Tag Archives: Plymouth Parkway

Tales From Two Derbies

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Chelsea vs. Fulham : 30 August 2025.

Our third match of this new season was to see us play Fulham at home. Our nearest neighbours – I can hardly give them the honour of labelling them as rivals – had beaten us 2-1 on Boxing Day at Stamford Bridge last season and so we all hoped for no repeat. That defeat started a run of poor form from us, but ironically the win by the same score at Craven Cottage in April initiated a fine revival.

With the kick-off for this game taking place at 12.30pm, there was no time to lose. I collected PD at 7am and Parky at 7.30am. We called in at the “McDonalds” at Melksham and we breakfasted “on the hoof” to waste as little time as possible. There were grey skies on the way up to London, but the clouds cleared over the last part of the familiar journey. After driving down onto the Fulham Palace Road, I dropped the lads off at 9.45am at the very southern edge of the King’s Road, and I was parked up on Charleville Road to the north ten minutes later.

For twenty minutes I had driven right through the heart of Fulham, and I mused that the neatly-appointed terraced houses that have undergone a metamorphosis from pre-WW2 working class homes to the dwellings of the “well-to-do” formed an ironic backdrop to the lunchtime game, in a sport that has undergone its own gentrification over the past three decades.

Of course, Fulham is part of the larger borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, and within its boundaries there is another professional football club; Queens Park Rangers. We last played them in the league over ten years ago. What happened to them? Actually, who cares? I never liked them, and I dislike them much more than jolly old Fulham.

On the drive up to London, I was able to update the two lads about the fine form of my local team Frome Town.

On Bank Holiday Monday, I assembled with a few good friends, and the might of Frome’s travelling away army, as we travelled the eight miles over the county boundary into Wiltshire for the away game at Westbury United. In a scenario that strangely mirrors the situation in West London, there is a rather placid rivalry between Frome Town and Westbury United, whereas Frome’s most heated local rivalry is with Melksham Town, further away to the north.

Frome and Westbury have not met too often in recent league seasons, whereas Frome and Melksham have enjoyed many tussles over the years. The Melksham fixture has become a real “grudge match” of late, whereas with Westbury it seems a lot friendlier. To illustrate this point, when Westbury United were met with huge financial problems last season, it was Frome who allowed them to play a few home games at Badgers Hill.

A crowd of 842 assembled at Meadow Lane – now Platinum Hyundai Park – for the game on the Monday. It’s a pleasant little ground at Westbury, the green paintwork of the stands mirrors the all-green of their kit, and the pitch is surrounded on three sides by trees, leaving enough space for the white horse carved into the steep slope of Salisbury Plain to be seen in one corner. Like many non-league grounds, there is a perfect ambience.

Before the game, my Chelsea mate Mark who lives near the ground was able to pose for a photo in the main stand – two rows of seats – alongside Glenn and Ron, who were at their third Frome Town matches of the season. Mark and I go back a long way. He was with Glenn, PD and I on the drive to Stamford Bridge for the monumental game with Leeds United in April 1984.

On a bumpy pitch, and with a troublesome wind blowing, the first half began poorly. However, on thirty minutes a fine cross into the box was met with a leap from Archie Ferris who nodded down for new striker David Duru to slam home. It became an increasingly feisty affair, and the quality only improved slightly, but the away team held on to an important 1-0 win.

Thus far, Frome Town have won all their games this season; three in the league, one in the FA Cup, one in the FA Trophy.

After the Chelsea vs. Fulham game, whatever the score, my attention would be centered on a tough away game at Plymouth Parkway in the next round of the FA Cup that would be kicking off at 3pm.

I caught the train at West Ken, changed at Earl’s Court – bumping into three mates who were headed the opposite direction, “The Clarence” on the North End Road – and reached Putney Bridge at 10.30am. Our cosy corner of the pub just had enough space for one more. I squeezed in alongside the usual crew.

A big shout out here to my mate Ian, who I have only really got to know these past two years, but who was celebrating the fiftieth anniversary, to the actual day, if not the actual time, of his first-ever Chelsea match. His “first time” was an away fixture at Kenilworth Road in the old Second Division on Saturday 30 August 1975.  The match unfortunately ended up 3-0 to Luton Town. The team that day was a real mixture of old and new, with 1970 stalwarts John Dempsey, Ron Harris and Charlie Cooke alongside Ray Wilkins, Ian Britton, Teddy Maybank, John Sparrow and Brian Bason. The gate was a decent 18,565.

Ian’s non-league team Brackley Town, who were in the same division as Frome Town in 2011/12, would be featured on TV later in the day with their National League home game against Scunthorpe United being shown live.

It was super to meet up with Deano once again. Since we last spoke, he had visited Chile and Argentina with his dear wife Linda, and he regaled me with some lovely stories, although the time that a puma jumped up on top of his camper van during a night in Patagonia scared me to death.

I spotted an old photo of “The Eight Bells” and I include it for interest.

Our favourite Fulham pub dates from 1629. From 1886 to 1888, Fulham Football Club used it as their changing rooms when they played at nearby Raneleigh Gardens. Unlike Chelsea, Fulham have had many previous grounds, just like QPR, and flitted around this area, on both sides of the Thames for many years before finding a permanent home at Craven Cottage. It would have been all so different if Gus Mears had successfully tempted Fulham Football Club to play at Stamford Bridge at the turn of the twentieth century, eh?

Still wary of malfunctioning digital season tickets, I left the pub before the others at 11.30am. There was a gaggle of Fulham lads on the northbound platform and no doubt a lot of their match-going fans would have been drinking in the pubs in the immediate area of “The Eight Bells.”

There was no queue at the turnstiles, and no issues with my ‘phone, and I was in.

It was 11.50am.

On Thursday we had heard about the teams that we would be playing in the Champions League first phase, that long and laborious process that will stretch out from 17 September to 28 January. I have a few things to say about all this.

Firstly, I don’t like the fact that UEFA have tagged two extra games into this phase. An away game in Europe is no laughing matter for the many supporters that try to attend as many games as possible. Isn’t that the point of being a supporter? As a result of this, I am absolutely toying with the option of missing one of the four home games as a single game protest that won’t mean a jot to anyone else but will mean a lot to me.

Secondly, I am fearful of how much the home games will cost. Will the prime Barcelona game be priced at a different level to the other three, most noticeably Pafos? Or will all of these come in at the same mark? If so, how much? I am guessing £60 for my seat. Ouch. That’s £240 for those four games. Double ouch.

