Tag Archives: Nottingham Forest

Tales From Yet Another Loss

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Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 4 May 2026.

It is amazing what one win did to my brain. That victory against Leeds United at Wembley, though far from convincing, was enough for the memories of the five consecutive league losses, without a single goal to our name. to begin to fade away. For a few days before our league match against Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge, I began to embrace the final five games of the season with a little more confidence. And on the drive to London, alongside the other two musketeers PD and Parky, I aired my thoughts.

“All of a sudden, I am looking forward to the end of the season. Two classic away days, including an end-of-season three-nighter on Tyneside for the final game, two home matches, including an enthralling home game with Tottenham on what could be one of the great nights in a long time, and a trip to the FA Cup Final thrown in for good measure. This one against Forest is the least exciting to be honest, but even this I am looking forward to.”

All because of a win; a big W at Wembley.

W

There had been an enjoyable spell in the pub before we made our way to Stamford Bridge by tube from Putney Bridge. We were joined by Ollie from Normandy, on his birthday, alongside his two mates Jerome and Franck, and also Brenda and Kerry from Kentucky. The pub was quieter than usual, but the laughs kept us going.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 2.45pm, and it was time to check the team that Callum McFarlane had selected.

  1. Robert Sanchez.
  2. Malo Gusto.
  3. Marc Cucurella.
  4. Moises Caicedo.
  5. Tosin Adarabioyo.
  6. Trevoh Chalobah.
  7. Cole Palmer.
  8. Romeo Lavia.
  9. Joao Pedro.
  10. Enzo Fernandez.
  11. Jesse Derry.

There was a full debut for young Jesse Derry after his fleeting appearance as a substitute up at Wrexham in the FA Cup in February.

His shirt was, in fact, number 55; a fine Chelsea number.

Between PD and I in The Sleepy Hollow, there were two empty seats with both Alan and Clive unable to attend. Empty seats, in fact, were dotted around many sections of the stadium. In the pub and on the tube, I had briefly chatted with the two Americans about the likelihood of an upgraded Stamford Bridge ever being realised, in whatever shape or form, and I mentioned my fear that we wouldn’t regularly fill a mega stadium. The debate about a whole stadium rebuild – or worse, a move – has trundled on for years now and I am beginning to wonder if I will ever see a change from us playing at the current Stamford Bridge in my lifetime.

The previous day, Aston Villa played a weakened team against Tottenham, and we howled. A day later, we all expected Forest to do the same.

Well, before we had time to settle down and get acclimatised to the players on display in Forest’s smart pin-striped shirts, we witnessed a calamity taking place around forty yards away. With one minute on the clock, Forest worked the ball to Dilane Bakwa on their right, and his inch-perfect cross over the heads of the two dithering centre-backs fell to Taiwo Awoniyi who leapt and headed cleanly past Robert Sanchez.

Fackinell Forest.

So much for a weakened team, so much for a little burst of optimism.

If I didn’t put my head in my hands, I surely should have done.

Sigh.

The game restarted, with spectators still finding their seats in the areas of the MHU around me.

With just two minutes on the clock, a small passage of play sent my mind reeling back in time.

Jesse Derry’s first touch of the ball at Stamford Bridge, and his subsequent spin away from his marker – pure poetry in fact – reminded me so much of Paul Canoville’s first-ever touch in his home debut, only yards away from where Derry skinned his man just over forty-four years later.

I missed Canoville’s infamous debut at Selhurst Park on 12 April 1982 but was present in The Shed when he became the first black player to play for Chelsea at Stamford Bridge on 8 May 1982 against Luton Town. He came on as a late substitute for Peter Rhoades-Brown, and my memory was of more boos – though perhaps not so intense as against Palace – from sections of the home crowd. Paul’s exquisite turn had me purring and must have caused twitches of annoyance from the bigots in the crowd that day.

I had been talking to Ollie about the size of the old Stamford Bridge in the pub, and I loved the fact that I used to be standing on a section of that huge sweeping terrace that someone stood on in 1905, in 1955 and in 1970, and all other years. There was a simple link to our past, and every other home game when I used to stand on The Shed, and although everything has changed so much since 1982, I like the idea that first Paul and then Jesse performed their home debut spins on the same patch of terra firma in front of the East Stand.

And, of course, all of this history would be lost should we move from the current Stamford Bridge site.

The game developed but it was not easy on the eye. We exhibited the same reticence to move the ball quickly and into space. The movement of others continued to annoy me.

On ten minutes, Enzo – who was looking the liveliest – took aim from twenty yards and stroked the ball at goal after nice play from Derry and Joao Pedro. The ball shaved the outside of the far post.

On fifteen minutes, another awkward cross from the Forest left, and a ridiculously stupid shirt pull by Gusto on Awoniyi and the referee Anthony Taylor awarded a penalty after a VAR review.

Igor Jesus converted the spot-kick and their players celebrated right under our noses by the corner flag.

Fackinell Forest.

Two minutes later, Palmer casually lifted a shot wide of the far post, and we all sighed as one.

Not so long after, the cheeky buggers among the Trick Trees’ support took the piss.

“Chelsea give us a song. Chelsea, Chelsea give us a song.”

The players on the pitch had given us nothing to shout about, and Stamford Bridge was deathly quiet. But it shouldn’t be like this should it? Our job is simple as supporters. It’s in the job title.

We carved a couple of half-chances. There was a deep cross from Gusto, and Derry volleyed dramatically over. Then, Palmer to Enzo and another shot from Derry, but a save at the near post from Matz Sels.

This, by and large, was tedious football, with nobody having the vision to pick passes. It wasn’t expansive. But such is the way of this tedious method of football these days. It is all so bone-crunchingly dull.

On thirty-eight minutes, a rare piece of skill, a beautiful drag back from Enzo but he couldn’t get his shot away.

Five minutes later, a penalty shout after Joao Pedro danced into the box and fell by the goal-line. Then, another penalty shout and a bouncer at goal from Gusto, easily saved by Sels. There had been a couple of Forest chances but we had been playing slightly better in the closing moments of the half.

Enzo took two corners back-to-back and from the second one, Derry clashed heads with Zach Abbot. Both players went down. A penalty was given. Derry had gone down before in the game, but he stayed down, here, for a long time. We grew concerned. The minutes past. After an age, he was stretchered off, the poor lad. His home debut had been full of promise, too.

Both sets of supporters applauded him off and he was replaced by Liam Delap, with Joao Pedro shifting left.

Forest’s Abbott went off too.

Alas, in the fifty-fourth minute, Palmer’s penalty was low and weak, and Sels fell to his right and parried the shot. Palmer was unable to squeeze home the rebound.

The first half eventually came to and end on fifty-nine minutes.

There were boos at half-time.

Fackinell Chelsea.

There was a chat at the break with a few mates. I sent this text to the chaps in a WhatsApp Group.

“Turgid AI shite. No imagination. No spontaneity. No freedom. Dull percentage football. Automatons. Sick of it.”

This is my main gripe with football these days. Regardless of how Chelsea play, and God-knows we have been dire of late, the over-riding feeling is a sense of football changing for the worst with possession football eroding the sense of fun and enjoyment at every opportunity. AI getting hold of football and squuezing the life out of it.

Chelsea’s form might continue to nosedive for a while yet, but our football and the football of others is just so dire.

On a few occasions during that first half, I just lost it.

“One of you move!”

“Move for each other!”

There was simply no dynamism and no flair.

Sigh.

I saw our number 6 on the pitch at half-time, and my mind instantly played a trick on me.

“Thiago Silva.”

It was, of course, Levi Colwill and he replaced Tosin as the second half began for his first game of 2026/27. Let’s hope he is fit enough for the Cup Final.

Five minutes in, a shot from Cucurella was so high that the pigeons on the top of the Matthew Harding roof ducked for cover.

Cucurella had been having his usual game; tons of chasing down, tons of tackling, tons of energy, even though he has a tendency to get caught out of possession. If running around like an animated Corporal Jones was a determinant of caring, the Spanish defender would pass with flying colours.

On fifty-one minutes, a clean break down our left – “don’t panic, don’t panic!!!” – and Morgan Gibbs-White was able to push the ball across for Awoniyi to tap in from close range.

I immediately commented “that is the ball we should be playing” as Elliot Anderson played the ball forward intelligently to Gibbs-White.

There was a VAR check for offside, but Awoniyi was on by the narrowest of margins.

Fackinell Forest.

The response from the home support was immediate and provided the loudest chant of the afternoon by far.

“FUCK OFF EGBAHLI – YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE.”

I am not so sure any of the protests on the Fulham Road hit home with the board, but this direct messaging service provided by 37,000 Chelsea supporters just might do the trick.

Andrey Santos replaced Lavia, the sixty-minute man.

On the hour, Forest lumped the ball forwards and a brave Sanchez and a possibly braver Gibbs-White collided. Another delay took place. Both players were substituted after a delay of six minutes. I noticed that Sanchez, with his head bandaged, did not receive much applause at all, which was a bit tight.

He was replaced by Filip Jorgensen.

At the other end, Delap caused a bit of a disturbance in the Forest box by completely missing a cross, but the ball fell to Gusto who re-worked it into the six-yard box, and Joao Pedro stabbed home at the second attempt.

Alas, he was offside via another VAR review, by the narrowest of margins.

The Chelsea crowd sang “we nearly scored” and I didn’t know whether to laugh or bloody cry.

We had a couple of shots on goal via Delap and Palmer.

With all the delays, I chirped to PD that “this game could still be going on when we come back for Tottenham.”

By now, vast swathes of blue seats were visible around Stamford Bridge.

Nine extra minutes of injury time were signalled.

