Astana vs. Chelsea : 12 December 2024.

“Onwards and eastwards.”

These were my closing comments for the Tottenham Hotspur blog, as I typed away in a Heathrow hotel.

Eastwards, indeed.

I was up early on Monday 9 December, and soon wolfed down a breakfast. I made my way to nearby Stanwell, where my friend Ian – whose daughter Ella had taken my spares at Tottenham – had very kindly offered to provide a parking space for my car while I would be in Kazakhstan. Ian dropped me off at Hatton Cross, and I then double-backed on myself to Heathrow where I caught a 9.15am National Express coach to Stansted. It was worryingly cold while I waited at the bus stop at Heathrow, and I began to wonder how I would cope with the colder temperatures in Almaty. I didn’t catch much sleep during the night, so I was happy that I managed to drop off as we wound our way clockwise around the M25. It is a well-travelled journey for me; Stansted is often a departure point for European adventures.

I was soon checked-in at the gate for the first part of my mammoth journey. First up was a three-and-a-half-hour flight to Istanbul – Constantinople for you Jimmy – which was set to leave at 12.50pm. I spotted a few Chelsea faces, around ten, who were on the same flight.

Thinking of Marc Cucarella’s problems at Tottenham the night before, I told a few Chelsea lads “it’s going to be icy and snowy in Almaty – I hope you have picked the right shoes.”

I had been contented with my planning for this trip. I was out via Pegasus and back via Azerbaijain Airlines, all for £418. The apartment that I had booked in Almaty was just £95 for four nights.

The flight left a little late, at maybe 1.15pm.

I did not care; I was on my way.

There is always so much to check and double-check on these trips, but I could now relax and relax I did; I probably slept for 75% of the flight.

We were due to land at Istanbul’s Sabiha Gokcen airport – the one on the Asian side, how fitting – at 8pm local time. I was awake for the approach and was able to set my eyes on the glorious lights of Istanbul and the Bosphorus to my left. I could not make out the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia but I knew that “they were down there somewhere” and that was enough for me. I just made out the lights on the bridge that I walked across in 2014. The plane was buffeted in the wind as it approached the airport, and the landing was rather bumpy.

There was only an hour and a half to wait for the onward flight. I met a few more Chelsea who had flown in on an earlier Pegasus flight. There was probably fifteen or twenty Chelsea on the second flight which left at around 10pm.

Again, I slept for much of the five-hour flight. There was more legroom, more space, on this flight and I soon drifted off. I had the extra pleasure of a window seat so was able to use my chunky pullover as a pillow.

However, at the mid-way point, I woke and decided to flip up the window-blind. Down below me, to my right, seemingly within touching distance, was an incredible sight. A huge white city – everything was white – appeared and everything was so clear, so pristine, so bright. Was it all constructed from marble? A vision in the darkness of the night. Stunning. How I wish I had the nous to turn my phone on and take a few photos. The moment lasted only a few moments.

Was it a dream?

I slept on.

I was awake again as we approached Almaty and I spotted roads and houses sprinkled with snow as we descended. We landed ten minutes late at 5.25am.

“Hello Kazakhstan.”

There’s a phrase that I never ever expected to utter in my life.

As we made our way out into the airport, I braced myself for that first blast of cold air.

There had been a little confusion in the weeks approaching this trip regarding my baggage allowance. The messages that I received from both airlines were not clear. Rather than be stung with excess costs, I decided to go for the “least risk” approach and take a small ruck-sac. As a result, I was wearing my chunkiest pullover in addition to my warmest jacket. I looked like the Michelin Man as I walked into the relative warmth of the airport.

I exchanged some sterling for the local tenge, and while I gathered my thoughts, I supped a large cappuccino. This spruced me up and, with the morning still ridiculously early, I was not sure what to do next. While I charged my phone, I chatted to Roy and we soon agreed to split the cost of a 9,000 tenge cab down to his hotel near the stadium where I could at least grab another coffee and try to work out a plan for the day.

We were on our way.

In the build up to this trip, I had been emailing a local guy – Vijay – who I have been in contact with since 2003. Vijay owns an office furniture company in Almaty and we had been planning a meet up during my stay. He had even suggested that I could crash at his house until my apartment became ready at 2pm.

