Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 18 October 2025.
For the second time in less than four weeks, I was headed up the Fosseway for an away game.
Then it was Lincoln City, now it was Nottingham Forest.
Due to the lunchtime kick-off, at 12.30pm, the three of us had agreed that this would be an “in and out” mission, with no time to have much of a pre-match – no drinks – nor a post-match. This was football but cut to the most basic of away days. Sometimes it happens like this. Burnley at 12.30pm on another Saturday in the near future is another one.
Everything was dark as I pulled out of my driveway at 6.40am. I quickly sped over to Nunney Catch to top up the car’s petrol tank, and then picked up PD at 7am, and then Parky at 7.30am. After a quick pitstop in Melksham for an early breakfast, we were away.
The journey north-east was pretty decent apart from a slight detour through Cirencester due to an RTA and then a quarter of an hour wait at traffic lights at Moreton-In-Marsh.
Overhead, the skies were light grey. It conjured images of the Chelsea away kit from 2018/19, but – alas – with no orange to sit alongside it. The autumnal colours outside were not at their visual peak simply because the sun was unable to penetrate the thick cloud cover and light up the autumn hues. It was all rather muted.
I hoped that our performance alongside the River Trent would not be something similar.
I was parked up at 11.30am at my JustPark slot on Fleeman Grove, just a fifteen-minute walk from the City Ground. I have used JustPark for Chelsea away games for quite a few years now, and during the week I found out that it began life when the founder asked a friend where he parked at Stamford Bridge for Chelsea home games.
“We just asked someone if we could park in their driveway, and we have been doing it ever since.”
West Bridgford seemed a decent location, full of pre-War semis, with neatly trimmed gardens, and it seemed that there still might be families tucked away behind lace curtains, fathers with Brylcreem, mothers with pinnies, listening to the home service. I almost expected a “Just William” character to appear at a gate, wearing a cap, holding a slingshot catapult, and sporting a cheeky grin.
“Alright, me duck?”
While PD and Parky trotted off to the away turnstiles, I had a little mooch around the rear of the Brian Clough Stand, originally the Executive Stand, that dates from 1980. The lower section of this stand used to house some of the away supporters, and I have a vivid memory of watching a game there in 1987 when taking celery to Chelsea games was at its height. Although I managed to smuggle a bunch of celery in under my voluminous jacket, the police were out in force to search others, and as a result, there were several large piles of celery deposited outside the away turnstiles that day. It was a comical sight.
From celery in 1987 to cameras in 2025, I was at it again.
Alas, my allotted “pat down” steward spotted my camera bag bundled up in my hand-held jacket and for a moment, I was a little agitated.
“On that’s a nice camera. In you go.”
My SLR was in.
If only all grounds, including Stamford Bridge, was as easy.
It was around midday, so the away concourse and the away seats were filling up now.
A steward asked to see my ticket as I approached the top of the aisle that led to my section. I had to chuckle as she advised me that “the rows are alphabetical, and the seats are numbered.”
Shocker.
I caught the players going through their pre-match drills, dressed in subtle green training tops that matched the colour of the shorts.
The skies overhead were still light grey with no hint of the sun breaking through. As kick-off approached, we were treated to the usual assault on the senses with pumped dance music booming around the stadium.
“Freed From Desire” and “Insomnia” are fed to us ad nauseum now and are the modern day equivalents of the more organic and natural supporter-generated classics such as “Chelsea Agro, Chelsea Agro, Hello Hello” and “You’re Gonna Get Your Fuckin’ Heads Kicked In.”
Joking aside, these musical interruptions work against an atmosphere rather than add to it.
The teams entered the pitch, and as they broke, the old Forest anthem of “Mull Of Kintyre” signalled Kop-style scarfing, with the home supports joining in at the allotted time.
“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent, my desire is always to be here, oh City Ground.”
On the drive up to Nottingham – we were calling it Dottingham in lieu of an old ‘seventies advert for “Tunes” – we rued the fact that our injuries would impact Enzo Maresca’s team selection, and here was the evidence.
Robert Sanchez
Reece James – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella
Romeo Lavia – Andrey Santos – Malo Gusto
Pedro Neto – Joao Pedro – Alejandro Garnacho
Or something like that.
