Tag Archives: Port Vale

Tales From A Visit From The Vale

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Chelsea vs. Port Vale : 4 April 2026.

The hangover from the loss at Everton lasted longer than I had expected, but it is no real surprise. The Chelsea team performed at a very low level, there was my personal altercation with a fellow-supporter, and the sight of the Chelsea team playing in front of just five-hundred of our three-thousand fans at the end of the game didn’t sit well with me at all.

However, there was a full fortnight before the next Chelsea game and I would be able to enjoy three Frome Town games in that period. It felt like a busman’s holiday, of sorts, and a very pleasant one too. That I needed to squeeze in five days of holiday in that fortnight made for a very nice feeling indeed.

The first of these games took place on Tuesday 24 March at Falmouth in Cornwall. After my faux-pas in booking up the wrong dates for a potential two-day stay, I made this a lengthy “in-and-out” mission. I had time for a drink with a Frome mate on the quayside first, though, and was amazed how many Frome supporters had travelled to the game. On a very wet night, in a competitive match, Frome ran out 4-1 winners. My position in the covered main stand meant I kept dry, but others were drenched despite standing under cover. There is, indeed, no escape from horizontal rain.

My abiding memory of the game was how entertaining the match turned out to be. Despite a soft pitch and atrocious conditions, both teams went hell-for-leather. Hats off to the Falmouth Town support too, who made a racket even when losing heavily.

However, I again realised a major difference between football on this night at this game and at this level in general and that of the Premier League.

At the very top level, players are super fit, and play is often squeezed into a very compact area, with defenders sitting deep. Therefore, play slows down because there is such a lack of space. Often players are squeezed into only thirty yards of the pitch’s length. However, at Frome’s level, players are not quite so fit, conditions are not so perfect, and play is much more spread out spatially. Very often, players take up half of the pitch’s length. This results in more space and a greater variety of ways and methods to attack.

Leaving a sodden Falmouth that night, my love of the lower levels of football was strengthened. I had seen football “how it used to be played” and those memories kept me contented on the long drive home.

These days, as always, we don’t need sporting perfection; we just crave entertainment.

The next game in my Frome Town trilogy was a home match with Didcot Town on Saturday 28 March. On a gorgeous sunny day, watched by a lovely attendance of 608, two David Duru goals gave Dodge a 2-0 win against a stubborn Didcot Town team. It rounded off a fine week of three wins, and our unbeaten run now stood at twenty-five in the league alone.

The final match took place in Worcestershire in the village of Inkberrow on Good Friday, home to Sporting Club Inkberrow. On a very windy day and backed by around one-hundred and forty away fans, Frome stormed to a 3-0 lead in the first half in a fantastic display of attacking football. No further goals ensued, but this was a very comprehensive performance. It meant that my hometown team required just one more point in its remaining four games to become Champions and secure automatic promotion back to the Southern League Premier.

One moment struck a chord from this game, though. Losing 0-3 and with just minutes remaining, the Inkberrow players were streaming forward in search of a goal. Their spirit was amazing to see. As a stark comparison, I was reminded of many occasions when Chelsea are losing and we witness defenders and midfielders passing the ball painstakingly between them, none of them taking ownership of the moment, none of them looking to play outside the tedious regimen we find at that level.

Sigh.

With the Frome break now behind me, it was time to focus on the oldest football competition in the world; Chelsea were up against Port Vale at Stamford Bridge in the Quarter Finals of the FA Cup.

A game against Vale was long overdue, despite them being only the twelfth team that we ever played way back on 21 October 1905. Our history with them goes back as far as is almost possible to go. However, we last played the Valiants from Burslem in 1929.

This would be a massive game for them. It was their biggest FA Cup match for decades. I tried to think of a Chelsea comparison. Maybe our visit to the San Siro in 1999, when it felt like a rights-of-passage, a tilt at giants, a massive away game.

Vale would be bringing around 6,500, the entire Shed End, and it meant that Parky would be displaced.

