Tales From A Small Family

Posted on December 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

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

Tales From A Different Corner

Posted on December 7, 2024 by Chris Axon

Southampton vs. Chelsea : 4 December 2024.

Our last visit to nearby Southampton, and their dull identikit St. Mary’s Stadium, was on a balmy evening in August 2022, when it certainly seemed that Thomas Tuchel’s Chelsea adventure was unravelling fast.

It seems longer ago than just over two years to me.

Saints were relegated that season but bounced-back in their first campaign in the Championship. However, it was with a certain amount of annoyance that our away game was announced for a Wednesday evening; it just makes everything rather rushed and squeezed.

I worked 7am to 3pm and collected PD and Parky. My “sat nav” suggested that the drive down to Southampton would take an hour and a half, but I always suspected that it would be slightly longer as we would drive into some rush-hour traffic around Salisbury and then on the approach into the city.

I was able to pass on some good news to the two lads about Frome Town. On the previous night, in West London, the team had beaten Hanwell 2-0, only our second league win of the season. There was also some lovely news off the pitch too. During the day, Frome Town announced that my friend Courtney from Chicago – featured in the Anfield blog in October – was to join the board and to lead the way with future initiatives.

I was so happy.

I was parked up at the central station car park at 5.15pm. We headed past the dire “away” pub on the main strip – plastic glasses, noise, crowds, I am too old for all that shite now – and aimed for the “Biergarten” German-style bar that has housed us for a few years on our visits to Southampton. We got in at around 5.30pm. We spotted Jimmy the Greek – or rather he spotted us – and PD got some Krombacher in for him and Parky and something a lot-less Germanic and a lot less alcoholic for me. Jimmy had just eaten, and I was starving. I asked if the food took long to arrive. With an early 7.30pm kick-off, and the stadium a good twenty-five-minute walk away, I didn’t want to be waiting around for some food.

I ordered a bratwurst, some potato dumplings and some sauerkraut at 5.40pm. At 6.30pm I was still waiting for my food.

The first fackinell of the report.

The away end at St. Mary’s has switched one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, with us in the south-west corner now. This meant that the walk was slightly less than before but would still entail a hike for PD and Parky who both walk with sticks. So, with an hour to go before the kick-off, the others left to get a head start on the walk to the match.

My food arrived at 6.40pm. I shovelled it all down my neck in ten minutes and was soon on my way to St. Mary’s, the rain now steadily falling.

I have walked to the stadium from the south a few times, but it really is a messy and dull approach, full of shabby industrial units, and gloom.

At about 7.10pm, I arrived, the rain falling harder, and I could hear a loud “carefree” booming away in the distance.

A quick security check – they didn’t spot my SLR, it was well hidden – and I was in.

Bearing in mind that this area had housed the home fans since 2001, I was surprised how spartan the concourse was, all exposed brickwork, no decoration, all very dull.

I was inside, near the corner flag, at 7.15pm.

Perfect timing.

Yes, it was odd to be visiting a stadium but with a different view, from a different corner. The whole point of the change was for the club to be able to utilise the larger space behind the Northam Stand to allow for a – Godforsaken – “fan zone”, but it was allied to being able to set up an entire end of safe standing for the red and white hordes.

As the minutes ticked by, I was shocked how few people were inside that new home end.

What in God’s name were they doing behind there, in the fan zone?

Were they all grooving away at a “Howards’ Way Foam Party” or something?

Before we knew it, it was time for another annoying part of modern football; the pre-match light show. I guess it was OK the first time we saw it at Chelsea, and elsewhere, but it is all a bit naf, now.

To make things worse, out came a few mobile phone torches, how very Barry Manilow circa 1985.

The teams appeared.

Enzo Maresca had changed things around, and there were a few surprise faces in our line-up.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Disasi – Cucarella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix

Nkunku

Or something like that.

We have become used to seeing Enzo Fernandez in a further-forward role of late, and I initially wanted to moan about Moises Caicedo being the lone defensive midfielder.

The home team contained many plain English names; Lumley, Walker-Peters, Stephens, Wood, Manning, Armstrong, Archer, Fraser.

They sounded like a “Dads Army” roll-call.

As the game kicked-off, the rain falling even more heavily, I trusted that Maresca had it all planned to perfection.

We were in all blue. This was forced on us because of the Saints’ white socks. There was something very odd about their black shorts. There was no trim at all, nothing. No coloured seam, no panels, no flash of red or white. Just a white number and a small badge. I approved. It made our shorts – still a dog’s dinner in my eyes – look even more ridiculous.

The Chelsea choir were in good voice, no doubt, as the game got going, but not so the home lot, who were really quiet. Given their current predicament, it is no surprise.

Despite their position at the bottom of the pile, the home team began brightly and Joe Aribo, the gum magnate, forced a decent save from Filip Jorgensen soon into the game.

On seven minutes, a Chelsea corner. It was difficult for me to see through the heads of the spectators but I spied a ball from Enzo that – SHOCK! HORROR! – cleared the first man. There was a leap from a Chelsea player and the ball was headed cleanly in.

YES!

There was confusion as to who scored. A few presumed that it was Tosin. Only when we spotted the team line-up on the TV screen a few minutes later did we realise that it was from the head of Axel Disasi.

Southampton 0 Chelsea 1.

Alas, just four minutes later, Southampton broke down their left and after a tight spin past Enzo, Kyle Walker-Peters prodded the ball back and Aribo arrived to volley the ball in.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 1.

Our defence must have been sucking on some of his Tangfastic gums and were distracted.

The home fans celebrated but “Gold” by Spandau Ballet was played over them, another aspect of the modern game that tires me out. Let fans enjoy themselves, in their own spontaneous way, for fuck’s sake.

The home team were surprising us. A lot of the play was in their final third down in front of us.

On seventeen minutes, the Saints; ‘keeper Joe Lumley attempted one of those kamikaze-style passes as beloved by connoisseurs of the modern game, but Noni Madueke was alert and intercepted the ball before advancing and slipping the ball out to Christopher Nkunku. He slotted the ball into a very empty net.

Fackinell.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 2.

“It’ll be 6-5 at this rate, Al.”

As the first half continued, we improved and became looser, more confident. I loved the way that Joao Felix found space, and he was often involved.

We had a spell with some good chances from Madueke and Joao Felix. Then a run from Palmer, after a great pass from Joao Felix, but his shot hit the base of the near post after a save from Lumley. Just after, a header from Tosin from a corner by Palmer grazed the bar.

This was an open game, but with a few errors all over the pitch. It had the feel of an old-fashioned match, despite periods of play when we slowed things right down. Palmer sometimes walked at a snail’s pace with the ball.

On thirty-five minutes, Joao Felix pushed the ball out to Madueke who advanced in the inside-right channel. This is where Noni often makes an incorrect decision, but after a shimmy or two to wrong-foot the defenders and get an angle, he guided the ball in at the far post, a shot that I just about captured on film, through the wind and the rain, across one hundred yards or more.

The Chelsea end roared.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 3.

The game seemed safe now.

The rain continued, as did the songs, many for players who have not featured for years.

Them : “That’s why we love Solomon Kalo.”

Me : “It’s fucking Salomon!”

Then, at a corner, some nonsense between the Saints captain Jack Stephens and Marc Cucarella. I saw the pull of the hair. There was a delay. Then VAR. Then the red card.

Oh boy.

In the closing moments of the half, a diving header from Joao Felix, but wide.

At the break, it was time for some “half-time hellos” for some folk that I had not had the time to see before the game began. It always amazes me, if I am honest, how so many of the same group of people appear everywhere, come rain and shine, and from distance too.

Scott from Lancashire.

Darren from Cheshire.

Mick from Yorkshire.

Rich from Leicestershire.

Heroes all.

What a pleasure to be so close to Madueke and Palmer appearing in front of us in the away section as the second half began. I thought to myself :

“If this goes well, we are in for a treat.”

I did not have long to wait. After thirty seconds of the new half, Madueke passed to Palmer, who reached the goal-line, nonchalantly lost his marker with a seemingly effortless turn and sent over a perfect ball towards the unmarked Joao Felix at the far post. His header was guided towards goal, past Lumley, but it dropped past the far post.

Ugh.

Our chances continued. Tosin hit the post. Then, Joao Felix set up Palmer whose low shot was saved by Lumley. The ball came out to Madueke…everyone thought “goal”…but a last-ditch tackle robbed Madueke of the ball.

Unbelievably, the home team did not always seem that they were a man down and, without wishing to sound condescending, they played some surprisingly decent stuff. A save from Joegensen kept out Mateus Fernandes.

There was a feeling that over-elaboration in front of the Saints goal, especially from Madueke, was our downfall. He was very involved though, and always seemed to occupy the thoughts and minds of at least two Southampton defenders, allowing others to find space around him.

He forced two saves from Lumley.

On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced him.

Five minutes later, a raiding Enzo pushed the ball into the path of Nkunku. His shot was part-stopped by Lumley but as the ball continued to roll forwards, Palmer whacked the ball in.

GET IN.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 4.

At last a second-half goal.

I caught his celebratory run towards us, his smile wide, his trademark hug.

It was at this point that the trickle of home fans leaving became a mass exodus, to which the Chelsea choristers had an easy riposte.

“Oh when the saints go marching out.”

On seventy-nine minutes, more changes.

Renato Veiga for Cucarella.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.

On eighty-seven minutes, Malo Gusto raced at a retreating back line and set up Sancho to his right. Our loanee took one touch and smashed the ball high past the hapless Lumley. It was his first goal for his childhood team.

Southampton 1 Chelsea 5.

There were a flurry of songs.

“Oh, Enzo Maresca. Oh, Enzo Maresca.”

There was one based on “Amarillo” – a bit shite to be honest…”and he comes from Italy.”

…mm, must do better.

Then, the loudest of the night – “We’ve got our Chelsea back.”

A plume of sulphurous blue smoke billowed into the sky as the players came over to share the love of our support. A fine moment.

On the ridiculously long and wet walk back to the car…yes, new territory, or at least a new exit route, we got a little lost…we realised we hardly saw any home fans. They had departed earlier. In the wind and the rain, we bumped into a few Chelsea stragglers; Salisbury Steve, Mick from Huddersfield, Leigh from Basingstoke, Lucio, a few more.

I summed it up : “could have been ten.”

This one was a good one.

Loved it.

Next up, Tottenham away.

What else you gonna do on a Sunday afternoon?

“WE’VE GOT OUR CHELSEA BACK.”

Tales From Foxes, Tigers And A Stray Dog

Posted on November 28, 2024 by Chris Axon

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2024.

With the latest International Break behind us, real football was back on the agenda.

Leicester City would host Chelsea at the King Power Stadium, with an early kick-off at 12.30pm.

I collected the three amigos – PD, Glenn, Parky – by 7.30am as Storm Bert, don’t laugh, hovered in the background and threatened to upset the weekend. The drive north up the Fosse Way was, for once, a mundane affair, with dull grey skies overhead, pounding rain at times, and the glorious Cotswolds were only able to be glimpsed occasionally. Usually, it’s a grand trip up to Leicester, one of the joys of the football season, but this one was only memorable for the laughs that the four of us generated en route. We had stopped to pick up some rations at Melksham just after collecting Parky, and we had these “on the hoof” to save time. My focus was reaching the away pub, “The Counting House”, as soon as possible. I was hoping to be parked outside it just after 10pm.

Soon into the trip, I learned that Frome Town’s home game against Wimborne was off due to the weather. My focus, this weekend, was to just be on us.

I hit a little traffic nearing the final destination but, unlike the last time that I parked right outside the pub in 2022/23, my Sat Nav sent me right past the King Power Stadium. It felt a little odd to be driving so close to it, past the away entrance too.

I was parked up at 10.15am.

As we approached the boozer – it had opened at 9am and a fair few Chelsea were already inside – we spotted some familiar faces waving to us. Their smiles were wide.

Tom from New Jersey was in town. We last saw him at the very last game before Covid struck; Everton at Stamford Bridge in March 2020, a pre-match in the Eight Bells. He was next to Jimmy and Ian, recently mentioned in recent episodes, and they appeared to be sat at the same table. I wondered if they had been chatting and had realised that they had mutual friends that were soon to arrive. As it happened, it was just by chance that they were sitting close to each other. Pints were acquired and we perched together around a high-top table. It was soon difficult to hear conversations as the pub grew loud with the chants and songs of the – mainly young – pre-match Chelsea crowd.

Thoughts were positive in our little group. I think we all fancied a Chelsea win. I had to remind myself that Enzo Maresca was recently in charge at Leicester. Out of sight – in the Championship – means out of mind, I guess.

There was a little question that Ian – and his son Bobby – and Jimmy asked us, and it involved our two greatest, we thought, right backs; Branislav Ivanovic and Cesar Azpilicueta.

“Who was the best?”

Ian and I went with Ivanovic, the others with Dave.

There had been discussions about this on the way up in their car.

It was lovely to reflect on some of the great players that have worn our colours. I guess Steve Clarke, Dan Petrescu and Ron Harris would be in the next bracket.

Ah, talking of history, let’s quickly catch-up.

…to continue the 1984/85 season.

Wednesday 21 November 1984.

There would still be no mid-week game for me at Stamford Bridge. On this Wednesday evening, while I was in my college town of Stoke-on-Trent, Chelsea were playing against one of the previous season’s adversaries Manchester City in a League Cup tie down in SW6. We soundly won this game 4-1 in front of a very pleasing gate of 26,364 – let me emphasise how good this was, I was thrilled by it – with a hat-trick from Kerry Dixon and yet another goal from Keith Jones. This match, however, gained immediate notoriety as it featured one of the game’s all-time shocking penalty misses. During the previous twelve months, Chelsea’s lack of prowess from the penalty spot was well known, but it reached a nadir with Pat Nevin’s terrible “pass back in the mud” to City’s young ‘keeper Alex Williams. If you haven’t seen it, track it down, you will be shocked.

I was keen to get inside the stadium and get the inevitably tense “camera / bag / security check” out of the way. Thankfully, I calmly assured the steward who spotted my SLR that “don’t worry, I won’t take any photos” and I was allowed inside.

The concourse at Leicester would soon fill up, and I quickly chose to join Alan, John and Gary inside, down by the corner flag. PD would watch the game a couple of rows behind me, but Glenn and PD were elsewhere in the throng, I knew not where exactly.

Lecester City have grandiose plans to slap an extra tier on the stand that runs along the touchline to our left, but I wonder if they have the fan base to support it. The capacity would, if constructed, reach 40,000.

Our team?

A few surprises.

Sanchez

Fofana – Badiashile – Colwill – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix

Jackson

Gary and I ran through the ever-rowing number of players that have, recently, played for Leicester and then us.

Ngolo Kante

Danny Drinkwater

Ben Chilwell

Wesley Fofana

Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall

Of course, I remember Dennis Rofe.

The far side of the stadium was decorated with mosaics celebrating the one-hundred and forty years of the home club.

“Fosse to City. 140 Years of History”.

I soon spotted my Foxes mate Sally who sits in the far corner at all home games.

We always seem to have a good sing-song at Leicester these days, and as the game began, this was no exception. It was a very decent start in fact. Chelsea, in all white, and attacking that far end, absolutely hogged the ball as the first few moments and then minutes passed. The home team did not cause a threat offensively.

At all.

I was happy with our start, as were the noisemakers around me. The contrast between the away quadrant and the home fans close by was stark.

“The Leicester lot are quiet for a change, Gal.”

The former Tottenham player Harry Winks – nicely booed by us at the start, good work – was substituted early on after a knock.

I had already decided that the Leicester City defender Wout Faes was a lesser Fabricio Coloccini, and a much-lesser David Luiz.

We absolutely dominated.

After a couple of attacks, I found myself jotting a few notes on my phone. I looked up at just the right time, and saw a long clearance being chased by Nicolas Jackson but with Faes in proximity. However, the defender seemed to be chasing shadows, or maybe even the wrong ball and the wrong striker. As play developed, Jackson’s perseverance was rewarded.

He was un-Faesed.

After a fortuitous bobble, and with a deft flick of the boot, Jackson fought of a late challenge from Caleb Oko and skilfully lifted the ball past the home ‘keeper Mads Hermansen and into the goal.

Get in.

The away end roared, and I stabbed a quick fist-pump into the air.

“Great goal, Gal.”

I thought Leicester were awful, and their passing especially so. They defended deep, but simply could not muster together any coherent passes if they ever regained the ball. The home crowd were still so quiet.

A wild tackle on Cole Palmer warranted only a yellow card.