Lo and behold, in the dying embers of a horrible match, Gusto swung in a deep ball towards Cucurella who headed the ball back towards Joao Pedro. He controlled the ball with his chest, and bicycle-kicked to perfection. What a fantastic goal. I was hoping my photo would do it justice.

Well. it almost did.

The score was a little more respectable, but this was such a disappointing affair against a weakened Forest team.

I looked up at the slightly fading gold adornments on the high walls above The Shed and it all looked a bit pathetic.

“World Champions.”

By now, these banners look like those gory and gaudy gilt additions in The Oval Office.

Maybe, Boehly and Eghbali will start to plan the demolition of the East Stand and replace it with a huge ballroom to take the attention away from the horrific play on the pitch.

Fackinell.

Yes, I stayed to the end. It’s what supporters do. It’s in the job description. Thousands had fled the scene of the crime by the end though. Bizarrely, I clapped the lads off. Don’t ask me why.

Outside, I met up with Ollie, Jerome and Franck underneath the Osgood statue and I took a photo of them. They were smiling, I am not sure how, and I bellowed “jeux sans frontières” as I left them, and I smiled too.

Don’t ask me why.

On the way home, with Manchester City dropping points at Everton – bollocks – I took a quick look at the league table, and our current form shook me to the core.

L L L L L L

And next up, Liverpool away.

Oh boy.

See you there.

Tales From West Bridgford

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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.

Tales From The Chelsea Life

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Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 25 May 2025.

Our final league game of this typically odd Chelsea league campaign was to take place beside the River Trent against Nottingham Forest. This game represented a couple of milestones for me. This would be another 38/38 league season, my third-in-a-row (I haven’t completed too many, I always seem to miss one or two games), but also Chelsea game number one thousand five hundred. It honestly doesn’t seem that long ago that we travelled up to Burnley for the first game of 2014/15 for my one-thousandth.

I suspect that my mindset for this game was quite different to most. Yes, we were in with a very decent chance to secure a UEFA Champions League spot for 2025/26, but if I am perfectly honest, I do not think that my mind was as besieged with a “do or die” mentality like many of our supporters.

At the start of the season, before a ball was kicked in anger, my prediction for us under a relatively untested new manager was to finish between sixth and eighth. That view did not really waver too much as games were played. We all know how the quality of this year’s Premier League – God, how I dislike the term “Prem” – has not been great, and so as our rocky league campaign stalled in the New Year – God, those back-to-back Brighton games – at least I thought that we might be able to sneak into a European place, as a result of other’s failings as well as our own.

We then hit some form, reached the UEFA Conference League Final, and a Europa League place next season seemed attainable via whatever means.

Going into our last game against Manchester United, I remember thinking that the Europa League is maybe our level for next season; maybe we are not quite ready for a full Champions League campaign,

We are, we must be reminded, a young team, finding its feet,

So, of course I wanted us to win at the City Ground in the way that I want us to always win as many games as we can, but I was not about to fling myself off Trent Bridge should we be pipped by Forest, or Newcastle, or Villa, to a Champions League place.

In the words of the song, whatever will be will be.

At this stage of my life and my Chelsea life, European campaigns are increasingly more about new cities, new teams, new grounds, new experiences, rather than total global domination.

It’s all about the journey, right?

That’s what I keep telling myself in quiet reflective moments, but then Chelsea Football Club comes along and buggers things up by habitually reaching finals and we then become trophy-hunting savages.

Wink.

I left work on Friday, and a lovely football-fuelled break was ahead of me, a tantalising notion. The game in Nottingham would be immediately followed by a trip to Wroclaw.

This is the, Chelsea, life.

However, the game would not be taking place in Nottingham at all.

My friend Craig – Stoke, 1984/85 and all that – who is an ardent supporter of Notts County always likes to mention that Notts County are the true team of the city since they play in Nottingham, yet Nottingham Forest, who ironically play at the City Ground, only play in West Bridgford, but in the county of Nottingham.

Confused, me owd duck?

I had collected PD at 9am. However, he managed to quickly get himself in a pickle when he ordered me to quickly return to his house as he had forgotten his Polish currency.

“Poland is tomorrow mate.”

I collected Parky at 9.30am and I drove due north, via the beautiful and scenic Fosse Way, bypassing Coventry and Leicester, then north for a few more miles. Ironically, this was the first time that I had driven on the A46 – still the Fosse Way – this far north since game number seven hundred against Hull City in October 2008.

The plan was to avoid Nottingham city centre and the noisy pubs around the ground and have a few drinks in a country pub somewhere.

Thankfully, at about 1pm, we pulled up outside “The Plough” in the quaintly named Normanton-On-The-Wolds. I am never sure of the origin of the term “wolds” but for a few minutes shy of two hours we were on one of them, and it was a very pleasant experience.

Four pints of “Cruzcampo” for the drinkers, three “Diet Cokes” for the driver.

I was parked up on Radcliffe Road at 3.10pm, and by 3.30pm I had smuggled my SLR into the away enclosure and had made by way to the fifth row alongside my usual awayday companions Gary, John and Alan. Annoyingly I had left my sunglasses in the car, a similar story to last year. I hope the sun overhead would soon disappear behind some clouds.

The team were going through their drills in front of us.

One wag behind me yelled out “smile, you should be enjoying this, you’re on a hundred grand a week.”

I had a look around. There were two new structures in the opposing corners; a Craven Cottage style rack of executive boxes to the right of the Trent End, and what looked like a TV studio perched high to the left.

Dotted around the ground was the “Forest” logo with the two European Cup stars. I think I have mentioned before about how the “FOReST” logo looks a little odd, and it garnered a little discussion on the internet recently. Somebody suggested that the lower case “e” flowed better with the curve of the “R”, but there was a further commend that had me chuckling.

“It’s the san serif of Nottingham.”

Kick-off approached and the sun played hide-and-seek. I was low down, and I prepared to be frustrated that I would not be able to take too many decent photos apart from the area on the pitch close by.

“Mull Of Kintyre” boomed out with the words changed to echo the spirit of 1977/78.

Then, the Trent End lit up with a full mosaic.

“TAKE US ON A TRIP”.

A crowd-surfing minibus began its movement “To Europe” just before the game kicked-off but then ran out of steam and collapsed on peoples’ heads as the game began.

A metaphor for the game? I hoped so.

It was a lively, physical and energetic start to the match The home team were not afraid to venture forward, and they were roared on by their red-clad supporters. Chelsea enjoyed a few counterattacks. There was a fine advance by Enzo Fernandez down the right using the dummy run of Noni Madueke to exploit space, but his cross way out to the right flank was not only an odd pass but was hopelessly overhit. If it had hit its intended target, I would have realised that Jadon Sancho was playing. It took me a quarter of an hour to realise it.

Our team?

Sanchez

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Neto

Pedro Neto, the winger turned false-nine-figurehead kept finding himself out wide but wasted a couple of decent chances to ping over a decent cross.

After eighteen minutes, Marc Cucurella had already headed three dangerous crosses away. He covers space so well. There was a constant aerial threat from Forest, and Tosin Adarabioyo began heading away crosses, and blocking, and tackling.

Elsewhere, goals were not forthcoming.

Aston Villa 0 Manchester United 0

Newcastle United 0 Everton 0.

Our songs had quietened down and so a loud “Carefree” was met with derision and disdain from the noisy locals to our right.

We attacked when we could, and we seemed to own possession for much of the second half of the first period. We moved the ball rather slowly, and Cole Palmer often dropped very deep.

“I just can’t see us scoring, Gary.”

On the half-hour, a decent move found Noni Madueke, who passed to Palmer. His cross found Neto, close-in, but his effort flew over the bar.

I sensed that the home crowd – red hot last year – were not quite so intense and loud this year. I think the nerves were getting to them.

On forty-two minutes, a great cross from them and Chris Wood really should have hit the target. His effort flew over, in much the same way that had happened with the Neto effort. Both efforts came off shins.

The locals yelled “Come on you reds” and the place heated up again.

I noted how Tosin was in the right place to clear so many times. His battle with Wood was an attraction all by itself.

At the break, the home team were cheered off the pitch.

I just wondered where on Earth a goal would come from.

There was a second huddle of the day from Chelsea, and another rendition of “Mull Of Kintyre”. I was if both teams wanted to reset and go again.

The Chelsea team attacked us in the Bridgford Stand. On fifty minutes, a Chelsea move resulted in the ball being headed around the box. Neco Williams meekly headed the ball to Neto who, simply playing percentage football, pushed the ball across the six-yard box, the ‘keeper stranded. I did not see whose leg prodded the ball in, but I saw the net bulge, and I saw everyone explode.

Limbs.

I punched the air continually. I knew I would not be able to take any shots of the scorer celebrating. Instead, I looked ahead and saw the wide grin from Palmer as he trotted towards us. A photo of him would have been a nice and cool comparison to the noise and madness happening all around me.

But the limbs were still getting in the way.

Drat.

As against Manchester United, Palmer’s celebration was to flip up a spare ball and welly it into the sky.

Bosh.

“Who scored?”

“Colwill.”

In a moment of quiet :

Alan, two seats away : “THTCAUN.”

Charles, in Texas : “THTCAUN.”

Ben, in Massachusetts : “THTCAUN.”

Garret, in Tennessee : “THTCAUN.”

Rick, in Iowa : “THTCAUN.”

Me, in Nottinghamshire : “COMLD.”

This single goal pushed Chelsea above Newcastle United into fourth place.

Fackinell.

All around me was noise and happiness.

But could we hang on?

On fifty-seven minutes, Wood was close-in on Sanchez again, but his effort was blasted over. The offside flag had been raised anyway.

A loud guttural roar from us.

