-and-goings of a football club seemed way less important.

Still we remained largely silent.

But we did mull over a few thoughts. I will admit, at some stage in that mid-morning mess, the three of us contemplated the most horrible “what if?” of all time.

What if Chelsea ceased to exist? What on Earth would we do?

My answer was obvious.

“I’d watch Frome Town. I know I wouldn’t enjoy it anything as like as much, but that’s always been part of my exit plan.”

I could hardly believe that we were thinking it and that I was discussing it. It was a rotten time. Looking back, that hour-and-a-half drive east along the M4 is a blur, a foggy memory, a fugue.

We hit the M25, the M11, the A11 and eventually the fine city of Norwich. I parked up not long after 1.30pm, some five-and-a-half hours since picking up PD in Frome. Despite the sullen thoughts racing through our minds, we promised each other to make the most of the day. Outside, the weather was mild, and overhead the sky was a cloudless blue miracle. I was parked just outside the city centre, just to the north of the River Wensum. We were honing in on one of my favourite pubs, “The Ribs Of Beef” but first we shot into “The Mischief”, a pub that we visited on the day of our FA Cup game in Norwich in 2018.

We all remembered our last trip to Norwich, only two-and-a-half years previous, but that day seems so distant now. In August 2019 – the sun blazing – we watched as Chelsea won 3-2 and Frank Lampard picked up his first win as a Chelsea manager. So much has happened since that it seems almost ridiculous to contemplate it all.

COVID19, several lockdowns, my heart attack, the dismissal of Lampard, the hiring of Tuchel, Champions League glory, Cup Finals, World Championships, a war in Europe and now the forced departure of Roman Abramovich.

My head is spinning as I am listing all of this.

We spent some quality time in the two pubs, and then hopped over the street to finish off at “The Glass House”, where Adam and his merry men and women of the Eastern Blues were enjoying a pre-match drink-up. It was in another pub on that street, “The Lawyer”, where we bumped into Adam and a few more of his crowd in 2018. Alas, that pub is no more. Sadly, the Eastern Blues lost a fine member the past year – Leigh – and it was in “The Lawyer” that we first met him. He was a well-respected Chelsea supporter and I know that he is dearly missed.

RIP Leigh Reeder.

Morsels of information and disinformation percolated through to us while we were drinking. I had allowed myself a single pint of “Praha” in the “Ribs Of Beef” and tried my best to relax. But what about away tickets for Middlesbrough? Was it true that we could be sold after all? How would a new owner work with the CPO? What about us retaining our players? Buying new ones? Would the club even exist by the end of the season?

We decided to let nature runs its course. We were but supporters, and all we could do was support the current team.

I parked up closer to the ground in a multi-story. After quickly saying “hi” to Rob and Martin in a restaurant, we dipped into “The Queen Of The Iceni” by the river. This is a pub that Parky and I first visited in 2012 and we had a quiet word with Noel and his wife. The mood was sombre and contemplative. But it was good to share a few thoughts. This pub was virtually full of home fans. Chelsea supporters, it seemed, were amassed in a pub on the other bank of the river, and their songs could be head from some distance. But we had given all that a large swerve. None of us were in the mood for it.

We decided to head into the stadium relatively early. As we turned the corner, I half-expected TV crews and reporters to be pouncing on Chelsea supporters as we neared the away turnstiles, but things were surprisingly quiet.

This would be my tenth consecutive Chelsea game away from Stamford Bridge, a run that is never likely to be repeated.

Tottenham, Manchester City, Brighton, Abu Dhabi, Abu Dhabi, Crystal Palace, Wembley, Luton, Burnley and Norwich.

I swapped seats with PD so he could be with Parky for a change; they were down the front with Alan and Gary. I was towards the back. There was reassuringly plain and concise talking with Jonesy, King Kenny, Neil, Tim and Cliff. I need not have been worried about the Chelsea crowd. Our section was rammed.

Suddenly, the game was upon us and I flicked my focus to our team.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Christensen

Azpilicueta – Jorginho – Kovacic – Saul

Mount – Havertz – Werner

What a lovely first-half, eh?

We created more in those first ten minutes than we did in the entire first-half at Burnley in the previous game. After just two minutes, that rare thing; a Chelsea goal from a corner. Mason Mount slapped it in from the far side and a leap from Trevoh Chalobah did the rest. His glancing header down flew into the net, and the Chelsea contingent roared.