On the way over to collect Parky from his village, I spoke to PD about this.

“I wonder which poor unsuspecting bugger is going to be sat next to Parky today, mate?”

We had a little giggle.

It was a clear run up to London on this Saturday morning. Midway through our journey I asked Parky where he was sitting.

“Matthew Harding, mate.”

“Whereabouts, Parky?”

“Dunno, let me look at my phone…U08”

“That’s our section.”

“Oh nice…Row D, Seat 371.”

“Fackinell, mate…you’re sat next to us. You must have Clive’s seat.”

We cracked up.

What were the chances of that?

“I wonder which poor unsuspecting bugger is going to be sat next to Parky today?”

Us, that’s who.

Oh boy.

I met up with the lads in “The Eight Bells”, but there was a different vibe on this occasion. The Oxford vs. Cambridge boat race was taking place on the Thames, starting at nearby Putney Bridge, and so the pub was overflowing with pretty young things supporting both universities. There was also a smattering of Port Vale fans in the pub, causing no problems, and this added an extra dimension.

When it was revealed in the summer, the Port Vale home shirt gained lots of attention for its class and style. Up close it is even better. I spotted that the back of the shirt is sponsored, in feint gold, by my alma mater, the University of Staffordshire. Back in the ‘eighties it was known as North Staffs Poly. Because I always lived close to the Victoria Ground in Stoke, I always gravitated to Stoke City – I think I saw them play around seven or eight times in my three years in The Potteries – and never felt like supporting the “obscure but trendy” option of Port Vale. In fact, I only ever saw them play once while living in the city.

Back in 1987, on 24 January, I was lured up to Burslem to watch Port Vale play Brentford. In my third year of study at North Staffs Poly, I had yet to visit Vale Park, and I knew that I would have to get at least one visit in during my stay in the area. Why did I choose Brentford? I was lured in because Micky Droy, the ex-Chelsea defender, was playing for Brentford in 1986/87.

I took the bus up to Burslem – grey buildings, grey skies – and paid £2.50 to get in. After all that, Droy wasn’t playing. He was injured. Bollocks. I heard a voice inside my head say, “why in God’s name are you here?”

I watched from the Bykers Road end, a very ram-shackle terrace, as the home team won 4-1 in front of just 3,012. The star of that Vale team that season was their young striker Andy Jones who later signed for Charlton Athletic, though Robbie Earle, now a TV pundit, was playing for Vale too, himself a local from Newcastle-under-Lyme. I counted just sixty-five away fans at the other end of the ground.

Now, almost forty years later I would be seeing Port Vale play once more.

I chatted to a couple of “Stokies” in the pub and one of them mentioned how poorly his team were playing, mired to the bottom of the third tier.

“If you score one early, we will crumble.”

The pub was full of visitors from Vale and the Varsity, and it was a nice change. I even found myself watching the boat race on the TV, with memories of my childhood, eager to spot Craven Cottage on the TV screen.

Before the game began, there was a respectful mention of former Chelsea goalkeeper Tony Godden who had recently passed away, aged just seventy. Tony came in to our team in 1986 to offer some experience and played around thirty games. I liked him a lot. He went down in Chelsea folklore by saving two penalties within a few minutes of each other at the Stretford End in a game on 28 September 1986, a game that I attended while living in Stoke.

RIP Tony Godden

I can’t lie; despite Port Vale’s lowly position in League One, I was still worried about the outcome of this match. It had the potential to become the biggest banana skin of them all. Forget Orient in 1972 and forget Bradford City in 2015. This could be the biggest.

Which team did Liam Rosenior select?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Tosin – Hato

Santos – Lavia

Estevao – Palmer – Neto

Joao Pedro

This was surely a good enough team to beat the lowly Valiants?

