Tag Archives: Pubs

Tales From A Perfect Day

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Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 31 January 2026.

Prior to our London derby – the District Line Derby of old – at home to West Ham United, our results had experienced a noticeable upturn, and there was an air of positivity as I collected my three mates – PD, Glenn and Parky – and then set off nice an early for yet another trip to HQ.

I had been unable to watch our magnificent away win in Naples on the Wednesday, but it was the sort of result that brings such a depth of joy that is difficult to beat.

The four of us had a big day ahead. PD was celebrating his sixty-fourth birthday, and so for the second time in three weeks we were staying over in deepest Fulham after the game. I was parked up at just after 10am in the car park of the Premier Inn at Putney Bridge, and we dropped into “The Eight Bells” where Salisbury Steve and Jimmy the Greek were waiting for us. The place, not surprisingly, was virtually empty. It was, after all, around seven and a half hours until the game began.

From there, we headed west to six more pubs along the River Thames, gathering friends along the way, and all of us enjoyed this fantastic pre-match ramble. I sorted out an Uber to take us to the first of the pubs, “Old City Arms” next to Hammersmith Bridge. Ian and his son Bobby – aka “Small Bob”, aka “Bobby Small” – were already there. It was just after 11.15am. From here, we took in five more pubs, all favourites, all located next to the Thames. In “The Blue Anchor” we were joined by our good friends Hans and Jon from Norway, and the famous brothers Dave and Glenn, plus their mate Eddy. We hopped next door to “The Rutland” and Jon’s son Sven joined us. At “The Dove” we squeezed together out on the terrace that overlooked the river and met up with Rob and his wife Alex. Here, Dave from Northampton joined up with us too. Next was “The Old Ship” and then the last port of call, “The Black Lion” which we reached at about 3.45pm.

The weather was unbelievable. Not a hint of rain. A fantastic afternoon in and out of the sun, and in and out of these magnificent pubs. It’s interesting, looking back, when I realise that we never really spoke about the game at all.

We ordered two Ubers to get ourselves down to Fulham Broadway. It had been a perfect pre-match. One for the ages.

As soon as Glenn and I set foot on the Fulham Road, we were really chuffed to bump into an old friend – Olly, now eighty-one – who we used to chat to in The Harwood Arms thirty years ago. He was wearing his trademark blue-and-white Chelsea bar scarf and was equally happy to remember us. We had not seen him for a few years. I always remember that we sat with him in “The Seven Stars” on the North End Road after we won the FA Cup in 1997, and after the Cup had been paraded at Fulham Broadway on the Sunday. A lovely time.

We wolfed down a hot dog apiece and made our way into Stamford Bridge. Waiting for us in The Sleepy Hollow was Alan.

The boys were back together again; four of us in a row.

Chris, Alan, Glenn, PD.

Throughout the afternoon, a couple of friends had been updating me with news of Frome Town’s home game with Willand Rovers. While we were setting up to leave the last pub, a text game through to say that Albie Hopkins, a local Frome lad, had scored. And as I made my way into Stamford Bridge, I heard that this is how the match had ended.

Frome Town’s overall record in the league this season is an admirable 23-4-2. In the last ten games, the team has dropped just two points. My hometown club remained eleven points clear at the top.

Frome Town 73.

Malvern Town 62.

Portishead Town 60.

Winchester City 58.

Shaftesbury 54.

We are also top of the home attendance figures too.

Frome Town 499.

Melksham Town 392.

Malvern Town 343.

Portishead Town 336.

Winchester City 323.

The kick-off at Stamford Bridge was not far away, and I checked Liam Rosenior’s choices.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Benoit Badiashile – Jorrel Hato

Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez

Jamie Gittens – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Liam Delap

The match began and we attacked The Shed and began well enough.

“COME ON CHELS.”

However, after just seven minutes – just as I was juggling pub camera and mobile ‘phone – I looked up to see a cross from Jarod Bowen that ridiculously avoided everyone and bounced equidistant from the two central defenders, who both turned around to see who had tapped them on the shoulders, and in front of the ‘keeper. The ball squirmed in at the far post.

Bollocks.

The three-thousand visiting supporters roared, and our hearts dipped.

“1-0 to the Cockney Boys.”

Ugh.

On fourteen minutes, a Badiashile error, but a shot from Valentin Castellanos was saved by Robert Sanchez at his near post.

We were dominating the ball but were doing nothing at all with it.

I commented to Alan “Gittens is hard work.”

There was a moment just after when one of our centre-backs had the ball, and was not under a great deal of pressure, but there was simply no movement from anyone in a blue shirt ahead of him. It was infuriating. I started yelling into the abyss.

Our play was terrible. There was no physicality, no desire; just a timid bunch of players who seemed lost.

On twenty-six minutes, we were forced into a change as Gittens was injured. Pedro Neto took his place.

A shot from Moises Caicedo flew past Alphonse Areola in the West Ham goal.

On thirty-six minutes, a long ball out of defence found Bowen, who passed forward to Aaron Wan-Bissaka. His cutback was adeptly poked home by Crysencio Summerville.

The Cockneys and the Mockneys roared again.

Another ugh.

This was awful.

“Stamford Bridge is falling down.”

The Irons continued.

“Build it up with Claret and Blue.”

Just horrible.

This was my thirty-first Chelsea vs. West Ham United game at Stamford Bridge and our record in the previous thirty had been fantastic.

Won 20

Drew 6

Lost 4

I remembered the four losses vividly and I had bad vibes about this one now.

Just on half-time, West Ham had a corner down below us. I watched the Chelsea players just pacing around with no urgency, nobody talking to each other, nobody cajoling others to roll up their sleeves and get close to their men, nobody taking the lead, nobody shouting.

What a terrible sight.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

I muttered to a few friends, with no joy, that the first-half performance that I had just witnessed just might have possibly been the worst I had ever seen.

We had nothing. We had hardly carved out a single chance. I remember a Cole Palmer free kick, but that was the sum of our efforts on goal. Alejandro Garnoch – God, I want him to do well – had been dire, as had many.

It had been such a pallid, tame, grey performance.

There were, unsurprisingly, three changes at the break.

Wesley Fofana for Badiashile.

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Joao Pedro for Garnacho.

I liked the idea of Joao Pedro playing just behind Delap but hoped that he wouldn’t get too tired chasing after his knockdowns.

However, the improvements were not immediate. After forty-seven minutes, we had to rely on a fantastic save from Sanchez from Mateus Fernandes, and three minutes later a quickly taken free kick resulted in a shot from Bowen that Sanchez saved again.

On fifty-five, Cucurella played in to Delap, but a delicate touch took the ball wide of the far post.

Two minutes later, a tantalisingly good cross from Fofana on our right was aimed perfectly at the leap of Joao Pedro. From close-in, he scored.

GET IN.

The bridge, at last – it had been so quiet – got going.

“CAREFREE. WHEREVER YOU MAY BE. WE ARE THE FAMOUS CFC.”

Immediately, our players now looked like they wanted it. Their body language changed and there was a bounce in their step.

After an hour of horrendous football, the boys were back in town.

On sixty-three minutes, a thunderous blast from Caicedo was superbly saved by Areola.

Four minutes later, a shot from Castellanos whizzed past a post, low and wide.

On seventy minutes, a deep cross from Neto on our left was headed back across the goal by Malo Gusto. A defender headed the ball onto the bar as Delap jumped with him, and the ball bounced down. In came a diving Cucurella to head it home.

The net rippled.

What a goal.

What a moment.

I found myself standing in the walkway above my seat, punching the air with booth fists, only to see the bloke behind me doing exactly the same thing. We screamed at each other. It could not have been choreographed any better.

Bloody hell.

Then VAR stepped in.

The goal stood.

I didn’t cheer the VAR decision.

The game continued. The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. The visitors were silent now.

On eighty-one minutes, Reece James replaced Gusto.

On eighty-five minutes, a snapshot from West Ham’s Jean-Clair Todibo hit the side netting. How he missed I will never ever know.

Cole Palmer slapped a low shot towards goal that was deflected away at the last moment by a West Ham defender.

Fackinell.

Referee Anthony Taylor’s assistant signalled five minutes of extra-time.

Could we do it?

In the second minute of added time, Palmer played the ball square to Caicedo. An intelligent run by Joao Pedro was spotted by our Moi. At this stage I pulled my camera up to my eyes and caught a very blurred shot of the pullback to Enzo. I clicked as the Argentinian shot – a ridiculously blurred photo – and exploded with joy as I saw the net ripple.

I was up on my feet yelling like a lunatic. Inside I was boiling over, outside I was beaming a huge smile, But I bizarrely I remained stupidly calm to take some photos of the scorer.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some of them worked. I hope you like them.

Late on, we watched on from afar as some players lost control down near Parkyville. It took forever to work out what was happening, and again the folk watching on TV must have had more of a clue than us. There was a VAR check, but nobody in the stadium knew which player was being scrutinised for a possible red card.

In the end, in the eleventh minute of added time, Jean-Clair Todibo was ordered off.

Soon after, the whistle blew.

What a last half-hour. What a comeback. What a day.

By now, only PD and I were left in our row in The Sleepy Hollow, and we sang along to “Blue Is The Colour” like a couple of sixty-four and sixty-year-old schoolkids.

Fantastic.

Eventually we made our way out, and we walked through “Jimmy’s” down below us. I bumped into Paul from Reading – his smile wide – and after a few seconds we found ourselves in an embrace, bouncing up and down like bleeding idiots.

Outside on the Fulham Road, we met up with PD and Jimmy, and we wolfed down some cheeseburgers.

Then, over to Frankie’s where we bumped into a brilliant cross-section of Chelsea friends and faces. Jason Cundy was holding court in the corner, ex-player Garry Stanley breezed in, we met up with Alex and Rob again, plus a few famous and infamous Chelsea personalities.

The three of us returned to “The Eight Bells” where we met up with Hans, Jon and Sven once again.

At about 11pm, I left PD and Parky to it and trotted over to room 310.

It had been a bloody perfect day.

Oh and – this:

Played 31

Won 21

Drew 6

Lost 4

Next up, Arsenal in the League Cup Semi-Final.

I will see six thousand of you there.

Outside And Inside The Pubs Of Hammersmith And Fulham

Outside And Inside Stamford Bridge.

The Birthday Boy With Garry Stanley.

Tales From The Addicks And The Addicts

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Charlton Athletic vs. Charlton : 10 January 2026.

The two domestic cup competitions continued to serve us well in season 2025/26. After a decent Autumnal tour of England and Wales – Lincoln, Wolverhampton and Cardiff – in the League Cup, the FA Cup first gave us an away day at Charlton Athletic, a ground that I had not visited since the opening day of 2002/3, and which the club had not visited since early in 2007.

A visit to The Valley was long overdue.

The kick-off time of 8pm would normally have resulted in much wailing – more of that later – but on this occasion, the timings worked out in our favour. I spotted a good deal at the Premier Inn opposite “The Eight Bells” and booked four of us – Glenn, PD, Parky and little old me – in for the Saturday night. 

It took me a while to devote some time to planning a pre-match pub-crawl but on the Friday night (just before I set about writing the Fulham match report), I decided that we would hit a few pubs that were centered on The Strand. It is an area that we have covered before, but most of the hostelries would be new.

I left home at 8.45am and soon collected the three chaps. There was a filling breakfast at “McDonald’s” in Melksham, and I soon found myself driving down the Fulham Palace Road only two-and-a-half days after driving up it after the limp 1-2 defeat at Craven Cottage on the Wednesday. We booked in at the hotel, prised Salisbury Steve away from “The Eight Bells”, which was slowly being filled by Middlesbrough fans prior to their cup tie at Fulham, and headed off to Embankment.

By about 1pm, we were drinking outside the first of the pubs of the day, the “Sherlock Holmes”, and the oddest part of that short visit was being approached by a bloke from the Florida Keys – on his first day in London, in England, in Europe – who told us “he just likes hearing you guys talk.” He seemed harmless enough but looked completely confused when I started unravelling the story of the FA Cup for him and soon tried to divert the conversation back to his domain, the world of College Football. His wife soon dragged him back inside the pub, perhaps afraid he would catch a cold, or worse, gain a sudden passion for “soccer.”

We then walked the twenty yards to “The Ship & Shovel” which we visited a few years back before a trip to see us lose to Tottenham in their second season at Wembley. It’s a unique pub, with two rooms either side of a narrow walkway. 

From there, another short walk to Villiers Street and a pint at “The Princess Of Wales” where we soon learned that Macclesfield Town from the sixth level of the English pyramid had defeated Crystal Palace, the current FA Cup holders. Here was a beautiful illustration of how the FA Cup, certainly in the early rounds, still captures the imagination of the romantics among us. By the time of the latter rounds, all the magic is sadly squeezed out of the oldest football competition in the world.

I remember dropping in to this pub en route to The Valley in November 2000, when we lost 0-2 on my first-ever visit, and Claudio Ranieri came under torrents of abuse from many among the Chelsea support. He was just finding out about his new charges and was prone to playing odd systems as he struggled to find a winning team. I seem to remember he played Dennis Wise as a right wing-back in that game, and we were collectively awful.

We then hopped over the street to visit “All Bar One”, the most modern of the pubs that were on the list, and probably the least enjoyable.

Next up, a minute walk to “Theodore Bullfrog” and I was so pleased to be able to tell the lads that Frome Town were winning 3-1 at promotion rivals Winchester City. I highlighted this game as the most difficult that we would face all season. The beer in this pub tasted all the sweeter.

By this time, a few folks had spotted our travels on “Facebook” and had suggested a couple of pubs that were not originally on my list.

Pub number six was “The Harp”, possibly my favourite of the new pubs, a cosy – but packed – boozer that oozed charm. It was now 4.30pm, Frome were still 3-1 up, and the beers continued to flow.

Next up, another unplanned pub, “The Marquis”, which was virtually next-door to the previous gaff, and another packed and cosy boozer, with lots of musical references around the bar; posters, props, artifacts, etc. 

I asked a woman to take our photo of us in the bar.

I checked the photograph; it was a cracker and told her “You have the job. Welcome to MI5. We will see you on Monday.”

The last pub, number eight, was “The Nell Gwynne” and we had been joined by Small Bobby. He had played a game of football at 2pm and was keen to join us before heading over to the Chelsea match. We reached here at about 5.15pm and decided to make this the last call of the evening. It had been single drinks in all the others, but we stayed for three in this one, eleven all told, but I mixed some pints with some bottles to remain as lucid as possible. Stop laughing at the back. We found ourselves next to three women “of a certain age” who were – unfortunately for them, and us – Tottenham fans, but it didn’t spoil the evening.

In total, the eight pubs were covered in just twelve minutes of walking time. The first five were south of The Strand, the final three were north of The Strand.

It had been a blast.

We left there at about 6.30pm, and we all decided that catching an Uber was probably the best bet as it saved scurrying around the steps and escalators of various underground and mainline stations en route to The Valley. 

While in the uber as it set off towards the Tower of London, past Canary Wharf and Poplar, then under The Thames, I spotted a quote on “Facebook” by ex-Leeds United manager Marcelo Bielsa that hit a chord.

I am not one for sharing too much that isn’t my own stuff on “Facebook” but I did so on this occasion.

Here it is :

“I am certain that football is in a process of decline. More and more people are watching the sport, but it is becoming less and less attractive. There are fewer and fewer footballers worth watching, and the game is less and less enjoyable.” 

This mirrors my thoughts, and many that can compare the far less regulated styles of football in the past to the robotic “keep ball” of today, and it elicited a decent number of responses.

The conclusion?

It’s a drug, this football lark, and I commented that I am too old and too stupid to give it up.

My name is Chris, and I am a Chelsea addict.

Like many who were assembling at The Valley, no doubt.

The Uber ride took exactly an hour, and we were dropped off a few hundred yards away from the entrance to The Valley on Floyd Road. As I have only visited it twice before, and the last time was almost a quarter of a century ago, the approach wasn’t too familiar. As we reached the bottom of the incline, I found myself walking right in the middle of a mob of baying Charlton fans, and then within seconds an equally boisterous mob of Chelsea. There was a bit of a ruckus, but not much to get excited about.

With the stadium in view now, I quickly snapped a couple of photos of a chap grafting away and selling the hated “friendship scarves.”

“Half-Man, Half-Trinket, the face of shame.”

It was reassuring to see many old school faces queuing up to get inside. I guessed that absence made our cumulative hearts grow fonder and this was why we flocked to The Valley once more.

I was inside at 7.45pm and quickly found my seat…er position. Halfway through the first half, I realised that Glenn was two rows in front of me. 3,300 Chelsea were in the Jimmy Seed Stand and we were just a few feet apart. What were the chances?

The evening was already getting colder, and I was beginning to regret not wearing a warmer coat. But it’s always a balancing act when we dive in and out of pubs. I weighed up the options and plumped for being comfortable in a pub for six hours and cold at the football for two hours rather than too warm for six and toasty for two.

There was the usual modern-day nonsense of lights being dipped, flumes of smoke, and the home fans added to this silliness by going all “Spursy” by holding their phone torches above their heads, the loons.