Palmer, involved at times but often quiet thus far, often has the appearance of a stray dog. It is a fine quality of his to wander into spaces, away from the pack, unconfined, unperturbed, free from others, and then suddenly become involved at the merest hint of a chance to exploit space.

I invented my own little nickname for him at Leicester.

“Go on the stray dog.”

He is, after all, a long way from Manchester now.

A succession of awful tackles riled the away support further and the atmosphere was stirred. The noise increased.

Madueke sent a curler goalwards, and then had a goal chalked off for offside, which was soon confirmed via VAR.

I spotted that Enzo, so often the subject of dismay at best and derision at worst, was enjoying a very fine game, breaking up play, pressing well, passing well.

“Leicester really are shite, Gal.”

Joao Felix lit up the play with a couple of lovely touches but struggled at times to integrate.

Another stray dog, but without the bite, perhaps.

A couple of passes from Palmer allowed in others, but our shooting was off. Just as it looked like the home team would go the entire half without a single effort of note, with Jamie Vardy looking so quiet, a couple of late chances stirred the home team. Kasey McAteer, whoever he is, mis-fired heroically and how we laughed.

Chelsea missed a fine chance after a delayed corner, a strong leap, but a header that flew wide.

Then, a fine break, Jackson to Madueke, but a fine block from the ‘keeper.

Ugh.

At half-time, I spotted of all the variously coloured flags that are oddly draped on support struts at the back of the stands at Leicester. They appear all the way around the circumference of the stadium, par the away end, just under the roof. They reminded me of the multi-coloured pennants that coach drivers in the ‘seventies used to buy and use to adorn the inside of their vehicles.

Llandudno. Penzance. Weymouth. Blackpool. Tenby. Great Yarmouth. Whitby.

It’s a very odd feature. Unique. Not so sure I understand it though, because all of the flags are bunched up, unable to be properly read.

The second-half started and there was, very soon, a quick break down the middle. Joao Felix set up Jackson, but the ‘keeper saved. The follow-up ran to Palmer whose shot struck Madueke on its way to the target, with Noni’s soft-shoe-shuffle unable to stop the ball hitting him. The ball spun out for a goal-kick.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I admired the honest smile, maybe even a grin, that swept over Palmer’s face. It’s just so refreshing to see a lad enjoy his football in the way that he does.

We still dominated the entire game. Over on the far side, the Leicester manager Steve Cooper looked perplexed. It ate away at me, however, that a single chance could so easily be gifted to the home team and our domination could count for nought.

We ploughed on as the dull skies darkened.

On many occasions, the away corner was able to witness the burgeoning relationship between Palmer and Madueke. I remember, with pleasure, a “no look” pass back from Noni to Jackson. An Enzo shot from outside the box fizzed wide.

With fifteen minutes to go, a cross from the energetic and industrious Marc Cucarella – loved at Chelsea now – found the head of Jackson, but Hermansen foiled him. Luckily for us, the ball rebounded nicely for Enzo to nod home.

The Chelsea end exploded again.

Enzo’s slide towards the corner flag was joyous, but it could have been so much better had he done it in front of us and not in front of Kevin and Sally from Hinckley, Paul and Steve from Loughborough, Aggy from Ashby-de-la-Zouch and Nobby from Narborough.

“Safe now, Gal.”

The away support ran through a few familiar songs of faith and devotion.

“We all follow the Chelsea…”

“Palmer again.”

“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Some changes on eighty-one minutes.

Christopher Nkunku for Joao Felix.

Romeo Lavia for Caicedo.

It surprised me that Caicedo was taken off, but it was perhaps a sign of how well Enzo, the player, was faring.

More changes.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall for Jackson.

Just as it was looking a plain-sailing 2-0 win, an easy one, Romeo Lavia was adjudged to have clipped the heel of Bobby De Cordova-Reid as he ventured inside our box. After some confusion, VAR confirmed a penalty and Jordan Ayew steered the spot-kick home.

A late late scare?

Not really.

We held on for the last couple of minutes of the five added minutes.

Lovely stuff.

We were mired in slow-moving traffic as we attempted our getaway. For the first time, I drove right past Welford Road, the home of the famous Leicester Tigers, and it felt odd to be driving past that stadium too. As I edged out, I spotted at a large brick wall that was decorated by a huge sprayed-on image of three foxes grappling with the FA Cup, a reminder of a recent game in the combined histories of our two clubs.

On a slow-moving stretch of the main road out to the ring road, in the space of a few minutes, we spotted Rich from Swindon, stopped by the side of the road and attempting to repair a puncture…we then spotted an Ellison’s coach, windows blackened, that almost certainly contained the Chelsea team en route back to London…and as we were stopped in traffic behind a BMW, we watched as a bloke got out of the rear passenger seats and opened-up the boot to retrieve something…it was none other than Joe Cole.

It made our day.

It was a long old trip home. I battled the inclement weather, Storm Bert et al, and while the others slept, I played some soothing music and prayed that the rain would stop.

I was back in Frome at just after 7pm.

It had been a good day.

Tales From The Football Road

Posted on October 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 20 October 2024.

That bloody concourse. That bloody away end. That bloody announcer. Those bloody anthems. That bloody song. Those bloody scarves. That bloody clock.

A day out on Merseyside, a day out in Liverpool, a day out at Anfield.

And a few other things to talk about too. But let’s do this chronologically; an all-encompassing review of six football matches played over the past forty years.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Good.

First of all, let’s go back to 1984.

The next match featured in my review of the 1984/85 season was the notorious second leg of our Milk Cup tie against Millwall. This took place on the evening of Tuesday 9 October 1984. With me being a student in Stoke-on-Trent, this was always going to be a non-starter. I was nineteen, and yet to see an evening game in London, and I was never going to start with a trip to The Den. Eight years before, I could vividly remember watching the highlights on ITV of the away game at Millwall in the first few weeks of the 1976/77 season. Not only did we lose 0-3, but there was plenty of crowd trouble to boot, pardon the pun. In fact, in the following forty-eight years, many who went to this game have described it as the most horrific experience of their football lives. The mention by a couple of friends of “meat cleavers” should illustrate what Chelsea were up against on that sunny afternoon in “Deep South” all those years ago.

Millwall away? No thanks.

On this particular evening in 1984, I worked away on an essay, disappeared down to the local for a pint and then returned back to the flat to hear that we had drawn 1-1 at The Den. Kerry Dixon scored for us. The gate was just 11,157 and I suspect that 99% of them were blokes and a sizeable percentage were nutters. There has always been talk of this being the most formidable Chelsea “firm” to ever attend an away game and who am I to doubt it. Radio 2 reported no trouble inside the ground but that Robert Isaac, a Chelsea youth player who was on my radar, had been stabbed outside by some Millwall loons. This deeply saddened me.

The story was that he and some friends were confronted by some Millwall lads and were asked to name Millwall’s reserve ‘keeper. None of them could oblige, and Robert was slashed with a knife across his back. He was rushed to hospital and fifty-five stitches were applied. Over the past fifteen years, Robert and I have bumped into each other on a number of occasions and he joined us for a pub-crawl before the 2018 FA Cup Final. He always says that his thick leather jacket saved his life that night. He would go on to play thirteen times for our first team, then a few more for Brighton.

Next up, was a far-less terrifying home game against Watford on Saturday 13 October. I travelled down from Stoke by train and watched from The Benches with my new gang of match-day companions from London and the South-East, all of whom I still keep in contact with. Before the match, none other than Boy George appeared on the pitch and took loads of homophobic abuse from the home crowd. The back-story was that a video was being shot that day for the Culture Club single “The Medal Song” but I have no recollection of this. Maybe I disappeared off to the gents while this took place at half-time. In the video, the band member Mikey Craig – in full Chelsea kit – scores a goal at The Shed End.

We went 1-0 up via the dependable boot of Kerry Dixon, but Watford came back well to lead 3-1 with goals from Richard Jobson, Kenny Jackett and John Barnes, who had a blinder. There was a late consolation goal from the dependable head of Kerry Dixon. The gate of 25,340 contained a miserly four-hundred away fans.

On the following Saturday – 20 March 1984 – Chelsea travelled down to The Dell in Southampton and lost 1-0 to a Steve Moran goal in front of 20,212. Over this weekend, I was back in Frome but did not travel down to the game. Out in town that evening, my diary informs me that I bumped into Glenn who travelled down to Southampton but didn’t get in. I suspect the game was all-ticket, and I had never planned on going. After all, it would have been rude to come back home for the weekend, my family keen to hear of my first month at college, but then to bugger off to Southampton all day on the Saturday. I also bumped into PD during the evening, who also travelled to Southampton, and got in. He said that the away end was packed and that we ought to have won. He told me that there was no trouble inside The Dell, but he was knocked out after the game.

Let’s fast forward to 2024. However, before we meet up with PD again, forty years to the exact day since I bumped into him in “The Wheatsheaf” in Frome, I need to talk about two games involving our home town’s football club.

On the Tuesday, I drove up to the river city of Gloucester to watch Frome Town play a league game at Gloucester City. I travelled alone, but met up with some Frome friends at the game, and also Chelsea mates Andrew and Martin who live locally and follow their home city’s team in the same way that I follow Frome. Alas, on a wet night, Frome succumbed to a goal in each half to lose 2-0 in front of a gate of 601. We remained mired in a relegation place, but there have been some signs of late of a little resurgence.

As the week developed, thoughts turned to the first game in a mammoth weekend of football. My friend Josh, from Minneapolis, was over for the game at Anfield on the Sunday but was coming down by train from London to see Frome Town play Poole Town on the Saturday. He travelled down last December for a Frome game and vowed to return. He is, in fact, one of a little army of Chelsea mates in the US who follow Frome – hello JR, hello Steve, hello Jaro, hello Rick, hello the other Josh, hello John, hello Phil, hello Bobster – and there has been one recent addition.

I have met Courtney, from Chicago, at “The Eight Bells” for two Chelsea games over the past three years, and on the Wednesday evening he confirmed that he would be attending the Frome Town vs. Poole Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea double-header too.

However, compared to Josh, his travel plans were far more stressful. He was flying over from Chicago, and was due to arrive in Frankfurt early on Saturday morning. He was then booked on a flight to Manchester, but hoped to swap to a London flight, and then drive down to Frome for the game. If not, he would be forced to land at Manchester at around 10am and then drive to Frome.

I woke on Saturday and soon texted both Americans. Josh was fine, and would arrive at Westbury just before midday, when I would pick him up. Courtney, however, unable to change his onward travel from Frankfurt, had arrived at Manchester at 10.15am.

I gulped.

“Poor bugger.”

With a section of the M4 being shut, I warned him that he would be diverted over The Cotswolds to reach Frome. I contacted a Frome director to reserve him a place in the club car park. It would be touch-and-go for him to make the kick-off. I was able to reserve him a car park place because…roll on drums…Courtney had splendidly sponsored the Frome match. Courtney, Josh and I were going to be wined and dined at the club at half-time, along with my two former school mates, the class of 1978 to 1983, Steve and Francis.

I picked up Josh at Westbury and gave him a little tour of my local village and my local town, including a pint at “The Three Swans” in Frome’s historic town centre. Meanwhile, Courtney was making good time and his ETA was to be around three o’clock. We then met up with Francis, and his mate Tom, at “The Vine Tree” for another quick drink before arriving at the ground a few minutes before kick-off.

It was a stunning day; warm temperatures, blue skies, and what looked like a decent crowd of over 500.

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 really good time, and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.

The game was a very good one. Alas, the visitors went ahead in the tenth minute when our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips spilled a cross and there was an easy tap-in. However, just before half-time, Matt Wood – whose home kit Josh sponsors – slotted home from just outside the six-yard box from a George Rigg corner.

It was a case of all smiles at half-time as we got stuck into our jacket potatoes and chilli – thanks Louise!

With thoughts of our travel to Merseyside, I asked the two Americans a football teaser.

Q : which current league ground – the top four divisions – is closest to the River Mersey?

The answer follows later.

In the second-half, we decamped to our favourite spot in The Cow Shed, but a weak goal from the visitors gave them a perhaps undeserved 2-1 lead. We kept going, however, and were rewarded with a fantastic equaliser on the ninetieth minute when that man Matt Wood bravely headed in.

Pandemonium in the South Stand!

As match sponsors, we had the vote for Man Of The Match, but it was easy; Josh’s boy Matt Wood.

However, football can be a bastard.

In extra-time, a virtual copy of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips’ spill for the first goal resulted in a third, and winning, goal for the visitors.

This felt like a kick had been administered to the collective solar plexus.

Fackinell.

After the game, we were able to relax a little in the club house and I introduced the lads from the US to our board of directors. It had been a cracking afternoon and it was lovely for a couple of players, and the manager Danny Greaves, to meet Josh and Courtney. Courtney had been pleasantly surprised by the size of the stadium and the quality of the facilities, and he went off to buy a blue and white away shirt from the club shop. At 6pm, with a five hour drive up to his hotel in Liverpool ahead of him, Courtney said his goodbyes.

“See you tomorrow, mate.”

Honestly, it had been a lovely time, one for the ages.

But Sunday was another day, and it soon followed.

I was up at 6am, bright and breezy, and I soon spotted a text from Courtney. He had eventually arrived in Liverpool at 11.20pm after a couple of stops en route. I collected PD from his house and Josh from his hotel at 7am, and I collected Parky in his village at 7.30am.

After following our exploits via this blog since its inception in 2008, Josh has always wanted to join us in The Chuckle Bus for an away game, and here he was, sat next to Parky in the rear seats as I headed due north.

A week or so ago I decided that I would probably call this match report “Tales From The Football Road” because my journey would encompass a section of the M6, which is as near to a genuine and bona fide “football road”, for me anyway, in the UK. We would join the M6 in Birmingham, just as Walsall’s Bescot Stadium appears to the east, and it is the road that I use to take me to Chelsea away games against Everton, Liverpool, Manchester City and Manchester United, but also, historically, against teams such as Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers, Blackpool, Burnley, Wigan Athletic and Preston North End.

I am yet, however, to visit Edgeley Park, the historic home of Stockport County – where Chelsea played our first-ever league game in 1905 – and which is the closest league ground to the River Mersey.

The M6 took on a special importance on this weekend. It was the road that Courtney had taken on Saturday from the airport just south of Manchester to get down to Frome, and the road that he took back to his hotel in Liverpool.

The Football Road.

It certainly was.

As I headed past Bath, I was on the exact same route that Courtney had taken around fourteen hours earlier.

I tried my best to keep Josh entertained.

“You know Peter Gabriel’s song ‘Solsbury Hill’ mate?”

“Yep.”

I gestured outside.

“Well, this is it.”

We headed straight over the M4, into Gloucestershire, through some delightful Cotswold scenery. Thankfully the early rain eventually subsided. At Frocester Hill, the Severn Vale appeared down below. It was a breath-taking sight. Parky spoke about the Severn Bore and watching those that surf it, while I spoke about the river’s tidal range being the second highest in the world, but we then realised that we were becoming Severn bores.

We soon stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McDonalds breakfast at about 8.45am. I then ate up the remainder of the M5, but alas the floodlights of The Hawthorns were hidden by dense fog as the M5 ended and the M6 began.

“2017 and all that.”

As I passed Stoke, I was reminded of 1984 and I told PD that forty years ago to the very day we had chatted in one of Frome’s pubs about that game in Southampton. I asked of his recollections of that game.

He had indeed been knocked out after the game, but by a policeman on horseback. There was no real trouble, but after the match, the local Hampshire constabulary had caused a panic among the crowd leaving The Dell, and PD ended up on the pavement. Our mate Andy spotted him and helped him recover. Later that week, the CID interviewed PD at his house in Frome after many complaints by the public about the behaviour of the local police that day. These were the days when football fans, in general, were viewed as low-life scum by many in the police force and it was considered fair game for them to whack football fans. I remember being thrown against a metal fence at St. James’ Park by a Geordie copper after celebrating a little too enthusiastically after a Chelsea goal earlier in 1984.

I refuelled at Knutsford, then drove over the familiar Thelwall Viaduct. As we drove high above the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal, there was some local history for Josh. I explained how the Manchester cotton mill owners reacted to the higher rates being asked by Liverpool dock owners by forcing the construction of their own waterway, with docks at Salford, and how this heightened that particular inter-city rivalry.

Oh God, I was becoming the Mersey bore, now.

I drove onto the oh-so familiar M62 into Liverpool.

