Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

Posted on February 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

Chelsea played Wolves on Monday 20 January and here we all were again, assembling at Stamford Bridge a fortnight later for another home game, this time versus our old enemies West Ham United.

I can’t deny it, during the day I was rather non-plussed about the early start for an early shift and the trip up to London for a game on the first day of the working week. I was up at 4.45am and I would not be back until around 1am. We, the fans who use up every spare penny and every spare minute to follow and support our teams, are slaves to TV schedules. And it is really starting to hurt now.

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

But for every negative there is a positive. With no Chelsea game at the weekend, I was able to spin down to Poole in Dorset, birthplace of my maternal grandmother, to see Frome Town play on the Saturday afternoon. It was an easy trip, just an hour-and-a-half, and around seventy Frome fans had made the journey. Despite gloomy grey skies, the threat of rain held off. Unfortunately, the first half was a non-event, a real yawn fest, with no team showing much promise. In truth there was just one worthwhile shot in anger, from Frome’s Albie Hopkins, a curler just wide of the far post.

I remember that before our 0-4 defeat at Bournemouth in 2019, Maurizio Sarri had us training in the morning of the game on that very same pitch.

Thankfully, the second half was much livelier, and much more encouraging from a Frome point of view. The away team were immediately on top, and threatening, with a lot more adventure in our play. On sixty-six minutes, the Poole Town ‘keeper showed “Spin The Wheel Sanchez” tendencies and mistimed his manic attempt to rush out and clear, allowing Hopkins to gather just inside the Poole half and lob a shot towards the unguarded goal. Thankfully it was on target. The Frome faithful in the 564 attendance went doo-lally. We held on for a fine away win, and the current run in the league stood at three wins, two draws and just one loss. I drove back home a very contented fan of The Dodge. The Great Escape was continuing.

The Setting Sun.

I dropped PD and LP off at “The Eight Bells” at 4.20pm – just two and a quarter hour since leaving Melksham – and then killed some time driving around the back streets of Fulham, waiting for 5pm to arrive and thus enabling me to park for free. On my slow meander, I spotted that some streets south of Lillee Road were marked as being available after 5pm on weekdays, but not on Saturdays, and I was able to park up right outside “The Elephant & Barrel” – formerly “The Rylston” – and this suited me just fine. There was even time for a super photo of one of the main tower blocks of the Clem Atlee Estate, with the setting sun glinting off its windows, and it was all very similar to the shot I took of the sunset and the Empress State Building two weeks earlier.

Fearing tiredness, I did think about grabbing a little sleep in my car, knowing full well that it would be a long night ahead. There was, after all, still three hours to kick-off. But no, my adrenalin was pumping now, and I set off for Stamford Bridge.

A Little Bit Of America.

I needed some sustenance, so stopped off at a new eatery at the bottom end of the North End Road, almost opposite the “Memory Lane Café Ole”.

“Popeyes” has been open a few months and I dived in for the first time. As a frequent visitor to the US over the past three decades or more, I often spotted “Popeyes” chicken restaurants, usually in the South, but I had never once visited. This was my first time, in the deep south of Fulham. It was pretty decent. I chatted to a couple of match-going Chelsea fans. One lad from just outside Dublin had paid £85 for a ticket. Ouch.

I have noted that in addition to “Five Guys” at Fulham Broadway, two other US fast food places have recently opened in the area; “Taco Bell” next to “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and “Wendy’s”, where “The White Hart” pub used to be. Of course, the long-standing “McDonalds” is situated on the North End Road too.

In addition to the US in the boardroom at Stamford Bridge, we now have a few more US restaurants nearby too.

It got me thinking.

In the days of me posting my match reports on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the addition of this little bit of info would probably have triggered a riot of comments and activity. It’s hard to believe that back in the heyday of the CIA from around 2009 to 2012, my posts would often get over a thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get a quarter of that volume.

I darted in to see Mr and Mrs B and Mr and Mrs T in “The Vanston Café” and then took a few “mood shots” of the matchday scene outside Stamford Bridge.

Pre-Match Razzle.

I was inside early at 7.05pm – 1905, a great number – and my good mate Alan was already in. We waited for others to arrive and the announcement of the teams. As usual, we directed a little bit of ire at the idiots watching from behind the cordon down below us as the players – year of the snake shirts, my arse – went through their routines. For the first time for a few months, a DJ was up to her tricks again, in residence in a booth behind these corporate guests.

She opened up with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears from 1985.

1985, eh? More of that later.

The music boomed away, making conversation quite difficult. I gave up talking to Anna. It got worse. We were entertained – or not – by something called “Fan Cam” which featured fans bedecked in Chelsea colours in the East Lower smiling and gurning at the camera, with the images projected on the giant TV screens. I noted one female fan waving a flag with a pole attached. How was she allowed in with that? Ah, maybe it was staged, a plant from inside.

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

Anyway, the whole thing just screamed “America” and I bet the West Ham fans, positioned just yards away, had a few choice adjectives to describe the scene to their right.

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

At 7.50pm, a little bit of normality with “London Calling.”

But then the lights dimmed, and a light show took over. There was also a segment of a heavy metal rock song that seemed to be totally out of place. It screamed America once again, but WWE or NFL, or some other faux sport.

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

The team had been announced an hour previously and the big news was “no Sanchez.” In fact, when Filip Jorgensen’s name was announced, there was noticeable applause. It was a shock that our Trev was dropped.

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

Thankfully, back to normality, the lights on, and a few blasts of “Liquidator.”

Sadly, Clive was not at this game, but it was lovely to be sat alongside Alan again after he missed a couple of matches over recent weeks.

Back in 1985, it was me who was not always present at Chelsea games.

Wigan Athletic Away.

After drawing 2-2 in the third round of the cup, we travelled to Wigan Athletic’s Springfield Park on Saturday 26 January 1985. I did not attend; I was stuck in Stoke, listening for updates on my radio. We demolished Wigan, winning 5-0 with Kerry Dixon getting four and one from David Speedie. The attendance was 9,708. In the next round we were drawn against Millwall at home, with the game set to be played the following Thursday. This was odd. Chelsea and Millwall rarely played each other, yet this would be the third encounter of the season. I doubted if I would attend the game at such short notice.

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

On the Monday after the Saturday, on 28 January, we played our fierce rivals Sheffield Wednesday in the fifth round of the Milk (League) Cup. I did not attend this one either. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. A massive crowd of 36,608 saw an entertaining 1-1 draw with a goal from David Speedie equalising one from Lawrie Madden. Chelsea’s infamous penalty woes of 1984 and 1985 continued as Wednesday ‘keeper Martin Hodge saved one from Kerry Dixon. If that had gone in, Chelsea would have reached our first semi-final of any type since 1972. I listened to the whole game on Radio 2, a real treat. The replay would be just two days later, thus cancelling out the game with Millwall in the other cup on the Thursday.

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

This game took place on Wednesday 30 January. Are you keeping up? This means three games in five days. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. I had a pool game in the local, then came home to listen to the match on the radio. I remember the gut-wrenching feeling of us going 0-3 down in the first half. We quickly scored forty-five seconds into the second half, through Paul Canoville, but for some reason I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by my room-mate and his girl-friend bursting in to tell me that it was 3-3 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Micky Thomas. I could hardly believe them. With that, Canoville scored a fourth to give us a highly improbable 4-3 lead. As we all know, as the song says, in the dying moments, Doug Rougvie fouled a Sheffield Wednesday player in the box and the home team equalised via a Mel Sterland penalty. An extra thirty minutes were played but it it ended 4-4. It remains one of the games that I really feel bad about missing. The gate was 36,505.

The two clubs were such rivals in 1983/84 and 1984/85. Even our gates were well matched.

“Three-nil down, four-three up, Dougie Rougvie fucked it up.”

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

On Saturday 2 February, back to the normalcy of the league campaign and my only ever visit to Filbert Street. This was now our fourth game in just eight days. I caught an early morning train to Derby where I had a while to wait before getting a train to Leicester, arriving at 10.30am. There was a cheap fry up in a cheap café. I embarked on a little tour of the city centre – for the only time, I have not been back since – and made it down to the ground at 11.30am. I decided to buy a £4.50 seat in the side stand rather than stand on the terrace. I can’t over-emphasise the importance or cachet in going in the seats at away games in this era. For some reason, London clubs made a habit of it.

It was the done thing.

I guess it went hand-in-hand with the casual movement at the time. If you had a bit more money to spend – which I didn’t, I was a student – then you always tried to go in the seats. I had done so at Hillsborough in December and I would do it at Stoke later on that season.

Then there was the thrill of singing “One Man Went To Mow” in those seats, sitting until ten, and then thousands getting up en masse and putting on a show for the locals.

Brilliant times.

I circumnavigated the ground and the inevitable photos. I spotted Leggo, Mark and Simon. My mate Glenn from Frome arrived and I had a chat. There was a lot of fighting in the top tier of the double-decker to my left. A home area, Chelsea had obviously infiltrated it. I noted tons of Aquascutum scarves.

So much for sitting at away games. A bloke was in my seat and unwilling to move, so I was forced to stand in the gangway at the back of the slim section of seats.

After just four minutes, Gary Lineker headed home from a corner to give the home team a 1-0 lead. Thankfully, we were awarded a penalty on half-time. The Chelsea fans chanted for the ‘keeper to take the spot-kick after the misses of the past year or so.

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

But not to worry, David Speedie slotted it home. This was an entertaining match. Chelsea bossed the second half, but I also noted that Eddie Niedzwiecki made three stunning saves. It ended 1-1 before a gate of 15,657.

There was a thin police escort, past the rugby ground, back to the station and I saw groups of lads going toe-to-toe in a nearby park. I made it back unscathed, met up with Glenn again, then some other lads, and then a massive Chelsea mob turned up. There was a formidable police presence at the train station. I caught the train back to Derby, arriving just as their special came in from Lincoln. I kept silent.

Next up, two days later, was the Millwall FA Cup tie, but that’s another story.

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

Chelsea attacked the three thousand away fans and Parkyville in the first half.

Soon into the game, fifteen-seconds in fact, there was the first rendition of “Blue Flag – Up Your Arse” from the away support.

Blimey.

That must be a record.

The two sets of fans then traded Lampard chants for a few minutes, and I wondered if I was watching a pantomime.

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

Six minutes in, after a dull start, a little piece of magic from Cole Palmer in the inside-left position, twisting and creating space, but the ball went off for a corner.

On fifteen minutes, a chance for Noni Madueke as he danced in from the right but curled a shot just wide of the magnificently named Alphonse Areola’s far post.

West Ham enjoyed a little spell with Aaron Wan-Bissaka racing past his defender and setting up Jarrod Bowen who forced Jorgensen to block well at the near post. From the corner, Levi Colwill headed out and somebody called Andy Irving shot over. This was a rare attacking phase from the visitors who seemed more than content to sit deep – yeah yeah, low fucking block – and occasionally venture north.

We regained the impetus, but our play was rather slow. On twenty-two minutes, the ball broke for Palmer but he was stretching and the shot was well over. Two minutes later, some nice link-up play and a cross from Reece James but Marc Cucurella headed over.

Just after, a ball out of defence from Tosin towards Nicolas Jackson, but the ball hit him and he fell over.

Shades of classic Dave Mitchell in 1989 when he was put through at The Shed End and the ball hit him on the back of the head.

On the half-hour, a terrible ball from a West Ham player ended up at the feet of Madueke who raced away, deep into the box, and played the ball back to Enzo Fernandez who had supported the attack well. Alas, his rather scuffed shot bobbled past the far post. Enzo often drifted to the right with Cucurella coming in to support the midfield from the left.

But this was far from a great first-half show. My main complaint was the lack of movement from our attacking players. I must have shouted “angles” ten times in that first-half. We also lacked discipline and gave away far too many needless fouls.

On thirty-seven minutes, a Mohammed Kudus shot was saved by Jorgensen, who thankfully was showing none of Sanchez bizarre desire to pass to the opposing team.

On forty minutes, Jadon Sancho leaned back and sent a curler high over the bar. I was tapping away on my phone, recording a few notes to share here, when I looked up to see the end of a West Ham break, a Bowen shot, a West Ham goal.

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

On a night when a win – or draw – would send us back to fourth place, this now became an uphill battle.