Liam Rosenior was in charge for his first game, and we had touched upon our thoughts of him in the first pub or two. He seems an articulate so-and-so, and confident, and of course we wish him well.

His first Chelsea team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Badiashile – Hato

Santos – Caicedo

Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho

Guiu 

The game began and it seemed unreal that I was back at The Valley after a gap of over twenty-three years. In 2002, we won 3-2 on a hot and sultry August afternoon with a late goal from Frank Lampard but the weather was so different on this occasion. We attacked what used to be called “The Covered End” and a cross from Jamie Gittens on the right was soon claimed by the Charlton ‘keeper Will Mannion.

It seemed very much like we were playing the same way as before in the opening few minutes; I guess it’s difficult to change to a new style immediately.

There was a medical emergency in the first few rows of the Main Stand, and this held the game up. We really did not need any further hold-ups. God knows what time we would leave the stadium if this tie went to extra-time and penalties. A good guess would be 11pm and God forbid that.

There was a lovely Facundo Buonanotte lofted chip for James Gittens but his header was easily saved. We enjoyed a flurry of corners without testing their ‘keeper and then on eighteen minutes, Andrey Santos did not connect well with a shot, and it spun wide.

Halfway through the half, I could not help but chastise the players for absolutely no movement off the ball.

“You’d think the buggers would want to run around a bit in this cold weather, eh?”

I spotted that the bloke behind me had been behind me at Fulham too and I said to him “you would not invite a friend to watch this dull shite.”

A thunderous strike from Acheampong was well saved by their ‘keeper.

On the half-hour mark, a ridiculously high shot screamed over the bar, and this led to the first-ever time – I am sure – that the infamous “FCUKING USELESS” chant was directed at our own team and not after a shocking piece of play by the opposition.

Yes, we had sunk this low, and it brought back memories of when Ranieri was given a terrible verbal onslaught at The Valley way back in 2000.

The build-up continued to take forever, such is the way of football in the second quarter of the twenty-first century. This slow and meticulous “pass, pass, pass” style of play has blighted the game for years now, and it makes many – including Marcelo Bielsa no doubt – question the sanity of it all.

It feels to me that this is a mode of football that has been spawned by AI. It’s as if every game of football ever played has been processed through a series of huge computers the size of the Maracana and the boffins have observed that the most effective way to play is to relentlessly pass the ball across the pitch until the defending team momentarily loses concentration, or the will to live, until the ball is pushed home from eight yards.

No thrills, no imagination, no skills, no entertaining dribbles, no one-on-ones, no crunching tackles, no variation. Just a grim grinding of gears as players go through set patterns of play that have been practised on training pitches for hours on end.

I don’t know what Cloughie would make of it all.

Football is now like a car journey, planned meticulously by Sat Nav where the only concern is fuel economy and not the scenery. It’s like travelling from Bristol to Birmingham and keeping to the greyness and monotony of the M5 motorway and avoiding the beautiful Cotswolds, the picturesque villages and market towns, the sweeping views of the Severn Vale and the patchwork of fields with stone walls and hedgerows.

On thirty-three minutes we played the ball back to Jorgensen and the Chelsea faithful clapped sarcastically.

Then, a loud burst from us.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! – ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

I pleaded for someone to drop a shoulder. For somebody to do something.

On forty-four minutes, a Garnacho shot was blocked.

The play was so poor. I wanted the players to be less conservative, to take a chance.

In the fourth minute of injury time, a cross from our left was aimed at Marc Guiu who headed the ball back to where Jorrel Hato was stood. The ball bounced once and the left-back smacked it cleanly into the roof of the net.

Get in, thank the Lord.

We were ahead, just.

Half-time was reached.

A friend texted me to say that we had enjoyed – if that is the correct word – seventy-eight percent possession in that first-half.

Five minutes into the second half, down below me, Bounanotte lashed a great free-kick towards the near post and Tosin speared the ball in via a fine glancing header.

Not long after, a confident run from Alejandro Garnacho was followed by a cheeky curler that just went wide of the far post.

On fifty-five minutes, Charlton enjoyed their best chance thus far and the ball went off for a corner. From the resulting kick, Jorgensen did ever so well to pat away a header, but the rebound was crashed home by Miles Leaburn, who is the son of former Charlton striker Carl Leaburn.

Another name from that haunted 1987/88 season. After Leroy Rosenior scored against us at West Ham – as mentioned in my last report – we played Charlton at home and Carl Leaburn was in their team who equalised in the ninetieth minute, forcing us into the play-offs. 

Red and white smoke bombs rained down from a corner of the home end. I spotted a Charlton flag in that corner that featured their “Addicks” nickname, one of the oddest in our professional game. The story behind it is very fishy.

On sixty-two minutes, Garnacho dribbled in and set up Buonanotte. His shot was weakly parried and Guiu slotted home. I captured his celebrations with my pub camera.

On sixty-six minutes, Estevao replaced Gittens and the away choir sang his Samba song.

Bloody hell it was cold.

On sixty-nine minutes, more changes.

Liam Delap for Guiu.

Enzo Fernandez for Buonanotte.

Five minutes later we kept warm by sing a loud “One man went to mow” and Estevao cut in but his shot was finger-tipped over.

Estevao added a little pizazz to the game and set up Enzo and Delap before again threatening Mannion with another shot.

Then the fog hit us, and the place became greyer and greyer.

And colder and colder.

Fackinell.

On eighty-five minutes, more changes.

Wesley Fofana for Hato.

Pedro Neto for Garnacho.

A shot from Enzo, high and wide. Then in the first minute of injury time, the Argentinian World cup winner sped forward and passed to Neto. He lost his marker and then drilled a low shot in at the near post.

Three minutes later, Mannion fell at the feet of Estevao after another lively incursion, and the referee pointed at the spot.

Enzo smashed it home. It was the last kick of the game.

Charlton Athletic 1 Chelsea 5.

The players came over to thank us for our support on this cold and foggy night.

We soon serenaded the new manager.

“Liam! Liam! Liam! Liam!”

Job done, can we go home now?

Actually, no we couldn’t. For some reason that was never fully explained, the police kept us penned in on the crowded road that connected the exit of the away end to Floyd Road for around forty minutes, with all of us getting colder and colder by the minute. We were towards the back, so just stepped away from the mob, but tempers were rising as the sirens wailed, the lights flashed and the night drew on.

Eventually we slowly walked to the top of Floyd Road, sadly managed to avoid finding the Uber driver I had booked – and he managed to avoid us too – and so we eventually caught a train back to London Bridge at around 11pm or so.

We gobbled down some bloody awful “McDonalds” burgers under the station’s arches and then took a beautifully warm Uber at midnight that took us through South London, over the Thames at Lambeth, then close to the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament and eventually down the Kings Road to Fulham. We reached our base at 12.30am.

Sleep!

Next up, a League Cup semi-final at home to Arsenal.

Bernie Slaven’s son doesn’t play for them, does he?

Let’s All Go Down The Strand

Up For The Cup

Tales From Deepest SW6

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Fulham vs. Chelsea : 7 January 2026.

This match at Craven Cottage would be the first of six consecutive games in London, and for this I was truly thankful. There have been some long hauls over the past month or so, including Leeds, Newcastle and Manchester, and I was looking forward to this spell in the capital.

These games are coming quickly in the month of January, and the club will play a total of nine matches this month.

On the Monday after the game at the Etihad, the club interviewed Liam Rosenior, and on the Tuesday morning it was announced that the former Fulham player who was in charge at our sister club Strasbourg would be unsurprisingly joining us. The length of the contract, of six years, baffled me, but much of modern football leaves me baffled so I tried not to dwell too much on it.

Liam Rosenior, then.

I remembered him from his time at Fulham, but struggled with his spells at other clubs. My first ever game at Craven Cottage with Chelsea was in the 2004/5 season and I quickly checked to see if our new manager was playing on that day over twenty-one years ago. In fact, he was a non-playing substitute. As an aside, I really enjoyed that match, with Arjen Robben on fire, and we won it 4-1. I chuckled when I realised that I recognised virtually all the Fulham team that day. The surnames were listed and I quickly barked out their first names.

Mark Crossley

Moritz Volz

Zat Knight

Zesh Rehman

Carlos Bocanegra

Steed Malbranque

Mark Pembridge

Papa Bouba Diop

Luis Boa Morte

Tomas Radzinski

Andrew Cole

The only two I struggled naming were Carlos Bocanegra and Andrew Cole; I thought it was Andy. Of course, these days I would bloody struggle to name many of the Fulham team’s first names. Sigh.

Anyway, enough of this shite.

Welcome to Chelsea Football Club, Liam Rosenior.

Best wishes for a long and successful career on the Fulham Road.

…stop sniggering at the back.

Incidentally, I used to feel haunted every time that I heard the Rosenior name, including when Liam first came to my attention when he played for the local Bristol City team in 2002. You see, dear reader, his father Leroy played – and scored – against us in a 1-4 defeat at Upton Park on a Bank Holiday Monday in May 1988. That defeat effectively consigned us to a play-off position in a fight to avoid relegation that season. And we all know how that worked out.

In twenty years’, time, I hope that the name Rosenior doesn’t haunt me further.

I worked an early shift and collected PD and Parky at 2pm. I updated the lads on Frome Town’s fine win at Bishops Cleeve the previous night. I fuelled up at Reading Services, and enjoyed a good run in. I dropped them off at “The Eight Bells” at just before 4.30pm.

After parking up at 5pm on Gowan Avenue, I trotted the fifteen minutes down the Fulham High Street to meet up with the lads. A group of five slow-moving Fulham fans were in my way and I sped past them. I hoped it was a metaphor for the evening’s match. I peered into “The Golden Lion” with its “Home Fans Only” sign, then crossed the great divide as I passed “The Kings Arms” and “The Temperance” – away fans – and approached “The Eight Bells” with its “Only Away Fans” sign.

At 5.15pm, I was in, and shot round to join up with PD, LP, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Texas Aleksey. I stayed about an hour, and it was lovely to see so many other Chelsea faces appear in our local. It seemed like we were having a little party in the front room of our house and word had got out. It was splendid.

I found it funny that Scott, Gerry, Martin and I were last together in a bar outside Yankee Stadium in the South Bronx in July, and here were all were again in a pub near Craven Cottage in South Fulham in January.

Things, sadly, would take a turn for the worst.

My friend Chris in North Carolina – formerly of Windsor – messaged me at 5.45pm to inform me that a mutual friend, Mick Collins, had passed away after heart surgery the previous night. I was shocked and stunned. I first met Mick, who retired a few years ago, in Chicago in 2006 for our game against the MLS All-Stars, and our paths would cross on many occasions, in the US and in England. He was a lovely man and will be sorely missed.

RIP Mick Collins.

This was the last of Texas Aleksey’s run of games on his trip and this would be his inaugural visit to Craven Cottage. We all left the pub within a few minutes of each other, but while Jimmy walked ahead with PD and LP, I wandered through the park with Aleksey. It was a bitterly cold night alongside the River Thames.

I took a few photos outside the familiar red brick frontage on Stevenage Road.

I was in at 7.15pm.

Such is the benign nature of Fulham’s support, that it is only at Craven Cottage where home and away fans can walk side-by-side once through the turnstiles and inside the concourse behind the stand.

Very Fulhamish.

However, I wasn’t impressed with my view; although I am an away season ticket holder, I was right down by the corner flag alongside the lower tier of the Riverside Stand.

This little area is full of tourists – It’s easy to tell – and I wondered which ones I would become fixated upon as they looked across at the travelling support, open-mouthed, at the volume and humour of our support. It’s a game I always play at Craven Cottage if I am towards that stand.

Of course, it was the Tyrique George chant that got us all energised last season, and I wondered if the youngster might be included in the squad to act as a catalyst for noise if no other reason.

Well, no. He wasn’t even on the bench.

With Liam Rosenoir watching in the stands, Calum McFarlane took charge for his second game and chose this team :

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto

Trevoh Chalobah

Tosin Adaradioyo

Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos

Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto

Enzo Fernandez

Cole Palmer

Liam Delap

So, Enzo in the hole and Cole out wide. I suspected some abuse from the home fans for Tosin.

Was it just me, or did others feel like we would be treading water in this game as we waited for the new man to take over? I expected a hard game against Fulham and predicted a tight 1-1 draw.

Pre-match, some flames flew up into the sky in front of the Riverside Stand while the PA played what sounded like an ACDC song. What could be further from Fulham than ACDC? I think a song by the Brotherhood of Man would have been more fitting. The players marched across the pitch from the cottage, and yet more flames and fireworks zipped up into the cold black sky. The bloke on the PA was even more “shouty” than our dickhead at Stamford Bridge.

Fackinell.

Fulham play in an all-white kit these days, so it was a nice-and-simple whites vs. blues battle on this evening in deepest SW6. The home team attacked us in the Putney End in the first half, and they engineered a shot on goal in the very first minute when Harry Wilson shot low at goal, but Robert Sanchez saved easily.

Just after, the first of many Roman Abramovich chants got going in the away section of the stadium.

Then, the usual chants for players who were not on the pitch, what an odd custom.

I barked out “It’s Salomon.”

In the first fifteen minutes, we dominated possession but with no real effort on goal.

Then, as we neared the twenty-minute mark, two corners on our left in front of the Hammersmith End from Enzo caused a few problems for Bernd Leno. After the ‘keeper clawed at the ball to save it from reaching Liam Delap, another corner swung in and he watched as an Andrey Santos header hit the bar. Another corner was not so problematic and went behind for a goal-kick. With Chelsea having camped out in the Fulham box for a few minutes, Leno spotted a one-on-one and smashed a long ball forward towards Wilson. He was in a simple battle, a running duel, with Cucurella who had been his usual combative self in the opening quarter of the match. To our horror, Cucurella pulled at an arm and Wilson went down.

It was on the edge of the box, and Cucurella was the last man. We were rather unsighted, but the referee gave a straight red. Phone messages arrived to say the same thing.

“Stupid defending. Definite red.”

Thankfully, a VAR check denied Fulham a penalty. Wilson only hit the wall with the free kick.

Calum McFarlane replaced Santos with Jorrel Hato, who slotted into left-back.

Fulham then penned us in for the next period of the game. They dominated possession but didn’t really hurt us.

On thirty-five minutes, more Roman Abramovich chants, quickly followed by one demanding that Eghbali went forth and multiplied.

The mood was getting fractious in the Putney End.

On forty minutes, a decent break involving the hard-working Delap and Enzo, but a tepid shot from Palmer at Leno.

The game deteriorated and I pondered how truly awful the Fulham badge truly is. It sits there atop the gable of the old Leitch stand, now the Johnny Haynes Stand – an exact replica of our old East Stand – and I just shook my head. It looks like it was designed by an eight-year-old in a school detention.

A Fulham effort from Emil Smith-Rowe flew over the bar.

Six minutes of injury time were signalled.

Fulham put the ball in our net via Wilson, but Raul Jiminez looked offside to everyone around us. The Fulham fans roared as the players raced away, and after what seemed like ninety seconds, a VAR sign was flashed up on the screens. Why it took so long I will never know. It seemed to an increasingly cynical me that they waited for the Fulham players to finish celebrating – “great TV, let’s not spoil that” – before VAR was signalled.

All part of the modern football experience, all bloody shite.

Thankfully, VAR ruled offside.

Phew.

Being so low down – the bottom fifteen rows have a shallow rake – I couldn’t get many decent photos at all. As Chelsea attacked us in the second half, I hoped for an improvement.

In the first minute of the second period, a break and Pedro Neto fired over. Just after, a daisy-cutter from Wilson was deflected wide of Sanchez’ goal for a corner. Enzo sent in a corner, but Hato’s header was glanced over.

I found myself momentarily checking some scores – “United losing, Tottenham losing” – and looked up to see a Jiminez leap, alone, that resulted in his header nestling into the corner of the goal.

Fackinell.

Fifty-five minutes had elapsed.

I liked the way that our support responded with the loudest chant of the night from us.

“And it’s super Chelsea.

Super Chelsea FC.

We’re by far the greatest team.

The world has ever seen.”

Well, in New Jersey in July maybe, perhaps not in Fulham in January.

A Fulham shot whipped past Sanchez’ left post. Many home fans presumed it was in. Thankfully, the side netting rippled from the outside only.

On the hour, more Roman Abramovich chants.

And then the other one.

“Fcuk off Eghbali, fuck off Eghbali.”

A pass from deep from Tosin, and Palmer intelligently stepped over it and allowed it to run to Delap who cantered away at the Fulham goal. The young striker went for placement and not power, but Leno got an arm to it and a covering defender headed away.

I want to see more early balls to Delap for him to run onto; surely it is his strength?

Then, the chant of the night, perhaps of the season, or at least the recent weeks.

Zeitgeist at Fulham.

“We don’t care about Clearlake.

They don’t care about us.

All we care about is Chelsea FC.”

On sixty-five, Reece James replaced Enzo who, apart from those flighted corners, had done little.

Then another chant aimed at Clearlake but one man in particular.

“You’re not wanted here.

You’re not wanted here.