I was parked up, as I was on our last visit to Anfield, in a car park just off Dale Street just before midday, and just in time for the pubs to open. It had taken me exactly five hours to get from my house to the car park on Vernon Street. Above, blue skies and glorious sun. We had enjoyed fantastic pub crawls around Dale Street on PD’s birthday in January 2017 and January 2024, and we were back for more.

“Ye Hole In Ye Wall”.

This is rumoured to be Liverpool’s oldest pub, built in 1726. I treated myself to the first of two lagers for a change and it wasn’t long to wait for Courtney to arrive. I must admit, he looked rather tired, but he soon livened up.

“The Vernon Arms”.

Our third visit, the famous sloping floor, a chat with some local Liverpool fans at the next table, no animosity, all gentle banter. Josh recounted the story of the two of us having a drink in a bar opposite Yankee Stadium in 2012 for the PSG friendly, and meeting three young women who had brought little plastic bags of trimmed celery with them, having heard about it being a Chelsea “thing” yet completely unaware of “that” song and its full content.

“The Rose & Crown”.

A first visit, a little more chat with some Liverpool supporters, and we saw a late Kilmarnock goal defeat Rangers on the TV.

We needed to get ourselves parked-up, so I headed up to Goodison Park, via a slow drive-past Everton’s new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. We could only really see the shiny roof as there was a high wall blocking our view. I have been tracking its progress since I called by before our first away game in 2022/23. There are several old warehouses close by that we earmarked to be used for hotels in the near future. The stadium should revitalise that stretch of the river.

The Mersey played a little part in my family history.

I had spoken to Josh and Courtney about how my great great grandparents had left Somerset for a new life in Philadelphia in 1854. They boarded the maiden voyage of the SS City of Philadelphia from Liverpool, but it was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September, though – unlike the Titanic – no lives were lost. The Whites were to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.

Maybe next season, should Everton stay up, I will gaze out at the River Mersey from near the away end of the new stadium and think wistfully back to 1854.

“The Abbey”.

We visited this pub in the August of 2021 before a creditable 1-1 at Anfield, and I joined the lads in the cramped bar. Again, PD and Parky were talking to some locals. There was a quick chat with Tommie from Portmadoc about Rio de Janeiro, and then Josh and I met up with Courtney at the Dixie Dean statue at about 3.15pm.

We did a quick circuit of the old lady. This was their first-ever trip to Merseyside, and with this being Goodison’s last-ever season, it was only right that we circumnavigated the old place. I rattled off what seemed like a hundred different Goodison stories all at once and it is no surprise. I simply adore the place. You may have noticed.

Time was moving on and we needed to get our three arses up the hill of Stanley Park to Anfield. The wind was blowing now, but thankfully there was no rain.

Tommie’s brother, a staunch Evertonian, calls Anfield “Castle Greyskull” and as we approached it I could see his point.

Anfield used to be very similar to Goodison, nestled in among tight streets on all four sides. Now, because it has been able to expand, all of those adjacent houses have gone, and it sits atop the hill like a gloomy grey aircraft hangar, its two new and huge stands looming over everything. Goodison seems quaint and charismatic in comparison.

As we made our way towards the stadium, we could hear the music booming out from what I presumed was Anfield’s “fan zone”, which thankfully we have been spared at Chelsea.

“Stevie Heighway on the wing…”

Those bloody anthems.

Outside the away end, I passed over spares to Deano and I was inside at around 4.10pm. Despite the massive increase to the bulk of this newly-improved stand – the old “Annie Road” as the scallies called it – the concourse tucked behind the away end is still the same size, still cramped.

I took my place alongside John, Gary and Alan. A few familiar faces nearby, but lots of new faces too. The sun was high above The Kop and I wanted it to soon drop below the huge main stand. That bloody flag with the six European Cups made its way down the Centenary Stand, or whatever it is called these days. To my right, the humungous main stand, not one seat empty.

Fackinell.

“The Fields Of Anfield Road” again.

The entrance of the teams.

Scarves held aloft.

“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

Those bloody scarves.

A barrage of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea” but this was lost against the pumped tannoyed muzak of an Anfield game day, Gerry Marsden and all.

A minute of applause in memory of Peter Cormack, a player from my youth, a decent player.

Right, the team.

A big shock that Reece James was starting and Malo Gusto was shunted over to the left to keep an eye on Mo Salah, who now looked nothing like Mo Salah. Romeo Lavia in with Moises Caicedo, a strong midfield duo, er pivot. Pivot, right? That’s what all the nerds call it, right?

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Tosin – James

Lavia – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Going into the game, I was confident, but was not that confident to think of a win. A draw would make me a happy man.

Being back in that bloody away end took me back to January when we were shellacked 4-1, and if Darwin Nunez hadn’t hit the woodwork on multiple occasions it would have been much worse.

It seemed odd not to see Jurgen Klopp stood in front of the Liverpool bench.

The game began and to my pleasant surprise we seemed to have most of the ball. But the home support, above us especially, were warbling out their old favourite :

“Fuck off Chelsea FC. You ain’t got no history.”

I chuckled to myself about their use of a double-negative.

Very early on, Liverpool broke and Tosin tangled with Diogo Jota just inside our half. The referee brandished a yellow, and I was so thankful that there was a Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, alongside the play, thus nullifying the threat of a straight red.

On eighteen minutes, Cody Gakpo was given the ball on a plate after a typical bit of madness from Robert Sanchez but his snapshot was hit right back into the arms of our worrying ‘keeper.

After a quarter of the match, it wasn’t much of a game, but we were still dominating most of the ball. Jadon Sancho on the left was often in space but did not use the ball wisely. Noni Madueke was more direct on the right. Cole Palmer was a peripheral figure. I liked the pairing of Caicedo and Lavia from the off, strong and resourceful.

It seemed like both teams were sounding each other out.

Salah went down in the box, but no penalty. Phew.

It was lovely to see Reece James patrolling the right-hand side of our defence and he slotted in well, showing some sublime early touches.

On twenty-nine minutes, Salah broke in from the right. I yelled at our defender to keep him outside. He came inside and shot. The ball hit Colwill but fell at the feet of Curtis Jones and Colwill made an attempt to nick the ball.

Penalty.

“Bollocks.”

Salah swept it in from the spot.

Liverpool 1 Chelsea 0.

“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”

Two minutes later, more menace from Salah as he crossed and Gakpo arrived late at the far post to prod home. Thankfully, Salah was adjudged to have crept offside. Phew.

The ball was pushed through by Caicedo to Jackson who wasted no time before smashing it high against the angle of near post and bar.

It was our first real attempt.

A couple of half-chances at either end.

At least we weren’t being over-run and over-powered like last season. This seemed like a slightly reticent Liverpool team.

In the closing moments of the first-half, as Sanchez rushed out to block from Jones, we were utterly amazed to see a penalty awarded, along with a yellow for our ‘keeper.

“That was just a normal block tackle, surely?”

VAR was called in.

No penalty. No yellow.

Very late on, Madueke broke down the right, Palmer withdrew to give himself some space and Madueke angled the ball to him. Was this the moment? Well, it was a moment but not the moment. Palmer’s shot glided just over the bar.

“Bollocks.”

The droll low burr of the Anfield announcer George Sephton, a presence at their games since 1971, introduced a younger and more excitable colleague to talk through a junior penalty-kick competition at The Kop at half-time. Sephton’s voice certainly evokes some memories. David James then saved a twice-taken penalty kick from a young Liverpool fan. The crowd booed. The announcer was in shock.

“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve just ruined that lad’s day.”

At the break, Pedro Neto came on for Sancho. My goodness, we certainly have options out wide. Soon into the second-half, just three minutes in, Caicedo picked out the run of Jackson and played a perfect ball through. Jackson advanced and calmly slotted past Kelleher. The away end erupted, but our joy was soon quelled by an offside flag. We waited for a VAR decision and, thankfully, it went our way. Jackson had stalled his run just right.

Goal.

Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.

With that, Jackson led a charge from the half-way line down to the Annie Road and the players celebrated wildly, while I hoped for a couple of decent shots with my pub camera.

Sadly, just three minutes later, a cross from Salah on the Liverpool right, caught the entire Chelsea defence out. The ball was swept right into a wide corridor of uncertainty, and the impressive Curtis Jones was able to take a touch and then prod the ball past Sanchez. I looked at the linesman in the far right corner but there was no flag.

“Bollocks.”

Liverpool 2 Chelsea 1.

On fifty-two minutes, three changes.

Renato Veiga for James.

Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.

Benoit Badiashile for Tosin.

“Were they preparing those subs before the goal, John?”

“Think so, mate.”

I was surprised to see Lavia being replaced. He had played well. Perhaps this was a precautionary measure.

There was a very loud “allez allez”.

It’s odd that we hear “YNWA” before games at Anfield, but never during the actual games themselves these days. When did that stop?

We had more of the possession as Liverpool seemed happy to soak it all up, but there were only quarter-chances from a Madueke shot from an angle and a Palmer free-kick.

I sensed that the home support was worried though; they seemed quiet and nervous.

The away support got behind the boys with our loudest chant of the game thus far, a fine rendition of “Amazing Grace – the Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” version.

I remember surging and strong runs through the middle from Caicedo, plus energy and directness from Neto on our left. Palmer was, alas, a passenger for much of the second-half. Neto’s effort trundled wide of a post.

On seventy-six minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Madueke, and Neto swapped wings. His play deteriorated on the right.

Palmer lobbed a free-kick into the Liverpool six-yard box but Veiga headed over from a good position.

We still kept going. I could not fault our application, even if the attack lacked real bite.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

My attention was drawn to the twin clocks that sit above the corner flags at The Kop.

Those bloody clocks.

I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time gazing up at those simple blocks of electric lights and I have done for years.

The extra-time ticked down, the time ticked away.

Nkunku almost touched the ball home, from a Neto cross, just a few yards to our left.

At the other end, Diaz picked up the ball and advanced.

“Don’t let him dance into the box.”

Thankfully his shot tantalisingly flew high and wide.

In the last second of the game, a shot from Malo Gusto was blocked and the referee blew.

Fackinell.

This had been my twenty-eighth visit to Anfield, and my record is relegation-form.

Won : 5

Drew : 8

Lost : 15

For : 28

Against : 45

I caught site of Courtney as we gathered together in the concourse. I am sure his weekend had felt just like a dream. He was to make his own way to Crewe and then catch a train down to London where he was working on the Monday and Tuesday.

I wished him a safe journey and thanked him for Saturday.

I didn’t envy his travel. Mind you, I didn’t envy mine. I still had around two-hundred miles to drive on this Sunday evening.

I stopped a couple of times to refuel – me, not the car – and I dropped off the lads before getting in at 12.30am. I was, of course, repeating Courtney’s breakneck mission on Saturday morning.

This football road.

Unfortunately, our football weekend had resulted in two defeats, but it had been a cracker.

There was international football ahead for Josh, and others in the coming week, with a trip to Athens for our game at Panathinaikos on Thursday.

I had an international game lined up too.

Merthyr Town vs. Frome Town next Saturday, ahead of Chelsea vs. Newcastle United next Sunday.

I can’t wait for either.

See you in the pub.

The Football Road : The Southern End

The Football Road : The Northern End

1984

2012

Tales From Two Tribes

Posted on September 23, 2024 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 21 September 2024.

It seemed odd to have no Chelsea midweek game after the Bournemouth match, especially since many other teams were embroiled in not only UEFA competitions but the Carabao Cup too. However, the away match at West Ham United’s London Stadium was reward enough for a barren week of football.

Although this stadium is undoubtedly my least favourite away venue – terrible sight-lines in addition to no Chelsea wins in all of my previous six visits – I was pretty positive about the day. As my working week ended on Friday, I was absolutely relishing the trip to East London. The malaise of the previous weekend had disappeared. Whisper it, but I could even sense a win. If that was to be the eventual outcome, the four of us were planning to execute a post-game victory ramble around the East End. That was enough to get me chomping at the bit for the day to start.

By some odd twist of fate, some forty years ago, Chelsea and West Ham United met in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I always remember that a chap called Baz who ran the Yeovil Supporters Club used to produce a small bi-monthly magazine, and in the pre-amble to the travel plans for this game, he subtitled it “When Two Tribes Go To War” after the huge Frankie Goes To Hollywood hit from that summer. Well, on Saturday 15 September 1984, the two tribes went to war in a game that is avidly remembered to this day, not least by me.

This would be the first time that I would see West Ham play and, while North London’s two teams had been developing a mutual hatred of each other both on and off the pitch for decades, Chelsea and West Ham had been doing the same, albeit in the Second Division, for a couple of seasons prior to 1984. Those 1979/80 and 1980/81 encounters – two Chelsea wins in the first season and two West Ham wins in the second – must have been lingering in the memories of those who were planning to attend the first match between the two clubs since a 4-0 West Ham win at Upton Park on Valentine’s Day 1981. To say that there were off-the-field scores to be settled would be a massive understatement.

I was up early for this one – some things don’t change – and I caught an early-morning train from Frome train station to Westbury with Glenn, and we then zipped up to Paddington. We made a bee-line for Stamford Bridge, arriving as early as 10am. As I was off to North Staffs Poly in a week’s time, I needed some photos for my NUS card, and so I used the photo booth at Fulham Broadway tube station. We walked down to a café at the bottom of the North End Road and for the first time in my life I sampled some pie, mash and liquor. This seemed ridiculously authentic for a nineteen-year-old lad from deepest Somerset; what a beautiful start to a top flight London derby. On walking up to the main gates at around 11am, we were aware of a large mob of casuals walking past us in the middle of the road; dressed to the nines, no colours on show, full of attitude, full of purpose. Without a doubt, we knew they were West Ham, the ICF. I remember one bloke bumped into me as he brushed past, but with the fear of their notoriety in the forefront of my mind, it was me who apologised.

After they had passed, we looked on as they ran a hundred yards or so towards the tube station and had a set-to with some newly-arrived Chelsea lads.

We waited in the East Stand forecourt as we saw another large mob of around fifty gents line up at a ticket office and attempt to buy tickets. The police had arrived by now and told them that no tickets were on sale and to disperse. The presence of a mob of away fans in the forecourt reminded me of the time in February 1977 when Millwall made an appearance, along with rushes and pushing and punches. As an eleven-year-old, this was all too exciting for words.

At one stage, the police closed the main gates, worried about a further influx of West Ham. Things were bubbling – pardon the pun – along for a while. Glenn and I got in the ground, into the relative safety of The Benches, at 12.30pm. There were some proper bruisers on parade that day, and us two teenagers were in no mood to get walloped, especially after a nasty experience at Bristol City that August.

Our capacity at the time was around 43,000 and I had predicted a gate of 32,000 the day before.

Once inside, it was clear that West Ham had brought the numbers. Our sweeping North Stand held 10,000 at the time and each of the four paddocks were swelling with numbers from an early stage.

At about 1.30pm, we noted that a mob of chaps had arrived en masse in the West Stand seats above us. For what seemed an eternity, they looked at us and we looked at them. At 2pm, they moved towards our right, towards the northern end, and punches were thrown at home fans, although the Chelsea seats were not full at all.

A slow deep song, previously unheard of, boomed out of the West Stand.

“ICF…ICF.”

I can’t deny it. It put the fear of God inside me.

They positioned themselves – maybe a hundred, maybe more – right behind us. I had been sitting in the very back row of The Benches, a few yards away. I looked at their angry faces and became concerned that they might well decide to throw some coins at us.

“Fuck that.”

Leggo, from Bedford, and I moved a few rows down.

On the other side of the pitch, about fifty West Ham showed up in Gate 13 in the East Lower but the police were soon in charge.

The game, played out in front of a very hostile atmosphere, was a cracker.

Us in 1984?

Niedzwiecki

Lee – McLaughlin – Pates – Rougvie

Nevin– Bumstead – Spackman – Thomas

Dixon – Speedie

West Ham fielded such stalwarts as Billy Bonds, Alvin Martin, Ray Stewart, Paul Allen and Tony Cottee. They played in all white.

It annoys me, forty years after the event that Trevor Brooking didn’t play in this match in; he had been a great player, one that I respected a little. Sadly, he had just retired at the end of the previous season, along with Kevin Keegan. Oh God, here come the memories of that bloody England vs. Spain game in 1982…I digress.

For some reason we attacked the Shed in the first-half. David Speedie was through but he was taken out by the West Ham ‘keeper Tom McAllister. The Hammers’ ‘keeper saved Colin Lee’s penalty kick, only for Lee to smack home the rebound. For some reason, the penalty had to be retaken. Bizarrely, the same thing happened again. Lee shot, McAllister saved, but Lee adeptly prodded home the rebound.

