Tag Archives: Raheem Sterling

Tales From A Fun Time

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Burnley vs. Chelsea : 7 October 2023.

Oops, I had best call it a proper fun time. It seems to me that everyone in London, and maybe beyond, uses “proper” at every opportunity these days.

Here’s how it happened.

The planning for this game in Lancashire began a long time ago. When it became evident that there would be no European adventures for Chelsea Football Club in 2023/24, we soon realised that we would really miss these excursions to distant locations. We therefore decided to fully make the most of this domestic season and would aim to stay over at a few Northern towns and cities. Once fixture lists were announced, and then the fine tweaks duly followed, I jumped into action. Rather than visiting Turin, Milan, Nuremburg and Salzburg as we did last autumn, this season’s early adventures would feature stays in Burnley, Newcastle, Manchester and Liverpool.

With a hospital appointment imminent, Parky was unable to take up his place on this trip and so was replaced by PD’s son Scott. Glenn would join us too. I booked our accommodation; a house that was only a fifteen-minute walk from Turf Moor. There would be a room each for about £40 each. It looked decent. We anxiously waited for the days to drift past. The Monday game at Fulham came and went. Another win, two on the trot, could we make it three in a row?

I picked up the chaps in Frome at 6am and headed north. We stopped off for a quick bite to eat at Strensham Services near Worcester at around 7.30am and then made excellent time. We all recognised the approach into Burnley; I always make a point of acknowledging those terraced houses with the grey slate tiles to the west of the town centre and those brooding Pennine moors to the east. We drove close to the digs on Leyland Street but aimed for the Queen Victoria pub instead. This would be our base camp. We walked in to the pub, which sits adjacent to a quiet curve of the Liverpool and Leeds Canal, at 10.28am. We soon found out that alcohol was to be served from 10.30am.

Perfect.

I may or may not have uttered my line about working in logistics.

Unbelievably the pint of “Madri” – a relatively new addition, Spanish sounding, but English – was my very first alcoholic drink of this football season. For all of the previous twelve Frome Town and nine Chelsea games I had driven, and thus not been tempted by a single bevvy.

And you know what? It didn’t taste particularly nice. Maybe I was a changed man. I followed it up with a “Diet Coke”, but only because I had to drive the car back to the digs for an early check-in at midday, and I just didn’t want to tempt fate. I almost enjoyed the “Coke” more than the “Madri.”

I walked back to the pub in only five minutes.

“Great digs lads. Really nice.”

Deano and Dave from further west and north, Silverdale in Lancashire, had joined us. The pre-match chat was animated and surprisingly varied. I told a story from another time.

“Just after the Second World War, maybe when she was sixteen or so, my mother spent one summer in the Land Army, as a Land Girl, I think in Sussex. She befriended a girl, Muriel, from Burnley, and she once travelled up from Somerset to Burnley by train to spend a few days in Burnley at Muriel’s house. I wonder what my mother would have thought about a son of hers staying in Burnley almost eighty years later.”

I suddenly felt old, the town felt old and the memories of my mother talking about that visit seemed positively ancient. I paused by myself for a moment, thinking about Mum’s journey from a bucolic Somerset village to a grey mill town in post-war Lancashire. That must have been a drastic contrast for my mother. I pondered if there has always been a “north/south divide.”

I had told my good mate Mark, a Blackburn Rovers fan, that I would be staying overnight in Burnley, and I was only surprised that he did not pepper me with abuse. Blackburn and Burnley are two ends of a great divide too. There is no love lost whatsoever.

I also remembered the time, in November 1996, when my mother and I stayed at Mark’s mother’s house in Darwen one memorable weekend. Mark and I had lost our fathers within a year of each other and there was a bond that soon grew. Our mothers had lots to talk about as they wandered around the shops of Bolton while Mark and I went off to Ewood Park to the match. It was Gianfranco Zola’s debut, the 1-1 draw. I am sure that my mother’s stay in Burnley, almost exactly fifty years previous, was mentioned on a few occasions

In 2023, Mark’s text message was simple.

“Just beat them.”

I was warming to the pints of “Madri” and a few other Chelsea faces were flitting around; Spencer from Swindon, Mark and his father Chris – I always call him “Mr. Pink” for the shirt that he always wears at away games, plus a few more.

I didn’t know this, but PD told me that his first-ever football game was a 0-0 draw at Eastville between Bristol Rovers and Oldham Athletic in the mid-‘seventies. He went with his father and he hated it.

“Dead boring.”

I was hoping to tie down the exact date, but there are a few choices; Bristol Rovers drew 0-0 at home to Oldham on 26 August 1976, on 24 September 1977 and on 24 March 1979. I think PD was going to Chelsea by 1979, so that very first game was either in 1976 and 1977.

I asked Deano how he first became part of our extended family clan. It officially started when he was watching England play cricket in Barbados. He watched our FA Cup game at Wigan Athletic on a TV in a bar on 26 January 2008 (that date is easier to pin down) alongside mutual friends Pauline and Mick and the rest, as they say, is history.

It was 2pm and time to head to the ground. We strode past our house – a new build – on Leyland Road, but I was lost in thought as I wondered if the older terraced houses opposite might have housed Muriel’s house in 1946. The sun was beating down and everything was perfect in my immediate world. We slid past the cricket club, where hundreds of Chelsea fans were enjoying beers, with many stood outside on the boundary.

The façade to the main stand at Turf Moor has had a lick of paint since our last visit eighteen months ago, so I inevitably took a few “scene setter” photos before joining up with the lads in the large awning outside the away end that housed a busy bar. It was only pint number four. This was quite a gentle start to the day’s drinking from me. The songs boomed around the tent. I chatted to a few friends.

I soon met up with Alan, John and Gary in the seats and Scott joined us too. PD was a few rows behind us, with Glenn and Deano close by also.

I like Turf Moor, a nice mix of old and new, but I am not a fan of how the corners opposite have been infilled with executive boxes, a little like Craven Cottage. I used to like peering into the gaps and spotting smoking chimneys above terraced houses, and a glimpse of the hills behind. Maybe I am just too much of a football romantic. They only hills that can be seen now at Turf Moor are a thin slither away to the right, squeezed between the away end and the slight stand that runs along the touchline.

Thoughts turned to the game, to the team.

During the week, I had re-read my match report from the game at Fulham in January to contrast what I had just written about Monday’s match. To my absolute surprise, I was amazed that only Thiago Silva had played in both games; from January to October, just this one player linked both teams.

This actually saddened me. Some of the players from January had been passengers at times but at least I knew them.

This lost were just new.

I don’t really know them at all yet.

Maybe this would be the day that this would change.

The teams walked diagonally onto the pitch. Both clubs in their traditional colours. No real surprises in our team.

Sanchez

Cucarella – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo – Gallagher

Palmer – Broja – Sterling

The Chelsea crowd were in fine form but there were a few unsurprising boos as both teams kneeled before the game began. Despite a few beers, I had not yet joined in with any of the pre-game songs. Forty-seconds in, the away choir aired “Amazing Grace” and I was sucked in.

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

The sun shone down on Turf Moor and the players danced in and out of the shadows.

“Come on Chels.”

For the first quarter of an hour, we absolutely dominated the ball. Raheem Sterling was involved but exuded that hard-to-like mix of skill and spill.

On thirteen minutes, he was set free by a fine pass from the educated boot of Cole Palmer. He turned inside and we all shouted “shoot!”

He did, but the ball narrowly evaded the far post.

“Ooooooh.”

Then, a real calamity. The home team broke quickly on their right, and Axel Disasi was easily passed. The ball was pushed from Vitinho to Lyle Foster who in turn found Wilson Odobert outside. Marc Cucarella was unable to block the shot and he calmly slotted low past Robert Sanchez.

And just like that, with one attack, we were losing.

It was all too easy.

Fackinell.

A quip from Gary.

“There’s more holes in our defence than in Gallagher’s socks.”

Our play deteriorated, with little variation. Not for the first time nor the last time, we were obsessed with hitting the wide men. On a couple of occasions, a huge tract of land leading right through the central area, from Silva to Broja, was clear, yet we chose to go laterally.

We needed to give Broja something to sniff.

I heard voices in my poor head of TV experts talking about “passing lanes” and I wondered if our passing lanes were so poorly marked – maybe like motorway lanes that are festooned with temporary markers – that nothing is clear, nothing is simple, chaos reigns.

Burnley themselves had the occasional sniff.

We created only half-chances; not good enough from Sterling nor Enzo. The songs and chants continued to cascade down from the supporters all around me, but this was becoming difficult to watch.

Then Sterling, our most consistent threat in a poor half, went close at the near post.

Just before the break, with a few Chelsea supporters heading off to get served in the tight concourse below, I was making a few notes on my phone and therefore missed the equaliser. Was it a goal from Sterling or was it a deflected own goal? I did not know.

It was 1-1 and thank heavens it was.

At the start of the second-half, Nicolas Jackson took over from Broja.

As the game re-started, I decided to sit down, such was my lack of enjoyment and involvement with the game. This really is unlike me. I feared for humanity.

Thus, to go along with me missing the goal, I also missed the apparently reckless foul on Sterling that lead to a quick penalty decision. But of course, VAR had to poke its nose into everything so there was the usual delay – which surely favours the ‘keeper rather than the penalty-taker – before the decision was upheld. It was so obvious a penalty that the VAR decision was applauded by nobody in our end. Jackson had grabbed the ball, but it soon ended up in the hands of Palmer.

He slotted it home nicely.

I captured it on film, maybe making up for earlier errors.

Get in.

The Chelsea crowd roared as the scorer raced down to the corner flag to celebrate.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD” – plus a photo of Alan too.

Smiles all round.

One lad to our left was seen wearing the away shirt from the new “Chelsea Collection” range. This much derided kit, home produced in 1986 for one year only, was hated by virtually everyone at the time; crap design, crap quality, crap Millwall badge. Yet, here we are almost forty years later, and the club has re-issued it.

It’s proof, if any is needed, that people will buy any old shite.

But I spotted some flaws.

“Both the jade and the grey is too dark, Gal.”

We joked about it further.

“If you hold it up to the light, an image of Ken Bates appears.”

“Like a hologram.”

“Like the Turin Shroud.”

We chuckled.

On fifty-three minutes, Burnley forced a fine finger-tip save from Sanchez at the other end, Odobert the threat once again.