Fcuk off Eghbali.

You’re not wanted here.”

A low shot from Moises Caicedo, who himself had been unusually quiet thus far.

From right in front of me, no more than twenty feet away, Neto – minus ‘tache these days – floated in a near-post header. Under pressure from the leaping Gusto, Antonee Robinson could only flick the ball on, and it smacked against the far post. I could not see a jot, but I saw the reactions to a Delap goal.

GET IN YOU FCUKER.

I tried to take some worthwhile photos of the players celebrating but only really succeeded in snapping us fans.

We’re the important ones anyway, right?

It was 1-1, my prediction on the night.

On seventy-five minutes, Josh Acheampong for Gusto and Joao Pedro for Palmer. Unfortunately, Cole had struggled and didn’t look his old self. He seemed frustrated too, which is clearly not a good sign.

Of the two teams, it was Fulham who then upped their challenge, and we had to resort to some desperate defending, hacking away balls, blocking shots and throwing bodies at crosses. There was one absolutely magnificent “star fish” jump from Sanchez that foiled an effort from close in.

“There’s only one Robert Sanchez.

One Robert Sanchez.

He used to be shite.

But now he’s alright.

Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”

This was tense stuff now.

On eighty-one minutes, Sanchez dropped quickly to save well from Smith-Rowe but the rebound fell nicely for Wilson, who had been a threat all night, and he shot low past Sanchez.

I screamed “OH NO.”

Bollocks.

Interestingly, I looked over to my left to the tourist section and only a very small proportion of the one hundred or so fans closest to me were up and celebrating.

Were many of them Chelsea supporters?

Maybe, but perhaps unlikely.

I suspect most just happened to be in London and fancied a game of football to add to their list of boxes to tick. A Premier League game these days sits right alongside a Harry Potter studio tour, a coach trip to Stonehenge, a visit to Harrods and a plate of fish and chips.

£150 or more later, they sat in stoney silence and perhaps wondered what all the fuss was about.

Nine minutes of normal time and four minutes of injury time did not result in any worthwhile Chelsea effort on the Fulham goal.

This ended as a 1-2 loss.

It was Fulham’s third win against us in the past eight encounters after being winless in the previous twenty-one games.

For a club that has never won a major honour in one hundred-and-forty-seven years, this might be the nearest they come to anything worthwhile.

Bless’em.

As I made my way up the steps at the Putney End, and out into the concourse, the PA system played “Good Times” by Chic and I mouthed an obscenity.

One Chelsea lad barked “the Fulham lot are buzzing. One of them has cracked open a cheeseboard” and I had to smile.

I raced off to collect my car from Gowan Avenue and soon picked up my two mates on Findlay Road. We were soon on our way. I reached home at 12.45pm, a relatively early finish compared to recent trips.

It was a weak performance and nobody except Sanchez really shone. The reason for this malaise? Who bloody knows? We are, as ever, a confusing club and a confused club, and I can churn out the usual platitudes about hoping that the new manager can sort everything out, but he is untested at this level and will find himself under huge pressure if things do not go as Clearlake wish.

I wish him well, but…

Our next match is against Charlton Athletic in the FA Cup Third Round on Saturday, one of the great days in the football calendar. It will be my first visit to The Valley since the opening day of 2002/3.

I’ll see some of you there.

HOME AND AWAY

DEEPEST SW6

GOOD TIMES

Tales From The Bigg Market

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Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 20 December 2025.

With consecutive away trips to Cardiff and now Newcastle within five days, it was if these two fixtures were plucked out of the March 1984 football calendar for me to enjoy once again.

These two matches from over forty-five years ago still resonate.

Saturday 10 March 1984 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 31 March 1984 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

These were consecutive matches for me.

And so, it would be in 2025, too.

Tuesday 16 December 2025 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 20 December 2025 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Parky was unable to travel up to Tyneside for this one. I was up at about 4.45am, and I arrived outside PD Towers in Frome just as “05:59” changed to “06:00”.

I liked that.

Just in time logistics.

You know how it works by now.

We were blessed with completely clear skies for most of the long trip north, and this of course meant dry roads, a nice plus. There were no real traffic hold-ups. We stopped at Strensham Services in Worcestershire at 7.30am. There was a McDonalds breakfast, heartily wolfed-down by us both, and I filled my petrol tank. The weather outside was sublime.

I made great time. There was a comfort break at Woodall Services in South Yorkshire. I was loving this trip. Up onto the A1(M) and a hint of clouds to the north, and a hint of a rainbow too. One final comfort break at Durham Services, and then the approach to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The Angel of the North was at its brilliant rusty best, catching the sun, to my right. There had only been a few minutes of fine rain in the last few miles.

Jimmy The Greek had travelled up from King’s Cross, arriving at 11.30am, and had rewarded himself with a beer in the magnificent “Centurion Bar” at the train station. The plan was to collect him and then check in at the apartment I had booked to the west of the city centre.

I usually cross the river via the famous Tyne Bridge but on this occasion my Sat Nav took me over Redheugh Bridge which was further inland. For a few hundred yards, I found myself driving along Scotswood Road.

I couldn’t resist singing a couple of lines.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

This took me right back to my first Chelsea game when my father meticulously taught me the words to this famous Newcastle United song before the teams met at Stamford Bridge in March 1974.

I collected a smiling Jimmy at 12.30pm and we were soon checked in at the same apartments that we had used back in May. By 1.15pm, we were in an Uber heading down to the city centre.

Football fanciers often talk about “game management” these days, but for my perspective this weekend was all about “drink management.” I remembered the mess that I managed to get myself into in the small hours of our Sunday game at St. James’ Park last May. The kick-off on that day was at midday, and when PD woke me at 10.30am, I was in no state for football or anything. I was rancid. I promised myself an early finish on this Friday, ahead of another early kick-off on the Saturday, and on the Saturday, ahead of a long drive home on the Sunday.

We know Tyneside well by now. And although I wanted to “take it easy” – with PD’s full backing – I also wanted to visit a few new pubs too. So, I spent a while looking at the possibilities.

The quayside had been very well explored. In fact, we had virtually visited every pub along the stretch from the Wetherspoons in the west to the “Free Trade Inn” in the east.

The Wetherspoons on the quayside, “Off-Shore”, The Quilted Camel”, Bob Trollop”, “The Red House”, “The Crown Posada”, “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, “Akenside Traders”, “The Bridge Tavern”, “The Slug And Lettuce”, “The Head Of Steam”, “The Broad Chare”, “The Tyne Bar” and “The Free-Trade Inn.”

Fourteen pubs over one mile, all ticked off.

So, for this little session, I zoned in on the Bigg Market and I sorted out a pub-crawl that would not be too taxing.

Jimmy, PD and I started off at “The Beehive Hotel” at around 1.30pm. I had visited here in 2020 but needed to try it again. I had forgotten that this lovely pub has the cheapest drinks in the city. A trio of lads from The Eight Bells in Fulham were at a table and I shot over to say hello. My round of two “Cruzcampo” and one “Guinness” came to just £10.60.

I was falling in love with Newcastle once again.

Ryan from Stoke had seen that we were plotted up in “The Beehive” and joined us and stayed with us all night. The place was getting busy. We were perched on stools near the doorway. Space was at a premium. The last Friday before Christmas – “Black Eye Friday” – was heating up.

I had seen that my mate Foxy from Dundee had attempted to send me a message. About half-an-hour later, I then spotted that an image of a pint of Guinness had appeared on the chat. At that exact moment Foxy appeared right in front of me.

Our group was set.

Jimmy, PD, Ryan, Foxy and myself.

The five of us traipsed around five yards to a very quiet bar called “Pumphrey’s” and I supped another “Cruzcampo. Then, through an entrance between “The Beehive” and “Pumphrey’s” into the cobbled courtyard of “The Old George” and into pub number three. It was absolutely rammed, but thankfully we found a table. This fantastic pub is one of the city’s oldest and dates from the sixteenth century. It’s a rabbit warren of cosy rooms, and the place was heaving. By now, the football chat had veered off along several unexpected tangents, and the alcohol was flowing freely. From here, we edged along High Bridge to “The Duke Of Wellington.”

Then it was time for some food. Someone mentioned “Hooters” and although I rolled my eyes we were soon at a table, with me drinking another “Corona” as I nibbled on some mozzarella sticks. By this time, we had lost Foxy. The last time I saw him prior to this was in Dortmund. He tends to show up at random places and probably disappeared from the Bigg Market into some time-tunnel portal.

We had spent around six hours in the Bigg Market. It had been a blast. The locals? Friendly of course. The pubs? Welcoming. The drinking? We were just about in control, but only just.

“Where next Chris?”

I suggested “The Strawberry.”

“Great shout.”

Not only was it next to where Ryan was staying, but it was en route to our apartment too.

We clambered into an Uber and headed off to the fabled pub right next to the Gallowgate.

I remember that in the classic gangster film of 1971 “Get Carter” which was set in Newcastle’s underworld, Michael Caine’s character says to a rival “you’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape.”

Well, for those six hours we were Bigg men, and in increasingly bad shape.

There was time for a team photo outside “The Strawberry” and in we went. Who should be sat in a quiet corner of this pub but Gabby and Noel, and we sidled up next to them. Ironically, they had left a message on my Cardiff blog the previous morning.

I was aware that I needed to watch my intake, not wanting to over-do it. But I wasn’t sure what to drink.

“Surprise me Jimmy.”

Well, this didn’t go to plan really. He brought me back a rhubarb gin.

“Oh lovely.”

We stayed in “The Strawberry” for around two hours and we returned to our digs at around 10pm.

And that, for Tyneside, was an early finish.

I slept well that night.

I could hear Jimmy and PD at various moments in the morning, but I enjoyed a little lie-in. I was up at around 9.15am. We soon caught an Uber down to the quayside and were soon tucking into a large breakfast apiece at the well-visited Wetherspoons.

I wasn’t 100% but I was certainly in a much better state than in May.

We reviewed the previous night’s activity, and I was reminded that in “The Strawberry” – beneath the girders of the Gallowgate, right behind enemy lines – we apparently were told by one of the female bar staff to “keep the noise down”, such was the volume of our Chelsea songs.

“I don’t recollect that at all. Bloody hell.”

We then caught another Uber up to the ground. As we waited in traffic, I took a few shots of The Stack that has added more revenue to match-days at their stadium. The driver, bless him, took us right up by the away end. From there, we walked through the concourse to take the lift to the heavens.

I then encountered a problem. I had seen my digital ticket appear in my Google Wallet, but as I neared the ticket check, it had disappeared. Luckily, a fellow supporter suggested that I should delete the ticket from May, which was still in my wallet, so that there would be no confusion. This worked a treat.

We shuffled into the lift after a security check.

Jimmy and I said that we were PD’s carers.

“Does he need two, like?”

“Yes, Jimmy looks after his left leg and I look after his right leg.”

“Oh aye.”

“And he looks after the rest.”

In the bar in the heavens, we met up with Kev, Rich and Matt from Edinburgh; all Hearts supporters, but Chelsea too.

I was inside at around 11.45am and took my seat in around the sixth row from the front.

It was, dear reader, bloody freezing.

And foggy.

Those of us in the away end can usually spot the high land of Gateshead behind the Gallowgate End.

Not on this day.

The light grey seats of the stadium met the light grey steel of the stand roof, and the city down below was shrouded in a clinging grey fog, while the sky above was an impenetrable grey smudge.

The vivid green grass of St. James’ Park was the only colour of note on this bitterly cold day on Tyneside.

Our team was flashed onto the large screen to my left.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

There was a festive slant to the pre-match songs that boomed loudly out of the speakers, with songs by Shakin’ Stevens and Wham, but also “Our House” by Madness, maybe a nod to us visiting supporters. If so, a nice touch.

Then, bizarrely, some shite by Status Quo.

The teams were formally announced over the PA system, and we then were treated to the usual selection of pre-match songs at St. James’ Park.

“Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones.

“Blaydon Races.”

I can’t deny it; I mouthed along to these words.

I just couldn’t help myself.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.

Aa went to Blaydon Races, ’twas on the ninth of Joon,
Eiteen hundred an’ sixty-two, on a summer’s efternoon;
Aa tyuk the ‘bus frae Balmbra’s, an’ she wis heavy laden,
Away we went ‘lang Collin’wood Street, that’s on the road to Blaydon.

Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

Then, oddly “Hey Jude.”

The entrance of the teams.

“Local Hero” by Mark Knopfler.

I was right in the mood now…but still bloody freezing.

I seemed to be absolutely surrounded by Scottish lads, mainly Rangers but a few Hearts too. There must have been around a dozen beside me and behind me. Foxy was a lone Dundee United fan, but I had not yet spotted him at the stadium.

For the first time that I can remember, I was watching an away game by myself…Alan, Gary and John didn’t travel to this one. And it felt so odd.

The game began at 12.30pm and we attacked the Gallowgate. I was happy with our start, and our first chance came in the first minute as Cole Palmer attempted to lob Aaron Ramsdale from the left-hand corner of the box but although several Chelsea supporters thought it was going to drop in, it always looked like narrowly missing the target. The ball dropped on the roof of the net.

Sadly, in the next move of the game, Newcastle disposed Wesley Fofana just inside our half and moved the ball out to their right. Jacob Murphy sent over a stunning cross that Anthony Gordon met. I was purring at the excellent point blank save from Robert Sanchez, but the rebound sat up nicely for Nick Woltemade to tap in from close range.

Three minutes had elapsed and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

Two minutes later, we built a fine move down the left and Alejandro Garnacho fancied his chances outside the box, but the ball flew over the bar.

Just after, Malo Gusto was injured inside our box, and our players were irate when the referee Andy Madley let play continue. There was another Murphy cross that found Gordon again, but Sanchez leapt to produce a stunning finger-tipped save.

As the first half settled, we found it so difficult to build moves and seemed prone to collapsing into one almighty mess whenever the home team attacked.

Newcastle United managed to get the ball in the net via former Blue Lewis Hall, but Fabian Schar had impeded Sanchez in the build-up, so it stayed at 1-0.

We were chasing shadows by now and were second-best in all areas.

On twenty minutes, Gordon sent over a cross from their left and Woltemade’s run was perfect and his finish flashed inside the far post.

We were 2-0 down with not even a quarter of the game gone.

Bloody hell.

But wait. VAR was called in to review a potential offside. I wasn’t convinced. We waited for three minutes. The goal stood.

On twenty-seven minutes, a stupendous first-time volley from Schar but Sanchez saved well.

The away end throughout all of this was mainly silent. There had been some very half-hearted chants at the start but as the lacklustre performance on the pitch was played out before us, we just stood, with the cold clawing at our bones.

At last, on thirty-five minutes, a semi-decent chant.

“CAREFREE.”

Just after, we somehow produced a shot on goal. It was deflected and in one of those odd moments, the ball appeared to be going in towards the goal, but in fact was rebounding out of the penalty area. A few of us in the heavens were taken in.

Pedro Neto bundled the ball in, but used his hand, so the goal was immediately disallowed.

On forty-four minutes, a chance for Woltemade went begging as he lunged at a ball at the far post but failed to connect.

What a dire bloody first-half for us.

I chatted to Andy from Nuneaton at the break.

“I’m finding this harder to do, Chris. Maybe one day soon, I’ll give it all up.”

“I know mate.”

“It’s the travelling, really.”

“Andy, I love the aways though. Love them. It’s the homes that I find a bit of a chore.”

“It’s the other way for me. I enjoy the homes. I can get to London by train from Nuneaton in just under an hour. It means I can have a few drinks. I’m not driving. Nice.”

Garnacho had been disappointing in the first half. On several occasions he had the determination to get past the full-back, but often his touch let him down. On two occasions he ran out of pitch. I would later say to Kev that “it’s not like ice hockey and he can run behind the goal…”

There were no changes at half-time. For all our deficiencies, the home team had been very very good.

Within the first few minutes, I sensed that Palmer – who had been desperately quiet in the first half – was in a lot more space, perhaps because he was told to hold back a little. After just three minutes, running at a defender, he was crudely fouled.

OK, a chance. I settled myself. My tiny “pub camera” was at the ready. Both Palmer and Reece were over the ball.

We waited.

To my surprise, Reece approached the ball and struck it towards goal. I snapped. Imagine my – our – elation when it dipped over the wall, evaded Ramsdale’s dive and nestled in the nets.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

This signalled an awakening in the heavens. Whereas there had been moans and silence, now we sensed an unlikely comeback.

On fifty-one minutes, a fine break but the ball looked like it got stuck under Neto’s foot and the chance squirmed away.

Just after, Ramsdale made a fine save from James.

There was a rugged shoulder charge by Trevoh Chalobah on a Newcastle player that might have gone against us. Play was waved on.

On fifty-five minutes, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Enzo Fernandez and James moved to right-back.

We then took the game to the home team, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, with the home support growing nervous and then deathly quiet. James was now revelling in his right-back position, ably supporting the midfield when he could. Enzo just kept things moving. Caicedo looked stronger with each minute.

This was turning into a good old game of football, with attack and counterattack, time after time. There was a natural ebb and flow to it. We were all enthralled.