We arrived at Roy’s hotel, with the old school stadium floodlights peaking behind in the morning mist. There was a stand-off with the cab driver – who now wanted 33,000 tenge – but Roy stood firm. It was around 7am.

Cathy arrived in the hotel foyer. She was staying there too. Reports of her first hotel breakfast were not too appetising. We chatted about our plans for the up-coming FIFA World Club Cup in the US, and I have no doubt that I will bump into Cathy in Philadelphia in the summer.

I messaged Vijay to say that I had managed to grab tons of sleep on both flights and so would look around the stadium and then take a leisurely stroll towards the city centre.

At around 8.30am, I called in to a nearby McDonalds. They have been renamed and rebranded as “I’m” (as far as I could work out) after the US/Russia sanctions following the invasion in Ukraine. There was no breakfast menu, and I struggled with a burger at such an hour, but the coffee warmed me. I felt that I was a stereotypical tourist – I hate this feeling – but I definitely needed to optimise locations with Wi-Fi on this trip. An attempt to fire up “Uber” and “Yandex” did not work.

Incongruous Western Christmas songs aired on the in-house radio, how surreal. I quietly observed the facial features of the locals; a real mix, what an exciting trip this will be.

My phone charged further, I set out into the morning air. The sky was still grey.

Within ten minutes, I reached the Central Stadium, where Astana play their games while their indoor stadium is being renovated. Everyone was happy that we were not required in Astana where the temperature can drop as far as -25 at times. Here, in Almaty, the range during winter is -5 to -15.

I took a few photos of the façade of the stadium and then waltzed in. The pitch was covered with a thick tarpaulin, and a few workers were shovelling snow. I was befriended by a couple of them, and one offered me a little white sweet.

I nervously popped it into my mouth.

Fackinell.

It tasted of salt.

I would later learn that it was made from goat’s milk. While their back was turned, I spat it out onto the running track.

The stadium was a typically bleak former Eastern-bloc structure, and my eyes kept wandering over to the section to the right of the classic columns behind one goal – the Northern end – where we would all be gathered in two days’ time.

Not surprisingly, my camera – my “pub” camera for this trip, I could not risk my SLR getting turned away on Thursday – went into overdrive. I hope that you like the photos. I think I was the first away fan to visit the stadium, but a few more visited it over the next two days before the game itself.

I then began my momentous walk back to the city centre. I aimed for Ascension Cathedral as my apartment was nearby.

Soon into my walk, a few locals waved at me and seemed to strongly suggest that I put a hat on. But I wasn’t too cold, not yet anyway. I soon stumbled upon another stadium – Dinamo, in blue – and it appeared that this hosted both ice hockey and football. There was the slow hum of traffic on the city’s grid pattern streets, and I took it all in.

Almaty. What do you have for me?

More opulent than I had ever imagined, many fine buildings, happy locals – Moscow, are you reading this? – and I was mesmerized by the mix of facial types…some Slavic, some Turk, some from further East, Mongolian, Chinese, Nepalese? Even some with European features.

We are all one big mixing pot, right?

Some students outside a university building were enjoying a cigarette break, and it is some while since I have seen so much cigarette smoke in one place. Nobody was vaping.

I put the jacket hood up, but felt constrained, and didn’t fancy that feeling. I actually enjoyed the feeling of the cold air on my cheeks. It was all part of the experience. Even my scarf was loosely tied around my neck. My bobble hat was in my pocket and I hadn’t even brought a pair of gloves for this trip, the simple reason being that I didn’t own one.

I was feeling fearless, kinda.

At a second McCoffee stop – for the Wi-Fi honest…OK, and the toilets – I warmed up a little, but when I went back outside again, I wished that I had not come inside since it seemed twice as cold.

I walked on. The traffic was constant. I lost count of the times that I waited at lights to cross the busy roads.

Eventually, after a leisurely – and pleasurable – three-mile walk of two hours, I arrived at the glorious Ascension Cathedral. Out came my camera. It did not appear to be made of wood, but it is the tallest wooden Orthodox church on the entire planet. Inside – uh, oh…too warm – the richness of the religious decoration blew me away. A few locals lit candles. I said a prayer for all of us.

