Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 21 April 2026.
It never ceases to amaze me that despite our runs of disastrous form which have haunted us over recent years, there is still a clamour to attend Chelsea games, and especially away games. Home games have become a test of grim endurance of late but away fixtures have retained their sense of fun and adventure.
On the day of our evening flit to Sussex for our away match at Brighton & Hove Albion, I was up at just before 5am, and at work at 6am. At 8am, I received a text from my mate Mark, from nearby Westbury, enquiring if I knew of anyone with a spare. Within minutes, I had contacted my pal Jason from Swanage and had sorted things.
There would be one more body in the away end that evening.
Brighton, though. The mere mention of the name sent me back to those utterly grim back-to-back games at the Amex in the February of last year. They were two of the worst Chelsea performances in my memory.
On this occasion, with Chelsea losing our last four league games without scoring a single goal, I predicted our chances of winning to be at 25%.
I left work, with Parky and Paul, and headed down to Salisbury to collect Steve. I stopped for refreshments at Tilshead on Salisbury Plain en route, slowing me slightly, but the journey surprisingly took a whole hour. I continued, a familiar path this one, passing Southampton and Portsmouth, but I was up against some heavy traffic further east on the A27, so came inland at Arundel.
For the next hour we slowly drove through country roads, small towns, country lanes barely wide enough to accommodate two cars, and miniscule villages. There were signs for Hassocks where Matthew Harding lived. There were farms, and fields full of lambs, roads full of slow-moving traffic, overhanging branches, a gorgeous cloudless sky above, and we drove close to Ditchling and its famous Beacon. On two occasions, we found ourselves heading due north rather than south, or even east. We were in the middle of nowhere, a rural idyl, and it seemed ridiculous that we would soon be at a topflight football game.
We eventually closed in on our destination, Lewes, arriving at 6.30pm, some four-and-a-half hours after leaving Melksham. There was the usual battle to sort out parking at the train station car park, but after fighting my phone and an app for a full fifteen minutes, we caught the free train to Falmer.
Then the short walk up to the stadium, which has been enhanced by a new hospitality area called The Terrace which was being built last season.
I like the stadium at Falmer, but I am glad that not every stadium is like it. It makes a decent change. It’s quite aesthetically pleasing both inside and out and has a nice vibe. But I prefer city centre stadia.
I was inside at around 7.30pm, and soon bumped into Mark, who was happy as Larry to get the ticket from Jason.
“Thanks for sorting that, mate.”
“Steady on, you might have a different opinion at full time, mate.”
I was, as always at Brighton, near the front in the third row. Even with an SLR, the goal nets get in the way of decent photos at Brighton. I brought my small camera instead and doubted that I would be able to get any decent action photos. Instead, I turned the camera towards fellow fans. I would be watching the game alongside John and Paul, from Brighton, who was able to utilise Alan’s ticket.
I spotted some scaffolding at the opposite end and wondered if some sort of stadium enhancement was in progress, albeit cosmetic.
Liam Rosenior chose this team and bizarrely chose a new formation.
Robert Sanchez
Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Jorrel Hato
Malo Gusto – Moises Caicedo – Romeo Lavia – Marc Cucurella
Pedro Neto – Liam Delap – Enzo Fernandez
This change in formation did not fill me with too much confidence I hasten to add.
The ground filled, but there were gaps in the home areas. Sadly, just a few empties around me too. Fireworks filled the air to my right, and there was a hearty rendition of their club anthem.
“You may tell them all that we stand or fall.
For Sussex by the Sea”
Then, the entrance of the teams.
Again, I wondered about the cleverness of wearing all black at an evening game, especially when probably 75% of the spectators were wearing black, dark grey or dark blue coats and jackets. Why not get us a nice all-yellow ensemble for midweek games?
Above, high up in the sky, a thin sliver of a crescent moon shone down on us all, the sky still pure blue and beautiful.
At 8pm, the game kicked off, the only Premier League fixture on this day.
The home team attacked us from the off, and Chalobah made two strong defensive headers in the first few minutes as they came at us from all angles. Already Kaoru Mituma and Georginio seemed to be the main nuisances. On three minutes, the former found himself completely unmarked at the far post and bounced an effort at goal that Sanchez did well to fingertip over the bar.