“AND IT’S SUPER CHELSEA.

SUPER CHELSEA FC.

WE’RE BY FAR THE GREATEST TEAM.

THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN.”

Some substitutions.

Romeo Lavia for Sancho, a poor game from him.

An update :

Newcastle United 0 Everton 1.

We were now three points up on the Geordies, the team we lost against just a fortnight ago.

It was happening.

The play continued.

I said to Gary :

“Forest are currently seventh. It’s going to be a scramble to get back to my car tonight.”

Thankfully those days are over.

An update :

Manchester United 1 Aston Villa 0.

It was happening, Villa were out of the equation now surely.

Malo Gusto replaced Neto, who had put in a fine shift.

Forest attacked sporadically, but the defence – and that man Tosin – was exceptional.

There was a shout of “Celery” in the crowd in the corner section, and I wondered what was happening? In days of old, this was usually prompted by the sighting of an attractive girl or woman, please don’t judge us.

Well, lo and behold, Bonnie Blue (who? her?) was indeed sighted and it just about summed up the craziness of the day. From what I could remember, this woman had been banned from the City Ground. How she managed to get a ticket in our away end, God – or maybe Todd – only knows.

She was wearing the new Chelsea shirt too.

Perhaps, she should have gone with the current shirt; the design is more appropriate, cough, cough.

The ball was booted clear and ended up behind me. Gary – a kleptomaniac – reached down and would eventually hide it away in his rolled-up jacket.

I then looked up and found out that Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall was on the pitch, replacing Madueke.

An update :

Manchester United 2 Aston Villa 0.

A Forest corner at the Trent End resulted in a series of mad blocks from our resolute defenders. Sanchez eventually fell on the ball, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

I found it funny that the home fans were not happy with the referee Anthony Taylor, in much the same way that we are not too enamoured.

“Anthony Taylor. It’s all about you.”

On ninety-three minutes, the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sels trotted up field and launched a fantastic ball towards Wood. Thankfully, the striker missed the target, the ball flying high into the stand.

Fackinell.

In truth, an equaliser for Forest would not have hindered our progress into next season’s Champions League.

After eight and then nine minutes of injury time, the referee blew.

We were in our happy place once again.

Back in Europe.

Back in the Champions League.

Back at the top table.

What a mad, noisy, funny, crazy – but perfect – day.

There was time for a few hugs and handshakes in the concourse and outside. My good mate Callum approached me.

“Never been a big fan of the manager, but he has done it, he has to stay.”

“Yeah, would be churlish to want him out.”

A last photo of the season, and then a slow walk back to the car.

It was a bloody magnificent drive home, through the shires of England, as the sun set to our right, above The Cotswolds.

I reached home at 10.15pm.

It had been a great day.

I will see many of you in Wroclaw.

1,500

Game 1 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United – 16/3/74

Game 100 : Chelsea vs. West Ham United – 23/3/87

Game 200 : Coventry City vs. Chelsea – 4/2/95

Game 300 : Chelsea vs. Real Betis – 5/3/98

Game 400 : Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough – 31/3/01

Game 500 – Chelsea vs. Real Zaragoza – 8/8/04

Game 600 – Chelsea vs. Levski Sofia – 5/12/06

Game 700 – Hull City vs. Chelsea – 29/10/08

Game 800 – Manchester City vs. Chelsea – 25/9/10

Game 900 – Wigan Athletic vs. Chelsea – 19/8/12

Game 1,000 – Burnley vs. Chelsea – 19/8/14

Game 1,100 – Chelsea vs. West Ham United – 15/8/16

Game 1,200 – Perth Glory vs. Chelsea – 23/7/18

Game 1,300 – Chelsea vs. Villareal – 11/8/21

Game 1,400 – Chelsea vs. Newcastle United – 28/5/23

Game 1,500 – Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea – 25/5/25

Tales From Our House

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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 Weak Bridge

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Chelsea vs. Ipswich Town : 13 April 2025.

After the uninspiring 0-0 draw at Brentford, Chelsea’s next match was in Poland against Legia Warsaw. With Chelsea yet to play a competitive match in this country, there was a strong chance that I would have been sorely tempted to go. However, quite some time ago I received a letter asking me to attend Jury Service in Bristol during that week. So, no plans were made. Imagine my annoyance when it transpired that I was not needed in court all of that week.

I watched the game in Warsaw on TV. That first-half was so dire, but we managed to scrape three goals from somewhere in the second period to give us a very good platform to advance into the semi-finals.

My football weekend was again double pronged. On the Saturday, I drove into the northern suburbs of Swindon for Frome Town’s away match at the superbly titled Swindon Supermarine, a team that we beat 3-0 just before Christmas, our first home win of the season. This was another “must-win” game of football for the struggling Robins, and I joined around one hundred away fans in a decent gate of 436. It was the home team’s largest attendance of the season. Alas, despite a strong first-half, Frome wilted in the second period and lost the game 1-0 to a goal from Harry Williams five minutes from time.

With just three league games left, the club are now five points from safety. The marked resurgence in our form from December to March has now withered away with five consecutive 1-0 defeats in a row. The need for a 15-20 goal marksman this season was paramount, but with such players so hard to attain, our survival looks impossible.

Sigh.

As Sunday morning arrived, it was up to Chelsea to give me a little football joy on this particular weekend.

Were we up for the task?

I wasn’t sure.

This was a 2pm kick-off, so I wasted no time in the morning. At 7am I picked up PD in Frome. On the way over to collect Parky at 7.30am, our progress was stopped for five minutes when some escaped dairy cows were herded up on the Frome by-pass. Let’s see if I can include this rather odd escapade into the rest of the narrative.

Am I up to the task?

I am not sure.

The pre-match in various parts of Fulham was typical. There was a tasty breakfast on the North End Road at “The Memory Lane Café”.

You know what is coming, right?

10 April 1985 : Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 0.

I was back home in Somerset for Easter when this game was played on a Wednesday evening. I listened along on the radio, and we were 0-0 at half-time. Alas we conceded goals to Johnny Metgod and Garry Birtles in the second period to lose 2-0. The gate was a lowly 14,666.

13 April 1985 : West Ham United 1 Chelsea 1.

I know that my friends Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock went up to London for this game, a much-anticipated return to Upton Park for the first time in over four years. I didn’t go. At this stage of the season, I was planning an Inter-Rail trip around Europe in the summer and so didn’t hit too many away games. There was, if I am honest, the threat of trouble at this game too, and I was probably put off from going for this very reason.

This game kicked-off at 11.30am to try to keep alcohol-induced rowdiness to a minimum. It still shocks me to this day that just 19,003 attended this game. David Speedie put us 1-0 up but Tony Cottee equalised. It ended 1-1.

Unbeknown to anyone at the time, an ITV film crew was at this game and would air some footage from Upton Park, and at Victoria and on the District Line, during an hour-long documentary about hooliganism, and the ICF especially.

Later that night, in a Frome night club I met up with Glenn who went through the day’s events, but the night was spoiled when we both got embroiled in an altercation with someone, team unknown.

Let’s get back to 2025.

I moved on and headed towards the area outside Stamford Bridge. I noted that the old ticket hall at Fulham Broadway Station was undergoing some changes and will be opening in June as a new “Wetherspoon” pub.

There is no punchline.

On the Fulham Road, I spotted a sign that I had not seen before.

“Weak Bridge – 330 Yards Ahead.”

It was referencing the physical bridge – Stamford Bridge – that takes the Fulham Road over the railway line, and before that, the small brook called Counter’s Creek.

Stamford Bridge, the stadium, was named after this very bridge.

I thought this was all too spooky for words. I remember when The Bridge was a strong fortress; now there are bloody road signs saying that the bridge is weak.

I spent a few moments chatting to various friends on the Fulham Road outside the tube station. I then caught a train south from Fulham Broadway. It dawned on me at Parsons Green tube station, as I spotted two young gentlemen wearing pink chinos and pink shorts get off the carriage, that the University Boat Race was taking place in this part of West London on this sunny but occasionally cold day.

I wondered to myself if any of the thousands of attendees would be asked by stewards to show them the contents of their wallets.

I guessed not.

I sat with just Parky and PD in “The Eight Bells” as all the other regulars were absent. I heard that Mike from New York – last seen in Abu Dhabi – was at the game but it looked like our paths would unfortunately not cross.

I was inside the ground with half-an-hour to go.

The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. The 3,000 away fans – many wearing the pink away shirt – seemed to be a riot of colour.

The team?

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

I spotted that Liam Delap was only a substitute for Ipswich Town.

After “The Liquidator”, we segued into “Blue Is The Colour” and this again set things up nicely with the Stamford Bridge purring along to the famous lyrics.

In the first attack of the game, Cole Palmer received the ball in a good position but took a while to decide what to do. The chance to take aim and strike the ball at goal came and went, and the move ended with an overhit ball to Enzo Fernandez.

I muttered to myself “a move without menace” and wondered if it would set the tone for rest of the game.

Soon after, shambolic distribution from Sanchez had the home crowd howling. As the away fans watched their team in all pink try to get into the game, they sang a song at us.

“Football in a library…”

To be fair, they had a point.

The first quarter of an hour belonged totally to Chelsea. Nicolas Jackson was set up via a good cross from Enzo but his shot was unfortunately smacked against the near post from close range. Then a flurry of chances soon followed. Enzo thumped a shot over the bar, Noni Madueke’s shot was blocked and Trevoh Chalobah’s drive was saved by the Ipswich ‘keeper Alex Palmer.

From a Madueke cross, Levi Colwill forced a fine save from Palmer in The Shed End goal and Marc Cucurella slashed a follow-up effort over the bar.