I had an hour to kill, so located the nearest bar – “Hoper’s” – which had just opened at 1pm. I am no fan of craft beer and wanted a simple lager. The barman Konstantin, a Russian from Almaty, suggested one from Blandford Forum in Dorset, which is – madly – the brewery where my grandfather worked before he moved to Frome.

Hall and Woodhouse, the home of Badger Beer – who would have thought that it would have got a mention on a trip to Kazakhstan? Once he heard my grandfather’s story, he grabbed my hand and shook it. There is a Hall and Woodhouse pub opposite where I work.

Anyway, alas – to Konstantin’s horror – he told me that the “Badger” lager was not available, so I made do with a disgusting Lebowsky lager from Russia. At least it only cost me £2.50.

I always say that the first few hours in a new foreign city simply cannot be beaten. I had revelled in my first taste of Almaty; a marvellous walk through alien streets, with alien faces at each and every turn, with the cold wind kissing my cheeks.

Konstantin played a Cocteau Twins song for me on the TV.

“Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops.”

I was in heaven.

At 2.30pm, I arrived at my lodgings – the smallest apartment ever, a room with a loo – just as the owner’s husband arrived to see if I was “in.”

I had arranged to meet Vijay at 7pm, so for a few hours I slept.

Every hour counts on these trips.

Vijay arrived in a cab at 7pm, but I was still struggling to get out of my one room apartment. I had to negotiate three locks, all with keypads, and I found it all rather discombobulating. I don’t know what the local word for “Fackinell” is but it is the only swear word, or version thereof, that I did not utter in a frantic ten minutes of number-punching and both clockwise and anti-clockwise twisting and turning.

Eventually, the prisoner was free.

I hugged Vijay and we disappeared a mile or so south. We ended up at “Bottle” on Furmanov Avenue where we spent a brilliantly entertaining couple of hours. Vijay told me all about his company – he formed it in 2000 – and we spoke about football and, er, furniture. He is a Manchester United supporter, ever since he read copies of “Shoot!” magazine, like we all did, in the early ‘seventies in his home city of Singapore. Unlike most Manchester United supporters that I meet, he has been to Old Trafford; not once but thrice.

We shared two bottles of red wine which complemented our horse steaks, which were accompanied by chips, spinach and asparagus.

It was simply beautiful.

He suggested that the beautiful white city that I saw from 35,000 feet was Ashgabat, the capital city of Turkemistan, and confirmed that is constructed completely of marble. I have checked the flight path from Istanbul to Almaty, though, and it doesn’t exactly correlate. It must have been Ashgabat, though. Surely there are no two cities like this.

Vijay fancied one more stop, so we visited “William Lawson’s” which was shut, but then ended up at “Mad Murphy’s” where I supped a pint of Staropramen. Vijay had to head home, but he dropped me at one last bar – “Guinness Pub” – where I spotted Punky Al and two of his mates, faces familiar, names unknown. I also spotted my friend James (who I first met in Baku, 2017) with Tom, a Manchester United fan from Frankfurt, and a Chelsea fan from Dublin, whose name escapes me.

“Barman!”

Two more pints of Krombacher lager were consumed amid frenzied talk of our football fascination. James and Tom had been in town since Friday and on Monday they took a minicab with others in a tour group to go horse riding in the mountains.

You don’t do that on an away trip to Leicester.

They kicked us out at about 2am. I walked home, down the hill, and got back into the apartment unscathed at 2.30am, but my head was spinning with what the night had given me.

I didn’t fall asleep until 4am.

I woke at around midday on that Wednesday but was tired. I honestly think that I had expelled so much nervous energy during the build up to this trip that my body was telling me to rest up.

Work, blogs to squeeze in, photos to edit and upload, booking confirmations to check and double-check, a new phone to set up, a new laptop to plumb in, boarding passes, an Azerbaijani visa, emails, coach tickets, hotel bookings, packing lists, cameras, adaptors, Tottenham away, Heathrow, Stansted, Istanbul, Almaty, Baku, ticket vouchers, passports, travel, travel, travel.

I decided to postpone some more sightseeing on Thursday and Friday and went back to sleep.

I was out at 5.45pm, freshly showered and ready, and soon popped into a shop to buy a pair of gloves for £10.