In the game at Inkberrow on Good Friday, Albie Hopkins pounced on just twenty-two seconds to put Frome Town ahead, and Chelsea got off to an absolute flier in this game too. Pedro Neto fired in a corner in front of the travelling Vale fans at The Shed. The Vale ‘keeper Joe Gauci flapped not once but twice, and the ball broke to Jorrel Hato who smashed home from close range. Just sixty-four seconds were on the clock.

Chelsea 1 Port Vale 0.

Alan, next to Parky : “They’ll have to come at us know, duck.”

Me, next to Alan : “Come on my little diamonds, duck.”

There was that early goal. I wondered if they would indeed crumble.

We were dominating the early portion of the game, putting the visitors under pressure. A shot from Cole Palmer was blocked.

They countered occasionally, and a cross-come-shot from Rhys Walters whizzed across the six-yard box but here was no Port Vale player present to tap in. A header flew past the post from Connor Hall. But we never looked under threat.

On twenty-one minutes, Palmer set off on a central run, but resisted the urge to shoot on a few occasions, eventually ran out of steam, and lost control. A year or more ago, I felt sure he would have pulled the trigger. It illustrated his form of late, a product of both a lingering injury and a fall in self-confidence.

Just as the frustration was rising in the Stamford Bridge stands, Pedro Neto dug in to beat his defender on the right and crossed for Joao Pedro. He took a touch, pirouetted, dummied to shoot, then slotted home. It was a lovely goal.

Chelsea 2 Port Vale 0.

On thirty-nine minutes, a rare shot from Romeo Lavia, but a pathetic shot too, right at their ‘keeper.

Just after, on forty-two minutes, a ball forward – HOLD THE FRONT PAGE – by Tosin was beautifully touched by Malo Gusto into the path of Joao Pedro. Gusto had continued his run and drifted wide. Joao Pedro played in Gusto whose low shot was pushed out by Gauci towards Palmer. His stab at the ball was deflected in by the lunge of defender Jordan Lawrence-Gabriel.

Chelsea 3 Port Vale 0.

Game over? Surely.

Soon into the second period, we witnessed a lovely move. We won the ball and it was played out to Joao Pedro. His quick touch set up Santos to play in Estevao, who had been relatively quiet in the first half, but his left-footed shot grazed the post. Just after, Palmer was centrally located near the “D” and studiously aimed a shot towards the same post. It turned into the slowest shot of the season. Gauci ate it up.

Neto slammed a fine strike at Gauci.

The Matthew Harding, oddly, taunted the Vale support.

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

This was odd since the home support had hardly sung a note all afternoon.

On fifty-seven minutes, Gusto was found in some space and lofted a fine cross towards the ridiculously un-marked Tosin. The defender rose well and headed down well. It was a neat finish.

Chelsea 4 Port Vale 0.

Soon after, the old favourite echoed out throughout Stamford Bridge.

“Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be.”

Not so long after, a mightily loud “Vale ‘Til I Die” rang out of The Shed. It was their loudest moment. None of them had left, either. They were staying put.

Estevao, sent in by Neto, forced a save from Gauci.

On the hour, Liam Rosenior made some changes.

Alejandro Garnacho for Pedro Neto.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Dario Essugo for Palmer.

There were moans after Estevao played in Garnacho, who planted the ball over the bar.

Fackinell.

There later followed many instances of that crouching dribbling style of the Argentinian down below me.

On sixty-five minutes, Estevao hit the other post after being set free, and after twisting and turning inside the box. This young lad has such talent. His smile is infectious. I hope he stays with us for a while before others come calling.

From nowhere, the Stamford Bridge crowd at last generated some noise.

On sixty-nine minutes, an Estevao corner, a Santos leap, an easy goal, but awful defending again.

Chelsea 5 Port Vale 0.

On seventy-four minutes, a rare shot from a Vale player; a firm strike was well-saved by Sanchez, pushed out for a corner.

On seventy-eight minutes, a debut for Ryan Kavuma-McQueen, who replaced Romeo Lavia, quelle surprise.

On eighty-two minutes, a lovely ball set up Garnacho who struck a shot against the post, only for Estevao to tuck in the rebound. There was a suspicion of offside, but VAR disagreed.