In the second-half, West Ham improved but a further goal, a lashed strike from Speedie on seventy minutes, made the game safe. With five minutes to go, Doug Rougvie was an unlikely provider of a deep cross that found an even unlikelier leap from Pat Nevin to head the ball in at the far post to give us a 3-0 win.

As this third goal went in, the West Ham mob behind us upped and left. Before we knew it, they had reappeared to our right, marching into the Shed at the Bovril Gate. A few punches were thrown at anyone within reach. It looked pretty indiscriminate. My pal Clive – who I sit alongside at Chelsea these days – took a battering after being pushed to the ground, but Chelsea soon re-grouped and chased them out.

Bizarrely, Glenn and I walked across the pitch – as did many – at the end of the game while the police tried to quell further scraps in The Shed, and we would get back on to the Fulham Road via the main gates. We made it back to Paddington intact and made the 6.05pm train to Bath, then to Westbury, then to Frome. On the way home, we chatted to two Bristol Rovers hooligans who had been lured to the bright lights of London for the game and had been part of the huge number in the away section.

The day had been massive. The gate was given as 32,411, yet we suspected that the Chelsea chairman Ken Bates had fiddled the figures; it felt nearer 35,000, maybe 40,000.

This had been a huge win for us. However, on the day, both Glenn and I always felt that West Ham had certainly made a big impression off the pitch – the buggers were certainly organised, their forte, their strong point – though in the ensuing years, Chelsea have always mocked the fact that they showed up way too early when the West Stand was full of normal fans.

That night, around the pubs of Frome, I bumped into a West Ham fan from school who, on hearing of the day’s events, summed it all up.

“The ICF did their job, then.”

I glumly nodded.

On this Saturday, just over forty years later, it was all about the football now. Hooliganism has almost disappeared from the national game, and it’s the actions of those on the pitch that are the focus of our attentions in 2024, though I am always aware of the symbiotic relationship between supporters and players.

Without supporters, we always say, football – and maybe footballers – are nothing.

After getting up early – 5.30am – I collected PD and Glenn at 7am. I drove past Frome train station, where our trip began in 1984 and onto collect Parky at 7.30am. We soon McBreakfasted at Melksham and we were on our way. While Glenn read my Bournemouth blog – that I had only finished the previous night – on his ‘phone, I updated the others on my December travel plans for Kazakhstan; out via Istanbul, home via Baku, and four nights in Almaty. I can’t wait. On the drive to London, the weather was miserable; full of dark clouds and rain. Thankfully, as we approached London it all brightened up considerably.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at 10.15am and, after our usual changes at Westminster and Canary Wharf, we reached Pudding Mill Lane station at 11.20am.

It’s a short walk to the London Stadium from here, and one which we are all familiar with. Unlike last season – just over a year ago – we were at the ground with tons of time to spare. Four foreign West Ham fans, all wearing various West Ham shirts, breezed past me. I detected accents from the southern US states. As they passed me, I spotted that one chap had “Lampard 26” emblazoned on his jersey.

My brain short-circuited.

“Lampard. Not our Frank surely? They hate him here. Maybe a reference to his father. But number 26?”

This just didn’t compute.

Security Check One : in.

Security Check Two : in, albeit after couple of dicey moments as the guy checked my camera.

I looked up and saw that “Lampard” was just ahead of me. I couldn’t resist a little chat.

“Hi mate. I have to ask why you have Lampard on your shirt?”

“He’s a legend, isn’t he? Like his father!”

I had no words.

Security Check Three : in.

But then a sniffer dog seemed interested in my camera bag. I was asked to accompany a bloke into a small tent where my camera bag, my wallet and my ‘phone were examined. I stood silent, bemused.

“You haven’t got any drugs, sir.”

“No.”

I almost expected them to ask if I’d like some.

We chatted to some pals in the large concourse; about the only thing they got right at this horrible stadium. PD and Parky were in the lower tier, I was towards the front of the upper tier, and Glenn was with Clive further back. For the first time, our tickets were sent via email and had to be repositioned inside an app on our ‘phones. It worked OK for me, but as Glenn was using a mate’s ticket, there was an uncertain period a few days ago when it appeared that the ticket – or rather a QR code – belligerently refused to appear on Glenn’s ‘phone. Eventually it was sorted.

With time to spare, I walked to the very top of the upper tier of the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand just to see for myself how awful the view is from the rear.

It is, as I suspected, horrific.

The sun was out, blue skies overhead, still positive vibes. I was stood alongside John and Gary in the third row of the upper deck.

Us in 2024?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Adarabioyo – Colwill – Fofana

Enzo – Caicedo

Sancho – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I had heard of a few of the opposing players, but not all of them. It’s a sure sign of my waning interest in top level football outside of the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club. After fifty years of going to games, it’s no bloody wonder my brain can’t take much more.

I hear this comment from so many people of my generation : “Teams from my youth roll off my tongue so easily but I really struggle to name many opposing players these days.”

As always at this stadium, we attacked the other end – The Bobby Moore Stand – in the first-half. The home team created the first chance of the game in the opening few minutes, but Roberto Sanchez saved well from Mohammed Kudos, whoever he is.

Then, a lightning break for ourselves. A free-kick was taken early. Chelsea – the cream shirts looking cleaner and whiter in the sun than last week – switched the ball from Jadon Sancho to Nicolas Jackson who sped away in the inside-left channel. He advanced and slotted the ball home, between the keeper Areola’s legs, and we were 1-0 up. He sped away, full of glee, and the home fans looked on despondently.

Snigger.

However, I was reminded of the times that we had gone ahead in this fixture only to concede goals later.

The home team came at us and created a chance for Crysencio Summerville, whoever he is, but we were full of ideas too. A forceful run from Jackson allowed a ball in to Cole Palmer who sadly stroked the ball just past the frame of the goal.

There was much to admire about our play and the home fans were beautifully quiet.

On eighteen minutes, the ball was played by Enzo Fernandez to Moises Caicedo in the middle of the pitch. He immediately saw the breaking Jackson and his pass was weighted to perfection. This was another Jackson versus Areola moment, though central this time, and our young striker clipped the ball past the ‘keeper with the outside of his right foot, thankfully captured on film by yours truly.

Get in.

A jubilant run past a fresh set of home fans.

A slide.

You beauty.

We were 2-0 up early.

As soon as had I picked up PD at 7am, I was confident we would win on this occasion. Should we do so, we were going to combine a post-match visit to a traditional pie and mash shop and then, probably, a first-ever visit to an infamous East End boozer “The Blind Beggar” where Ronnie Kray shot and murdered George Cornell, of the rival Richardson firm, back in 1966.

Were we safe? Maybe.

Chelsea continued to play well – especially strong through the middle – but the home team had a lot more possession during the final twenty minutes of the first period. I noted that Palmer was strangely quiet, often losing possession cheaply, and how deep he appeared to come for the ball. Often it felt like he was alongside Enzo and Caicedo in a three. I remembered Moises’ Chelsea debut at the same stadium last season, and what a shocker it was. He has progressed so well since and is one of our most admired players of late.

The home team weren’t especially good, but carved open a couple of chances. Jarrod Bowen fired over. A cool finish from Kudos was quickly flagged for offside. Our defence looked on top, but there were still a few jarring mistakes to keep us worried.

We eked out chances too. Sancho linked well with Jackson, but a shot was blocked, while Madueke ran and ran but failed deliver an end product. A lively first-half ended with another fine save from Sanchez.

There were plenty of Chelsea smiles at the break in the vast away end.

I was still sat, fiddling with my camera case, when Chelsea broke early into the second-half. The ball was pushed into the path of Palmer by the advancing Jackson. I hastily pulled the camera up to my eyes and shot. Then Palmer shot. The effort flew in off the near post as I rose to my feet.

Beautiful.

3-0.

Safe now.

I began thinking again of some pie and mash.

The goal signalled the end of whatever noise there was from the home areas. Joe Cole, commentating on the game in an open area to our left, was heavily serenaded. The West Ham crowd must hate that he is now revered as Chelsea and not West Ham, just like another person that we know and love.

Despite some half chances for the home side, the game really was over.

Time for some changes.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Axel Disasi for Colwill.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo.

There was a fantastic crunching tackle from Marc Cucarella on some West Ham player or another that – although resulting in a booking – resulted in a big cheer from the away contingent. It showed, in one moment, the desire in the team. I also loved all of the blocks – players putting their bodies on the line and other clichés – that again showed a desire and commitment that is not always visible.

At last, after six previous visits to the London Stadium, I had at last seen a Chelsea victory on a lucky seventh visit. Our home games often seem nervy affairs at the moment, don’t they? Can we play all our games away from home please? Three out of three in the league now.

Alas, no.

We now play four home games in a row in three competitions.

Barrow.

Brighton & Hove Albion.

Gent.

Nottingham Forest.

Our next away game – Liverpool on Sunday 20 October – seems ages away.

With many of the home fans leaving early, there was virtually no wait at Pudding Mill Lane station after the game. We caught the Docklands Light Railway train to All Saints and soon located “Maureen’s Pie & Mash”, tucked away in a small ‘sixties shopping precinct in Poplar.

Last season, before the corresponding fixture, we called in at the more famous “Manze’s” on London Bridge Road, but I think the pies on offer at “Maureen’s” were even better. Last season, I decided to call the West Ham blog “Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1” but on this day it was a case of “West Ham 0, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 3.”

Who should walk in as we were sitting down to our plates of pie, mash and liquor but our friend Dane who sits just in front of me at Chelsea. He often visits this haven of traditional London fare. What a small world.

None of us were keen to head home, so we caught another train from Poplar to Shadwell, then another one to Whitechapel. The sun was still shining high in the sky and we walked through the bustling street market – all of human life was there – until we reached “The Blind Beggar” pub on a wide pavement at a junction. We were able to relax, despite being the football supporter equivalents of the South London-based Richardsons visiting the heartland of West Ham’s East End support. Glenn had visited this infamous pub years ago – which was once owned by Bobby Moore of all people – and knew where to show me the bullet hole in a picture frame on the wall that was, allegedly, the one that killed Cornell after passing straight through him.

Gulp.

I had to smirk when “Smooth Operator” by Sade – featured in the first blog of this season, Rio de Janeiro, 1984 and all that – was played while we supped on ales. I also laughed at the chalkboard advertising “shots” for sale.

We crossed the road for a pint in a second pub, “The White Hart”, in Bethnal Green now, and we enjoyed a few moments as we reviewed the day’s game, while admiring the considerable scenery, cough, cough.

With no rush to return home, we then decided to head into the city. Alas, we heard that there had been a “jumper” on the line near Earls Court so we would have to return to Barons Court by other means.

We visited five more pubs during a lovey evening ramble around Blackfriars and Fleet Street. The only downer was hearing that Frome Town had been walloped 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville.

“The Blackfriar.”

This narrow pub was packed so we stood outside with the sun reflecting off the towering superstructures on the other side of the River Thames.

“The Albion.”

We saw bits of an entertaining 0-0 game on the big screen between Crystal Palace and Manchester United. Then, outside, the astonishing sight of St. Paul’s Cathedral, floodlit and magnificent.

“Punch Tavern.”

The first of three pubs on historic Fleet Street and the realisation that this was quickly turning into one of our greatest London away days

“The Old Bell.”

A cramped pub, full of character, a cosy room and recollections of school days, football days and hopes for a reasonable season ahead.

“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”

This pub was rebuilt after the Great Fire Of London in 1666 and I knew that it is one of London’s most famous pubs. I had known of its existence for years but it was a dream to stumble across it on this most magical of pub crawls. The place was swarming with tourists, full of beer, full of wine, full of chat, but thankfully none of them were wearing a Frank Lampard West Ham shirt.

At around 9.15pm, we caught an Uber to take us back to Barons Court and our waiting car. This in itself was a magical trip for us out-of-towners. We drove past The Strand Palace Hotel, where my parents honeymooned in 1957, past Trafalgar Square – a blurred photo of Nelson’s Column – and along Piccadilly, past Hyde Park Corner, into Knightsbridge, past the Natural History Museum, past Harrods, past The Famous Three Kings on the North End Road.

We stopped at Heston for a light snack, then I drove west to Wiltshire and Somerset.

I eventually reached home at just after midnight.

September 15 1984.

Chelsea 3 West Ham United 0.

September 21 2024.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Fackinell.

See you on Tuesday.

Before The Game : 1984

The Game : 1984

Before The Game : 2024

The Game : 2024

After The Game : 2024

Tales From The First Day Of Autumn

Posted on September 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 1 September 2024.

Since we last spoke…

…two Frome Town matches.

On Bank Holiday Monday, a healthy 738 assembled at Badgers Hill, but the home team unfortunately went down 0-2 to our cross-county rivals Taunton Town. Frome weren’t outclassed but just lacked a killer punch in front of goal. Of note in this game was the return of Jayden Nielsen, who Frome signed from Bristol Manor Farm in the summer – a top signing in my opinion – but who then returned to his former club after only a few friendlies as a Frome player. Lo and behold, the player then quickly signed-for Taunton Town after only a few games for Manor Farm. I can only hope that Jadon Sancho has a bigger impact at Chelsea than Jayden Nielsen at Frome Town.

On the Saturday before the Crystal Palace match, I drove through the shires of Southern England to attend the FA Cup game at Easington Sports, who sound like a Sunday pub team and play in Banbury. They had defeated Bristol Manor Farm, of all teams, in the previous round and so would not be taken lightly. Frome conceded early, but equalised via a nice lob from striker James Ollis. Despite several excellent goal-scoring chances in the second-half, the away team could not put the game to bed. A replay would take place on the Tuesday after the Crystal Palace game.

The new season has been tougher than we had hoped at Frome Town but I am undoubtedly enjoying the games. They bring me great pleasure.

With games in August and September over one weekend, it seemed like I would be taking a footballing journey from summer into autumn. Whereas the Saturday match involved a journey through new pastures, new roads – some of them bumpy – and a new ground, not to mention sightings of detectorists and steam engine enthusiasts, and a few other Bank Holiday oddballs, the Chelsea game at home to Crystal Palace on the Sunday seemed very normal. With a 1.30pm kick-off, there would be another early start for us, but we still love our Chelsea trips even after all these years.

I dropped PD and Parky off at the bottom end of Fulham and then parked up near Normand Park. I darted into the “Memory Lane Café” at the bottom of the North End Road for a quick bite to eat. I have decided to keep my forty-year retrospective look at 1984/85 going throughout this season, but will tend to concentrate on the twenty-two games that I saw in person during that memorable campaign.

By the time of the first day of September in 1984, I had seen Chelsea play three games that season. I have briefly detailed the friendly at Bristol City and I have far-from-briefly mentioned the league opener at Highbury in the last edition. The next game to talk about is our home opener against Sunderland, complete with former Chelsea winger Clive Walker, which took place on 27 August, another Bank Holiday game.

After the tumultuous events of the Saturday game at Arsenal, here was another long-awaited occasion; our first match in England’s top flight since a home game against Arsenal – another 1-1 draw – in May 1979. I travelled up with my parents for this one – my father drove – and I paid for the three West Stand tickets at £6 a pop. I had worked all summer long in my first-ever job – packing yogurt at a local dairy – and so must have been feeling flush. My diary informs me of a couple of things that I have long forgotten. My father evidently bought us a couple of small lagers in the old West Stand bar – that long room at the south-western corner – and our small instamatic camera, that I obviously wanted to use to capture the historic occasion, unfortunately chose not to work, though this was probably because my father had dropped it on at least two occasions during the day. If only I had a photo of my father and I from that moment, supping on lagers, making small talk, having a giggle. It would have been priceless.

Our seats were very close to the sprawling North terrace, half-way down. I popped down to say “hello” to the four lads that we had met on The Benches during the latter part of 1983/84, and it thrills me to say that I am in contact with all of them to this day.

Alan – he sits next to me at all our games, we go everywhere.

Paul – I see him at a couple of times each season.

Mark – I see him at loads of games each season, he goes everywhere.

Leggo – I saw him at Luton last season, and we talk a lot about Frome Town and Bedford Town.

A helicopter – how flash – arrived on the pitch before kick-off with the Second Division Championship trophy, and it was thrilling to see John Neal smiling as he held it. Alas, the gate was only 25,554, and I was expecting at least 30,000. Sunderland had around five-hundred in one pen. Apparently we gave the returning Walker a fine reception.