At this stage, there were little complaints from the home support, although the stadium was hardly making much noise in support of the team.

However.

On twenty-one minutes, the visitors broke and scored with their very first attack. George Hirst did well to escape being hemmed in and broke centrally. I didn’t like the way that Colwill let him run, and when the ball was pushed out to Ben Johnson, Cucurella had to divert his attention from one player to the other, from Hirst to Johnson. He just missed a blocking tackle, and we watched in horror as a cross was nimbly toe-poked into our goal by Julio Enciso.

I said to the boys “watch us go into our shell.”

However, the immediate response from the home fans was good.

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

The Ipswich fans were full of it, of course.

“Can we play you every week?”

There was, sadly, no immediate Chelsea response on the pitch and the mood in the stands deteriorated.

Into our shell we most definitely went.

A “play it out from the back” move much beloved by…er, not many…broke down and Ipswich went close.

The atmosphere blackened.

Ipswich came again just after and I thought that the ball out wide to Enciso looked offside. His cross found the leap and the head of Ben Johnson and we were 2-0 against Ipswich for the second time of the season.

Not even a VAR review could save us.

It was fractured stuff in the closing fifteen minutes of the first period. I loved a fantastic pass from Palmer, reminiscent of similar jewels before Christmas, that set up Cucurella but the move broke down.

Madueke – one of our better, more positive players – drilled a shot over the bar, the reliable Moises Caicedo shot wide, and after a beautiful dink from Enzo, Jackson’s intuitive lob was well over.

The skies were darkening over Stamford Bridge as the first period came to its conclusion.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

During the break, unsurprising moans.

Enzo Maresca made a substitution, though not one that many would have predicted. On came Malo Gusto, off went Tosin.  Chalobah moved alongside Colwill in the centre.

The second half began with my friend Alex appearing next to me and demanding a selfie. I promised her that if we came back to win this one, we’d do “come back selfies” at all other games in which we were losing at half-time.

With that, down on the pitch, Madueke burst forward down the right, made the goal line, passed low, and a lunge at the ball by Cucurella forced Axel Tuanzebe to push the ball into his own net.

I laughed and turned around to see Alex’ reaction.

Smiles all round.

Barely twenty seconds of the second half had elapsed.

The vibe inside the stadium certainly improved and we were attempting to grab, at least, an equaliser.

A Pedro Neto shot was aimed right at the ‘keeper. But then Hirst had two decent chances for Ipswich. He was just wide with a shot, and then from a fantastic cross from their right, his stooping header just went past the post.

It was an open game.

Another Neto shot at the ‘keeper, and then a delicate Neto cross towards the far post that evaded everyone.

A change on sixty-seven minutes.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

Neto was moved over to the right and Sancho appeared down below us on the left.

The Chelsea chances continued to pile up; a Palmer effort was deflected wide, a Neto volley just over. Sancho sent in a low cross and it was touched towards goal by Enzo, but Conor Townsend managed to hoof the ball out and away from goal. Then another shot from Enzo, but another save from Palmer.

Fackinell.

On seventy-nine minutes, Palmer played a short corner to Sancho. He sized things up, and shot, and I shot too. The ball flew fast and seemed to dip before it nestled inside the far post.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Phew.

I looked around and caught Alex’ eye again.

I have stopped worrying about us obtaining a Champions League place this season. It won’t happen. I am not sure how far up – or down – the league table we will finish this year, but while there are points to be won, Chelsea have my attention.

Could we grab a winner against lowly Ipswich? This was now my focus, and it did make me squirm to realise that this would be a pretty decent achievement in the circumstances.

On eighty-five minutes, Chalobah came close with a high leap at the far post that I managed to capture on film but the ‘keeper somehow managed to block.

Somehow.

A shot from Palmer was flashed over.

With four minutes to go, the much-maligned Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

There were six minutes of time added on at the ninety-minute mark.

We kept going.

A low curler from Palmer was pushed around the post by his namesake.

The last chance of the game came from Enzo, who smashed a ball at goal but the bastard Ipswich ‘keeper again made another phenomenal stop.

It ended 2-2.

As we made our way out, the away fans were singing “We Support Our Local Team” and their players stood in front of the packed away end, as one.

I thought to myself : “fair play to them.”

Walking up towards “The Wolfpack” with my head down and pacing forlornly, I suddenly looked to my right and spotted Mike from New York. It was lovely to see him once again, an unexpected pleasure at the end of a rather disappointing and disjointed performance from the team.

This is becoming another tough season.

Despite the frustrations of the domestic campaign, there is our increasingly advanced participation in the UEFA Conference League.

However, as I drove home from London, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to attend the game against Legia Warsaw on Thursday.

And I still don’t know who won the boat race.

Tales From The Famous, The Famous Chelsea

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Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 4 January 2025.

As the weekend drew near, and as I struggled to quell an irritating hacking cough, there were reports that snow was on its way to most parts of England. As if the thought of an away trip to Crystal Palace in the first week of January wasn’t bad enough, the added threat of snow just about topped it. More often than not, the weather is crap at Selhurst Park, and our usual viewing position is towards the front, in an area not covered too well by the stand roof.

The drive into Selhurst can be tiresome too, so as the short working week ended, I was hardly relishing this game. I just hoped that my cough didn’t develop further, and that there were no sore throats, headaches and shivers to come.

In light of my far from perfect state of health, I allowed myself a little lie in. I picked up PD at 8.30am and Parky at 9am for our “first footing” of the New Year. Thankfully, although far from perfect, I felt reasonably OK. As I headed south and then east, down towards the A303, there was a certain degree of peace and calm in the car, and I was more than happy that I was not barking out coughs every five minutes. The fields and hedgerows were dusted with frost and looking pretty photogenic, but I was happy to be in my self-contained bubble of warm air.

We stopped for a couple of breakfast rolls en route, and I was soon heading off the M3 and onto the M25.

The plan was to attempt a couple of pubs pre-match. At midday, I parked-up near “The Old Fox & Hounds” near West Croydon station, and we spent an hour or so with Clive who sits next to me in The Sleepy Hollow at Chelsea. The early afternoon’s entertainment involved Tottenham scoring an early goal against Newcastle United, but then managing to lose 2-1. Lovely.

My round consisted of “two pints of Carling and can you boil up some hot water for this Lemsip please, love?”

From here, I drove the two miles north to a pre-ordered parking space near Thornton Heath, and our route took us right past “The Pawson Arms” where we had enjoyed a pint before last-season’s game. I parked on Woodville Road and then met up with some pals at “The Prince George” which is just about the only away pub at Palace these days.

As I approached the packed boozer, I was a little taken aback by the sight before me. Not only did I not recognise a single Chelsea supporter on the pavement outside the pub, but there were impromptu fences set up outside, primarily to stop the clientele from encroaching onto the busy road, but it looked a brutal sight all the same. It brought back memories of fans being caged in at stadia back in the ‘eighties.

“Please do not feed the animals” came to mind.

Thankfully, near one of the doors I spotted a gaggle of faces I knew. Clive had disappeared but came back with a lager that I didn’t really want but supped all the same. Amongst familiar faces was a new one, Caroline from South Africa, her first-ever Chelsea away game, and I could hardly imagine how excited she must have felt. My first away game was at Eastville, the home of Bristol Rovers, in 1975. In Tim Rolls’ excellent new book “The First Time” I love that a supporter from mid-Wales was able to detail this match as his first game. It brought back a few memories from almost fifty years ago. Thank you, Mike Davies.

Talking of games long gone, my retrospective look at season 1984/85 – Chelsea’s first season of top-flight football since 1978/79 – has now reached the New Year.

On Tuesday 1 January 1985, Chelsea were at home against Nottingham Forest. On this occasion, I went up to London with Glenn via my father’s car. At such times, Dad was called into action, and I suspect that at the time I took it all for granted, as teenagers are wont to do. My parents would have gone off to partake in a mixture of sightseeing and shopping while we were at Chelsea, but the truth is that their whole day out was to enable me to get up to London for the football. Now, this fills me with a deep feeling of love for them both. My father would have been sixty-one at the time – not too older than me now – and although the roads were not so busy in the ‘eighties, it still represented a heavy day of driving. And of traipsing around London from shop to shop, from site to site, from sight to sight.

We left Frome at 9.15am and were parked up at Ealing Common, our usual destination to enable us to catch a train to Fulham Broadway, at 11.30am. There was a pre-match pie and chips on the North End Road and we were inside Stamford Bridge at 1.15pm.

The “Back Benchers” on New Year’s Day 1985?

Alan, Simon, Dave, Paul, Glenn, myself, Leggo and Mark.

Although we were by far the better team, this wasn’t a great game at all. We had to wait until the seventieth minute for cult hero Pat Nevin to provide the inspiration. He jinked past a defender, reached the goal-line and sent over an exquisite cross that cut out the ‘keeper Hans Segers. This allowed another crowd favourite Micky Thomas to dive-in with a header. I gave my man of the match award to Eddie Niedzwiecki. I was relatively pleased with the gate of 21,552. My diary reported that Forest only brought around three hundred. Stamford Bridge was a fearsome place for away fans in those days.

After the game, we walked right back up the North End Road, probably the first time for me, and at West Kensington station, Glenn nervously spotted one of the Chelsea fans who had attacked him after the United game a few days earlier. Back at Ealing Common, we had an hour to wait until my parents finally arrived back at 7pm.

On the way home, we stopped off for a drink at “The Wagon & Horses” at Beckhampton on the A4, and it fills me with joy that we still occasionally stop off here for a post-Chelsea drink forty years on. All of these little examples of drinks with my parents are gorgeous gifts from the past as I delve into my old diaries. If I am honest, I am still thrilled that I had enjoyed a pre-match beer in August 1984 against Sunderland with my father in that old West Stand bar, a moment previously long forgotten.