Soon after, the chances mounted up, oh dear please excuse the pun. Two efforts from Kai Havertz were followed by the same player sliding the ball square to Mount, who shimmied and struck high into Tim Krul’s goal. His subsequent slide towards us was euphoric, pure emotion, pure Chelsea.

More of the same please.

The Chelsea crowd were noisy and continuously so.

There were loud chants of “Roman Abramovich” but not everybody joined in.

Ironically, a friend in Detroit – hello Andy – asked me a few months back why we no longer shout Roman’s name at games. I had no real answer to this question. Maybe only on days when we are presented with league trophies at Stamford Bridge? I can’t remember any other occasions in recent times.

I also saw the home fans’ reaction – “Scum! Scum! Scum!” – and I simply didn’t want to contribute to that particular debate.

I remembered the famous exchange in 2005.

“We’ve got a super cook, you’ve got a Russian crook.”

“We’ve got Abramovich, you’ve got a drunken bitch.”

They don’t write them like that anymore, eh?

Back to 2022, and there followed a bizarre chant from us :

“Chelsea get sanctioned everywhere they go.”

Answers on a postcard.

And then, the rarest of songs.

“Chelsea Til I Die.”

This has always been a song that failed to register at Chelsea games, despite many fans thinking that it did. In my mind, and a few friends, it always seemed to be sung by lower level teams for some reason. Yet here we were in deepest Norfolk, and hundreds of Chelsea were giving it an airing for the very first time that I can ever remember.

I guess on this particular occasion it can be forgiven.

Though, to be honest, I’ll be supporting Chelsea after I die too.

We kept pouring forward. Every attack seemed to be with pace, at last, and the front three were continually on the last line of the defence, waiting to pounce. Dave’s energy levels were amazing to witness at close quarters. I lost count of the number of runs he made; many were inch perfect, but sadly many were ignored too. I was impressed with Mase, a bundle of energy, racing forward one minute, tackling back the next.

That shimmy from Thiago Silva as he brought the ball out of defence.

“Now you see it, now you don’t”

Sublime.

A flurry of corners caused concern in the Norwich penalty area. Kovacic and Christensen went close. It was as dominant half of football that I have seen for a while. Oh, since the second-half at Burnley anyway. Norwich were simply not in it. How come we only scored bloody two?

Ruben Loftus-Cheek replaced Dave at the break. He looked out of place at right wing-back; my eyes took a while to adjust.

In contrast, a stark contrast, the second-half was poor. There was such little quality in the first twenty minutes that I wondered what on Earth the Chelsea players had drunk at half-time. It was the home side that looked the more aggressive as the game continued and Chelsea looked to be tiring. The noise in the away section died a little. On sixty-five minutes, there was a shot that hit a Chelsea defender. My reaction was “handball” before Teemu Pukki gathered the loose ball and Mendy saved well.

The initial handball was given though.

A penalty to Norwich.

Pukki drilled it low, Mendy going the other way.

Bollocks.

“On The Ball City” boomed.

Oh – and another – “Yellarmy!” as encouraged by electronic displays.

Yellarmy. I ask you.

Norwich fancied their chances now, and I didn’t fancy ours. But we needed a win here to silence the baying hordes in the outside world. We needed to hang on.

With five minutes to go, a double flip.

Romelu Lukaku for a poor Timo Werner.

N’Golo Kante for a tireless Mateo Kovacic.

The big Belgian fluffed a chance from inside the box.

“CAM ON CHELS.”

On ninety minutes, Kante passed to Havertz and our slim and silky German thundered the ball high into the goal.

Norwich City 1 Chelsea 3.

Phew.

We walked slowly back to the waiting car. Our mood had been brightened by the result. We tried to be positive. The road west was waiting for me. I eventually reached home at 3.15am.

It had been the strangest of days.

Tales From The Eight Bells, Seven Goals And One Matthew Harding.

Posted on October 24, 2021 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Norwich City : 23 October 2021

This was pretty much a perfect day of football.

Where to start?

How about 5.30am? Early enough?

My alarm sounded and I was soon up. This was another early kick-off at Chelsea. Our second of five matches in fifteen days matched us against Norwich City, a team who – along with Watford, West Brom and Fulham – seemed destined to spend their eternity bouncing between the top two divisions.

This trip to London was going to be slightly different. A little explanation is needed.

