Tales From A Lack Of Vitality

Posted on December 14, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Posted on December 13, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Posted on October 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Posted on October 7, 2025 by Chris Axon

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.

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

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Chris Axon

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

Posted on July 6, 2025 by Chris Axon

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 2^nd 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 2^nd 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 2^nd. 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 2^nd 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

Tales From A Weekend Away

Posted on May 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2025.

“I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long dive to Tyneside.”

With our place in the final over in Poland confirmed with a victory in Europe on the eightieth anniversary of VE Day, the three of us could now look forward to a four-day stay in Newcastle upon Tyne.

And there hadn’t been two games like this for a while, with the second a virtual continuation of the second.

It was a slow start. I navigated some road closures and traffic congestion as I headed towards the North Circular at Chiswick. From there, up and over the Hanger Lane Gyratory, close to Park Royal tube station, where my first-ever trip into Stamford Bridge gathered pace in 1974. By now, Parky was asleep in the back seat, but PD was keeping me company in the front.

I climbed up on to the M1, stopped at Toddington Services for a comfort break, then headed north and into the night. It was a decent drive, and I only started feeling a little tired as we drove past Durham. I stopped for a second time at Washington Services at 3.45am and enjoyed a ninety-minute power nap. Parky had grabbed lots of sleep, PD a smaller amount.

At 5.30am, refreshed, I drove into Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and was humbled at how excited I was. Within half-an-hour, I was parked up at Whitley Bay, and the three of us trotted over to the promenade to take in the cold and bracing sea air as the rising sun lit the sky and sea and land with its golden rays.

Dear reader, this was a bloody great feeling, over three hundred miles from home, with a head start on the weekend, and perfect weather all around us.

We then headed a few miles south to Tynemouth, recommended to me by a friend who lived locally, and we killed time with a coffee in the main street. We then sauntered over to a pub and gobbled down a full English breakfast.

There was a wait until 2pm to check-in to our apartment, but while we entered another pub for a drink at 10am, I received notification that we could check in early at 11am. I sunk my Diet Coke, the lads sunk their lagers, and I headed west.

We checked in, then decided to have a couple of hours’ sleep since we all knew that we needed it.

Showered and changed, we headed over to Ouseburn at 4pm and the weekend began in earnest. We called in at “The Tyne Bar” then headed the short distance to the “Free Trade Inn” where we spent a lovely time. This small pub is perched on a slight hill overlooking the River Tyne. Just after 6pm, my old college mate Graeme – with his daughter and her boyfriend – walked in and it was a pleasure to see him again. He is a native of Tyneside, lives in Whitley Bay, and was on the same geography course as me in Stoke in the mid-‘eighties. Despite chatting on Facebook for a few years now, this was the first time that we had seen each other since graduation in 1987.

We both remembered back to what we were doing in the autumn of that year. I was just about to set off Inter-Railing, but also selling football badges at stadia in Europe, while Graeme, oddly enough, was embarking on a short career in the quarry industry very close to my home area.

Our evening soon deviated from the plan. My friend Kim, who looks after the band China Crisis, had seen my photos of the city, and had quickly contacted me to see if I fancied going along to their show at The Glasshouse on the opposite bank of the river. I was in, and so was Graeme, and he would be joined by his partner Lynda too.

So, a change of plan. Parky and PD would spend the rest of their evening quaffing ales with some locals at the ‘Spoons on the quayside, while Lynda, Graeme and I spent a very enjoyable two hours in Gateshead reacquainting ourselves with the “Flaunt The Imperfection” album on the fortieth anniversary of its debut in 1985. Every song from the album was played along with some other favourites.

Ah, 1985.

The second-from-last match to be featured in my retrospective of the 1984/85 season features, ironically, a return to the city where Graeme and I spent those college years and the away game at the Victoria Ground on Saturday 8 May 1985.

I always thought that it was perfect that Chelsea’s last away game of the season would be in Stoke, the city where I would be living from September 1984. Throughout the season, I always had it in the back of my mind, a lovely end point to everything. It was, originally, going to be the very last game of the season, but due to Norwich City’s place in the Milk Cup Final, our home game with them was tagged onto the season, on the Tuesday after the match at Stoke. I was never going to attend that one.

For me, Stoke was the final game, and I found great comfort in that.

I remember going out on the Friday evening with a small band of college friends, and we ended up atop the hill at Penkhull. I remember meeting up with Pete, a Chelsea lad I knew, and his mate Mac, who was – I think – studying at our sister site in Stafford. It was a decent little pub crawl, and I was rather merry at the end of it. The thought of seeing Chelsea just ten minutes away from where I was living must have been just too much for me.

I was up early on the Saturday. This was another 11.30am kick-off. I needed to look smart for this last game of the season; I went with a pink Lacoste polo shirt and a mint green Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover, plus the obligatory jeans and Nikes. The Victoria Ground was nestled among a grid of terraced streets just south of the Stoke town centre, and in the following two years I would live in the street right outside the away end.

I suppose you could say that this was bound to happen; football bringing me home.

I made my way down to the ground and saw Dave and Simon from “The Benches” by the main gates of the forecourt of the away end. I think I must have bought seat tickets at a previous Chelsea home game, and I took position in the second row right behind the goal. For my season finale, this was more than perfect.

Sadly, we heard that a special from Euston had been derailed at Watford. My mates Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock arrived and took their seats next to me. Oddly, the police turfed everyone out of the very front row, so that left us in effectively the front row. This was odd, since there were Chelsea fans on the terrace below. It wasn’t as if anyone would throw anything at other fans in front. My mate Terry from Radstock was spotted in the terrace down below. I also saw my housemate Kev from Barnsley, suddenly appear on the Chelsea terrace. He was a Barnsley fan and must have been enticed in after hearing me wax lyrical about Chelsea all winter long. This pleased me.

A rumour went round that the match would be delayed until midday to allow those on the special to be admitted, but I don’t think they ever made it to Stoke, let alone the match.

I loved it that the three of us all wore Robe di Kappa pullovers. I remember I bought mine at a great little shop in Hanley that winter. Glenn still dotes about his navy one to this day, and he recently explained how he didn’t tell his gran how much it cost on a trip into the East End. Swan wore a pink one. Our mate Dave took a photo which I include.

Sadly, we learned in 2020 that Swan had passed away over the past few years.

After some decent wins of late, Chelsea was vying for a place in Europe, something that I could not have imagined when the season began in August.

The end boomed out a couple of “Ten Men Went To Mows” as the game began with us attacking the home Boothen End in the first half. We had a couple of chances but failed to score. Stoke City were an abysmal team this season and had been relegated weeks previously. The atmosphere seemed to be tense in the away end as we searched an all-important goal. However, the highlight of the first period was an insane save from Eddie Niedwiecki from Keith Bertschin right in front of us.

In the sixty-fifth minute, with Chelsea now attacking us, Pat Nevin was fouled outside the box. He floated a free kick in and who else but David Speedie rose to send a bullet header past the Stoke ‘keeper Peter Fox.

Euphoria.

Our song du jour was a new one, and where it came from I have no idea.

“To Europe, to Europe. Tra la la – la la la la – la la la la la la.”