There is a photo of Stamford Bridge on this day, no doubt from the helicopter, that often appears on the internet and it’s a real beauty, showing the shape of the stadium at that time. We took the lead early in the game when Paul Canoville shook off two defenders and touched the ball past the on-rushing ‘keeper, the ball only just making it over the line. Kerry Dixon had a goal cancelled for offside and Canoville then hit the bar. Our play weakened in the second-half, but I reported that my man of the match was Colin Lee, resolutely defending at right-back. Forty years on there is still a feeling of disappointment that we couldn’t breach the 30,000 barrier for this match.

One thing is for certain; my diary was not full of the myriad of nerdisms that followers of football now earnestly use as they describe modern football. No overloads, no pockets of space, no low blocks, no high lines, no high presses, no patterns of play, no transitions, no turnovers, no re-cycling.

It was a simpler game in 1984, undoubtedly more naïve, but I bloomin’ loved it.

On the return journey, we stopped off for more small beers at “The Pelican” pub on the A4, and another “Axon Family Chelsea Day Out” was in the books. Looking back, with hindsight, there wouldn’t be too many more over the years; a handful, maybe Arsenal at home 1987, Wednesday at home 1987, Swindon away 1988, Charlton 1988, Everton 1991. But these are just lovely memories from forty-years ago. Just to be able to share a lager with my Dad once more…at Chelsea. Bliss.

To complete the 1984 story, on the following Friday, on the last day of summer, Chelsea played Everton in an evening game at Stamford Bridge. I did not attend, but my diary tells me that I travelled in to Frome to watch the game – it was live on TV, a treat – at a mate’s house. Again, I was disappointed by the attendance – just 17,734 – as Everton, playing in swish silver Le Coq Sportif shirts – won 1-0 with a goal from Kevin Richardson. Later that night, in the pubs of Frome, I bumped into Glenn who was wearing a Pierre Cardin roll-neck that he had purchased for £3 “off the back of a lorry.”

Fackinell.

Forty years on from these seminal moments in our lives, we had all assembled in the pubs, bars and cafes around Stamford Bridge once again. I had a little flit around the stadium before going down to the local. Dave – another of The Benches “crew” from 1984 – dropped in to see LP, PD, Salisbury Steve and little old me at “The Eight Bells” and we had a lovely pre-match for a couple of hours. We discussed the Europa Conference draw and especially the three away trips. All of our eyes are locked on an away day to Kazakhstan, with Greece a possibility and Germany unlikely. Dave saw the team and set me up for guessing it.

“It’s the team most of us would pick.”

I guessed it correctly, apart from me forgetting we had signed Pedro Neto and opting for Mykhailo Mudryk instead.

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

With industrial action taking place, we then had to wait a while to catch a delayed train from Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway. We got in just before the teams entered the pitch. Before I knew it, I was at my seat alongside PD – alas no Clive nor Alan on this occasion – and the players were soon doing their pre-match huddling.

The game began. Bright sunshine. Yet the floodlights behind both goals were on; answers on a postcard. Three-thousand away fans, one flag – “Whyteleafe Palace” – and not too many empty seats anywhere after the late arrivals finally settled.

The first fifteen minutes all belonged to us. We played some decent progressive stuff. Cole Palmer was the first player to go close, curling a sweet low shot just past the far post that I managed to catch on my pub camera. The appearance of my “reserve camera” was all due to the weather. I have no need for a jacket on hot days like these, so there was no way to smuggle my usual SLR in. Have I told you all how much I adore modern football?

Adam Wharton, who apparently plays for England, forced a save from Robert Sanchez on fifteen minutes.

“Ah, I see Will Hughes, the albino, is playing for them. I remember him at Derby years ago.”

On twenty-one minutes, Wesley Fofana’s long ball – good, let’s switch our ways to attack – found Noni Madueke and he advanced into the box, but with defenders chasing him, he was unable to replicate a successful prod like Paul Canoville’s from forty years ago. The ball skidded past the far post.

Just after, Neto to Enzo and a lovely lofted ball towards Madueke, whose clip on the volley was well-saved by the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson. Brilliant football.

Then, twenty-five minutes in, a great move. Levi Colwill won possession deep in his own half and released Madueke on the right. He raced past his man, advanced, and steered the ball inside to Palmer. I shouted “Jackson’s free” and he must have heard me. A pass to our striker and a neat finish at the far post. The linesman kept his flag down. I instantly dismissed the threat of VAR.

I punched the air.

“GET IN.”

Half-way through the half, a drinks break.

Two cold lagers with my Dad would have been lovely.

There was more decent play from us as the first period continued. I noted how Neto was hugging the left touchline, but was probably underused. A lot of our attacks came down the right.

On forty minutes, there was a fine through ball from a Palace player – Hughes I think – that was beautifully cut out by Madueke in his own box. The ball was collected and played inside to Colwill who was striding into the midfield. In a split second I thought of the phrase of “Total Football” and I had visions of Ruud Krol playing right-half while Johann Cruyff covered him. The ball was played from deep right to far left, and the move was a joy to watch. It all ended with a cross from the left and a header from Jackson which was saved by Henderson. Alas, no goal, but the move of the match.

PD was purring; “brilliant.”

It had been a good half of football, no doubt. It warranted more than the one goal.

There were none of the usual moans at half-time in The Sleepy.

These were saved for the opening moments of the second-half when Hughes, already booked, pulled down the advancing Palmer in a central position. No second yellow. The resulting free-kick, on film, drew another fine save from Henderson, arching his back to tip it over. From the corner, Colwill headed down and wide, clawed away by Henderson, also on film.

From that moment, our play fell apart and we looked a poor shadow of ourselves. The away team got going and we looked second best.

Rob, from Melksham, had joined us in the second period, and he commented “we’ll need to score two or three to win this.”

On fifty-three minutes, Wharton shimmied into the box, and the ball rebounded out to Cheick Doucoure. His shot was blocked by Fofana but the ball fell nicely to Eberechi Eze, who immaculately dispatched a curler into the goal, past the despairing dive of Sanchez, who quite possibly was reacting to a shot five minutes earlier. Anyway, he was late for this one too.

It was 1-1.

Bollocks.

The Stamford Bridge crowd – quiet, of course – at least responded with a defiant “CAREFREE” but then went back to our normal noise levels and our normal behavioural patterns.

I have grimly noticed, especially at home games where I am almost always sat, that my watching position at Chelsea games these days is often with my arms semi-crossed, with one arm up to my chin, looking like a prize knobhead, like a connoisseur at an art gallery or museum, or an adjudicator at an intensive interview session, or a chess player awaiting the next move from an opponent.

What a prick.

What have I become?

“Just old, mate.”

At least I wasn’t holding a pair of glasses in my hand and chewing on the tips like an ultimate art gallery wanker.

I wish I was more animated and involved but football these days can invariably be a dull sport and a dull spectator sport.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

Thank God for the odd moments of spontaneity, of intuition, of grace and beauty, those moments that get us agitated and off our seats.

The game grew scrappy. The rangy Palace attacker Jean-Phillipe Mateta was developing quite a battle with either or both of our centre-halves. I like a good old-fashioned battle.

On 58 minutes, a substitution.

Joao Felix for Neto, quieter now.

We were exposed on a couple of occasions as Palace ran at us.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the injured Malo Gusto.

This necessitated a shift in personnel that took me too many damn minutes to work out.

“Can you buggers stand still for a minute?”

On seventy-six minutes, another rapid Palace break and the ball was played inside to Daichi Kamara. His powerful shot was hit straight at Sanchez, but it appeared that his butter fingers had lost the ball. Thankfully, there had been enough of a block for the ball to deflect over. Phew.

Felix floated around but flattered to deceive. Palmer was crowded out and forced to come deep for the ball. He would later, in frustration, kick the ball against the hoardings and get booked. It was one of those days.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

The game continued on, and we all grew nervous. What had happened to the Chelsea from 1.30pm to 2.15pm? Enzo, who started well, had been a metaphor for our demise.

In the eight minutes of extra-time, the game came to life. Eze went close but Cucarella blocked. Then, Nkunku raced forward centrally and passed to Jackson who smashed the ball against the side netting.

Late on, a beautifully clipped ball from Enzo in his own half was played ahead of Jackson. He raced in on goal but his shot – on film, just – was parried by Henderson.

Bollocks.

So, a weekend of 1-1 draws.

Next up, Bournemouth away at 8pm on a Saturday night, but before that there will be four Frome Town games in 2024 and two Chelsea games in 1984.

See you there, or then.

Tales From A Few Fleeting Moments

Posted on May 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 19 May 2024.

This was turning into a very enjoyable end to the 2023/24 season. The last five days of it were packed full of Chelsea. On the Wednesday, we travelled down to Brighton and on the Sunday, there would be the final game against Bournemouth. But tucked into the middle, on the Friday, was a bonus day.

The Chelsea Foundation, who look after former players through the Chelsea Players Trust and oversee the club’s charities, education projects and Chelsea in the wider community, recently found out that we have been taking Ron Harris up to Stamford Bridge on match days since the autumn of 2021. As a gesture of thanks, they invited a gang of us up to the Cobham training centre. They gave us a range of dates to choose from, and it transpired that Friday 17 May was the best fit. You can just imagine our elation. I was lucky enough to visit Cobham way back in 2008 with a few friends from the UK and the US, but this would be a first visit for my match-day companions from the West of England; Glenn, PD and Parky. We went up in one car. In the other car, was the Harris family; Ron, his daughter Claire, her partner Dave, Ron’s son Mark and Mark’s young son Isaac. Joining us at Cobham was Gary Chivers, Ron’s match-day companion, who was with his young daughter.

We had an absolute blast on a perfect sunny day. We met academy chief Neil Bath, and a few of his staff. We chuckled when Ron introduced Paul to the academy hosts as “my minder.” You know you have made it in life when Chopper Harris calls you his minder.

The day started off in 1970. Let me explain. Recently, the youth teams of Chelsea and Leeds United met in a cup final, and there was a concern that the Leeds youngsters would be more “up for it” than the Chelsea lads. To rectify this, to illustrate the very real rivalry that exists between the two old enemies, the lads were shown footage of some of the tastier moments from the 1970 FA Cup Final Replay. We loved seeing the film, none more so than Ron, and there were many funny moments as we watched tackle after tackle, with legendary players clashing, a real blast from the past. It must have had the desired effect as Chelsea won the game 5-3. We saw footage of the youngsters’ match; there were some fine goals but some rugged tackles too, Leeds didn’t stand a chance.

In a surreal moment, we hopped into a fleet of little golf buggies and embarked on a tour of the huge complex, making sure that we didn’t crash into the players’ expensive cars. Not for the first time I found myself driving Lord Parky. We spotted the first team in a training session away to our right. The complex is massive. A full forty people are on the ground staff alone.

We spent a few moments with Cesc Fabregas who happened to be visiting the training ground. I told him that all four of us were at Burnley for his Chelsea debut in 2014 for “that pass” to Andre Schurrle. There was then a frantic period as the current first team squad made their way to the changing rooms. Each one, though, met with Ron Harris, and we tried our best to say a few words to as many as possible. Ron spent quite a while with Conor Gallagher and Cole Palmer. I took the usual smattering of photos. Nicolas Jackson was especially friendly. Loved his attitude. My big moment came when I tentatively approached Thiago Silva for him to sign a recent home programme; Tottenham, the great man on the cover. He took time to painstakingly sign in his unique way with his name, number and a flourish before handing the programme back to me.

“Obrigado.”

I was happy. Mission accomplished.

I must admit that Reece James looked a little sheepish after his sending-off against Brighton. We managed to spend an incredible five or six minutes with Mauricio Pochettino, who spoke easily and naturally with us as if we had known each other for ages. He talked about the development of the team, the way things have started to gel, and plans for the US Tour in the summer. He could not have been nicer. I loved the hug that he gave Ron Harris.

“We hope you are here next season, Conor.”

“So do I.”

We were treated to a lovely lunch in the same canteen as the academy players. PD tucked into a FAB ice-cream on the house, an image that will make me laugh for years.

Everyone that we met were so polite, so attentive, so personable and there was a cool and calm professionalism about the entire complex. We left on an absolute high, sure that the immediate future of our club was in good hands. I drove the boys home, almost not wanting the day to end. We stopped off for a couple of early-evening pints at a pub alongside the canal in Devizes. It was a fantastic end to a perfect day and it totally restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club.

Sunday – Munich Day – soon arrived and we were on our way to London at a ridiculously early time. Despite a 4pm kick-off, I was up at 5.30am to pick up PD, Ron and Parky by 7.30am. I dropped Ron off outside the main gates at about 9.45am and I was soon parked up. I spent a little time chatting to a few friends on the Fulham Road and at Stamford Bridge. I was quick to relay the positive vibes from Cobham. There was a quick and impromptu photo-call with Ron at the hotel with some friends of a friend from Dundee; their first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge and they were boiling over with excitement.

On a day when Thiago Silva would be making his last-ever appearance in Chelsea colours, I made sure that I took a few photographs of his image on the wall by the West Stand forecourt.

Then, a tube down to Putney Bridge to meet the troops in the pub. Friends from near and far joined us, and I detected a happier atmosphere in the boozer than is always the case. We were, after all, chasing our fifth win a row, and the confirmation of European football in 2024/25.

The global scope of Chelsea’s support was well-represented.

Russ – Melbourne, Australia.

Brad and Sean – New York, US.

Richard and Matt – Edinburgh, Scotland.

Sara and Danny – Minneapolis, US.

Even and Roy – Oslo, Norway.

Kyden and Jacob – Tampa, US.

No drinks for me of course, but the lads were filling their boots. The laughter boomed around “The Eight Bells.” At around 3pm, we set off for the final time of this roller-coaster of a season.

A tube to Fulham Broadway, a walk up to the turnstiles, the sun out, where is there a better place on Earth?

Chats with a few folk who sit close by. Again, positive vibes. The end of season run-in was not as problematic as we had feared.

The team?

In order to accommodate Thiago Silva, Malo Gusto was unfortunately dropped. Mudryk was out after his injury at Brighton. He was the one player that we did not clock at Cobham.

Petrovic – Chalobah, Silva, Badiashile, Cucarella – Caicedo, Gallagher – Madueke, Palmer, Sterling – Jackson

The surprising thing was that there had been virtually no mention of the title race. Was Manchester City’s win against West Ham as straightforward as we were hoping? Only time would tell. However, the outside chance of Arsenal winning the title for the first time in twenty years was lurking in the back of my mind, and maybe others too. I think we made a pact with each other to keep silent. I also had a whimsical notion that Tottenham would do the ultimate “Spursy” thing and fall on their own sword at Sheffield United, thus giving us the chance to finish above them.

There were colourful displays at both ends of the pitch devoted to the captain for the day.

Thiago Emiliano da Silva.

The great man signed for us while we were ensconced at home under COVID, and I did not see him play for Chelsea in the flesh until the FA Cup Final in May 2021. Just a few weeks later, I remember watching out in Porto as he fell to the floor in the closing moments of the first-half. Inwardly, I shared his tears as he pulled his shirt up over his face before walking off. Thankfully, we scored just three minutes after and he would win his sole Champions League medal after all. Since then, he has been a colossus, a giant, a cool leader at the helm of an oft-troubled defence and team and club. We will miss him so much.

Anyway, the game began.

In the opening few moments, Stamford Bridge was a noisy cauldron in celebration of Thiago Silva. His standard two songs rang out and we all joined in.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

“He came from PSG.”

After all that had happened the previous week, I found it difficult to fully concentrate on the game that was being played out on the gorgeous green of Stamford Bridge. I felt a little tired, a little dazed. Was this one game too far for me?

This was my eighty-seventh game of the season.

Chelsea 51; for the first-time ever, I had not missed a single game.

Frome Town 35; my most-ever, beating last season’s twenty games, and an absolute belter of a season.

Exeter City 1; and quite easily the worst of the lot, my reward for going to a game in which I had zero interest.

We began brightly, and there was a shot from Nicolas Jackson and one from Cole Palmer. Both did not trouble the away ‘keeper Neto. The first was hit right at the ‘keeper, the second drifted past the far post. Raheem Sterling was buzzing around, and it was a nice reminder of how he can play if he is in the mood.

In the opening fifteen minutes, we had completely dominated possession, possibly at the 90% level. But in the stands the noise had been reduced to a whisper.

“Football in a library” sang the three-thousand Bournemouth supporters.

Yep, guilty as charged.

Sterling went down inside the box, but VAR adjudged it to be a clean challenge.