Our pre-Chelsea drink completed in 2025, Clive and I drifted away for the short march up Whitehorse Lane to the away turnstiles, the last of the group to depart. It was approaching 2.30pm.

Thankfully no rain, nor snow, but a long old line at the turnstiles. A couple of formidable faces from our violent past barged in and we all smirked.

“Nobody is going to stop those two buggers pushing in Clive.”

We were in, and we had thankfully missed all of the tedious pyrotechnics and associated gimmicks that accompanies top level football in the UK these days.

I had swapped tickets; Clive had mine in row eleven, I was further up in row eighteen just in front of the Gloucester lads and just behind Ali and Nick. This enabled me a slightly better view, I hoped. Well, I hoped it vain. It was still shite.

The game kicked off just as a loud and proud “One Man Went To Mow” boomed around the Arthur Wait Stand.

I caught up with the starting eleven.

Sanchez

Gusto – Acheampong – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Very soon into the match I heard a chant that is not often aired : “We are the famous, the famous Chelsea.”

It’s only us and “The Geordies” that sing that from memory. I have always liked it.

Playing in that off-white kit, Chelsea immediately took control of the ball and dominated the play. Not long into the contest, Josh Acheampong won the ball with a beautifully cushioned touch that set us off on a lovely move, coursing through the middle of the park with pace and verve. I hoped that it would set the tone for not only the youngster’s performance but for us as a team too.

I was already bobbing about in the Arthur Wait Stand like a fishing float, unable to see much of the play to my left, when the ball was pushed forward by Marc Cucarella towards Jadon Sancho. I just about saw the player shape to take the ball but then move away, but the detail was lost on me as I was attempting to watch the game through a hundred bodies. There was, however, an appreciative purr from the supporters – the taller ones at least – around me. I joined the dots and realised he had carried out a perfect “dummy.”

However, for the next few seconds, I simply had no idea what was going on.

Sancho could have stuck the ball up his shirt and ran with it between Palace defenders while sticking his tongue out and laughing uncontrollably, I would not have known.

However, I then saw the ball end up at the feet of Cole Palmer, who I saw advance and slot the ball in at the far post, past the despairing Dean Henderson.

GET IN.

The away section roared.

Palace 0 Chelsea 1.

I tried my best to capture one, just one, decent photo of the scorer’s familiar celebration, as the crowd roared around me.

“Palmer again, Palmer again, Palmer again ole, ole.”

There was some nice follow-up football from us as we dominated the play. There was a lovely piece of old-fashioned wing play from Pedro Neto deep into the Palace box, and shots from Nicolas Jackson and Enzo. The impressive Josh headed over at the far post from a corner. He looked calm and in control. An excellent first-half from him.

The home team had a little flurry, and then came again just after the half-hour when the mobile Jean-Philippe Mateta advanced but shot wide.

At times our approach play was a little slow – Levi Colwill, I am looking at you – but we continued to boss the game. There was a fantastic through-ball from Palmer that hit Jackson’s run to perfection. He strode on, confident, but the shot with the outside of his right foot blazed just past the left-hand post.

During the first half we were treated to a couple of unorthodox saves from Sanchez, just to keep us on our toes. At times the man looks like a defender asked to go in goal when all other options have run out, at other times he hints at being a top class ‘keeper.

A 2-0 lead at the break would have been totally deserved, but it was not to be.

At half-time, virtually all spectators at Selhurst Park ignored whatever nonsense the Palace cheerleaders were up to on the pitch.

Puke.

Soon into the second half, with the home team energised, there was a break down the Palace right. I barked out “too easy” a nano-second before a fellow spectator yelled out the exact same two words. We watched as a cross from Daniel Munoz found Ebere Eze but were relieved to see him prod the ball wide.

“Fackinell Chels.”

Just after, pure Sanchez. Another ridiculously unorthodox save, followed by ridiculous distribution and a – thankfully – spurned Palace chance.

The second half continued, and it was a far less convincing performance from Chelsea. I was hoping to whirl my camera into action to capture wave after wave of attacking verve in front of me, but it was all rather stop-start.

Neto was sent sprawling in the corner of the penalty box and we were all howling obscenities at the referee, the lino, the crowd, Stockley Park, the Premier League, UEFA, FIFA, the United Nations, NATO, but nobody was listening.

At 1-0, we were nervous and worried.

We tried to apply some worthy pressure.

On seventy minutes, two shots in quick succession. Firstly, there was a firm effort from Enzo. Then, after a pass from the always impressive Moises Caicedo, Jackson spurned a chance, the ball sliding wide after Henderson managed a touch.

Palace were in it though. There was a Mateta shot but Colwill blocked to deflect over.

On eighty-one minutes, Marc Guiu replaced Jackson and tried his best to run himself into the game.

Just after, the Chelsea supporters sang “is this a library?” to the home support and it made me realise how ridiculously quiet they had been. Apart from a volley of noise at the start, and maybe a little flag-waving from the centrally located Holmesdale Road Ultras, the home support had been almost non-existent.

Alas, we lost possession when Sanchez passed to Palmer, quite deep. To our horror, the ball was pushed to Eze who selflessly passed inside for Mateta to thump home.

Palace 1 Chelsea 1.

Now the buggers made some noise.

However, after only a few seconds, modern football took over, and it made a few of us feel quite nauseous. Rather than let the home support generate its own noise and let off steam in their own way, there was an obnoxious intrusion of the infantile “Boom Boom Boom Boom” that sounded like something that might be heard at a teenager’s birthday party or at a Butlin’s weekender. I gazed over at the terrace to my right and saw more than a few fully grown adults shaking away to this musical monstrosity.

Modern football. Simply fuck off.

Late on, Noni Madueke replaced Sancho, but it was all too little and all too late.

Our recent struggles continued; this was just our second point out of twelve.

We sloped back to the car, then headed north through the streets of south London, and inevitably found ourselves heading over Wandsworth Bridge and up to Fulham Broadway before heading out west on the A4 and M4.

Out towards Swindon, the snow finally came and the driving became slower, and more difficult. Despite speeding restrictions, cars sped past us, and if that isn’t a decent enough metaphor for us as we continue to slip down the league table, I had best give up.

Next up, an FA Cup tie against Morecambe at Stamford Bridge in 2025 and an FA Cup tie against Wigan Athletic in 1985.

See you later.

Tales From A Stroll Down The North End Road

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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 The Hot Corner

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Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2024.

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

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

Three more wins.

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

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

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

Three female voices.

Tracey Thorn, Elizabeth Fraser, Beth Gibbons.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A perfect couple of days, no doubt.

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

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

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

Forest were safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The teams walked onto the pitch.

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

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent.”

The pace was booming.

At 5.30pm, the game started.

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

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

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

Nottingham Forest 0 Chelsea 1.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

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

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 1 Chelsea 1.

The home support roared.

“The reds are staying oop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand up for the City Ground.”

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

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

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

Chelsea attacked us in the second-half.

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

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

Fackinell.

There were substitutions :

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile, with Chalobah moving alongside Silva.

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

So close.

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

Fackinell.

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

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 1.

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

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

Two more substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Reece James for Gallagher.

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

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

YES!

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 2.

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

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

GET IN.

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

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 3.

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

What a buzz.

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

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

But we were safe.

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

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

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

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

But bridges are being built.

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

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

I put a new Cocteau Twins CD on.

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

God, I love these football trips.

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

I eventually reached home at about 12.30am.

Next up, Brighton away on Wednesday.

See you there.

LEVEL EIGHT

LEVEL ONE

Tales From The Munich Men

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4

Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 2 September 2023.

…there were some positives from this day.

  1. I loved a very enjoyable pre-game in “The Eight Bells” alongside friends from not only England but Scotland, Norway and France.
  2. I didn’t get a parking ticket.
  3. We reached Reading Services just in time to load up on “£2” pasties from “West Cornwall Pasty Company” as it prepared to close.
  4. I didn’t watch “Match Of The Day.”
  5. Frome Town won an FA Cup tie at home to Clevedon Town in front of a healthy gate of 478.

Was everything else bleak?

…well.

After two home wins against Luton Town and AFC Wimbledon, our fledgling season seemed to be up-and-running, and the third home game in nine days against Nottingham Forest looked like one that we could win. After that, there would be a break due to something called international football, whatever that is, before the next match on Sunday 17 September in Bournemouth.

This represented a chance to consolidate, then, and to settle the nerves. As I said to the chaps on the way to London “a win will just keep them off our backs.”

The weather improved throughout the day, from misty overcast skies in the West Of England, to a sunny day that gradually emerged in London SW6. We were now in September, and there was a nice and relaxing feel to the morning as I hopped from Fulham Broadway to café to pub. I joined PD and Parky in “The Eight Bells” at around 11.15am. It was surprisingly quiet.

As I had descended the steps at “Putney Bridge” tube, there was a chap in front of me wearing a grey Stone Island pullover. Knowing that label’s particularly notoriety, every time I see the infamous badge, I always wonder if the wearer is “football” at all. After all, there must be some normal gentlemen, not in the least bothered about Stone Island’s association with football violence over the last thirty-five years; just normal chaps, probably fashion conscious, looking for nice clothes, blissfully unaware. And then there must be those, like me on occasion – I bought my first one in around 1998 – who love the football, love the clothes but can’t be arsed with the fighting. I must have bought around ten pieces over the years, but nothing for fifteen years, and they used to mix in well with my other match-going gear, especially in winter. Then there are those who sport the badge and are indeed members of the hooligan fraternity, or at least – this might be the key – want to be.