We held on as the Chelsea end celebrated with song, though in truth it had been a patchy performance. Despite a healthy Chelsea presence in both seats and terrace, the gate was just 8,905.

Before I knew it, I was back in my student flat, and feeling flat, the season now over for me. A few friends joined me in the local for some post-game chat. Elsewhere, Manchester City won promotion back to the topflight by beating Charlton Athletic in front of 47,000 at Maine Road, while Tottenham lost 1-5 at home to Watford.

However, events would turn darker. This was the day of the Bradford City fire at Valley Parade, where fifty-six lives were lost during their game with Lincoln City. This was also the day of riots at Birmingham City vs. Leeds United when a young lad, attending his first-ever game, was killed, crushed by a wall at St. Andrews.

This were vivid, visceral, vibrant days, but also terrible days too.

Let’s get back to 2025.

The three of us, in our apartment on the long Westgate Road, slept in on the Saturday and eventually headed over the water to Gateshead at around 12.30pm. This was another hot and sunny day, and there were pubs to be visited. We began with a drink in “The Central Bar”, and followed this with a couple in “Station East” and one in “Microbus”, all very different, but all very welcoming and pleasant. Later, we strode up the hill for a couple in “The Tynesider” and we then ended our grand tour of Gateshead by spending a few hours in “The Grey Nag’s Head”.

A half-empty boozer, drinkers drinking, songs going, the sun creating patterns as the light dances off windows and mirrors, the chatter and laughter of the locals, the clink of glasses, and the whispers of a distant past.

At about 9.30pm – yes, we had been on it for around nine hours – I got the call from my mate Chris, an Everton fan who had just returned, ironically, from an away game at Fulham. I took a cab to meet up with him and his daughter in “The Newcastle Tap” opposite the train station. I stayed chatting with him for a good hour and a half.

Then, the fool that I am, I ended up with a few Chelsea mates in “Popworld” on the infamous Bigg Market. There was a late-night pizza with “Walton & Hersham Bob” before I apparently jumped a taxi queue and ordered a cabbie to take me home.

I eventually crawled in at around 2am.

I think.

On the Sunday morning, Parky woke me.

“It’s ten thirty mate.”

“Fackinell.”

My immediate thoughts?

“Noon. What a ridiculous time for a game of football.”

“Shit, that’s only ninety minutes away.”

“After the game, I am going straight back to bed.”

“Never again.”

We caught a cab at 11am and were soon walking towards the familiar steel and glass of St. James’ Park.

The three of us caught a lift, as always, up to the away section in The Gods.

There was time for a little joke. We were told to press the button for Tier Seven. We wondered what was in Tier Eight.

“The trophy room” I replied.

“But there is no Tier Eight.”

“Exactly, I replied.”

*Admittedly this would work better had they not won the League Cup Final on 16 March, but in the circumstances, it made us laugh.

I met up with a few friendly faces in the concourse, which looks out and over the greenery of Leazes Park, where there are plans to, maybe, build a new stadium for the team.

I spotted Alan in conversation with PD and Parky.

Sadly, Alan had some awful news for me, but needed to tell me face to face rather than via text or ‘phone. Albert, the lad who has sat in front of me in the Matthew Harding Upper since 1997, sadly passed away in the days after the Liverpool home match.

I was so sad. We hugged. Albert, a postman, had apparently been taken ill at work and, we think, soon passed away. We do not know the details.

I raised a glass of “Diet Coke” to his memory and it just seemed so pathetic.

With my head spinning with that news, and a general light-headedness from the drinking the previous night, I lethargically took my spot alongside Gary, John and Alan. I reached my place just as the mosaics were reaching their peak down below me, but I was in no mood to appreciate the scene.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Albert.

Before I knew it, the game had began below me.

Quick, the team.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I noted the “C-Section” defence and tried to think of a punchline. And then I thought of Robert Sanchez.

I couldn’t believe that Gary alongside me was wearing a shirt, a pullover, a jacket and a hat. He must have been roasting. As it was, he was soon roasting Anthony Gordon, likening him to Clare Balding. He had a point.

There was an early attack up at the Gallowgate End and Pedro Neto won a corner, but it was all to no avail. Soon after, we found ourselves scurrying around after a Newcastle break. Moises Caicedo tackled Gordon well, but the ball was picked up and sent out to Jacob Murphy. His low ball across the six-yard box was prodded in by Sandro Tonali.

Fuck it.

The locals roared, and I looked over to them to my right. They were going ballistic.

“E-I-E-I-E-I-O, UP THE PREMIER LEAGUE WE GO.”

I felt crushed so soon into the game.

And I thought of Albert.

To be honest, despite the importance of this game, I found it hard to concentrate. But this was such an important game. I mentioned to a few friends before the match that I had not known a league game at St. James’ Park with so much on it for both teams since that classic in 1984.

We looked lack-lustre and tired, and our away support were quiet and subdued. In fact, as the first half meandered on, I hardly heard a single shout from us. It was all too tame.

Cole Palmer, our great hope, misfired on a few occasions. A Caicedo shot bobbled wide.

This was horrible.

And I thought of Albert.

On thirty-five minutes, a high ball and an aerial challenge between Nicolas Jackson and Sven Botman. A yellow card for Jackson.

Then, a VAR review. And a red card for Jackson. It was all too far away for me to really see what had happened. Jackson seemed to take ages to eventually walk off the pitch.

Sigh.

We were really up against it now. In fact, did we have a chance at all? It didn’t seem like it. Everything seemed so flat. Bizarrely, the home team hardly showed much desire to go at us.

This was a really odd game.

I sat at half-time, quiet, in a reflective mood.

I remembered how Albert – for a while – used to time his toilet breaks with Chelsea goals so we would often urge him, if we were needing a goal, to pay a visit.

I remembered how I would often touch my telephoto lens against the back of his head.

“Sorry mate.”

He loved his trips to New Zealand every winter.

Bless him.

At the break, Reece James replaced Noni Madueke. Our formation looked pretty fluid, like a Saturday night out in Gateshead, and as the second half started, somehow, we improved.

And us, the fans, realised the severity of the situation and, maybe feeling rather guilty for our first half no show, royally got behind the team.

Soon into the second period, two things impressed me and maybe galvanised a new spirit in the team. First, there was that ridiculously sturdy but fair tackle by Our Reece. Then, not long after, that robust shoulder challenge by Our Moises.

On the hour, a beautiful pass found Cucurella on an angle but his studied drive was tipped around by Nick Pope.

“It’s all us now.”

The noise levels rose as the second half progressed and I was so proud of the volume of our support. Maybe the first half silence was a direct result of too many bevvies in the Bigg Market, too many gins in Gateshead, too many daiquiris on the Quayside and too many ouzos in Ouseburn.

“It’s Salomon!”

A fantastic tackle by Levi Colwill thwarted Newcastle at the Gallowgate End.

On seventy-five minutes, two changes.

Malo Gusto for Romeo Lavia

Jadon Sancho for Trevoh Chalobah

God know who was playing where.

The hometown fans aired a song from days of old :

“Sing yer hearts out for the lads.”

Enzo tested Pope but the shot was tipped over.

The home fans roared again :

“New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul.”

On eighty-seven minutes, the ball was worked from the left flank to the right flank and Gusto sent over a teasing cross. However, despite a free leap, James got under the ball, and it looped over.