On seventeen minutes, Jackson poked the ball forward perfectly into space for the lively Sterling to chase. Neto was out early and cleared, but was under pressure from Conor Gallagher. The resulting swipe lacked direction. The ball reached our half, where it found Moises Caicedo. The midfielder pushed the ball forward, just over the half-way line, and thumped a high ball towards goal. With Neto scrambling back, and a spare Bournemouth defender chasing too, the ball perfectly nestled into the Shed End goal. I will be truthful, it looked a goal as soon as it left his foot.

GET IN.

I captured his jubilant run and leap. What a way to score his first Chelsea goal.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

We heard that Manchester City were 1-0 up and then 2-0 up within twenty minutes.

“We’re gonna have a party…”

The away team attacked occasionally, but we didn’t seem in danger. I made sure that I took a few photos of Thiago Silva down below us.

The away fans were still moaning.

“1-0 and you still don’t sing.”

I was still struggling a little to get into the game and our players looked a little tired. Bournemouth seemed to improve as the first-half continued. A speculative long-range shot from Ryan Christie glanced the top of the bar, there was a block from Trevoh Chalobah, a save from Djordje Petrovic.

At the end of the first-half, we heard that Arsenal were losing at home to Everton and there was a sudden input of noise.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

But then the mood changed when it became City 2 West Ham 1 and Arsenal 1 Everton 1.

Please God, no.

At the break, we were relatively content. With just a point required to secure European football once more – out of the question for me and many others until very recently – we were on track.

On forty-eight minutes, the seemingly rejuvenated Sterling was put through in a wide position and danced his way down below us in The Sleepy Hollow and into the box.

“Go on, Raz.”

From a ridiculously tight angle he finished beautifully, although Neto will be annoyed at the ball going right between leg stump and off stump.

Barely thirty seconds later, Bournemouth scored when a shot from Enes Unal was deflected off the unlucky Benoit Badiashile and into the net. Could Cucarella have done better? His slight slip allowed Unal to come inside.

Bollocks.

The game drifted a little. At least there were no significant updates from the UAE Air Company Stadia.

On the hour – at last! – a loud “CAM ON CHOWLSEA” followed by an equally loud “Carefree.”

We then heard that City were 3-1 up and we could relax a little.

Mauricio Pochettino made three substitutions.

Malo Gusto for Madueke.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Caicedo.

Christopher Nkunku for Sterling.

I captured the header from Nkunku, from a Palmer free-kick, that just missed the goal frame.

At the other end, Dominic Solanke – who was applauded by many as he came on as a substitute – really ought to have done better but his low shot went wide of the far post.

Chances came at both ends and the game became a lot closer than we had hoped. We created chances for Gusto and Nkunku. There was a fine low save from Petrovic up the other end.

Another substitution.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

Huge applause.

The lad from Manchester has been a revelation. He will be the main reason why I pay any attention to the European Championships in Germany later this summer.

Late on, substitute Casadei forced an error and the ball fortuitously fell to Gallagher who forced a decent save from that man Neto.

There was a header, from distance, a little similar to John Terry against Barcelona in 2005, from Thiago Silva and although we prayed for a perfect end to his Chelsea career, there was no Ricardo Carvalho on hand to spoil Neto’s view and the effort was ably saved.

Drat.

At the death, a lightning break from Bournemouth down their right caused added anxiety. The ball was played in to Dango Ouattara but Petrovic parried the low effort away. Christie was following up but a perfectly-timed scything tackle from Gallagher denied the chance. However, the ball bobbled out to Solanke who – thank God – blasted the ball over.

Alan and I looked at each other and gasped.

The added time came and went, and we had made it.

City champions, then Arsenal, then Liverpool, then Villa, then Tottenham, then us.

“We’re all going on a European tour.”

There was not too much time to wait for the farewell speech from Thiago Silva. He walked on to the pitch with his wife Belle and their two boys – a guard of honour from his team mates of course – and took a few moments to steady himself.

It is a mark of the man that virtually everybody had stayed behind for this. Often when there is a lap of honour at the end of a season such as this – no trophies – many drift off. But it again restored my faith in Chelsea Football Club to see so many supporters, evidently including many in the corporate areas such as West View, stay to witness his farewell speech.

There were ripples of applause throughout the speech and a big and booming finale greeted his closing words.

“Oh, Thiago Silva.”

What a man. What a player. What an athlete. What a professional.

These last four years have been as mad as they come, but his presence has been like a beacon for us Chelsea supporters.

Thiago – you will be missed.

We left the stadium. I popped around to collect Ron from outside the hotel, and we slowly walked back to the waiting car.

It had been a fine end to a testing season. We were all relishing the prospect of some European travels in the autumn – at least – in whatever competition we end up in. And we were all looking forward to, hopefully, a summer of stability, with thoughts of progression into 2024/25.

On a personal note, I am really looking forward to the release date of the Frome Town fixtures for next season. I am likening it to the summer of 1984 when I daydreamed of Chelsea’s away days back in the First Division for the first time in five years.

Dear reader; if you weren’t around forty years ago, you will simply have no idea of the excitement of those times.

I make no apology for dovetailing Frome’s games in with Chelsea’s games during this season. Hopefully the readership of this blog appreciates the contrasts and the extra narrative that it provides for my Chelsea rambles.

And thanks to everyone for keeping faith with me again this season. It’s a labour of love all this. It is part of my Chelsea routine. I take photos and I write. It’s what I do.

I am currently up to 1,952,777 words on here.

Next season, I will get past the two-million-word mark.

Fackinell.

As an aside, I have noticed a couple of things this season.

Firstly, there have been more and more “clicks” on the homepage, meaning that many of the good people who read these tales do not rely on Facebook links to access this website. I like that. It means they don’t need a prompt.

Secondly, despite these tales beginning life on the Chelsea In America site in 2008, there has been a continual reduction over time of viewers in the US.

In the first full year of CHELSEA/esque in 2013, the US comprised of 7,437 out of 16,895 total views. Yet so far in 2024, the US’ numbers are just 4,184 out of 26,010 total views.

2013 : 44%

2024 : 16%

But I am not worried. Viewing figures remain robust and healthy, with more and more from the UK with each passing season. That’s great. We are, after, all – despite the owners – a UK club.

Oh, the owners.

Do I have to?

These match reports always end on the day of the game; either at the final whistle, on the walk back to the car, on the drive home, or after watching “Match Of The Day.”

If there is anything that occurs the next day that requires comment, I shoe-horn it in to the next edition. But, as my next edition will not be for three months, I had best turn my attention to the events of Tuesday 21 May 2024.

I could write a lot. I could write a little. What to do?

It just struck me that it is something when 95% of opinions shared by Chelsea supporters on social media that evening backed Mauricio Pochettino, the former Tottenham manager, as opposed to backing the Chelsea board.

Yes, he did not rush to win us over, but I liked his view that he wanted to earn respect from us rather make some superficial “kiss the badge” statement or be pressurised into a sound bite. He was his own man and I kind of respected him for that. We told him at Cobham that we realised that it would take time this season. He got us into Europe. We reached one cup final. The last two months have generally been superb. The odd blip? Growing pains.

I leave with my “Facebook” post that evening.

“I feel so blessed to have been able to see a decent man go about his work last Friday. The clowns in charge of the club have left me confused and sad, angry yet helpless.

Good luck Mauricio, for a few fleeting moments it just felt right.”

Best wishes for a fine summer everyone. This football fancier will return in August with hopefully a tale or two to tell from Brazil featuring Thiago Silva.

Keep The Faith.

Cobham

The Eight Bells

Stamford Bridge

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth

Obrigado Thiago Silva

Tales From Another 5am To 1am Special

Posted on May 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2 May 2024.

I think it is fair to say that many of us in the Chelsea fraternity had been dreading the home game with Tottenham Hotspur. But then the away game at Aston Villa, and especially the second-half performance, gave us all some hope. I certainly approached the game with a lot more expectation than, for example, I could have possibly predicted after the 0-5 shellacking at Arsenal a week or so before.

I was up at just before 5am to work an early shift. The drive in to our own special part of London SW6 was as easy as it gets.

My pre-match was spent in very unfamiliar surroundings. PD and Parky, for the recent Everton game, had chosen to drink in “McGettigans” opposite the old booking hall of Fulham Broadway tube station. It is a pub that I had only ever visited on one occasion before; in the summer of 1997, with a new trophy to admire in our trophy cabinet (and only the fifth trophy in ninety-two hears I hasten to add), a little band of us did a Stamford Bridge tour. After, we decamped into “Bootsy Brogan’s” – the former “White Swan” – for a reflective pint. Over the years, the pub’s name changed a few times, but I had never returned. It has remained as the strangest of boozers. It is located perfectly for match days, a decent size, yet to this day I know of nobody at Chelsea who use it, nor who ever have. It’s a real enigma, like Chelsea Football Club itself.

I had popped in for a bang average pizza on Lillee Road and then joined up with PD and Parky, plus Salisbury Steve and Luke, at “McGettigan’s” just before 6pm. It was as I had remembered it from 1997, a big rambling pub with multiple floors. I eventually located my friends who were way down in a booth in the lower levels. Typically, there was no familiar, or even semi-familiar, faces on show. We had a good natter. Luke flicked up the Chelsea team on his mobile phone. A lot had been made of the injury list before this game, so – in a way – the team almost picked itself. There was one change from Villa; Alfie Gilchrist – who sounds like a Sarf Landon villain – in for Thiago Silva. With fourteen players out, it looked a decent enough team. On the bench was a host of youngsters, some of whom I was not familiar with.

We spoke about plans for the last four games of the season and the time soon passed. This was a 7.30pm kick-off – an earlier one than usual, good – and so we left the pub at 7pm.

I picked up several copies of the match programme on the way in. There was a photo of Thiago Silva on the cover, and the programme included a feature on a proper dodgey character on pages 22 and 23.

The kick-off soon came around.

Before the game got going, Alan and I brought each other up to speed with our second loves.

Alan has a season ticket at Bromley in the National League. He first started watching his local team in around 1979 when they played at a much lower level. He has enjoyed their resurgence in recent years. On Sunday, Alan is attending the National League play-off at Wembley against Solihull Moors. The prize is a place in the Football League. Alan will therefore be missing the West Ham game. I have spoken to Alan in the past about missing a Chelsea game because of Frome Town. It hasn’t happened yet, but I am sure it will.

Talking of play-offs, the previous day – Wednesday 2 May – I had watched Frome Town play Mousehole at home in the one game semi-final of the divisional play-offs. On a wet night, Frome blazed into a deserved 3-0 first-half lead via two goals from James Ollis and one from Kane Simpson. This was a sturdy, dominant performance with three well-taken goals. It was a different game in the second-half, and despite a sending-off for George Rigg, the home team held on. The gate was a magnificent 1,099. It was the second gate of over one thousand at Badgers Hill in just five days. On Bank Holiday Monday, Frome meet old-foes Bristol Manor Farm, in the play-off final. We are expecting the gate to top 1,500. Revenge is in the air since Manor Farm defeated us in the semi-finals two years ago.

Just before the game began, the two teams did their huddles, but the Tottenham one was down in front of their fans. I had not seen that anywhere before. I remember how Celtic were the first team, to my knowledge, to do the huddle in around 1995/96, and it was their “thing.” Since then it has been adopted by virtually all teams. The first time that I can remember us doing a huddle was when we played Vicenza in the ECWC semi-final in 1998, with us all dressed in yellow, on a rainy night in SW6.

The latest in a long line of Chelsea vs. Tottenham games kicked off. This was my forty-first Chelsea vs. Tottenham game at Stamford Bridge since my first one in October 1974, and I had only seen us lose three times; in 1978, in 1986, in 2018.

The noise was thankfully buoyant. The “Willian” song was sung loudly by the Matthew Harding, not because of the player but because of the dig at Tottenham. It got the game off to a raucous start.

We attacked the three thousand away fans and the three thousand home fans in The Shed. We almost got the game off to a dream start. Alan and I had spent a few seconds discussing how we don’t always play to Mykhailo Mudryk’s strengths, but he sped clear down the left and passed to the on-rushing Nicolas Jackson. In a flurry of activity, a shot was blocked and a rebound landed at Cole Palmer’s feet, right under the bar from our perspective. To our disbelief, he wasn’t able to correctly adjust and his effort excruciatingly flew over the bar. I was stood and my hands instinctively cupped the back of my head. Why do football fans do that when a shot dramatically misses the target? Is it intuitive or is it developed over time? I was just aware how much of a cliché I looked.

A proper “head in hands” moment.

There was a phenomenal dribble down the left from Mudryk, but he really should have passed outside to a free team-mate, and his effort blazed over. There was a riser from Noni Madueke. Then an effort from Gilchrist, another rising shot, that flew over.

A lovely shimmy inside from Madueke and a left-foot curler that I thought was just going to sneak in, but it narrowly missed the top left corner.

This was good stuff from Chelsea. I need not have been worried.

On twenty-four minutes, I was surprised that Conor Gallagher and not Palmer, dolloped a long ball at a free-kick towards the far post.

My first thoughts : “too far, that.”

But I still clicked. I caught the moment that Trevoh Chalobah rose like a salmon – talking of clichés – and beautifully headed across the Tottenham ‘keeper, whoever he was, and into the net.

The stadium roared as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Tottenham support.

Good work, son.

After the celebrations had died down a little, the mood changed.

VAR. Possible off-side.

Up came my hands to cup my head again.

We waited.

And waited.

Then a VAR check for a foul.

Memories of that VAR mayhem in the first-half at their place this season.

Boos.

One of the reasons why I hate VAR is that referees now have a reason to defer the decision-making process if they – and their linos – are unsure.

“Let VAR decide. Fuck the fans. They can wait.”

The goal stood, but I never cheered, nor did Alan, nor PD.

Who the fuck cheers a VAR decision?

Next, a close one from Mudryk, but just off target.

On the half hour, one song boomed around The Bridge.

“STAND UP IF YOU HATE TOTTENHAM.”

We continued to out-pace, out-think, out-play Tottenham for the rest of the half, but they did have two, late, rare attacks. A header from somebody, and a Chalobah block from another, those Tottenham players without names.

In the closing minutes of a really entertaining game, Clive posed a question to get us thinking.

“Name five England players from the ‘eighties whose surname began with the letter G.”

…mmm, the ‘eighties, my era, when I cared for the national team, let me think.

“One is easy, the other four not, one player played just one time.”

Alan soon got the easy one. Over the half-time break, and then into the second-half (it felt odd being distracted from the football) I managed to get the other four. Admittedly, I guessed around six or seven times incorrectly, but I got them. Clive and I often send ourselves photo teasers on “WhatsApp” to keep our minds fresh; it’s usually players or grounds. It’s our little way to stave off dementia.

Just after half-time, I was happy. I had guessed the last one.

“YES! FUCK DEMENTIA!”

There is no doubt that Tottenham bossed the first part of the second-half and we were limited to the occasional rare break, often including Madueke and Jackson, not so much Mudryk. But we held firm and limited Tottenham to the odd half-chance. There was a rare chance for Palmer but he leaned back as he shot and the ball was well high.

As the game wore on, the away fans found their voice. Just before the hour, we heard their uber-dirge for the very first time.

“On when the Spurs…”

There was a shimmy, a body-shake, from Palmer that almost defied description. He is so casual, so laid-back, almost indifferent to what else is going on, and he then produces moments of utter charm and delight. He is a real talent. Without him, this season really would have been difficult.

But Tottenham were in the ascendency now. On the hour, we were hanging on.

Alan : “If Tottenham don’t win this, it’ll be a miracle.”

I was reminded of “that” game in 2018, when we scored first yet they came back to score three, with two at The Shed End.

Ugh.

On seventy-two minutes, the industrious Marc Cucarella won a free-kick outside the box. Palmer shaped to take a shot, and I shaped to take a shot with my camera.

He caught it, I caught it.

The ball slammed against the bar, bounced up, but Jackson showed sublime predatory skills and hung in the air to nod the ball into the open corner. This was down below us at our end. We had a perfect view of this.

It dropped in.

I yelled and ascended the steps to my left, punching the air. I then had my wits to capture the run and slide by the scorer into the corner.

Oh boy, what a moment.

In truth, we scored at just the right moment. Tottenham had been on top, but were, now, surely beaten. A few of their fans decided to leave.

The rest of the game?

I have to say that Tottenham’s finishing was absolutely woeful. In another game, they could have tied it up. But this was Tottenham, at Chelsea, and after all these years, after all these games, there must be now, surely, something in the THFC DNA that says “no.”

The place grew noisy, noisy as hell.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Everywhere they go.”