We had high hopes in the closing moments of the half when a perfectly positioned free-kick presented Palmer with a fine opportunity to lift the ball over the wall. Alas, although the kick was superbly taken, Areola matched it with an absolutely superb save. There was some late Chelsea pressure late on, but we went in 0-1 down at the break.

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

During the break, I was well aware that the DJ was continuing her ear-drum bashing music show – it began with more Tears For Fears, “Shout”, how appropriate – but I did not spot the sight of those around her in the West Lower grooving and dancing, and seemingly having a whale of a time. This was pointed out to me afterwards.

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

Seriously, what on Earth was that all about? Evidence suggests that – again – people were placed in that area to create false jollity.

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

The ill-discipline of the first half continued into the second, with a silly early foul annoying PD and me alike.

Rather than make some changes at the break, Enzo Maresca chose to wait until the seventh minute of the second period.

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Throughout the match thus far, we were had been – sadly – totally out sung by the knot of West Ham supporters in the far corner. There were the usual songs about Frank Lampard and Stamford Bridge falling down, and the blue flag being pushed somewhere unsightly, but a few new ones too. I looked on with an uncomfortable expression.

West Ham conjured up a couple of chances too, the buggers.

On the hour, at fucking last, a loud and uplifting roar from the home areas.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

Neto had started out on the left but was now shifted to the right. To be honest, from this moment on, he changed the game.

First, however, a wild and lazy shot from Tosin, and we all sighed.

Down in the far corner, the away fans were full of mischief.

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

Well, that should result in your club getting hammered with a fine, lads.

Well done.

Then, a fine Chelsea move on sixty-four minutes. The ball was played intelligently, and it found Neto, teasing his marker Emerson on the right. A cross was clipped into the danger area. Guiu rose but did not connect. Instead, Cucurella on the far post played in Enzo. His shot was blocked but it fell rather nicely to Neto. I watched him. I focussed on his body language. He looked supremely confident and happy to be presented with a real chance. He ate it up.

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

I noted Alan wasn’t celebrating. He was waiting for the malodorous stench of VAR.

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

Neither Alan nor I celebrated. We did not move a muscle.

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

Ten minutes later, with the Stamford Bridge crowd thankfully making a little more noise, a move was worked through to Cucurella down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. He played the ball back to Palmer. He attacked Tomas Soucek and then Wan-Bissaka. Level with the six-yard box, he whipped the ball in. To my pleasure, but also astonishment, the ball found the net, and I only really realised after that the ball had been deflected in off Wan-Bassaka.

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

Soon after, a Tosin header went close, Palmer went just wide. Guiu, full of honest running, was unable to finish after fine play again from Neto.

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were seven minutes of added time and this became a nervy finale, with a mixture of desperate blocks and timely saves assuring us of the three points.

At around 9.55pm, the referee’s whistle pierced the night sky, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a quick getaway. I hot-footed it back to the car, collected PD and LP, and I did not stop once on my return home.

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

Such is life, though; after a night at football, I can never go straight to bed. There are things to review, photos to check, photos to edit, photos to share. I suppose I eventually drifted off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

Next up, the FA Cup and a trip to Sussex by the sea. And, unlike in 1985, there will be no replays.

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From The Grand Old Lady

Posted on December 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2024.

Last season, the Everton away game was again just before Christmas, on Sunday 10 December, and at the time it was to be our last-ever visit to the Grand Old Lady on Goodison Road. I went into that game expecting it to be so and took tons of photos to commemorate my last-ever visit. Yet, between the time of the game and the day of posting my match report, five days later, it was announced by Everton Football Club that they would be staying one more year at the revered old stadium and would move into Bramley Moore Dock in August 2025.

Ironically, another recent visit had the feel of a potential “last-ever” game too, the match in May 2022, when Everton were deep in the relegation mire. On that day, Frank Lampard’s Everton squeaked home 1-0 and lived to fight again.

It seems like Everton, or rather Goodison, has been messing about with my brain for a few years now. God knows what actual Everton fans have been experiencing.

I was pretty happy with the 105 photos that I posted for last season’s match and I had a feeling that I might well match this high figure on this occasion.

Goodison Park and I go back a long way, to a match that was shown on ITV “live” on Sunday 16 March 1986, but many fans of my generation first experienced Goodison on Saturday 22 December 1984 – forty years ago to the day – and it is the one game that I wish that I had seen. The visit in 2024 would be my twenty-fourth Chelsea game at Goodison, but the game on that Saturday forty years ago was arguably our best performance there in the past four decades.

At the time, I was so annoyed that I was not able to attend the game at Goodison in 1984. I had returned home the previous weekend from my college town of Stoke, and would be listening-in on the portable radio as I did a shift in my father’s menswear shop in Frome’s town centre. I occasionally helped out at Xmas time when things got a little busier. But I was so annoyed that I was back in Somerset. It would have been easy to travel up by train from Stoke to Liverpool had I still been in The Potteries.

My diary from 1984 explains “the saga” at Goodison Park, and how I “went wild” every time we scored, especially when a score of Everton 3 Chelsea 1 was corrected to 2-2. We won the game 4-3, with Gordon Davies getting a hat-trick and Colin Pates getting one. Graeme Sharp scored two for the home team and Paul Bracewell scored the other. I had predicted a gate of 24,000 so was very happy with the attendance of 29,800. I went out in Frome later that night and had way too much to drink. It was our first away win in the league in 1984/85 though. These things have to be celebrated surely. Those that went to the match in 1984 often tell the story of all sorts of missiles being launched at the tightly packed Chelsea terrace and the seats high above the goal from the home enclosure in front of the main stand; pool balls, flares, golf balls with nails. Friendly bunch, Everton.

For the game in 2024 we set off early. I collected PD and his son Scott at 6am and Parky at 6.30pm. We breakfasted at a deadly quiet Strensham between 7.30am and 8am. I was parked up at the usual Stanley Park car park at 10.30am – a £13 fee – but as we made our way north to Goodison, the wind howled, and the rain fell. In Almaty there was no wind chill and there was no dampness in the air, and I coped OK. After a minute of being exposed to the bitter chill of Stanley Park, I was shivering like a fool. The rain seemed to seep into my bones. I was reminded of Turf Moor in 2017. We came off the vast expanse of the park and walked alongside more sheltered and tree-lined roads.

While the others went off to find shelter in “The Abbey” pub on Walton Lane, I met up briefly with a photographer pal of mine, David. We had bumped into each other at last season’s game and had kept in touch ever since. He often takes photos pitch side at the four grounds in Liverpool and Manchester. He was queuing up, hiding from the rain, underneath the towering main stand that rises dramatically from the pavement on Goodison Road like no other stand in England. Only Ibrox come close in the entire UK. He was after a good “speck” – Scouse slang for “spot” – behind the Park End goal. We had planned for him to take a few photos of my pals and I during the game.

As I made my way to the pub, I spotted a former Everton player from my early years, Mike Lyons.

“Hello Mike.”

No answer.

That’s because I quickly realised it was Martin Dobson.

Fackinell.

I dodged the rain and made my way inside the pub that was surprisingly quiet. We stayed inside from 11pm to 1pm, and the small, thin, cosy pub soon became rammed. We were made welcome, though. I chatted to some Evertonians from Aberdare in South Wales who were staying over. Jimmy the Greek, Nick the Greek and Doncaster Pail had joined us, and Ian then arrived with two random Evertonians he had met on the train and who had subsequently shared a cab together from Lime Street.

They are a lot more friendlier in 2024 than in 1984.

If anything, the inter-city rivalry between Merseyside’s blues and reds has heightened and intensified and turned nasty since 1984. I joked with Jimmy and commented that Evertonians hark on about Liverpool’s fan base now residing in Norway, and Liverpool bite back by saying that Everton’s global reach now goes as far as North Wales.

David, the photographer arrived with a programme for me, but reported that his “speck” was in front of the Gwladys Street, so no candid photos of us on this day.

Tommie and Chris – the brothers Grim, Tommie Chelsea and Chris Everton – arrived in the rain and I passed over spares. Then, I got drenched on the short walk to the ground, where I was serenaded by a “Town Called Malice” – an odd choice so far north – by a band playing in the fan park behind the impressive Dixie Dean statue.

There was time for one final, sad, circumnavigation of The Grand Old Lady.

The Winslow Hotel, where I popped in with my mate Francis for a drink before a game at Anfield in 1994, and if my fictional piece from 2012 is to be believed, where my father visited on his one visit to Goodison Park in around 1942, mid RAF training on The Wirral.

To the left, Jock spotted the frosted glass windows of a local hostelry. Without any words being exchanged, Jock quickly headed inside, his two friends left outside in his wake.

“A quick pint, Half Pint?” asked Hank to Reg. “It appears our Scottish friend is in need of liquid refreshment.”

They spotted Jock dart in the bar to the right of the main entrance of The Winslow Hotel and they quickly followed suit.

“Jock’s at the bar, Half Pint – this is a rare sight indeed. Let’s hope he doesn’t forget us.”

The cavernous bar was incredibly noisy and the three pals struggled to hear themselves be heard above the din of orders being taken, jokes being shared, vulgar belly laughs, shouts and groans. A young lad strode through the bar, bedecked in Everton favours – the blue and white standing out against the dismal colours of wartime England – and attempted to sell match programmes. He was not faring well. The locals were more intent on drinking. An elderly gent, with glasses and a pencil thin moustache, spoke engagingly to Reg about Dixie Dean, the great Everton centre-forward, who once scored 60 goals in a 42 game season.

As his knowledge of football wasn’t great, Reg wasn’t sure if this was the same Dixie Dean who had been ridiculed in the schoolboy poem of his youth –

“Dixie Dean from Aberdeen.
He tried to score a goal.
He missed his chance.
And pee’d his paints.
And now he’s on the dole.”

Talk of the imminent football match was minimal, though. It seemed that just being in an alien environment, so different from each of their hometowns, was amusement enough. Hank looked at his watch and signalled to the others to finish their drinks. Outside, the rain had started to fall. The three friends quickly rushed across to the stand and did not notice that the narrow street, darkened under the shadow of the structure, was busy with an array of match day activity; grizzly old men selling programmes, young boys selling cheap paper rosettes, wise-cracking spivs selling roasted chestnuts and cigarettes and young girls selling newspapers.

The main stand, and the elevator that I took to watch a game from the top balcony with my mate Pete in 1992 when Robert Fleck scored. The church of St. Luke the Evangelist, with its café and memorabilia shop that I visited in 2022.

The huge images of Dean, Sharp, Latchford, Royle, Young and Hickson towering over rooftops.

The Holy Trinity statue.

The pavement alongside where some local scallies had eyed me up and down on my second visit in late 1986 and sneered “that jacket is so fookin’ red” and I thought I might be in for a hiding.

Gwladys Street, where I walked with Josh and Courtney in October and where Courtney took a photo of two lads, in red and blue, playing football outside two houses with red and blue doors, a perfect image.

A turn into Bullens Road and the away end. Memories of a beautiful visit with my then girlfriend Judy’s young football-mad son James, aged just ten, his first-ever game in 1998, and then a repeat in 2006 with him, the 3-2 cracker.

The rain was bucketing down and the stewards just wanted us inside, so there was no camera search.

For one last time, I was in.

The familiar steps, the crowded concourse, the wooden floorboards of the Archibald Leitch Stand, our seats in Row B, effectively the front row.

I love Goodison. It’s obvious, right? But some hate it. I thought of them when I realised that a roof support was right in front of my seat, blocking a good deal of the pitch.

Fackinell.

I was lined up with Alan, John and Gary to my left and with Eck and Steely from Glasgow to my right. After being given a word of warning about using my SLR by both the chief steward and an over-zealous ambulance woman (!), I played cat and mouse with them all game long, and Eck was able to step in front of me to avoid me being seen. I am pretty sure I relied on Eck for this superb defensive partnership against prying eyes last season too.

Like Nesta and Cannavaro in their prime.

Eck and I found ourselves lip-syncing to “If You Know Your History”, it’s easily done.

Then, the big big moment…the sirens and “Z Cars” for one last time at Goodison.

Chills.

There is nothing better.

I have no doubt that Everton will keep this tune as a key part of their match-day routine at Bramley Moore. I am sure when it is played at the first-ever game, it will seem like the torch has been handed on.

Incidentally, the new stadium :

I love the location.

I am a little worried about parking and traffic flow.

The outside looks fantastic.

The inside seating bowl looks rather bland.

