Brentford vs. Chelsea : 18 September 2026.
Game number seven out of eight on the spin in London was a Friday evening set-to with neighbours Brentford at their compact Gtech Community Stadium. I drove up to West London from work at 2pm and deposited Messrs. Daniels and Parkins outside the Bell & Crown near Kew Bridge at 4.10pm. This plethora of trips to London were on one hand monotonous but on the other hand straightforward. In the case of Brentford, quick too.
On the easy drive to The Smoke, we mentioned that it felt odd to heap praise on the Premier League for once, but their decision to announce changes to the busy Christmas programme a few months in advance was very well received by everyone. Some changes were especially fortuitous for me. By moving our away game at Coventry City to Sunday 27 December, it meant that I could attend the Frome Town vs. Poole Town match on Boxing Day and by shunting our home match against Newcastle United to Sunday 3 January it will allow me to travel to Bath City the day before.
It’s a win-win for me, or hopefully a win-win-win-win.
I had arranged pre-parking further west at Ferry Quays and I slotted into a space there at 4.30pm. I had not had a great deal to eat at work all day, so I was famished. Within a few yards of the car park, there were Thai, Ukrainian and Georgian restaurants but I liked the look of a Turkish one called “Galata Pera.” It had opened at 4pm, so my timing was perfect. I spotted a couple at an adjacent table, and I recognised the woman from Chelsea. She didn’t seem to recognise me, but the man did. We got there in the end. They were from West Sussex. It was typical for me to bump into Chelsea folk at an away game.
What with this restaurant being new to me, its exotic food – I wolfed down some tiger prawns with wholesome Turkish bread and then a stuffed aubergine – and the Turkish music playing, this almost – almost! – seemed like an away game in Europe. It brought back memories of that time in Istanbul in 2014 when I sat outside a café, relatively close to Galata Tower (which this restaurant close to the Thames was surely named) before a titanic match with Galatasaray.
My mind took a flight of fancy as I was immediately transplanted to that exotic city on the banks of the Bosphorus. Overhead, however, the groan and grumble of aircraft descending towards Heathrow through a blanket of dull grey clouds brought me back down to Earth, or at least Hounslow.
Tonight was all about a domestic battle and points in the Premier League.
Knowing that there are severe searches at the away end, I had jettisoned my SLR for this game. Instead, I was having to rely on my far-from-top-quality camera ‘phone.
On the walk back to the pub, I attempted to take a few shots of the river, but everything was too dreary for words; the grey sky, the brown of the river, the gloominess of the trees.
Instead, I decided to point my camera at a tower that is the centrepiece of the London Museum of Water & Steam – doesn’t that sound as dull as Thames water? – but just before I took the photo a mass of birds swept up into the sky and flew overhead. I was instantly reminded of that Alfred Hitchcock film. Was this a foretaste of doom? An indication of a nightmare ahead? Perhaps, then, at that exact moment I should have returned to the restaurant for some baklava and strong coffees and given the game a miss. However, I pressed on.
I joined up with PD, Parky and a bunch of friends from all over the Chelsea kingdom. I met up with Jimmy the Greek from North London, Salisbury Steve from Wiltshire, the brothers Dave and Glenn from Putney, BJ and two of his mates from Texas, the returning Nat and Sujin from Kansas and California, plus Matt and Rachel from Virginia.
“The Bell and Crown” became busy during my stay of over an hour. There was chit-chat, laughter and a few “hellos” to other Chelsea supporters we recognised.
The spikey issue of ticket availability was a main topic of conversation. I suspect that many Chelsea fans believe that foreign supporters are gifted an easier path to obtaining tickets at Stamford Bridge and at away venues than those from more local areas, but my friends from the US told me that it is getting increasingly difficult, rather than easier.
It always saddens me to read on various US / CFC pages on “Facebook” that supporters asking for advice on acquiring tickets to Stamford Bridge are often told to go down the hospitality route. I always felt this was a shame, especially for first-time visitors. First visits should aim to be among the rank-and-file in areas where – until recently anyway – there is more singing and more atmosphere.
For an avid Chelsea supporter to be watching a first game at Stamford Bridge in West View fills me with utter sadness, yet this is the route that the suits at the club crave. For many seasons, I was able to use my network of friends at Chelsea to source spares for visitors – face value, always face value – as did others. It was part of the fabric of our club. It was the way fans operated.
These days, it has changed.
I spoke to Matt and Rachel about this.
“Rather than doing the hard work, making connections with local fans, getting to know them, getting access to a seat via them, newbies feel like they have to use a fast-track system involving huge prices and the high-end hospitality areas of Stamford Bridge.”