FACKINELL.

That was our chance.

There was still time for one final twist of the knife. On ninety minutes, Bruno Guimaraes advanced and aimed. His shot took a deflection – weird how it could be seen from over one hundred yards away – and the ball looped in.

Bollocks.

At the end of the game, with the Geordies bouncing, the buggers then played “Parklife” and then “Chelsea Dagger” and I bet they thought that was funny.

So, it was not to be. Our poor recent record at St. James’ Park continues, and the home team strengthened their Champions League claims for next season.

I met up with the troops at the bottom of the fourteen flights of steps and we – Parky, PD, Rich, Matt, Rich’s nephew and me – sloped down to a bar for a few post-game drinks and a bite to eat. It would be a relatively early night this one. I think I was tucked up by nine o’clock, ready for the long haul down south on the Monday.

Next up, a Friday night date with Manchester United.

STOKE ON TRENT : 11 MAY 1985

NEWCASTLE ON TYNE : 11 MAY 2025

Tales From The Sun And The Shadows

Posted on April 12, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 6 April 2025.

During this footballing weekend, I would be seeing my fortieth Frome Town game and also my fortieth Chelsea game of this 2024/25 season.

On the Saturday, Frome Town – the Dodge, the Scarlet Runners – were up first. There was a home game at Badgers Hill against Chertsey Town, who were just above the relegation drop zone, while Frome were struggling to get out of it. There have been a whole host of “must-win games” for my hometown team of late, but this really was it; an absolute “must-win game”. We were staring into the abyss, this was the point of no return, and a whole many more drastic cliches.

I met up with a few Frome Town regulars – Sumo, Asa, Trotsky, Francis – at the nearby Frome Cricket Club, and my presence there was intended to facilitate a little good fortune. The last time I visited the Cricket Club was before the successful Play-Off Final win last season. I hoped for a similar outcome.

Trotsky is a Brentford fan and so would be at both of my games over the weekend. We had heard that Chertsey would be bringing two coaches of supporters down to Somerset and so I was hoping that we would see a similar gate to the 659 against Hungerford Town a week earlier. Once inside it was soon apparent that the gate would be considerably less. The sunny and warm weather – usually a boon – had probably enticed potential spectators elsewhere.

We began the game well, full of attacking intent, and managed to get the ball into the goal on two occasions, only for both to be called back for offside. Unfortunately, a defensive slip allowed the visitors to go 1-0 up, and Frome found it difficult to get back into the game. At half-time, I changed ends and watched the second half in front of the clubhouse. Alas, only a small smattering of half-chances were forthcoming and as the atmosphere grew quieter and quieter, the grim realisation of yet another 0-1 loss (our fourth in a row) grew nearer. The elusive goal didn’t materialise. The gate was announced as 490, a mite disappointing if I am honest.

At the final whistle, my little group of friends stood motionless, unable to move.

This one hurt.

Frome Town have four games left: two at home against Dorchester and Totton, two aways at Swindon and Plymouth. Realistically we need to win two of these four to give ourselves even the slightest hope of survival.

We live in hope.

Saturday became Sunday and it was now Chelsea’s turn.

Our game at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was our middle match in a stretch of nine consecutive league games in London. However, our run to the end of the season clearly isn’t easy. In fact, before the game with Tottenham I mentioned to a few mates that – “without being too dramatic, nor negative” – I couldn’t see where we were going to get a win in the remaining games.

And then along came Tottenham, and Tottenham were Tottenham, and it was ever thus.

The kick-off in West London was at 2pm, and I had purchased a “JustPark” space on Oliver Close (the same close as last season if not the same house) from 11am and we envisaged a little pub crawl next to the Thames once again.

There was a lie-in of sorts – I was still up for 7am – and PD was collected at 8am and Lord Parky at 8.30am.

On a sunny morning, we enjoyed the regular route up to London; a McBreakfast at Melksham, up onto the M4, thankfully now free of speeding restrictions east of Reading, and the familiar sights such as Windsor Castle, the planes at Heathrow, the elevated section of the M4, the Wembley Arch to the north.

Everything was going to plan until I drove close to the Brentford stadium on Lionel Road, then took a road parallel to the Thames at Kew, only to find that the only access road to Oliver Close was shut due to road enhancements on Thames Road. My two passengers exited the car and walked on to the nearest pub, “The Bull’s Head”, a few hundred yards to the east. Try as I might to access Oliver Close via another nearby road, I was defeated. Instead, I had to backtrack west, head over Kew Bridge, not once but twice, and then head back the way I had come and up onto the M4 as it became the A4. From here, I drove eastwards for a mile or so and then veered off at the next exit. From here, a mile and half west to my parking spot on Oliver Close. This detour took me around twenty-five minutes, and all because of a closure of no more than twenty-five yards on Thames Road.

I wondered if such a painfully slow approach to my final destination would be mirrored by Chelsea’s attempts to penetrate the Brentford penalty box later.

I reached “The Bull’s Head” at 11.30am. Inside, at the same window seat overlooking the river as last season, my two travel companions were sharing laughs and matchday pints with Salisbury Steve and Southgate Jimmy. I slotted in alongside them and we reminisced on the Tottenham match, while trying to muster up a little enthusiasm for the afternoon’s attraction.

We spent a good hour or so there, then dropped into our main haunt at Brentford, “The Bell & Crown”, which we were visiting for probably the fourth or fifth time. There was a relaxed mix of home and away fans at this pub, but there were no Chelsea colours on show, as is our style. The sun was out, it was getting warmer and warmer.

Bliss.

We chatted to a few mates – Rob, Cal, Cliff, Chidge, Tim – and the general vibe was undoubtedly this :

“Do we have to go to the bloody football? Can’t we just stay here?”

Time was moving on, so we made our way up to the away turnstiles which are hidden away between cramped and towering flats, giving the stadium a claustrophobic and cramped-in feel, and down a few steps. You enter the stadia way below street level.

Again, I decided against a potential row with an over-zealous steward by leaving my SLR at home, instead smuggling in my Sony pub camera inside the stadium by hiding it in the palm of my hand.

Amidst the security checks, I heard this.

“Can I see inside your wallet?”

I was taken aback.

What? What was I hearing? My wallet?

I mouthed “sure” but I was fuming. Where else in the UK would somebody be asked to show the contents of their wallet? While attending a theatre? A cinema? An agricultural show? An art gallery? A shopping mall? A library?

Fackinell.

I joked with a mate “I wish I had a nude photo of his mother inside my wallet…”

I was soon inside the packed concourse. And then something lovely happened. At Stamford Bridge on Thursday, amidst all the photos of the celebrations after the Enzo match winner, there was one fan who dominated the photos of the scene down below me in the first few rows of the MHL. A lad in a yellow Chelsea shirt – the crisp one from 2021/22 – was right next to Enzo, his face a picture of absolute ecstasy.

A friend suggested that I needed to use social media to find him.

Well, within a few seconds of entering the away concourse at Brentford, I found him. I took his email address and promised to send him a selection of images.

Fantastic.

It’s all a bit weird at Brentford. From the concourse, you must ascend a flight of stairs, even to access the lower section of the away corner. I soon found my place alongside John and Gary. We were only a few rows from the corner flag.