But I like the steepness of the rake of the terraces.

I like that – at the moment – the blue seats are not spoiled with sponsors names or other silliness.

How I wish that a few Leitch cross struts could be repositioned at key places on the balcony wall at the new digs.

With the kick-off time approaching, I checked our team.

Sanchez

Disasi – Colwill – Tosin – Gusto

Caicedo – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Everton were a mixture of footballers and former footballers, some familiar, some not and how on Earth is Ashley Young still playing?

Both teams wore white shorts. Brian Moore would be turning in his grave.

Everybody standing, the rain starting to get worse, the game began.

Whisper it, but a win at Goodison would send us top, if only for a few hours.

We began the livelier and attacked the deep-sitting Everton lines in front of the Gwladys Street. There was a shot, wide, from Cole Palmer, and a couple of attacking half-chances involving Nicolas Jackson and Pedro Neto.

The rain was heavier now and seemed to be aimed right at us in the Bullens Upper. I sheltered behind Eck. The wind was blustery and seemed to change direction at will. Playing conditions, although not treacherous, were difficult, and it made for periods of messy football. The Everton crowd, not exactly buoyed by the news of the latest take-over, soon quietened down.

Neto had began the game as our liveliest player on the right and, after good play by Moises Caicedo, he fed in Palmer, and there was a low cross towards Jackson, but Jordan Pickford saved well.

We played well in short spells, and from a corner, Jackson smacked the post from close range and Pickford closed angles before Malo Gusto could attack the rebound.

Everton had been very defensive and offered very little. It was so noticeable that the Everton support were cheering defensive clearances.

“God, I know everyone loves their clubs and their teams, but imagine turning up to watch this every two weeks?”

At last, an effort on our goal; someone called Orel Mangala forcing a very fine stop from Robert Sanchez. Just after, another Everton effort, and Sanchez thwarted Jack Harrison from close range.

It had been a poor first-half and was met with moans and grumbles by the Chelsea faithful at the break.

Neto had been my favourite, and we loved the audacious piece of skill when he controlled the ball by knocking it back over his shoulder to fox his marker. Caicedo was strong. Sancho had a lot of the ball but was finding it difficult to get the best of Old Man Young. Disasi touched the ball so many times it honestly felt like he was our main playmaker. We cried out for a little more urgency.

Just before the second half began, Eck, Steely and I were now lip-syncing to “True Faith” by New Order and we hoped our faith would be truly rewarded.

“That’s the price that we all pay.
And the value of destiny comes to nothing.
I can’t tell you where we’re going.
I guess there was just no way of knowing.”

The weather was still wild. There were hints of a blue sky and sun, but only fleeting. At times the sky over the huge main stand roof took on a lavender hue. This was Goodison Park in the depths of winter, in the depths of Liverpool, in its unique setting. The wind grew stronger and the rain came again.

Football. There is something about it, in these old weather-beaten stadia, that absolutely stirs the soul.

Bizarrely, to me at least, it was Everton who created more chances of note in an increasingly worrisome second-half. On fifty minutes, a huge jolt to our confidence as Everton really should have scored. At last the home crowd made some noise that the old ground deserved.

Although Sancho looked a little more lively down below us – in an area of the Goodison Park pitch that always invokes of Eden Hazard twisting and turning – as the second-half continued, our link-up play was poor. Palmer was having a very average game, and this seemed to affect our confidence.

Some substitutions on seventy-five minutes.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Noni Madueke for Neto.

Everton attacked down our left, and a shot from Martin Gore lookalike Jesper Lindstrom was expertly stopped by Sanchez, but the block on the follow-up effort from Tosin was exceptional.

It was at this stage that we all began thinking that we would be happy with a 0-0, a point, and consolidation of a second place finish.

There were minimal minutes added on at the end of the ninety. It was if the referee Chris Kavanagh was happy to save us any more pain.

It ended 0-0.

As the legions of home and away fans departed, I loitered with my camera and tried my best to capture a few haunting images of my final ten minutes in a stadium that I have so enjoyed visiting over the past thirty-eight years.

My final Everton vs. Chelsea record at Goodison Park :

Played : 24

Won : 8

Drew : 7

Lost : 9

For : 23

Against : 26

I took some inevitable shots of the trademark Leitch cross struts on the balcony wall, and I was reminded of when I pinned my “VINCI PER NOI” banner on this section for our last great game at Goodison, the 3-0 triumph late in 2016/17. My words illustrate the joy of that day.

At the final whistle, a triumphal roar, and then my eyes were focussed on Antonio Conte. He hugged all of the Chelsea players, and slowly walked over to join his men down below us, only a few yards away from the touchline. With just four games remaining, and our lead back to seven points, the joy among the team and supporters was palpable. Conte screamed and shouted, his eyes bulging. He jumped on the back of Thibaut Courtois. His smiles and enthusiasm were so endearing.

Altogether now – “phew.”

The songs continued as we slowly made our way out into the street. A message came through from my good friend Steve in Philadelphia –

“Chris, the image that just flashed on my screen was beautiful. A shot of a cheering Antonio Conte, cheering the away fans, with the Vinci banner in the background. Absolutely perfect shot.”

There was time for one last photo of me with the Gwladys Street in the background, and then one last shot of the exit gate in the Bullens Upper, a photo that I had taken just over twelve months earlier.

But now, it was final.

Thanks Goodison, for the memories, from Reg Axon in around 1942 and from me from 1986 to 2024.

Tales From Forty Years Apart

Posted on December 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 1 December 2024.

The Famous Five were back together again for the home game against Aston Villa; I was on the road at 6.30am and by 7.30am my four passengers had been securely collected. I was alongside PD in the front while Glenn, Parky and Ron were squeezed into the back seats. Villa have faltered of late, and I think that the consensus in the car was of quiet optimism.

“If we win this, it would be a great statement of intent. Villa are no mugs. But we can bet them. If we win by three goals, we can rise to second place.”

My voice had begun strongly but tailed off. Deep down I thought that a win involving a margin of three goals might well be beyond us.

I was parked up at around 9.45am on a grey and slightly damp morning in the streets of Fulham. Time was of the essence during this particular pre-match and rather than take my time over a “sit down” breakfast at “Café Ole”, I quickly popped into the McMemory Lane Café further up the North End Road and scoffed a breakfast muffin.

You know what’s coming up, right?

Saturday 24 November 1984.

It was just after midday, and I was out and about in Stoke’s town centre. I can well remember the moment that I spotted a half-time score on a TV in an electronics shop on Church Street. Chelsea were playing against Tottenham at White Hart Lane, and it was an early 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive hooliganism. I saw the scoreline. We were 1-0 up. I bellowed a load “yes” and probably carried out a Stuart Pearson – who? – style fist pump. Being 1-0 up at the home of our most bitter rivals was one to celebrate. The goal came courtesy of Kerry once again, after just five minutes. Alas, Marc Falco – he was loaned to us two years previously, possibly one of our lowest of low points – equalised soon into the second-half for the home team. It left us in eighth place, and in a good state of health before the upcoming game at home to Football League and European Champions Liverpool the following Saturday.

Saturday 1 December 1984.

On the Friday, I had travelled back to Somerset, and on the morning of the game on the Saturday, I travelled up to London from Frome, by myself, by train. I was expecting to see Glenn en route but he was nowhere to be seen. This was to be the first in a double of huge home games in the month of December, with Manchester United visiting a few days after Christmas. There is no doubt that I was super-excited about the game with the red-shirted scousers. My record against them was perfect. Two games, two wins, at Stamford Bridge in 1878 and in 1982.

I got to Stamford Bridge ridiculously early and took in the early atmosphere. The place was excitedly expectant. I took my place on the back row of the West Stand Benches on a cold afternoon, alongside some friends who are mates to this day. A few rows behind us, up in the front rows was none other than Peter Osgood, my all-time hero. It was the first time I had seen The King since a game against Southampton eight years previously. My mate Alan took a photo of me before the game began. I remember I was sporting a pink Lacoste polo and a newly-acquired Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover from menswear shop in Stoke called “Matinique” where I had bumped into the Everton striker Adrin Heath a few weeks previously.

Eventually Glenn appeared after taking a later train from Frome and then Westbury. There was a ‘photo of him too, a picture of 1980’s Casualdom, with a bubble perm and a yellow Pringle.

I was obsessed by how many away fans of the various visiting clubs would show up at Stamford Bridge in 1984/85. There is no doubt at all that our home stadium had a fearsome reputation for away supporters, but I had been impressed with the West Ham following in early September, which must have reached the eight thousand level. Would Liverpool equal it? I wasn’t sure. From memory, they filled two pens, and a third was – as the game approached – mixed between home and away fans. There was a “set to” between the two sets of supporters in this third pen, and I can distinctly remember two things. There were around four thousand Scousers present.

Firstly, Alan – alongside me – said that he had spotted Hicky, the leader of the Chelsea pack, in the heart of the action. Secondly, I remember the Scousers letting off red flares, which hinted at their European history, and which I had never previously seen before at Stamford Bridge. One or two were propelled towards us in the West Stand. Needless to say, my little Kodak camera went into overdrive and captured a few of the red flashes between the two battling factions.

This only heightened the atmosphere. It was a dark afternoon, and the air of malevolence hung over the north terrace as thick as the London fogs of the pre-war years.

Chelsea attacked that same north terrace in the first-half and a move developed down the right, in front of the East Lower. Kerry Dixon raced down the right wing in front of the East Lower and kept going. From memory, he drew the ‘keeper and then slipped it in to put us 1-0 up. Only ten minutes had passed. There was wild and wanton euphoria on The Benches and elsewhere in the stadium too.

Sadly, Jan Molby equalised for Liverpool at The Shed End on twenty-eight minutes.

Thankfully, the second-half went our way with goals from Joe McLaughlin, a towering header just after the break – his first goal for us – and a third from David Speedie on seventy-six minutes giving us a fully deserved 3-1 win.

I was ecstatic.

My record against Liverpool was now an incredible 3-0, in an era when they were the stand-out team in England by a huge margin.

The gate was a huge 40,972. It added to the magnificence of it all.

Altogether now :

“Chelsea Are Back, Hello, Hello.”

On the Friday, in Frome, I had bought a copy of the new Cocteau Twins album “Treasure” and as I walked along the Fulham Road towards South Kensington tube station, to avoid the formidable crowds at Fulham Broadway, I listened to the album on my sub-Sony “Walkman”, an AIWA version. With the night now fallen, and with Christmas lights in the shop windows, with those glorious shimmering sounds providing a scintillating backdrop, I was able to go over the afternoon’s events, and it is a memory that lives with me to this day.

Every time, I hear that album – it is my favourite, my favourite ever – I am immediately transported back to that December evening in London some forty years ago.

And it was exactly forty years ago.

Fast forward to 1 December 2024, and I was back at Stamford Bridge yet again.

My pre-match was predictably busy and I spent it with Glenn and my friend Pete, and his son Calvin – from Seattle – at the hotel where The Shed once stood before meeting up with a smattering of mates from near and far in the “Eight Bells.”

The Normandy Division, headed by Ollie, was in town, and there was a visit from Johnny 12 Teams and his wife Jenni 12 Markets. Tommie from Porthmadog called in and we talked about Brazil. I had watched the final of the Coppa Libertadores on the Saturday night with the Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro game an exact copy of the last game I saw in Rio in July. Botafogo won 3-0 in July and 3-1 in December. They took the last spot in next season’s FFA World Club Cup in the US.

I was pleased that Botafogo won – it was some game – and cheered me up a little. Although I did not attend, Frome lost a “must-win” relegation six-pointer at Marlow earlier that day.

Inside Stamford Bridge, one friend was missing.

Alan, my mate from that day in 1984, was a hundred or so miles away following his other club Bromley in one of their biggest ever matches. They were at Solihull Moors in the Second Round Proper of the FA Cup. Ironically, the tie was against the same team that Bromley had beaten in their play-off final at the end of last season.

I often wonder if I will miss a Chelsea game in favour of a key Frome Town game. That time will come, I am sure.

The minutes passed until kick-off.

I have suffered recent technological nightmares with both my mobile phone and my laptop ceasing to work over the past fortnight. I bought a new ‘phone a week or so ago and upon firing up the wi-fi offered by Chelsea Football Club, I was again dismayed to see that during the set-up to get my new device registered, the list of reasons for my visit to Stamford Bridge included around eight options (such as Commercial Sponsor, Commercial Guest and Banqueting) but there was no mention of football.