From the resulting corner, the ball came in towards the near post and rather than taking Chalobah’s lead, Hato avoided good contact and only flicked the ball on. The ball dropped for Ferdi Kadioglu to smash it goalwards. His low effort took a deflection off Wesley Fofana, and flew into the net, just to my left.
Brighton must hate us, the way we have robbed key personnel over the last few seasons, but they often get their retaliation done on the pitch. This soon looked like being another one of those occasions.
The home team continued their dominance, and the Chelsea faithful watched, dumbfounded at our inability to match them.
There was another super tip over by Sanchez from a header by Jan Paul Van Heck.
The away fans bellowed “we want our Chelsea back.”
On fourteen minutes, a thirty second segment summed up our current health. Neto advanced well on the right and cut in but slipped at the all-important moment. Brighton gathered the ball quickly and raced away with desire and direction. There was a moment when Lavia had enough of the ball after a tackle to clear, but he hesitated, allowing Rutter to strike at goal. Luckily his effort was off target.
Four minutes later, Sanchez blotted his copybook as he attempted a tight pass out to a teammate despite the close presence of attackers. His pass was intercepted by Yankuba Minteh who squared to Jack Hinshelwood. Thankfully, his shot was swept off the line by Our Trev.
Fackinell.
I leaned towards John and Paul and said “it’s bad when only 20 minutes have gone and you want the referee to blow up for half-time.
The Chelsea choir were quiet, in a state of shock, but there were a few resilient shouts.
“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”
On twenty minutes, Calvin came over to talk and commented that we had just one touch in the opposition’s box. I think it may well have been Neto’s slip.
One touch, bloody hell.
The rest of the half gave us nothing to celebrate. Our play was sluggish, especially when compared to the home team.
On forty minutes, I glanced at the BBC website and saw that we were still on one touch in the opposition box.
On forty-one minutes, hallelujah, a header from a Chelsea corner.
Two touches.
As we kept the ball for the longest period of the entire first-half, the home fans chortled.
“We want our ball back.”
The cheeky so-and-sos.
At half-time, I kept saying to everyone “how is it only still 1-0?”
In the end, we ended up with four touches in the Brighton penalty box. It had been an utterly woeful performance with only Sanchez – bar his one crazy pass – and Chalobah pleasing me.
We wondered what on earth Rosenior would be saying to the players inside the dressing room. I suspected that he was so livid that he would be using five different colours of highlighter to illustrate his plans for the second period.
He decided to replace Fofana with Alejandro Garnacho, and we reverted to a more familiar shape, at least on paper.
Believe it or not, we improved in the first moments of the second period. Garnacho was sent through and zipped a shot at goal.
The Chelsea crowd gasped.
“We’ve had a shot.
We’ve had a shot.
We’ve had a shot. We’ve had a shot. We’ve had a shot.”
Gulp.
We had a little more of the ball, but it struck me that when we broke we seemed like rabbits staring at headlights, unsure of what to do. Brighton, in comparison, had a natural flow to their play.
Five minutes in, the old “Second Half At An Away Game” chant kicked-in, to the tune of “Amazing Grace.”
“Chelsea.
Chelsea.
Chelsea. Chelsea.
Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.
Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.
Chelsea. Chelsea. Chelsea.”
Brighton had a penalty shout at the far end, the ball hitting Cucurella.
On fifty-three minutes, we similarly had a penalty shout when the ball flipped up onto Yankuba Minteh’s sleeve, but no decision. With that, they broke like an express train and Rutter set up Hinshelwood to steer home.
Ugh.
Things turned nasty in the away end.
“Fuck off Rosenior.”
The focus had changed from the idiot board to the manager.
On sixty-two minutes, Mitoma did a few “keep-uppies” before a shot that dipped just over. I found myself involuntary clapping, just happy to see some bona fide skill in these days of robotic football.
There was a decent break from Brighton in the inside-left channel, but another lovely save from Sanchez. And then another save from Sanchez. Both were from Kadioglu. He was producing a man of the match performance.