Thirdly, due to my attendance at four games in the US in June and July, I only have six days leave left until the end of March. Ouch again. With of this this in mind, I will try to get to one European away match, but surely no more. Domestically, I have a fruity little trip to Lincoln City – can’t wait – to plan out, plus there is the problem of the away game at Elland Road on a Wednesday in December, which will surely need paying attention to.

Munich is out. It’s too early. Plus, there is a part of me that wants to keep that 2012 memory pure, and unaltered. I might never visit Munich again for this reason. Atalanta is an option as it is the only stadium, and city – Bergamo – that I have not visited. Napoli is an exhilarating place, its team now managed by Antonio Conte, and during any other year, I would be tempted even though I visited it in 2012. And then there is dear old Baku. I have visited it three times already; in 2017 and 2019 with Chelsea, and last December on my return hop from Almaty. I would dearly love to return, but there is the huge problem of the time it takes to get to and from Azerbaijan.

All I can say is that is a lovely problem to have and watch this space.

Incidentally, isn’t it odd that we have been paired with four teams from the 2011/12 campaign?

Napoli, Benfica, Barcelona, Bayern.

Inside Stamford Bridge, all was quiet. Not much was happening. Everything was quiet. My focus, again, because of the proximity, was on the ridiculous line of “Dugout Club” spectators who were watching the players go through their pre-match shuttles pitch side.

At 12.20pm, a trio of pre-match songs that are meant to get us in the mood.

“Our House.”

“Parklife.”

“Liquidator.”

Enzo Maresca had chosen the same eleven that started at Stratford.

Our Robert, Our Malo, Our Trev, Our Tosin, Our Marc, Our Enzo, Our Moises, Our Estevao, Our Joao, Our Pedro, Our Liam.

Willian and Pedro on the wings? Well, it worked in 2016/17.

“Blue Is The Colour” boomed out and now we joined in.

Beautiful.

As the teams appeared, fireworks were set off from the top of The Shed roof once again, and I wasn’t sure if I really, deep-down, liked this or not. It seems to have taken over from flames in front of the East Stand anyway.

Modern football.

Flash, bang, wallop.

Fulham have gone for an all-white kit this season and I wonder what their traditionalists think about it. On this occasion, they wore black socks.

With Clive and PD alongside me, the game began.

We were treated to an early flurry of chances; a Joao Pedro roller, a Liam Delap shot that was blocked, a well-worked Fulham move that ended with a shot just wide.

Fulham : “is this a library?”

Chelsea : “there’s only one team in Fulham.”

Alas, Delap went down with what looked like a strain as he chased a long ball, and after some treatment was substituted by the youngster Tyrique George, he of the equaliser at Craven Cottage in April. Without the physical presence of the robust Delap, we looked a lot weaker up front. I have never been convinced with George leading the line.

There were two shots on goal from Fulham, who were looking the livelier now.

On twenty minutes, a spin away from trouble by Rodrigo Muniz, and the ball was played forward to Joshua King. I immediately presumed that King was offside, as did one or two others. However, play continued. King turned Tosin easily and fired the visitors from down the road ahead.

Ah, bollocks.

I hoped and prayed that VAR would chalk out the goal for offside. Firstly, there was nothing, but after a considerable wait, VAR was called into action, but for a foul and not for offside. Colour me confused.

Then another wait. Eventually, the referee Rob Jones walked over to the pitch side monitor and gazed at it for yet more minutes. The decision was no goal because of a foul.

What foul? We never saw a foul.

Anyway, I didn’t cheer the decision and on with the game.

This “get out of jail” moment resulted in the loudest moment thus far as a loud “Carefree” sounded out from the Matthew Harding.

However, PD was unimpressed.

“We are awful.”

We toiled away but didn’t create much at all. There was a lovely, cushioned flick from Estevao that set up the overlapping Malo Gusto but his cross was easily claimed by Bernd Leno.

Fulham then retaliated, and Robert Sanchez blocked, but offside anyway.

“Neto is quiet, eh?”

On thirty-seven minutes, a passage of play summed it all up. Enzo Fernandez tried his best to plod away from his marker, but took an extra touch and lost possession, and then Moises Caicedo invited a booking with a silly and lazy challenge.

Oh dear.

When Tosin ventured forward for set pieces, the Fulham fans sang a very derogatory song about him.

“He’s a wanker you know, Tosin Adarabioyo.”

I was at least impressed that they knew how to pronounce his surname; a feat that is still too difficult for us Chelsea fans.

On forty-two minutes, at last a jinking run from Neto out on the left that forced a corner. From that, a header over.

Just after, I moaned about Estevao coming inside when he had so much space behind the last defender. With that – he must have heard me – he set off on a jinking run down the right and into all that beautiful space, but it came to nothing.

This was all so disjointed.

With the VAR delay, there were eight minutes of extra time signalled.

Deep into this stoppage time, there was a run of corners. Shots were blocked, pinball in the six-yard area. Then, one final corner from the boot of Enzo in front of the baying Cottagers. A perfect delivery, and a perfect leap from Joao Pedro. His header was clean, and unchallenged.

We were up 1-0.

Phew.

At the break, we reflected on a poor game of football thus far.

Thankfully, there was a tad more energy and vigour in the way we began the second period. On fifty-four minutes, with me trying to get a worthwhile shot using my pub camera, I spotted a Trevoh Chalobah shot / cross hitting the arm of a Fulham defender, and I immediately thought “handball”, before snapping the resulting shot from Caicedo on film. There was an appeal from Enzo, nearest to the referee, but I saw the man in black gesture that the ball had hit his shoulder. I wasn’t so bloody sure.

After what seemed an age, VAR was called into action, and then more staring at the pitch-side monitor from Rob Jones. After – what? – three minutes maybe, the mic’d up referee began babbling to the crowd but it wasn’t too clear. I then I heard him utter the phrase “unnatural position” and I knew our luck was in.

Penalty.

I whispered to Clive.

“Unnatural position? Is that the same as Parky going to the bar?”

Enzo made up for his wavering display by striking the ball right down the middle, right down Broadway, right down Fulham Broadway, right down Walham Green.

We were now 2-0 up.

Another phew.

There were glimpses from Estevao of potential greatness. There was a fantastic wiggle, but his effort went just wide.