From there, I enjoyed a lovely meal of meat and bean soup, then lamb ribs with potatoes and onions. With a “Diet Coke” – it shocked me that I didn’t ask for a beer – it came to another £10.

Up the road on Dostyk Avenue – not far from the final watering hole earlier that same day – I met up with around thirty Chelsea.

It was a blast.

Callum, an Eight Bells regular, Martin, Neil, Garry, Russ, Rich, Pauline and Mick from Spain, Scott, Gerry and Paul, Ben and James, Skippy from Australia, Only A Pound, and a lovely visit from the South Gloucestershire lot, Brian and Kev, Julie and Tim, Pete, and Dave from Cheshire.

And a few more too.

The Shakespeare was Chelsea Central in Almaty. Vijay had informed me that it was owned by the same guy as the Shakespeare in Baku, our main pub in 2019. Here, it was a fiver a pint.

That Wednesday in that Almaty pub was a proper hoot. On the way home, I called in to see the South Gloucestershire lot at “Hoper’s” for one last drink before I made tracks; their hotel was nearby, it was their “local”…Dorset, Somerset, South Gloucestershire…it must be a Wessex thing.

I made it back to the apartment at just after 1am.

I slept well.

Match day arrived and I was out at 10.45am. I dropped into a café for some pastries and a coffee – and Wi-Fi – and then continued my walk up the hill – phew! – to the Kok Tobe cable car, which everyone seemed to be visiting. The view at the top was excellent although there was a dirty brown fog hovering over Almaty. As in parts of Baku, I was able to smell the oil and gas in the air. The mountains to the south were spectacular, the skies were blue, and the temperature was bearable. My gloves and hat were in my pockets, my scarf was back in the hotel. I didn’t fancy being too hot, as I would be in a few bars very shortly.

I got the call from Jonesy, who had arrived via Antalya at 7am, and I began to walk north to the ticket collection place, but first made my way to see the Memorial Of Glory, close to the cathedral, en route. It is stunning and impressive.

From there, a twenty-minute walk to the collection point.

I lost count of the times I had checked my pockets for “wallet, camera, passport” during the day.

I gave Jonesy a hug and soon collected my match ticket. The club gave us a special commemorative key-ring, to say thanks” for making the effort to travel the 3,500 miles to Almaty.

A nice touch indeed.

Jonesy and I go back decades. I know that he went to Jablonec in 1994, but I met him a few months later. I remember that I always saw his name featured in “The Chelsea Independent” and his letters always resonated with me as being honest and succinct. Memorably we went with Paul from Brighton to Barcelona in 2000 when we almost made it to our first Champions League Final.

At the time, that day seemed like our biggest day ever.

I laughed when he told me that he bought a kebab at 7am from a kiosk as soon as he got in as it was the only place open.

We walked to The Shakespeare, arriving at around 3.30pm.

Cathy and Tombsy were sat outside having a fag, a perfect “welcoming committee.”

Inside, even more Chelsea. A hug with Luke, another Eight Bells regular, and a photo with Steve who I had not seen for a while. A hello to the previously un-named Gary. A chat with Spencer from Swindon about the US. Pete and I reminisced about him buying me a beer when we were 4-1 up in Baku and he then bought me one in Almaty, cheers mate.

Some had travelled via Frankfurt and Astana, some via Bishkek, some via Dubai, many via Istanbul.

There were a few local Kazakh Chelsea, but not too many.

We sat at a table to chat with Joe – a friend of Neil – and two of his mates. A gaggle of Chelsea joined us; a lad called Des now living in Qatar, plus some lads I semi-recognised.

Jonesy and I were blissfully content.

“This is the life, Jonesy.”

“We’ve been lucky, Chris.”

“We have, mate.”

The call went out to get a cab to a bar closer to the stadium. We just knew, from many personal experiences, how easy it would be to leave it too late and to get enmeshed in horrific traffic.

We hopped into a cab – five of us – and headed for the “Paulaner Brauhaus” which was, on paper, a fifteen-minute journey. Soon into the trip, Jonesy – quite unannounced – disappeared outside for a gypsy’s kiss – “I’ll catch up with you” – but we never saw him again that night. The cab kept moving, Jonesy kept slashing, what a horror show.