Scott began to bang the metal panels next to him and the crowd responded with loud shouts in support of the team.

On sixty-five minutes, a really fine counter. Moises Caicedo broke up the play, pushed the ball to Conor Gallagher and found Sterling in the inside-left channel again. The whole away end sensed a goal. How quickly things had changed. He calmly struck low past James Trafford in the Burnley goal and the scorer again drifted down to the corner to celebrate.

It seemed we were on fire in this increasingly impressive second-half. On seventy-five minutes, we attacked with pace and venom again. There was a ball out to Sterling and I honed in on his facial expression. His face was lit, his eyes were popping, he was full of joy. He attacked with the ball at his feet, and it seemed to me that his whole body language was saying “this is my moment, this is what I do well, just watch me.” I looked up to see an unmarked Palmer at the far post. Sterling had seen him too. His long cross was just perfection. But Palmer, rather than smash it at goal, took a touch and moved it inside to Jackson who was positioned centrally. He was marked tightly, but a quick spin and the defender was out of the game. The striker then tapped the ball in.

It was a wonderful goal.

Burnley 1 Chelsea 4.

Down to the far corner again.

Joy. Joy. Joy. Joy.

Mauricio Pochettino made two late subs; Mykhailo Mudryk for Sterling and Ian Maatsen for Palmer.

By then, it was all over bar the shouting, but there was a lot of that in the away end.

There was even a heavily tongue-in-cheek round of “We’re Gonna Win The League” and we all laughed.

I received a text from Mark.

“That will do.”

Indeed, it would.

I backtracked and realised that on my last four visits to Turf Moor, we had scored four each time.

28 October 2018 : Burnley 0 Chelsea 4.

26 October 2019 : Burnley 2 Chelsea 4.

5 March 2022 : Burnley 0 Chelsea 4.

7 October 2023 : Burnley 1 Chelsea 4.

Even Mark’s Rovers won 4-0 at Loftus Road.

Back at “The Queen Victoria” there was the warm glow of a victory mixed in with the warm glow of alcohol. We had bumped into a few more Chelsea supporters at the game and on the way back, and there was a lovely mood in the pub for a while. We were in no rush to move, so pints were ordered again and again. Eventually, Deano and Dave said their goodbyes, then the four of us walked back to the digs.

We then spent a couple of hours in Burnley’s town centre. We wished that it was busier, we wished that there was more of a buzz. There wasn’t. It’s no Newcastle. It’s not even a Middlesbrough. Still, we extended the evening in two adjacent bars; a lively bar with music where we downed an improbable mixture of pints, shorts and shots, while I got talking to some Corinthians fans from Sao Paolo.

Lastly, a solo pint in “The Boot”, but things were dead quiet by then, and the only others in the pub were a gaggle of locals sitting nearby, and three of the five women were wearing those leopard print tops much favoured by women of a certain age. It was time to leave. I had seen enough sterotypes for one day. I think we dropped into the first bar for one last nightcap, then we picked up a kebab at a late night chippy, then caught a cab back to our digs. It was about midnight.

“This isn’t our place.”

“Yes, it is, Chris. There’s your car.”

“Fackinell.”

It was time to call it a night.

It had indeed been a fun time.

Tales From The Warm Cloak Of Friendship

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Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 24 September 2023.

On the drive up to London early on Sunday morning, none of us were feeling confident of a pleasing performance against Aston Villa.

“Just can’t see where the next goal is coming from.”

“If we are driving back down the M4 tonight with a 2-0 win behind us, I will be absolutely amazed.”

“Tough game ahead.”

Elsewhere in my football world, things were a little better. Since Chelsea’s lifeless and underwhelming 0-0 draw at Bournemouth, I had witnessed two Frome Town games.

On Tuesday evening, in wet and blustery conditions, I watched with my Canadian cousins Kathy and Joe and a few friends – eight of us in a line – in the small main stand at Badgers Hill as Dodge met Plymouth Parkway in an FA Cup replay. Despite wet and blustery conditions, we watched transfixed as the home team won 2-1 with a great performance that included grit and determination and no little skill. James Ollis scored both goals. There was even a very late penalty save from Kyle Phillips to preserve the victory. It was, I am sure, one of the most enjoyable games of football that I have ever seen in Frome. A circle was completed that night since Kathy’s parents, Mary and Ken, met us at Stamford Bridge in August 2001 for the home opener against Newcastle United. They watched in the West Stand and loved it. Twenty-two years later, another game brought the family together once again.

On Saturday – the start of yet another two-game weekend – I travelled down to Salisbury to see Frome visit Bemerton Heath Harlequins in the FA Trophy. Here, the visitors were victors again, with another two goals for Ollis and one for the mercurial talisman Jon Davies.

I think there’s a tendency at lower level football to allow players – your team’s players, your players – a little more room for error than in the professional game; to be a little more lenient, to not get irate with every single mistake. For starters, the standard is lower, there are bound to be mistakes. Why would any spectator get on the back of such players? Of course, the gates are lower too (312 on Tuesday, 109 on Saturday) and to see a supporter glowing with incandescent rage in such surroundings would surely be frowned upon. The supporter in question would be labelled a fool. And the supporter would look stupid too.

However, at the top level of football, supporters seem to enjoy berating under-performing players at the slightest opportunity because greater levels of skill are expected. Oh, and their salaries. The salaries alone allow for constant abuse right?

I know what type of “support” I appreciate.

I arrived at “The Eight Bells” just after the pub had opened at 10am and The Smiths’ “The Queen Is Dead” welcomed me in.

“Has the world changed or have I changed?”

Quiet at first, the boozer soon filled up. The lads from Kent soon showed up, always full of smiles and laughs. They had heard that Frome Town’s next game in the FA Cup – the third qualifying round – was to be at Ramsgate next Saturday.

“Are you going, Chris?”

“Hope so, yeah.”

“Bloody hell. It’s a long way from Sevenoaks, let alone Somerset.”

Phil, Kim and Andy were all to tell me at various stages during the pre-match that the UK’s biggest “Spoons” is in Ramsgate. Kim also had a funny story from his last visit to Ramsgate.

“We were in this boozer and a bloke comes in and asks if the pub is doing Sunday Roasts. So the barman says ‘sure, I can do a beef or chicken’ and the bloke asks if there are any vegetarian options. The geezer goes ‘well, I can do you exactly the same but without the beef or chicken’.”

Howling.

How odd that we were in the “Town of Ramsgate” pub before the West Ham away game last month. My FA Cup travels will take me from Cornwall to Kent this autumn. I love the early rounds of the FA Cup.

Glenn and I wolfed down a full English.

Bacon, sausage, fried egg, hash browns, baked beans, fried tomato, mushroom, toast and butter.

Perfect.

I was enjoying this pre-match, as always, and was sat with Parky, Salisbury Steve, PD and Glenn. I looked from wide left to wide right and saw only blokes in our half of the cramped bar. There were around fifty in view. Only one was wearing official Chelsea gear.

…talk about “old school.”

While I was waiting for a friend to arrive, I stepped outside the pub for a few minutes. My ‘phone wasn’t logging on to the pub’s wi-fi connection and I wanted to see if I had missed any messages. As I stood outside, I flicked on “Facebook” and found myself reading a post from my friend Gary, originally from Fulham but now living in Torquay, about his trip to London but also about his increasing alienation from Chelsea Football Club. Halfway through his post, I looked up to see him walking by, no more than five yards away. I never see him down this part of Fulham. What a small world. We had a little chat, a little grumble about the way the club is being run, and we centered on the abandoning of the away coach travel subsidy. It is a subject close to Gary’s heart since he used to run up to five coaches to most Chelsea away games in the late ‘eighties and ‘nineties. “Gary’s Coaches” have gone down in Chelsea folklore. We spoke about how the modern game has increasingly left us cold. Over the past few weeks, I have mentioned to many that the “warm cloak of friendship” is the major reason why I still go to Chelsea. This club just doesn’t seem like my club any more. New ownership. New players. There is not a great connection these days. It was so noticeable that those who went to the “Legends” game while I was in Italy a fortnight ago really enjoyed themselves and many mentioned the special relationship that they enjoyed with those players from that era. I find it hard to warm to this current lot, this current bunch. Funny game, football.

Not long after, my friend Phil, and his brother Richard, arrived in the now heaving pub. Phil is originally from South London, just south of the river, but has been living in the United States since 1973. I have known him since a memorable weekend in Chicago in 2006 when Chelsea played in the MLS All-Star Game. We have met up on many a US Tour though, like me, he didn’t go to any games this summer.

“Why are we playing a team with the calibre of Wrexham?”

Phil has been loyally reading these match reports since they first appeared around fifteen years ago. Phil’s “thing” is to pick one particular phrase that I have used in each report and to simply repeat it. I wonder what phrase it will be from this week.

Anyway, thanks for your continued support mate.

I had managed to grab a last minute ticket for Phil and – luckily – the seller’s father drinks in “T8B” too. It was an easy exchange to set up.

At 1pm, we set off for the ground. With the increased security at games now, I had devised a new way of smuggling both my camera and lenses into the stadium without getting stopped by the line of stewards. Large cameras are now clearly on the list of banned objects at Stamford Bridge but I won’t let the bastards win. I can’t give the game away completely, but I hid my camera and lenses using a system not dissimilar to the way that newly excavated soil was hidden from the camp guards in “The Great Escape.”

I was inside at 1.30pm.

What with the amount of injuries that had hit our squad, the team that Mauricio Pochettino chose looked surprisingly familiar.

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Enzo – Caicedo – Gallagher

Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk

With Alan absent, Rob from Melksham came down to sit next to me.

So, 2012 & 2021 vs. 1982.

The game began.

As is so often the case, we began brightly. Aston Villa looked happy to hold back allowing us the ball. Early on, a good move found Raheem Sterling in the inside-left channel. His touch let him down.

I mouthed “terrible first touch.”

My neighbours agreed.

Budgie : “Terrible first touch.”

PD : “Terrible first touch.”

I leaned over to PD.

“That needed the touch of a silk glove.”

“Like the way you’d touch a woman.”

I laughed.

“Not the way you would touch a woman mate. The ball would have cleared the stand roof and the hotel.”

PD howled.

The first quarter of an hour was all ours, but Villa had unsurprisingly led the singing.

A chant of “Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” (you know the tune) was met by ironic cheering from the away fans.