On sixty-seven minutes, Sanchez released a fantastic bomb of a pass towards Joao Pedro. It was inch perfect. With Malick Thiaw close, he headed the ball behind him, spun, and was away. It was a stunning piece of skill. I had mentioned in a previous blog how I liked his hold up play. Well, here he was holding up the ball for himself to run onto. I had memories of Mark Hughes heading the ball into space for him to run onto against Vicenza in 1998.

We saw him approach Ramsdale. I made the quick decision that I wouldn’t be able to grab my camera and take a snap. Instead, I concentrated on this joyous moment. I sensed a goal. After spinning away so magnificently, I knew our striker’s confidence would be rocketing as he cantered in on goal.

He steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

The shot was rolled close to Ramsdale, but past him.

We just waited, now, for the net to bulge.

PANDEMONIUM.

I punched the air continuously for what seemed like ages.

My elation, actually, surprised me. But it left me so happy.

So happy that a Chelsea goal, after 1,527 games, still means so much.

I turned the camera in on us and snapped a photograph of the screaming, gurning, cheering, shouting, smiling fans up in the heavens.

What a come-back.

And what a second half that continued to entertain us and enthral us. Chances were created at both ends. Garnacho must have had three chances to score but either missed the target or shot tamely at Ramsdale.

Newcastle United changed their attack line; they were going for it too.

On eighty minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Palmer, who had faded a little.

It seemed that we were on top, but the home team created chances of their own. We had to rely on an amazing recovery by James who sped across the Gallowgate penalty area as if his life depended on it to nick the ball just before Harvey Barnes could fully connect.

Shots from Caicedo and another from Garnacho went close but not close enough.

This was truly breathless stuff.

The game ended with a couple of Newcastle chances.

There was also a late VAR review involving a tackle by James on Barnes that I didn’t really see. Thankfully the challenge was said to be fair.

It ended 2-2.

What a second half of football.

I loved it.

And yet again we came away from a Chelsea game talking about “a game of two halves” and how we manage to get ourselves into such ridiculous predicaments.

Not to worry, we descended the steps, I bumped into Foxy – and then lost him again – and we goaded the subdued home fans as they sloped past us at ground level.

“Two-nil and you fcuked it up.”

I bumped into Andy from Nuneaton, his face gleaming.

“See you next week, mate!”

We reassembled and dropped into a huge bar to the north of the Bigg Market. We sat outside and oddly the cold air didn’t seem to bother us as much as it really should have. Later we spent two hours in a comfy bar next to “Pumphrey’s” called “The Market Shaker” and relaxed over a few beers, or “Cokes” in my case.

Saturday night in the Loony Toon was just starting to warm up and this bar, I guess, was typical. Several groups of women appeared, in various stages of undress, as did a massive line of lads in a nativity-themed fancy dress parade, all holding hands, dressed as angels, wise men, Joseph, Mary, a donkey, a star, a bale of hay: bloody impressive.

Then a bloke in his fifties began strutting his stuff on the dance floor and was dancing like a lunatic. He clearly wasn’t dancing, or even moving, or breathing, in tune to the music. I then realised that he had the incredible knack of dancing to the previous song, like some ridiculous musical interpretation of a “Two Ronnies” sketch.

I joked with Jimmy that Foxy would suddenly appear from the cellar.

Of course, Foxy eventually showed up, and he stayed for a drink or two.

The Hearts lads left to catch their train. Jimmy left to catch his train. Foxy left us to head back to his hotel.

PD and I hopped a few doors down to indulge in a magnificent hot and spicey pizza that hit all the right spots.

We were back at our digs at 8pm.

There would be an early alarm call at 6am in the morning…

FRIDAY NIGHT

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Tales From A Lack Of Vitality

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Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 6 December 2025.

After the expedition north to the wilds of West Yorkshire during the week, here was an away trip that was a lot more agreeable.

AFC Bournemouth, to give them their rather annoying full name, play at the Vitality Stadium and it’s only fifty-eight miles from my house.

This would be a breeze; the car journey, if not the match.

PD shot off at 7am to collect Parky and I picked them both up in Frome at 8am, with Glenn shortly after. We were all chatting away during the first twenty minutes and I inadvertently took the slightly longer way down to the coast via Salisbury, through force of habit, rather than via Shaftesbury. It didn’t matter too much. We would be returning via Shaftesbury after the match since PD and I had remembered the lovely meal we enjoyed at “The Half Moon” pub a few years back, and we decided to repeat this.

PD remembered it well.

“We all had a starter of belly pork, and it was bloody lovely.”

“If it is a main course, I am having that again” I replied.

We had heard rumours that the weather was going to be wet and miserable in Bournemouth, but the weather was decent as I drove south. I was parked up at about 9.30am and we strolled into the Wetherspoons in the centre of the town, close to where the team stay at The Hilton, at about 9.45am. We have been using this as our base for this away jaunt ever since our first visit in the Premier League in 2015/16. This would be my tenth visit to the Vitality Stadium, on top of two visits to Dean Court in 1988 and 1994.

We devoured a typically good value breakfast.

The phrase “cheap and cheerful” fitted perfectly, and that’s the description of the breakfast and not PD, Parky, Glenn and me.

At about 10.30am we trotted upstairs to our usual tables and waited for enforcements to arrive. First to arrive was Johnny Dozen from Southern California, full of his miserable experience at Elland Road on Wednesday. Salisbury Steve and his son Leigh arrived. Dane from Bracknell joined us, as did Nick and his son Robbie and Nick’s brother Vince, who now lives in Dorchester and always pops up at Bournemouth.

After my bought with the flu, I was a little jaded and found the chit-chat a little tiring. I needed some fresh air inside me. I popped outside for about an hour and slowly walked through the park to the beach and the pier. Doing the same walk in 2020, I walked alongside the Chelsea squad for a few minutes. It was around midday this time and I suspect that “the walk” had taken place an hour or so earlier. When I returned to the pub, Jimmy The Greek joined us.

I include some photos of the beach and the pier to add some local flavour.

I also include a photo of what we called the “J12 Summit Meeting.”

At just before 2pm, I drove the two miles to the stadium. I have used “JustPark” on virtually every other visit to this ground but on this occasion, I surpassed myself. My parking spot was in a driveway on Thistlebarrow Road, no more than a two-minute walk to the stadium, or a four-minute walk to the away turnstiles.

There is never an issue getting my SLR in at Bournemouth.

Phew.

On this occasion, we – Alan, Gary, John and me – were further towards the corner flag, but only in the fourth row. It would hopefully be an ideal place to nab some up-close-and-personal photos.

As kick-off approached, there were no clouds in the sky.

Perfect.

The team was announced but I couldn’t stop thinking about that pork belly at Shaftesbury.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

James – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho  

Delap

No surprises with the number of changes since the Leeds debacle. This looked and felt more like a Chelsea team that meant business. It would Cole Palmer’s first start since the game at Old Trafford way back in September.

We were subjected to the usual “make some noise…for the boys” nonsense from the PA announcer who sounded like he had just taken charge of a primary school disco and had been overdosing on “Panda Pops” and “Sherbet Dip Dabs”.

The game began.

“They owe us one, Chris” barked Gary.

Within the first real attack of the game, the home team managed to bundle the ball in via Antoine Semenyo, and it appeared that we were already up against it, shades of Elland Road. It took a while for my grey matter to realise that a VAR review was taking place, and thankfully the goal was chalked off.

Bournemouth had begun the game with a flourish, but thankfully we were able to withstand this early pressure, helped by another offside flag and a little luck.

We began to attack with a bit more solidity, but our final ball was wanting on many occasions. With twenty minutes gone, however, we were on top.

The Chelsea choir wasn’t too loud, but after Robert Sanchez’ decent showing at Elland Road, and elsewhere this season, an old song was reworked.

“He used to be shite. But now he’s alright. Walking in a Sanchez Wonderland.”

With that, a corner from Alex Scott in front of us was whipped in and Sanchez contorted his body to punch the ball away after the trajectory of the ball changed at the last minute. How I wish I had taken a photo of that.

A cross from Pedro Neto on the right was aimed towards the far post but Marc Cucurella headed over.

The ground was now shrouded in cloud. I hoped that the rain would stay away…

On thirty-two minutes, Liam Delap – who had struggled with the paucity of service – was injured and was replaced by Marc Guiu.

On thirty-five minutes, Sanchez reacted well to divert the impressive Semenyo’s low shot at goal, and thankfully Evanilson was unable to pounce on the rebound.

At the other end, Neto was faring better than Garnacho and curled a shot up and around the far post. It had been our best effort the entire half.

Yes, it really had been as bad as that.

We then fell apart in the closing minutes of the half as we called on Sanchez to save our bacon…

…mmm, pork belly.

Shots from Scott and Semenyo were parried. A rapid break in the final seconds thankfully resulted in a shot being flashed wide.

I was surprised that there were no Chelsea boos at half-time. Maybe everyone was in a football-induced stupor. It had been so quiet in all areas of the ground thoughout the first forty-five minutes. We might have controlled most of the possession, but our passing in the final third was very poor, and the home team probably deserved to be ahead at the break. Cole Palmer had began well, but got lost amid the mess of a very poor game thus far.

The second half began and we hoped for an upturn in our fortunes.

But again, the home team were on top as the game restarted.

In the forty-sixth minute, Marcus Tavernier dragged a shot wide when he really should have scored.

Five minutes into the second period…shock horror… a rasper from Pedro Neto was saved by our old friend Djordje Petrovic. It was the first time our former stopper had been tested.

Then, in a crazy spell – well, comparatively, let’s not get too fucking excited – we peppered the Bournemouth goal.

A Guiu header was saved, we hit the post via Garnacho and then shots from Enzo and Palmer were saved by Petrovic.

The noise levels within the stadium were still pretty low, but I liked the “In the net, Boscombe” chants from the home crowd who suddenly grew restless.

On fifty-eight minutes, Joao Pedro replaced the tiring Palmer.

A low shot from Guiu was easily saved.

On sixty-six minutes, a delightful shimmy from Garnacho – it was really enjoyable to see him go at defenders a mere five yards away from me – set up Guiu but he embarrassingly shanked it high and over the bar.

In the closing quarter of an hour, the travelling support somehow managed to make a little more noise; long overdue.

On seventy-one minutes, a strong shot from Garnacho grazed the far post.

On seventy-seven minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the Argentinian. This surprised me. Garnacho had been our most impressive player in the second half whereas Neto wasn’t at his best. I think Maresca took off the wrong wide man, but that’s just me.

The game detiorated.

There was an error from Malo Gusto and Semenyo pounced, but Sanchez was his equal, saving well at his near post.

The game finished with a lazy shot from the very disappointing Enzo that drifted over the bar.

It ended 0-0.

I was pleasantly surprised that hardly any Chelsea left until the final whistle. This was, at least for me, a big plus. Nobody likes to see empty seats in the away end at a Chelsea game well before the end.

I packed my camera away and sped back to the car.

From stand seat to car seat, it surely broke all records.

Glenn arrived, then PD and Parky.

It didn’t take me long to slide out and onto Wessex Way and I was soon heading north by north-west over the hills to Shaftesbury.

And it didn’t take us too long to dissect the game.

“Well, that was absolute dogshit, boys.”

“Yep. That stadium wasn’t full of any vitality today.”

“Both teams were awful.”

Outside, the night, and I drove on.

At about 6.15pm, I pulled into the car park of the pub in Shaftesbury.

We found a table and I grabbed the large menu.

“Oh great. It’s a main.”

Slow-cooked pork belly, served with creamy champ mash, braised red cabbage, roasted carrots with apple puree and cider gravy.

“Fantastic. Order that for me, Paul, I am off to turn my bike round, I’m bursting.”

When I returned, the waiter was still in conversation with Paul, a bad sign.

“That pork belly isn’t available, mate.”

Typical. Bloody typical. It summed up the day.

BEACH

BAR

0-0

Tales From A Black Night

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Leeds United vs. Chelsea : 3 December 2025.

Subtitled : To ‘ell and back.

I will be totally honest – or in modern parlance, “NGL” – here. I had been dreading this trip ever since I heard of this season’s fixtures.

Even as the game became close.

And that is somewhat surprising, bearing in mind our recent little upturn in the home games against Barcelona and Arsenal.

No, sorry everyone. A midweek trip up to West Yorkshire on a Wednesday evening in December filled me with dread. For starters, I was short on holiday, so was only able to take two half days to accommodate this troublesome journey. However, it got worse; I was still recuperating from the bug that had hit me hard the previous week.

The day began for me at 6.30am with an alarm call to get me up and ready to work an 8am to midday shift.

I eventually got away, with PD and Parky as my trusty passengers, at 12.15pm. Thankfully there were clear skies overhead. I am not quite sure how I would have possibly coped with heavy rainfall and dodgy visibility. So, that was a huge positive.

Not long into the journey, PD shared the news that Marvin Hinton had passed away the day before. This fine servant, who played as a full-back and then a centre-half and was probably our first-ever sweeper on occasion back in the mid- ‘sixties, played an important role in our much-loved teams from that era. “Lou” played 344 times for Chelsea and came on as a substitute against Leeds United in the 1970 FA Cup Final and replay. Sadly, I never saw him in a game. He was known for his cool and calm style of play. He was eighty-five.

Rest In Peace Marvin Hinton.

We stopped briefly at Strensham Services. Thankfully I was feeling reasonable and we pressed on.

I spoke about the evening’s match.

“It’s weird. They will be singing ‘Doris Day’, while we will be singing ‘Dambusters’ and long may it continue.

It’s a cracking rivalry, even now.

At around 4pm, we decided to call in at a familiar pub on our travels; The Windmill at the Tabley Interchange on the M6. We were distraught to see that the property was closed and for sale. All three of us had really fancied some of their robust Northern grub. We then decided to aim for The Kilton Inn near Mere, another old favourite used for games in the Manchester area – including on Saturday 30 April 2005 – but they weren’t serving food until 5pm. Thankfully, our luck improved when we stumbled across The Plough at Hollins Green – a good sign for the evening’s game, surely – where we stopped from 4.30pm until 5.15pm.

Food was ordered and devoured.

In-keeping with the day’s travel and the evening’s game, we dined on traditional no-frills fare.

PD : Cheese and onion pie and chips.

Parky : Cottage pie.

Chris : Lancashire Hot Pot.

The pub was decent. It’s very close to the northern banks of the Manchester Ship Canal. The food was hearty and filling. The staff were friendly, if not slightly bemused that we were en route to Leeds.

We edged through some slow-moving traffic but then found ourselves back on the same road that we had used to get to Burnley ten days previously. Once on the M62, the traffic cleared, and I soared up and over The Pennines.

I made good time. We passed over the highest spot on the UK motorway network near the Lancashire / Yorkshire border then descended towards Leeds. As I drove on, the lights of the city and then the lights of Elland Road lured me in.

I was parked up at 6.30pm at a private car park; the price was a reassuringly cheap £6.

We had made it.

The former “away” pub The Dry Salters is now closed, so we had no options before walking to Elland Road, which was a good twenty-five-minute walk away. There’s nothing much around Elland Road. It’s a decent place to reach in a car, but it’s a long way out of the city centre, with hardly any pubs nearby.

Stamford Bridge it ain’t.

The temperature had dropped. Locals rushed by wearing the trademark white, yellow and blue bar scarves.

My K-Way jacket and Yankees cap fought to keep out the chilling temperatures.

I had to meet Lewis, a friend of a friend of a friend, to pass over a spare, and this was eventually accomplished at around 7.30pm.

In I went, and I was soon reminded that the bar area in the away concourse is strangely carpeted, a remnant of when this stand was for home fans only.

Up the steps, down the steps, and I quickly found my place alongside John. I said “this place doesn’t change much, does it?” and he soon mentioned the Don Revie carpet.

Revie loved getting the Leeds squad to play carpet bowls – that’s not a euphemism, I hope – and I wondered if this odd practice even took place in the crowded confines of Elland Road.

We had good seats, near the player’s tunnel. I soon spotted PD in the front row. He was sat a couple of seats away from a guy that Parky was sat next to at Burnley. During the TV coverage, Parky was spotted by many friends in the US and I was sent some screen shots. The chap next to Parky had a bizarre ‘seventies hairstyle…long blonde locks…and a mate said that an image of him was used to initiate a “reddit” thread during the game.

There were comments of this bloke’s resemblance to Jimmy Saville. In Leeds, on this night, he made the very wise choice to wear his hair in a ponytail. However, one poor chap within the Chelsea support nearer the noisy buggers in the South Stand, who must have had a passing resemblance to the infamous Leeds native, was the target for much abuse throughout the game.

John and I chatted about how ridiculous the 8.15pm kick-off was.

The irony was that Arsenal were playing Brentford at 7.30pm. If one game had to kick-off, why not that one, with most of the crowd travelling in from the South-East.

An evening game in West Yorkshire is bad enough, but not 7.30pm, not 7.45pm, not 8pm but 8.15pm?

It’s taking the piss on a monumental scale.

The team was announced.

Enzo Maresca rang the changes, and how. Nobody was happy.