Back in the days when I was working in a factory’s Quality Assurance department in the nearby town of Westbury, I started to hear stories of Chelsea legend Ron Harris running a small holiday complex centered around a fishing lake in the nearby town of Warminster. On the eve of our 1994 FA Cup Final with Manchester United, I visited “The Hunter’s Moon” with my copy of the 1970 Cup Final programme, intent on meeting Ron – who I had never ever met before – and getting him to sign it. I remember walking in, and my first view of Chopper was of him clearing some plates away from the small dining room next to the bar area. He duly signed the programme and I can easily remember his words.

“You’re a Chelsea fan, then?”

“Yes.”

“Bad luck.”

I spent a fair bit of time talking to his wife Lee, who I remembered from a couple of player profiles in match programmes from the ‘seventies. I was, of course, hoping that the meeting of our 1970 captain would bring us luck; so much for that plan as we were walloped 4-0 in the Wembley rain. Over the next few seasons, we began calling in at “The Hunter’s Moon” en route back from Chelsea. On one memorable occasion, Ron cajoled us into continuing our drinking and volunteered to drive us back to Frome later that night. We would return to collect Glenn’s car the following morning.

Glenn’s voice of disbelief as we reached his front room lives with me to this day.

“Ron Harris drove us home!””

I remember Ron invited Glenn up to the club’s ninetieth anniversary celebrations with him in 1995, and there were chats with both Peter Osgood and Tommy Langley at Ron’s over the years. He drove Glenn and I up to a game at Chelsea in around 1999.

I didn’t see Ron too much for a while after he moved out of “The Hunter’s Moon” – there was one memorable night with Ron, Ossie and Kerry in 2005 – but I then began seeing him again on the odd occasion at Chelsea. In February 2009, he was due to do a gig before our game at Anfield and asked me if I fancied a lift up to Liverpool. I, of course, jumped at the chance. Although I reported on that match in a blog at the time, I didn’t fancy coming over as a Billy Big Bollocks, so referred to Ron as “Buller” – the nickname bestowed upon him by the players, which was used rather than “Chopper” – and nobody guessed who was driving me to Merseyside. We lost 0-2 that day, those two bloody Torres goals right in front of us.

Meeting up with Ron in Manhattan in 2012 before a Chelsea game at Yankee Stadium was – looking back – a rather special moment. Ron played in the first game that I ever saw in 1974. He played in each one of my first seven games from 1974 to 1976. In fact, of the seventeen games that I saw Chelsea play during his time at the club, he started thirteen, came on as a sub in one, was a non-playing sub in one and missed only two.

Mr. Chelsea ain’t half of it.

There was a Chelsea vs. PSG supporter’s five-a-side game at Chelsea Piers during those few days in New York. I was lucky enough to play for the Chelsea team and after the game I couldn’t help a cheeky dig at Ron.

“I saw you play thirteen games for Chelsea Ron. Didn’t see you score a single goal. You’ve seen me score today. Just one game.”

We both laughed.

After moving south to the coast at Mudeford, Ron returned to Somerset at Shepton Mallet a few years back and now lives just nine miles away from me in Wiltshire, between Westbury and Trowbridge. A few weeks back, his daughter Claire contacted me and asked if I fancied sharing the driving on match days. We agreed midweek games would be difficult due to my work times and Ron’s need to be at Chelsea a few hours before kick-off. We agreed that I could take him to as many weekend games as possible.

Chelsea versus Norwich would be the first one, a tester for timings if nothing else.

So, when I set off at 6.30am, my first port of call would be for Paul at 6.40am, my second would be for Ron at 6.55am and the third one would be for Parky at 7.15am.

All aboard the Chopper Bus.

We usually stop for a bite to eat on the A303 on the way to London, but after hearing that Ron needed to be at Chelsea for his corporate activities at 9.30am, we made haste and made a beeline for Stamford Bridge. I have known for years that Ron is a stickler for being on time – “I’m only ever late for my tackles” – so this didn’t faze me.

There was quality chat in the Buller Bus all the way to London. I kept looking in my rear view mirror as I sped past Stonehenge and all of the familiar sights and saw Ron sat alongside Parky.

Yeah, it was surreal.

Ron ran through some stories and talked of a few managers. He was no fan of Danny Blanchflower – new fans, Google away now – nor Geoff Hurst. As we rose up onto the M3 at just about the same location I heard “That’s Entertainment” last Saturday I remembered one particularly awful season.