Oh God, the sun was bearing down on us in that lower section. Despite wearing some “Ray Bans”, I soon realised that my vantage point for this game was pretty crap, especially considering the shadows underneath the main stand on the far side of the pitch and the dazzling sun elsewhere. We were so low too. I soon decided that I wasn’t going to enjoy the view at this game.

Our team?

It was hardly our first team. It shocked me.

Gusto at right back but James at left back. No Palmer. No Jackson. It took me ages to realise that our shape had been tweaked to allow three in midfield.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – James

Fernandez – Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall

Madueke – Nkunku – Sancho

There was a shared “Hey Jude” and the match began, with – for once – Chelsea attacking us in the first half.

Before we knew it, a chance for Christopher Nkunku from a James free kick on the right, but he arrived late at the far post and his header flew off and towards Oliver Close. It would be our only effort on goal for a while. At the other end, Brentford themselves enjoyed a couple of half-chances. Their front two of Bryan Mbeumo and Yoane Wissa were already up to no good; they needed to be watched those two.

On seven minutes, the away section boomed with a loud “One Man Went To Mow” but the play on the pitch took a while to get going.

Jadon Sancho, down below us, was urged to “skin” his marker but Gary quipped “he couldn’t skin a banana.”

What is it with wingers that won’t outpace their markers these days, one of the greatest sights in football over the years?

Oh yes, of course, stats say that balls crossed from the by-line are less likely to result in goal-scoring chances than balls slowly moved around the periphery of the penalty box ad nauseum until a half yard of space is created. I remembered my journey through Chiswick a few hours earlier as balls were passed to wide men to central defenders, to midfielders, to false nines, to inverted wingers, to hell and back.

Fucksake.

I wasn’t enjoying this at all.

The pitch was a hideous mix of bright sunshine and dark shadows, I was starting to get baked, my proper camera was at home, and Chelsea were boring me fucking rigid.

A few songs that heralded past players were sung.

“It’s Salomon!”

The home team conjured up a few half-chances as Chelsea toiled. A Sanchez error – quelle surprise – but then a great recovery as he spread himself to save from Mikkel Damsgaard. Brentford suddenly looked the livelier. Mbeumo cut inside from the right and should have done better with a shot that he screwed wide. The mood in our section deteriorated.

At one point in the first half, I could hardly believe my eyes as a Chelsea defender in the left back position – was it you Reece? – crossed a ball right across the Chelsea box, a mere five yards from the goal-line, right over the heads of attacking players to a defender on the other side of the box, himself no further than five yards from the goal-line.

Oh my God.

This was terrible to watch.

Two nearby Chelsea supporters, caught up in a prolonged and heated discussion, almost came to blows.

“Will you stop swearing?”

Really? At football? Fackinell.

We bellowed in desperation.

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

“ATTACK!”

“ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!”

Just after, on thirty-four minutes, Noni Madueke took our advice and did so.

The Chelsea choir responded, and it was truly cringeworthy.

“We’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot – we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot, we’ve had a shot.”

Just after, Madueke was clean through – one on one – but was cleanly tackled.

Brentford, from a corner, had a header cleared and it looked like we were hanging on. The frustration on the terraces grew. Many players were picked out for comment, with Nkunku and Sancho the most likely to be chastened. In the middle, by comparison, Moises Caicedo shone like a beacon.

Late on, a James free kick, but a Tosin header was glanced wide with the entire goal at his mercy.

That Madueke effort, I think, was indeed our only shot on target.

Meanwhile, also in West London, Fulham were surprisingly gubbing Liverpool 3-1 at half-time.

Way back in 1985, West London was my focus again.

Exactly forty years ago, on Saturday 6 April 1985, Chelsea played West London neighbours – and Hammersmith & Fulham neighbours – Queens Park Rangers in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I remember this day well. I met up with Glenn in Frome and we got a lift with two lads from Radstock – Terry and Swan – who then drove us to a spot on the A303 where Terry parked his car in a lay-by. We then caught the Yeovil Supporters Coach up to London from there. I visited the now long-gone “The George” pub at the corner of Fulham Road and the North End Road for the very first time. For a few short years – until 1988 – it would become my first Chelsea “local”.

After the hooliganism at the Sunderland game, the West Stand Benches were closed for a few weeks (and the famous concrete slabs were installed) and so we watched in The Shed. Pre-match, I chatted to Alan and Paul, we saw Leggo and Mark, and Dave came down to chat to us too.

All of these lads still go to Chelsea to this day.

I love that.

This was a poor game, and an especially poor first-half. The QPR team, playing in those Dennis the Menace red and black hooped shirts, included three former Chelsea players; Gary Chivers, Steve Wicks and Mike Fillery. Thankfully Kerry Dixon broke down the right at the Shed End in the seventieth minute and cooly finished to give us a slender 1-0 lead. We had to rely on a splendid Eddie Niedzwiecki save, late-on, to secure the three points. The gate was 20,340 but I expected less. As can be seen in the photos, QPR only partially filled two of the four pens in the away end. Their following was no more than 2,000.

By contrast, our away numbers at Loftus Road were embarrassingly more, year after year.

Back to 2025, and changes at the start of the second period.

Enzo Maresca’s odd choice of resting Nicolas Jackson for Thursday’s game in Poland – presumably – lasted just forty-five minutes. He replaced the dismal Nkunku.

Soon into the second period, the move of the match. I loved the way that a runner – Sancho I think – raced outside and took his man out of the picture, allowing Gusto to push on inside. A neat pass, then, to Dewsbury-Hall who found Jackson with a perfect long ball. However, Nico shot just wide.

A corner and a headed chance for Trevoh Chalobah went wide.

It was so difficult to see what on Earth was happening in the dark shadows at the other end. The sun was still beating down. I felt my skin buzzing. This was an uncomfortable watch.

You will note that there are no photographs featured from the second half of this game. In fact, I took very few of the whole match. Maybe the Frome ones compensate a little.

I approved of the Kante song being adapted for Caicedo.

“Moises will win you the ball…”

On the hour, two more widely applauded substitutions.

Cole Palmer for Dewsbury-Hall.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

So much for resting them for Thursday.

These two additions soon combined; Palmer to Neto, a curler palmed away by Mark Flekken in the Bees’ goal. Then, a minute later, another Neto shot at Flekken. James headed at the Brentford ‘keeper from a Neto corner, the ball at a comfortable height for a reflex save. Palmer curled an effort just wide of the post.

After a dire first-half, we were at least creating a few chances.

More Chelsea half-chances, and then a Brentford break. A decent save from Sanchez but offside anyway.

On seventy-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella for James.

Who would be playing on Thursday? It was far from clear.

Just after, from a Chelsea corner, another rapid Brentford break, right through the middle of our defence. Mbeumo lead the charge and passed outside to Wissa. I think we all feared the worst here. Thankfully, the much-maligned Sanchez stuck out a strong arm to parry. It was a fantastic save.

Brentford then enjoyed two clear goalscoring chances.

Keane Lewis-Potter, who sounds like he should be more suited to rain-affected cricket matches, set up Sepp Van Den Berg who attacked the ball inside the six-yard box, but his header miraculously bounced down and over the bar.