On seventy-two minutes, there were two changes.
Marc Guiu for Delap.
Dario Essugo for Lavia.
While all of this was going on at an increasingly chilly Amex Stadium, Frome Town were playing Portishead Town in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, which was being played at Bath City’s Twerton Park, the former home of Bristol Rovers from 1986 to 1996.
We went 1-0 down, then levelled with a Zak Drew penalty. Portishead went 2-1 up in the second half, only for Sam Meakes to equalise. Then, as Chelsea entered the final quarter of an hour in Falmer, Callum Gould scored a 3-2 winner.
It would be Frome Town’s first double in one-hundred and twenty-two seasons.
On seventy-six minutes, Gusto passed to Garnacho but his shot was deflected wide.
Paul received a text from Alan who said that he was watching the test card as it was more exciting.
I replied that he had more chance of seeing the girl put an “X” on the noughts and crosses board than us getting a goal.
A Guiu shot was deflected for a corner.
I still kept thinking “how is it only 2-0?”
We grimaced when Danny Welbeck was introduced by the Brighton manager Fabian Hürzeler.
Thousands of Chelsea brains clicked as one : “he always scores against us.”
The away end was sparsely populated now, and perhaps some just couldn’t take the ultimate humiliation of this chant from the home areas :
“Are you Tottenham in disguise?”
Lo and behold, on ninety-one minutes a pass inside from Brighton wide man Maxim De Cuyper, and a Brighton player, looking suspiciously like Welbeck, slashed the ball high into the net.
“It’s Welbeck, innit? It’s bloody Welbeck. Bloody hell.”
He reeled away in celebration.
Fackinell.
Josh Acheampong replaced Gusto and you wondered why.
At the final whistle, cheers from Brighton and jeers from Chelsea.
The away end, as at Everton, was probably only one-fifth full by now. I stayed because I was intrigued to see the reaction of the players, and maybe the supporters to the players.
Well, first and foremost, as far as I could tell, none shot off down the tunnel and I took some photos of the scene taking place a few yards away. Jorrel Hato, Alejandro Garnacho and Marc Cucurella first appeared, their faces showing nothing but sadness. Others walked over. There was no patronising clapping from any. They stood meekly still and in front of us. I saw Liam Rosenior slowly walk over. Again, no clapping, but he put his hand on his heart and gestured. There was a volley of boos. This was painful to watch.
The players didn’t hide. They let us vent. And I can’t deny that I felt sadness with them.
My gaze became focused on Marc Cucurella and Enzo Fernandez, who stayed the longest, and then on Enzo who stood silent and still for a minute or so after the rest had turned to walk away.
He still didn’t clap, and I was OK with that. I appreciated that he stood and took it all. He did not hide. There was no emotion. What emotion could there be? He played it straight. He played it as he should. He became the focus for the supporters’ anger. He played it exactly right in my book.
I can only hope that those moments stay with him, as captain, and with the others and that it can inspire them to try to win back our affection.
We all met up outside in the concourse and shuffled away to Falmer Station. Darren from Crewe chatted about the depressing state of affairs, and how he was dreading the Wembley game against Leeds United on Sunday, a game that still has Chelsea tickets for sale.
“I’m not even reading your blog for the rest of the season. I’ve had enough.”
We were back at Lewes station at 10.45pm, and I then faced the tortuous journey home.
As I drove through the town’s tight streets, Parky wondered what Rosenior had said during the post-match interview.
“We were not good enough. Brighton were very good. And can I buy Danny Welbeck please?”
I replied.
“Danny de Vito would be a fucking improvement at the moment.”
It was a long trip home with a few painful diversions. I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 1am.
As I headed north over Salisbury Plain, the moon was now just above the horizon, and straight ahead of where I was driving. It seemed like it was haunting me. That thin sliver of silver that appeared so high in the sky as the game began had now dropped to eye level and had grown in size and had turned a deep yellow.
A metaphor for how our club has dropped in status and league position?
Who knows?
I dropped the lads off and I reached home at 2.30am.
I fell asleep, dreaming of fading moons and fading fortunes, at 3am.
I had been awake for twenty-two hours.
You can write your own punchline.