“Yeah, in 1978/79 we were shit weren’t we?”

After a few seconds, I realised what I had said. Ron had played virtually every game that season, often as a defensive midfielder.

“Fucking hell Ron, just realised you were playing that season.”

Ron’s smile in the rear view mirror was wide.

As we passed Twickenham, Ron told the story of how manager Dave Sexton took the players one afternoon to the home of rugby to see the Varsity game between Oxford and Cambridge universities. He wanted to show the players how the rugby backs used the overlap as a potent form of attack. For those not into rugby, like me, it is so odd that the attacking players play at the back.

Stupid bloody sport.

Ron was full of praise of Sexton, by far his most admired manager in his nineteen years in the first team at Chelsea. He was certainly one of England’s first tactical gurus, who would win two cups while at Chelsea with Ron his captain.

At 9.20am, I dropped the three passengers off opposite the CFCUK stall at Fulham Broadway.

Perfect.

I went off to park up on Normand Road and then caught the tube down to Putney Bridge. I had booked a table for 10am. I arrived at 9.50am to see around twenty regulars waiting for the boozer to open.

Again, perfect.

Did I say that I work in logistics?

For just a tad under two hours, we relaxed and enjoyed the pre-match. I could chill out now. I won’t deny that there was a little extra pressure on my driving on this particular day. The three of us ordered breakfasts. I will be honest; it was my first full-blown breakfast since my heart attack just over a year ago. The food was bloody lovely. As is so often the case, we were joined by a few mates from near and far.

Shawn – who I met for the first time at that New York weekend in 2012 – and his brother Dan are from Boston and lucked-out on utilising some cheap flights and then coming up trumps on the ticket exchange. They sat alongside us and tucked into a full English too. We were joined by Rich from Edinburgh and Ed from Essex. We had a whale of a time.

The dedicated driver, I was on coffees and Cokes. The time whizzed past. Up onto the platform just as a train pulled in. We were soon at Fulham Broadway, we were soon inside.

Perfect.

At around 12.15pm, I was relieved to hear the PA announce that there would be a minute of applause in the memory of Matthew Harding before the game.

The crowd sang.

“One Matthew Harding. There’s Only One Matthew Harding.”

Our much-loved vice-chairman was killed twenty-five years ago. Where does the time go? It remains one of the most horrible times of my life. Only the deaths of my parents, my gran, and maybe of Peter Osgood, have left me more desolate. There was a montage of images of Matthew and a few reflective voice-overs. I am not sure if anyone remembers, but on the Saturday before the helicopter crash on the Tuesday, we lost 2-4 at home to Wimbledon. Before that game, there was a minute’s silence in memory of a stadium disaster in Guatemala during the previous few days. I often thought it poignant that Matthew Harding would have stood silent that day.

I have written about Matthew Harding before here; about how I met him once, how his wife Ruth replied to my mother’s sorrowful letter after his death, of what he meant to us all at Chelsea.

On the Saturday after the crash, I placed a bouquet amongst many others in the East Stand Forecourt.

“Matthew.

With Love And Appreciation.

We Will Never Forget You.”

Before the game with Tottenham, emotions were high. We decamped to Matthew’s favourite pub, The Imperial on the King’s Road, and I raised a pint of Guinness to his memory. This would soon become my drink of choice at Chelsea for many years (I think, as my own special mark of respect) and the minute’s silence before the game – the second in eight days – was pure emotion.

High up in the stand bearing his name, twenty-five years on I had a little moment to myself.

Rest In Peace, Matthew Harding.

With fifteen minutes to go, “London Calling” and then “Parklife” changed the mood a little.

The team news came through.

Mendy

Rudiger – Silva – Chalobah

James – Kovacic – Jorginho – Chilwell

Mount – Hudson-Odoi

Havertz

With five minutes to kick-off, the Matthew Harding banner surfed the lower tier while the balcony confirmed “One Of Our Own.”

The players stood in the centre circle. The crowd applauded.

It took me back to those years of Hoddle, Harding, Hughes, Gullit and – for Glenn and little old me – Harris. To complete the reworking of the “Harris, Hollins, Hudson, Houseman, Hutchinson and Hinton” years, we drank in The Harwood in those days too.