On twenty minutes, much against the run of play, Robert Sanchez reacted magnificently to Lucas Digne’s rasping and dipping volley that was knocked out to him from a corner.

“Typical. All us, but they have the best shot on goal.”

Just after, a great ball from Mudryk set up Nicolas Jackson into space but his shot was well saved by Emiliano Martinez, the ball creeping past the near post.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

We dominated play with occasional bursts from the two wide players.

“Don’t forget the ball, Mudryk.”

The same player then bottled a tackle and the resultant shot was deflected wide.

The quiet atmosphere improved when a semi-decent “Cam On Chowlsea” swept around the ground.

Glenn was annoyed that Pochettino was sat for most of the game. He wanted him prowling the technical area.

“Nah, he’s paid a lot of money for that dug out seat mate. Why should he stand?”

On thirty-four minutes, a long pass from Axel Diasi found Malo Gusto who then cut the ball back to Enzo. His shot faded and drifted just wide.

On thirty-eight minutes, a long corner was headed back to Nicolo Zaniolo – who? – but his fierce volley was magnificently thwarted by a great Sanchez reaction save. Top marks indeed.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

Mudryk continued to cause a few moments of worry in the Villa defence as the half ended and at last there was noise in the stands. After a fine Sterling cross, a Disasi leap and clean header hit the back of the net but was immediately called back for offside. There was an air shot from Sterling when he found himself close to goal at an angle.

It had been a frustrating half, and the two saves had, worryingly, kept us in it.

At half-time, nobody was shocked that we hadn’t scored.

The second-half began as brightly as the first. Sterling, running on to a lovely long ball, carried it too far and virtually ran in to Martinez at the near post. How frustrating. Jackson went close from a delightful chip from Enzo but was ruled offside anyway. A great ball from Silva, splitting the atom, found Sterling but his shot was blocked again. The same player was then ruled offside again. Again so frustrating.

Fackinell.

Then, calamity. I didn’t really see it, but a tackle by Gusto on Digne. A yellow. Then the boffins in Stockley Park ruled a second look. But then the same boffins weren’t sure. Back to the referee. Back to the pitch. What a fucking farce.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

A delay. We knew how this was going to end.

A red.

Fackinell.

Surprisingly, the offence was shown on the TV screen; this doesn’t usually happen. At first glance, I concentrated on the contact between studs and leg.

If I had seen further replays, which I didn’t, I would have seen the player get the ball first.

In 1965, 1975, 1985, 1995 and 2005 it would not have been a red card.

I hate modern football.

It looked like Armando Broja was about to come on – presumably for Jackson – but the sending-off changed the plan.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.

Ben Chilwell replaced Mudryk.

There was applause.

For Mudryk? For Chilwell? Probably for both.

I noted how Jackson was through on goal, a one-on-one, but showed no signs of being able to out-muscle his defender and glide, Drogba-like, on towards goal. Maybe that time will come. I won’t hold my breath.

Enzo, for the second game in a row, was really poor.

The two teams exchanged half-chances.

On sixty-eight minutes, some substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Enzo, oh Enzo.

Cole Palmer for Jackson.

But then a lightning-quick break from Villa. Ollie Watkins raced through and Levi Colwill managed to stay with him and block with a perfectly-timed tackle. Sadly, the ball bounced back to Watkins who drilled the ball home from the tightest of angles. I struggled to see how the ball had crept in.

Bollocks.

Just after, a fine bit of football. A searching ball from deep from Cole Palmer found Chilwell down below us. He advanced but his low shot was hacked away by Martinez.

On seventy-nine minutes, Broja replaced Moises Caicedo, his first game since another useless friendly.

“You’re getting sacked in the morning” sung the Villa support.

The last phase of the game consisted of more Chelsea offside decisions and another Sanchez save, plus half chances for Broja and Disasi. A shot from Palmer was blocked.

“Sterling has got worse as the game has progressed, Rob.”

Despite the extra eleven minutes at the end, we never looked like scoring.

The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.

Tales From The Eton Blues

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Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 17 September 2023.

The Chelsea website would call this an entertaining game.

I beg to differ.

Here’s my take on the match at the Vitality Stadium, plus a few other football-related anecdotes thrown in for good measure.

Our home loss against Nottingham Forest – that match feels like it took place ages ago – was followed by a period of inactivity for Chelsea as the increasingly despised international break took over the football calendar. It took over my calendar too; I buggered off for an international break of my own in Italy and France.

I flew to Genoa and then took a train to Diano Marina on the Italian Riviera, a town where I have enjoyed many visits – and football-related incidents – since I first visited it in 1975. On the Friday, I caught a train to Nice, passing through Monaco, the scene of our first UEFA Super Cup win against Real Madrid, a fine trip that one. I met up with my good Chelsea friend Dave, who I had not seen since Sheffield United at home in 2019. We first met up in Los Angeles while on tour with CFC in 2007 and he has lived in the South of France since around 2016. We updated each other with our recent histories while enjoying a few lagers in a couple of bars. It was a joy.

On the Saturday and Sunday, my work colleague Lorenzo from Milan, and his wife Marina, met up with me in Diano Marina, and we had a lovely time walking west to Imperia and then east to Cervo along the site of the old Roman road the Via Aurelia. There were beers, fine food and tons of laughs. That I was staying in the same hotel that my parents visited during their first holiday to the town made my stay even sweeter.

On the Monday, before my flight home, I even managed to pack in a three-hour walking tour of Genoa; such an historic, cramped and photogenic city. It left me yearning for more. As fate would have it, I used the services of the same taxi driver on two separate occasions, quite by chance. He was a Samp fan, and also favoured Chelsea as his English team. As I left his cab, we toasted the memory of Gianluca Vialli. They idolise him in Genoa.

Incidentally, on the Thursday, as I darted in and out of a couple of bars near the city’s Piazza Principe train station, I spotted many folk wearing Genoa colours. I panicked a little and wondered if I had made an error and that they were playing that night, a chance to see a game at the Luigi Ferraris Stadium missed due to poor planning. I was to find out that the fans were instead off out to celebrate the club’s birthday, formed one hundred and thirty years ago to the day. It made me think; do any British fans celebrate their clubs’ birthdays with such a show of public affection? I think not. Maybe Genoa are a special case; Genoa Cricket And Football Club, as they are officially known, are Italy’s oldest club after all.

One last comment about my mini visit to the twin Rivieras of Italy and France. Over the five days of my stay, the most popular replica shirt that I saw?

Not Juventus. Not PSG. Not Milan. Not Inter.

Real Madrid.

I hate modern football.

As the following weekend approached, I had the English Riviera in sight.

Kinda.

On the Saturday, Frome Town were playing an FA Cup tie at Plymouth Parkway. This naval city is not exactly on the English Riviera, which the tourist boards of Torquay, Paignton and Brixham have chosen as their own moniker, but not too far away. On the Sunday, I had the Chelsea game in Bournemouth. The Dorset Riviera anyone?

The FA Cup game, a keenly-contested 2-2 draw in front of almost 400, was very enjoyable. Frome Town twice led through Owen Humphries and then James Ollis, only to conceded a late equaliser. The two teams would meet again the following Tuesday at Badgers Hill in a replay. This really pleased me; two Canadian relatives were to visit my local area during the week and had been keen to see a football match, any football match, in person during their short stay in Somerset. With the draw, they now had a game to watch.

Another North American tourist came into my plans, like a last-minute substitution, when I awoke on Saturday morning before my flit down to Plymouth. Tom, from Orange County in California, was staying at a hotel only two miles from my house and was angling for a place in The Chuckle Bus for the short trip to Bournemouth on the Sunday. Some strategic logistical planning quickly took place and everything was sorted. One Chuckle Bus became two, parking was arranged outside the Vitality Stadium, and everyone was happy.

Sunday soon arrived. I picked Tom up at the hotel at eight o’clock, but before we headed down to join up with Glenn, PD, Parky and Sir Les in Bournemouth, I treated Tom to a whistle-stop tour of both my home village of Mells and my home town of Frome.

I darted around Mells, quickly combining facts about the village – “fifteenth century church”, “Manor House”, “my mother was born in that house”, “I spotted Robert Plant outside that house last year”, “Fussell’s Ironworks”, “Little Jack Horner”– with a few football-related things too – “here’s where I kicked a tennis ball against the wall opposite my house, breaking many windows in the process”, “this is the school where I first became a Chelsea fan”, “I played for my village the first time here” before then heading into Frome.

We even had time to stop off – and step inside – Badgers Hill, the home ground of Frome Town, where I watched my first real football game in 1970.

I zoomed down to Bournemouth and we joined up with the chaps in “The Moon On The Square” at around 10.20am. It was wet outside. So much for the Riviera.

A few other friends drifted in as I ordered a light breakfast, and Tom ordered his second breakfast of the morning. Glenn said he’d attend the Frome game on Tuesday. There wasn’t too much talk about the Chelsea game. It had been such an underwhelming start to the season.

And not just at our club.

In many ways, I have been struggling further with football in general. In a rare and lucid moment before a Depeche Mode concert with my mate Dennis from DC, at a pub on the River Thames in Richmond in June, I stumbled across a phrase that summed it all up.

With a nod to my deepening alienation from top level players, my dislike of VAR, of UEFA, of FIFA, even the FA, the deadening of the atmosphere at games at Stamford Bridge, the entitlement of many fans, players’ obscene wags, late changes to kick-off times, blah, blah, blah, I summed it all up.

“I am not a fan of football, but I love being a football fan.”

I love the planning of travel to games, the sorting out of tickets, the driving, the endless driving, the drink-ups in the pubs, meeting new Chelsea friends from various places, the away days, the clobber, the laughs, the piss-taking, the banter, the memories…and I like being at games, live-games, taking in all in, the architecture of stadia, the history, the terrace humour…and I’d like to think I am a good supporter too, singing and cheering as much as I can, being there for the team…then there is the photography and the words in this blog.

I enjoy it all.

I love being a fan.

The football?

Not so sure.

We got drenched – absolutely soaked – on the short walk to the multi-story car-park. The two Chuckle Busses set off :

Glenn, PD, Parky, Sir Les, Daz in Glenn’s van.

Tom, two of Daz’ mates and me in my car.

We arrived at the same “JustPark” location – a large space outside a house on Littledown Avenue – at around 1.20pm. The rain still fell.

I was soon inside, evading the eyes of the tedious “bag gestapo” at the away turnstiles.