“Champions of the World” sang the Chelsea faithful, and I toyed with notion of us being top, but I soon decided against a “Catch Us If You Can” update on “Facebook.”

I looked over at the Fulham fans.

They derided us with a “WWYWYWS” chant, and Clive and I just laughed.

“Villa Park.”

“Exactly.”

No more needs to be said. They couldn’t even send 20,000 to Birmingham in their biggest game for decades and decades.

I looked above The Shed, saw the “World Champions” banner and mused that they aren’t even champions of their own postcode.

On the hour, Joao Pedro came close with three efforts. He was sent through, one on one with Leno, but missed out. Then came a shot that was blocked. Then a fantastic cross from Neto down below us that picked him out, but the ball as just out of reach, which I just about caught on film.

On sixty-eight minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Estevao.

“I’ve seen enough. He’s going to be good.”

Gittens looked neat in his cameo down below me.

On eighty-one minutes, a double substitution.

Andrey Santos for George, who had been quiet.

Reece James for Pedro Neto, who had improved in the second half.

With that, PD and Clive substituted themselves and left too.

On eighty-five minutes, a Joao Pedro volley but a fine Leno save. Our striker was everywhere inside the box in that second period; my man of the match, I think.

I am sad to report that the atmosphere was so mild, though.

Sigh.

There was a great cross from the Fulham substitute Adama Triore from the right that went unpunished, a free header missing the target.

A shot from distance from Reece James.

Another eight minutes of injury time was met with groans.

“Groans from even the Fulham fans I think.”

I just wanted to get on my way home.

There was a little late drama. Another cross from Traore was just a touch too deep, and then the resultant corner allowed a header that was hacked off the line by none other than Joao Pedro.

Definitely man of the match.

At the end of the game, at around 2.30pm, yet more bloody fireworks flew into the air from the top of The Shed.

Good grief.

The chap in front commented “that’s a bit much, innit?”

“Yeah, it’s only Fulham.”

Postscript :

On the drive home, I was elated to hear that Frome Town had beaten Plymouth Parkway 4-0 in the First Qualifying Round of the FA Cup. This was a fine away win against a team one step above in the football pyramid.

BA13 vs. BA11

SW6 vs. SW6

Tales From A Box

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Chelsea vs. Fulham : 26 December 2024.

Nobody likes sloppy seconds.

And that was a very sloppy second-half performance. We just about edged the first-half, but lost our way significantly after the break.

Right, that’s the match report done. What else happened on Boxing Day 2024?

I was up early for the game with Fulham. The alarm rang at 5.30am and I soon got into my morning routine. While my hometown prepared itself for the Frome Town vs. Plymouth Parkway game at 3pm – a relegation six-pointer – I crept around in the darkness and collected first PD and then Glenn. Then a quick spin through some back roads to collect Ron from his house at 7am and then on to collect Parky at 7.20am.

There were five-up in the car for the first time since Aston Villa a few weeks back, and this was only the third time this season that Ron has been with us. It was lovely to get the gang back together. As a “thank you” for the time we spend with Ron, the Chelsea Foundation very kindly gave Glenn a ticket for the Chelsea Foundation box for the Villa game, and today it was my turn. This allowed me to give my season ticket to Glenn who would be watching alongside Alan, Clive and PD in the Sleepy Hollow.

On the M4, as we headed west near Swindon, everything was quiet. Outside, the skies were a mixture of black and various dark grey hues. There were strong blocks of darkness, some low-lying cloud, but in truth it didn’t look like the sky at all, more a painter’s palette, with colours mixing and blurring. With the spots of water on my driver’s side window contorting an already ethereal scene, the effect was mesmerising. Then, suddenly appearing high, just through some gaps in the blotchy clouds, I spotted the moon, though it was the slimmest and feintest sliver of white, barely there, barely visible.

The road was almost devoid of traffic.

I stopped at Membury Services for a couple of cans of iced coffee to keep me going, but also a very stale bacon bap.

On the drive, I coolly stated that “Fulham never win at Chelsea. Their last win was in 1979 in the old Second Division.”

I drove into London bang on time. I dropped PD and Parky off near The Eight Bells at 9.30am and I dropped Ron and Glenn outside the main gates just after. I did a little driving around SW6 – some reconnaissance – to check out the area’s new parking regime. In the end, I parked, again, right outside the Italian restaurant that I used for the Shamrock Rovers game, which seemed strangely ages ago. Then, a brisk walk down to Stamford Bridge.

I had been keeping a secret from the chaps for this game. Our great friend Dave was over from his home in the South of France with his football-mad seven-year-old son Jared and I had managed to obtain two tickets for them via my friend Gary. Dave was originally from Dartford in Kent but I first met him out in Los Angeles when Chelsea played a couple of matches in the summer of 2007. At the time he was living in New York and only returned to England in around 2013. He was, memorably, with me when Demba Ba did his magic at Anfield that year. Since then, he moved to France. His son has top Chelsea pedigree; he was born on the same day that Chelsea won at West Bromwich Albion in 2017 to win our last league title. I visited Dave in Nice for a day in September 2023 while on holiday on the Italian Riviera, but the lads had not seen Dave for a good three years or so. We decided to keep their visit a surprise.

Dave and Jared, a keen footballer now, had encountered train problems en route but were waiting for me ahead of schedule at 10.15am. We met up with Glenn in the hotel bar and there were hugs and smiles. I handed over the two season tickets, just a few yards away from our seats, and then the three of them sped off to meet up with the lads in the pub near Putney Bridge.

I sat with Ron, and three long-time Chelsea fans – John, Mark and his mother – and waited for a few more of the other Chelsea players who take part in the pre-match hospitality to arrive. I was gasping for a drink, but was gasping at the price that I was charged for a small “Diet-Coke”; a mighty £3.58. It was nothing more than half-a-pint.

A dry bap, an expensive “Coke”, I was doing well.

I really enjoyed spending time with the three supporters, two of whom – Mark and John – I regularly see at the hotel. Both kept me occupied with stories from a shared Chelsea past. I had chatted to Mark at our mutual friend Gary’s funeral back in June, and Mark’s mother was there too. His mother had been born locally in Chelsea in 1940 and lived very close indeed to Stamford Bridge, possibly just off the Fulham Road. She explained how she got to know some of the players in the late ‘fifties, and how one of them – I forget who – was her late husband’s best man, and that two others were Mark’s Godparents.