I remember the days when a small group of us used to email each other, before Messenger and WhatsApp appeared – and the time that we were making plans on the Friday for the trip to Bolton for “that game” on the Saturday in 2005, I jokingly suggested “dress code : Stonies” and, lo and behold, this gathered momentum.

These days I don’t wear my existing SI stuff at football because it’s not worth the attention from the police nor opposition fans alike. I often used to buy a few heavily discounted SI bits at “Century 21” in New York, but my last such purchase was probably way back in around 2006.

Anyway, I wondered to what category this chap belonged.

Alongside PD and Parky at our usual table was Salisbury Steve, plus Rich and Matt from Edinburgh. We were soon to be joined by a growing band of Norwegian supporters, including a few season ticket holders, who we have got to know over the past year. There’s Even, Hans, Roy – originally drawn in by my blog I believe – and a few more too. I met Eirik, from way up in Trondheim, for the first time and he too writes a football blog. We got on famously, and shared many a laugh. Soon into the session, Mr. Grey Stoney joined us, and I explained that I had seen him earlier and wondered if he was, indeed, “football.” I asked his name, and he replied “Ooh-osteener-son-eye-ah.”

I replied : “fuck that, I’ll just call you Dave.”

Originally the table that the seven Norwegians were camped around was reserved for some others from midday. But they never showed up. I joked that if they did, they might complain that the booth and adjacent seats smelled, offputtingly, of herring.

Eirik is midway through writing a book about the 1970 FA Cup Final, a subject close to all of our hearts. I told, for maybe the 1,243rd time in my life, how the 1970 Cup Final made me a Chelsea fan.

Outside, I spoke briefly with Dave, the guy I mentioned in the Luton blog who travels to away games in a specially-provided van that allows his wheelchair to be loaded. He was, of course, fuming to hear of the club’s decision. It’s not as if Chelsea send a huge fleet of coaches to away games. He reckoned two per game. I would briefly chat to Cathy inside the ground and she updated this to “four for big games.” Either way, it’s a drop in the ocean. I hope the club have an about-turn on this.

The usual “Kent Lot” were not in attendance due to rail strikes, which sadly coincided with the introduction of an increased reach of the “low emission zone” which would put off many from travelling in to London. The pub did seem a little quieter than usual.

I then spent some time talking to Ollie, who had just bought a 1989 shirt from Steve’s stall at Fulham Broadway. Steve had mentioned to me that “there’s a French guy looking for you earlier” and I soon realised it was Ollie. While I was there, I explained to Steve, who lives in nearby Evercreech in Somerset, why Frome is called “Dodge.” While on the subject, I added that the nearby towns of Trowbridge and Bruton are known locally as “Trow Vegas” and “Brutopia” respectfully.

Ollie told me how he had season tickets at Le Havre for many years, alongside his father, and how he travelled extensively around France to see them. Famously, we played Le Havre in 1992/93 in “The Cross Channel Trophy” with the first leg at Stamford Bridge in October 1992 and the away leg in France in April 1993. It was the first game that I could ever remember Chelsea travelling en masse to a game in Europe. There was inevitably some fighting. Stone Island garments were probably at the fore. Ollie, for the past fifteen years, is now resolutely Chelsea. It’s always nice to see him.

At 2pm, it was time to head to the game.

We heard some Forest songs emanating from the carriage behind us, and as we waited patiently in line at Fulham Broadway for the lift, I saw one particularly loud, young, Forest fan sporting no colours, but who was wearing a green Stone Island top and who was bellowing out a chant.

The others made their way in. I waited to choose my moment, since smuggling my SLR into Chelsea this season has reached an advanced level of difficulty.

Anyway, I was successful.

Inside, the sun had added an extra dimension to the red-clad Forest fans, wearing more replica shirts than you normally see at Chelsea, but their shirt this season really is a thing of beauty, harking back to when they wore Adidas on their travels around the UK and Europe.

Both of these clubs are European Champions twice-over and share a common bond.

Nottingham Forest won their first European Cup in Munich in 1979.

Chelsea won our first European Cup in Munich in 2012.

Trevor Francis, the match-winner in 1979, passed away in July, a decent man, and a really sad loss.

In front of the West Stand stood a gaggle of around twenty spectators. These fools paid extra to be able to watch the Chelsea players go through their pre-match drills from a few yards away. I groaned, and complained to John, another disabled lad who will suffer if the away coach subsidy is taken away.

“Look at them. Just look at them. Paying extra to be able to see the players up close. That’s not football.”

The teams entered the pitch.

Chelsea lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Caceido – Enzo – Gallagher

Sterling – Jackson – Chilwell

Or did they?

I have spent an inordinate amount of my time this season, especially in the first ten minutes of each match, trying to work out if we are playing three, four or five at the back. In the match programmes, the four games played thus far, state a four at the back. In the pre-match news about the selection for the Forest game, the formation is given as 3-5-2, yet in the eventual match report after it is given as 4-3-3.

Confusion reigns, but hopefully not for the players eh?

Whatever, this site isn’t for excessive and arid chat about formations and tactics. Go elsewhere for that. This, as the Norwegians seem to appreciate, is for everything else.

Forest must have won the toss and elected to attack The Shed in the first-half, the pesky buggers. I immediately sensed a problem.

At 3pm, the Munich Men kicked-off.

Within the first minute, we had twice rattled the Forest defence with early efforts from Nicolas Jackson, a crowd favourite now, and Raheem Sterling, who is increasing in popularity, albeit slowly.

As the game took shape, it seemed clear to me that Ben Chilwell was playing as a left-winger. There, that’s that solved. Jackson showed good movement in the opening period, a pleasing sign, so different from the immobile forwards of last season.

Unsurprisingly, the away contingent of three-thousand was making all of the noise, aided by songs from Wings, Status Quo and Spandau Ballet.

I thought that we started pretty decently, and despite an odd stoppage that the viewing millions were no doubt informed about but we were not – sound familiar? – we began to create a few chances. Conor Gallagher jinked inside and smashed one just wide. Malo Gusto on the right was properly involved in this game and was linking well with Gallagher and Sterling.

The visitors enjoyed a few breaks, a few free-kicks, and came close on a couple of occasions. Taiwo Awonyi, a handful last season, looked especially dangerous. We looked in control, though, but as the minutes rolled past, I kept thinking that we had yet to make the Forest ‘keeper really work.

There were a few rallying calls from us in the Matthew Harding, I joined in, and I suddenly remembered what my main role of the day was…it wasn’t to photograph the action, nor take quirky shots of the stadium, nor to quickly type up notes from the game on my ‘phone, it was in fact to support the team.

Thinking : “Come on Chris, don’t become the person you hate. Sing up.”

I leaned back and spoke to Clive.

“The first few games of this season have already been more enjoyable than all of last season.”

“That’s weird, PD just said exactly the same.”

There had been strong running from Gallagher throughout the half; tons of energy, plenty of tackles, plenty of blocks, a decent game.

“Ah to have a ball-winning midfielder, Al.”

Al spoke about Tottenham’s alleged interest in Gallagher, and Sky TV’s talking up of this non-story.

“Makes you laugh. Tottenham are considering a bid for Conor Gallagher. And I’m considering going on a diet.”

I howled.

However, the first-half ended almost apologetically, with a Chilwell cross just evading both Sterling and Jackson.

The first-half fizzled out.

After just three minutes of the second-half, Moises Caicedo gave the ball away just inside our half and the ball was moved quickly to former Manchester United striker Anthony Elanga, who surprisingly easily ran through our defence and slotted the ball in beyond the flat dive of Robert Sanchez in our goal.

Bollocks.

It was the visitors’ very first shot on target.

Fackinell.

The support tried to stir our players. Enzo, who had been rather quiet, slid a perfectly-weighted ball between two defenders for Chilwell, but his cross was poor.

A fine move on fifty-five minutes down the right fed in Jackson but a last ditch tackle saved Forest.

On sixty-two minutes, two substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Chilwell.

Noni Madueke for Gallagher.

I was amazed that Conor was taken off. I had liked the look of Cole Palmer when he played against us at City in the league last May. Little did I think he would be playing for us in four months. He was involved, and didn’t shy away from receiving the ball, but our play in general went from bad to worse.

On seventy-seven minutes, two more changes.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Gusto.

Ian Maatsen for Caicedo.

Gusto had played well. Maybe he was tiring.

The rest of the second-half, played out before a raucous away corner and an increasingly docile yet irritated home support, was memorable for wayward slashes at goal from many.

We could hardly believe it when a low cross from Sterling on the right, after a fine pass from Palmer, tee’d things up just right for Jackson but he inexplicably lifted it over the bar from the edge of the six-yard box.

One final chance saw the poor Sterling slash a low shot well wide from an angle after a decent set up by Jackson.

There were boos at the end.

In previous years, this would have annoyed me, but on this occasion I didn’t seem to care one way or the other, which definitely worried me.

Don’t I care anymore?

I do, but I probably care less.

Outside, we slid past the travelling Forest fans. They were waiting to step back inside the coaches on the Fulham Road, walking back to the tube and walking back to parked cars. They were full of song and joy. A few were a bit lary but, deep down, I understood. I kinda approved. I almost envied them; a day out in the capital, an unexpected away win – their first at Chelsea since January 1995, I remember it, two goals from Stan Bloody Collymore – and every right to be loud and proud. I’d rather have a noisy mob of lary lads to spice things up at football than row upon row of docile and distanced spectators.

We began walking back to Bramber Road. The sun was still hot. I was feeling a little tired. I then looked up and saw Mr. Green Stoney – the Forest lad from earlier – getting rounded up by two of Fulham’s finest.

I silently tut-tutted and smirked.