After a whole bloody hour, during which time the cabbie even stopped for fuel, we made it to this other pub. The traffic was virtually grid-locked but we had made it.

Toilets!

The bar was half-empty. The beer was served by local girls in full Bavarian garb.

I ordered some beers. We were on good ground; I told the lads that we had frequented the Paulaner beer hall on 19 May 2012.

Who should be in the bar but Des & Co., who offered us some of their two meat platters.

Beautiful stuff.

God knows what it consisted of, though.

With the kick-off at 8.30pm, we were still in the bar at 7.50pm. We put a spurt on and did the mile and a half or so in around fifteen minutes. We didn’t feel the cold.

By 8.10pm, I was through security, I had taken my first photo of a local fan, and I was searching for Alan, Gary, Pete and Nick.

Relax everyone, I work in logistics.

I found the lads easily. I stood between Gary to my left and Alan to my right.

So, here I was, here we were.

Chelsea versus Astana at the Central Stadium in Almaty, Kazakhstan. The furthest that any English team had travelled for an official UEFA game? Yes. Only in Tokyo in 2012 had I travelled further for an official Chelsea game. I looked around. It wasn’t a full house. We had heard that Chelsea had sold 475 tickets. My guess is that around 200 were from the UK. There was no segregation though. There were bona fide Astana fans mixed in with us in the Chelsea bit.

It felt like I recognised a bigger proportion of the Chelsea fans from the UK than the Chelsea players dressed in all black on the pitch.

Our team? It included two full debuts. Welcome Josh and Sam. It was a first sighting of Carney since his injury at West Ham in August 2023.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga

Dewsbury-Hall – Rak-Sakyi

Pedro Neto – Chukwuemeka – George

Guiu

My Boca Juniors hat was on. My newly-acquired gloves were not yet being called into action. My Aquascutum scarf was in my room. At last, though, some of the expensive and cold-weather resistant designer clobber that many of us have horded over the last few decades of the casual movement were at last being properly tested.

My chunky green CP Company pullover was covered by my super warm off-white Moncler jacket. I was nice and toasty. There were still cold kisses on my cheeks, but all was good. The terraces were still dusted in snow, and I would later learn that the stadium manager would be sacked because of this. But my toes were not too cold…yet.

The game began.

We attacked the other end.

The stand to my left reminded me a great deal of the “distinti” at the old Communale in Turin. In fact, this stadium reminded me of the former Juventus ground so much.

Chelsea began the far livelier and attacked at will. With the action down the other end, I found it difficult to watch the intricacies of the game. Sadly, I knew my photo quality would not be too great.

On fourteen minutes, a goal.

Pedro Neto played a ball forward on the right to Marc Guiu on the right. He kept his footing as he danced forward on an icy pitch before entering the penalty area, drawing the ‘keeper and slotting the ball nicely home from just inside the six-yard box.

Alan and I did our usual “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine amid frozen laughter.

Soon after, Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall passed to Neto who accelerated away from his marker before crossing low for Guiu to bundle in at the near post. This goal was later given as a Aleksandr Marochkin own goal.

At this stage, I dreamed of Jeunesse Hautcharage heights.

A few more Chelsea shots threatened the Astana goal.

On thirty-two minutes, I heard the first “Astana” chant.

Four minutes later, Charles Chinedu tested Jorgensen from outside the box.

A song from the Chelsea North Stand in Almaty :

“It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.

It’s fackin’ cold.

It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.”

I was coping OK. My gloves were still in my pockets.

Efforts from Acheampong and Chukwuemeka warmed us up (actually, no they didn’t, don’t be twat, Chris) and then from a corner on our right from Kiernan Stately Home, I caught the leap from Renato Veiga to put us 3-0 up.

“Free header.”

Just before half-time, Astana had a rare spell in our half, not so far from us. Their captain Marin Tomasov shimmied inside our box, and I caught his approach on film. His whipped shot hit the far post but rebounded in. The roar of the crowd was loud and hearty.

At half-time, I wandered off and took a few shots of some nearby fans. Nick and Gary had their own mission at the break. Word had got out that there were free cups of tea at half-time for Chelsea fans, but they glumly returned to our spot on the terrace to say that it had all gone by the time they had reached the front of the queue.

The second half was a dull affair as temperatures plummeted to -11.

Ouch.