Made it.

A few “hellos” and a few handshakes in the away concourse…before I knew it “bloody hell, it’s ten to.”

Into the away seats we went.

The floodlights were on, the sky was dull grey, the rain still fell.

The teams appeared and Chelsea were to wear the newly-confirmed third kit of Eton Blue. For once, I approve; a nice nod to our inaugural colours of 1905. Typically, I was amazed how many of our new fans were blissfully unaware of the light blue racing colours of the Earl Cadogan. It’s such a subtle shade. I think it looks fantastic.

Our team?

Definitely a back four, right kids?

Sanchez

Gusto – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Gallagher – Uguchukwu – Enzo

Sterling – Jackson – Mudryk

There was the usual “make some noise – for the boys” bollocks from the PA, plus some social deviant yelling out “Red Army!” on the TV screens.

Oh aye.

Conor was captain.

Before the game, a minute of silence for those that perished recently in Libya and Morocco.

The game began, and it began ever so brightly as the Eton Blues attacked the goal to our right. A move down the right and some deft interplay between Mykhailo Mudryk and Nicolas Jackson set up Gallagher but he could not fully connect.

“Big game for Mudryk, Gal.”

Jackson then thumped an effort against a post after being set up by Mudryk.

We had a decent start, but the play was tending to by-pass Enzo. Both Sterling and Gallagher were combining well and creating a few solid advances into the opponents’ half. The game then struggled along, and Bournemouth slowly got back into the game. A low reaching cross towards the far post was met by Dango Quattara but Robert Sanchez made a fantastic block, spreading himself out, and the chance was fluffed.

There were songs for Frank Lampard and Dennis Wise?

Why – oh, why the fuck why?

Then, an odd moment. Sanchez was in possession just in front of his goal and as he ran through his options, we were treated to the bizarre sight of all four defenders lined up along the goal line. It was football, but not as I knew it.

The problem was that the home team weren’t necessarily taking the bait and pushing up. They stayed back. This was just hideously sterile football.

On the half-hour mark, more Bournemouth possession. They enjoyed a little spell.

But then a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played in to Conor in a central position. He shimmied himself. The world seemed to stop. He took aim. His shot was saved, damn it.

Damn you, Neto.

A Bournemouth effort was smashed so high into the air, and so wide of the goal – it went out for a throw-in – that I immediately Christened it the worst shot that I had seen in almost fifty years of football.

It was one of those games.

As the first-half neared completion, the noise levels had dwindled.

“You can cut the atmosphere with a shovel, Gal.”

Sigh.

There was a lack of cohesion and urgency after the initial flourish, and only Sterling and Gallagher could take much comfort from the first-half. However, Sterling’s fine touches in tight areas and purposeful spins into space just seemed to peter out as he reached the final third. He – and we – lacked a cutting edge.

Sound familiar?

Soon into the second-half, that man Sterling sized up his options at a free-kick. He struck a spectacular curler at goal, but it ping’d the underside of the bar and bounced down and across the goal. Levi Colwill was on hand to knock the rebound in, but the goal was immediately chalked off for offside.

Bollocks.

“Will be 0-0 this, Gal.”

The sun came out, and it got uncomfortably hot in the away section.

Jackson was in on goal but slashed an effort ludicrously wide. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

We came close after a scramble that followed a Jackson effort. However, the Bournemouth ‘keeper managed to get a strong hand to a goal bound prod while lying on his back.

At the other end, Richard Billing drilled a shot just wide of our goal from a central free-kick.

Both teams struggled.

“Their final ball is worse than ours, Gal.”

Nearing the end of the game, the home team broke down our left and engineered a chance for our former striker Dominic Solanke. Again, Sanchez saved well.

I noticed that Jackson was too easily out-muscled in many of his his one-to-ones with his marker. But we have to give him time.

There was a plethora of substitutions :

Cole Palmer for Mudryk.

He hadn’t had that good game that he needed.

Ben Chilwell for Colwell.

We all moaned when he had passed, obliquely, after a fine run, the goal at his mercy.

Ian Maatsen for Enzo.

I disliked Enzo’s slow walk off the pitch as he was substituted.

Our last chance came from a rampaging Palmer – “keen Gal, but no options” – chose to pass to Sterling rather than shoot himself. Sterling then crossed to Palmer, whose snapshot was saved well by Netto. A follow-up shot by Maatsen was blocked.

It was all pretty woeful.

“I enjoyed Plymouth yesterday more, Gal.”

It was so dull that I sighed when eight extra minutes were announced.

I just wanted to go home.

It ended 0-0.

Next up, Plymouth Parkway on Tuesday, Bemerton Heath on Saturday and Aston Villa on Sunday.

This football life, eh?

Tales From Row D

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Chelsea vs. Luton Town : 25 August 2023.

It’s hard to believe that the home match with newly-promoted Luton Town would only be my fifth Chelsea match against the team from the much-derided town in Bedfordshire. We met plenty of times from the mid-‘seventies to the early ‘nineties, but not many times since.

For some reason, the mention of Luton Town always takes me back to the first day of 1980 and an early kick-off at Kenilworth Road, a frosty pitch, and most of the players wearing trainers. The game was an entertaining 3-3 draw. A more notorious away game had taken place five years earlier, in January 1975, when the two teams eked out a 1-1 draw, but Chelsea fans set fire to the train taking them back to London after the game. I was at neither game.

My first Luton game took place on Saturday 8 May 1982 at the end of a “typical” Chelsea season that saw us over-perform in both domestic cups but under-perform in our Second Division campaign. I travelled up alone, on the train, and remember buying the wonderful Le Coq Sportif pinstriped – and super shiny – home shirt before the game. I watched from The Shed and I recollect Paul Canoville’s home debut, sadly accompanied by boos, and I remember a 1-2 loss and a Clive Walker goal. That season, Luton – in a very fine kit of their own, all white with Adidas stripes in orange – narrowly beat neighbours Watford to the Second Division Championship. There was a deep contrast in styles between these two rivals. Luton played expansive, skilful stuff using a variety of attacking options whereas Watford were “route one” merchants, utilising wingers and tall centre-forwards.

I then saw us play Luton Town at Stamford Bridge on 11 January 1986. I watched with my mate Swan in the East Lower – using complimentary tickets if I am not mistaken – and we won 1-0 via David Speedie.

Next up was the famous FA Cup semi-final in 1994 when two Gavin Peacock goals sent us to an FA Cup Final for the first time in twenty-four years. Kerry Dixon was playing for Luton Town by now and we certainly gave him a full-on reception. Looking back, the win on that day – in my mind – changed our history.

A loss; back to being normal unpredictable Chelsea.

A win; guaranteed European football what with our Cup Final opponents already looking like being crowned League Champions and thus a Champions League place in 1994/95. We would slide into the ECWC, and our profile would be raised, thus enticing Gullit and Hughes the following pre-season.

Lastly, just over eighteen months ago, a first-ever visit for me to the infamously compact stadium of Kenilworth Road where we squeaked a narrow 3-2 FA Cup win on a night when we heard that Roman Abramovich had put the club up for sale. The scorers? Saul Niguez, Timo Werner and Romelu Lukaku.  God, that already seems like three teams ago, doesn’t it?

So, game number five and a Friday flit up the M4 with the usual suspects.

After a decent run out against Liverpool followed by a disappointing performance at West Ham, one phrase was surely uttered by us a few times, and by thousands of others.

…”well, if we can’t beat Luton.”

On paper, this was a run-of-the-mill football match, but not for me. I would be joined by my very good mate JR from Detroit. He was last alongside me at Stamford Bridge, alongside Alan in The Sleepy Hollow, for the PSG home game in March 2016, a 1-2 loss. The last Chelsea game we saw together was in Ann Arbor in July of the same year, a 2-3 loss against Real Madrid, in front of – officially – the largest ever crowd to attend a Chelsea game.

105,826.

I suspect the Moscow Dynamo game exceeded that figure but we will never know.

The last sports fixture that we both attended took place the day after the Real Madrid game; a 11-0 win for his Detroit Tigers against Houston Astros in downtown Detroit.

Seven years ago. Damn, where has the time gone?

I met up with JR just after 5pm, alongside Dan, whose wedding in deepest Cambridgeshire JR is attending with his wife Erin next weekend.

It was lovely to see them both again. The last time I saw Dan was – we think – before the away game in Newcastle in January 2020, before COVID, before the lockdown, before football behind closed doors, before Putin, before the sale, before Clearlake, before “Supermarket Sweep” and another age, or so it seems.

We decamped to “The Butcher’s Hook.”

Some Chelsea young’uns were finishing off that horrible Arsenal chant aimed at Tottenham – “that’s alright”, my arse – in front of a sea of Chelsea-liveried tourists, and then went into “Chelsea Alouette” with all the actions. It seemed like the “So Bar” circa 2006 had moved east a few hundred yards. Dan said he saw an over-protective father cup the ears of his child to protect said junior from the swearing.

This is football, not soft play.

Chelsea World Is A Small World Part One.

At the first Frome Town league game of this season, a fortnight ago, my mates Francis and Tom were checking out the antics of the new club mascot Dodge The Dog. Tom, who is originally from Cambridge and follows Cambridge United, told the story of how his team’s mascot is called Marvin The Moose.

Francis and I immediately recoiled at the name, since there seemed to be little relevance to Cambridge to an animal that inhabits the northern extremities of North America, Scandinavia and Russia. However, Tom told the story of how one Cambridge fan just started bellowing “moose!” during a particular game for no apparent reason, and others latched on to the idea. Oh, I approved of that. Here was a story that seemed totally organic, from within the club’s rank and file, rather than from the imagination of an out-of-touch marketing guru.

Knowing that Dan was a Cambridge United season ticket holder, I happened to share this story with Dan and JR. With a broadening smile, Dan admitted that on occasion, he has dressed up as Marvin The Moose at their home games.

I shared this with Francis, who then shared it with Tom.

There were ripples of football laughter reverberating from London to Frome and to who knows where.

“Moose!”

We called into see Steve, from Somerset, at the programme stall and then Marco at the “CFCUK” stall opposite. Chidge was there too, and JR remembered how he had taken part in a “Chelsea Fancast” from 2011 on the occasion of his first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge. JR’s first ever game here was the West Ham game, the Torres goal, and we remembered that day well. Again, twelve years ago? Oh boy.