Then another near-miss as Wissa headed over.

The game was coming to life in its final minutes.

In the dying moments, up the other end, two late Chelsea chances. Enzo created space but thumped his shot wide. In the last move of the game, and indeed the last kick of the game, Palmer twisted and turned, took aim, but his curling effort floated just over the bar.

From my position, it appeared to be going in.

I was getting ready to jump for joy.

It didn’t. I didn’t.

It ended 0-0.

Miraculously, we ended the day in fourth place, and I can’t explain it.

Can anyone?

40 : FTFC

40 : CFC

40 : 1985

Tales From The History Book

Posted on March 15, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 9 March 2025.

I did not attend the away game in Copenhagen, but I know two Chelsea fans that did. PD and Parky, who I collected at 7am and 7.30am en route to London for the home game with relegation haunted Leicester City, had stayed in Denmark for five days and four nights and had thoroughly enjoyed their stay. I was unable to get time off from work for this game due to staff shortages in the office. On the journey to London, they regaled me with a few stories from the city and the game.

Though I missed that match, I have a few others to describe.

In a match report that will mention Chelsea Football Club’s celebrations of its one-hundred-and-twenty-year anniversary, I will continue my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season, a campaign that took place two-thirds of the way towards that 120 figure.

Saturday 2 March 1985 : Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea.

I would like to apologise for my behaviour on this particular day. For hopefully the only time in my life, I prioritised Tottenham over Chelsea.

That’s hard to read isn’t it? I can assure everyone that it was even harder to write.

With the second-leg of the Milk Cup semi final coming up on the Monday night at Stamford Bridge, I was unable to traipse across to Suffolk for our league match against Ipswich Town. This was all about finances. I simply could not afford two train excursions in three days.

Instead, I took alternative action and decided to attend Stoke City’s home match with Tottenham Hotspur which was to take place only a ten-minute walk away from my flat on Epworth Street near Stoke’s town centre if not city centre. As a student at North Staffs Poly, there was reduced admission in the enclosure in front of the main stand on production of my NUS card and I think this equated to around £2. I could afford that.

I had already watched Stoke on two occasions thus far in 1984/85 – two predictable losses against Watford in the league and versus Luton Town in an FA Cup replay – and on this occasion, Stoke lost 0-1 after stand-in ‘keeper Barry Siddall made a grave error, allowing Garth Crooks to score in the second half. The gate was a decent – for Stoke – 12,552 and I estimated 3,000 away fans. I approved of the fact that the visiting support sang “we hate you Chelsea, we do” as it felt appropriate to feel the animosity from “that lot.”

It was the first time that I had seen “that lot” in the flesh since a horrible 1-3 reverse in November 1978 at Stamford Bridge. I still shudder at the memory of that game.

“We are Tottenham, from The Lane.”

Ugh.

The irony of Garth Crooks grabbing the winner against the Potters was not lost on me. Crooks once lived in Stoke, in Butler Street, just behind the away end, and very close to where I would live for two years until 1987.

Meanwhile, at Portman Road, Chelsea succumbed to a 0-2 defeat against Ipswich, so there is no doubt that I was doubly miserable as I walked home after the match.

Monday 4 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Sunderland.

This was a special day – or evening – for me. Although I had seen Chelsea play a midweek match at Bristol Rovers in 1976, the game against Sunderland was the first time that I would ever see a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. After the aborted trip to London on Wednesday 20 February, this second-leg took place a full nineteen days after the first semi-final at Roker Park.

I attended a couple of morning lectures and then caught a mid-morning train to Euston. I got in at 12.30pm, which seems ridiculously early, but I suspect that I wanted to soak up every minute of the pre-match vibe around Stamford Bridge. I bought double pie-and-mash at the long-gone café on the North End Road and mooched around the local area until 4pm when I made my way to Stamford Bridge. I spotted Alan and Dave. There was already a queue at The Shed turnstiles. I can remember to this day how odd it felt to be at Stamford Bridge in the late afternoon ahead of a game. It was so exciting. I was in my element. It was sunny, it was surprisingly warm.

I was in as early as 5.15pm. The game didn’t start until 7.30pm.

I took my place alongside Al, Dave and the others in the West Stand Benches.

What a buzz.

A lot of Sunderland arrived late. My diary reports that they filled two and a half pens in the North Stand, so my guess was that they had 6,000 at the match. Chelsea filled one section near the West Stand.

The gate was 38,440, and I have read that many travelling Wearsiders were unable to get in to the ground.

Remember we trailed 0-2 from the first game.

The atmosphere was electric, and a breakthrough came after just six minutes. David Speedie smashed home with a cross-shot after being set up by Pat Nevin at the North Stand end. Superb celebrations too. I was hugging everyone.

Sadly, on thirty-six minutes we watched in agony as a Sunderland breakaway took place and former Chelsea player Clive Walker struck to put the visitors 3-1 up on aggregate.

The noise continued into the second half. Sunderland hit the bar. However, there was soon heartbreak. A Chelsea defender made a calamitous error that allowed Walker to nab a second. We were now 4-1 down and virtually out.

This is when Stamford Bridge turned wild. I looked on from my spot in front of the West Stand as the whole stadium boiled over with malevolent venom. Chelsea supporters flooded the pitch, trying to attack the away fans in the North Stand pens, and there was a running battle between police and home supporters. It was utter mayhem.

Incredibly, a policeman was on the pitch and inside the Chelsea penalty area when Colin West scored Sunderland’s third goal of the night. To be truthful, my memory was of a police horse being on the pitch, but maybe the hysteria of the night was making me see things. Then, a Chelsea supporter emerged from the West Stand, raced onto the pitch and tried to attack Clive Walker. Late on, Nevin lobbed the Sunderland ‘keeper to make it 2-3 (2-5) but by then nobody cared.

Speedie then got himself sent off.

I was heartbroken.

I walked back to South Kensington tube – one of the worst walks of my Chelsea life thus far – mainly to avoid West Ham and their ICF, who had been playing an FA Cup tie at Wimbledon, and who would be coming through Fulham Broadway.

I eventually caught the 11.50pm train from Euston and finally reached Stoke at around 2.30am, and I was surprised to see around fifteen Chelsea supporters get off at Stoke station. I got to know a few of them over the next couple of years.

So much for my first-ever midweek game at Stamford Bridge. Even to this day, forty years on, this game is looked upon with shame, and warped pride by others, as an infamous part of our history.

When I awoke the next morning, the events at Stamford Bridge the previous night were on everyone’s lips. In truth, I just wanted to hide.

If ever there was evidence needed of “we’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose” then this was it.

Saturday 9 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Southampton.

I was back in Somerset when this match was played, but did not attend. In truth, I was low after Monday’s events. This weekend was spent “in hibernation” in my local area, and on the Saturday afternoon I went out on a walk around my village. I caught a little of my local football team’s game in the Mid-Somerset League but then returned to my grandparents’ house to hear that we had lost 0-2 at home to Southampton. After the Sunderland game, I had predicted that our gates would plummet. I envisaged 15,000 against Saints. On the day, 15,022 attended. If only our strikers had been as accurate as my gate guestimates.