I got the impression that a lot of the home fans at the other end left during the break, Maybe they had heard about the free tea at the our end.

Ato Ampah replaced the lively Neto.

Soon into the half, a dipping effort from Tomasov was well saved by Jorgensen.

The pace slowed as the pitch frosted further. Everyone did well to stay on their feet. There were no Cucarella fuck-ups in this game, thankfully.

On sixty-eight minutes, a few sections of the home crowd tried to start a wave.

“Fuck off.”

Tyrique George on the left had a lot of the ball, and Stately Home now bossed the midfield.

On sixty-seven minutes, Harvey Vale – I remembered his debut at Brentford – replaced Carney.

My feet were getting colder, and my hands were now stuffed inside my pockets. Still no gloves though.

On seventy-eight minutes, I noted Astana’s best move of the match, down their right but Jorgensen saved well.

Shim Mheuka Replaced Guiu.

On eighty-six minutes, Kiano Dyer replaced Rak-Sakyi.

In truth, I did not have a clue who some of these players were. Not to worry, they didn’t know me either.

It had been a professional show from these lads, and thankfully there were no significant injuries on the pitch. Off it, I am not so sure; the night was still young.

We applauded the team, some of whom were still a mystery to me. It’s a shame that they could not get closer, stranded on the pitch, like relatives waving at an airport terminal.

I gathered my things and gingerly edged towards the exit.

“See you Sunday, Al.”

Out into the night, with no taxi aps to my name, I was resigned to a long walk back to the centre, and The Shakespeare would probably be as good a place as any to aim for. However, about twenty minutes into my walk, two local Chelsea lads caught up with me – it wouldn’t have been hard, believe me – and told me that there was a meet up at “Bremen Bar”, a place that Cathy had mentioned on Tuesday.

I was up for this. My flight home wasn’t until 2.35am on Saturday morning. We set off and arrived at around 11.30pm, an hour after I eventually left the stadium. The bar was packed full of Chelsea fans from all over. Mainly locals, but some from Belarus, but some from Russia, and Mongolia, plus around ten or so from the UK. I soon made friends. More beers. Some songs.

In fact, lots of songs.

The two lads with the “Belarus” flag were pretty decent with the “Chelsea Ranger” and I loved that the “Thiago Silva” song was probably the loudest of the night. I dared sing about Peter Osgood scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far, and my voice almost held out until the end. A group of English lads got going with the “Florent Malouda, Louda, Louda” chant and my voice definitely could not reach the high notes.

I felt like a broken man.

I mentioned to a few lads that I have taken Ron Harris up to Chelsea in my car and I had a nice idea to Facetime him, via his son Mark.

At about 12.15am, Ron Harris appeared on my ‘phone in Almaty and I think it is safe to say that a couple of the local lads almost feinted.

Fantastic.

Oh – a guy called Tim wanted a mention…a pleasure.

The place gradually thinned out.

At about 2.30am, a few of us took a cab to another bar, “Gastreat”, but this was a twenty-minute drive right past the football stadium again and out into the southern suburbs.

By this stage, I wondered if I would ever see my apartment again.

We stayed here for another two hours, and I met a few more lovely Chelsea folk. I had met Alex from Oxford and Bryn, from London I think, at the previous bar, but we chatted some more. There was a guy who surreptitiously handed me a Moscow Blues sticker. They must be quite rare these days, eh? This chap knows Only A Pound and Cathy too, and I loved that. I loved that someone in Moscow knows two of Chelsea’s finest in London.

I turned to him and said :

“We might be a big club but we are a small family.”

It genuinely feels like that. The match-going fraternity know each other and look after each other. It’s a great small family.

One of the local lads, who looked like Enzo Fernandez, called his wife to take a few of us home. She soon arrived. Back through the streets of Almaty we travelled once again.

I reached my apartment at 6am.

What a night.

Because of my very late finish, my last full day in Almaty took on a new plan. Vijay had very kindly invited me to his company’s end of year party at 7pm, very close to where we had enjoyed a meal on Tuesday. I did nothing during the day except sleep, not surprisingly, and I eventually stirred at around 4pm.