I mentioned that my view of this can be compared to my view of AI. Rather than create content using individual skills, people are fast-tracked into getting AI to create God-knows-what, and at God-knows-what cost to the world. Everyone seems to love a short cut, a cheat, a line of least resistance.
I hate modern life.
We stopped by the colourful entrance to the pub on Thames Road for photos and then walked off towards the stadium. There was another photo on Lionel Road as we went our separate ways. Sujin and Nat had been unable to meet the criteria for US fans to get away tickets, so had – through a lucky contact of Nat’s – been able to get two tickets together in the home area.
I told them to sit on their hands should we score. Jumping to their feet should Brentford score would be a trickier operation, as I have found out at various locations such as Arsenal, Leeds United and Blackburn. I also told Nat not to get a selfie with Barry the Bee (“or whatever the fucking Brentford mascot is called”) unlike the div at Arsenal a few weeks ago.
Nat had replied, “good job I am allergic to bees.”
Quite.
Bloody typical, I waltzed through two security checks and wasn’t searched once. I could easily have wrapped my SLR in my rain jacket and smuggled it in. Bollocks.
For some reason, Brentford still went with paper tickets. A quick scan and I was in.
It was 7.35pm, just twenty minutes after we left the pub.
PD very kindly swapped seats with me as I said that taking photos so near the front – row 6 – would have been useless. He gave me his ticket for row 31, just four from the rear.
I spotted BJ a few rows in front; he had to get duplicate tickets from the home box office before the game so was happy that it went smoothly.
I also spotted Matt and Rachel, close by.
With ten minutes to go, the theme from “The Great Escape” was played in its entirety. Is that their song, now? OK.
Then, the lights dimmed and were followed by the usual technicolour barrage of spotlights and flashes. Thankfully no fireworks.
“Hey Jude” and both sets of fans joined in.
The excitable PA went through the teams.
For Jordan Henderson there were predictable boos (from the home fans, I might add) as he made his Chelsea debut. We surmised that Joao Pedro had been left out of the Brazil squad because of injury so his absence here was expected.
But Jordan Henderson and Danny Welbeck starting? Blimey.
Emilio Martinez
Wesley Fofana – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill
Pedro Neto – Jordan Henderson – Valentin Barco – Pep Chavarria
Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers
Danny Welbeck
I am always flabbergasted when I see the folly of wearing a predominantly black kit at a night game. Surely, I am not the only one.
We attacked the home end in the first half, and there was a loud succession of Chelsea songs from the choir all around me. A very noisy “One Man Went To Mow” was followed by an angry rendition of “Zigger Zagger” and I was pleased that I was joining in. What is it they say about football allowing us to get rid of pent-up frustrations from the working week? On the pitch we started very brightly and moved the ball around – but mainly forward – as quickly and as economically as most of us would wish.
This was promising to see.
There was the usual ode to someone called Solomon Kalou, and as soon as I heard it, I knew what I had to do. I sent a message via WhatsApp at 8.09pm to Jimmy the Greek ten yards or so to my right.
“It’s Salomon!”
At 8.09pm, Jimmy the Greek sent a message to me via Messenger.
“It’s Salomon!”
I then spotted him in the crowd, alongside Parky, and we smiled and then took it in turns, at breaks in the chant, to shout the same thing.
“It’s Salomon!”
Valentin Barco was impressing me with his neat give-and-go, and the passing was crisp. Pep Chavarria was an oft-used outlet down the left, and Pedro Neto on the right was often given the ball to run at his defender. On ten minutes, a cross from Chavarria, a neat set up by Danny Welbeck, but a shot from Neto was saved by Kelleher.
Brentford, despite looking a threat on breaks and at set pieces, did not really trouble the Chelsea defence that seemed, for once, to be on top of things.
The away support mocked the home club.
“You’re just a bus stop in Hounslow.”
But for all our possession, we created so little.
On twenty-nine minutes, a free kick fizzed at the ‘keeper, but there had not been much else. Just after, the best ball of the game from Cole Palmer dissected the space between two defenders but Neto wasted the opportunity.
There were two chances in quick succession at our end; Emilio Martinez got down well to save, and then a shot was sent over the bar.
With five minutes to go to the break, Chavarria set up Morgan Rogers but there was a block by Jannik Schuster and the shot went wide.
The last chance of the half fell to Brentford, but another shot was aimed at Martinez.
The Chelsea crowd, so noisy at the beginning, were very quiet in the last few minutes of the half.