Talk about Chelsea heritage.

Some players arrived.

Tommy Langley, Gary Chivers, Colin Pates, John Bumstead, David Lee, John Boyle.

They paired up and went on their way around the executive and hospitality areas at around midday. There was more chat with a few other Chelsea fans; a couple from Boston, their first match, a couple of lads from Norway.

At 1pm, I disappeared out of the hotel and soon find myself being welcomed into the Chelsea Foundation box that sits next to the Shed Wall inside the stadium, right down the southern end of the West Lower. Glenn had praised the lovely selection of food on offer at the Villa game, and I was looking forward to some better-quality food than I was served at Membury Services. Not long after I had sat at one of the two tables, I spotted a former player arrive.

Brian Bason played nineteen games for Chelsea between 1972 and 1977, and I think that he was taken aback that I recognised him. We had been friends on Facebook before my account was hacked in June, and I had actually forgotten that we were friends again on my new account. I enjoyed hearing about Brian’s Chelsea career and it gave me great pleasure to hear that he was a boyhood fan of the club. I am not sure if it was his debut, but he told the story of him playing at Tottenham in October 1972 – and winning 1-0, of course – and being so thrilled that Ron Harris gave him a lift back to his house after the game.

“Ron wasn’t a dirty player. He was just hard and solid.”

We spoke about Brian’s blooter against Carlisle in the autumn of 1975, but how Sammy Nelson broke his leg in a League Cup tie at Highbury in October 1976. I remembered that I had seen Brian play twice for Chelsea – at home to Cardiff City, away to Bristol Rovers – and those games were just before the leg-break. Incidentally, Brian was replaced by Ron Harris in that Arsenal game.

Brian went on to play 130 games for Plymouth Argyle, and also for Vancouver Whitecaps, Crystal Palace, Portsmouth and Reading. While playing in the NASL he played against Pele and George Best. Just imagine that. Brian retired from football in 1983 and he now lives in Brittany. He’s a lovely chap.

The food on offer was unsurprisingly top quality, and I devoured some chicken breasts with assorted vegetables. As I was driving, I kept to “Diet-Cokes” and strong coffees.

Ron arrived with David Lee, Colin Pates, John Bumstead and Gary Chivers and tucked into some food too; “I’m starving.”

At 2.45pm we went outside and took our seats in the front row of the two rows in front of the box.

A box on Boxing Day. The SW6 derby was about to begin.

Back in 1984, Chelsea faced another local foe in a Hammersmith & Fulham derby. On 26 December 1984, we travelled to Loftus Road and eked out a 2-2 draw, with both goals coming from Kerry Dixon, one of them a penalty. I was listening in to score updates at home in Somerset. QPR was always a difficult ticket for me, and I didn’t see my first match at Loftus Road until 1995. Hell, I didn’t see my first game at Craven Cottage until 2004.

I dislike QPR intensely in the 1979 to 1990 period as they often seemed to have the upper-hand over us. I remember a horrible 1-3 defeat at The Bridge on a rainy and dismal Saturday in March 1979, and the couple of Rangers fans sat right in front of me in the East Lower.

The gate at Loftus Road on Boxing Day 1984 was a mighty 26,610. At least half of the spectators would have been Chelsea. We used to take over the place in those days.

Here is a comparison with QPR’s home games against all London teams that season.

Tottenham Hotspur 27,404

Chelsea 26,610

Arsenal 20,189

West Ham 16,085

QPR had seven gates under 12,000 that season, including 11,007 on a Friday night against Liverpool, the European Champions, although that game was live on TV. In those days, TV games were often poorly attended.

In 2024, it was a mild Boxing Day, and the masses had packed out Stamford Bridge to another capacity crowd.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

It was odd to be watching from such a strange angle. I noticed how shallow the West Lower is; a really low rake, a low angle, unlike the old West Stand.

The game began and Chelsea attacked the Shed. Fulham probably enjoyed the best of the first five minutes but we steadily improved as the game developed. Jadon Sancho on the far side was an early bright spark, an early leading light, and he looked keen to impress. Both teams were sounding each other out, with only a few jabs being thrown.

On sixteen minutes, the game changed. Cole Palmer had started the game quietly, but there is always a threat when he is given the ball. Levi Colwill, our most consistent centre-back now, passed the ball to Palmer and he moved gracefully forward. He evaded the presence of one Fulham player and then another, all the while the ball mesmerizingly close to his feet. He advanced further and the coolly and calmly dispatched the ball through a crowd of legs and past Bernd Leno, who used to be a goalkeeper, and into the goal.

I’ll be honest. I could hardly believe what I had seen. I turned around and said “in those situations, he is ice-cold” and I immediately added to Ron and Brian that it was a goal that was so reminiscent of Jimmy Greaves. Greaves would often pass the ball into the net.

Chelsea 1 Fulham 0.

Fantastic.

From Alan in The Sleepy : “THTCAUN.”

Chris in the West Lower : “COMLD.”

Just after, there was some over-elaboration which frustrated us all, with Nicolas Jackson and Palmer combining but a weak effort on goal.

Just after that, some more lovely stuff from Palmer and a curler from outside the box. We were in a great little spell.

But then Fulham got involved in the game. There was a shot that cleared the bar, and then someone called Calvin Bassey had an unfettered and lengthy run up the park before shooting low, but Sanchez was able to save.

Adama Traore was playing well, too, and Alex Iwobi was floating around waiting to strike.

Halfway through the first-half, I mused that it was perhaps a little fortunate that we were 1-0 up.

A lovely free-kick from Cole Palmer was floated into an empty six-yard box where it was met by a dive from Marc Cucarella, but the effort was firstly saved by Leno and then kicked to safety by a teammate.

As half-time approached, I was able to say it was a decent enough game, and we had indeed edged it.

Bloody quiet though.

I turned to Ron.

“Good news. Frome are winning 2-0 at half-time.”

At the break, I fed myself manically.

Cheese and biscuits, a Christmas crumble with apple and mincemeat, some cheesecakes and ice creams, a coffee.

It was the quickest half-time ever.

“That’s what happens when you spend the entire time stuffing your face with food.”

I missed the start of the second-half by a minute or so, the shame.

There was a fine curling effort from Enzo that was tipped over the bar by Leno, then a header by Colwill that was quickly disallowed for offside. Such a shame, because it came from a deliciously whipped-in cross by that man Palmer.