Chelsea 6 Port Vale 0.

I chuckled when the visiting fans taunted us :

“Is there a fire drill?”

On eighty-five minutes, Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto.

In the last minute of the match, strong hold-up play from Delap set up Garnacho who was up against a lumbering Vale defender. He tumbled, and a penalty was signalled.

It looked to me like Garnacho had to argue with Delap about who would take the kick. In the end, Garnacho took the ball, and we waited.

I almost expected him to dribble the ball in.

But no, a confident strike.

Chelsea 7 Port Vale 0.

I would like to say “magnificent” but the opposition were truly atrocious.

They were lucky to get nought.

Right then…

Charlton Athletic, Hull City, Wrexham, Port Vale.

Who is next?

The Frome Trilogy

Chelsea vs. Port Vale

Tales From Burslem To The Bridge

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Chelsea vs. Brentford : 28 October 2023.

It seemed that everyone had been talking about our run of league fixtures that were looming on the horizon, stretching into December, and how difficult they would be. I had to agree. If I was pressed, I would have said that it was only our home game with Brentford, the first of these, that I thought we would win. The away games at Tottenham, Newcastle United, Manchester United and Everton would be tough. Our recent records at St. James’ Park, Old Trafford and Goodison are horrific. The home games against Manchester City and Brighton would be difficult too. We were undoubtedly in for a testing time.

My weekend began on Friday evening with a game at Frome Town’s Badgers’ Hill against Cribbs, from Bristol, in the First Round of the FA Trophy. Despite a rainy night in Somerset, another decent crowd of 408 saw the home team squeeze it 1-0, thanks to an own goal, and the away team missing a penalty. It was a game that wasn’t great on quality but which had me enthralled throughout.

I was up early the next morning for the 12.30pm kick-off against Brentford. I realised that by the time 3pm on Saturday would come around – the usual start time for the vast majority of games throughout the pyramid in England – I would already have seen two games.

For a change, I walked to West Brompton tube in order to get myself down to “The Eight Bells” at Putney Bridge, the first time that I had walked that way in ages. From the North End Road to West Brompton, I usually bump in to one person that I know and I wondered who it might be on this occasion. Lo and behold, it was Stuart, who only lives three-and-a-half miles from my house in a neighbouring Somerset village.

“Hello mate, how are you?”

Next up were lads from Gloucester, Stoke-on-Trent and Crewe.

“Alright, chaps?”

West Brompton serves a certain type of clientele at Stamford Bridge on match days. You don’t get many tourists alighting at West Brompton on their way to the game. The pubs on the nearby North End Road, and just off it, contain mostly old-school fans. It’s like they arrive at Chelsea via the back door. I like that.

I spotted a new building on the site of Olympia – “BBC Earth Experience” – as I approached the tube station. With rumours involving the development of Stamford Bridge in whatever guise starting to generate again, it was a timely reminder that eventually all available land at Earl’s Court will eventually be eaten up. I have a feeling that Stamford Bridge’s eventual redevelopment will be a huge test for many of us, especially if we have to decamp to Wembley or – worse – the London Stadium if a total rebuild is chosen. The alternative of building “one stand at a time” would mean that the current pitch footprint would not change, thus meaning that there would be a huge constraint in expansive increases in stand sizes.

I am not thrilled that the Clearlake mob will be in charge of this process. In fact, it fills me with absolute dread. Fackinell.

The pre-match in the pub was squeezed into just one hour for me, but the boozer was as packed as ever, and the boisterous mood of the clientele did not match our current league position. On the next table were a group of six or seven Brentford fans. You wouldn’t know it from their appearance nor behaviour, but I overheard a couple of them chatting about Players X, Y and Z while I got a round in. I didn’t recognise the names, but they weren’t Chukwuemeka, Nkunku nor Ugochukwu.