These were great – it has to be stated – “pre-success” times at Chelsea. I loved the team in that era. It was the saddest thing that Matthew died just six months before our first success in twenty-six years.

How he would have enjoyed Wembley 1997, Stockholm 1998, Bolton 2005, the double in 2010, Munich in 2012, Amsterdam in 2013, Baku in 2019 Porto in 2021.

The song again.

“One Matthew Harding. There’s Only One Matthew Harding.”

Sigh.

The game began.

Norwich City only had around 1,500 I think. I bet they soon wished that they hadn’t bloody bothered. Malmo on Wednesday were poor, but I think Norwich were even worse.

We began brightly.

The visitors didn’t look interested from the off. Their players looked off the pace. They lolloped around like zombies in a film, unwilling to walk faster than they need to, almost in a trance-like state. Their fight was absolutely missing. How Billy Gilmour has only played four games for them this season is a travesty. Of their players, I only recognised Krul and Pukki, a sure sign of my fading knowledge of football outside of SW6 these days. It’s an age thing.

We were jabbing away nicely at the flabby gut of the Norwich defence from the off, and our play brought applause on a mild autumnal day. Callum Hudson-Odoi was involved early on and we began trying to puncture the back-line. On just nine minutes, crafty approach play from Callum ended up with a cross into the box. Mateo Kovacic won a second ball and played it to Mason Mount on the edge of the box. His well struck swipe flew low into the goal, and I was in right in line with its path.

Get in.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Norwich’s response was lukewarm. We had virtually all of the ball and were finding spaces to exploit. There were a few poor choices of final balls, but we were purring when Kovacic released a superb pass from deep into the path of an on-rushing Hudson-Odoi. He relaxed, looked at the goal, and adeptly threaded the ball past Krul and into the waiting net.

“Brilliant.”

Two-nil and coasting.

More please.

Callum found Mount, but Krul saved.

A first shot from Norwich via Ozan Kabak on thirty-six minutes troubled those in the Harding Upper more than Edouard Mendy.

The noise in the stadium had quietened. These early starts often follow this pattern.

We then witnessed one of Dave Sexton’s overlaps. This one involved Mason Mount playing the ball to Reece James and this allowed the rampaging wing-back to advance and deftly chip the ball over Krul. It was a fine goal, but one I almost missed as I was mid-conversation with Clive.

But 3-0 it was.

And three academy players too, though it wouldn’t dawn on me until later. It’s an age thing.

There had been goals, but Alan and I had spoken about how often we seemed to be wanting to wait and play a perfect ball, rather than shooting on sight. How we missed a Frank Lampard. We were happy with three, of course, but we could have scored more for sure.

At the break, in the Matthew Harding Upper :

Me to Tim : “after Wednesday, when we should have scored six, we simply have to score six today.”

At the break, in the away dressing room :

“Farke knows how we’ll win this.”

The second-half began and we certainly improved, though soon into the game the noise at Stamford Bridge had reduced almost completely.

Fackinell.

We peppered the Norwich goal with a few teasers, but had to thank that man Mendy once again as a Ben Chilwell played in Rashica who ran onto the ball and it appeared that he just needed to round Mendy to score. However, our magnificent man intercepted with an outstretched limb. The crowd roared and so did our ‘keeper.

Just before the hour, Norwich afforded us way too much room and a move involving James and Kovacic played in Chilwell down below me. No volley this time, but a drilled carpet-burner flew into the net.

Four.

Keep’m coming Chels.

Our Callum was finding oodles of space on the left and, five minutes after our last goal, he broke inside the box once again. A low cross was deflected in off the luckless defender Aarons. The ball was just out or reach of the equally luckless Krul and the ball spun into the net.

Five.

Callum looked embarrassed.

Next up in this action-packed demolition job, Norwich were down to ten men after a rugged tackle on James by Gibson saw the referee Madly reaching for a red card.

The crowd were involved now alright. The atmosphere was bubbling away nicely.

On the hour, the loudest chant of the day thus far.

“Champions Of Europe, We Know What We Are.”

A minute later, louder still.

“Carefree.”

The game safe, on came three substitutes.

Ruben Loftis-Cheek, Ross Barkley and Hakim Ziyech replaced Jorginho, Havertz and Hudson-Odoi.

There was a lovely sing-off in The Shed.

“We’re the middle. We’re the middle. We’re the middle of The Shed.