In truth, the trouble at the Sunderland game would spark an infamous end to the season. There would soon be hooliganism on a grand scale at the Luton Town vs. Millwall game, trouble at the Birmingham City vs. Leeds United game on the last day of the season, in which a young lad was killed, plus the disasters in Bradford and in Brussels.

The later part of 1984/85 would be as dark as it ever got.

Ahead of the game with Leicester City on the Sunday, I drove down to Devon on the Saturday to see Frome Town’s away game at Tiverton Town. This was a first-time visit for me. With both teams entrenched in the bottom of the division, this was a relegation six-pointer. In truth, it wasn’t the best of games on a terribly soft and bumpy pitch. Both teams had few real chances. There was a miss from James Ollis when one-on-one with the Tivvy ‘keeper, but Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips made the save of the season in the last minute to give us a share of the points. There were around fifty Frome Town fans present in the gate of 355.

On the Sunday, we stopped for a breakfast in Chippenham, and I arrived in London in good time. It was the usual pre-match routine. I dropped the lads near The Eight Bells, then parked up opposite The Elephant & Barrel. I walked to West Brompton and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge tube. I squeezed into a seat at our usual table and was able to relax a little.

Jimmy and Ian joined us, and then my friend Michelle from Nashville, who I first met for the very first time in Turin in March 2009. I had picked up some tickets for her at Stamford Bridge for the Juventus away game and we met up so I could had them over. I last saw Michelle, with Parky, in Porto in 2015. Neither of us could possibly believe that it was almost ten years ago. Alas our paths won’t cross in the US in the summer; Michelle will attend the Atlanta game while I am going to the two fixtures in Philadelphia. It was a lovely pre-match, though I am not sure Michelle understood all of our in-jokes, our accents, and our swearing.

There was time for a quick photo-call outside the boozer – Michelle had previously visited it before a Fulham away game – and we then made our way to Fulham Broadway.

It was a sunny day in SW6.

We were inside in good time, and we caught the introductions of some Chelsea legends before the entrance of the two teams.

We would celebrate our actual 120^th birthday on the following day, but this was a superb first-course.

Dennis Wise, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink, Kerry Dixon, Ron Harris, Frank Blunstone.

Lovely applause for them all.

The ninety-year-old Frank Blunstone, a young winger in our first Championship during our golden jubilee of 1954/55, was very spritely and it was a joy to see him.

Ron Harris, now eighty, was flanked by his son Mark and his grandson Isaac.

How quickly the time goes. It didn’t seem so long ago that everyone at Chelsea was celebrating our centenary with our second league title, as perfect a piece of symmetry as you will ever see.

I also like the symmetry of me turning sixty in our one-hundred-and-twentieth year.

Anyway, enough of this bollocks.

The two teams emerged.

Us?

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

The return of Wesley Fofana against his former team. A team full of wingers. A false nine. Nkunku wide left. Square pegs in round holes. Round pegs in square holes. Sanchez in goal. Clive, still injured, at home. My mate Rich alongside PD, Alan and me in a flat back four. Michelle in the Matthew Harding Lower.

Leicester City in a kit the colour of wallpaper paste.

The game began.

In the very first minute of play, Cole Palmer went down after a challenge by Luke Thomas, whoever he is, but the appeals for a penalty were met by stoney silence by the referee.

Soon after, Pedro Neto whipped in a great cross from the right but…um, shouldn’t he have been elsewhere, possibly nearer the goal? Anyway, despite having a team full of wingers, nobody was running into the box to get on the end of the cross.

There was a Leicester attack, but a shot straight at Robert Sanchez.

Soon after, an effort from Palmer went wide, deflected away for a corner. From the ensuing kick, Palmer created space but shot high and wide.

“Oh for two. Here we go again.”

The away fans were shouting out about “football in a library” and the Stamford Bridge thousands responded by…er, doing nothing, not a whisper of a response.

On nineteen minutes, Jadon Sancho was fouled by Victor Kristiansen, whoever he is, and an easy penalty decision this time.

Tellingly, neither Alan nor I moved a muscle.

Sigh.

In our youth – 1984/85 – we would have been up and cheering.

Sadly, Palmer struck the penalty low and the Foxes’ ‘keeper Mads Hermansen – great name – saved well.

Bollocks.

“Oh for three.”

On twenty-five minutes, a mess in the Chelsea box. A cross came in, Sanchez made a hash of his attempts to gather, the ball hit Tosin and looped up onto the bar and Colwill was thankfully able to back-peddle and head away before the lurking Jamie Vardy could strike.

Throughout this all, I heard circus music.

On twenty-seven minutes, Cole was “oh for four.”

After thirty-nine minutes, Moises Caicedo floated a ball from deep into the box towards Marc Cucurella but, stretching, he was unable to finish.

I spoke about Vardy.

“How we could do with him running into the channels, causing havoc, stretching a defence.”

Our play was not so much “quick, quick, slow” as “slow, slow, slower.”

We saw a couple of late half chances from a Caicedo shot and a timid Nkunku header but there were predictable boos at the break.

Pah.

“Palmer has gone into his shell after the penalty miss.”

As the second half began, the sun was still shining but the temperature had dropped. I noted an improvement in tempo, in movement. Down below us, a Cucurella effort was blocked for a corner.

On fifty-one minutes, that man Vardy wriggled in and crashed a shot in from close-range at an angle, but Sanchez had his angles covered and blocked.

Just after, the otherwise energetic and engaged Neto let himself down and crumpled inside the area under the most minimalist of touches from a Leicester player. Everyone around me was quickly irritated by this behaviour. As he laid on the pitch, making out that he was mortally wounded, the shouts of anger boomed out.

I joined in.

“GET UP. GET UP! WE DON’T BELIEVE YOU.”

Bloody cheating footballers.

He limped to his feet and the boos rang out.

On fifty-five minutes, there was a great claim by Sanchez following a low cross from the Leicester right.

An hour had passed and just as we had finished praising Cucurella for his fine aggressive play in all areas of the pitch, I started filming some of the play down below me so I could show a clip of the game to a friend in Azerbaijan. Photos are clearly my thing, and I very rarely do this. On this occasion, luck played its part as I caught the play leading up to a super-clean and super-clinical finish from the man himself.

“Get in Cucurella.”

A great goal, and the three players involved were becoming the main lights in this once mundane match. Neto, despite his painful play-acting, was full of running and tenaciousness. Enzo was a real driving force in this game, trying his best to ignite and inspire. Cucurella was, as ever, full of energy and application.

We were 1-0 up.

Phew.

We had edged our noses in front against a stubborn but hardly threatening Leicester City team.

Alas, on sixty-nine minutes, Cole was 0-5.

Two substitutions on seventy-three minutes.

Tyrique George for Palmer.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

A shot on goal from Enzo was blocked by Conor Coady, who used to be a footballer, and there was a shout for a penalty. VAR dismissed it.

On eighty-eight minutes, Pedro Neto hounded and chased the ball in a display of “top level pressing” and was roundly applauded for it, his redemption complete.

A minute later, a final substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Nkunku.

It had been another afternoon of middling effort matched by disdain from the terraces for this false footballer.

Tyrique George impressed on his cameo appearance and broke well, late on, setting up Enzo but his low drive was blocked well by Hermansen.