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Badiashile – Cucurella

Santos – Fernandez

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Gittens

Delap

With Caicedo on a ban, and James simply not chosen, I wondered if the team had enough guts.

The home team boasted a mysterious bunch of unknowns – Ampadu, the captain, and Calvert-Lewin aside – including Peri-Peri, Bijoux, Boogle, Nacker, Stuck and Stack.

“Marching On Together” boomed, and the noise was impressive.

The two teams appeared in front of us, and it irked me that Chelsea chose to play in the all black “Millwall badge” monstrosity. When Chelsea plays at Leeds, we should always wear blue. Maybe with yellow socks to remind them about 1970.

As for Leeds, what with their hatred for all things Mancunian and Lancastrian, the flash of red of their shirt sponsor looked out of place too.

The noise didn’t let up as the time reached 8.15pm.

I posted on Facebook : “Let’s Win This For Lou.”

Leeds began on fire. A shot from Ao Tanaka was dealt with by Robert Sanchez, but a corner in the sixth minute was swing in and Jaka Bijol leaped clear to head home, unchallenged, from an angle ahead of the near post.

“Here we bloody go.”

After ten minutes or so, we looked so lethargic in possession.

Where was the fire, the intensity, the hunger?

On fifteen minutes, a half-chance for Joao Pedro at the old Gelderd End, now the Don Revie Stand. Funny, back in the day, I always knew it as The Kop, not the Gelderd End. I only heard of this name relatively recently.

There was an almost witty exchange on fifteen minutes.

Chelsea to Leeds : “Champions of Europe, you’ll never sing that.”

Leeds to themselves : “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe.”

This is their stubborn nod to the 1975 European Cup Final in Paris against Bayern Munich when a Peter Lorimer goal was controversially chalked off for offside, only for Bayern to win a tight game 2-0.

Fifty years ago. Fackinell.

The irony is that I wanted Leeds to win that night; these were the days when things were less tribal, and when – as a young kid – I wanted all English teams to be victorious in European finals.

I remember us singing “We are the Champions, the Champions of Europe” as we exited the stadium in Munich in 2012, but we haven’t sung it since to my knowledge.

Estevao was only really involved with his trademark shimmy inside and I wondered if he would be found out if this was to be the only trick up his sleeve.

Meanwhile, Leeds were winning tackles and second balls with an admirable, yet gut-wrenching, intensity. Our midfield was missing, perhaps on the Pennines or somewhere.

Shots were aimed at Sanchez from all angles. They were out-fighting us and out-shooting us.

“And go get your father’s gun, shoot the Chelsea scum.”

We improved slightly but our shots on goal were woeful. Jamie Gittens seemed unsure whether to stick or twist; to dribble past his man, or to pass. He looked lost.

Leeds were full of it.

“Even bloody Calvert-Lewin looks a handful tonight.”

Benoit Badiashile seemed to slow down to a crawl when in possession. And it didn’t help that he probably touched the ball more than any other player as the first half progressed. His passes were never positive. It was excruciating to watch.

On thirty-nine minutes, there was some terrible pre-meditated nonsense from Estevao. After losing the ball, he kicked out at a Leeds player from behind and was rightfully booked.

Prick.

In the last couple of minutes, Leeds won a loose ball as Chelsea struggled to clear and the ball ran nicely to Tanaka, who struck a magnificent shot into the corner.

Bollocks.

The home crowd roared again.

Memories of our equally awful performance under Thomas Tuchel in the August of 2022 came racing back. We lost 0-3 that afternoon.

At the break, we were at a real low.

What a lacklustre first half, nobody more than 4/10.

“Sort it out Maresca.”

At half-time, Howard Wilkinson slowly walked onto the pitch to say a few words to the Leeds faithful. How I remember our battles with his Sheffield Wednesday team in the early-to-mid ‘eighties, and of course I remember him leading Leeds to that 1991/92 championship. It was the last Football League title and – get this – Wilkinson is still the last English manager to win the title in England.

That’s pretty damning if you ask me.

As I heard him speak, I remembered that excellent midfield of David Batty, Gary Speed, Gordan Strachan and Gary McAllister. In truth, elsewhere that Leeds team contained mediocre players – maybe Tony Dorigo is the exception – but I was just happy that they pipped Manchester United that season. My college mates Bob and Trev went to many Leeds games that season. I thought of them too; friends since 1984.

I was having a wistful moment and found myself clapping the Leeds manager, no doubt out of respect for some fine memories of a time when football was another ball game in another age. A few other Chelsea fans of my generation clapped too.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile.

Pedro Netro for Estevao.

On forty-seven minutes, a cross from the Leeds right found Lukas Nmecha but Sanchez made an outstanding point blank save.

Three minutes later, we worked the ball out to Gittens who surprised us all by sending over a very good cross that evaded everyone and found Pedro Neto arriving at the far post. He adjusted himself and did ever so well to slot the ball in from a very awkward angle. He raced away, heading for the bench, pointing and gesturing and one can only imagine what he was saying to the management team.

We momentarily played some incisive stuff, and the fans noted the difference in intent.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

Liam Delap fired wide from an angle.

“Come on boys.”

On the hour, more changes.

Cole Palmer for Delap.

Alejandro Garnacho for Gittens.

Eight minutes later, the Argentinian raced away down the left, in front of the baying home fans who remembered his Manchester past and set up Cole Palmer who had typically dropped into some space at the front of the goal.

I expected him to score. John expected him to score. The twat behind me who had been calling virtually every Chelsea player a “c**t” expected him to score. My mates in South Philly and in South London expected him to score. Johnny Dozen from Southern California, watching to my right in the paddock, expected him to score.

The shot went wide.

I held my head in disbelief.

On seventy-two minutes, Chelsea suicide. We found ourselves doing our best “after you, Claude” routine, passing the ball around inside our box, but looking increasingly inept with each nervous pass. Leeds put us under pressure. Tosin dillied and dallied, and dallied and dillied, and lost his way, and the ball. Leeds had two aggressive players on the last man. Ilia Gruev stabbed at the loose ball, Sanchez blocked, but Calvert-Lewin pushed the ball home.

Leeds United 3 Chelsea 1.

Bollocks.

In the last ten or fifteen minutes, many Chelsea fans evacuated both levels of the stand, but I had to stay to the end. I rarely leave early.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Guiu replaced Joao Pedro.

No doubt recycling a chant aimed at Manchester United fans, the South Stand sang at us.

“It’s a long way to London when you’re shit.”

It wasn’t to be.

The whistle blew and that was that.

What a terrible performance.

In retrospect, the manager’s selection – and by the looks of it, his motivational pre-match speech – were way off.

To the Chelsea fans inside Elland Road, we appeared to be in completely the wrong frame of mind. Whereas the home team were full of aggression from the off, we seemed to be treating this game like any other.

Simply selecting a sub-par eleven and hoping for the best was never going to work at Elland Road.

Is anyone at modern day Chelsea aware of the dislike they have of us?

Amongst all of it, Sanchez kept us in it with some super saves, and he can’t really be blamed for the goals. Garnacho was a big positive when he came off the bench. And I think he ought to have started. He knows what the atmosphere at Leeds is like. Less so the young and still inexperienced Estevao. Enzo was poor. Santos too. That midfield was devoid of bite.

Elland Road is a very tough venue for us.

Since our first visit in 1927, in all games, our record is this :

Played : 53

Won : 8

Drew :15

Lost : 30

Two seasons ago, the two teams met in a Youth Cup game. The club was concerned that Leeds knew all about the rivalry, but the Chelsea boys didn’t. To remedy this, the 1970 replay was shown to the squad at Cobham, and the staff ensured that the players were suitably motivated. We won the tie easily.

I bet Maresca didn’t even know about the 1970 cup replay.

We slowly walked back to the car, and I got going at around 11pm. On the return home, there were roadworks on the M5 and so I was pushed down the M1 to Leicester and I was forced to come down the Fosseway – hello again – and over The Cotswolds. At Cirencester, there was a road closure, and the diversion signs took me everywhere but the right direction. At 2.45am, I found myself creeping around the streets of Cirencester trying to find an escape route.

I eventually reached home at 4am.

6.30am to 4am.

Bloody hell.

We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds…

Tales From Walham Green

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Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 25 October 2025.

This would be Sunderland’s first visit to SW6 since the very last game of the 2016/17 season, a resounding 5-1 Chelsea triumph.

And with disruption on the London Underground taking place over the weekend, we decided to keep close to Stamford Bridge before our game against the Black Cats.

I had quickly visited the new “Walham Green” pub on the first day of the season, but it was too busy – and too hot, under the glass roof – and I didn’t enjoy it. However, on this occasion it was a much more enjoyable visit. I like what the Wetherspoon Company has done with the former ticket hall of the old Fulham Broadway underground station. For a while it hosted a market hall, with small shops, but the space has not been used for a few years. Thankfully many of the fittings have remained to this day, and just being in the building brings back so many lovely memories of attending games at Stamford Bridge in my younger days.

Walking up the slight slope, my parents alongside me, the colour of match day, the London accents, cigarette smoke, the chatter, the noise.

The ticketing booths have become the serving areas, underneath a glorious “To The Trains” sign, and even the brass coin wells are still intact.

The building was erected in 1888, and the station was named Walham Green until a change to Fulham Broadway in 1952, just in time for our first League Championship three years later. I have strong memories of watching the 1997 FA Cup parade outside the station and looking up at the many Chelsea supporters who had climbed onto the building to gain a good vantage point.

The old station was used in the opening minutes of the 1998 film “Sliding Doors.”

I joined Parky, PD, Jimmy The Greek and the two Steves for a drink or two from around 10.30am, and we were sat alongside an overflowing table of visiting Sunderland supporters. Another lone Mackem – with a full Sunderland tracksuit top on show – was denied service, and I guess there is a “no away supporters” ruling in operation, although there are no signs. The lads next to us were not wearing Sunderland colours or favours, save for one lad who had his home shirt covered up under a zipped pullover.

They were friendly lads and invited us to their local when we get to visit their hometown on the last day of this current season. I mentioned one fantastic pub we visited in 2016/17, and it turns out that their local is just a few yards away.

Before the season had started, surely the Wearsiders would have been among the favourites to be relegated but their early season form has been surprisingly good. With us not knowing which Chelsea team would show up against them, I – for one – was not being blasé about the outcome of this match.

Sunderland were one of the traditional giants of the English game, though they have not won a single major honour for over fifty years. For those of a certain age, who can ever forget their 1-0 FA Cup win against Leeds United at Wembley in 1973?

Their haul of six league titles equals our total, though the last of these was in 1935/36.

People talk of the powerhouses of the modern era, and the names of Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Manchester City and Chelsea are usually cited.

Yet in the first decades of the professional game in England and Wales, it was a little different. From 1888/89 to 1938/39, the most successful teams were Aston Villa and Sunderland with six titles each, then Arsenal and Everton with five, then Liverpool, Newcastle United and Sheffield Wednesday with four.

I always think that these old established clubs inherently carry a lot of gravitas, and it suits my traditionalist outlook on football when a sleeping giant emerges from years of heartache. In 2019/20, Sunderland sank to their lowest ever league position, eighth in League One. But now they were back.

The previous evening, I had briefly scanned the teams that are currently in the prime positions in the Championship, and I was pleased by the quality of teams – I mean stadia, really – that will be vying for promotion come May. Rather than the same old tired old teams, there is a refreshing blend of names that thrilled me.

The first nine are all crackers.

Coventry City : Frank Lampard’s current team were last in the topflight in 2000/2001, when they played at Highfield Road, a stadium I visited on three occasions. I once visited their current stadium in the FA Cup in 2009. Coventry is a good away trip for me, “up the Fosseway” and I am long overdue a visit.

Middlesbrough : much-maligned but we like our visits to Teesside. Their last top-flight season was 2016/17, but before that it was 2008/9. It’s certainly a cheap night out.

Millwall : I never went to the Den, and I haven’t visited the New Den. It’s about time I went. It will be an experience, for sure, and I have to tick it off at some stage surely? Their last year in the topflight was 1989/90 when I was in North America; a pretty good excuse for not going to the Den if you ask me.

Bristol City : only twenty-three miles away, but my last visit with Chelsea was over thirty years ago. Their last season in the top flight was 1979/80. I have only visited Ashton Gate three times with Chelsea; 1975/76, 1984/85 and 1995/96. I know a few locals who follow City. This would be a very enticing away fixture.

Stoke City : I love going back to my old college town, and this would be a pretty decent away day for me. There must be a few remaining pubs from those years that I can winkle out and revisit. Plus, I need to polish up my Stoke accent too.

Charlton Athletic : a ground that I last visited in 2002, and another trip that is long overdue. I have only visited The Valley twice and I haven’t seen any of it apart from the walk from the train station to the away end. To go there again would be lovely.

Preston North End : their last season in the topflight was 1960/61, and the last time that they were in the same division as Chelsea was 1980/81. I loved the remodelled Deepdale when we played them in the FA Cup in 2010, and a return trip would be excellent.

Hull City : another maligned city, but some great pubs near the marina, I am sure we could find some other pubs too. It’s not a bad stadium as it goes.

Queens Park Rangers : no issue returning here, maybe just for a one-off visit before they get relegated again no doubt. It’s a tight and cramped stadium, but quite unique these days. Whisper it, but it does have its charms.

If I had to chose three it would be Coventry City, Millwall and Bristol City.

After a nice and relaxing time in the first pub, we quickly moved over to “The Tommy Tucker” for more drinks. Here, I met up with Nick, Kimberley and Josh – last seen in Wroclaw – plus Angela, Andrew and Matt. Five out of six are from Fresno, Josh from LA. It was lovely to see them again. As I had mentioned in the Ajax report, a few went to see Dagenham & Redbridge play during the week, and Nick told me that a local chap was intrigued by their accents and a conversation ensued. It turned out that this chap was the manager of Depeche Mode, and of course I had to mention that Dave Gahan and Andy Fletcher – RIP – were Chelsea supporters.

With storm clouds gathering – looking out at the light steel of the Stamford Bridge roof, the dark clouds above were so dramatic – I made a move at about 2.15pm.

Thankfully, the rain soon passed but would return with gusto soon into the match.

We had seen the team on our mobile phones in the pub; I generally approved.

Robert

Reece – Josh – Trevoh – Marc

Enzo – Moises

Pedro – Joao – Alejandro

Marc

It was a ropey start to begin with, and Robert Sanchez made two wayward passes to teammates in the first few minutes. This encouraged the away team to attack, and I wondered what sort of afternoon was lying in wait for us.

Thankfully, a Sunderland move was quashed by an Enzo Fernandez tackle, and then Pedro Neto passed the ball out to Alejandro Garnacho.

As the young Argentinian raced down the left wing, and entered the penalty box, I muttered : “Go on Garnacho, be selfish.”

He must have heard me because he slammed the ball past the Sunderland ‘keeper to give us a 1-0 lead.

Phew.

The clouds had dispersed by now and the sun was out; Chelsea were 1-0 up and all was well with the world.

Garnacho looked the liveliest player in blue during the opening moments, but I was impressed, too, with Enzo’s intelligent promptings from his more central position.

We were the brighter of the two teams, and we caused a few problems at the Shed End. A thumper from Moises Caicedo was deflected wide.

The first fifteen minutes were ours, the first twenty minutes were ours.

However, on twenty-two minutes, a long throw-in on the far side was captured by my camera – “look away now” – and my camera also captured the confusion in our six-yard box as the ball bobbled against heads, though not shared here. The resultant loose ball was bashed home by Wilson Isidor. They celebrated in front of us. As I saw their red and white shirted players assemble, I momentarily wondered if I should take a photo. A tough one. I thought of the fans taking photos of opposing players celebrating with their mobile phones, and I didn’t want to be like them. But my conscience was clear. I wasn’t right next to the players. I would never take a photo of opposing players celebrating up close. I wouldn’t be part of the scene. I was fifteen yards away, out of shot. A quick snap.

It was a moment when my twin passions became embattled; me as a supporter, me as a photographer.

Oh well.

Not long after, a delightful ball in between our defenders by an unknown Sunderland player had me gasping – “the best ball of the game so far” – but the recipient, another unknown Sunderland player, could not finish.

PD : “we’re losing it here.”

Upfront, we were getting weaker.

The chap next to me – Josh from Dartford, formerly Margate and a Margate fan – made a very succinct point that it seemed that we had forgotten that we now had a physical presence up front and we didn’t want to play him in.

Poor Marc Guiu didn’t have much service at all.

We didn’t hit him early, we didn’t give him something to run on to, we didn’t cross towards him. I felt so sorry for him. Instead, he found himself coming short and impinging on Joao Pedro’s space.

On the half hour a frustrated “Come on Chelsea” rumbled from the Matthew Harding.

On forty-three minutes a riser from Trevoh Chalobah was tipped over.

There were grumbles at half-time and Gary, a few seats along, made the point of how slow it all was, and one of the main culprits was Reece James.

“A great player Gal, yeah, but his first touch is often at walking pace.”

[in the back of my mind : “but I guess he is told by Maresca to slow it down.]