We trotted over to “Simmons” where we hoped a few of the usual suspects would congregate. Dan was surprised by the choice of venue.

“This isn’t the sort of bar I’d expect you to frequent, Chris.”

“It’s handy for evening games, being so near the stadium, just a ten-minute walk away.”

We settled down and waited for some troops to arrive. We didn’t have to wait long.

Luke, Aroha, Alan, Daryl, Parky, plus a few more.

The music boomed.

Chelsea World Is A Small World Part Two.

I often speak of my friend Andy from Nuneaton and his daughter Sophie, who sometimes meet us down “The Eight Bells”, and I was especially hoping that they would show up for this pre-match. Andy visited Detroit in 1987 with his Chelsea mate Jonesy – also mentioned herein – and took in a game at old Tiger Stadium. With Daryl and I favouring the New York Yankees over the years, Andy always used to tell us that “his” Detroit Tigers were better even when they weren’t. He always talks about their slugger Kirk Gibson. So, with JR on his way over from Detroit, I wanted to surprise Andy with some Tigers merchandise. To that end, JR picked up a mug and a pair of socks at the airport. I wanted to be able to present Andy with his gifts in the bar. Imagine my joy when I looked over to see Sophie arrive.

Lo and behold, not only did Andy soon appear, but he stood right next to JR at the bar. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I quickly walked over and stood between the two of them.

“JR, this is Andy.”

“Andy!”

“Andy, this is JR. He’s from Detroit.”

“Detroit!”

JR was wearing a Tigers cap, but I am not sure Andy recognised the fine detail. I then explained the back story and soon presented Andy with his gifts. He was well-pleased. It was a lovely moment.

The bar was noisy with a backdrop of classic pre-match music from “the football years”; a little David Bowie, a little Madness, some Oasis, some Blur, a little Specials, even the Frome Town song “A Town Called Malice.”

On his delayed trip from Detroit to Heathrow, JR had suffered the misfortune of his luggage taking a detour to Amsterdam but I could see he was enjoying this.

It was a Friday. The first day of a three-day weekend. The first game of three for me.

Time to relax.

Kinda.

In the midst of this mini-festival of football that was to encompass three stadia and five teams…Chelsea, Luton Town, Yate Town, Frome Town and Larkhall Athletic…there was a hospital appointment for me on the Sunday that was never completely out of my mind. But more of that later.

At about 7.20pm, JR, Dan and I set off for Stamford Bridge. We had, luckily, just missed a heavy downpour that had drenched the streets outside. Dan had managed to get hold of a ticket in the MHU and so he would not be too far away from us.

In we went.

JR met up with PD again, and Al soon joined us.

No surprises that Luton Town brought 3,000 with them. I have only ever met one Luton Town fan in my life – Turin, 2009 – and I wondered if he was in The Shed.

I made sure that JR sat between Alan and little old me. I wanted JR to witness the full “Sleepy Hollow Audio Visual Experience”, and I was especially thinking of the moment – hopefully – when we would take the lead and a certain famous interchange would take place between Alan and I.

JR’s noggin would be right in the middle of it.

The away fans were noisy, as expected. This was, after all, their first top flight visit to SW6 since 31 August 1991. That game, which we won 4-1, was made memorable for marking Vinnie Jones’ debut in Chelsea colours. I can keenly remember where I was that afternoon; near Ashby-de-la-Zouch in Leicestershire on an inter-company sports day, playing five-a-side, and spotting a girl in our team who took part in a few other events. I would go out with Sam on a couple of occasions and I think Vinnie Jones fared better at Chelsea than I did with her, but there you go.

“Park Life” was aired…”Parky Life” more like, I thought, and then the pre-match bullshit started, the flames and all, ending up with a dickhead bellowing into the mic : “make some noise!!!”

Oh do fuck off mate.

Our team lined up as below :

Sanchez

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Sterling – Jackson – Chilwell

Or something like that.

In the Sleepy Hollow –

Chris – JR – Al – PD

Luton were wearing an away kit, all white with a broad vertical orange stripe. New buy Moises Caicedo took a position in our midfield. Former Chelsea player Ross Barkley started his first game for Luton after his spell with Nice. The air was full of drizzle. There were dark storm clouds over the East Stand. I guessed that they had just passed.

The game began with us attacking The Shed as per normal. The away support was on top from the off.

“Come on Lu’on, come on Lu’on.”

JR spoke about the fact that only two of the starting eleven have their own songs; Thiago Silva and Connor Gallagher, with two each.

We were treated to a scintillating run from Raheem Sterling on the right, deep into the heart of the crowded Luton defence and he looked interested from the first kick. There was a fierce shot from Sterling, a volley, that was saved by the Luton ‘keeper. Next, a riser from Enzo outside the box that skimmed the bar.

A rare attack for Luton after a slip by Caicedo but a wild shot flew high past the goal frame.

On seventeen minutes, Sterling ran through the Luton defence with a sublime piece of attacking intent, his weaving taking him away from tackles. At every juncture I thought he had taken it one step too far but he kept the ball close to him throughout. There was a dummy, and then the confident stab home.

The crowd erupted. There was pandemonium behind the goal where Sterling had slotted the ball in. Limbs were flying. The striker ran behind the netting and a few team mates joined in the wild celebrations. Whatever pre-match substances and liquids had been imbibed before the game were being mixed with an adrenalin rush to the head caused by the euphoria of an early goal. We are, after all, goal addicts.

It was pure Shedonism.

Then, our big moment.

I looked behind JR and caught Alan’s eye.

We looked at each other and I suspected that we were both thinking the exact same thing.

Alan paused for a few seconds.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “But not necessarily in the right order.”

Alan burst out laughing. Yes, he had been thinking the same thing. It was our perfect homage to Eric Morecambe.

I turned to JR : “Did you catch that electricity that buzzed past you there mate?”

I am sure that JR didn’t have a clue about our wise words, but he didn’t let on. Alan and I were giggling like schoolkids.

Back to the game.

A Colwill error on the goal-line let in a Luton attacker but the move was stewarded out for a corner. A Barkley near-post header from the resultant corner flew over the bar.

However, we absolutely controlled the first-half. I spotted that Nicolas Jackson often came deep to pick up the ball and run. It was reassuring to see a young forward looking to impact the game. After his far from perfect debut in Stratford, Moises Caicedo settled in nicely and broke up a few rare Luton attacks. At the break, I took a photo of JR alongside Alan and P-Diddy.

JR had put the “D” in Row D.

Kerry Dixon took the mic at half-time and said a few things. Thirty-nine years ago, on Saturday 25 August 1984, it was Kerry’s goal that sent all of us in the Clock End delirious. The clip of that goal always sends shivers down my spine.

The second-half was a far livelier affair. There was a natty one-two between Chilwell and Jackson but with only the ‘keeper to beat, Chilwell just couldn’t trust his right foot and tried to square the ball to Sterling. The pass was intercepted and we all groaned. Next, a neat volley from Jackson that forced a block. We were starting to purr.

A cross from Sterling, a crashing shot from Enzo that smacked the post.

From the away fans :

“Conference Champions, you’ll never sing that.”

Fair play.

Enzo raced on to a pacey through ball but could only hit the side netting.

Jackson swivelled well down below us but hit a strong shot at the ‘keeper.

I turned to JR :

“At long last, it looks like we have a decent young striker to hang our hat on.”

There was a comic interlude that amused us. A ball went off and had to be retrieved by a Luton player. It suddenly dawned on me that there were no ball boys – or girls – along the West Stand touchline. In fact, the stadium’s only five ball boys – or girls – were sat in two groups in front of the Matthew Harding. One group of two, one group of three. And they were adamantly refusing to budge to chase down stray balls. Their insouciance was captivating.

I wondered if their pre-match instructions went something like this.

“OK, the idea is for you five to take your stools and sit equidistantly on the perimeter of the pitch so that balls can be given back to the players as quickly as possible. Is that understood?”

I imagined a sea of blank faces.

Equidistant?

Perimeter?

And then a lone voice…

“Yes fam.”

They hardly moved the entire match, the little buggers.

What made it funnier was that each had “Ball Squad” bibs on.

Ball squad, my arse.

Jackson was running himself into the ground and impressing us all with his industry. He was certainly tenacious. I liked Gusto on the right, rarely a wasted pass.

A bouncing effort from Luton on the hour was gathered well by Robert Sanchez.

We were begging, though, for a second goal. Thankfully on sixty-nine minutes, a move that was beautiful in its simplicity allowed the ball to be moved quickly. Sterling to Caicedo to Gallagher, then to Gusto who sent in a low centre that Sterling swept home easily. He ran over to the far side and Stamford Bridge boomed again.

2-0 and safe, surely?

On seventy-five minutes, a lovely move developed. Enzo scooped a beautiful ball up and over the Luton defence for Sterling to collect. His first-time cross was stabbed home by that man Jackson and we all beamed a huge smile as he raced away.

Three-nil and coasting, the manager brought on three very late subs.

Lesley Uguchukwu for the excellent Jackson.

“We’ll just call you Les” chirped Alan.

Ian Maatsen for Chilwell.

Mason Burstow for Sterling, who was warmly applauded off.

Raheem has been a difficult player to warm to hasn’t he? Let’s hope his fine performance against Luton – yes, I know, it was only Luton – can be replicated over and over again this season.

A late song for our visitors…

“Shit fucking airport, you’re just a shit fucking airport.”

Quite.

At the final whistle, there was a genuine relief of seeing us win a game at Stamford Bridge for the first time since Dortmund in March, a couple of managers ago.

“Enjoyed that.”

Next up, a South-West London derby against AFC Wimbledon in the League Cup on Wednesday.

I am going, as will JR.

See you there.

Tales From The First And The Last

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Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 28 May 2023.

A month or so ago I mentioned that Ron Hockings, one of our greatest ever supporters, celebrated his 1,400th first team Chelsea game with our away match at Craven Cottage in April 1983. At the time, as a seventeen-year-old from Somerset, I could only dream of such ridiculous numbers of attendance. While Ron was clocking up game number 1,400, I was yet to break thirty matches. In those days, I would go to around four games each season.

But years pass, right?

Lo and behold, our last game of the 2022/23 season would be my 1,400th Chelsea game too. As I reviewed the letter from Ron in the programme from forty years ago, I was reassured that he counted first-team friendlies in his total. As do I.

It gave my total a certain cachet of authenticity.