In truth, it took me all the first half to work out the midfield positions, and after forty-five minutes, only Gusto remained so from then on it didn’t bloody matter anyway.
The game began.
Nottingham Forest – red, white, red.
Chelsea – white, green, white.
There was a very early scare within the first minute as sloppy play from Malo Gusto – probably the most erratic player in the squad – allowed Taiwo Awoniyi, now fully recovered from last season’s health scare, a chance but he sent the ball wide of the goal at our end.
On four minutes, some neat Neto trickery on the right was followed by a cross that pin-balled around for a few seconds but that eventually flew over the bar via Andrey Santos at the Trent End.
Alejandro Garnacho on the left and Neto looked lively, but the midfield trio seemed lost.
On the quarter of an hour, there had been a litany of mis-placed passes from both sides, and I wearily commented to Gary : “gonna be 0-0, this.”
On eighteen minutes, Trevoh Chalobah nervously let in Morgan Gibbs-White, but his effort smashed against the red post that held the netting taut rather than anything more worthwhile.
Then, in the very next minute, the same Forest player jumped high to try to connect to a Douglas Luiz set up but only succeeded in lashing it high and wide.
“Has Santos touched the ball?” bemoaned Gary alongside me.
On twenty-eight minutes, a free kick at the Trent End and Reece James took aim. Sadly, the kick was so poor that it resembled a bloody pass back.
Neto kept applying himself on the right, but Garnacho had faded.
On thirty-eight minutes, the best move of the match involving the two Pedros, but Santos walloped over. Then just after, Joao Pedro lost his marker with a lovely shimmy / twist / turn and chipped a decent pass on to Santos. I expected a goal. Sadly, the low shot was struck wide of the right-hand post.
Fackinell.
In truth, it had been a poor first-half.
I turned around and chatted to Richard from Swindon and Jason from Swanage, and to be blunt, the half-time natter was more entertaining than the forty-five minutes of dire football that had preceded it. As the combatants returned to the pitch, Gary amused himself by lampooning the sheer size and length of Forest’s Murillo’s shorts.
Despite the inadequacies of our play thus far, none of us could believe the wholesale changes at the start of the second half.
Moises Caicedo for Lavia.
Marc Guiu for Santos.
Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.
I was happy to see Caicedo on the pitch but wondered why he had not started.
Just four minutes into the second half, as Neto took hold of the ball on the Chelsea left, and therefore right in front of the support, he touched the ball on.
Showing my uncanny ability to grasp the situation and to impart my quite considerable knowledge of football, I muttered, with disdain, “no you should have played it first time”, but I then watched as he strode on, advancing towards the goal-line in front of me before chipping a cross into the box. I looked across to see the leap of Josh Acheampong and the ball fly into the corner of the net closest to me.
I celebrated wildly and called myself several unsavoury names.
My camera was called into action, but the viewing position is so awful being so low down at Forest that I just blindly shot a few photos.
However, I like the one I took of the players – blurred – celebrating but with the faces of the home supporters – crisp and in focus – sternly watching from the stand behind.
I spotted Neto completely losing himself as he double fisted during a celebratory scream towards the Chelsea faithful.
Soon after, strong play from Guiu won us a free kick. The twin threats of Neto and James stood over the ball. After a wait, James touched it sideways, and Neto struck it home. We celebrated again. This time, there were no photos taken, I was simply lost in the moment.
Neto celebrated with another clenched fist salute and primeval scream.
“You deserve that, matey.”
This two-goal blitz had come out of nowhere, but we didn’t care.
The calls for the Forest manager Ange Postecoglu to be sacked in the morning rang out from the away end.
With Chelsea at ease with the two-goal cushion, this became a lot more pleasing to watch.
However, football is a cruel mistress and Gary warned “next goal is important.”
I replied, “let’s hope there isn’t one.”
Just before the hour, the increasingly impressive Joao Pedro tucked the ball just wide of the near post.
However, not long after, Neco Williams appeared to have the goal at his mercy but blazed a shot wildly over the bar.
From a deep corner, Robert Sanchez managed to get down to smother a goal-bound effort from Nikola Milenkovic and then sprung up to tip over a follow-up effort from Ibrahim Sangare. These were two bloody great saves.