Now, this was as noisy as I have heard it all season I think. Teenagers from Ruislip and Rayners Lane, schoolkids from Stoke Poges and Surbiton, battle-hardened former skinheads from Walworth and Wandsworth, grandmothers and grandfathers from Oxford and Cambridge, loyalists from Frome and Trowbridge, Stamford Bridge first-timers from New York and New Delhi, locals from Fulham and Pimlico, all joined together in song.

And one more for luck.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

There were three late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

Josh Acheampong for Gilchrist.

Jimi Tauriainen for Jackson.

More profligate finishing for Tottenham in front of The Shed gave the game a comical ending.

This was a very decent Chelsea performance.

Cucarella magnificent, Caicedo rejuvenated, Gallagher relentless, Palmer with understated efficiency, Jackson running and fighting, Chalobah firm and steady, even Badiashile was cool under pressure.

Colour me happy.

All the Tottenham lot had disappeared by the time I collected Ron outside the hotel. We walked up the North End Road among beaming Chelsea fans. Parky and PD were happy. Alas, the M4 was shut at Reading and so my cruise home was delayed. I eventually got in at 1am; another 5am to 1 am special. But I loved it.

Next up, another London derby.

Chelsea vs. West Ham United.

See you there.

Pub

Programme

“I’m from a small village in Somerset and I became a Chelsea fan – like many of my generation – as a direct result of the FA Cup win in 1970. I don’t remember the game, I just remember being around the school play yard immediately afterwards and somebody said Chelsea had won the Cup. I don’t know what, but something stuck – maybe it was the sound of the name. I was coming up to five at the time and my parents weren’t really into football, but with each passing season I became more of a fan. Then, on Christmas Day in 1973, my parents announced that they were taking me to a game, and just thinking of that now reminds me how excited I was to be going to Stamford Bridge. We only had a black-and-white TV set at the time and I don’t think I was prepared for the full colour experience that was going to hit me!

My dad was a shopkeeper in Frome and he wasn’t able to get too much time off work, but he arranged things with his boss so he could drive us up to London on March 16, 1974 – the 50th anniversary of which has recently passed. I was as excited as any eight-year-old possibly could be. I remember the tube ride to Fulham Broadway after we had arrived in London, and finally feeling like a Chelsea fan for the first time. I’d never had the chance to prove that to anybody before. We had tickets on the benches, in the West Enclosure, Row 6, towards the North Stand. At that time, the East Stand was being built and, with the TV cameras being on the West Stand back then, you never really saw what it looked like until you went. We won 1-0. Hutch [Ian Hutchinson] scored after about 10 minutes, from a cross, and I can still picture it – he kind of headed it down into the goal. My dad was only able to get time off work for us to come up twice a year, but I started to go more often once I was in sixth form.

Then I was at college in Stoke-on-Trent for three years in the mid-Eighties, which enabled me to go and see a fair few away games as well. My favourite season was 1983/84 and that was a real rite of passage campaign. I was 18, starting to go to pubs and make friends around the area. Chelsea fans from Wiltshire and Somerset always stick together because there weren’t many of us around at the time, and we still do to this day. Another important year was 1997 – getting silverware again after all those years. I was a Chelsea fan when we won the European Cup Winners’ Cup in 1971, but I don’t remember anything about it because I was only six. I remember nothing of the League Cup loss to Stoke the next year either, but I remember the cup quarter-final against Arsenal in 1973 – Osgood scored the goal of the season in the draw at the Bridge, then we lost the replay at Highbury. I remember all the near misses, the League Cup semi-final losses against Sunderland and Sheffield Wednesday, in 1985 and 1991. That’s why 1996/97 was such a memorable season, because we started to chip away at the top clubs and we had some fantastic players: Wise, Gullit, Vialli, Hughes, Zola. Magnificent. That whole FA Cup weekend we stayed up at my friend’s in south London and they were just magical times.

Growing up, I’d had one of those old pub mirrors in my bedroom – a Chelsea one – and every morning I’d gaze at it and think, “Will we ever win more than the four trophies on that mirror?” It always felt like if we could replicate ’70 and ’71 that would be quite a thing, so winning in Stockholm in 1998 to do the FA Cup and Cup Winners’ Cup back-toback again was a wonderful night. We’ve had so much success since then, and I don’t have space to go over it all here, but I’m still making that journey from Frome now, as a home and away season-ticket holder. I enjoy the good times but I don’t get too down when we don’t do so well. Football is such a fantastic thing and I’ve met so many good friends over the years. It’s all the other stuff that keeps us going – meeting up in the pub, the friendships and the laughter.

Among the friends I’ve made is someone who brings the story full circle. Ron Harris lives near me and he now comes up to games in my car. He was playing in the first game I ever went to, so it’s really quite surreal for me to be driving up to Chelsea, look in my rear-view mirror… and there’s Ron Harris sitting in the back seat.”

The Five England Players

Paul Gascoigne.

Eric Gates.

John Gregory.

Paul Goddard.

Brian Greenhoff.

Tales From The Sweet FA

Posted on April 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 April 2024.

“Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light.
Wind was blowing, time stood still.
Eagle flew out of the night.”

It was just before 7.45pm on Wednesday 17 April and the PA at Larkhall Athletic’s picturesque Plain Ham ground, high on a hill, surrounded by narrow lanes, played Peter Gabriel’s 1977 debut single. It heralded the appearance of the home team and their visitors Frome Town for the evening’s local derby. This was all very apt since Solsbury Hill is just visible beyond the northern side of the ground now that a line of trees has been cut down since my last visit.

Fresh with memories of Chelsea’s fine 6-0 against an admittedly poor Everton team, I had assembled alongside a healthy turn out of Frome followers to urge the team on towards another three points in the quest for promotion to the Southern League Premier South. But this was a nervy occasion. Frome added to the worry by conceding a cheap goal after just three minutes and did not really get going in a disjointed first-half. Substitutions were made as the second-half progressed and, thankfully, we looked a lot more efficient and purposeful. We threatened with a few pacey attacks. Thankfully, stalwart Matt Smith – out for eighteen months until very recently – smashed home a late leveller. Frome could have edged it in the very last move of the match but James Ollis’ stooping header just missed the target.

The draw was a fair result, but the worry was that with just two regular season games left, Frome were looking leggy and tired. On Saturday 20 April, on the day that Chelsea were to play Manchester City at Wembley in the FA Cup semi-final, Frome would travel to Wimborne in a top-two clash. The fixture had captured the imagination of the Frome faithful and large numbers were to travel.

However, I had the FA Cup on my mind. It would undoubtedly be my focus for the weekend.

Then, on the Thursday, the FA upset the apple cart. News filtered through concerning the atrocious decision of FA Cup replays from the first-round being scrapped from next season, apparently after precious little consultation with clubs in the FA umbrella. This annoyed me and so many others. It seemed to me that the Football Association make so much noise about diversity and inclusiveness, but this announcement suggested that the World’s greatest and most revered national knockout competition is increasingly geared towards the moneyed elite only.

This decision will help to kill the romance of the cup – “if only we can scrape a draw and get them back to our place” – to say nothing of the horrible effect on vanishing revenues. Additionally, the FA in their infinite wisdom announced that the final would not be played on a stand-alone weekend as a season finale. It all reeks of looking after the top clubs at the expense of all others. Another nail in the coffin for the once magnificent FA Cup? It certainly seems like it.

Which brings us to another reason why the FA Cup has been on a downward spiral for a couple of decades now. Our semi against City would be at Wembley, and I hate this. Wembley should be saved for finals alone. I don’t care one iota about the oft-spoken but embarrassingly mumbled words from the FA about getting more fans to see the semi-finals, the move to Wembley is all about money and nothing more.

Chelsea vs. Manchester City? Play it at Old Trafford, capacity 74,300.

Coventry City vs. Manchester United? Play it at Cardiff, capacity 74,500.

Semis at neutral venues used to be fine occasions. Chelsea in the Holte End at Villa Park in 1996 and in the North Bank at Highbury in 1997? Bloody fantastic times.

It’s hard to believe that the same sport, under the auspices of the Football Association, can induce such a difference in emotions, with different feelings of belonging, at the two levels that I actively support it; Chelsea in the Premier League, Frome Town in the Southern League South. It is a modern-day football conundrum and I am not sure that I have the patience to solve it.

However, certainly at the professional level, the FA know Fuck All – sweet FA, sweet Fanny Adams – about what makes football special. I would not trust them to do anything in our interests. But the same could be said of UEFA and FIFA. I dislike them all with a passion.

Despite all of this nonsense, Saturday 20 April was set up to be some sort of footballing day of destiny for me, and it seems that we have had a few of those over the years. I collected PD at 8am, I collected Parky at 8.30am. The plan, though not solidified, was to meet up with some friends as the day got going. However, the day in London was always going to start with a fry-up at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at around 10.30am. We arrived on the dot. Despite a very tasty breakfast – bacon, egg, baked beans, black pudding, bubble and squeak, two rounds of toast, a mug of strong tea, £8.40 – in the back of my mind was the gnawing realisation that a breakfast in the “Half Moon” equated to a Wembley defeat, dating back a few years now. It’s a tough habit to break, though.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at around 11am and we made our way to Earls Court for 11.15am. Salisbury Steve was further north at Edgware Road and wisely decided not to double back to Earls Court. We strode into “The Blackbird” – not an unfamiliar pub to us – and I got the first round in, but was shocked to see that a single pint of “Peroni” was £7.45, probably the dearest I have ever paid in the UK.

We were joined by friends from Columbus in Ohio; Andrew, Steve, Neil and Adrian. This was a first visit to England for Adrian. I made sure he realised how lucky he was to get a ticket for this game. We trotted around the corner to “The King’s Head” which only I had visited previously. We stayed here – we had the whole place to ourselves for the first half-an-hour – for a couple of hours. We had a lovely chuckle. It’s a great pub.

Originally, this weekend was geared up for a Brighton away game and Steve, who is getting married in September, was using the weekend as his “stag do”; we had been invited along. Due to our progress in the FA Cup, those plans took a hammering. But here we were. I noted what was playing on the jukebox; Paul Weller’s “Wildwood.”

“Raise your glasses boys. Here we are in a London pub. Off to Wembley to see Chelsea, four of you for the first time. Paul Weller on the juke box. Life is good.”

Steve told a great story. He knew that PD and I had heart issues over the past few years and so he spoke of a friend who had had a heart scare and was now looped up to a heart monitor. He was sitting at home one evening, alone. All of a sudden he hears “beep” and he is immediately worried. After a few seconds, another “beep”. He had been told that if he has a heart attack, to brace himself, so – fearing the worst – he gripped a nearby chair. Another “beep” and then another.

“Beep.”

He then realised that it was his young child’s electronic toy beeping as its battery was low.

Fackinell.

Oh God, we were howling.

We caught a tube up to Marylebone, changing at Paddington, and we made a bee-line for “The Allsop Arms” where we knew some mates were based, with not much of a line at the bar. We stayed here from about 2.30pm to 3.45pm. From 3pm, I was wired into Frome Town and Wimborne Town’s “Twitter” accounts, bracing myself for good – or bad – news.

Beep.

“Matt Smith and George Rigg recalled.”

Beep.

“A cagey opening.”

Beep.

“No goals at half-time.”

We made our way up to Marylebone, catching the 4.15pm train to Wembley Stadium.

While on the ten-minute train journey, my mate Francis texted me.

Beep.

“One mother-fucking-nil to The Dodge.”

Oh you absolute beauty. The lads alongside me were pleased too. On the packed train, there were plenty of Chelsea chants but one song dominated.

“We’re gonna have a party when Arsenal fuck it up.”

I sang different lyrics.

“We’re gonna have a party when Wimborne fuck it up.”

Sadly, as I was walking up towards Wembley Stadium train station, Francis texted again.

Beep.

“They’ve equalised.”

Beep.

“Gate 2,307.”

This stunned me. What an amazing attendance for a level eight game.

As I found my seats in the top tier of the south-west corner at 4.50pm, one last text.

Beep.

“Final score.”

It was time to fully focus on Chelsea now.

The team was announced.

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Gallagher

Jackson

So, the cool head and the cool feet of Thiago Silva got the nod over other options – despite Axel Diasi’s masterclass of a defensive performance at Manchester City a few months back – and the manager had chosen to play Conor Gallagher wide left. Raheem Sterling’s absence spoke volumes.

City? Erling Haaland wasn’t playing; not even on the bench. Good.

Kick-off approached. A City song – seemingly stuck in the mid-‘seventies – was aired on the PA and there was no singalong from them. Instead a loud and proud “Carefree” drowned it out. This, of course, pleased me. On every visit to Wembley, I make mental notes about the vocal performance of the two competing teams.

Advantage us.

Our song, “Blue Day”, was cheered.

Two displays took over the two ends of the stadium. Our mosaic looked a bit patchy, their banner looked decent.

In the West End :

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS. THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”

In the East End :

“THE BEST TEAM IN THE LAND AND ALL THE WORLD.”

“CITY ARE BACK. CITY ARE BACK.”

I wondered if City were stickering up that end in preparation for the United fans who would be occupying the same seats on the Sunday. There were inflatable bananas, how 1989, bouncing around in City’s lower tier. There were empty seats in both ends but many more in the City end.

At 5.15pm, the game began.

We probably started the strongest with Gallagher breaking past his last man, Kyle Walker, a couple of times and Nicolas Jackson wriggling free with his pace but shooting at Stefan Ortega. There was a long-range effort from Cole Palmer but it was not nearly as well executed as against Everton a few days earlier.

Phil Foden was set up by Kevin de Bruyne with a fine through-ball but the City urchin was thankfully forced wide and the covering Marc Cucarella, enjoying a really fine first twenty minutes, headed the ball away.

Before the game I had been quietly confident of us doing well and as the first-half developed I was more than happy with our play.

Just before the half-hour, the loudest chant of the evening thus far :

“And its Super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”

Good stuff.

At around that time, in a quiet moment, I heard the City lot sing “Blue Moon” but that was honestly the only time I can remember hearing from them until very late in the game.

Enzo Fernandez had begun so quietly that I had forgotten that he was on the pitch. However, another quick break ensued when he played in Jackson. His touch took him too far to the left and he could not get a shot in. In the end, the promising move fizzled out when his cross across the box was hacked away.

Groans.

However, our support remained at decent levels. On thirty-seven minutes, the whole end got together in a bone crushing “Amazing Grace.”

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

Stirring stuff.

We were surely winning the fight between the two sets of fans.

The mercurial Palmer had been linking up well with Noni Madueke and also the dependable Malo Gusto. Our right flank was looking strong. A shot from Madueke was blocked by John Stones.

Then, Palmer found himself in a little space inside the box after a fine move involving Trevoh Chalobah but his shot at goal was weak and at the ‘keeper.

Bar a few defensive errors, and a couple of Manchester City efforts, we had played well. City, after their Champions League exit on Wednesday, were looking tired. We just needed to be a little more confident and to run at spaces a little more. I chatted a little to the bloke behind me. We both admitted that although Nicolas Jackson is far – very far – from the finished article, he is a handful and has shown glimpses.

Glimpses. That word again.

A couple of old-school football tunes were aired at the start of the half-time break.

“Blue Monday” from 1983 – Manchester City?

“A Town Called Malice” from 1982 – Chelsea? Certainly Frome Town.

But then this normality came to a crushing standstill when a constantly smiling DJ played a set down to my left in front of the Chelsea supporters. Dance music boomed out – I recognised Rozalla and “Everybody’s Free (To Feel Good) from 1991 and the inevitable “Insomnia” by Faithless from 1995 – but this just seemed to be a ridiculous addition to a football match.

Oh well, at least she seemed to be enjoying herself.

The second-half began with our team attacking us.

Very soon into the restart, Jackson was presented with two excellent chances to score. Gallagher stayed strong and played him in. He ran in centrally and I am sure we all felt that a goal was possible. Alas, his low shot was too near the City ‘keeper and the chance passed. However, from the same move, Palmer chipped the ball into the six-yard box and the stooping Jackson headed the ball down but straight at Ortega.

Fackinell.

On the hour, a super-loud version of “Super Chelsea.”

Music to my lug-holes.

A free-kick to Chelsea about thirty yards out made me wonder if Palmer would go for goal. Indeed, he decided to shoot. The ball struck the wall and flew off for a corner. But wait, there was a VAR check for a handball, which surprised me.

No penalty, but – baffling – no corner either.

Jack Grealish danced inside the box and rolled the ball to Foden. A low shot was nicely kept out by Petrovic, who had not really been tested too much until then.