“Bloody hell, I am not travelling to Kuala Lumpur with Chelsea without including it in my total.”

I like it that Ron celebrated 1,400 in 1982/83, a season that I have been detailing during this campaign. And here I am celebrating 1,400 forty years later. I am not sure that I ever spoke to Ron. I may have “nodded” a hello on a few occasions, but you used to see Ron everywhere. Like Peter Kemp and Alan Bruce, they would appear wherever Chelsea were playing. I have dipped into his book “100 Years Of The Blues” to help me add to my own memories of that season and I owe him a huge pile of gratitude. From 1947 to 2006, Ron went to a grand total of 2,703 Chelsea games, a ludicrous amount. He passed away around fifteen years ago, but his books will live forever.

With a lovely touch of symmetry, game number 1,400 would be against Newcastle United, as was my very first game in 1974.

16 March 1974 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

29 May 2023 : Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

Perfect.

And while we are on the subject of numbers and milestones, my attendance at the game on 29 May would allow me to complete my third – and only my third – ever-present league campaign of Chelsea matches.

2008/09 : 38/38

2015/16 : 38/38

2022/23 : 38/38

As my friend Ian would point out, a pattern has emerged here. Is my need to attend all the league games a seven-year itch? Is my next ever-present season due in 2029/30 when I will be – gulp – sixty-four? No, it’s just a product of being able, or not, to get to as many as I can. There is no plan.

I can’t really explain all this. But ever since that first game almost fifty years ago, I just love going to Chelsea matches. At the start, it was all about the players. Seeing my heroes play. Then, over time, I fell in love with the routine of attending games, the camaraderie, the laughs. Now, that is more important than the football.

“Which is just as bloody well after this season” I hear you all joking.

Well, I’ve seen worse, as my chronicles of 1982/83 prove.

This season hasn’t been the worst in our history, but at times it has felt the most disjointed, disappointing, under-achieving and – crucially – the least enjoyable.

It’s a shame that this accolade is bestowed by myself on 2023/24, my fiftieth consecutive season of match-going support for the club.

We can’t really class that as an honour can we?

The pre-match routine for the final game of this tortuous season followed the usual lines. Once I had walked down to Stamford Bridge with Ron – he played in Game #1 of course – it was lovely that my friend Kathryn and I managed to sort out a photo that would include four players from the 1982/83 season; Colin Pates, Paul Canoville, John Bumstead and Gary Chivers, plus Rodders thrown in for good measure. Kathryn and I then decamped to “The Eight Bells” via a stop at “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and we spent a decent hour or so with the two Glenns, Salisbury Steve and the Kent Lot.

The pub was bouncing with laughs and giggles; an outsider would find it hard to believe that we had all been following such a poor team over the past ten long months.

Inside “The Eight Bells”, there was a poignant moment for a few of us too. The Chelsea match-going family had recently been saddened by the death of a friend, Ian Oliver, who we had last seen in “The Eight Bells” before a game at Chelsea around six weeks ago. Ian was one of those chaps that you always bumped into at Chelsea, usually in “The Goose” but other pubs too. His was a face that I recognised from decades ago. And Ian was one of those rare Chelsea fans that lived locally, in Fulham, along with just a handful of other fans in my circle. I am pretty sure that his sister worked at “Chubby’s Grill” on match days, a hot dog van that was part of the furniture for years. Ian had recently gone to the gym and I commented to him during that last time in the pub that he had lost some weight and was looking good, bless him.

Ian – “Elvis” – will undoubtedly be missed by all of his Chelsea friends.

Rest In Peace.

As we left the pub, two female away fans sauntered past and one of them noisily remarked :

“Oh, youse have had a shite season, eh?”

“No need for that, is there?” I replied.

Indeed, there was a noisy bunch of Newcastle United fans, who had been drinking in Putney and close to our pub in Fulham, alongside us on the tube journey up to Fulham Broadway. A few were in fancy dress. There had been a few boats containing away fans alighting at Putney and I got the feeling that this was the happiest that the Geordies had been at a game at Chelsea since the days of Kevin Keegan as their manager.

To be fair, Eddie Howe has had a fine season up on Tyneside and all of us look forward to visiting the area again next season, as always a favourite away destination.

Elsewhere, three teams were fighting off relegation; two of Everton, Leeds United and Leicester City would join Southampton in a final relegation place by the end of the afternoon. I know that many wanted Everton to go, but not me. From a purely selfish reason, I wanted to be able to plan, visit and appreciate one last away day at Goodison Park at some stage in 2023/24 before they decamp to their new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock in 2024. It has been my favourite away ground for ages. I hoped for a win for them at home to Bournemouth.

On the Saturday, we had learned that Luton Town would be joining Burnley and Sheffield United in the top flight, though I wanted Coventry City to prevail. With Luton Town, Sheffield United and Burnley in the top flight, 2023/24 was beginning to resemble 1974/75, and this sent a shiver down my spine.

I was inside Stamford Bridge with plenty of time to spare. There was a small eulogy, with a photo, of Ian Oliver in the match programme.

Before the game, trophies were handed out to Lewis Hall – Academy Player Of The Year – Conor Gallagher – Goal Of The Season, Crystal Palace away – and Thiago Silva – Player Of The Year.

Frank presented Silva with his award. Surely this was a unanimous decision. The man ought to have won it last season too.

There had been Chelsea chat on the way up to London in the car. A lot of it centered upon Frank Lampard. I remember how happy he was on his return to the club, smiling at Cobham, full of delight. Looking back, it is clear that the club that he was forced to leave in early 2021 is not the same beast that it is now. Everything seems to have changed for the worst. There is no continuity now, that “Chelsea DNA” seems to have evaporated, we are a club in disarray. With hindsight, Frank’s gamble hasn’t paid off. I wonder how difficult it will now be for him, should he really feel the need, to get back into football management after this second spell with his beloved Chelsea.

That said, it has really disappointed me that so many in the Chelsea fan base, and – alas – even in my band of match day acquaintances have almost gleefully mocked Frank Lampard in recent weeks using language that I really found hard to stomach.

No respect.

Before the game, we were reminded that the day would probably mark another “farewell” to a Chelsea great. Since signing in 2012, Cesar Azpilicueta has played over 450 games for Chelsea and I always say he is “Mister 7/10”. His legs have gone recently but nobody can doubt his spirit. Before the players appeared on the pitch, a banner with mosaics honoured Dave – I still call him Dave, you might have noticed – in The Shed.

Franks final starting eleven?

Kepa

Dave – Silva – Chalobah – Hall

Enzo – Loftus-Cheek – Gallagher

Madueke – Havertz – Sterling

Newcastle were in white shorts, and I remembered that they wore these in a 6-0 Chelsea win in 1980, but I doubted a repeat.

“Grabbing at straws, there, Chris.”

The Sleepy Hollow was ready; the Buchmann Brothers Alan and Gary – sons of lovely Joe – Glenn, Clive, Alan and little old me. Clive had treated us to hot chocolates once again before the game.

This has often felt like the longest ever season, what with the horrible World Cup break in November and December, though the COVID hit season three years ago went on even longer. It seemed like this one was never going to end, and there was a slightly surreal to the game with both teams having not a great deal to play for.

Here we go then, Chelsea…game one thousand, four hundred.

No pressure.

The travelling Toon Army were in good voice as their team edged the opening exchanges. A white flare was set off in front of their fans; that fog from the Tyne was drifting long distances. Kepa did well to save at his near post after Aleksander Isak found space in the penalty area.

In an open first few minutes, it was the away team who looked the likelier to score. Indeed, we looked stretched after ten minutes when Allan Saint-Maximin was released on their left, amid acres of space, with Dave sadly nowhere near the wide man. It was if Dave had forgotten that he was the wide defender in the back four. The ball was played outside to Elliot Anderson who drilled a low cross into that infamous “corridor of uncertainty” for Anthony Gordon, hopelessly unmarked, to pounce.

Back in 1974, Ian Hutchinson gave us a 1-0 lead on ten minutes. In 2023, the start was sadly reversed.

On fourteen minutes, a Thiago Silva effort seemed to be creeping in at the far post but Martin Dubravka clumsily pushed it out for a corner. We were clawing our way back into the game. We enjoyed some pressure with Noni Madueke looking lively at times. A deflected shot from his volley soared just over. The corners mounted up.

On twenty-seven minutes, a free-kick was awarded in a deep but central position. Everyone was expecting a cross towards the far stick, but Enzo was switched on and drilled a ball into the path of Raheem Sterling in the inside-right channel who cut in past his marker and unleashed a goal-bound shot that was deflected in by Kieran Trippier.

Phew.

Just after, Stamford Bridge was united with a stadium-wide chant for the first time.

I looked around and, despite our rotten – by our standards – season, there were not many empty seats in the stadium. This has to be a good sign. This augurs well for the future.

Madueke, a teasing threat down the right, then went close but a defender blocked his shot.

Just before the half-time whistle, the two ‘keepers made two fine saves. The first came from an awful, unchallenged break from Saint-Maximin who set up fan favourite Miguel Almiron, with Lewis Hall out of position, but Kepa stood up and palmed a weak effort away. Then, Dubravka clawed away an effort from Sterling, after a pin-point cross from Hall, and the follow-up was hacked away too.

As first-halves went it was “fair to middling.”

I mentioned to Ian, who sits a few rows in front, that supporting Chelsea this season has been like watching a tribute act, a poor one at that, to a once great band.

The intermission came to an end and one last forty-five minutes remained.

Wesley Fofana replaced Trevoh Chalobah.

The game continued and the first part of the second-half was neither dull nor entertaining. With Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding, I was hoping for some action down below us. Elsewhere, it was advantage Leicester City, winning at home to West Ham United but I fully expected Everton to nab a winner. Leeds were losing at home to Tottenham and were dead and buried.

We were having the majority of the ball now, but were unable to do much with it. The game was in danger of fizzling out.

A Madueke effort, after a shimmy inside, curled high over the framework of the goal.

We heard that Everton had scored.

On the hour, some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Loftus-Cheek.

There was a slow walk to the touch-line from Ruben, and he applauded the fans who were applauding him. Undoubtedly, this was his final game in Chelsea blue. I first saw Ruben, aged just seventeen, at a friendly in New York against Manchester City in May 2013 and he has been on the periphery of our first team ever since. We have waited in vain for his early promise to blossom – his injury in a superfluous friendly in Boston in 2019 was cruel in the extreme – and it is hard to believe that he has played ten times for England. His play confused me and often irritated me. I longed for him to show more urgency in his play and in himself. He will move on, but I don’t think he will improve in the next five years; a shame.