Ugh.

But some bright news elsewhere; Frome Town were 3-0 up at Malvern Town.

GET IN.

And Josh was happy that Margate were 4-0 up (at the same level as my lot, but further east.)

The second half began, with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding.

A James free kick from the right caused havoc but a defender thumped the ball away.

There was a rapid break from Neto on fifty minutes, but with Garnacho alongside him and in a promising position, the ball was played behind him.

The Argentinian then curled a lazy shot over.

On 58 minutes, Estevao replaced Alejandro.

There was a lovely buzz that met his first few touches of the ball, and a chance quickly fell for him, but his shot was deflected for a corner.

Sunderland’s role in all of this was easy to fathom.

Defend deep – “low block” as per the nerds – and catch us on the break.

On the hour, noise at last.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

There was a fantastic sliding tackle from Young Josh, who was enjoying a solid game.

On seventy-six minutes, two more changes.

Jamie for Marc, not his day.

Tosin for Josh, a surprising one.

We dominated so much of the ball, but Sunderland defended like their lives depended on it.

A cross came in, the Sunderland ‘keeper punched it clear, Cucurella went down like he had hit by a heavyweight boxer’s glove.

Oh boy.

More changes on eighty-five minutes.

Tyrique for Pedro, surprisingly poor.

Andrey for Joao, disappointing.

And as the final twelve minutes came and went, and as we ate into the added six minutes of injury time, everyone was thinking the same thing.

“We’ll concede, here.”

I even said this to Josh :

“We’re attacking, they break, ball gets played across the box, they sweep it in.”

On ninety-three minutes, the ball was walloped high up towards Brian Brobbey. He had his back to goal, and was shadowed by Tosin, with Chalobah nearby, in the slips. I decided to snap – “look away now” – as he guarded the ball with his life.

Seconds, minutes, hours passed…the ball was zipped inside, square.

Chemsdine Talbi arrived to slide the ball painfully past Sanchez.

Oh fuck.

The Sunderland fans roared.

I texted some mates : “why did nobody have the hunger to track the runner?”

Chemsdine Talbi joined the ranks of Clive Walker, John Byrne and Gordon Armstrong as Sunderland anti-heroes.

Sigh.

A few days before this game, I had asked some mates if it was good or bad luck – I could not remember – for a black cat to cross your path.

The consensus was, definitely, bad luck.

On this day, I had to agree.

Tales From A Beautiful Game

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 October 2025.

As with the last time that we played Liverpool at home, on Sunday 4 May, we had decided to forego our usual pre-match in “The Eight Bells” in favour of “The Tommy Tucker” because of logistical reasons. The closure of the District Line was again the cause, but we didn’t mind one iota. This pub is only fifty yards from Fulham Road and serves as a decent enough substitute for our usual boozer a mile or so to the south.

I was hoping that it would prove to be a lucky omen since we defeated the newly crowned champions 3-1 on that sunny day five months ago.

The day had begun in deepest Somerset with the rain lashing down outside, and with low dark clouds above. The outlook looked bleak.

Thankfully, the weather improved as I drove to London with PD and LP, so that by the time I was parked up, the skies were clear. Walking to the pub was a lot easier than I had expected with blustery gusts of wind the only negative. As soon as I reached the bar, I spotted Tommy Langley and we enjoyed a brief chat before he darted off to the stadium to commence his pre-match hospitality routine.

I stayed in the pub from 1pm to 4.30pm, and a few acquaintances joined us at our table, all of whom seemed to be called Steve or Dave.

We semi-watched the Leeds United vs. Tottenham Hotspur game on the TV screen that faced our table.

I was on the “Diet Cokes” of course and occupied myself with occasional peeks at my phone to see how my local team Frome Town were faring at Willand Rovers in Devon. During the week, on the Wednesday, I had enjoyed a cracking game of football between Frome Town and Bristol Manor Farm, our great rivals. My hometown team eventually prevailed 3-2, with a late goal from new fan favourite George Dowling, who rifled home on eighty-eight minutes after seeing an early 2-0 lead collapse. This gave Dodge our fifth win out of five in the league this season. Sadly, Willand won 1-0 and so I was downbeat about that.

With virtually every single Chelsea fan that I had chatted to expecting a loss against Liverpool, but hoping for a draw, I prepared myself for a bleak afternoon.

As I made the short walk from the “The Tommy Tucker” to Stamford Bridge, the wind was still blustery, and I was pleased that I was wearing my light jacket to fend off some surprisingly cold bursts.

I smuggled my SLR in using “Method 9/F” and quickly made my way up to The Sleepy Hollow.

It was 4.45pm. As I took a few photos of the dormant stadium from the very back row above our seats, waiting for things to liven up, I recollected a few things from that Liverpool game last May. It would prove to be dear Albert’s last-ever Chelsea game, and I thought back to him once again.

As friends drifted in, I chatted away, but none of us thought we would get much out of the game.

Enzo Maresca had chosen this starting eleven :

Sanchez

Gusto – Acheampong – Badiashile – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Fernandez – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

With the appearance of the teams from the East Stand tunnel, we were treated to fireworks exploding from both roofs of The Shed and the Matthew Harding. The air turned a hazy blue/grey for quite some time, and the whiff of sulphur permeated our nostrils.

At 5.30pm, the game began.

Liverpool began brightly, and as they attacked our end, it gave the Chelsea supporters the chance to boo the new Liverpool striker Aleksander Isak at close quarters.

Then Chelsea began to make inroads, and there was an opening for Malo Gusto but he fluffed his lines when presented with a chance.

With an extended “sesh” having taken place in the boozers around Stamford Bridge – I had deposited the lads outside the pub at 12.15pm and they didn’t leave much before 5pm – there was a tipsy atmosphere inside the ground, and the noise was excellent, a complete improvement to the horrible Brighton atmosphere.

We had started to move the ball around well, with the two wingers looking mustard.

However, on fifteen minutes, a fluid attack took place in the centre of the pitch, well away from Messrs Garnacho and Neto.

Benoit Badiashle pushed the ball forward to Gusto, supplementing the midfield as is the style these days, and he in turn played the ball forward to Moises Caicedo. There was no shortage of red shirts around him, but he deftly created space and advanced. He pushed the ball on, gave the impression that he was about to let fly, but touched the ball again, possibly putting defenders off balance or of kilter, and let fly with a blast from twenty-five yards. As soon as he had taken that extra touch, the Red Sea had parted, and I was right in line with his thunderbolt as it slammed into debutant Giorgi Mamardashvili’s goal.

Euphoria from me, euphoria from everyone, and I was up and celebrating like a loon, only slightly troubled that I didn’t get a snap of the goal. I followed Caicedo’s triumphant run past Parkyville and into the corner, buzzing all the while.

What a stunner.

Bollocks to the pre-match gloom, we were 1-0 up.

Liverpool had their share of possession in the ensuing half-an-hour, but we did not let them create much at all. We were playing the best football of the season thus far, not allowing the red-shirted players much space, and kept the ball well when in possession. Enzo seemed revigorated in that first-half, but Caicedo was even better. Out on the wings, the tireless Neto kept asking questions of their left back, while Garnacho, right in front of the Scousers, was lighting up his wing with some nice movement.

There was a powerful block by Badiashile from a Dominik Szoboszlai shot. The often-derided defender was surprising us all with an accomplished showing alongside the equally impressive Josh Acheampong.

On thirty-three minutes, Liverpool found themselves in our box, and a shot was hacked away by the ever-reliable Marc Cucurella.

There was a lung-busting, and quite thrilling, run by Neto down his right flank, and he eventually cut the ball back into the box, with Virgil van Dijk beaten, but the chance went begging.

Just after, Garnacho curled an effort just wide.

By this stage, the three-thousand Mickey Mousers in the far corner were as quiet as I could remember.

Garnacho went down inside the box, but after a VAR review, the play resumed.

Isak headed the last chance of a pulsating half over Robert Sanchez’ bar.

We were supremely happy at the break.

Soon into the second half – I timed it as just twenty-one seconds – Chelsea lost possession cheaply and the Liverpool substitute Florian Wirtz set up Mo Salah, who had struggled to get involved in the first period, but the Egyptian striker fired wide.

Sensing a dip in our play, the Chelsea spectators at Stamford Bridge turned into Chelsea supporters and noisily got behind the team with a barrage of noise.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

This warmed my heart.

The visitors improved and enjoyed a spell on top, and Sanchez saved a long shot from Ryan Gravenberch. Then, a one-on-one race between Salah and Badiashile, but our former striker fired over with his usually trusted left-foot.

Ten minutes into the half, Badiashile was injured and was replaced by Romeo Lavia, with James sliding back alongside Josh in the centre of the defence.

Then, two quick chances down below us. Garnacho took a long ball down to perfection but his intended pass inside to Joao Pedro was poor. Then a lovely flowing move that began with Lavia and ended with Cucurella’s floated cross towards the far post, but Pedro Neto’s header was deflected over.

This was a great game.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t hating modern football quite so much.

A dink from Neto, and Enzo wide.

Sadly, on the hour, Liverpool crossed from our left and it looked like Cucurella’s leg changed the flight of the ball slightly.

I found myself commentating.

“Oh deflection…here we go…goal” as Gakpo rifled it in past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

So, back level, and it felt like we had been hard done by.

There were further changes.

On sixty-seven minutes, Acheampong was injured and was replaced by Jorrel Hato. I found it odd that Hato didn’t come in for Badiashile, but what do I know?

At this rate, Tommy Langley will come on to play in our patched-up defence.

This was a pulsating game, though, and it seemed to be in the balance.

What next?

On seventy-five minutes, I could hardly believe seeing a triple substitution.

Estevao Willian for Garnacho.

Jamie Gittens Pedro Neto.

Marc Guiu for Joao Pedro.

We went on the offensive again. It seemed to be Chelsea attacking at will now.

Gittens to Enzo, a cross that begged to be converted, but the chance passed.

Next up, a sublime long pass from James found Gittens, looking lively, and he brought a decent save from Mamardashvili. Estevao picked up the loose ball, danced towards goal, and floated a shot towards the far post that Mamardashvili managed to get fingertips on, and I managed to snap that exact moment.

With minutes passing by, PD asked for his stick and left early. He needs a good half-an-hour to slowly walk back to where I collect him on Lillee Road.

The Chelsea chances still piled up. A shot from Caicedo – shoot! – and Mamardashvili (I am sick to death of typing out his name) nudged it over the bar.

A corner from the far side, Enzo unable to convert with a difficult header.

I wondered if PD was not too far away from the stadium that he could hear the “oohs” and “ahhs” from the increasingly mesmerized home support.

Szobososzlai – the hirsute Hungarian henchman, a certain woolyback if his legs are a clue – then shot wide at The Shed End.

The assistant linesman signalled seven minutes of extra time.

PD was surely out of earshot now.

The lively Estevao sent over a magical cross towards Enzo, who contorted his body to fashion a header, but although Mamardashvili was beaten, the ball struck the post.

Ugh.

Ninety-six minutes were on the clock and PD must have reached the North End Road by now.

The last moments of this super game began.

An amazing move from the right of our defence, right through the team, found Cucurella on the left, who passed outside to Gittens, then to Enzo, who now controlled the ball amidst a crowd of opposing players. He waited and chose his moment. He spotted the run of Cucurella. The Spaniard whipped in a cross towards the far post, and I looked up. To my amazement and joy, I saw Estevao arrive, sliding and off-balance, but within a blink of an eye, the young Brazilian had the coolness of mind to push the ball over the line.

Mamardashvili was beaten.

The.

Crowd.

Exploded.

I pumped the air with my fists, bellowed some primaeval roar, lost in the moment. I then tried to remain cool to snap the melee over on the far side. What a scene. What madness. What a goal. What a finish. What a win.

I would later learn that PD had heard the roar along the North End Road.

“Chelsea Dagger” played, and I hated it, and the fans bounced along and I hated it more. But there were crazily mixed emotions, and I loved the buzz of it all. We were all taken to another place.

There was, worryingly, a mere whisper of VAR involvement, and the guy in front of me looked very concerned.

No. They can’t do that to us surely? Was Cucurella off? Surely not.

No.

The goal stood.

The whistle blew.

Chelsea 2 Liverpool 1.

I bloody love you, Chelsea.

Next up, “One Step Beyond” and everyone losing it.

I stayed behind for a few minutes, more than usual, long enough to hear “Blue Is The Colour” begin.

After a chorus or two, we made our way down the stairs in the north-west corner, and one song dominated.

“Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Do do do do – do do do do do.

Do do do do – do do do do do.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.

Estevao, aha, aha, I like it, aha, aha.”

Out on the Fulham Road, a sea of noise.

“Chelsea” – clap, clap, clap – “Chelsea” – clap, clap, clap.

…like something from the ‘seventies.

Ah, what a beautiful, beautiful feeling.

What a beautiful game.

Tales From A Date With Thiago Silva

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Chelsea vs. Fluminense : 8 July 2025.

In the report for the match in Philadelphia against Tunis, I penned this closing segment :

“I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.”

First there was the crazy “weather-delayed” marathon match in Charlotte, North Carolina against Benfica. Winning 1-0 until late on, with a goal from Reece James mid-way through the second half, the game was then delayed for two hours due to the threat of lightning with just a few minutes of normal time remaining. I fell asleep and set the alarm for the re-start but watched in horror as Angel Di Maria equalised. I then dropped off again, but was awake to see goals from Christopher Nkunku, Pedro Neto and Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall secure an eventual 4-1 win. The match finished at around 6am on the Saturday morning in the UK.

Next up was a match in the quarter final with a game back in Philadelphia against Palmeiras.

I had been away from work for a fortnight. In that spell, I had watched the game against LAFC from Atlanta on TV in a bar in Manhattan, the two games live in Philadelphia, and now the game in Charlotte on TV at home.

However, before our next match in the US on the Friday, something equally important was happening in my hometown of Frome in Somerset.

And it’s quite a story.

This story, this sub-plot, began on Saturday 2 October 2021 when the usual suspects gathered in our usual hostelry, “The Eight Bells” in Fulham for a home game against Southampton.

“We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chinwag. It was good to see them both.”

Bizarrely, the next time that I met Courtney, was exactly two years later, on Monday 2 October, for the away game at Fulham. We gathered together, obviously, in the same pub and it was great to see him once more.

We kept in contact at various times over that season.

Last summer, Courtney contacted me about attending a Frome Town match during an extended visit to see Chelsea play at Anfield on Sunday 20 October. He had obviously noted my support for my local non-league team within this blog and on “Facebook” and fancied seeing what the noise was all about.

As I detailed in the Liverpool match report, Courtney arrived at Manchester airport on the Saturday morning, ahead of Frome Town’s home match with Poole Town, and then drove straight down to deepest Somerset.

“With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made good time and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.”

Ironically, the Frome Town chairman had asked, that very week, about extra support for the club, which had been struggling for some time. Over the next few weeks, Courtney spent many hours talking to the Frome Town board.

To cut a very long story short, Courtney became vice-chairman of Frome Town Football Club in December. I next met him when we enjoyed a Sunday lunch in a local village pub and then drove up to the Brentford home game on Sunday 15 December, ending up yet again at “The Eight Bells.”

I last saw Courtney at a Bath City Somerset Cup away game during the following week.

Throughout the first six months of 2025, there have been strong and determined discussions concerning the future of Frome Town Football Club with Courtney at the fore. On Thursday 5 June, at the Town Hall, I attended an extraordinary meeting of the Frome Town Council, who had saved the club a few years earlier through a very generous taking over of all debts, to discuss the release of the land that Frome Town have called their home since 1904. At this stage, all directors and supporters were totally behind Courtney taking over the club.

Unfortunately, the vote did not go Courtney’s way that evening, and we were all crestfallen. There was immediate doom and gloom. A few supporters met outside the steps to the Town Hall after the meeting, and I have rarely been so sad. I feared that Courtney would walk away, and our chance lost. However, the council offered a lifeline, and the chance of another offer, but with greater emphasis on the community aspect of the club, and its buildings and its land.

A second meeting was to be held on the evening of Wednesday 2 July, just two days before Chelsea’s game with Palmeiras in Philadelphia.

I was unable to obtain a ticket to attend but watched the “live feed” of the meeting in “The Vine Tree” pub just two hundred yards from Badgers Hill, the ground at the centre of all the attention.

On a hugely memorable evening, the Frome Town Council, God bless them, approved the sale of the ground to Courtney, now the chairman, and I have rarely been happier. The group of around twenty supporters were joined my more, and several directors, and the management team joined us too.

We were euphoric.

Of course, I had to take a photograph.

It’s what I do, right?

As the voting took place, and with the mood becoming increasingly positive at every decision, I had looked over at the pavement on the other side of the road. During the first few weeks of season 1970/71, I would have walked along that very pavement with my mother, hand in hand I suspect, as a five-year-old boy, on my way to my first-ever Frome Town game, and my first ever football game.

My memory was of just my mother and I attending that game, and of a heavy Frome Town loss.