Iwobi went close down at our end, and the game heated up. A few of us in the West Lower tried to get others fired up to join in with some chanting but it was a desperate struggle. The noise had increased, though. It was, no longer, football in a library.

Fulham definitely grew stronger and were especially worrying me on the counter-attack where Traore and others were occasionally gifted space. Cucarella, pushed inside when we had the ball, was often out of position when we lost the ball. Very often it was two white shirts against his solitary blue one.

As the second-half developed, we grew frustrated with our slow build up play. I struggled to see the point in us gathering some momentum, Fulham out of shape, but then slowing the game down to a snail’s pace.

An arthritic snail at that. An arthritic snail with asthma.

Fackinell.

We just didn’t go for the kill in that second-half. And our play became so sloppy, and lacking focus.

We grew tense.

Sanchez made a big save close-in from Andreas Pereira.

On sixty-six minutes, at last a chance, started by a fantastic tackle by Caicedo, and then a strong piercing run by Jackson but saved well by Leno.

“Frome are 3-0 up, Ron.”

An effort from Raul Jiminez was sliced way up into the Shed Upper.

The tension would not go away. Fulham were a decent team. No doubt.

Fulham made a few changes, but we only brought on Christopher Nkunku and his blue balloons in place of Jackson, who had not been at his best.

Our sloppiness continued.

On eighty-two minutes, a cross from the Fulham left by Iwobi was met by a big leap by Timothy Castagne, who headed it back for Harry Wilson to head down and in and past Sanchez. The play was right in line with us and it all looked like an offside was involved, but alas not.

We attacked again, the game opening up, but Fulham always looked better placed to exploit the spaces that were appearing. Six minutes of extra time were signalled.

Death or glory?

Something like that maybe.

Alas, in the very last minute, with us all standing in the box, Fulham attacked us after the ball was given up way too easily. Sasa Lukic burst in front of us and crossed low for Rodrigo Muniz to turn the ball past Sanchez.

I slumped in my seat as the Fulham players celebrated in the far corner.

Bollocks.

For the neutral, a decent game. Fulham had played well, and had deserved a point, but perhaps their victory – hello 1979, the lads would crucify me in the car – was equally of our doing as theirs.

To be honest, though, no grumbles. We had been poor in that second-half.

There was a quick “hello goodbye” with Dave and I gave Jared a hug. I was so sad that his first game at Chelsea had ended in the saddest of ways.

There was time to tell Ron and Glenn that Frome had eventually walloped Plymouth Parkway 5-0 (four wins in a row now, no goals conceded either) before I marched back to the car.

The Fulham fans were cock-a-hoop on the Fulham Road.

“There’s only one team in Fulham…”

I felt like saying “with not one single major trophy since 1879, it ain’t you” but I kept silent.

At Tony Millard’s “The Clarence” on the North End Road, the boozer where many old school Chelsea types, old school hoolies, and those on banning orders reside on match days, the opening bars of “Yes Sir I Can Boogie” by Baccara were playing. It was clearly a very strange night in deepest SW6, but surely things would return to normal very soon.

Tales From The Warm Cloak Of Friendship

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Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 24 September 2023.

On the drive up to London early on Sunday morning, none of us were feeling confident of a pleasing performance against Aston Villa.

“Just can’t see where the next goal is coming from.”

“If we are driving back down the M4 tonight with a 2-0 win behind us, I will be absolutely amazed.”

“Tough game ahead.”

Elsewhere in my football world, things were a little better. Since Chelsea’s lifeless and underwhelming 0-0 draw at Bournemouth, I had witnessed two Frome Town games.

On Tuesday evening, in wet and blustery conditions, I watched with my Canadian cousins Kathy and Joe and a few friends – eight of us in a line – in the small main stand at Badgers Hill as Dodge met Plymouth Parkway in an FA Cup replay. Despite wet and blustery conditions, we watched transfixed as the home team won 2-1 with a great performance that included grit and determination and no little skill. James Ollis scored both goals. There was even a very late penalty save from Kyle Phillips to preserve the victory. It was, I am sure, one of the most enjoyable games of football that I have ever seen in Frome. A circle was completed that night since Kathy’s parents, Mary and Ken, met us at Stamford Bridge in August 2001 for the home opener against Newcastle United. They watched in the West Stand and loved it. Twenty-two years later, another game brought the family together once again.

On Saturday – the start of yet another two-game weekend – I travelled down to Salisbury to see Frome visit Bemerton Heath Harlequins in the FA Trophy. Here, the visitors were victors again, with another two goals for Ollis and one for the mercurial talisman Jon Davies.

I think there’s a tendency at lower level football to allow players – your team’s players, your players – a little more room for error than in the professional game; to be a little more lenient, to not get irate with every single mistake. For starters, the standard is lower, there are bound to be mistakes. Why would any spectator get on the back of such players? Of course, the gates are lower too (312 on Tuesday, 109 on Saturday) and to see a supporter glowing with incandescent rage in such surroundings would surely be frowned upon. The supporter in question would be labelled a fool. And the supporter would look stupid too.

However, at the top level of football, supporters seem to enjoy berating under-performing players at the slightest opportunity because greater levels of skill are expected. Oh, and their salaries. The salaries alone allow for constant abuse right?

I know what type of “support” I appreciate.

I arrived at “The Eight Bells” just after the pub had opened at 10am and The Smiths’ “The Queen Is Dead” welcomed me in.

“Has the world changed or have I changed?”

Quiet at first, the boozer soon filled up. The lads from Kent soon showed up, always full of smiles and laughs. They had heard that Frome Town’s next game in the FA Cup – the third qualifying round – was to be at Ramsgate next Saturday.

“Are you going, Chris?”

“Hope so, yeah.”

“Bloody hell. It’s a long way from Sevenoaks, let alone Somerset.”

Phil, Kim and Andy were all to tell me at various stages during the pre-match that the UK’s biggest “Spoons” is in Ramsgate. Kim also had a funny story from his last visit to Ramsgate.

“We were in this boozer and a bloke comes in and asks if the pub is doing Sunday Roasts. So the barman says ‘sure, I can do a beef or chicken’ and the bloke asks if there are any vegetarian options. The geezer goes ‘well, I can do you exactly the same but without the beef or chicken’.”

Howling.