It made me want to cry.

Where has it all gone wrong, Chowlsea?

Fackinell.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The game began at 1.30pm. It soon became apparent that Moises Caicedo pushed up and inside when we had the ball, and there was all sorts of fluidity going on at the top end of the pitch. It was enough for me to do to exactly work it all out.

The three of us regulars in The Sleepy Hollow – PD, Clive and yours truly – were joined by a lad from Los Angeles (his debut at Stamford Bridge) and a young woman from New York (her second visit) and as the game began, we tried our best to make them feel at home, but we warned them about the usual flurry of swearing.

The three thousand Villa fans were in decent voice and there was an early song honouring the well-loved Gary Shaw, who recently passed away.

I noticed that a few Sleepy Hollow regulars had arrived a little late, but I had to commend them as they arrived just in time to see us play the ball out to Marc Cucarella on the edge of the box who then whipped in a fine cross towards the near post. Nicolas Jackson was on hand to prod the ball in past Emiliano Martinez.

Chelsea 1 Villa 0.

Get in.

Just seven minutes had passed.

The visitors seemed happy to soak up the early pressure, but we were tested by a break away down below us in the inside-left channel by Ollie Watkins. Fearing danger, I yelled out “stay with him Fofana” but this is the exact opposite of what our French defender did. He appeared to trip over an imaginary leg, and Watkins left him for dead. We were oh-so thankful of Robert Sanchez’ alert block, his legs spread wide.

I thought to myself that Watkins would thrive in our team, but then immediately chastised myself for coveting a neighbour’s ox when we had Jackson within our midst, a very decent young player in his own right.

There were decent performances throughout our team as the first-half continued. The two wingers Pedro Neto and Jadon Sancho caught the eye, but Neto had more end product.

There was that rare sighting of an indirect free-kick well inside the opposing penalty box, but Cole Palmer’s effort was saved by Martinez, and Romeo Lavia’s follow-up was unsurprisingly blocked.

Sanchez gets some stick from us regarding his poor distribution, but Martinez made a howler himself, passing the ball straight to Jackson. Surely a goal here? Alas not, the ball would not sit up for a clean finish, and Martinez was saved blushes. This was not the only example of sloppy defensive play from the visitors.

On thirty-seven minutes, we won the ball in midfield via the twin powers of Caicedo – currently becoming one of my favourites – and Lavia. The ball was played to Enzo, and then to Palmer. Our Mancunian maestro, the stray dog, pushed the ball on to Enzo who had found space. A quick assessment of the moment, and Enzo despatched a low shot with unerring precision and the ball flew past his Argentinian teammate in the Shed End goal.

Chelsea 2 Villa 0.

How we celebrated. And how Enzo, the captain today, celebrated too, sliding into Parkyville and ending up lying still on the turf. He was soon mobbed by his teammates.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC.”

Oh we were all very happy at half-time.

Villa, I think, had been poor, and had rarely threatened. At times we had purred.

Clive spotted a change between the sticks for Villa. On came Robin Olsen for Martinez. We continued along similar lines as the first-half.

I had a little think back to the game at Leicester City the previous weekend. I realised how the dynamic of support had changed over the two matches. At Leicester, all three-thousand of us in that tight corner, all standing, in it together, out-numbered, grateful for anything, happy with any attack away from home, bellowing songs of support.

And now, in the comfort of home, sat, arms crossed, offering polite encouragement, almost as if we needed to be entertained.

There was a glorious tackle that Enzo won before steadying himself to play in Jackson, who ran on but sadly squandered the chance.

On the hour, the injured Fofana gave way to Benoit Badiashile.

Villa made changes themselves.

The quality of play dropped a little and we didn’t dominate quite as much.

Ross Barkley came on as sub and received a warm reception. He soon made his presence felt with a close-in header that Colwill did ever so well to head off the line.

I am sure that I wasn’t the only one begging for one more goal. Despite playing the far more impressive football, at 2-0, I was never content.

Another chance for Jackson, and one for Sancho too.

On seventy-one minutes, Enzo Maresca made a double-swap.

Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

I spoke to Max, from LA :

“You’re not missing out on any of our stars here, mate, they are all playing today.”

The game continued on, and I still begged for one more goal. The mercurial Palmer was involved as the game reached the last section and had one or two shots blocked.

On eighty-three minutes, a free-kick was taken quickly by Palmer out to Madueke, who returned the ball. Palmer took a touch, and although he was seemingly hemmed in by a gaggle of Villains, his firm strike at goal was perfectly despatched, its curve and its trajectory utterly beautiful.

It’s a good job he works in ballistics.

Chelsea 3 Villa 0.

Not only was the goal a stunning creation, the post-goal celebrations were magnificent too, and it made me tingle to see everyone so happy down below us.

One last change.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

This was a lovely performance from us, and one which solidified our place within the top echelons of the table. A special word for Marc Cucarella. What a fine performance; determined, aggressive, but never out of control, what a player. I loved his succession of headed clearances atv the back post in the second-half.

This whole performance suggested that we are on track for a very fine season.

Everyone was happy.

We scurried back to the car, and we learned that we were locked in at second place with Arsenal, who were marginally – alphabetically – ahead of us. I began the long drive home. We heard that Liverpool won 2-0 at home to Manchester City, and we all said nothing.

Nothing at all.

Alan, in the Midlands, had enjoyed a fantastic day. His Bromley had won 2-1 and were, thus, in the draw for the FA Cup Third Round, where they could possibly draw us.

Happy times for Al.

After dropping off my four passengers, I knew I had to recreate a scene, of sorts, from forty years ago to the day.

A Cocteau Twins compilation was set up in my car and I turned it on. I had to skip one song, but there they were; three consecutive songs from “Teasure.”

“Beatrix.”

“Ivo.”

“Otterley.”

It was the perfect end to a fine day.

Next up, a quick jaunt down to Southampton.

See you there.

1 DECEMBER 1984

1 DECEMBER 2024

Tales From A Hot Ticket

Posted on November 16, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 10 November 2024.

The game at home to Arsenal had the feel of a real test. Here was an eagerly-awaited contest against an old foe, a historic London rival, but also a club that had enjoyed the upper hand over us of late. Since beating them 4-1 in Baku in 2019, our record in the subsequent eleven games was just two wins, just two draws but seven losses.

It was about time we had a little revenge. From a long way out, this absolutely felt like a big game, and a hot ticket.

My friend Aleksey, who had been lucky in acquiring tickets for the matches at Old Trafford and at home to Noah, was still in England for the Arsenal game, but as the weekend approached, we were struggling to find him a spare ticket. I had asked my usual two contacts but it just seemed that there were no spares out there.

Not to worry. He at least would be enjoying one game of football over the weekend.

At just after 11am on the Saturday, Aleksey alighted at Frome station after taking a direct train from London Paddington. There never was a direct train service in days of yore. I wonder what changed.

Alex was in deepest Somerset for the Frome Town game against Winchester City. He was another mate from the US who had been enticed down to my particular part of the West of England for a little dabble in the non-league scene. Hot on the heels of Phil, Courtney and Josh, Alex has adopted Frome Town as his non-league team of choice and was eagerly looking forward to the game at Badgers Hill.

We shot off for a superb breakfast at a local farm shop and we shared a very interesting chat about the game at both level one and level seven of our national sport. But there was also talk of his teenage years, in Moscow, when supporters of his team Spartak and other rival fans were engaged in battles throughout the city on game days. I can only imagine the carnage.

Alex was able to compare his experiences at the previous two Chelsea games. He absolutely loved being among the noisy and partisan Chelsea supporters at Old Trafford. When our equaliser came so soon after their penalty, the scenes startled him. He was punched in the ribs – unintentionally of course – and mentioned that a fellow-fan who was behind him ended up three rows in front; no mean achievement in these days of – painful – seating.

Noah, however, was a different story. Marooned in a sea of dopey tourists in the West Lower, he described it as a “train-wreck”, with people staring starry-eyed at The Shed and The Matthew Harding as the supporters therein took it in turns to sing songs of support, while the area surrounding him was a sea of tranquillity. Long-gone are the days when the West Lower could be relied upon to join in.

A low point for me personally on Thursday night was hearing a sizeable amount of the fans in the MHL carrying out that Arsenal chant about Tottenham.

Stop it.

Stop it now.

Thank you.

I gave Alex a little tour of Frome and the surrounding countryside, including a quick look at a fourteenth century castle in the village of Nunney, a fifteenth century church and a sixteenth century manor house in my home village of Mells, a little chat about the five-hundred-year-old house that I lived in until the age of twelve, and a few similarly historic buildings in Frome itself. The town itself dates from 685. We stopped for a pint at “The Three Swans”, which has stood since the seventeenth century, before joining a table of friends at “The Vine Tree.”

Our opponents were positioned just above us in the league table. They had won promotion via a play-off in 2022, just like we had in May of this year. This was a game that my home town team simply had to win.

As we approached the turnstiles, we heard the sad sound of the last post being played on a bugle in the centre circle. I was annoyed that we had missed the start of this. I promised myself there would be no repeat at Stamford Bridge the following day.

Although a fine crowd of 566 attended the game, unfortunately Frome Town succumbed to a solitary goal from Thomas Wright following a defensive error on the hour. At the final whistle, I slumped down to my haunches, an immediate and unplanned – er – knee-jerk reaction to a bitter defeat.

It felt like I had been kicked in the goolies.

Ugh.

However, Alex really enjoyed the conviviality of my local club, and the intensity and spirit of both players and supporters. I knew he would. There is so much to cherish about the non-league scene. I chuckled when I heard a gaggle of away fans in The Cowshed have a dig at the home support.

“Where’s your cathedral?”

After a drink in the clubhouse, we had an early-evening wander around the cobbled streets of the town centre before settling in at “The Archangel” for one last pint.

Tomorrow would be another day of football.

I collected PD at 8am and soon picked-up Alex at his hotel on the outskirts of Frome before collecting Parky, who was wearing a regimental tie ahead of his later attendance at All Saints Church in Fulham for the two-minute silence at 11am.

The four of us made our way to London, and I drove past the softly undulating countryside of Wiltshire and Berkshire. The roads were quiet. I fuelled up at Membury Services, and at around 10.30am, I got as close to the church and pub as I could; the local roads were jammed full of locals marching to the service.

Now in London, a spare ticket for Alex had still not materialised, and I was starting to give up hope.

I parked up and then walked down to Stamford Bridge to take a few photos and to chat to a couple of early-risers. On the way, I stopped for my second football fry-up of the weekend at the Memory Lane Café.

Forty-years ago to the exact day, Chelsea travelled up to Tyneside for a game at St. James’ Park. Newcastle United had been promoted alongside Chelsea in May and the two games involving the teams were the high spots of that magnificent season. In March of that year, over 36,000 attended the same contest, yet just 23,723 were at the fixture eight months later. I think this was my biggest disappointment of 1984/85; that the attendances didn’t really move up a level. In 1983/84 our home average was 21,120. A year later, in a division higher, it was 23,065. I was hoping for a steeper rise. At St. James’ Park, without the Keegan factor, it was worse. In 1983/84, they averaged a very impressive 29,856, but it dropped to 26,204 the following season.

On the pitch, Newcastle went 2-0 up in the first-half with goals from Neil McDonald and Chris Waddle, and although Kerry Dixon scored a consolation goal, it was another loss for Chelsea. Our record in the league thus far that season was 5 – 4 – 5, not the start that we had hoped for. At least King Kerry was still popping the goals in.

I reached the pub at midday and stayed until 3.30pm.

There was a real gathering of the clans again with the four of us joined by friends from Salisbury, Kent, North London, Buckinghamshire, Texas, Norway, Tennessee and Doncaster. I enjoyed chatting with Ian – Buckinghamshire – for the first real time. One of his previous roles was as the Chelsea Matchday DJ in the early-nineties, which I was not aware of. Drinks were flowing, though not for me of course.

Lo and behold, after weeks of trying to tease a spare ticket from someone, anyone, anybody, the little gang of lads on the next table had a spare for Alex.

Deal!

We were all happy now.

And relax.

We all hopped up onto the northbound platform at Putney Bridge tube and made our way to Stamford Bridge.