Joao Felix for Kai Havertz.

Havertz’ play irritates me too, but that’s another story.

On sixty-four minutes, an over hit cross luckily found Hall, but he in turn over hit the shot.

Good work from Carney and Hall set up a chance, close in, for Sterling but he blasted wildly over.

I was convinced that we’d win this.

“COME ON CHELS.”

An old favourite was aired, which I adapted to my own styling.

“Fabregas is magic.

He wears a magic hat.

He could’ve signed for Arsenal.

But he said ‘no, fuck that’.

He passes with his left foot.

He passes with his right.

And when we win the league again.

I’ll be ninety-seven.”

On seventy minutes, Mateo Kovacic replaced Conor Gallagher.

We still dominated possession.

There were Shots from Felix and Enzo but these did not really threaten Dubravka.

One excellent move lit up the final part of the game. A high ball by Enzo out to Hall was delightfully flicked on to Madueke, who hunted down a defender and passed back to Carney, who in turn set up Sterling. His shot was destined to be going in, I thought, but was deflected wide. I stood up and scowled at everyone behind me.

There was a VAR review for a possible handball but nothing was given.

A cross from Maduele and a slide from Felix; just wide. A shimmying run from Madueke – he has had a good few games – but a weak shot signalled his last participation. He was replaced by the forgotten man Christian Pulisic, who struck poorly at Dubravka. Our chances were coming thick and fast now, as if the painful season-long constipation in front of goal had been suddenly relieved by a powerful laxative. A Felix free-kick flew wide.

A beautiful move then saw a perfect cross from Hall pick out the jump from Felix. His body contorted wonderfully to allow a fine header, but the effort flew just over.

It was a surprising end to our season; and yet, not.

Tons of chances; no goal scorer.

Right at the death, a loud and resounding chant of “Super Frank” enveloped the whole stadium. We couldn’t say goodbye to him properly in 2014 nor 2021 with a proper “Franksgiving” send-off, so this was better, though far from ideal in lieu of the unconvincing end to his second spell as manager.

The game ended 1-1.

Elsewhere, Everton stayed up.

I suspected that Frank would be happy about that.

We had spoken about the risk of a “lap of honour” on the way up in the car. Usually, at the end of far more successful seasons, players disappear and then come back on to the pitch. My view was that it would be better for the players to stay on the pitch at the final whistle, because if they went off for even five minutes, not many Chelsea fans would be left.

They played it right, just like I had hoped for.

The Newcastle team went over to thank their fans, then the Chelsea squad walked slowly in front of The Shed End and Parkyville specifically – where Kathryn was spotted ten seats away from Parky – before slowly marching towards us in the Matthew Harding.

“Azpilicueta. We’ll just call you Dave.”

Bizarrely, I only focused on Frank – in a navy tracksuit – quite late on. My eyes must have been on others, and his final farewell was relatively subdued. There were no smiles on Frank’s face, nor did I expect any. This had been a tough two months at the end of a tough season and a tough fifteen months for Chelsea Football Club.

N’Golo Kante and Mason Mount were reduced to throwing small footballs into the crowd; I wondered if we would see these two players next season. N’Golo has been wonderful for us since 2016, but we are all concerned about his recent injuries. But oh what a player, what a person, and what a smile. Mason has endured a frustrating time since Porto. I will not be surprised if he decides to move on. Let’s see what happens.

The season has ended, and it has been such a tough watch. Looking back, the highlights were undoubtedly the three Champions League trips to Milan, via Turin, to Salzburg, via Nurnburg, and to Dortmund, via Brussels. I really enjoyed them. Outside of those, there has been little, and not even a win against Tottenham. Yes, it has been that bad. The football itself, from day one at Goodison, has been dire and I have found it difficult to get emotionally close to any of our players.

I admire Thiago Silva though. I like Enzo. I am thankful for Dave’s service. I worry about Reece. Let’s get a striker and we’ll see what develops.

I took my time leaving the Matthew Harding. Outside, I took one final photo of other fans walking down the last flight of steps, now adorned with “CFC”, and I am using it now as a closing photo, and end point, for this season.

I will pair it up with the very first photo that I took this season, previously unshared anywhere, and I repeat here the story that I told way back in August

“I hopped up onto a small wall to gain a good vantage point of the overall scene. This would be photo number one of the season.

Snap.

On leaping down from the wall, my legs crumpled and I fell.

Splat.

The camera and spare lens went flying. My knees – my fucking knees! – were smarting. I was sure I had torn my jeans. There was blood on my right hand. What a start to the season’s photographs. I dusted myself down, then let out a huge laugh.

The first fackinell of the season? Oh yes.

One photo taken and carnage.”

I should have known, then, that this was going to be a tough old season.

From Goodison Park, and Bramley Moore Dock, to Stamford Bridge – from first to last.

One final word. I have enjoyed recapturing the feelings that I had for Chelsea in 1982/83 throughout this campaign. It has been a ten-month dip into my youth. I have re-read diaries, checked old programmes, researched on-line and devoured Ron Hockings’ books. To be honest, it’s almost as if I knew that this current season was going to be – er – “troublesome” and that I needed a historical counterbalance to the turmoil of 2022/23.

“Was 2022/23 bad? Oh yes. But you should have lived through 1982/83.”

One thing made me smart though. I noticed that in my diaries, I usually referred to Chelsea as “they” which really surprised me. I am always chastising Chelsea fans for referring to Chelsea as “they” and “them” rather than “we” and “us” for reasons that I hope are clear.

We are one of the same.

Yet, forty years ago, I too was referring to Chelsea as a separate entity. Fear not, I am sure that this was soon to change. After all, 1983/84 was just around the corner, and that was my team.

And we will be Chelsea forever.

See you in August.

Before Game 1,400

Game 1,400

After Game 1,400

1982/83 & 2022/23

The First And The Last

The First And The Last

The First

The Last

The 1,400 Games

1973/74 : 1

1974/75 : 2

1975/76 : 4

1976/77 : 3

1977/78 : 2

1978/79 : 2

1979/80 : 3

1980/81 : 2

1981/82 : 4

1982/83 : 4

1983/84 : 11

1984/85 : 22

1985/86 : 22

1986/87 : 20

1987/88 : 15

1988/89 : 15

1989/90 : 2

1990/91 : 10

1991/92 : 14

1992/93 : 10

1993/94 : 15

1994/95 : 29

1995/96 : 31

1996/97 : 33

1997/98 : 35

1998/99 : 30

1999/00 : 38

2000/01 : 27

2001/02 : 29

2002/03 : 31

2003/04 : 31

2004/05 : 44

2005/06 : 40

2006/07 : 51

2007/08 : 55

2008/09 : 54

2009/10 : 51

2010/11 : 44

2011/12 : 58

2012/13 : 57

2013/14 : 47

2014/15 : 42

2015/16 : 55

2016/17 : 47

2017/18 : 56

2018/19 : 56

2019/20 : 41

2020/21 : 2

2022/23 : 55

2023/24 : 47

Tales From Manchestoh : Ci’eh

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Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 21 May 2023.

There was an old-fashioned 1982/83 feel to Saturday afternoon, the day before our game at the Etihad against Manchester City. I sat on my sofa in the living room and listened to Radio Five Live for the football commentary and was more than happy to hear that a lone Taiwo Awoniyi goal – the thorn in our side last Saturday – would condemn Arsenal to a 0-1 defeat at the City Ground, and thus hand the Premier League title to Manchester City.

City were champions and Arsenal weren’t. Perfect.

It of course meant that City were not looking to get over the line against us on the Sunday, a scenario that would have struck fear into myself and countless other Chelsea supporters. With them chomping at the bit, I dreaded it. There were thoughts of a cricket score. In the new circumstances, I hoped that Pep Guardiola would take the foot off the accelerator and also play some fringe players with two cup finals still to fight for this season.

That said, I am struggling to remember a game where I was so convinced that we would lose. As I set off to collect Lord Parky and Sir Les at around 9.30am, I was of the opinion that I would be happy losing 0-3. Even in the darkest of days of yore, I don’t think I was ever as downbeat – “pragmatic” – as that.

We were on our way from Melksham at 10.15am and the drive up to Manchester – Manchestoh to the locals – went well. The skies were brilliantly blue and sadly brilliantly sky blue too. We stopped for a very filling pub lunch at the Tabley Interchange on the M6 – the landlady recognised us from the FA Cup game in January – and I then drove on to our usual parking spot off the Ashton New Road. It felt odd to be playing City – Citeh, or Ci’eh with the full-on glottal stop of the locals – in an away game this late in the season. The last time I had seen us at City in May was in 2001. There was a lone game behind closed doors in May 2021 but that doesn’t count in my book.

With us playing at them so late in the season, and the weather being so nice, the locals had dispensed with the usual coats and jackets of a Manchester autumn, winter and spring. Many were wearing replica shirts – not just the current edition – to an extent that I don’t usually see at City.

I sorted out tickets for both Manchester games – we return on Thursday against the other lot – with Deano and headed in. I was perched in the first few rows of the upper tier at 3.30pm.

The Chelsea team was announced on the TV screens.

Kepa

Fofana – Silva – Chalobah

Azpilicueta – Fernandez – Loftus-Cheek – Hall

Sterling – Havertz – Gallagher

The City team was announced too and it immediately pleased me. There were fringe players throughout their line-up. There was a hope that City would not function to their full capability.

For some in the Chelsea support, this would be a third visit to this stadium during the current campaign. I looked around and I was pretty impressed with our turnout, which was surely over the 90% level; not bad for an end-of-season game in the circumstances.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, there was a medley of songs as flags were twirled down below us behind an Italian-style banner that proved difficult to read from behind.

The Dave Clark Five : “Glad All Over.”

Queen : “We Are The Champions.”

The Beatles : “Hey Jude.”

The teams appeared and flames flew into the air along the touchline directly in front of me. I missed the guard of honour amid my photographic manoeuvres.

Then, the old standard.

“Blue Moon.”