On the front page of the programme – back to its normal design this week after its odd revamp last week – there was yet another version of Mykhailo Mudryk’s “Christ The Redeemer” pose after his goal against the Goons last Saturday.

I was inside the stadium – a sunny day thus far despite rumours of rain – at just after midday. There was a chat with a few of the lads – Daryl now a grandfather, Ed now a father – as we waited for the game to begin.

Last week might have seen our two-hundred and eighth game against Arsenal, but this was only our twentieth game against Brentford. For me personally, it was my ninth such game.

However, the first time that I ever saw Brentford play was not against Chelsea at all. Back in 1987, on 24 January, I was lured up to Burslem to watch Port Vale play the Bees in a Third Division game. Living in Stoke – and the town of Stoke, not just the city of Stoke-on-Trent, it does get confusing, the five towns and all that – I always tended to watch Stoke City if the mood took me. After all, for two seasons – er, years – I lived right opposite the away end at the Victoria Ground. In my third year of study at North Staffs Poly, I had yet to visit Vale Park, and I knew that I would have to get at least one visit in during my stay in the area. Why did I chose Brentford? I was lured in because Micky Droy, the ex-Chelsea defender, was playing for Brentford in 1986/87.

I took the bus up to Burslem – grey buildings, grey skies – and paid £2.50 to get in. After all that, Droy wasn’t playing. He was injured. Bollocks. I heard a voice inside my head say “why in God’s name are you here?”

I watched from the Bykers Road end, a very ram-shackle terrace, as the home team won 4-1 in front of just 3,012. The star of that Vale team that season was their young striker Andy Jones who later signed for Charlton Athletic, though Robbie Earle, now a TV pundit, was playing for Vale too, himself a local from Newcastle-under-Lyme. I counted sixty-five away fans at the other end of the ground.

I wondered how many of the buggers would be at Stamford Bridge almost thirty-seven years later.

Kick-off approached and we were treated to the usual three songs before the teams appeared.

“London Calling.”

“Park Life.”

“Liquidator.”

In the lower tier of the Matthew Harding, a large flag surfed over peoples’ heads. It commemorated the passing of our former director twenty-seven years ago.

Then, an image of Sir Bobby Charlton appeared in black and white on the TV screens and the players stood, as we all did, to applaud his memory. There can’t be too many players who are remembered on two consecutive games. The day’s programme featured photos and a piece about the great player’s last-ever appearance for United that I briefly mentioned last week.

RIP Matthew.

RIP Sir Bobby.

We had heard that both Enzo and Mudryk were out, so Mauricio Pochettino shuffled his ever-decreasing pack once more.

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Gallagher

Madueke – Palmer – Sterling

Jackson

“…or something like that.”

Those of us of a certain vintage keep talking about the football bubble bursting, but here was another “near as damn it” full house at Stamford Bridge, albeit with the crowd in a very quiet mood as the game started.

Chelsea were attacking the Matthew Harding in this first-half, a situation that I am always uneasy with.

We began brightly enough, with Noni Madueke soon involved, breaking in from underneath the East Stand, unsettling his marker, creating a little space and lifting a shot high towards the goal. We sighed as the effort smacked against the crossbar. Next up, Conor Gallagher advanced and put his laces through the ball, forcing the Bees ‘keeper Mark Flekken to fling himself down to the right and push the effort wide.

The play was half-decent, but the atmosphere was dreadful. It took eighteen minutes for the Matthew Harding to generate a chant or song of note. Brentford were just as quiet.

Lack of beer before a game has this effect.

Can all games begin at chucking out time at 11pm? Oh fuck, no, best not mention that idea, someone from Sky, Amazon or TNT might be reading this.

Cole Palmer, playing deeper this week, was involved in most moves, and his quick mind spotted the burst from Marc Cucarella. His chipped pass into the six-yard box was perfection, but the improving defender’s delicate touch was right at the ‘keeper. There were a few more half-chances, but despite our dominant possession, we lacked that killer instinct. Sterling was a little hit-and-miss. Nicholas Jackson often chose the wrong option, and became a peripheral figure as the half continued.