I was inside in good time. Again, I tut-tutted at the little gaggle of tourists watching Chelsea go through their pre-match shuttles and stretches behind a roped-off area by the West Stand, a few yards away from the pitch, having paid God knows what for the privilege.

The game’s gone.

It annoyed me that the usual pre-match songs were played just before the “Chelsea Remembers” letters were carried out by members of the armed forces. I had hoped for a period of silence before what should be a solemn time. Soon, images of Chelsea Pensioners appeared at The Shed End on a huge scale. Then some Chelsea Pensioners welcomed both teams onto the Stamford Bridge pitch. The tunics of those residing at the Royal Hospital are the only items of red clothing welcomed with open arms and open hearts at Stamford Bridge.

The Last Post.

Then gentle applause.

In all of these reminiscences of previous years, I cannot remember Chelsea Pensioners involved in those home games nearest to Remembrance Sunday. In fact, nor can I honestly remember last posts, nor two-minutes of silence. Does anybody?

There was, of course, a complete change of personnel since the Noah game on Thursday.

The team, as the old saying goes, picked itself.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

There was a bristling atmosphere as the game kicked-off, as it should be with a 4.30pm kick-off, and all of those extra pints being sunk.

I soon found it ironic that Kai Havertz was deployed as a false nine.

After just two minutes, Cole Palmer – on whom a great deal of our collective hope was resting – collected a ball from Romeo Lavia and advanced. He needed no encouragement to let fly. The shot was hit powerfully from thirty yards, but David Raya was equal to it, and tipped it over rather flamboyantly. Palmer, a possible injury doubt after Old Trafford, was back in the game.

Gabriel Martinelli – why do I always think of Marinello? – was getting himself into some early space out wide and Arsenal were posing a few problems. Then, some respite and a lovely sweeping move with Palmer the instigator. He moved the ball out to Pedro Neto, a familiar pass of late, and a deep cross was met by the leap but a misdirected header from Noni Madueke. The crowd groaned.

Some intricate footwork out on the left from Neto – scintillating to see – eventually gave him a few inches of spare space and he sent over a hugely impressive cross towards the far post. If Kerry Dixon, even now at the age of sixty-three, had been able to meet it, we would have taken the lead. Alas, the inch-perfect cross found the head of Malo Gusto who is unfortunately a full back and not a centre forward. The ball flew over.

Poor passing out of defence, that old problem, meant that Arsenal were able to gather the ball and it all resulted in a shot from Martinelli from an angle, but Robert Sanchez was able to fling an arm at the ball and swat it away. From the break just after, Madueke wasted an opportunity.

“Good game, this.”

Just before the half-hour mark, we seemed to collectively lose concentration at an Arsenal free-kick. The ball was pushed through to Havertz, and despite seemingly being knocked off balance, he managed to poke the ball past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

VAR was our saviour, but there were no celebrations nor screaming nor shouting from me.

Phew.

It was bad enough seeing Havertz scoring a couple against us at Arsenal in May. Seeing him celebrating at Stamford Bridge was momentarily worse.

There were pantomime jeers at the corner flag down below me as Declan Rice took a corner or two.

Palmer sadly failed to clear the wall on two separate occasions as the first-half continued. He had drifted out of the game a little.

No goals at half-time, but I think we probably edged it despite the phantom goal from Havertz.

Soon into the second-half, we were treated to a couple of crosses. The first from Madueke out on the right was acrobatically met by Wesley Fofana, arguably enjoying his best game yet, but his volley required the touch of a Dixon boot. The ball was hooked over the bar. A second cross was gathered by Reya.

The quality disappeared from our game for a while.

On the hour, as at Frome the day before, the visitors took the lead. The ball was steadily worked from Havertz on the Arsenal right out to Martinelli, who was one of two Arsenal attackers completely unmarked inside the box on the right. He shot cleanly past Sanchez at the near post.

Crap.

Here we go again.

Chelsea 0 Arsenal 1.

An Arsenal player called Timber, whoever he is, ran unfettered and went close with a long shot.

There were shouts around me.

“Change it!”

I mentioned to Clive that it was so noticeable that our three games against the three leading teams thus far appeared to be pointless, so to speak.

While PD was getting more and more angry with each passing minute, Clive was disappearing into a vortex of despair.

I thought to myself “is it really that bad?”

On sixty-seven minutes, two substitutions.

Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.

Mykhaioo Mudryk for Madueke.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

There was a switch in positions. Mudryk showed up on our side of Stamford Bridge on the Chelsea left, while Neto became inverted, but hopefully not introverted, in front of the East Lower on our right.

It rapidly paid dividends.

Neto, relatively deep, played the ball to Enzo. Arsenal were nowhere close, poor from them. Enzo prodded the ball into space for Neto to run onto. One touch from Neto, the goal begging for a shot. A swing of the left leg, and a fine connection. The low shot crashed past the despairing dive from Raya at the near post.

Ecstasy in the Matthew Harding. Euphoria in the West Stand. Bedlam in the East Stand. Pandemonium in The Shed.

Poor Neto did not know what to do, nor where to run. He ended up in front of the East Lower with a high jump.

Get in.

Chelsea 1 Arsenal 1.

Phew.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge now.

There was an inviting low cross from Bukayo Saka – the first time that I have mentioned his name – out on Arsenal’s right that evaded, thankfully, everybody as it made a lonely journey through a packed box. The cross evoked the phrase “corridor of uncertainty” and I am still amazed that nobody touched the ball goal-wards.

Another cross from the Arsenal right was headed down by Mikel Merino, whoever he is, and Sanchez gathered just before Havertz could get a touch.

Not long after, a clear offside as Nicolas Jackson – the first mention – ran through. A worryingly high percentage of the supporters housed in our end of The Bridge cheered. I fear for the human race.

On eighty-two minutes, Reece James took over from Gusto.

A little head tennis in the box, but Arsenal survived.

A very late substitution.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

A cross from the Arsenal right, a shot from Merino, a great save from Sanchez, but the ball fell to Leandro Trossard. In my mind I was waiting for the net to bulge. He blazed it over. Offside anyway.

Fackinell.

In the ninety-fifth minute, a similar second-half story. A low cross from out on the Arsenal flank, this time the left, and a great cross right into “the corridor” but not a worthwhile touch, and offside anyway.

As you were.

Although, in fact, not as you were.

Since last season Arsenal have worsened while we have improved, no doubt.

When I got back to the car, I was flabbergasted to see that we had reached third place in the Premier League.

There is a cartoon that often does the rounds on the internet of an elephant up a tree, but of course that image never entered my mind at all.

Never.

Honest.

We have a break, now, until we all meet up again at Leicester City on Saturday 23 November.

See you there.

Tales From A Night Of Balloons, Berkshire, Bromley And Barrow

Posted on September 26, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Barrow : 24 September 2024.

The game against Barrow in the League Cup was the first of four home matches at Stamford Bridge in just thirteen days. Not wishing to denigrate this competition, but it is probably the last of our priorities this season. I know that the Europa Conference is – well – the Europa Conference, but it offers European, and Central Asian, travel, and it is a UEFA competition after all. The League Cup – or whatever name it gives itself these days – is familiar to us, whereas the Europa Conference is something different. Should we win it this season – our UEFA coefficient alone suggests we might – then maybe it would go back down the pecking order until UEFA invents yet another competition for also-rans across Europe.

There is a competition, though, that is well down my list of priorities this season for Chelsea Football Club. The English Football League Trophy is a cup that began life as the Associate Members Cup in 1983/84, and it had a number of sponsors over the years. It was the Freight Rover, it was the Leyland DAF, it was the Auto Windscreens, it was all sorts. It was once the Johnstone Paint Trophy, the one that Southampton sang about us not winning.

The English Football League Trophy is a competition for clubs in the two divisions of the English Football League. The name rather gives this away, right? But, it’s not. Since 2016/17, sixteen U21 teams from the Premiership and the Championship have been invited to take part too. There was an initial backlash against this, since it could stop smaller clubs from enjoying a day out at Wembley, and I agreed wholeheartedly with this statement. I decided to boycott the tournament even if it meant not seeing a Chelsea team at local stadia such as Forest Green Rovers, Exeter City and Bristol Rovers. Would I go to the final at Wembley if Chelsea U21s were to reach it? No.

I am just dead against the notion of U21 teams being in this competition.

That said, I did find it ridiculous that Chelsea were playing Barrow in the League Cup on the very same evening that Chelsea U21s were at Bromley in the English Football League Trophy. I knew of many Chelsea mates who were going to Bromley – “new ground” – rather than attend the first team match at Stamford Bridge, yet how easy could it have been to plan these two games on different nights? Surely, Chelsea could have played Barrow last week. It’s not as if the team from the Cumbrian coast were playing European football.

Sometimes modern football does not make any sense at all.

I was up at 4.45am and worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I set off for London with just PD and Parky. When I drove past Junction 14 of the M4 and saw the signs for the nearby town of Hungerford, another football competition flitted into my mind. Later that evening, my local team Frome Town would visit Hungerford Town in a league game. It was a match that I would have attended had it not been for the game at Stamford Bridge. At the weekend, Hungerford beat Plymouth Parkway 9-3 at home, while Frome Town lost 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville. I would be girding my loins for score updates as the evening wore on. In a nutshell, I was far from hopeful.

We landed in London at 5pm, and I shot off to get some food down my neck. The “Efes” restaurant – Turkish – on the corner of Lillee Road and the North End Road has been garnering some decent reviews of late so I gave it a shot. While I leisurely ate a lamb shish kebab plus the usual garnishes, I spotted plenty of Chelsea fans in the restaurant and three sets of parents with children.

PD soon called.

“McGettigans is closed. We’re at ‘Simmons’ and it’s £4 a pint.”

I slowly walked down the North End Road, but despite a couple of coffees on the drive to London, I was feeling so tired, so groggy. I decided to dip into “Café Ole”- close to the pie and mash shop in 1984 – and downed a cappuccino with a double-shot. I was soon buzzing. Phew.

This place has served as the “Memory Lane Café” in past match reports, so let’s use it again. Forty years ago, my mind was focussed on beginning a new life in Stoke-on-Trent as a human geography undergraduate at North Staffs Poly. I had buggered up my “A Levels” in June 1983, re-took them in November 1983, and managed to get a place at Stoke. When Chelsea played at Luton Town in a Division One fixture on Saturday 22 September 1984, I was at home in Somerset, recuperating after a heavy session in Frome the night before when I gathered together a few friends as they gave me a boozy send-off. My parents would drive me up to Staffordshire on the Sunday.

My diary reiterates my memories of that night. I was being bought drinks right, left and centre and when I reached home, I fell out of the car. Oh, I had bumped into Glenn – now sporting a perm – who told me that he was off to Luton on the Saturday. My diary tells me that I got up late on the Saturday, much the worse for wear, and that although I listened to Radio 2 all afternoon, there was no score update from Kenilworth Road until the end of the game.

It ended 0-0, as did I if my memory is correct.

I crossed the road and joined PD and Parky at the high tables in “Simmons” which has been given a bit of a makeover since our last visit. There is more space, more neon, a better feel. I said a quick hello to “Mr. Pink” – Chris always wears a lucky pink polo at away games – but the place was generally quiet, nothing like it used to be on midweek games a few years back. I like it though. It’s convenient. For some reason, blue and white balloons were dotted around the bar. Were the owners secret Nkunku fans?

Outside, the weather was dry but muggy. At the end of Fulham Broadway, an electronic sign helpfully stated “Please Keep To Your Left Our Right” and I thought “thanks for that, big help, I was going to tunnel beneath it.”

I was inside at about 7.15pm for the 7.45pm kick-off.

Barrow, eh?

It takes me right back, way back to around 1970 or 1971, just as I was starting to watch football on TV and learn more and more about the game, the players, the teams, the league tables. I can distinctly remember poring over the league tables of my grandfather’s Sunday Express and examining all of the various football teams that plied their trade in the four divisions of the Football League. Some of the names used to fill me with wonder and a desire to learn about them, especially all those that were unfamiliar to me as a Chelsea fan, used to hearing only about the bigger teams in the First Division. I found some of the names beguiling.

Crewe Alexandra.

Sheffield Wednesday.

Aston Villa.

Port Vale.

Halifax Town.

Workington.

Southport.

Stockport County.

Barrow.

Chester.

Chesterfield.

Rochdale.

Bury.