As a shot stopper and claimer of crosses, he is a solid 8/10, but his distribution and footballing intelligence seems to be stuck at 5/10.
I realised that despite our far better showing in the second half, the game could easily have been tied at 2-2.
There was more drama ahead. Callum Hudson-Odoi, who appeared as a second-half substitute when we went 2-0 up, set Igor Jesus up in front of the goal. As he swung at the ball I whispered “goal” and the ball crashed into the back of the net.
Bollocks.
2-1.
But within a nano-second, the ball had come back out and had appeared to hit a post on the way.
No goal.
“How did that not go in?”
From the ensuing break, Guiu blasted way over.
Fackinell.
On seventy-eight minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the tireless Neto, my man of the match.
I wanted us to keep it tight, but I also wanted Estevao to show us some trickery. Very soon after his appearance, he did ever so well to doggedly win a tackle – a great part of his game – and I was hoping for some nice bits of skill too.
I commented to Gary that our lack of players in the centre of defence due to injuries was so bad that John Sitton was un-zipping his tracksuit.
Instead, on eighty-one minutes Tosin Adarabioyo replaced young Josh.
Soon after, a loose ball on the edge of the box, and a Forest defender and Reece James both went for it. At that moment, I thought that the Forest player was going to get to the ball first but might do some damage to our captain in the follow through. The intent was there from both sides. In fact, both players met the ball – fairly and squarely – and the resultant noise boomed around the stadium. Rarely have I heard a louder tackle. It made me shake, well almost.
I said to the bloke next to me that I was happy that Reece didn’t pull out of the challenge. An injury might well have followed.
From the resulting corner, Estevao stroked in a ball that Matz Sels could only flap at, and the ball fell conveniently towards Reece James. The captain slammed it home. I did not see the net ripple; I just heard the roar.
More intense celebrations to my right, but with arms flailing away, I was only able to obtain three decent snaps.
By now the away was booming.
“Cheer up Postecoglu. Oh, what can it mean to a fat Aussie bastard and a shit football team.”
Peter Reid has a lot to answer for.
In the dying moments, a ridiculously poor sliding attempt to get the ball by Gusto gave the referee no option but to hand out a second yellow.
Oh boy.
Well, that was just daft.
But it did illicit a little gallows humour from the travelling faithful.
“Red card again, ole, ole.”
“Ten men again, ole, ole.”
By now, the home fans were flipping up their seats and heading home.
“Is there a fire drill?”
At the final whistle, a roar from us and we waited for the players to walk over. The last to arrive, dramatically, was the captain, and we serenaded him.
He replied with wide smiles.
It had been a very odd game. A poor first-half, but a much better second-half. Despite the 3-0 margin, we were lucky not to concede. Let’s put it behind us and try to iron out some inconsistencies.
We walked back to the car, but before we reached the final few hundred yards, a couple of smiling Forest fans shouted out “he’s sacked”, and – quite frankly, and despite the songs – I was flabbergasted.
It was around 3pm, and my Sat Nav guided me through the city. The return route was not a repeat of my journey to Nottingham. Instead, it took me further west, down the A42, the M42 – a stop at Tamworth Services, a very rare visit – and back home via the M5, the M4 and the A46.
Frome Town were playing at home against Winchester City as I drove home, and a couple of friends flashed-up score updates.
The previous Saturday – the international break weekend – I had watched Frome beat Falmouth Town 2-0 on a perfect afternoon for football with a few good friends. There had been autumn sun, pitch side drinks, chats with mates, a keen game of football, a home win, a decent gate, only £12 to get in, and then Glenn and I treated ourselves to a lovely post-match meal in a cosy local pub. And we were home by 7pm. It was as near perfect a Saturday afternoon as I could imagine.
Later that evening, I texted Glenn “I think we’ve seen the future.”
On this occasion, the footballing Gods were not on our side.
Frome went 1-0 up early on, then conceded an equaliser, then missed a penalty in the second half, and then apparently had a genuinely good goal ruled out in stoppage time. At least the gate was a season-high 525.
I reached home at around 7.30pm.
It had been a decent day.
Next up, two home games in quick succession, against Ajax on Wednesday and Sunderland on Saturday.
Oh, and an away game at Portishead on Tuesday.
See you there.
CHELSEA/esque 