Around the pitch perimeter there were occasional displays depicting the most recent retro-kit launch. The 1974 white kit with green and red panels – actually only worn a bare handful of times – has been well-received, though am I the only one who finds it just a little odd that Chelsea are, in fact, highlighting and honouring a relegation season?

Fackinell.

It’s nice to see 1974 mentioned though; the year of my first-ever game. I bought a red / green / white scarf a few years back and I love it.

A couple of chances from Madueke and Palmer did not threaten.

At half-time, nobody in The Sleepy Hollow was too excited. I turned to Oxford Frank and admitted “I can’t see either side scoring.”

Did Brentford have any worthwhile attacks on our goal? I honestly could not remember any.

The second-half was awful and I really don’t want to dwell too much on it. I can barely remember such a tepid and frustrating performance.

The warning signs were there. From a cross from the right, Vitaly Janelt crashed a shot at goal, but the arm of Robert Sanchez saved us.

The pace of the game slowed right down.

Then, just before the hour, another neat move down their right resulted in a high ball towards the back post and we all watched as Ethan Pinnock leapt like a lord – he had so much space that it looked like he had sent a letter to the local council for them to clear any obstacles in his way – and headed the ball in emphatically.

There were fresh memories of Brentford’s previous two visits in the league, both away wins.

Surely not a third in a row?

“This was the game I thought we could win for fuck sake.”

We had been getting slightly more joy down the left flank than the right, so the manager replaced Axel Disasi with Reece James and Noni Madueke with Ian Maatsen. On the left, Cucarella was one of the brighter elements in our team. I grimaced every time Reece went for the ball.

Unsurprisingly, Brentford defended deep and with conviction now that they had got their noses in front. Their supporters provided some verbal encouragement. It was their voices that were heard.

“Chelsea get battered…”

In the home areas, the noise was not forthcoming.

I had become the sort of fan that I once derided. I sang in support of my team only occasionally and I hated myself for it.

Frustration on the pitch, frustration off it.

Fackinell.

Two more substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Moises Caceido, the first time that I have mentioned his name.

Debutant Deivid Washington for Marc Cucarella.

This lad has played just nine times for Santos, and now he is playing for Chelsea.

Righty-oh.

A shot from Reece James was slashed high. There had been few other attempts on goal in this half. Then, a mad few seconds in the Brentford box with a cross from the right and two stabs at goal but both were miscued. I had got frustrated with Jackson’s lack of movement as the game dwindled by. He looked interested at the start of the season. Is the Chelsea malaise that deep rooted into our psyche right now?

“I have to say Al, I was more involved emotionally with the Frome game last night. This is just dreadful.”

On a break, we were outnumbered, but a fantastic stop from Sanchez thwarted Yehor Yarmolyuk. Bryan Mbeumo then went close. By now, many Chelsea supporters were heading for the exits.

PD joked with Al that he would wait until the equaliser before he would leave but, with walking painful for him now, he left just after an extra six minutes were signalled. Alan began to move towards the exits too.

“See you Wednesday mate.”

Late on, we were awarded a corner and Sanchez trotted up for it.

The ball was cleared and Neil Maupay, a substitute, was in on goal. Sanchez did well to catch up with him and he made an attempt to foul / tackle the Brentford attacker but Maupay passed square to Mbeumo, who slotted the ball in to the empty net.

Oh bloody hell.

Not even VAR – a slight hint of offside, not in my photo – could save us.

Bollocks.

There were stern faces on the walk back to the car.

We were caught in a traffic jam as we attempted to squeeze ourselves out on to the A4. A journey that usually takes twenty minutes took an hour. I was then hit with awful driving conditions as I drove back down the M4, with torrential rain and then surface water getting worse and worse as the evening progressed. There was even a nervous navigation of a surprisingly deep and lengthy puddle due to a blocked drain, in my home village, just thirty seconds from my house.

Treacherous waters ahead…