However, by a bizarre twist of fate, I had bumped into my oldest friend Andy, who used to live opposite me in the five-hundred-year-old street in the same village where I type these words now. I see him very rarely around town but bumped into him on the Sunday before the first meeting back in June.

“I reckon I went with you to your first-ever football game, Chris.”

This caught me on the hop. I knew he couldn’t have been referring to a Chelsea game, so we spoke about Frome Town.

In the summer of 1970, my parents and I stayed in a caravan for a week at West Bay in Dorset. In the next caravan, we met a couple from near Bath, and the husband was to play for Frome Town in the new season. His name was Mike Brimble, and he invited me to his first game at Badgers Hill.

Andy reminded me that and his family were holidaying at Bowleaze Cove, not so far from West Bay, at the same time, and we apparently visited them, though this is long forgotten by me. Amazingly, fifty-five years later, Andy was able to remember that a Frome footballer had invited us to a game, thus backing up his claim that he was with me on that day in 1970.

I think we were both amazed at our memories.

I was amazed that Andy remembered the footballer.

Andy was amazed that I remembered his name.

Fantastic.

With the incredible news about Frome Town buzzing in my head – I think it was utterly comparable to the CPO refusal to accept Roman’s “buy-out” bid in 2011 – all my focus was now on Chelsea and the game with Palmeiras on the evening of Friday 4 July.

I was so pleased that my friends Jaro, and his son, and Joe, and his daughter, were able to go back to Philadelphia, but even more elated that Roma and a family group from Tennessee were heading there too.

It was not lost on me that an English team were playing in Philadelphia on 4 July.

Meanwhile, I was doing some logistical planning of my own, and – should Chelsea be victorious against the team from Sao Paolo – I had squared it with my boss to head back to the US for the semi-final on the following Tuesday and, here’s hoping, the final on the following Sunday.

This was never really in the plan of course. Prior to the start of this tournament, I don’t honestly think that many Chelsea supporters would have given us much hope of getting further than the last eight.

But here we were.

The Friday night arrived, and I got some much-needed sleep before the 2am kick-off.

Sod’s law, the DAZN feed broke up, so I missed Cole Palmer’s opening goal. Alas, I saw Estevao Willian’s amazing equaliser and I wondered how the game, and the night, would finish.

As I tried to stay awake, my eyes heavy, it dawned on me that I loved the way that our boys were playing. We were showing great maturity for such a young team and squad. I began to entertain slight thoughts of winning it all.

Just imagine that.

Sssshhh.

During the last part of the match, I set up my laptop to see if the flights that I had earmarked were still available. My attention was momentarily on that, and I just missed the exact moment when the winning goal ricocheted in off a defender from a Malo Gusto cross. For such a moment, my reaction was surprisingly subdued. But it meant that I now had to leap into action.

I refreshed the flight options.

Within minutes of the final whistle in Philadelphia, I was booked on an ITA Airways flight to JFK via Rome on Monday 7 July. I was out via London City, back via London Gatwick.

For a few moments, my head was boiling over with crazy excitement.

Originally, I had never really planned to return to the US. But three factors came together. Firstly, my friend Dom had offered me the use of his apartment in Manhattan for the week. Secondly, I had just received an unexpected bonus at work. Thirdly, I was owed some holiday from the previous year that I needed to use by the end of July.

I messaged Dom, and we had a fruitful back-and-forth.

I fell asleep, somehow, with dreams of heading back across the Atlantic.

That I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Sunday seems as irrelevant now as it did then.

It had been, dear reader, an incredible three days.

Wednesday evening: a stressful day that led to an amazing decision enabling a fantastic future for Frome Town.

Friday night : Chelsea reached the semi-finals of the FIFA Club World Cup and – smelling salts please, nurse – a date with Fluminense, and Thiago Silva, who had defeated Al Hilal 2-1 in their game on the Friday.

On the Sunday, my birthday was very subdued. I wrote up the Tunis match report and planned what I needed to take to New York. I just about had time to squeeze in a lunch at a nearby village pub, the same one that I had taken Courtney in December.

After a relatively small amount of sleep on the Sunday night, I woke at 1am in the small hours of Monday 7 July. This was going to be a ridiculously long day of travel, but this is something that I live for; you might have noticed.

I quickly packed my small “carry-on” bag (to keep costs to a minimum) and I set off at just after 2.15am. As I drove up the A303, I turned on “Radio 2” for some company. The first full song was “Breakfast In America” by Supertramp, how very apt.

I reached my mate Ian’s house at Stanwell, near Heathrow, at 4.15am, and caught a pre-booked Uber to take me to London City Airport at 4.30am, unfortunately the only – expensive – way that I could get to the airport on time. This was a first visit for me and the driver dropped me off outside the super small departure lounge at 6am. There was immediate concern about my ESTA not registering but that was soon sorted. The 8.30am flight to Rome Fiumcino left a little late, maybe at around 9am.

In the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that should we lose to Fluminense the following afternoon, in addition to the sadness, there would also be the completion of an annoying circle.

On 4 July 2024, my first game of this ridiculous season featured Fluminense in Rio de Janeiro. Should we lose against them at the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey, my last game of the season would feature them too.

And – maybe just as bad – I would be stuck on ninety-nine live games this season.

Considering these worries, it’s surprising that I managed any sleep on the flight to Fiumcino.

There was to be a three-hour wait at the airport, and this gave me more than enough time to relax, buy a couple of cheap Benetton T-shirts (the spirit of 1984/85 lives on…) and grab a snack and a drink. Unfortunately, we missed our allotted slot and were delayed by almost two hours. We eventually took off at just before 5pm local time.

Thankfully I had a window seat and managed four hours of sleep during the eight-hour flight.

My thoughts returned to Rio last summer. I remembered how amazed I felt as I visited the original Fluminense stadium at Laranjeiras on the very first day.

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

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

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

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

My heart exploded.

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

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

I was over in Rio for nine days, and to my sadness a Fluminense home game had been bumped because of the floods that had hit Brazil earlier that summer. However, typical Brazil, on the third day of my visit I found out that a Fluminense vs. Internacional game had been squeezed in on the Thursday. I was ecstatic. Alas, Thiago Silva was not going to be playing, but at least I would see his team, and my favourite Brazilian team.

“I took an Uber and was dropped off to the north-west of the stadium and I walked into the crazy hubbub of a Brazilian match day.

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

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

Then, I was in.

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

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

It did.

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

Fluminense’s opponents were Internacional from Porto Alegre.

It was an 8pm kick-off.

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

And yes, I found it so odd that we were up against both of Rio’s major teams in this World Cup competition. I could never have envisaged this while I was in Rio last summer.

The ITA Airways plane landed at a wet JFK at 7.30pm, only half-an-hour late, and I loved it that we arrived via the same Terminal 1 that I had used on my very first visit to the US way back in September 1989. The border control was brisk and easy, and I was soon on the AirTrain and then the Long Island Rail Road once again into Penn Station. It was only just over three weeks ago that Glenn and I were on the very same train.

I quickly caught the subway, then walked a few blocks north and west. I found myself knocking on Dom’s apartment door at around 9.30pm.

It was just over twenty-four hours door to door.

Phew.

There was a lovely warm welcome from Dom and it was a joy to see him once again. After a couple of slices of New York pizza, I slid off to bed a very happy man.

I woke surprisingly early on the Tuesday, the day of the game.

To say I was happy would be a huge understatement.

Here I was, back in Manhattan, staying at a great friend’s apartment for a week, with an appointment with Thiago Silva and Fluminense later that afternoon. Please believe me when I say that I have rarely felt so contented in my entire life.

My smile was wide as I trotted out of Dom’s apartment block at 8.45am. My plan was to head over to Hoboken, on the waterfront of New Jersey, to meet up with a few Chelsea supporters from the UK and the US at 11am at “Mulligan’s“ bar before taking a cab to the stadium. I had time on my side, so I decided to walk through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station and take the PATH train to Hoboken just south of Macy’s. First up was a magnificent breakfast at “Berlina Café”

“Take a jumbo cross the water.

Like to see America.”

On my little walk through Manhattan, I spotted around fifty Fluminense supporters, but not one single Chelsea fan. I was wearing my Thiago Silva shirt and wished a few of the Brazilians good luck. I quickly popped in to see landlord Jack at “The Football Factory” on West 33 Street, and saw my first Chelsea fan there, Bharat from Philly. There were a few Fluminense fans in the bar, and they told me that Chelsea now had a great Brazilian. I immediately presumed that they were referring to Estevao Willian, soon to arrive from Palmeiras, but they were referring to Joao Pedro. Unbeknown to me, he began his professional career with Fluminense.

I caught the 1030 train to Hoboken and it took me under the Hudson River. I was in the hometown of Frank Sinatra within twenty minutes.

The morning sun was beating down as I made the short ten-minute walk to the pub, which is run by Paul, who I first met in Baku way back in 2019. My friend Jesus, who I first chatted to on the much-loved Chelsea in America bulletin board for a while before meeting him for the first time at Goodison Park on the last day of 2010/11, was there with his wife Nohelia.

Cathy was there too, and I reminded her that the first time that I ever spoke to her was after she did a rasping rendition of “Zigger Zagger” at “Nevada Smiths” in Manhattan in 2005. This was on the Saturday night before Chelsea played Milan at the old Giants Stadium on the Sunday. Giants Stadium was right next to the current locale of the MetLife Stadium.

A few familiar faces appeared at “Mulligans” including my great friend Bill, originally from Belfast, but now in Toronto. Bizarrely, Emily – the US woman who showed up at a few Chelsea games a few years back and created a bit of a social media stir – was perched at one end of the bar.

Out of the blue, I received a call from my dentist.

“Sorry, I forgot to cancel. I am currently in New Jersey.”

“So, I don’t suppose that you will be making your hygienist appointment either.”

Fackinell.

The pints of Peroni were going down well.

We spoke a little about tickets. I had a brain freeze back in the UK when I attempted to buy – cheaper – tickets via the FIFA App and couldn’t navigate myself around it for love nor money. I panicked a little and ended up paying $141 for my ticket via Ticketmaster.

I would later find out that tickets were going for much less.

Sigh.

The team news came through.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Nkunku – Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

A full debut for our new striker from Brighton.

“No pressure, mate.”

Tosin replaced the suspended Levi Colwill.

Folks left for the game. Nohelia, Jesus, Bill and I were – worryingly – the last to leave the bar at around 1.30pm. We headed off to the stadium, which geographically is in East Rutherford, although the area is often called The Meadowlands after the adjacent racetrack. Our Uber got caught in a little traffic, but we were eventually dropped off to the northeast of the stadium. With kick-off approaching, I became increasingly agitated as I circumnavigated virtually three-quarters of the stadium. We were in the southern end, but our entrance seemed to be on the west side.

It’s not a particularly appealing structure from the outside; lots of grey horizontal strips cover the outside of the stadium, all rather bland, nothing unique. Right next to the stadium, which hosts both the NFC Giants and AFC Jets, is the even more horrible “American Dream” Mall, a huge concrete monstrosity with no architectural merit whatsoever.

Eventually I made it in, via a security check, and a ticket check. At least the lines moved relatively fast, but the sections were not particularly well signposted.

I heard the hyperbolic nonsense from pitch side.

At three o’clock, the game kicked off just as I walked past a large TV screen, so I took a photo of that moment.

I was getting really annoyed now; annoyed at my inability to reach section 223, but also at the ridiculous lines of spectators missing the action by queuing up for food and drink.

“Can you fuckers not go forty-five minutes without food?”

At 3.06pm, I reached section 223, mid-level, and I heaved a massive sigh of relief.

I was in. I could relax. Maybe.

Fluminense in their beautiful stripes, with crisp white shorts and socks.

Chelsea again in the white shirts, but with muted green shorts and socks this time.

The two kits almost complimented each other, though this was my third game in the US and I was yet to see us play in blue.

There were a few Chelsea fans around me. I spotted a few supporters from the UK in the section to my left. Three lads with Cruzeiro shirts were in front of me, supporting Chelsea, and we shared a few laughs as the game got going.

The stadium looked reasonably full. The lower tier opposite me was rammed full of Flu supporters.

I always remember that their president was so enamoured with the way that Chelsea behaved during the Thiago Silva transfer that he was reported to say that Chelsea was now his favourite English team and that he hoped one day Chelsea could visit Rio to play Fluminense at the Maracana.

“Will New Jersey do, mate?”

In the first ten minutes, it was all Chelsea, and it looked very promising.

The first chance that I witnessed was a shot from Enzo that was blocked after a cross from Malo Gusto.

We were on the front foot, here, and Fluminense were penned in. There was energy throughout the team.

On eighteen minutes, Pedro Neto was set up to race away after a delicate touch by Joao Pedro. His cross into the box was thumped out by Thiago Silva but the ball was played straight towards Joao Pedro. Just outside the box, at an angle, he set himself and crashed a laser into the top right-hand corner of the goal. Their ‘keeper Fabio had no chance.

What a screamer.

And how we screamed.

GET IN!

What joy in the southern end of the MetLife Stadium.

Blur on the PA.

“Woo hoo!”

I thought back to those Fluminense fans in “Legends” earlier in the morning and their comments about Joao Pedro.

Their thoughts were far different to my dear mate Mac, the Brighton fan.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

We continued the good work. On twenty minutes, Pedro Neto was again involved and his cross was headed towards goal by Malo Gusto but Fabio did well to parry.

On twenty-five minutes, in virtually the Brazilians’ first attack of note, German Cano was released and struck the ball past Robert Sanchez. Thankfully, Marc Cucurella – ever dependable – was able to scramble back and touch the ball away.

I did my best to generate some noise in Section 223.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA! CAM ON CHOWLSEA!”

But I sang alone.

I was standing, as were many, but maybe the heat was taking its toll. Our end was pretty quiet, and the Fluminense fans were much quieter than the Flamengo and Tunis contingents in Phillly.

Then, a moment of worry. From a free kick from their left, the ball was swept in and the referee pointed to the spot, the ball having hit Trevoh Chalobah’s arm.

“Oh…shite.”

Thankfully, VAR intervened, no penalty.

Phew.

On forty-four minutes, a good chance for Christopher Nkunku, but he chose to take a touch rather than hit the ball first time. There was much frustration in the ranks. One of the Cruzeiro lads yelped “primera!” and I understood exactly.

Then, three minutes later, a header dropped just wide.

At the break, all was well. We were halfway to paradise.

I met up with a few English lads in the concourse during the break and decided to leave Section 223 and join them in Section 224A.

I sat alongside Leigh and Ben, and in front of Scott, Paul, Martin and Spencer.

In this half, the Chelsea team attacked the Chelsea end. We began again and it was still the same controlled and purposeful performance. Moises Caicedo fired over the crossbar, and then Cucurella was just wide with another effort.

On fifty-four minutes, Robert Sanchez got down well to save from Everaldo, a substitute.

Soon after, with much more space to exploit, Chelsea broke. Cole Palmer won the ball, and then Enzo pushed the ball out to Joao Pedro on the left. I sensed the opportunity might be a good one so brought my camera into action. We watched as our new striker advanced unhindered, brought the ball inside and, as I snapped, smashed the ball in off the crossbar.

Ecstasy in New Jersey.

There were quick celebratory photos of the little contingent of fans close by.

The worry reduced but although we were 2-0 up, we still needed to stay focussed. In fact, it was Chelsea who carved open more chances. The often-derided Nkunku shot on goal, but his effort was deflected wide.

On the hour, Nicolas Jackson replaced Joao Pedro.

Next, Nkunku was able to get a shot on goal, way down below us, and it looked destined to go in but who else but Thiago Silva recovered to smack it clear.

Twenty minutes remained.

Malo Gusto took aim from distance and his effort curled high and ever-so-slightly wide of the target.

We were well on top here, and I could not believe how easy this was.

I whispered to Leigh :

“We are seeing this team grow right in front of our very eyes.”

On sixty-eight minutes, Noni Madueke replaced Pedro Neto and Reece James replaced Malo Gusto.

Ben went off to get some water; we were all gasping.

Marc Cucurella sent over a lovely cross, right across the six-yard box, but it was just slightly high for all four of the Chelsea players, all lined up, that had ventured forward.

The gate was given as 70,556; happy with that.

On seventy-nine minutes, Jackson robbed the ball from a loitering defender and set off. His low angled shot just clipped the near post, but Palmer was fuming that he was not played in at the far post. Soon after, Jackso forced Fabio into another save.

Two very late substitutions.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

There was almost ten minutes of injury time signalled by the referee, but apart from an over-ambitious bicycle kick from Everaldo, the game was up.

The Great Unpredictables were in the World Cup Final.

From my point of view, the gamble had paid off.

As “Blue Is The Colour” and “Blue Day” sounded out through the stadium, and as the Fluminense players drifted over to thank their fans, there was great joy in our little knot of supporters in Section 224A.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, I moved down to the front row and tried to spot anyone that I knew in the lower deck. I saw Alex of the New York Blues, and shouted down to him, and he signalled to meet me outside.

I was exhausted and began my slow descent of the exit ramps. I waited for a few minutes outside but soon realised that meeting up with Alex would be difficult. I slowly walked out into the area outside the stadium. After three or four minutes, I looked to my left, and there was Alex, walking at the same slow pace as me.