I wondered where all these places were. Were they all up north? These were all new to me. Ironically, Barrow were relegated out of the Football League – or rather voted out – at the end of the 1971/72 season and I can distinctly remember this taking place. They would not return to the Football League again until 2021.

PD and I were sat together in The Sleepy Hollow. Being both a Bromley and a Chelsea season ticket holder, there was no surprises as to where Alan was.

It looked a pretty healthy crowd for hardly a game with much of a “pull”. Stamford Bridge wasn’t full but it wasn’t far off. Around 2,500 away fans had travelled down from Barrow-in-Furness. Ironically, we know a loyal Chelsea fan – hello Gary – who lives in Barrow yet still travels down to Chelsea as a season ticket holder. It’s a solid six-hour drive.

Us?

Jorgensen

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Veiga

Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall

Neto – Felix – Mudryk

Nkunku

It was Cesare Casadei’s first start.

Barrow were in waspish yellow and black hoops, though I immediately felt it strange that the referee was in all black, since – from the rear – the Barrow players were in all black too. Very odd.

To their credit, the away team began the livelier.

With our attacking options though, it did not surprise anyone when we went ahead on just eight minutes. Renato Veiga slammed a ball towards Joao Felix who adroitly flicked the ball over some dawdling defenders for Christopher Nkunku to drill the ball home.

Chelsea 1 Barrow 0.

The players celebrated in front of Parkyville.

There was an attack from Barrow, and a shot was slammed over, but Chelsea continued to dominate. On fifteen minutes, a neat flick from Pedro Neto set up Malo Gusto. I shouted out some advice to him – keep it high – but he chose to ignore me and he drilled a low ball towards Nkunku at the near post. It was too far away for me to truly admire the finish, but the ball ended up in the back of the net.

Chelsea 2 Barrow 0.

“Nice to see Gusto took my advice, PD.”

PD laughed.

It was the equivalent of me falling out of my father’s car forty years ago.

Chelsea continued in the ascendency and Barrow’s focus now seemed to involve sitting back and trying to limit further damage. There was one blistering run from Mykhailo Mudryk down the left, but he again promised much, but delivered little.

On the half-hour mark, Gusto was upended centrally. My immediate reaction was that the free-kick was too central. PD agreed.

“We need Zola here.”

I need not have worried. Felix waited until the wall was set – much buggering about from both sets of players and the referee – and then dipped a floater over and around the western edges of Barrow’s wall and we watched as the ball cannoned in off the post, but off the Barrow ‘keeper too.

I lept to my feet, but many stayed sat. How odd.

Chelsea 3 Barrow 0.

The rest of the first half didn’t result in anyone rising to their feet, apart from those going off to the loos. Caicedei looked solid, though was reticent to turn, and always seemed to choose the soft option of a backward pass. No doubt the stats men loved it. All of this backward passing makes for a hideously dull form of football though.

There was a shot from the much-derided Benoit Badiashile, but that was about it.

At the break, my focus was away from Stamford Bridge. In other games, Bromley were losing 1-2 and it was 0-0 at Hungerford.

Enzo Maresca replaced Gusto with Ben Chilwell – welcome back, Chilly – with the defence shifting around to accommodate him. A header from Dewsbury-Hall did not threaten the Barrow goal.

On forty-eight minutes, Nkunku played in a raiding Mudryk and we all wondered what would happen. Thankfully he didn’t trip, nor sky a shot over the bar, but he played the ball intelligently square to Neto who steadily turned the ball in.

Chelsea 4 Barrow 0.

I am sure that more people stood for that one.

We often had a spare man down below us, and that man was usually Mudryk. He sprinted ahead and set up Dewsbury-Hall, but his shot was saved well by the Barrow ‘keeper.

It annoyed me to hear the MHL, presumably full of a vastly different set of fans than usual for this game, to take the piss out of the Barrow ‘keeper as he took goal kicks in this second-half. In fact, the “Ooooooooooooooooh! You’re shit! Aaaaaarrrrrgggggh!” has not been heard at Chelsea since, probably, the late ‘eighties. Come on, we were playing Barrow, not a London rival.

I said to Anna “I’m surprised the idiots in the MHL aren’t taking the piss out of Barrow for not winning the Champions League.”

For the purists, I always remembered it as a plain “Ooooooooh, you’re shit!” at Chelsea. Other teams’ supporters extended it. There, that’s told you.

Down at the other end, a dipping free-kick was well saved by the scrambling Filip Jorgensen at the near post.

The away fans were making lots of noise, as expected. This was their biggest away game for a while.

“You’ve seen the Barrow, now fuck off home” was the only chant I could decipher, though.

Just after the hour, a double substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Disasi.

Tyrique George for Neto.

This was my first sighting of the young winger. After a little Barrow spell, George was presented with a golden chance to mark his Stamford Bridge debut with a goal, but he rolled a shot well wide of the far post.

With a quarter of an hour to go, the Barrow ‘keeper dawdled and was pick-pocketed by Nkunku and steered the ball into an empty net. The French striker, who offers a different skill-set to Nicolas Jackson, thus gained a well-deserved hat-trick. Alas, no money shot this week; I couldn’t focus my camera in time for his blue balloon celebration.

Just after, more changes.

Carney Chukwuemeka for the excellent Joao Felix.

Marc Guiu for the clinical Nkunku.

There were a couple of late chances, including a good strike from Carney, but as the final whistle beckoned, my football focus soon switched from London SW6 to Berkshire.

In Hungerford, it was still 0-0.

Come on Frome!

Meanwhile, over in Bromley, the Chelsea U21s narrowly squeaked it 3-2 with Harvey Vale getting two.

At the end of the match, I made a quick getaway and strode purposefully down the Fulham Road. I kept checking the Frome score on my ‘phone which had dramatically dwindled down to 2% and then 1% charge.

85 minutes : 0-0.

90 minutes : 0-0.

96 minutes : 0-0.

98 minutes : 0-0

With that, the final score of 0-0 flashed up and my ‘phone died.

I smiled.

“GET IN.”

It wrapped-up a decent night out. We ran through the options of a preferred opponent in the next round. With a nod to 1984, I fancied Stoke City away.

I didn’t stop on the way home; I left Normand Road at 10.02pm and I pulled up at my house at 12.06am. Two hours and four minutes. A record surely?

Next up, Brighton at home.

See you in the pub.

OUTSIDE

INSIDE

Tales From Highbury 1984 & Molineux 2024

Posted on August 29, 2024 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 25 August 2024.

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

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

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

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

My post on “Facebook” ran like this :

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

The greatest domestic away game in our history.

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

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

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

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

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

Favourites?

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

Least liked?

West Ham, Manchester City, Southampton, Arsenal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jimmy : “Light blue Tacchini top.”

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

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

“Our Loving Devotion Guides Our Lifelong Dream.”

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

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mydryk

Jackson

Or something like that.

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

If only, eh?

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

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

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

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

Jackson was looking a handful, but sometimes to himself.

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

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

It was breathless stuff.

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

“So much for your lucky shirt!”

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

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

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

Sanchez – Jackson – Palmer – BOSH.

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

It was a mad first-half.

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

“Johnny Marr.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get in.

More lovely celebrations, a slide this time.

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

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

Wolves 2 Chelsea 5.

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

I reminded Gal of my 5-5 prediction.

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

A substitution on 68 minutes :

Joao Felix for Jackson.

“Don’t get sent off this time.”

A substitution on 76 minutes :

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.

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

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

Bloody hell.

Wolves 2 Chelsea 6.

Two substitutions on 83 minutes :

Christopher Nkunku for Palmer.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

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

This was only the fourth time :

21 August 2010 : Wigan Athletic 0 Chelsea 6

30 August 2014 : Everton 3 Chelsea 6

9 April 2022 : Southampton 0 Chelsea 6

25 August 2024 : Wolverhampton Wanderers 2 Chelsea 6

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

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

Tales From The Summers Of 1929, 1984 And 2024

Posted on August 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 17 August 2024.

Welcome to Chelsea 2024/25. This is my fifty-second season of continuous attendance at Chelsea games and the seventeenth year of these match reports. Last season, I celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of my first-ever Chelsea game and also the first season of attending every single Chelsea match.

For the most part, it was tough as hell wasn’t it? All those new players, a new coach, new ideas. There was a massive disconnect at times – it came to a vitriolic head at Brentford – but at season end, everything appeared to be moving towards a common goal. We were a form team, the manager was getting the best out of his charges, we had reached a domestic final, we had nailed a UEFA spot, Cole Palmer was king.

And then it all fell apart.

Pochettino out, Maresca in.

Change, change, change where there should have been stability.

Over the summer, I felt increasingly disengaged from the love of my life as Chelsea’s bizarre recruitment policy kicked in again. It left me doubting my sanity at times.

The European Championships came and went with dwindling interest from me. It is a worry for me that my relationship with Chelsea Football Club might follow the same pattern as my relationship with England’s national team. I watched some of England’s games, not all. The Euros seemed to be taking place in an odd parallel universe for me this summer.

In truth, from a football perspective, my mind was elsewhere.

My non-league team, Frome Town, won promotion to the Southern League Premier South last season, regaining our place at step three of the non-league pyramid, last experienced in 2018/19. As I explained in these reports, the joy of last season and the sense of anticipation for the new season was a true highlight of the past twelve months. With an influx of new opponents and stadia, Frome’s 2024/25 campaign soon had the feel of Chelsea’s 1984/85 season for this football fancier. All those new away trips, all those new places to visit, the thrill of pitting our wits against teams in a higher level, the comparison was easy.

When the fixtures for Frome were announced, a few weeks after Chelsea’s, I quickly did some logistical planning. The upshot is that I ought to be able to see nine of Frome Town’s first ten league games of the season.

And if I am blunt and honest, I was actually looking forward to the first ten Frome games more than the first ten Chelsea games. Friends at Chelsea often talk about the dwindling connection between the club, the mother ship, and themselves over the past few seasons, but at Frome Town the connection gets stronger with every game.

Over the course of this season, where needed, I will perhaps report on the differing senses of connection and belonging that Chelsea and Frome conjure up.

However, season 2024/25 did not begin for me with a pre-season friendly involving Frome Town. It began at a stadium in Laranjeiras in Rio de Janeiro.

Let me explain.

After my incredible football-centered trip to Buenos Aires in February 2020, I have been mulling over another trip to South America for a while. I almost pushed the button on a trip to Rio de Janeiro last summer but the lingering threat of COVID and a few other issues put me off. In the summer of 2025, when I turn sixty, I am hoping to travel to the Eastern US for the first phase of the FIFA World Club Championships, so I quickly decided that I would look keenly at getting to Rio this summer. We never know how long we have left. It was time to get going.

The fixtures for the Brazilan Serie A were announced in March and I quickly focussed on the weekend of Saturday 6 July. Not only was this my birthday, but the fixture list had Fluminense playing Athletico Paranaense at the magnificent Maracana stadium on that date. Two things to mention here. It was widely rumoured that Thiago Silva would be returning to his first love of Fluminense in the summer and this sent me dizzy. Also, ever since seeing Roberto Rivelino in the maroon, green and white stripes of the Flumimense shirt in the mid-‘seventies, I have been in love with that kit, if not the team itself.

In early March, I decided to go for it. I sorted direct flights from Heathrow to Rio de Janeiro and eight nights in a three-star hotel a block from Copacabana Beach. There would be maybe three games in Rio, matching my three in Buenos Aires. It was all systems go.

And then nature intervened. The floods in Brazil forced a re-arrangement of fixtures and my dream date with Fluminense, and maybe Thiago Silva, was hit. Instead, it was looking like Vasco de Gama vs. Fortaleza on the Wednesday, Flamengo vs. Cuiba on my birthday and Botafogo vs. Atletico Mineiro on the Sunday. I’ll admit it; I was devastated that there would be no Fluminense game.

I waited for Saturday 29 June for take-off. Of course, Thiago Silva did indeed sign for Fluminense and there was talk of his first game being played in July. My annoyance in missing him play in Rio was palpable, yet I was sure that I was still going to have a superb trip. In the ten days before departure, I contacted Chelsea Football Club about sending Fluminense, temporarily, the huge Thiago Silva crowd-surfer flag that the “We Are The Shed” team created, and which marked his last ever game for us. One of the “We Are The Shed” folk is a friend and for a while it seemed that this idea was a runner. Alas, communication from Chelsea predictably dried up and the Thiago Silva flag has stayed in the bowels of Stamford Bridge. Sigh.