Doku, on for Grealish, was given far too much time as he advanced. He shot at an angle but Petrovic hacked it away.

I was stood, many were stood. I had been stood the whole match in fact. The game got older, nerves tightened.

Some substitutions.

Axel Disasi for the injured Gusto.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the tiring Madueke.

De Bruyne blazed a shot wide. He had had a stinker.

On eighty-four minutes, Doku was again given far too much space – “get closer!” – and he found De Bruyne. His cross was pushed out by Petrovic at the near post but the ball fell agonisingly for Bernardo Silva to smash home.

Bollocks.

Immediate thoughts of Virgil Van Dyke scoring one just two minutes from time at the same goal in late February.

Sigh.

Now the City fans could be heard.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella, probably my player of the match.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo, another disappointing performance from him.

We chased the game, eight minutes of extra time were to be played, and I absolutely loved the fact that virtually no Chelsea supporters left before the final whistle. There were a few raids on the City defence, but our attempts ran out of fizz.

To sum up our lack-lustre end to the game, and with just seconds remaining but with virtually everybody bar Petrovic up, Mudryk floated a free kick from down below us over everybody and the ball embarrassingly went off for a goal-kick.

Bollocks.

Tales From 544 Miles And 40 Years Of Friendship

Posted on April 13, 2024 by Chris Axon

Sheffield United vs. Chelsea : 7 April 2024.

On this weekend of football, there would be the need for extensive travel plans to enable me to make back-to back trips to East Devon and South Yorkshire.

On the Saturday, I drove the seventy miles down to a Devon seaside town where Exmouth Town were up against Frome Town. This particular trip brought back some horrible memories from last season when the home team inflicted a 5-0 defeat on Frome. Frome went into this game in prime position in the league table, hoping for an away win, but also hoping that our rivals Wimborne Town might drop points at home to Paulton Rovers. In blustery conditions, playing on a soft pitch, the game was always going to be a tough one. It did not help when our star player Jon Davies went off early with a nasty injury. However, we soon heard that Wimborne were losing 1-0, and so a cheer went up from the decent away following. The game developed into a scrappy affair in very difficult conditions, and despite some late pressure on the Exmouth rear-guard, a goal was not forthcoming. The match ended goal-less. We were to learn that Wimborne had recovered well to win their game 2-1. Frome Town, however, grimly clung on to top spot, despite being level on points and with the same goal difference as Wimborne. We remained top because we had scored one solitary goal more.

Talk about tight margins…

I was up early, at around 7am, on the Sunday. Again, PD was my only travelling companion for this Chelsea trip, a visit to Bramall Lane for our game against Sheffield United. I picked him up in Frome at 8am. This would be PD’s first-ever visit to Bramall Lane; it would only be my second.

Over the years that I have been watching Chelsea play, our paths haven’t crossed too often.

My only previous visit to Bramall Lane had taken place on Saturday 28 October 2006.

From the date of my first Chelsea game in 1974 to this game thirty-two years later, we had only visited Sheffield United six times.

I travelled-up to the game in 2006 alone but dropped in to see a friend – and Sheffield United supporter – Simon at his house a few miles to the south and west of his team’s home stadium. On that occasion, we went 2-0 up soon into the second-half – goals from Frank Lampard and Michael Ballack – but my abiding memory of the match is how Jose Mourinho didn’t “go for it” in the remainder of the game. It left me a little deflated. Here we were, a team in our pomp, but seemingly happy to be content with a 2-0 win against a team that would be relegated at the season’s end. I remember saying to my match day companions “Ferguson would be urging his United players to score five or six against this lot.”

Our team that day?

Hilario

Ferreira – Carvalho – Terry – Bridge

Ballack – Essien – Lampard

Robben – Drogba – Cole

Petr Cech had been badly injured at the away game at Reading just a fortnight earlier, and Hilario was his replacement. But elsewhere, what a team, eh? At the end of 2006/7 – and despite only losing three league games – we would finish six points behind Manchester United in second place.

We stopped off for a breakfast at Strensham Services at 9.30am. The place was awash with Manchester United supporters en route to Old Trafford for their match with Liverpool. A part of me wanted to ask each and every one of them what they thought of their team’s late capitulation at Stamford Bridge the previous Thursday.

PD mentioned a “Facebook Memory” from forty years ago. On Saturday 7 April 1984, Chelsea walloped Fulham in the old Second Division in front of 31,947. This game is not usually featured as an important game in a season of many important matches, but it remains important to me. This was the afternoon that I first met my Chelsea pal Alan, who has been sitting alongside me at Stamford Bridge in The Sleepy Hollow since 1997 and at away games since 2006. This was perfect timing, since Alan would be attending his first Chelsea away game at Bramall Lane since Luton Town in late December.

Forty years, eh?

From that chance meeting on The Benches in April 1984, we have shared so many amazing Chelsea moments, so much laughter, and our friendship is one that I absolutely treasure. From The Benches in 1984, to the Full Members Cup Final in 1986, to Wembley and then Fulham Broadway in 1997, to nights out in Blackpool, Scarborough and Brighton, to Stuttgart in 2004, to Bolton in 2005, to Depeche Mode at Wembley in 2006, to Moscow in 2008, to Munich in 2012 and Elizabeth Fraser at the Royal Festival Hall a month or so later, to Amsterdam in 2013, to Jerusalem and Bethlehem in 2015 and to New Order in Brixton in the same year, to Baku in 2017, and all points north, south, east and west in between, from “They’ll have to come at us now” to “Come on my little diamonds”, it has been a fucking pleasure.

We were back on the road at 10am and it didn’t seem too long before I had turned off the M1 at Chesterfield – the town’s crooked spire looking quite ridiculous – to approach Sheffield via the A61. I was aware that Sheffield was a city built on hills and I had mentioned to PD that I fully expected us to meet the brink of a hill and then to see the city displayed before us. I was not wrong. The sight of Sheffield down below us in the bright sunshine was splendid. There was a fleeting moment of being excited about visiting a relatively unknown city. I hope that I never stop experiencing those thrills, however mundane it might seem to others.

In the week or so leading up to the game, I had contacted Simon once again. I last saw him at a mutual friend’s mother’s funeral in Rotherham in 2015, but we often chat about the performances of our two teams. A few years ago, Simon embarked on a massive cycle ride – from south to north – and cycled through my home village without either of us realising it. In this recent chat, Simon had recommended the “Golden Lion” on London Road as being “away-fan-friendly” but I didn’t fancy getting there too soon in case this wasn’t the case.

So, my plan had always been to stop off en route to Bramall Lane and to drop into a local pub away from the madding crowd for a while. We did so at “The Abbey” pub at Woodseats, just as the road continued its slow march towards the city centre.

It was midday. We were ridiculously early for the 5.30pm kick-off, but we very content and happy to kill a few hours in this pub before getting closer to the ground. I soon texted Simon to say that we were plotted up at “The Abbey” and – typical – he said that it had been his local when he had lived nearby a few years previously. PD sank some lagers, I sank some “Diet Cokes” and we kept an eye on the events at Ibrox.

At around 2.30pm, I drove the last couple of miles into the city.

Sheffield is not a city that I know too well. There were visits to Hillsborough in 1985, 1986 and in 1996 and that sole match at Bramall Lane in 2006.

In previous editions of these match reports, I have called Sheffield “the forgotten football city” and it still feels to me that this rings true, and probably not just to me. The city’s two clubs are big – if not massive – yet the city has experienced just three Premier League seasons since Sheffield Wednesday dropped out of the top flight in the year 2000; Sheffield United in 2020/21, 2021/22 and now in 2023/24.

Sheffield Wednesday’s last major honour was the League Cup in 1991, their only success since an FA Cup win in 1935 and Sheffield United’s last honour was the Football League Championship in 1925.

It feels like the city is in desperate need of a footballing renaissance.

The brief drive to my parking spot at a local school took me right past the “Golden Lion” pub. Just after 12.45pm, PD got drinks in. The boozer was full of Sheffield United fans, many wearing colours, and the walls were plastered with memorabilia. We zipped into the beer garden where two Chelsea supporters were waiting for my arrival. Tommie Senior and Tommie Junior – aged just four – were over from Los Angeles for a couple of games. I had sorted tickets for them for the Everton game, but they had managed to find tickets by themselves for this game.

We had a good old chat and waited for others to arrive. Deano, Dave and Gary – from Lancashire – joined us, along with a few more semi-familiar Chelsea faces, and then Simon arrived. It was lovely to see him again.

So here we all were; Chelsea fans from the West Country, Chelsea fans from Lancashire, Chelsea fans from California and a Sheffield United fan from Sheffield. It was a fine pre-match.

I explained the lyrics to Tommie of the Sheffield United “hymn” that would undoubtedly be aired during the game. Teaching a guy from Los Angeles about gallons of Magnet, pinches of snuff and greasy chip butties was perhaps one of my most testing conversations of recent seasons.

We set off for the ground in good time. I wanted to circumnavigate the stadium, no doubt like I did with Simon in 2006, and I wanted to take a few photographs of course. We walked across the car park where Yorkshire once played cricket until the main stand, now the Tony Currie Stand, was constructed in 1975. Until then, Bramall Lane was an oddly-lopsided ground, similar to the one at Northampton Town, hosting both cricket and football.

Simon told me that he had recently completed some research for a local website detailing the football heritage of Sheffield. Sheffield FC, located a few miles to the south, are the oldest football club in the entire world that is still in existence. They date from 1857. Nearby Hallam FC is third on that list, formed three years later.

Sheffield has so much football history, though very little recent silverware.

I loved the colours and the architecture at Bramall Lane, the old turnstiles, the angles, the red bricks, the signs and the way it feels like a part of the community. Simon lamented the facilities in The Kop though, where at half time you have to make a decision whether to use the toilets or get some refreshments. The queues are too long to do both.

As we turned a corner we wished each other well and said our goodbyes.

There is always a certain nervousness as I approach the stewards at the away turnstiles, but after I opened up my camera bag, the young lad made a comment that pleased me.

“Ah, a camera. Take some good photos.”

If only this attitude existed elsewhere.

The away concourse was packed, and the youngsters in our support seemed to be on the very cusp of throwing their beer everywhere. I nervously edged my way through, shielding the camera as I went. The 5.30pm kick off – ridiculous, thank you Footballing Gods – had obviously enabled many in our support to get tanked up from late morning.

I soon found our seats near the front. I soon asked a friend to take a photo of Alan and little old me to celebrate our Chelsea anniversary.

Lots of faces nearby. Lots of bevvied-up faces too. Fackinell.

It was obvious from the off that the gate would be several thousand shy of the capacity, a shame. There were swathes of empty seats in The Kop at the other end of the stadium. Bramall Lane is a neat enough stadium, but its single tiered stands on three sides do not give it much of a presence. I wondered if there were plans to enlarge the Tony Currie Stand. The pitch is set back from the pitch and there is certainly room in the car park behind. Our end was the only double-decked stand, but our support was stretched out in the entirety of the lower, and I suspected that it would be difficult to generate much noise.

The team? Thiago Silva returned, but alas there was no Malo Gusto.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher – Palmer

Jackson

The five of us were lined up in Row G as below :

Gal, John, me, Al, PD.

Sheffield United featured the wonderfully-named Bogle and Trusty, and also Brereton, the Chilean international from Stoke.

Bloody hellfire, duck.

The teams entered the pitch and the locals joined in with their hymn.

“You fill up my senses
Like a gallon of Magnet.
Like a packet of Woodbines.
Like a good pinch of snuff.
Like a night out in Sheffield.
Like a greasy chip butty.
Like Sheffield United
Come fill me again.”

With the sun shining above, the game began.

We attacked The Kop and began brightly enough. Noni Madueke made a few forceful runs out wide and at least one took him deep inside the Sheffield United box. I captured our first real shot in anger, one from the raiding Cole Palmer that was blocked.

A new song, but quite irritating too.

“Palmer again, ole, ole. Palmer again, ole, ole. Palmer again, Palmer again. Palmer again, ole, ole.”

6/10.

After just eleven minutes, Conor Gallagher dropped a high ball from a corner on our right into a dangerous area of the box and to our amazement, Silva was completely unmarked and able to calmly side-foot the ball in on the volley.

I forget who it was now, but one of my favourite sporting comments came from somebody who, when talking about cricket, wished that, as a batter, he was able to face his own bowling. On this occasion, such was the lack of resistance, it looked like Chelsea attacking a Chelsea defence.

Sheffield United 0 Chelsea1.

Easy.

Alan : “They’ll have to cum at us naa.”

Chris : “Cum on me little diamunds.”

The away choir rattled the home crowd.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

This seemed odd to me, as I still remember the titanic battles with Sheffield Wednesday back in the mid-‘eighties, and I wasn’t particularly happy that we were now siding with Wednesday. Old habits and all that.

We are a funny bunch, us football fans.

We all hoped to put a stranglehold on the game, but this is still a fragile team. Just like in 2006, we didn’t get at them. If anything, the home team came at us. The sun disappeared behind the clouds and we struggled to shine. Our passing was laboured and there was not enough bite in midfield nor movement in attack.

I was just about to praise the super-cool Silva for effortlessly dealing with an attack a few yards away when the same player inadvertently played a suicide ball to Oli McBurnie. The ball was passed to Senor Brereton but Moises Caicedo was suitably placed to deflect the effort away from Petrovic.

Phew.

The diminutive but busy Gustavo Hamer forced a fine save from Petrovic. The away support sighed with worry.

On the half-hour and with our chances drying up, the home team pounced. That man Hamer played in Bogle, running free, and from an angle he slashed the ball into the net, beating Petrovic easily at the near post.

Sheffield United 1 Chelsea 1.

Oh God.

The Blades in the main stand to our right sharpened their tongues and aimed some vitriol back at us.

“Just like Sheffield, your city is red.”

Righty-oh.

We countered with a few breaks, but it was all so unconvincing. The first-half petered out amidst moans in the away end.

At the break, the woman behind me – who had been slumped with her head in her hands for fifteen minutes, the victim of too many pre-match drinks – summed up the mood in the away end.

She was sick.

Luckily, Gary, John and I – who would have been in the line of fire – were away from the torrent as it cascaded down the terrace steps.

The second-half began and the temperature had noticeably dropped as the evening drew on. Sadly, it was the home team who went for the jugular. I wasn’t sure where Simon was watching the game, but he must have been happy with his team’s showing. They peppered our goal with a few efforts.

We retaliated with a couple of efforts; a header from Silva at a corner, a drive from Madueke.

“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”

On sixty-six minutes, the relatively quiet Palmer played the ball wide to Madueke and as he drove on and then twisted inside, I prepared my camera for a hopeful money shot. He shot, as did I. The ball fizzed past Ivo Grbic and I snapped away, screaming no doubt, as Madueke ran towards us.

Sheffield United 1 Chelsea 2.

Grbic then saved a good effort from distance from Palmer. A goal then, surely, would have killed the game.

Palmer was replaced by Carney Chukwuemeka.

Later, Madueke was replaced by Mykhailo Mudryk.

On eighty-six minutes, a superb save at full stretch from Petrovic kept a looping header out. It was one of the saves of the season, a magnificent stop.

I had been watching Benoit Badiashile and Cesare Casadei warming up near us on the touchline, but I was shocked to see them brought on so late in the game; Badiashile replaced Cucarella, Casadei replaced Jackson. I guess the idea was to pack our defensive lines full of taller players, but it smacked of desperation from my viewpoint in the away end.

Lo and behold, on ninety-three minutes, a Sheffield United attack did not want to die and a ball was chipped into our box. It was headed away by Enzo but only to a Sheffield United player. His header was flicked on. My sixth-sense easily sensed the equaliser. The ball fell, too easily, at the feet of McBurnie who bundled the ball in from close in.

Sheffield United 2 Chelsea 2.

Bollocks.

The anger in the away end was palpable, yet I am afraid I have seen this all too often to get too down about dropped points.

The referee soon signalled the end of the game.

Not much of a game, not much of a match report.

We stayed in ninth place, just away from everything of note.

PD and I slowly trudged back to the car, and for a while the match-day traffic slowed my immediate progress south. As we crept out of Sheffield, we devoured some home-made sandwiches, and I badly needed that sustenance. The traffic soon cleared, and I made good time on the return leg. I had driven five-hundred and forty-four miles to the games in Exmouth and Sheffield and I soon fell asleep once I reached home at midnight.

We have a rest of eight days now. On Monday 15 April, we reconvene at Stamford Bridge for the visit of Everton. See you there.