It ended 1-0.

This wasn’t a great game, but we had deserved the win. Miraculously it pushed back into the top four.

“How the hell are we the fourth-best team in England?”

Quality-wise, this is a really poor Premier League season.

We headed home. However, this would be a busy week for me as I would be returning to Stamford Bridge the following day and for the Copenhagen return game on the Thursday.

More of all that later.

Really, though, fourth place?

Chelsea vs. Sunderland

Tiverton Town vs. Frome Town

Chelsea vs. Leicester City

The Goal

Tales From A Painful Watch

Posted on January 28, 2025 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 25 January 2025.

“Spin the wheel, Sanchez. Spin the wheel.”

This was a painful match to watch, and this is going to be a painful edition to write.

As is so often the case, the football managed to get in the way of an otherwise enjoyable day out.

Clear driving, perfect timings, fine weather, blue skies, good company, contrasting landscapes, interesting new pubs, friendly locals.

But also football.

Fackinell.

This would be my fifty-fifth Chelsea versus Manchester City game in all competitions and at all venues. It would be my twentieth visit to the Etihad. In the previous nineteen, we had won just five.

2003/04

2007/08

2008/09

2013/14

2016/17

The preparations for this trip north had been set in stone for a while. Normally for games in Manchester, we stop at the Tabley interchange on the M6 and enjoy some food and drinks at “The Windmill”. We visit so regularly that the landlady recognises us. However, I realised that this pre-match routine wasn’t particularly lucky for us. In fact, I can never remember us winning at either City nor United since this has been our Manchester pre-game plan. I decided we needed a change.

Rather than a pre-match spent to the south-west of the city, I decided to flip things one-hundred and eighty degrees, and head up to the moors overlooking the empire of Mancunia to the north-east of the city centre.

I explained my plans to PD and Parky, and there were no complaints.

I collected PD at 8.30am and PD at 9am. The idea was to arrive at the first of a little string of three or four pubs to the northeast of Oldham at around 1pm and to stay until 4pm before setting off for the game.

Soon on our way, PD asked me of my thoughts about the evening’s match.

I grimaced as I replied “I think we can get something today, maybe even a win.”

After all, simply put, City had not been City in the past few months. The collapse in Paris on Wednesday, I hoped, had unsettled them further.

The skies were clear, clear blue, as we headed north. We stopped for a very quick breakfast at Strensham on the M5. Our next stop was at Keele on the M6. For the last hour, New Order’s “Music Complete” accompanied us as I drove on. It got me, at least, in the mood for a few hours in Manchester.

We swept over the Thelwall Viaduct. Winter Hill, just to the north of Bolton, just a few miles north of where we won the league almost twenty years ago, was clearly visible. I curled around onto the M62 and then hit the M60 orbital. Then back onto the M62 again as we rose higher and higher. The skies were still magnificently clear. One view in particular was stunning; a wide and vast panorama of moorland, valleys, industrial heritage, rooftops.

Then, at last, a southern spur on the A672 took me to our first stop, the Rams Head pub on Ripponden Road.

We arrived at 1.15pm. A cold wind howled around me as I took a few photos of the rugged and wild moors that surrounded the pub. We settled in for the best part of an hour and befriended a local couple who had popped in for a pint or two. I was in for a shock. They informed me that pub was actually in Yorkshire, and the Lancashire border was a few miles away, but we would pass that important line soon. The log fire roared next to us. What a cosy place on top of such a wind-blown summit.

This area – Saddleworth Moor – is of course tainted with the horrific events of the mid ‘sixties and the atrocious acts of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley.

“Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Over the moor, take me to the moor.

Dig a shallow grave and I’ll lay me down.

Lesley-Ann and your pretty white beads.

Oh John you’ll never be a man.

And you’ll never see your home again.

Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.”

Not only the bitter wind chilled me to the bone.

We drove a couple of miles south-west to the next pub, The Printers, and were again welcomed with open arms by the staff. We squeezed in at a table next to a roaring fire. The beers were cheap, the pub was warming. The landlady gave us each a hug as we left and hoped we won. She was United. I had explained the need for us to break the ill-luck of visiting “The Windmill” at Tabley, and optimistically said “see you next season.”

At 3pm, we ventured further south and entered the final stop of this pre-game pub crawl, The Kings Arms. This overlooked yet more naked moorland and was a very busy hostelry. A City fan at the next table chatted for a while. Above the bar was a wooden beam that signalled the exact boundary between Yorkshire and Lancashire. The toilets were in Yorkshire.

At 4pm, we headed off to the game. From a geographical perspective, the Ripponden Road, the A672, resembled a long straight ski jump that would eventually send us hurtling into the heart of Manchester.

We were sent right through the middle of Oldham. PD remembers being in digs in Oldham while working with one of Frome’s many road gangs. But none of us had ever watched a game at Boundary Park, home of the town’s team Oldham Athletic.

The football scene in the Manchester conurbation has changed somewhat in recent years. Oldham Athletic and Rochdale are now one level below the Football League in the National League, while Bury are playing in the lowly North West Counties League, two levels below Frome Town. Going the other way, Salford are now in League Two while Stockport County are now back in League One after playing as low as the National League South in 2013/14, just one division higher than Frome Town.

Ah, Frome Town. On this day, I solemnly wished that I could be in two places at the same time. While I was two hundred miles north of Frome in Manchester, my home-town team were playing fancied Gloucester City in our first home game in more than three weeks. At half-time, I learned that it was 0-0.

My route took me from Oldham on the A62 and through Failsworth and close to United’s original home in Newton Heath. I made it to the Etihad where PD and Parky made a quick exit at a red light outside the away end. I was parked up at my usual place near The Grove pub – it memorably smelled of bleach in May 2023 – at 4.50pm.

That, I think everyone will agree, was perfect timing.

Once parked, I quickly checked the score at Badgers Hill.

Frome Town 0 Gloucester City 0.

I was happy with that.

I donned my warm Moncler jacket and slapped my black Frome Town baseball cap on my bonce and walked off in the cold along Ashton New Road to the waiting stadium.

I was inside the middle tier – block 214, three seats from the City fans, get ready for some tiresome banter – at 5.15pm.

My first-ever visit to Manchester took place in October 1984 when I visited a mate from Frome who had just started a course at Manchester Poly, and I briefly described this earlier this season. On that day, City played a Second Division home game against Oxford United in front of a very creditable 24,755 and won 1-0. I remember trying to spot the Maine Road floodlights as we travelled into town on the train. I was undoubtedly on the lookout, too, for the subtle differences between London and Manchester casual trends as we darted around the city centre. I definitely remembering spotting flared cords, flared jeans, and the seminal “Hurley’s” shop near Piccadilly.

Incidentally, just for the record :

City’s home average that season in Division Two was 24,206.

Chelsea’s average that season in Division One was 23,065.

My diary from that day mentioned us visiting a city centre pub called “The Salisbury” – I have the very feintest memory – but I have since decided that I would love to go back, as it looks an absolutely cracking boozer, right under the train tracks near Oxford Road station. Maybe next season.