Did the man attract the attention or did the badge attract the attention? A philosophical debate for another time perhaps.

I made it home at just after 9pm. It had been another long day.

At the start of this season, I secretly predicted us to finish eighth.

Higher or lower?

We’ll see.

We have a fortnight off now. Next weekend, I am heading over to Italy for a little break, but we will reconvene at the Vitality Stadium in Bournemouth for a 2pm kick-off.

Bring your bucket and spade, don’t be late.

On The Fulham Road

It’s All Gone Blue

Four European Cups Between Us

Another Time, Another Place

Eirik

Om Eirik Havdahl

Tales From Baltimore, Bolton, London And Stockholm

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2

Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 13 May 2023.

…this one is going to resemble a mazy Pat Nevin dribble, drifting from place to place, hopefully entertaining, and with a few dummies thrown in for good measure.

In the build up to our home game with Nottingham Forest, I had read that there would be a couple of banners appearing before kick-off in The Shed and the Matthew Harding to celebrate the impact that Thiago Silva has had during his relatively short period of time at Stamford Bridge. And quite right too.

Everybody loves Thiago Silva.

The man is a defensive colossus. He is calmness personified. He oozes class. In a season that has stumbled along with many a setback along the way he has stood out like a beacon of professionalism. How I wish that all of our players showed the same skill set and the same work ethic as Thiago Silva. Ah, I had best add N’Golo Kante here.

We need a banner for him too.

On the evening before the game, by chance, I caught a comment by an acquaintance on Facebook that Thiago Silva was looking to return to Brazil, to his childhood team Fluminense – for whom he played seventy-odd games – after he eventually leaves Chelsea. I loved this idea, of legends returning home, and of course I immediately thought of Gianfranco Zola returning to Cagliari for a couple of seasons after leaving us. I just hoped that we could tease another season or two out of our veteran Brazilian.

I then checked on Thiago Silva’s playing career and I was reminded that he had played for Milan, after his spell with Fluminense, from 2009 to 2012. And that made me think. I was lucky enough to see Chelsea play Milan in Baltimore in the summer of 2009, just ahead of our wonderful double-winning campaign under Carlo Ancelotti. I did a little research and soon realised that Thiago Silva had indeed played in that game. My heart skipped a little. I then checked a few photographs, as is my wont, and I spotted an image that made me smile. In the first-half of the game, which Chelsea would win 2-1, I had taken a photo, focussed on Frank Lampard, that also featured a veritable “Who’s Who” of top-ranking footballers from that era.

Ronaldinho, Didier Drogba, Alessandro Nesta, Jon Obi Mikel, our man Frank, Andrea Pirlo and – there he was – Thiago Silva.

So, here indeed was proof that this was the very first time that I had seen Thiago Silva play. It’s very likely that this was the first time that Frank had seen Thiago Silva play too, though his view was certainly different than mine.

Almost fourteen years later, the two of them are at the same club, although of course it was Frank who signed the cherished Brazilian during our interim manager’s first spell at the helm at the start of the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/21.

I then decided to flick through a few photos from that very enjoyable stay in Baltimore. I took plenty of the game of course – probably the highest quality match of the seventeen that I have seen us play in the US – but just as many of our fellow supporters too. One photo again made me smile. It featured my good friend Burger on the right of a group of random, blue-jerseyed, American fans who must have been drinking with us, or near to us, at the time. But I immediately spotted two other people that I recognised; Kristin and Andrew from Columbus in Ohio. I had not noticed their faces in this particular photo before. As luck would have it, those very same two people – friends of mine for a few years now – were going to meet us in the pub on the Saturday morning before the game with Forest.

As I continually say, Chelsea World is a very small world indeed.

We were all up in London at the usual time. I was parked up at around 10am. With PD still convalescing at home, his seat in my car and his seat in the stadium was taken by Glenn, my match-going friend from Frome since as long ago as 1983.

1983. You know where this is going, right?

The next match to feature in my look back at the 1982/83 season is the iconic and famous encounter against fellow strugglers Bolton Wanderers at their Burnden Park ground on Saturday 7 May 1983. In the years that have passed since this game was played, many of our supporters have bestowed upon it the title of “the most important match in Chelsea’s history” and it is easy to see why. Going in to the game we were fourth from bottom, one point below our opponents. Chelsea had been financially at risk for many a season, and the thought of dropping into the Third Division was not only depressing enough from a supporters’ perspective – the pain, the ridicule, the struggle to recover – it would also cause an extreme strain on the immediate future of the club with reduced revenues hitting hard, despite the tightening of strings inaugurated by Ken Bates over the previous twelve months.

Although my mind was full of worry about my upcoming “A Levels” in Geography, Mathematics and Technical Drawing, this was nothing compared to my concern for my beloved Chelsea Football Club.

My diary on the day tells that when I heard on the radio of Clive Walker’s low drive in the second-half giving us a 1-0 lead, I was not too elated because all of the other protagonists at the basement were also winning. However, after all the results came through, I was overjoyed. We had risen unbelievably, to fourteenth place.

I called it “quite a wonderful day.”

With emphasis on “won” no doubt.

How many Chelsea went to the game? The gate at Bolton was 8,687. The general consensus was that we took thousands. In the following week’s home programme, Ken Bates praised the “almost three-thousand” who were there. I have to say that a photograph of the away section of the ground on that rainy day in Bolton, with Chelsea playing in the all lemon kit despite no obvious colour clash, suggests that only around 1,500 were standing in a small section of terrace. However, at the time it was always a predilection for London clubs, especially, to invade the home seats at away games, so I am in no position to suggest that we did indeed not have around 3,000 up there. I know that some Chelsea were in the seats at the other end of the ground. There is another photo of the scenes at the final whistle and a good number of Chelsea fans are seen celebrating in the upper tier above a deserted home terrace along the side of the ground. The number in this section does in fact look like 1,500. So, around 1,500 on the terrace and around 1,500 in the seats. Let’s go with 3,000.

I always remember that on my first ever trip to Bolton’s new Reebok Stadium in 2004, I picked my long-time Chelsea mate Alan up en route and he told me a few stories about the game at Burnden Park in 1983. He, it goes without saying, was one of the three-thousand. I always remember how he told the story of how Breda Lee, loved by so many, was bedecked with good luck charms as she made her way up to Bolton on the Chelsea Special. Breda had lost her son Gary after a horrific incident at Preston in 1981, and would always travel on the Chelsea Special with John Bumstead’s mother Mary, and was seen by many Chelsea fans as their “Chelsea Mother.” On this day, Alan said that she was wearing a lucky four-leafed clover trinket, a lucky horseshoe, a sprig of lucky heather and was clutching a rabbit’s foot too.

It all worked.

The victorious Chelsea team that day was as follows –

  1. Steve Francis.
  2. Joey Jones.
  3. Chris Hutchings.
  4. Gary Chivers.
  5. Micky Droy.
  6. Colin Pates.
  7. Mike Fillery.
  8. John Bumstead.
  9. Colin Lee.
  10. Paul Canoville.
  11. Clive Walker.

The non-playing substitute – hard to believe in this day and age – was Peter Rhoades-Brown. I love it that four players from this line-up (Chivers, Pates, Bumstead, Canoville) still take part in the match-day experience at Stamford Bridge forty years later as corporate hospitality hosts.

I salute them all. And I salute the 3,000 too.

Forty years on, the day was starting to take shape. I dropped Glenn and Parky off outside “The Eight Bells” and then met up with Ollie at Stamford Bridge once more, this time with his cousin Julien, both from Normandy. I often write about the gathering of the clans on match days and this was no exception. By the time I reached the pub at 11.30am, a gaggle of friends – old and new – were well into a session. Sitting alongside Glenn, Parky, Ollie and Julien were Kristin and Andrew, fresh from a few days in Edinburgh, and with some fellow Ohio Blues, Steve and Jake who I met on their visit in 2019, plus Jeromy and Neil, who were attending their first game at Stamford Bridge. We all got along famously. It was also superb to meet up again with Jesus, from California, who we last saw at Watford last season, and who was another chap that Parky took under our wing while he was living in London many years ago. Completing the scene was Russ, originally from Frome, who now lives in Reading and was attending his first home game for quite a while.

Everyone together, everyone happy.

Up on the platform at Putney Bridge tube, a few Forest fans were engaging in some light-hearted chat. The well-rounded vowels of their East Midlands accents made a change on match day in SW6.

“Bit of a free hit for us, this game, not expecting much but you never know.”

To be honest, we hadn’t thought too much about the actual match – probably with good reason – and Glenn admitted that he wasn’t expecting much from the game either. In our current predicament, the day was all about seeing friends and enjoying each other’s company.

Elsewhere in London, over twenty thousand Notts County fans were in town for the National League Play-Off Final against Chesterfield. One of them, Craig, a friend from college in Stoke, sent me a message to say he hoped that we were victorious against Forest. He hates Forest, does Craig.

I said to the Forest supporter “the only person worried the outcome of this game is a Notts County fan.”

This of course wasn’t strictly true, but it raised a laugh at least.

The front cover of the programme marked the exact twenty-fifth anniversary of our European Cup Winners’ Cup triumph in Stockholm against VfB Stuttgart.

A few personal memories…

A group of us went with the club to Stockholm, flying out from Gatwick on the day before the game, and flying back right after. It seems really expensive now, and it was then; £450 not including a match ticket. With inflation, that equates to just over £1,000 in today’s money. I drove up from Frome with Glenn and met up with Daryl, Andy, Mick, The Youth, Neil and Tony, three of whom still go to all the home games and many away games to this day. I always remember that on the coach in to the city from the airport, it became apparent that Chelsea had managed to split the hotels of a father and his teenage son. Tremendous. Thankfully, that faux pas was soon resolved.