I sent a WhatsApp message out : “the steam has gone out of us, hasn’t it?”
The second half began, and the action was still up the other end. After five minutes, Brentford clipped the bar following a Martinez save but offside had been called anyway. Worryingly, the home team seemed to have more belief.
The away support wakened from our slumbers and raucously got behind the players.
“COME ON CHELSEA. COME ON CHELSEA. COME ON CHELSEA. COME ON CHELSEA.”
Just after, a quick break, but a shot from Chavarria flew wide.
At this stage, it felt like a 0-0 game.
But what do I know?
On the hour, a Brentford corner away to our left. Again, there was an unhindered leap at the far post, by Schuster, but unlike the Hull City game, a looping header did not go straight in but sat up nicely for Jaidon Anthony to head home.
Bloody hell.
We tried to rally.
For a while, it seemed that it was going to be Private Sponge’s big day as Jordan Henderson took corner after corner. One delivery caused panic for the home guard, but the chance came and went.
On seventy minutes, a cross from the right from Neto was aimed at Welbeck. Our veteran’s response was to blatantly push his marker. What a load of nonsense.
Just after he was replaced by Geovany Quenda and Josh Acheampong took over from Wesley Fofana.
The three centre-backs had not performed at anything like the level we hope for and Fofana was the worst by a long chalk.
The Chelsea fans were quiet now. Our fight had disappeared too.
Our chances piled up, but virtually every effort was blocked by the legion of red and white shirted jerseys. Henderson continued as the corner-taker down below us, but annoyingly this often involved playing the ball short to Rogers. Surely his presence would have been better served in the penalty area? It baffled me.
Palmer twisted and turned and managed a stab at goal, but the ball spun wide. At times I thought our playmaker was too indulgent.
Lo and behold, on the eighty-third minute, a rapid break from Brentford and the ball was punched into space for Schade. I, of course, immediately feared the worst.
“Fackinell here we go.”
Schade approached and shot at goal. Martinez saved, but I still sensed danger. I brought my hands up and clasped my head as I watched the follow up from Igor Thiago go in.
Sigh.
I was sad to see many among the away support leave the stadium at this point.
What are we? Tottenham?
It was now the turn of the Brentford supporters to cheer with self-deprecation.
“We’re just a bus stop in Hounslow.”
On eighty-seven minutes, Xabi Alonso made more changes.
Estevao Willian for Neto.
Mahdi Nicoll-Jazuli for Barco, a debut for him.
On ninety-two minutes, we conjured up a fancy free-kick routine – too little too late – and Maxence Lacroix headed over.
Two minutes later, while I was trying desperately to unlock my phone – so I could phone The Samaritans – I heard the deep burr of a Northern Irish supporter behind me gravely exclaim “three-null”.
I looked up to see Fabio Carvalho smash the ball in from close-range.
Good God.
Brentford 3 Chelsea 0.
By the time of the final whistle, there were virtually no Chelsea supporters around me. The photo of the empty seats was taken just after the final whistle. Only a few fans were left in my section by this stage.
I had noticed two American women in front of me during the game and I had enjoyed their reactions to the ribald singing in the opening minutes. I wondered if they were two of the many foreigners that had chosen this game as a “bucket list” assignment and if this was their first Chelsea match. As I made my way out, I made polite conversation with one, and she told me that she had been a Chelsea fan for years, and this immediately impressed me. She added that she would have liked to have seen all the Chelsea fans stay until the end.
Sigh.
I made my way out, hands in pockets, bewildered.
I met up with PD and Parky, whose faces were as long as mine.
Showing predictable gallows humour, I turned to three policemen out on the main road and said, “can you arrest me, so I don’t have to watch Chelsea over the next few weeks?”
Of course, that joke backfired on me as I soon realised that there would be no Chelsea, now, for three long weeks anyway.
What a horrible night. Were there any positives? Hardly. Although, looking back, many supporters thought that we had looked tighter defensively in that first-half. In the car, I singled out Pep Chavarria who showed some hearty endeavour before we all slumped together. But apart from him, and maybe Valentin Barco at times, what a lack-lustre performance. What on Earth did Xabi Alonso say to the team at the break? Whatever it was, let’s hope he doesn’t say it again.
Despite a 4am alarm call, thankfully I didn’t feel too tired as I drove west. I eventually reached home at 1.15am.
It had indeed been an evening of birds and bees.
And Chelsea had been well-and-truly fucked.
“A mass of birds swept up into the sky and flew overhead.”
Brentford vs. Chelsea
“She would have liked to have seen all the Chelsea fans stay until the end.“