How odd that we were in the “Town of Ramsgate” pub before the West Ham away game last month. My FA Cup travels will take me from Cornwall to Kent this autumn. I love the early rounds of the FA Cup.

Glenn and I wolfed down a full English.

Bacon, sausage, fried egg, hash browns, baked beans, fried tomato, mushroom, toast and butter.

Perfect.

I was enjoying this pre-match, as always, and was sat with Parky, Salisbury Steve, PD and Glenn. I looked from wide left to wide right and saw only blokes in our half of the cramped bar. There were around fifty in view. Only one was wearing official Chelsea gear.

…talk about “old school.”

While I was waiting for a friend to arrive, I stepped outside the pub for a few minutes. My ‘phone wasn’t logging on to the pub’s wi-fi connection and I wanted to see if I had missed any messages. As I stood outside, I flicked on “Facebook” and found myself reading a post from my friend Gary, originally from Fulham but now living in Torquay, about his trip to London but also about his increasing alienation from Chelsea Football Club. Halfway through his post, I looked up to see him walking by, no more than five yards away. I never see him down this part of Fulham. What a small world. We had a little chat, a little grumble about the way the club is being run, and we centered on the abandoning of the away coach travel subsidy. It is a subject close to Gary’s heart since he used to run up to five coaches to most Chelsea away games in the late ‘eighties and ‘nineties. “Gary’s Coaches” have gone down in Chelsea folklore. We spoke about how the modern game has increasingly left us cold. Over the past few weeks, I have mentioned to many that the “warm cloak of friendship” is the major reason why I still go to Chelsea. This club just doesn’t seem like my club any more. New ownership. New players. There is not a great connection these days. It was so noticeable that those who went to the “Legends” game while I was in Italy a fortnight ago really enjoyed themselves and many mentioned the special relationship that they enjoyed with those players from that era. I find it hard to warm to this current lot, this current bunch. Funny game, football.

Not long after, my friend Phil, and his brother Richard, arrived in the now heaving pub. Phil is originally from South London, just south of the river, but has been living in the United States since 1973. I have known him since a memorable weekend in Chicago in 2006 when Chelsea played in the MLS All-Star Game. We have met up on many a US Tour though, like me, he didn’t go to any games this summer.

“Why are we playing a team with the calibre of Wrexham?”

Phil has been loyally reading these match reports since they first appeared around fifteen years ago. Phil’s “thing” is to pick one particular phrase that I have used in each report and to simply repeat it. I wonder what phrase it will be from this week.

Anyway, thanks for your continued support mate.

I had managed to grab a last minute ticket for Phil and – luckily – the seller’s father drinks in “T8B” too. It was an easy exchange to set up.

At 1pm, we set off for the ground. With the increased security at games now, I had devised a new way of smuggling both my camera and lenses into the stadium without getting stopped by the line of stewards. Large cameras are now clearly on the list of banned objects at Stamford Bridge but I won’t let the bastards win. I can’t give the game away completely, but I hid my camera and lenses using a system not dissimilar to the way that newly excavated soil was hidden from the camp guards in “The Great Escape.”

I was inside at 1.30pm.

What with the amount of injuries that had hit our squad, the team that Mauricio Pochettino chose looked surprisingly familiar.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo – Gallagher

Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk

With Alan absent, Rob from Melksham came down to sit next to me.

So, 2012 & 2021 vs. 1982.

The game began.

As is so often the case, we began brightly. Aston Villa looked happy to hold back allowing us the ball. Early on, a good move found Raheem Sterling in the inside-left channel. His touch let him down.

I mouthed “terrible first touch.”

My neighbours agreed.

Budgie : “Terrible first touch.”

PD : “Terrible first touch.”

I leaned over to PD.

“That needed the touch of a silk glove.”

“Like the way you’d touch a woman.”

I laughed.

“Not the way you would touch a woman mate. The ball would have cleared the stand roof and the hotel.”

PD howled.

The first quarter of an hour was all ours, but Villa had unsurprisingly led the singing.

A chant of “Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” (you know the tune) was met by ironic cheering from the away fans.

On twenty minutes, much against the run of play, Robert Sanchez reacted magnificently to Lucas Digne’s rasping and dipping volley that was knocked out to him from a corner.

“Typical. All us, but they have the best shot on goal.”

Just after, a great ball from Mudryk set up Nicolas Jackson into space but his shot was well saved by Emiliano Martinez, the ball creeping past the near post.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

We dominated play with occasional bursts from the two wide players.

“Don’t forget the ball, Mudryk.”

The same player then bottled a tackle and the resultant shot was deflected wide.

The quiet atmosphere improved when a semi-decent “Cam On Chowlsea” swept around the ground.

Glenn was annoyed that Pochettino was sat for most of the game. He wanted him prowling the technical area.

“Nah, he’s paid a lot of money for that dug out seat mate. Why should he stand?”

On thirty-four minutes, a long pass from Axel Diasi found Malo Gusto who then cut the ball back to Enzo. His shot faded and drifted just wide.

On thirty-eight minutes, a long corner was headed back to Nicolo Zaniolo – who? – but his fierce volley was magnificently thwarted by a great Sanchez reaction save. Top marks indeed.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

Mudryk continued to cause a few moments of worry in the Villa defence as the half ended and at last there was noise in the stands. After a fine Sterling cross, a Disasi leap and clean header hit the back of the net but was immediately called back for offside. There was an air shot from Sterling when he found himself close to goal at an angle.

It had been a frustrating half, and the two saves had, worryingly, kept us in it.

At half-time, nobody was shocked that we hadn’t scored.

The second-half began as brightly as the first. Sterling, running on to a lovely long ball, carried it too far and virtually ran in to Martinez at the near post. How frustrating. Jackson went close from a delightful chip from Enzo but was ruled offside anyway. A great ball from Silva, splitting the atom, found Sterling but his shot was blocked again. The same player was then ruled offside again. Again so frustrating.

Fackinell.

Then, calamity. I didn’t really see it, but a tackle by Gusto on Digne. A yellow. Then the boffins in Stockley Park ruled a second look. But then the same boffins weren’t sure. Back to the referee. Back to the pitch. What a fucking farce.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

A delay. We knew how this was going to end.

A red.

Fackinell.

Surprisingly, the offence was shown on the TV screen; this doesn’t usually happen. At first glance, I concentrated on the contact between studs and leg.

If I had seen further replays, which I didn’t, I would have seen the player get the ball first.