We all stayed in a hotel a mile or so to the north of the city centre and that first night was as pleasurable as it gets. We went off for an Italian meal in a restaurant called “Pele” which was named after the Brazilian star’s 1958 World Cup debut in the city. We drank Spendrups lager and ate Italian as couples danced to the tango. It was a very surreal visit. Later, we found ourselves in a bar owned by the former Arsenal and Everton players Anders Limpar – the bar had the worst name ever, “The Limp Bar” – and he was serving that night. I remember a “sing-off” between Chelsea fans and an all-girl German choir. Another surreal moment.

On the day of the game, we bought some cans and soaked up the sun in a central park – I remember seeing Ruth Harding nearby – and then made our way to a crowded bar where Johnny Vaughan was spotted.

Then, back to the hotel and a nervous wait for the coach to the game. Once aboard, The Youth lead the community singing. Outside the Rasunda Stadium in Solna there were Chelsea everywhere. The gate for this game was 30,216 and we greatly outnumbered the Stuttgart fans. We must have had 25,000 there and I think everyone who travelled to Sweden got in. With road travel from the UK being highly expensive and time consuming, virtually everyone went by plane. At the time, it was the biggest single airlift out of the UK since World War Two.

Growing up as a Chelsea supporter, the twin cup triumphs of 1970 and 1971 were etched on our soul and in our psyche. For a while, the two stars on our chests celebrated those two wins. And here we were, twenty-six years on from Athens, with a chance to equal that celebrated feat.

This was a magnificent time to be a Chelsea supporter; some might argue the best of all. Glenn Hoddle had raised the profile of the club by reaching Europe in 1994, and then the signings came…Ruud Gullit, Mark Hughes, Gianluca Vialli, Gianfranco Zola. We were truly blessed. The 1997 FA Cup win under Gullit was followed by the League Cup under Vialli in 1998.

We all travelled to Sweden in May 1998 with a sense of being very capable of repeating that win in Athens.

Stuttgart were managed by Joachim Low and their star man was the striker Freddie Bobic. Their ‘keeper was Franz Wohlfahrt who had been on the receiving end of Spenny’s run in Vienna in 1994. The former German international Thomas Berthold played for them too.

Our team?

De Goey

Clarke – Leboeuf – Duberry – Granville

Petrescu – Poyet – Wise – Di Matteo

Flo – Vialli

Shades of Ryan Bertrand in Munich; Danny Granville at left-back. Vialli played Mark Hughes in the League Cup Final but he wasn’t missing out on this one.

At the game, I wore a Chelsea 1970 replica shirt and the scarf that my mother bought me after my first game in 1974.

In truth, the game wasn’t a classic, but the Chelsea fans were at our best that night in Sweden. The game hinged on a substitution. On seventy-one minutes, Gianfranco Zola replaced Tore Andre Flo. Within twenty-five seconds, Dennis Wise floated a ball through and the ball held up. Zola caught it sweetly on the half-volley and it rose all the way into the goal at our end. I was almost behind the flight of the ball.

Absolute fucking delirium.

I caught Glenn and Andy right after our goal.

In the last five minutes, Dan Petrescu was sent off but we were in control, the Germans were a spent force.

“Dambusters” rang out in Solna.

What a night. What a team. What a club.

Athens 1971. Stockholm 1998.

We had done it.

The euphoria was real. I have rarely been as happy at a Chelsea game. And yet most who were in Stockholm probably thought that it would not get any better than this. We were a cup team, no more, and the equalling of the 1970 and 1971 wins were seen as our “glass ceiling”. We knew we would never win the league…

We walked out into the Solna streets so happy. Famously, a local girl flashed her assets from a balcony as thousands of Chelsea fans walked past. We eventually found our coach.

Back at the airport, it was mayhem. There was coach after coach after coach in a massive line. In the terminal, we saw Ron Harris and Peter Osgood. Johnny Vaughan commented “it’s like the last chopper out of Saigon.”

The call went out that anyone on a Monarch flight should make their way to the departure gate. We sprinted. It was a matter of getting bodies on flights. We were lucky; we left at around 3am, on the same flight as actor Clive Mantle who I had photographed earlier outside the stadium.

Stockholm 1998 was one of the very best nights.

I’d rank the European wins that I have seen like this :

  1. Munich.
  2. Stockholm.
  3. Porto.
  4. Baku.
  5. Amsterdam.

Incidentally, the club’s photographs from that night were taken by Mark Sandom, who sits a few rows in front of me, and I sent away for a set when I returned home. I still need to frame one or two enlargements from that game and find space for one of them in my Blue Room.

…Solna 1998 gave way to Fulham 2023.

Unfortunately, Alan was unable to make it to this game, so I sat with Clive and Glenn in The Sleepy Hollow. There were more than a few mutterings of discontent at Frank Lampard’s starting eleven, but there was pleasure in seeing Lewis Hall at left back. In came Edouard Mendy between the sticks while Mateo Kovacic, Raheem Sterling and Joao Felix started too.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Hall

Gallagher – Enzo – Kovacic

Madueke – Felix – Sterling

The two Thiago Silva flags appeared at both ends of the stadium just before the teams entered the pitch. The one in The Shed was particularly striking. I loved it. I also loved the words of the match day announcer as he ran through the team.

“Number six, your captain, Thiago Silva.”

Despite our struggles this season, there appeared to be a near full-house at Stamford Bridge. The three-thousand Forest fans were already singing about “mist rolling in from the Trent” and their players looked smart in their plain red / white / red, a combination – the simplest of all kits – that rarely gets seen at Stamford Bridge these days.

While we huffed and puffed in the opening section of the game, The Sleepy Hollow claimed a victim, with Glenn quietly nodding off after some alcoholic fumes rolled in from the Thames. After an unlucky thirteen minutes had passed, a Forest cross from their left from Renan Lodi was bravely met by the leap of Taiwo Awoniyi, impressive in the away game on New Year’s Day, and the combined forces of Mendy, Badiashile and Silva were found lacking. The away team, in their first real attack, had struck.

The Forest fans erupted, the scorer did his best “Christ The Redeemer” and Forest players swarmed around him down below me.

Fackinell Forest.

I sent a photo of a dormant Glenn to Alan with the caption “one down.”

Our reaction was hardly immediate, and our attacks lacked precision and incision. Noni Madueke, looking so good at Bournemouth, tended to frustrate both himself and us. On one occasion, his turn was sweet but he then fell over himself. It summed up his luck. There was a shot on seventeen minutes, our first, saved, from Sterling and an effort from Hall was then blocked. Our best effort took a whole thirty minutes to arrive; a Hall cross, a Felix header, but too close to Keylor Navas in the Forest goal.

This was a really poor first-half.

Clive helped to alleviate the pain by buying us a hot chocolate apiece.

Just before the whistle, Mateo Kovacic – who has dipped in form quite shockingly of late – was replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek, the perennial squad player.

I was surprised that there were so few boos at the break.

Soon into the second-half, Glenn resurfaced and Russ came over to sit by us for the duration of the game. The Sleepy Hollow had undergone a significant reshuffle. We were now back to a four. Clive, who had been near suicidal during the first-half needed cheering up.

“We’ll win this 2-1 mate.”

He smiled. Or was it a grimace?

Forest, though, began the brighter and almost doubled their lead through Moussa Niakhate but his volley was blasted wide.

On fifty-one minutes, there was a nice interchange between Madueke and Trevoh Chalobah down our right and the ball was pulled back from the goal-line by Chalobah into the feet of Sterling, whose goal bound effort took a deflection before hitting the net.

Yes.

The crowd roared as Sterling briefly celebrated.

“C’MON CHELS.”

Immediately after, Forest retaliated with a tantalisingly deep cross that just evaded the nod of a red-shirted attacker.

The crowd rallied.

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

We were playing much better now. A few half-chances, and then on fifty-eight minutes, a strong run from Loftus-Cheek in the centre was followed by a prod of the ball to Sterling, who cut inside and left his marker Joe Worrall on his arse before perfectly curling an effort into the top far corner of the goal.

Bliss.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

His celebration, this time, was far more euphoric, and so was ours.

Clive was full of praise : “you called it.”

But this was Chelsea 2023, not Chelsea 2009 – that photo from Baltimore succinctly illustrates the cyclical nature of our sport’s teams – and just four minutes later, a ball was pushed into the six-yard box by Orel Mangala and I immediately feared danger. The ball was headed home by that man Awoniyi, with another unmarked team mate alongside him to give him moral support and guidance, with Mendy was beaten all ends up. A VAR review couldn’t save us.

Double European Champions Chelsea 2 Double European Champions Forest 2.

On seventy-three minutes, Kai Havertz replaced Felix and Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.

Clive threatened to leave.

I tried to give him hope.

“Sterling hat-trick mate.”

He definitely grimaced this time. But so did I.

Every time that Ziyech got the ball, either in the middle of a wriggling, shuffling dribble, or at a free-kick, I genuinely expected him to provide some magic. To be fair, his brief outing was not without merit but we could not, quite, claim the winner.

It ended 2-2.

The away fans celebrated loudly inside Stamford Bridge and out on the Fulham Road. This was a big point for them in their dogged fight to avoid an immediate relegation back to the Second Division, er The Championship.

The day seemed to be all about Nottingham. On the drive home, we were to learn that Craig’s Notts County dramatically edged out Chesterfield at Wembley, so well done to them. Forty years ago, Notts finished in a respectable fifteenth place in the First Division.

Talk about cycles.

Next up is the toughest away game of them all. I am fearing our trip to Manchester City next Sunday.

Anyone dare to join me?

Baltimore.

London.

Stockholm.