I landed at Rio’s Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport at 5.30am on Sunday 30 June.

I hoped that I would arrive at my hotel by 7am and I soon caught a cab that took me through a surprisingly grey and rainy city centre. The cab driver pointed out the Maracana to our right, a thin sliver of white amongst the grey buildings. My pulse rate quickened. After a twenty-five-minute journey, I walked into my hotel at 6.59am and so here’s my first “I work in logistics” comment of the new season. I wolfed down a filling breakfast and trotted out onto the nearby Copacabana Beach to get my bearings and to get those first day vibes. The weather was still disappointing but I was overjoyed to be setting foot on such a famous location.

My first football-related task of the holiday involved getting an Uber to take me a few miles north to the well-heeled Laranjeiras district of Rio. Here, the driver deposited me right outside Manoel Schwartz Stadium. This historic ground, dating from 1914 was originally Brazil’s national stadium, and home of Fluminense, founded in 1902, who played here until decamping to the Maracana upon its construction in 1950.

I liked it that I would be visiting the national team’s first three stadia in Rio – Laranjeiras, Vasco da Gama’s Estadio Centenario and Maracana – in chronological order during my stay.

The stadium soon captivated my heart and soul and, I think, was the absolute highlight of my stay in Rio. On that grey Sunday afternoon, I wandered in and out of its stands, and I truly fell in love with the place. There is an extra reason for this.

We need to go back to the summer of 1929.

From 29 May to 7 July of that year, Chelsea Football Club played a ridiculous sixteen games in South America; ten in Argentina, four in Brazil and two in Uruguay. This tour is of significance for two major reasons. Firstly, it represents Chelsea’s longest-ever pre-season tour of any nature. Secondly, no British team has toured South America since.

I had to smile when I heard that the current Fluminense president Mario Bittencourt say that he was so impressed with the way that Chelsea conducted themselves in the Thiago Silva transfer that he is now a Chelsea fan and hoped to schedule a friendly between the two teams at the Maracana at some stage during Silva’s contract.

This might well be silly lip-service, but you never know. Chelsea at the Maracana? Lovely. If I couldn’t see Fluminense on this trip, maybe on another.

I stayed around ninety minutes, fittingly enough, at Fluminense’s first stadium and I enjoyed every second. The terraces are still intact and the main stand is a lovely structure. I was able to fully immerse myself in my visions of what it must have been like to see a game here. And especially a game that took place on Sunday 30 June 1929, exactly ninety-five years ago to the day.

All those years ago, Chelsea played a Rio de Janeiro XI at Estadio Laranjeiras. The game ended 1-1. Included in the Chelsea team were stalwarts such as Sam Millington, George Smith, Sid Bishop, Jack Townrow and Tommy Law.

I clambered up into the main stand, and took photos of the beautiful stadium. It reminded me a little of the fabled Stadio Filadelfia in Turin. I loved the floodlight pylons in the shape of Christ the Redeemer and I loved the tiled viewing platform, no doubt where the VIPs of the day would watch in luxurious chairs.

Down at pitch side, I spoke to one of the ground staff – a Flamengo fan, boo! – and when I told him about only arriving in Rio that day, and the Chelsea game in 1929, he walked me onto the pitch. There was a frisson of excitement as he told me to look over the goalmouth to my right, to the west. He pointed out the huge statue of Christ the Redeemer atop the Corcovado mountain. It would be the first time that I had seen the famous statue on the trip.

My heart exploded.

This was a genuine and real “Welcome to Rio” moment.

At this stage, I had not realised that I was visiting Laranjeiras on the exact anniversary of the game in 1929. If I had been told this at that exact moment of time, I would have probably feinted.

The stadium is still used for training games, and the occasional match involving some of Fluminense’s lesser teams. There is a small club shop, and I bought a few items.

That night I watched Flamengo play against Cruzeiro in a bar on Copacabana. David Luiz was playing for the home team and I felt surprisingly protective towards him. I liked him at Chelsea and I wanted to see him do well. Later, I watched a Copa America game between Venezuela and Jamaica in another bar and got talking to people from Chile and Venezuela. The common language was football. It had been an amazing first day.

The second day was spent touring the city in a mini bus with other tourists and it enabled me to get to grips with the scale and intensity of the city. Rio is ridiculously dramatic. It is a vibrant, sweaty and sultry city. Alas visibility was poor atop Corcovado and Sugar Loaf. There was a fleeting ten-minute stop outside Maracana, but I knew I would be back on the Saturday. That night I watched a game in another bar between Palmeiras and Corinthians, our two World Club Cup opponents in 2012 and 2021, er 2022.

The third day, the Tuesday, was spent on Copacabana, the weather now brighter, and I was so happy. Cristo Redentor looked magnificent against a deep blue sky above the hotels of the beach. I met up with a local guy that I had been put into contact with; Rudson would be my ticket broker for the week. He had texted me during my wander along the beach to inform me that, miraculously, there would be an extra Fluminense game squeezed into the schedule on Thursday. I was so happy. I would get to see them play. It amazed me that the fixture change had taken place only three days out. And we complain in England.

So, a change of plan. I binned the game at Vasco da Gama – in a rough area, and an expensive ticket, plus an odd pre-registration process involving QR codes and facial recognition – as I would now be going to Maracana twice.

I walked west to Ipanema, and ended up in Garota Café, a super-cool establishment once frequented by Antonio Carlos Jobim – yes him again – and Vinicius de Moraes who penned the bossa nova gem “The Girl From Ipanema” in 1964. I shared a photo on Facebook and there would be an online conversation later between a Chelsea fan – Ian – and myself about the bossa nova revival in the summer of 1984 in the UK involving Everything But The Girl and Sade. We talked about how amazing that summer was for us Chelsea supporters.

As I mentioned in the last blog of 2023/24, I felt a comparison between the summers of 1984 and 2024, but for slightly different reasons.

“I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years. Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.”

More of 1984 later.

I had walked four miles from Copacabana to Ipanema and took a cab back to the hotel.

However, events took a dark turn that evening. Unfortunately, I became victim to what I would term “Pele Belly” and was more-or-less confined to my hotel room for two days. I was so worried that I would not be able to chance going to any games. And I was horrified to think what the return eleven-hour flight to London might entail.

Fackinao.

I slept for long periods and raided the fridge for snacks. Thankfully I bought some “Imosec” and things slightly improved. I felt so tired though. On the Thursday, Rudson met me in my hotel lobby – despite living way north of the city, his office is on Copacabana – and gave me my Fluminense ticket. It cost around £30. Gingerly, I caught an Uber to Maracana. Despite still feeling delicate and tired, I absolutely came to life on that cab ride. The Uber driver was a Fluminense fan too.

In my travels around the city, just like I had done in Buenos Aires, I asked the locals if they were Flamengo or Fluminense. In Buenos Aires, it was roughly 60% Boca and 40% River. In Rio, it was weighted far more steeply to one side. It was easily 95% Flamengo, 5% Fluminense. I knew Flamengo were enjoyed the larger support base, but the scale shocked me. Not to worry, it made me dig in and like Fluminense more.

Those colours!

I was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium, unlike on Monday when our visit had taken place by the statue of the Brazil World Cup winning captain Hilderaldo Bellini at the south-east side. I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

Street vendors, sizzling steaks, hot dogs on skewers, beer, soft drinks, water, flags, colours, supporters. Replica shirts of every design possible. The Flu fans are based at the southern end and Maracana’s only street side bar is just outside. I bought a Heineken from a street vendor who originally wanted to charge me 50 reais, but I paid 20; just over £3.

My seat was along the side, opposite the tunnel, and I entered the stadium. I chanced a burger and fries in the airy concourse.

Then, I was in.

Maracana opened up before me. Those who know me know my love for stadia, and here was one of the very best.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, the beasts of world football were Wembley, Hampden and Maracana. For me to be able to finally step inside the Maracana Stadium filled me with great joy. Back in the days when it held 150,000 or more – the record is a bone-chilling 199,854, the 1950 World Cup, Brazil vs. Uruguay, Brazil still weeps – its vastness seemed comprehendible. When it was revamped and modernised with seats for the 2014 World Cup, the two tiers became one in reality and its visual appeal seemed to diminish. Simply, it didn’t look so huge. Prior to my visit this year, I hoped that its vastness – it is still the same structure after all – would still wow me.

It did.

I had a nice seat, not far from the half-way line. Alas, not only was Thiago Silva not playing, neither was Marcelo, the former Real Madrid left-back; a shame.

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

The home team, despite winning the Copa Libertadores against Boca Juniors in 2023, had enjoyed a terrible start to the season. After thirteen games, Flu were stranded at the bottom of the national league, while the hated Flamengo were top. The stands slowly filled, but only to a gate of 40,000. Maracana now holds 73,139. The northern end was completely empty apart from around 2,500 away fans in a single section. The game ended 1-1 with the visitors scoring via Igor Gomes on forty minutes but the home team equalising with a brilliant long-range effort from Palo Henrique Ganso four minutes into first-half stoppage time. In truth, it wasn’t a great game. The away team dominated the early spells and Fluminense looked a poor team. Their supporters seemed a tortured lot. There were more shrieks of anguish than yelps of joy.

As with the fans in Argentina, there were melodic songs rather than vitriolic and barked chants that the European supporters favour. There were no pointed arms, no staccato clapping, no rapid vocal jousting. The songs from the stands, with occasional flag-waving, were accompanied by rolling arm movements, as in Buenos Aires, and it reminded me of Max Bygraves and his “I wanna tell you a story” arm shrugs. All very floppy. Not aggressive at all.

I caught a cab – a Fiat, there are tons of Fiats in Rio – back to the hotel and slept well that night.

Friday was a quiet day. I visited a local churrascaria steakhouse in the evening and then the Lapa area of the city centre where the bars and nightclubs are centered. I was still 58, but in the UK I was 59. I sank a few beers to celebrate, but if I was honest I still wasn’t 100% and returned home early.

Saturday, my birthday, and a day of contrasts. I stayed in the hotel, again not wanting to chance it, but then booked an Uber to take me to the Flamengo vs. Cuiba game which kicked-off at 8pm. What I found nice about travelling anywhere in Rio was that I was invariably driven past the white walls of Laranjeiras stadium, as if the city was telling me “it all started here, remember.”

Later on, nearing Maracana, the city’s hills spotted with lights, the Uber driver played two Sade songs. This was magical. Truly magical. I instantly remembered the conversation that I had with Ian on the Tuesday. I leaned forward.

“Sade? Sade Adu?”

The driver smiled. I think she was amazed.

“Sade. Yes.”

It was one of those gorgeous moments where life does not get any better.

Sade. The summer of 1984. Rio de Janeiro. The home of bossa nova. The Maracana. Flamengo. The summer of 2024. My birthday.

Music. Football. Travel.

Bliss.

I was deposited in exactly the same spot as on Thursday, but immediately the mood seemed different. More noise. More supporters. More banners. It seemed that Flamengo really were the city’s team. I felt a little conflicted.

Flu over Fla for me, though.

I had paid a little more for my ticket – £40 – but was rewarded with a sensational view high on the main stand side. I took a lift up to the top level and the vast bowl of the Maracana took my breath away. I bought myself a beer – alcohol is allowed in the stands in Brazil – and raised a toast to myself.

“Happy birthday young’un.”

I really loved this game. It was a lot more competitive, and the noise was more constant, and actually quite breath-taking. Cuiba, from the city of the same name, only had a few hundred fans for this match and I didn’t even try to hear them. Surprisingly, Cuiba scored early on when Derek Lacerda waltzed through and struck a shot into the massive Maracana goals. For aficionados of goals, goal frames, stanchions and goalposts, these are beauties.

“Deep sag.”

It was a decent game. My view of it made it. Maracana, dear reader, is vast.

At half-time, I trotted out to the balcony that overlooked the city. I took a photo of a section of the Maracana roof support, pocked and cracked through time, and contrasted it with the lights shining on a nearby hill. Rio is surrounded by huge rising pillars of black rock. And here I was inside the city’s mammoth concrete cathedral.

“Diamond life, lover boy.

We move in space with minimum waste and maximum joy.

City lights and business nights.

When you require streetcar desire for higher heights.”