It was with a great deal of sadness that I packed up and locked up, then made my way out and up the hill for the final time. I was the first party-goer to reach the restaurant, and as the others arrived, one by one, not a word of English between them, I moved further and further away from my comfort zone. I looked out of the window at the night traffic crawling along and at the ever-changing colours of lights being projected onto a public building opposite. At last, Vijay arrived and I could relax a little.

This was another great night. Vijay sat me next to a guy that once worked for him but had moved on to work for a pharmaceutical company but was still friends. And he was a Chelsea fan. Like many at the game, this was his first sight of Chelsea. He watched from the stand to my left. I can’t imagine the thrill of seeing your favourite team, from three and a half thousand miles away, playing in your home city.

We chatted – thankfully a few could speak and understand English – and enjoyed some fine food. I loved my braised beef cheeks (and the chocolate fondant was to simply die for, darling). One by one we were asked to make a toast. I was truly happy to be able to spend some time in the company of Vijay, who is quite a character, and to try momentarily to understand the dynamics of that part of the world. I said a few things.

One of the guests, Russ, was very quiet and hardly said a word all night. When it was his turn to stand and make a toast, I feared what he might do. He had been drinking Monkey Shoulder whisky, alongside another co-worker, but what he said was pure poetry.

He stood. Everything was quiet. Still. Silent.

He pointed at the tumbler of whisky.

“The ice is cold, still. The whisky is hot, fire. Together, it works.”

I knew what he meant.

“We are all different, but in good company, we produce magical moments.”

At around 11pm, Vijay said the horrible words :

“Your car is here, mate.”

That was tough. It was a touching moment, surprisingly so. Everyone had made me so welcome.

I said to Vijay “I’m quite emotional” and he smiled.

“We are emotional people.”

Gulp.

I went around the room and said my goodbyes. Vijay walked me out to the waiting cab and we hugged one last time.

Thanks, Vijay.

Thanks, Almaty.

It felt like I was the only English person at Almaty International Airport in the small hours of Saturday 14 December. Thankfully, there were no problems with passports, boarding passes, bags and everything else. I made my way through to the departure gate but the 2.35am flight to Baku was delayed, maybe for around an hour.

As I waited, I felt drowsy. I could not wait to get up onto the plane and get some shut-eye. We eventually boarded at 3.20am and the plane took off around 4am. The plane caught up a little. It was meant to land at 5.25am but did so at 6.40am.

For the third time in my life, I took a cab from Heydar Aliyev airport to the north-east of Baku, along Heydar Aliyev Avenue, past the Socar-Tower – it is full of office furniture that I helped supply in 2014 – and into the city.

It virtually never snows in Baku but it was snowing now.

Fackinell.

This somewhat curtailed my sightseeing opportunities a little. I based myself at the Hilton Hotel, where I had previously visited but not stayed, on both previous trips, and took advantage of their Wi-Fi.

I ventured out to the promenade and spotted the Flame Towers in the distance. It was like a dream to be honest. There was even time to visit a friend that I made in 2019 and to spend a few lovely moments with their three-year-old son, plus a brief stop-off at the wondrous Heydar Aliyev art gallery and conference centre, one of my favourite buildings.

I was back at the airport at around 4pm and was now ready for the last stage of my momentous trip. Back in England, it was midday, and Frome Town were preparing for a home game against Swindon Supermarine. My flight back to Blighty was set to leave at 6.25pm, and it left on time. I hoped that there would be some great news on my ‘phone about the Frome result as I landed later in the day at Heathrow.

Again, I slept well on the six-hour flight home. Just after touching down at Heathrow, I received the wonderful news :

Frome 3 Swindon Supermarine 0.

Our second league win on the bounce.

Lovely.

It was around 8.30pm and I needed to get myself to my car. The buses were sporadic, a cab would cost me a whopping £40.

“But it’s only a mile and a half away, mate.”

Not to worry, I unbuttoned my jacket, let the air in, and walked back to the car. It took me the best part of an hour, and I did feel a little like Alan Partridge striding down the dual carriageway to the Linton Travel Tavern, but after the week of travel that I had encountered, it was nothing.

I reached home just before midnight, the end of most certainly the longest day of my life.

Where next Chelsea?

CENTRAL STADIUM

ALMATY

PRE-GAME

ASTANA VS. CHELSEA

POST-GAME

BAKU