In 1965, 1975, 1985, 1995 and 2005 it would not have been a red card.

I hate modern football.

It looked like Armando Broja was about to come on – presumably for Jackson – but the sending-off changed the plan.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

Ben Chilwell replaced Mudryk.

There was applause.

For Mudryk? For Chilwell? Probably for both.

I noted how Jackson was through on goal, a one-on-one, but showed no signs of being able to out-muscle his defender and glide, Drogba-like, on towards goal. Maybe that time will come. I won’t hold my breath.

Enzo, for the second game in a row, was really poor.

The two teams exchanged half-chances.

On sixty-eight minutes, some substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Enzo, oh Enzo.

Cole Palmer for Jackson.

But then a lightning-quick break from Villa. Ollie Watkins raced through and Levi Colwill managed to stay with him and block with a perfectly-timed tackle. Sadly, the ball bounced back to Watkins who drilled the ball home from the tightest of angles. I struggled to see how the ball had crept in.

Bollocks.

Just after, a fine bit of football. A searching ball from deep from Cole Palmer found Chilwell down below us. He advanced but his low shot was hacked away by Martinez.

On seventy-nine minutes, Broja replaced Moises Caicedo, his first game since another useless friendly.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning” sung the Villa support.

The last phase of the game consisted of more Chelsea offside decisions and another Sanchez save, plus half chances for Broja and Disasi. A shot from Palmer was blocked.

“Sterling has got worse as the game has progressed, Rob.”

Despite the extra eleven minutes at the end, we never looked like scoring.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

Tales From The Eton Blues

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Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 17 September 2023.

The Chelsea website would call this an entertaining game.

I beg to differ.

Here’s my take on the match at the Vitality Stadium, plus a few other football-related anecdotes thrown in for good measure.

Our home loss against Nottingham Forest – that match feels like it took place ages ago – was followed by a period of inactivity for Chelsea as the increasingly despised international break took over the football calendar. It took over my calendar too; I buggered off for an international break of my own in Italy and France.

I flew to Genoa and then took a train to Diano Marina on the Italian Riviera, a town where I have enjoyed many visits – and football-related incidents – since I first visited it in 1975. On the Friday, I caught a train to Nice, passing through Monaco, the scene of our first UEFA Super Cup win against Real Madrid, a fine trip that one. I met up with my good Chelsea friend Dave, who I had not seen since Sheffield United at home in 2019. We first met up in Los Angeles while on tour with CFC in 2007 and he has lived in the South of France since around 2016. We updated each other with our recent histories while enjoying a few lagers in a couple of bars. It was a joy.

On the Saturday and Sunday, my work colleague Lorenzo from Milan, and his wife Marina, met up with me in Diano Marina, and we had a lovely time walking west to Imperia and then east to Cervo along the site of the old Roman road the Via Aurelia. There were beers, fine food and tons of laughs. That I was staying in the same hotel that my parents visited during their first holiday to the town made my stay even sweeter.

On the Monday, before my flight home, I even managed to pack in a three-hour walking tour of Genoa; such an historic, cramped and photogenic city. It left me yearning for more. As fate would have it, I used the services of the same taxi driver on two separate occasions, quite by chance. He was a Samp fan, and also favoured Chelsea as his English team. As I left his cab, we toasted the memory of Gianluca Vialli. They idolise him in Genoa.

Incidentally, on the Thursday, as I darted in and out of a couple of bars near the city’s Piazza Principe train station, I spotted many folk wearing Genoa colours. I panicked a little and wondered if I had made an error and that they were playing that night, a chance to see a game at the Luigi Ferraris Stadium missed due to poor planning. I was to find out that the fans were instead off out to celebrate the club’s birthday, formed one hundred and thirty years ago to the day. It made me think; do any British fans celebrate their clubs’ birthdays with such a show of public affection? I think not. Maybe Genoa are a special case; Genoa Cricket And Football Club, as they are officially known, are Italy’s oldest club after all.

One last comment about my mini visit to the twin Rivieras of Italy and France. Over the five days of my stay, the most popular replica shirt that I saw?

Not Juventus. Not PSG. Not Milan. Not Inter.

Real Madrid.

I hate modern football.

As the following weekend approached, I had the English Riviera in sight.

Kinda.

On the Saturday, Frome Town were playing an FA Cup tie at Plymouth Parkway. This naval city is not exactly on the English Riviera, which the tourist boards of Torquay, Paignton and Brixham have chosen as their own moniker, but not too far away. On the Sunday, I had the Chelsea game in Bournemouth. The Dorset Riviera anyone?

The FA Cup game, a keenly-contested 2-2 draw in front of almost 400, was very enjoyable. Frome Town twice led through Owen Humphries and then James Ollis, only to conceded a late equaliser. The two teams would meet again the following Tuesday at Badgers Hill in a replay. This really pleased me; two Canadian relatives were to visit my local area during the week and had been keen to see a football match, any football match, in person during their short stay in Somerset. With the draw, they now had a game to watch.

Another North American tourist came into my plans, like a last-minute substitution, when I awoke on Saturday morning before my flit down to Plymouth. Tom, from Orange County in California, was staying at a hotel only two miles from my house and was angling for a place in The Chuckle Bus for the short trip to Bournemouth on the Sunday. Some strategic logistical planning quickly took place and everything was sorted. One Chuckle Bus became two, parking was arranged outside the Vitality Stadium, and everyone was happy.

Sunday soon arrived. I picked Tom up at the hotel at eight o’clock, but before we headed down to join up with Glenn, PD, Parky and Sir Les in Bournemouth, I treated Tom to a whistle-stop tour of both my home village of Mells and my home town of Frome.

I darted around Mells, quickly combining facts about the village – “fifteenth century church”, “Manor House”, “my mother was born in that house”, “I spotted Robert Plant outside that house last year”, “Fussell’s Ironworks”, “Little Jack Horner”– with a few football-related things too – “here’s where I kicked a tennis ball against the wall opposite my house, breaking many windows in the process”, “this is the school where I first became a Chelsea fan”, “I played for my village the first time here” before then heading into Frome.

We even had time to stop off – and step inside – Badgers Hill, the home ground of Frome Town, where I watched my first real football game in 1970.

I zoomed down to Bournemouth and we joined up with the chaps in “The Moon On The Square” at around 10.20am. It was wet outside. So much for the Riviera.