What a small world. Alex is a good mate and let me stay in his Brooklyn apartment for the Chelsea vs. Manchester City game at Yankee Stadium in 2013.

As we walked over to the New York Blues tailgate in Lot D, I turned around and spotted some other fans. I recognised one of them from that very game.

I yelled out.

“I remember you. You were stood behind me at Yankee Stadium and we had a go at each other!”

He remembered me, and we both smiled and then hugged. Rich had been berating the fact that he had paid good money to see Chelsea play but the team was full of youth players. I turned around and said something to the effect of “that doesn’t matter, support the team” and he remained silent, but he bashfully now agreed that I was right.

What a funny, crazy, small world.

I enjoyed a few celebratory beers with the New York Blues, and then eventually sloped back with Alex by train to Secaucus Junction and from there to Penn Station. The two of us stopped by at Moynihan Train Hall for more beers – Guinness for me for a change – and we were joined by Dom and his mate Terence and Alon too.

This was just a perfect end to a magnificent day.

We said our goodbyes, but I dropped into “Jack Demsey’s” for a couple more drinks before getting a cab home at 1.30am.

It had been another long day, but one of the greats.

And yes, my gamble had paid off.

I would be returning to East Rutherford, to The Meadowlands, to MetLife on Sunday.

BADGERS HILL, FROME.

LARANJEIRAS, RIO DE JANEIRO.

MARACANA, RIO DE JANEIRO.

METLIFE STADIUM, NEW JERSEY.

Tales From South Philly

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Chelsea vs. ES Tunis : 24 June 2025.

Philadelphia has been good to me.

Way back in 1989, though, on my first visit, it struggled to find its way inside my heart. On that first-ever escapade around North America, I dropped in to the city in the November and spent the day walking its streets with my college mate Ian. We had arrived on a very early train from New York, and I remember a small breakfast in a diner in the city centre. We marched off to visit Independence Hall in the Centre City, and it was important to see such a defining location in the nation’s history.

However, I struggle to understand why I never made a big point of staying a few days in the city, since I was well aware of the story of my shipwrecked relatives and then their subsequent stay in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century. I think that I realised that their story would forever float around in family folklore with no real chance of further investigation.

Of course, I was twenty-four in 1989, and undoubtedly more interested in the “now” than the “then.”

After Independence Hall, we were then a little stuck for ideas. Ian came up with a master plan of visiting “The Mummer’s Museum” – my “Let’s Go USA” book has a lot to answer for – and so we trotted a mile to the south to visit this odd salute to the history of this very particular Philadelphian street parade, complete with fanciful costumes and associated camp finery,

For an hour, we traipsed around, the museum’s only visitors, and the poor museum guide must have been saddened by our continual sniggers.

I still rib Ian about this to this day.

Since then, I have ramped up the visits.

In 1993, while in New York for Yankee baseball, I took a train down to the city to watch the Phillies who were on their way to that year’s World Series. They easily defeated Florida Marins and their aged knuckleballer Charlie Hough 7-1 at The Vet. It was at this game that I first fell in love with their mascot the Philly Phanatic. That night, I returned to New York at 2.30am, another typically late night in pursuit of sporting adventures.

In 2008, while in New York for my last-ever visits to old Yankee Stadium, I spent a day in Philly with a couple of friends; Stacey, from 1989 – and Chris who I met at the Chelsea game in DC in 2005. My first-ever cheesesteak was followed by a first visit to the Phillies’ new stadium, the neat Citizens Bank Park. I was happy that the home team defeated Boston Red Sox 8-2.

In 2010, the year that marked my mother’s eightieth birthday, the two of us stayed a week in Philadelphia since my mother had always spoken about wanting to visit it. In fact, my parents had planned to visit the city in 1991, but their trip around North America was curtailed as my dear mother had developed shingles.

That week was one of the very greatest holidays of my life. We watched Philly baseball – a 2-6 loss versus Milwaukee, alas – then drove to see Stacey and her husband Bill that evening, drove over to witness the Amish region near Lancaster, drove to Manhattan and visited the sites including a baseball game at Yankee Stadium – sadly, a loss to Baltimore – and visited the beach town of Cape May in New Jersey. On the last day, we then drove to see Gettysburg Battlefield Site, and that was one of my most memorable ever days in the USA.

One moment will always stay with me though. On the first evening in Philadelphia, we took a walk into the old historic area and saw Elspeth’s Alley before deciding to have some food at an old-style diner at the intersection of Market Street and 2nd Street, “The Continental”. As we sat there, I realised that it was very likely that our blood relatives had walked down Market Street, or even along 2nd Street where we were sat at a pavement table, and I had shivers. It was one of those moments when the past and the present met and possibly waved at each other.

I explained this to my mother, who was suffering with dementia, and it saddened me to realise that her sweet smile illustrated that she didn’t fully understand the real significance of my words.

Two years later, in 2012, thousands of Chelsea supporters descended on Philly for the MLS All-Star game in nearby Chester. A group of us booked a suite at a complex on Benjamin Franklyn Parkway – a prime site – and we had a real blast. There was another Philly game, a dramatic come-from-behind 7-6 win against Milwaukee, more cheesesteaks, a walking tour with Steve the host, a visit to the Rocky Steps for us to parade the Chelsea banners, a lucky moment for us to meet a few of the players outside their hotel, and many beers and many laughs.

It is telling that in the report of that game – “Tales From An American Away Day” – within the 3,943 words, only these detail the actual game.

“Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.

The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.

A nice tap in from Frank Lampard gave us a 2-1 lead, but – much to our annoyance and disbelief – the MLS team not only equalised through Pontius but scored the winner in the “nth” minute of extra time with a ridiculous looped shot from Eddie Johnson which ricocheted off David Luiz’ leg and into an empty goal with Ross Turnbull beaten.”

However, the game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.

We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.

Friends still tell me that, support-wise, Philly 2012 was the best stop in all of the US pre-season tours. I cannot argue.

Back to 2025, and on my sixth visit to the city, we were licking our wounds after the 1-3 loss against Flamengo on the Friday.

On the Saturday, Glenn and I chilled out during the day, and our little town house would be the perfect antidote to the heatwave that would soon engulf the city. In the evening, we strolled around the centre of the city, and I aimed for the intersection of Market and 2nd. Unfortunately, my worst fears were confirmed; “The Continental” was now closed. However, we settled for some burgers on Market Street just a few yards away, again sitting outside at a pavement table. We then walked over to a bar on 2nd Street but I made a point of standing near where I had enjoyed that meal with my mother in 2010 at “The Continental” and tried to envisage that sweet smile.

On the Sunday, there was a hop-on-hop-off-keep-out-of-the-rain bus tour to a couple of locations with our friends Alex and Rob from London, and some food at “Tir Na Nog”. I am lucky in that I had seen most of Philly’s attractions on previous visits, while Glenn was quite happy to go with the flow. In the evening, Steve and his eldest daughter Lynda treated us to a lovely meal in the Fairmount district. Later, we met up with Alex and Rob for drinks at a rooftop bar atop The Cambria Hotel.

On the Monday, Glenn and I met Alex and Rob at a coffee shop right next to where we ate our meal the previous evening before visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary, which many friends had visited in 2012, and which was entirely fascinating. The jail is atop the highest land in the city, at Fairmount, and it did not take me long to envisage my great great grandparents Benjamin and Barbara White looking up at the imposing stone building during their five-year stay. It would be wonderful, one day, to carry out a deep investigation into their story. I was just pleased that there was no mention of Benjamin White in any of the histories contained within those thick walls.

Glenn and I stopped off for more burgers on famous Passyunk Avenue in South Philly, and as we walked back to our rental house, I think we both realised what a perfect locale it was. The rows and rows of town houses – we would call them “terraced houses”, Steve called them “row houses” – were neat and charming, and it felt like paradise to walk into 2025 Pierce Street, a haven of cool tranquillity.

South Philly, equidistant between the Centre City and the three sporting stadia, was a perfect locale for us, a sanctuary against the heat, but full of character too.

It is a standing joke that each time Chelsea score a dramatic goal, Steve texts me “Pandemonium in South Philly.”

And here we were.

That evening we again assembled at “Tir Na Nog” and it was low key, with only a few from the UK present. I dashed off to try to get a photo of the sunset at “The Sky High” bar atop the Four Seasons Hotel. While I was waiting in the foyer, I spotted some Chelsea players walk through, and I trotted over to shake hands with Liam Delap.

 “Welcome to the club.”

There were handshakes with Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall and Levi Colwill too. This was just coincidence. I did not know that Chelsea were staying at this hotel. By this stage, the concierge was nervously pacing around and politely asked me to not approach the players. So, I secretly gave the thumbs up to Tyrique George who looked surprised that I had recognised him. Behdad Eghbali was a few feet away from me at one stage, but ignored my greeting, surprise surprise.

Later, we moved over to “McGillans”, a fantastic bar, and met up with my mate Steve from Belfast and his friend Jason.

Game day against Tunis on Tuesday started with a good old-fashioned American breakfast at a good old-fashioned American diner to the south of the city, and the whole experience was top class. It was just what we needed ahead of the big day and the big game.

By mid-morning, it was already heating up. With this in mind, we retired to the digs to chill out, knowing we had a taxing evening ahead, and then departure on the Wednesday.

At 5pm, we walked into “Tir Na Nog” and, looking back, it was nowhere near as busy as the pre-match in 2012. We met all the usual faces from England, some of whom had been doing some extensive travelling since Friday, but it was great to see some new faces too, especially Pete and his son Calvin from Seattle and David from South London.

I handed out a few signed Ron Harris photos, but it was deeply disappointing to realise he is not so famous in the US.

I approached five Americans.

“Right, spot quiz here. There might be a prize involved. Which player has played more games for Chelsea than any other?”

America was 0 for 5.

Phackinell.

My friend Roma from Tennessee – a friend for almost thirty-six years – had decided, last minute, to drive up with her grandson Keegan and her son Shawn’s girlfriend Nevaeh, and it was amazing to see her again. I last saw Roma in 2016 when she had visited England in 2016 with Shawn and her daughter Vanessa for a Chelsea game.

Time was moving on, and although the drinks were going down well, we needed to move down to the stadium.

I left the bar with Glenn, Pete and Calvin, and met up with David on the subway.

The kick-off for this game was 9pm, but it was still hot as we paced over to the stadium. Unlike on Friday, there was no queue, and we were soon inside. I was desperate for some food so stopped for another cheesesteak. This turned out to be very fortuitous since in the slight delay, we managed to spot Frank and his daughter who had popped into “The Eight Bells” a few months ago with the hope of seeing me and my mates who Frank reads about in these match reports. It was fantastic to see him once more.

We made our way up the ramps to our section in the mezzanine. We had bumped into many Tunis fans throughout our stay in the US, both in Manhattan and in Philadelphia, and we knew that they would outnumber us. It was a disappointment that such a small number of US-based fans had been lured in to this competition, but I almost understand the reluctance; the money-grab, the extra games.

“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea…”

Maybe not.

And yet, the Wrexham games lured many in…

I don’t get it.

There was time for photos with friends from back home, plus stragglers not previously seen. If anything, the lower tier below us was more heavily populated than on Friday, which surprised me. It was not even half-full, though.

Oh well.

Alex and Rob were sat close by.

“Tunis look like Partick Thistle.”

Kick-off approached.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Adarabioyo – Badiashile – Gusto

Lavia – Fernandez

Dewsbury-Hall – Nkunku – Madueke

Delap

We needed just a draw, one solitary point, in order to advance to the last sixteen, and there was, therefore, not the heightened sense of worry or concern in our area. The usual lads and lasses from back home were in our section, with only a few from the US.

It was odd that the prices had tumbled over recent days. Us fools had paid top whack, keen as mustard, back at the start of the year, but were now annoyed that prices had fallen.

Chelsea were playing in all white again and attacked the Tunis fans in the northern end of the stadium, who were amassed behind a “Curva Sud” banner. I hoped this discombobulated the team and their fans alike.

With Flip Jorgensen playing in all orange and Tunis in yellow and black shirts, I had to wonder what the late Brian Moore would have made of this colour clash.

“And on the subject of kits, here is a letter from Mr. David Spraggs of 13 Acacia Drive, Merton, who questions why the referee did not ask the Chelsea keeper to change his shirt so that it did not clash with the Tunis shirts. A great point, there.”

The game began. It was still as hot as hell.

Unlike on Friday, when Flamengo often had controlled spells of the ball, we dominated possession in the first half.

A header from Benoit Badiashile from a corner went close, and a shot from Liam Delap from distance forced the Tunis ‘keeper Ben Said to parry. Tunis rarely threatened, and only on the break. Chances continued to mount up and I wondered if we would ever break through.

I liked Malo Gusto in this half, running and probing well.

Enzo went close with a free-kick, and further chances fell to Dewsbury-Hall, Acheampong and Delap.

Throughout, the Tunis fans were singing, massed tightly together. Down below us, I could not hear a whisper.

Chester 2012 was a long way in the past…

I am not sure how many of our fans had disappeared into the concourse for a beverage as the first half drew to its conclusion, but I suspect that it was more than a few. In the third minute of injury time, Josh was fouled just outside the area, and I steadied my camera. I snapped as the cultured boot of Enzo clipped the ball into the danger zone. A leap from Tosin and the header lopped in at the far post, Ben Said stranded.

Snap. And snap again.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Two minutes later, Enzo found Delap with a precise pass and our new striker moved the ball well and calmly slotted in past the hapless Tunis ‘keeper.

We were 2-0 up, and surely safe.

At half-time, there was a light show, the stadia turned various colours, and I didn’t really understand it. I must be getting old.

Correction : I am old.

The second half began, and relaxing in the comfort of a two-goal cushion, a few old songs were aired.

“If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the arse of crow, I’d fly over Tottenham tomorrow, and shit on those bastards below, below.”

I turned to Rob.

“You have to say, is the arse of a crow particularly big? Surely there are birds with bigger arses? What do you think?”

Rob replied.

“I think it’s bigger than a sparrow’s and that’s all that matters.”

We continued to dominate, and Enzo went close. He was having a fine, influential game and was pairing well with the more aggressive Dewsbury-Hall.

I wondered what Roma was making of all of this; her little group were down below us and not far from Steve who had visited us in the pub but had then shot off to collect his wife Terry and daughter Lynda.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Madueke set up Nkunku but wide.

I heard a horrible “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” chant down below us.

On fifty-nine minutes, a double swap.

Dario Essugo for Lavia.

Marc Guiu for Delap.

Next up, a Madueke effort but wide. The chances were piling up. The Tunis fans were quieter but still singing, a very impressive show.

On sixty-seven minutes, more changes.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Tyrique George for Madueke.

The song that haunted me in Wroclaw began again.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

To be fair, it is quite hypnotic.

There was no real reduction in the heat, and I was not surprised that the game slowed. It became something of a training game.

Late on, a shot from Santos appeared to strike a defender’s arm. Nkunku placed the ball on the spot, and we all positioned our cameras as he waited to take the penalty kick. Then, a VAR review, and a ridiculously long wait. It took forever. In the end, no penalty, cameras not needed.

On eighty-three minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced the impressive Gusto and made his debut.

A late chance for Guiu, but his shot did not trouble the ‘keeper, then a chance for George was saved.

In a game of injury-time goals, and in the ninety-seventh minute of the match, Tyrique George was given the ball by Madueke, and from a distance drove the ball towards goal. To our utter amazement, the hapless ‘keeper fumbled, and the ball ended up nestling in the goal.

Chelsea 3 Tunis 0.

Job done.

The gate was given as 32,967 and it was much more than we had expected prior to the match. We were expecting it to be around 20,000.

Glenn and I walked down the ramps, happier than on Friday, and met up with Steve and his family. Steve had a very important presentation at work early on Wednesday morning, so I was pleased, but very surprised, to hear that he was coming back to a very crowded “McGillan’s” for a couple of pints with us.

This was a great end to the evening, a fantastic – er, phantastic – time in an atmospheric and noisy bar. There was a lovely mix of both Chelsea and Tunis fans, and bemused natives, and we took it in turns to sing.

“Come along and sing this song, we’re the boys in blue from division two, but we won’t be there too long.”

Stephen and Jason from Belfast, Andy from Nuneaton, David from London, Nina from New Jersey, Frank and his daughter.

“Thanks for the drinks, Frank.”

“My pleasure. You know what, reading your blog, I somehow feel closer to you and PD and Parky than any of my other friends.”

My bottom lip was going…

What a night.

We stumbled out of there at 2am, happy beyond words.

Chelsea had made it into the last sixteen and whereas some of the expats would be travelling down to Charlotte to see us play Benfica, Glenn and I were now heading home.

However, I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.

CHELSEA vs. ESPERANCE SPORTIVE DE TUNIS

POSTCARDS FROM PHILADELPHIA

MEMORIES OF PHILADELPHIA 2012

ON THE CORNER OF MARKET STREET AND 2ND STREET IN 2010 AND 2025

GOODBYE