Back to 2025, and I was inside just in time to see some white smoke drifting up from in front of the stand to our right. There had obviously been some sort of pre-match fanfare. The City team was being shown on the TV screens.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Colwill – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

There was time for a little Manchester-themed music. Typically, this featured Oasis, but also James, who I had not knowingly remembered being featured at City before. I wondered if there was a yearly meeting in a city centre hotel featuring the media team of Manchester’s two main clubs, and an NFL-style draft of the coming season’s playlists.

United : “Well, you can have Oasis, as per. And the High Flying Birds.”

City. “Mint. You can have Stone Roses. It’s our turn for The Smiths this season, Marr is more a blue than Moz is a red anyway.”

United : “OK, We’ll have New Order.”

City : “Oh, that’s hard to take. OK. We’ll have James.”

United : “Deal. Buzzcocks.”

City : “No worries. The Fall for us.”

United : “Magazine.”

City : “Duritti Column.”

United : “Happy Mondays.”

City : “Given. Inspiral Carpets.”

United : “Hollies.”

City : “Thought Russell Watson was more your style.”

What an over-the-top pre-match show. The stadium lights dimmed, flashing spotlights zoomed around the stands. I found it all too much. What will this shite be like in twenty years’ time for God’s sake?

The real City are Levenshulme, not Las Vegas.

There was an odd operatic-version of “Blue Moon.”

Oh boy.

It wasn’t like this in Moss Side in 1984/85 I am sure.

Then, a mood change.

A clanging mood change.

The images of three City players who have recently passed away were shown on the screens.

Bobby Kennedy

Denis Law

Tony Book

The last man, the player then manager Book, was described in revered tones and a nice banner was draped from a top balcony. The announcer called him “Stick” which was new to me. In Frome, two-and-a-half hours earlier, there had been a minute’s silence in memory of the same man.

I remembered the lovely and respectful way that City remembered Gianluca Vialli two seasons ago.

Despite the awful kick-off time, the three-thousand Chelsea fans were in. There was hardly an empty seat anywhere. My mate David, the freelance photographer, was spotted in a pit in front of the away fans.

Both teams in blue, the game began.

And how.

There was an early City attack on the goal down below us, but on two minutes, it was Nicolas Jackson causing problems in the City half. There was rather rustic clearance from Trevoh Chalobah and Jackson chased the high ball, putting pressure on the new City defender Abdukodir Khusanov. His headed pass back to Ederson did not have the legs, and Jackson picked up the ball and flicked it to his right where Noni Madueke was level with his run. There was a simple tap in.

The Chelsea away contingent, in three tiers, erupted, and Madueke raced away and slid to his knees in front of the disconsolate City support.

After my head stopped spinning, I did my best to capture the moment.

Ci’eh 0 Chowlsea 1.

Blimey.

However, I suspect that I wasn’t the only person thinking “we’ve scored too soon, here.”

After the tap in against Wolves, Madueke will not score two easier back-to-back goals in his career. We continued our bright start and there was a free-kick from Reece James. On nine minutes, Cole Palmer was put through into acres of space after excellent play by Chalobah. He raced on, but just as we were expecting a trademark ice-cold finish from his wand of a left foot, he remarkably played the ball to Jackson. Critically, this pass was overhit and Jackson struggled to catch up with the pace of the pass. The chance to shoot had gone, and although we kept possession, the follow-up shot from Jadon Sancho was blocked by Khusanov.

Bollocks.

A 2-0 lead on nine minutes would have been a formidable position to find ourselves.

Chalobah, the player of the game thus far, was able to block a shot on goal, and we then watched as that annoying little irritant Phil Foden smacked a shot against Robert Sanchez’ left post.

But then City, energised by a couple of breaks, grew into the game and the marauding runs of Josko Gvardiol caught the eye. After drifting past Madueke far too easily, the Croatian blasted over.

After Chelsea controlling the first fifteen minutes, City effectively dominated the remaining thirty minutes of the first period. Our midfield lost its bite, the wide players did not support the defenders, it all went downhill, like us dropping down from Saddleworth earlier.

Sigh.

The noise from both sets of fans wasn’t great. It is always difficult for us to get anything going as we are split over the three tiers. There were occasional barbs aimed at City.

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

Jackson was through on goal, but the shot was saved, and the linesman’s flag was raised anyway. City had a goal chalked off for offside.

The chances for City were piling up.

I turned to John :

“If City don’t equalise this half, it will be a miracle.”

Lo and behold, on forty-two minutes, a long ball out of defence set up a chance for Matheus Nunes as he beat off a challenge from Marc Cucurella. His shot was blocked by Sanchez, but the ball ran nicely to Gvardiol who tucked it in from an angle down below us.

Bollocks.

The home support just yards away turned it on. They were looking into us and were hoping for a reaction. I just turned away.

Sigh.

City 1 Chelsea 1.

The half-time period was spent with hands in pockets, keeping warm, trying to muster up some hope from somewhere.

The second half, then. Do I have to?

Initially, Chelsea managed to create a few half-chances but never really looked like scoring. On more than one occasion, I felt myself wanting to see a niggly and obstreperous Diego Costa leading our line rather than the flimsy Jackson.

In the second half at City, that far half of the pitch always looks so huge, so full of space, and it always scares me to death. We were defending high and always seemed at risk.

I was surprised that we managed to create, somehow, some half-chances, but the City goal was not really under threat.

Erling Haaland was having a typically odd game; never too involved but always a threat. He’s like a stick insect on steroids, a powdered up praying mantis, a bundle of arms and legs.

On sixty-one minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson and then managed to hide for the rest of the match.

“Half an hour to go, John.”

We surely wouldn’t last this amount of time.

We didn’t.

On sixty-eight minutes, Ederson went long and aimed a punt at the marauding Haaland. He met the ball, with Chalobah breathing down his neck, and managed to get a head on it. He spun Chalobah in the inside-right channel – all that bloody space – but as he sped away, we saw the worrying presence of the orange peril, Sanchez, racing out, changing his tack, and looking like a fireman who had been called out to the wrong fire.

Quite simply, this was not going to end well. We could all see it. To be fair to Chalobah, he had forced Haaland quite wide, but Haaland was no fool. He came inside just as Chalobah slipped. Sanchez was back-peddling and readjusting at the same time, going in nine directions at once, and a vain leap was never going to stop Haaland’s perfectly curled lob into an empty goal.

The City support erupted.

Fackinell.

City 2 Chelsea 1.

At last they made some worthwhile noise.

“We’re not really here.”

Sanchez, eh? For all of his decent saves and blocks, he is not good enough.

He is just not good enough for Chelsea Football Club.

The one thing that really annoys me is his really casual and lackadaisical approach to everything he does. He never seems to be tuned in, to be in step with others, to be fully aware of the situation at hand. He never seems to be ready to play the ball out. He is so slow. He doesn’t inspire confidence in fans nor players alike.

At City, he had his own low point.

I know our job as supporters is to support, but it’s fucking hard.

Some substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

We went to pieces.

On eighty-seven minutes, another Ederson long ball, this time to the substitute Kevin De Bruyne. He flicked it on towards the familiar pairing of Haaland and Chalobah. It was Haaland who got a touch, square to Foden. It was at this point that I took my eyes off the play and looked deep into the night above the stadium. I brought my gaze back to the game, and Foden slotted past Sanchez.

City 3 Chelsea 1.

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