The second-half began, and the intensity rose and fell. All eyes were on David Luiz. It was so good to see him play again. I last saw him play for Chelsea at the away friendly against St. Patrick’s Athletic in Dublin in 2019. The Fla – or ‘Mengo, take your pick – support never waned and were rewarded when Pedro tucked in an Ayrton cross on the hour. One through-ball from David Luiz will stay in my mind for a while. He was arguably their best player. It ended 1-1. The gate was 54,000. I was expecting more.

There was one more thrill to come.

Whenever I saw photos of Maracana as a child and in later years, I was always mesmerized by its exit ramps, and I tried to imagine how many millions of carioca – Rio’s inhabitants – had descended those slopes over the years. After the game, I walked them too.

The whole night had been a wonderful birthday present to myself.

On the next day, I revisited Corcovado and took in the magnificence of the view of the city underneath the open arms of Cristo Redentor.

Another magical memory.

To complete the 1984 vibe, Everything But The Girl released a song in 1999 called “Corcovado” and it was in my mind all day long.

“Um cantinho e um vilao. Este amor, uma cancao.

Pra fazer feliz a quem se ama.”

For my final game of Brazil 2024, Rudson had booked me a driver to take me out of the Zonal Sud comfort zone and into the central part of the city. Vincius called for me at 6pm for the 8.30pm start. We made our way out, not only past Laranjeiras, but Maracana too.

There are four Serie A teams in Rio; Fluminense, Flamengo, Vasco da Gama and Botofogo. Interestingly, all originated in the affluent Zonal Sud area, some originally as rowing clubs. Botafoga’s full title is Botafogo de Futebol e Regatas. Botafogo now play at Estadio Nilton Santos – along with Garricha and Jairzinho, its favourite son – which was built for the Olympics of 2016. It’s in a pretty shady area. I was grateful that Vincius was with me. He parked up in a grimy side-street and walked me to the modern stadium.

“After you wait here” and he pointed to a statue of Garrincha.

Botafogo play in black and white stripes – like Juventus, an old flame – and I must admit I fell in love with an old Botafogo Kappa black jersey.

Very Juventus 1990.

There was time to relax and take in the local environs. Again, lots of street vendors, lots of replica shirts, lots of hustle and bustle. Both Botafogo and Vasco advertise themselves as the real clubs of Rio. Think Everton over Liverpool. Fluminense once had a tainted history of elitism and racism but thankfully that has virtually disappeared now. There are smaller clubs elsewhere in Rio. But, still, nowhere near as many pro clubs as Buenos Aires, the city that I constantly felt myself comparing Rio against during my stay.

I wolfed down another Heineken at a street side bar. Unfortunately, hardly anybody speaks English in Rio so although I was bursting to talk to the locals, I knew it was a futile wish. At the turnstiles, a camera took my photo as I entered. And we complain in England.

The stadium is a little odd. With a running track, the spectators are a long way from the pitch. One end was completely empty. In fact, both ends are single story but look like they can have extensions if required. The noisy section of home fans was therefore in the two tiers opposite the main stand where I sat. To my right were around 2,000 away fans of Atletico Mineiro, who now boasted Hulk in their ranks, who I saw play at Stamford Bridge for Porto. He is now thirty-eight.

Unlike at the Maracana, there was a full tifo display here, with vertical strips, a huge horizontal banner, flares and smoke. It was mightily impressive. The home team scored after just thirteen minutes via Luiz Henriques. Hulk’s far from incredible team mate Igor Rabello was sent off on twenty-five minutes, and the home team totally dominated the game. Two late goals from Cuiabano and Jefferson Savarino gave Botafogo a deserved 3-0 win in front of 23,000. I knew that Rudson would be happy.

“I am a humble man. I like Botafogo.”

Soon back at my hotel, I decided on a nightcap and popped over the road for a couple of beers in a small bar. Just like on night one, I lucked-out with some drinking companions. I chatted to a group of kit-wearing Botafogo supporters, a few of whom spoke English – thank heavens – and I had a great final hour of my final match day. They had been sat above me in the upper tier of the west stand. The youngest liked Chelsea – and Barcelona, ugh – and we spoke about all sorts. The group were all from Brasilia and one of them is the owner of a lower league team, FC Capital. It was a cracking end to my stay in Rio de Janeiro.

Nine days, eight nights, three stadia, three games, a few Chelsea moments, a truly unforgettable holiday. Rio truly loves its football. I have not stayed in a city where so many locals wear football shirts as a matter of course, going about their usual tasks. There were Flamengo shirts everywhere. Many wore the famous yellow of Brazil too. In Rio, it remains a working class sport. I hope to return one day.

“A corner and a guitar.

This love, a song.

To make those you love happy.”

The rest of my summer was spent trying to avoid most of the rumours about the comings and goings at Chelsea Football Club; my game plan was to try to get to game one, Manchester City at home, and then make my mind up about what I saw with my very own eyes.

Instead, I spent my time following Frome Town as their – “our”? – pre-season developed and merged seamlessly into the first few games in the Southern League Premier South. My travels took me to friendlies at Clevedon Town, Shepton Mallet and Westbury United, with home friendlies against Yeovil Town, Bath City and Swansea City U21s. There was an exceptional opening game in the league at fancied Gosport Borough – the last time I saw Frome play there in 2018, we lost 0-7 after ignominiously starting with only ten players – where a late Curtis Jemmet-Hutson goal gave us a wonderful 1-0 win. Frome were then brought down to Earth with two home defeats against Merthyr Tydfil – 0-2 – and Bracknell Town – 1-2 – in the week leading up to Chelsea’s league opener.

Before the game at Stamford Bridge, I had a walking tour of SW6. I walked from a new parking spot on Star Road to Stamford Bridge, then out to the Bedford Arms on Dawes Road to see Alan and Gary, then down the Fulham Road and Fulham High Street to see the usual suspects in The Eight Bells. It was a yomp of some three miles.

The Eight Bells doesn’t change. I was there from 2pm to 3.30pm, and although it was packed with Chelsea supporters – maybe sixty inside, maybe thirty outside – I only saw two Chelsea shirts. Both were worn by the younger element; excusable.

I met up with Parky and PD, Salisbury Steve, the Kent lot, and Deano called in too. He is off to Chile in November and I vowed to contact the Chilean family I met in Rio. A barmaid had travelled in South America with two friends for four months since the last time I saw her and there was a heady South American feel to the pre-match.

“Sixteen games in 1929. And we complain about pre-season tours in 2024.”

We caught a tube up to Stamford Bridge. Chelsea have adopted the “CFC – LDN” tagline for this season and there is signage everywhere in and around the stadium. The shite new kit is heavily paraded on every spare inch of Stamford Bridge.

Set aside under a section of the old Shed Wall is a bizarre display called “The Garden Of Eden”, some Xbox or Playstation nonsense involving Eden Hazard, geared towards the EA Sports generation that seems to account for a huge proportion of our global fan base these days. The display could easily have been in honour of Jeff Koons.

The first programme of the new year had a striking cover. It consisted of an “upshot” from the middle of a players’ huddle. It reminded me of the famous scene from Stanley Kramer’s “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” when the protagonists realised that they were at last “under a big dubya” and they peer over the hidden treasure.

I am not so sure what treasure we will find at Chelsea this year, but it will be a mad world for sure.

Inside, Stamford Bridge looked the same, but as kick-off approached, there were a couple of “I Hate Modern Football” moments. For a while now, in addition to the Dug Out Club nonsense, we have been treated to the sight of around twenty well-heeled individuals watching the Chelsea players go through their pre-match drills from the West Stand touchline. It looks ridiculous. And God knows how much they pay for the privilege. In close proximity to all of this baloney, a young DJ was set up to spin some discs at a booth and my eyes rolled to the heavens.

In that crucial thirty minutes before kick-off, it would be nice to be able to sing our own songs, adding to the atmosphere nicely – just like we used to do decades ago – rather than be voyeurs to some dance music being pumped out to disinterested spectators.

When I showed a photo of this ridiculous scene to a Brentford fan at work, he commented “it looks like a wedding.”

Women in posh frocks, blokes in tailored shirts and trousers, children at play, a DJ booth, the green grass below. It could easily be a scene from a summer wedding.

That ain’t football.

I could hear the cariocas in Rio laughing at us from six thousand miles away.

I shook hands with Charlie and Alan who sit alongside us. Sadly, Charlie’s father and Alan’s brother Gary passed away on 29 May after a battle with motor neurone disease. Gary’s last match at Stamford Bridge was the last game of 2022/23. Along with their father Joe, Alan and Gary had been sitting alongside us since 1997. Glenn and I attended Gary’s funeral in Crawley at the end of June. He will be missed.

RIP Gary Buchmann.

As 4.30pm approached, another new-fangled addition at Stamford Bridge. In addition to flames alongside the East Stand, there were fireworks and blue fumes from atop the East Stand.

As Alan said “we will get banned for bringing in flares, but it’s OK for the club to fill the air with blue smoke.”

The teams entered the pitch.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Caicedo – Lavia

Enzo

Palmer – Jackson – Nkunku

Or something like that.

Even from afar, our new kit looks shite. Maybe I will write more about it later.

We started well with a fair amount of the ball. I immediately sensed that the battle between Marc Cucarella and Jeremy Doku was going to be entertaining.

Decent noise too. The usual songs.

Enzo was ahead of Lavia and Caicedo. The Argentinian began well.

Then calamity, Doku swapped sides and on eighteen minutes, he gained a yard of space and sent in a low ball into the box. It evaded our defenders, Bernardo Silva touched it on, and Erling Haaland fought off a late challenge from Cucarella to stab home.

Here we go.

Chelsea 0 City 1.

Bollocks.

Nothing about the goal looked dodgy, but VAR was called into action. The goal stood, no surprises.

City had three thousand in the far corner and they were chirping away as you would expect.

Just after, the Conor Gallagher song, to be expected really. I didn’t join in. I was already pissed off with our transfer policy and the new season wasn’t even half-an-hour old yet.

City went close again via Kevin de Bruyne, but Chelsea were having a share of the play. The ball was played in as Enzo made a Lampard-esque run into the box. He was clattered but no decision.

At the other end, a shot from Doku was deflected and Sanchez did ever so well to tip the ball over.

I liked the look of Romeo Lavia, breaking up play and physically strong.

A nice move involving Cole Palmer and Christopher Nkunku set up Nicolas Jackson. A lay-off to Enzo, but his shot was blocked.

City were finding angles to play through us, and we had to rely on Sanchez to spread his legs wide to block a shot.

At last some noise.

CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.

“Come on lads, hit the runners early.”

Just before half-time, a goal from Jackson after Ederson spilled a Palmer effort, but I had soon spotted the linesman’s flag.

VAR…no goal.

The spectators watching on, quite bewildered.

There was a lovely through ball by Jackson in to Nkunku but he did not do himself justice.

Boos at half-time, but surely for Anthony Taylor rather than for our performance. I was relatively happy at the break, though. We had played better than I had expected. This was always going to be the toughest of tasks. Lavia had been excellent.

Soon into the second period, Enzo and Jackson became entangled in front of the City goal just as Jackson was about to strike and the Chelsea fans’ frustrations rose.

Sanchez saved well from Haaland at the other end.

We lost our way a little as the second-half progressed.

We became quiet, City too.

58 minutes : Pedro Neto for Nkunku.

He almost got on the end of a chance, close in, with his very first touch, after a fine ball from Palmer to Enzo, whose cross almost reached the substitute.

“CAREFREE – WHEREVER YOU MAY BE.”

A nice rumble of noise again.

Neto then beat his man and sent over a fine cross that Enzo headed on. The move was kept alive, the ball found Jackson whose acrobatic stab at goal was well saved by Ederson.

67 minutes : Marc Guiu for Jackson and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Romeo Lavia.

80 minutes : Renato Vega for Cucarella.

On eighty-four minutes, Mateo Kovacic, who had grown into being the game’s most impressive player, picked up a loose ball from Wesley Fofana and ran with pace through the middle of our pitch. As he aimed at goal, I uttered the immortal “Fuck off Kovacic” and he duly swept a strike past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

The bloke sitting between PD and Alan, who had not sung a single note of support for the team all game, got up and fucked off out, the City fans did a Poznan and that was that.

Chelsea 0 City 2.

Did anybody, anywhere, really expect anything different?

Next up, Servette Geneva in the Europa Conference on Thursday.

See you there.

Estádio Manoel Schwartz, Laranjeiras.