A few other friends drifted in as I ordered a light breakfast, and Tom ordered his second breakfast of the morning. Glenn said he’d attend the Frome game on Tuesday. There wasn’t too much talk about the Chelsea game. It had been such an underwhelming start to the season.

And not just at our club.

In many ways, I have been struggling further with football in general. In a rare and lucid moment before a Depeche Mode concert with my mate Dennis from DC, at a pub on the River Thames in Richmond in June, I stumbled across a phrase that summed it all up.

With a nod to my deepening alienation from top level players, my dislike of VAR, of UEFA, of FIFA, even the FA, the deadening of the atmosphere at games at Stamford Bridge, the entitlement of many fans, players’ obscene wags, late changes to kick-off times, blah, blah, blah, I summed it all up.

“I am not a fan of football, but I love being a football fan.”

I love the planning of travel to games, the sorting out of tickets, the driving, the endless driving, the drink-ups in the pubs, meeting new Chelsea friends from various places, the away days, the clobber, the laughs, the piss-taking, the banter, the memories…and I like being at games, live-games, taking in all in, the architecture of stadia, the history, the terrace humour…and I’d like to think I am a good supporter too, singing and cheering as much as I can, being there for the team…then there is the photography and the words in this blog.

I enjoy it all.

I love being a fan.

The football?

Not so sure.

We got drenched – absolutely soaked – on the short walk to the multi-story car-park. The two Chuckle Busses set off :

Glenn, PD, Parky, Sir Les, Daz in Glenn’s van.

Tom, two of Daz’ mates and me in my car.

We arrived at the same “JustPark” location – a large space outside a house on Littledown Avenue – at around 1.20pm. The rain still fell.

I was soon inside, evading the eyes of the tedious “bag gestapo” at the away turnstiles.

Made it.

A few “hellos” and a few handshakes in the away concourse…before I knew it “bloody hell, it’s ten to.”

Into the away seats we went.

The floodlights were on, the sky was dull grey, the rain still fell.

The teams appeared and Chelsea were to wear the newly-confirmed third kit of Eton Blue. For once, I approve; a nice nod to our inaugural colours of 1905. Typically, I was amazed how many of our new fans were blissfully unaware of the light blue racing colours of the Earl Cadogan. It’s such a subtle shade. I think it looks fantastic.

Our team?

Definitely a back four, right kids?

Sanchez

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Gallagher – Uguchukwu – Enzo

Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk

There was the usual “make some noise – for the boys” bollocks from the PA, plus some social deviant yelling out “Red Army!” on the TV screens.

Oh aye.

Conor was captain.

Before the game, a minute of silence for those that perished recently in Libya and Morocco.

The game began, and it began ever so brightly as the Eton Blues attacked the goal to our right. A move down the right and some deft interplay between Mykhailo Mudryk and Nicolas Jackson set up Gallagher but he could not fully connect.

“Big game for Mudryk, Gal.”

Jackson then thumped an effort against a post after being set up by Mudryk.

We had a decent start, but the play was tending to by-pass Enzo. Both Sterling and Gallagher were combining well and creating a few solid advances into the opponents’ half. The game then struggled along, and Bournemouth slowly got back into the game. A low reaching cross towards the far post was met by Dango Quattara but Robert Sanchez made a fantastic block, spreading himself out, and the chance was fluffed.

There were songs for Frank Lampard and Dennis Wise?

Why – oh, why the fuck why?

Then, an odd moment. Sanchez was in possession just in front of his goal and as he ran through his options, we were treated to the bizarre sight of all four defenders lined up along the goal line. It was football, but not as I knew it.

The problem was that the home team weren’t necessarily taking the bait and pushing up. They stayed back. This was just hideously sterile football.

On the half-hour mark, more Bournemouth possession. They enjoyed a little spell.

But then a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played in to Conor in a central position. He shimmied himself. The world seemed to stop. He took aim. His shot was saved, damn it.

Damn you, Neto.

A Bournemouth effort was smashed so high into the air, and so wide of the goal – it went out for a throw-in – that I immediately Christened it the worst shot that I had seen in almost fifty years of football.

It was one of those games.

As the first-half neared completion, the noise levels had dwindled.

“You can cut the atmosphere with a shovel, Gal.”

Sigh.

There was a lack of cohesion and urgency after the initial flourish, and only Sterling and Gallagher could take much comfort from the first-half. However, Sterling’s fine touches in tight areas and purposeful spins into space just seemed to peter out as he reached the final third. He – and we – lacked a cutting edge.

Sound familiar?

Soon into the second-half, that man Sterling sized up his options at a free-kick. He struck a spectacular curler at goal, but it ping’d the underside of the bar and bounced down and across the goal. Levi Colwill was on hand to knock the rebound in, but the goal was immediately chalked off for offside.

Bollocks.

“Will be 0-0 this, Gal.”

The sun came out, and it got uncomfortably hot in the away section.

Jackson was in on goal but slashed an effort ludicrously wide. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

We came close after a scramble that followed a Jackson effort. However, the Bournemouth ‘keeper managed to get a strong hand to a goal bound prod while lying on his back.

At the other end, Richard Billing drilled a shot just wide of our goal from a central free-kick.

Both teams struggled.

“Their final ball is worse than ours, Gal.”

Nearing the end of the game, the home team broke down our left and engineered a chance for our former striker Dominic Solanke. Again, Sanchez saved well.

I noticed that Jackson was too easily out-muscled in many of his his one-to-ones with his marker. But we have to give him time.

There was a plethora of substitutions :

Cole Palmer for Mudryk.

He hadn’t had that good game that he needed.

Ben Chilwell for Colwell.

We all moaned when he had passed, obliquely, after a fine run, the goal at his mercy.

Ian Maatsen for Enzo.

I disliked Enzo’s slow walk off the pitch as he was substituted.

Our last chance came from a rampaging Palmer – “keen Gal, but no options” – chose to pass to Sterling rather than shoot himself. Sterling then crossed to Palmer, whose snapshot was saved well by Netto. A follow-up shot by Maatsen was blocked.

It was all pretty woeful.

“I enjoyed Plymouth yesterday more, Gal.”

It was so dull that I sighed when eight extra minutes were announced.

I just wanted to go home.

It ended 0-0.

Next up, Plymouth Parkway on Tuesday, Bemerton Heath on Saturday and Aston Villa on Sunday.

This football life, eh?