Officially we were in the fourth row but as the front two were covered in nets, we only had one row of spectators in front. To be honest, it was a splendid view. There was barely a seat not being used in the home areas, and the vast bowl was bathed in sky blue. It is an impressive stadium. With City looking to expand to around 63,000 with the addition of a third tier at the northern end, I wonder if they will do a Barcelona and dig down to increase capacity further; there is certainly tons of space. That would get it up to around 68,000 I suspect.

Pre-match chat with a few friends uncovered the fact that I was not the only Chelsea fan who would be happy with a 0-3 defeat.

Sigh.

The match began. The fans immediately behind us were sat and so, for the first time for ages and ages, I sat at an away game.

There was a bright start from City but we had a couple of promising forays into their half too. I soon spotted a new City song.

Snap : “Rhythm Is A Dancer.”

I couldn’t quite work out the words though.

Must be that Manc accent.

Ten minutes had passed. I turned to Gary :

“Well, we’ve made it to ten.”

Two minutes later, an attempted pass out of defence from Wesley Fofana ended up at the feet of a City player and the ball was soon zipped by Cole Palmer to the advancing Julian Alvarez and the Argentinian, surely at home in sky blue, purposefully steered the ball low past Kepa.

Sigh.

“Here we bloody go.”

Our confidence then disintegrated so easily and the home team dominated for most of the first-half.

“City. Tearing Cockneys apart. Again.”

This was a hard watch. I remained sat. There wasn’t a barrage of support from our three tiers at this away game. We were all there in body, but the spirit was yet to emerge. Not many Chelsea chants pierced the warm Manchester air.

Another new song from City. Status Quo? Give me strength.

“City’s won three in a row.”

There was a flurry of City attempts on goal. A lob from Phil Foden just cleared the framework. Palmer looked lively and his shot was booted off the line by Trevoh Chalobah.

With the home crowd buoyant with their team’s domination, several sections of the ground “did the Poznan” but Chelsea responded with a doggedly defiant “Carefree.”

Dave was getting roasted by the kid Palmer down below me. A trusted “7/10 every game” player, Dave shoudn’t really be anywhere near the first team these days. I chatted to Gary about him.

“Maybe Frank just needs players who he thinks he can trust. I dunno. It’s a mystery.”

I guessed that Benoit Badiashile was injured. I would rather have him in the three and move Chalobah over to right wing-back.

“Why isn’t Mudryk playing? City are bound to come at us. All that space he could exploit.”

Gary sighed.

The noise levels lessened. At times it was quiet. A few inflatable bananas were tossed around. This had the definite feel of a dead rubber game.

I was sorely wondering if we might go the whole game without an effort on goal. On half-an-hour, Raheem Sterling broke but his weak effort rolled away for a goal-kick. He was then played in by Kai Havertz but his shot was ably saved by Stefan Ortega.

To be fair, our play improved in the closing moments of the first-half.

A deep cross from the left by Lewis Hall found the completely unmarked Conor Gallagher who stooped to head at goal. The ball hit the near post and appeared to be pushed out by the ‘keeper.

Our support improved.

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

At half-time, one of Manchester’s favourite sons was remembered.

Andy Rourke, who played bass guitar for The Smiths, passed away in New York on the Friday. He had been suffering with pancreatic cancer for quite a while. As a member of one of my very favourite bands, I was obviously upset to hear of his death. He was only fifty-nine. It is a deep regret that I never saw The Smiths live, but they provided the soundtrack, along with the Cocteau Twins, to my youth. I am seeing Johnny Marr in Frome in August. I remember that on a visit to Manchester in late 2006, I visited Salford Lads Club prior to a game at Old Trafford and the caretaker had mentioned that Andy Rourke had visited the previous day, using its recording studio. This is the nearest I got.

“Barbarism Begins At Home” was played at the very start of the break, with Rourke’s funky intro making me unsurprisingly emotional. I glanced up at a banner away on the upper balcony of the main stand.

“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.”

RIP.

There were no substitutions from either manager at half-time.

The game continued along strange lines. City seemed happy to play within themselves while we tended to have more of the ball in attacking areas than the first-half, and our support rallied a little. But the match was played out in an odd atmosphere.

Kalvin Phillips, starting his very first league for City, hit the same part of the goal frame as Gallagher as the second half began.

John Stones appeared for City. We feared that more would come on. We definitely played better in the second-half. A few runs, Ruben looking half-decent, and a couple of shots from Hall peppered their goal. There was a strong run from Sterling but another weak effort.

On sixty-eight minutes, Mudryk replaced Gallagher and Madueke replaced Sterling.

The City support applauded Raheem off; a nice touch in the circumstances. I am not so sure many Chelsea would have applauded him on.

Mudryk blasted high when clean through.

City made three substitutes; on came Haaland, Rodri and De Bruyne.

Their fans were full of it.

“Erling Haaland. He’s scored more than you.”

Gary chirped : “Fuck me. John Stones has scored more than us.”

At some moment in the second-half, Hall slipped as Alvarez advanced and slotted home, but VAR easily spotted the arm that controlled the bouncing ball. A few Chelsea left when this soon-to-be-disallowed goal went in but I was really happy with how many of us stayed right to the end.

We then made a flurry of substitutions.

On came Koulibaly, Chukwuemeka and Pulisic.

Pulisic sent over a fine ball but a diving prod from Dave, of all people, was blocked on the line by Foden.

Thinking to myself : “bloody hell, we could have got a point here.”

At the final whistle, thousands of City fans invaded the pitch despite being warned continually about it.

We walked slowly back to the car.

One young City fan walked along in the middle of the road, arms aloft.

“Ederson and Ake. Walker and Akanje. Ruben Dias, Johnny Stones. Best defence in Europe. We’re Manchester City. We’re on our way to Istanbul.”

…remember Porto, lad, remember Porto?

Sadly, my car was hemmed in back at the car park and so we had to wait for all of the post-match celebrations to end. We stepped inside a rancid pub – “The Grove Inn” – which was full of extras from “Shameless” and reeked of bleach. As we stood silently at the bar, City lifted the trophy on the TV screen to our right. Oh boy.

We had a little banter with the locals; to be fair they were OK. Eventually, bodies appeared outside and we finished our drinks.

“Take care. Hope you pump United in the Cup Final.”

I didn’t pass on my wishes for the Champions League Final though.

I suppose we set off at around 7.15pm. I drove west and then made my way south. There had been a lot of talk between the three of us about football – Chelsea – in the ‘eighties on the drive up to Manchester and there were a few mentions on the return trip home.

Concluding my retrospective about one particular season from that decade – 1982/83 – is the final match of the campaign, the home game with Middlesbrough on Saturday 14 May 1983. Going in to the game we knew that a draw would see us safe. The visitors were one point ahead of us, one place ahead of us, but needed a draw to be safe too.

In the match programme, there was much praise for the fans that had travelled up to Bolton the previous week. The three thousand-strong support represented a full quarter of our average home gate that season and would be the equivalent in today’s money of us taking 10,000 to an away game. The programme honoured those loyal fans who had travelled on the “special” that year by listing the ninety-seven supporters who had gone to at least fourteen of the twenty-one away games with the club. Despite the five London teams in the Second Division that season – Charlton, Crystal Palace, Fulham, QPR and us – there was a definite northern feel to the division that year. Utilising the club special would have been an easy way to save money. I know four of the ninety-seven; Paul Holder, Russell Holbrook, Patrick Gordon-Brown and Kev O’Donohoe, and I am also aware that although my match-day neighbour Alan Davidson qualified for the roll-call, for some reason he was inexplicably excluded, a fact that gnaws away to this day. Kev won a raffle from this list of heroes and the prize was a season ticket to The Shed for 1983/84. He has recently told me that he traded up – paying the difference – for a much more agreeable and fashionable Gate 13 season ticket.

Only three of the ninety-seven are female and I have never seen so many Steves and Daves in one list.

On another page in the Middlesbrough programme, there is a brief mention of my friend Neil Jones, who is wished a happy birthday by his parents. Jonesy recently told me that his actual birthday was spent in the seats at Bolton the week before. That must have a fine birthday present.

In the centre pages, there is a photo of Seb Coe presenting the “Player Of The Year” award to Joey Jones. From an ignominious start and a sending-off at Carlisle United in late October, Joey certainly worked his way into our collective hearts in the remaining seven months of the season. Just below is a picture of Breda Lee and Mary Bumstead.

I would listen to Radio Two, as it was in those days, during the afternoon for score updates. Going into the game, I had hoped for a 10,000 crowd.

The match ended 0-0, thus securing the safety of both teams, and I remember being really pleased that 19,340 attended the game.

Thus, our top four home gates in 1982/83 really were decent.

Fulham – 29,797

Leeds United – 25,358

Queens Park Rangers – 20,821

Middlesbrough – 19,340

However, the dismal run of attendances in the winter had a terrible effect. Our home average levelled out at 12,672. This was narrowly lower than the 13,132 of 1981/82 and the 13,370 of our very first season of 1905/06. Apart from the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/2021 – two league games with an average of 6,000 – these have been the low points in our 118-year history.

We ended the season in eighteenth place, easily our worst-ever placing in our history. We were just two points clear of safety. That Clive Walker goal really did make all of the difference. The three teams relegated to the Third Division were Rotherham United, Bolton Wanderers and Burnley. At the top of the table, Queens Park Rangers were promoted as champions, with Wolverhampton Wanderers and Leicester City filling the other two automatic places. Our neighbours Fulham narrowly missed out by one point in controversial circumstances. Losing 0-1 at Derby County, the home fans invaded the pitch with a minute of the game remaining and the referee signalled the end of the game. At one stage, Fulham were looking a safe bet for promotion.

Elsewhere, Liverpool won the League Championship despite a recent trailing-off of form, finishing eleven points clear of Watford and then Manchester United. Their 2-1 loss at Watford was their fifth loss in seven games.

As for Manchester City, they lost 0-1 at home to Luton Town at Maine Road in front of a massive 42,843, and were relegated to the Second Division.

In some parts of Manchester, the image of David Pleat, dressed completely in beige, still brings convulsions of terror to this day.

OK, Yahni’ed – you’re next.

Tales From Baltimore, Bolton, London And Stockholm

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Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 13 May 2023.

…this one is going to resemble a mazy Pat Nevin dribble, drifting from place to place, hopefully entertaining, and with a few dummies thrown in for good measure.

In the build up to our home game with Nottingham Forest, I had read that there would be a couple of banners appearing before kick-off in The Shed and the Matthew Harding to celebrate the impact that Thiago Silva has had during his relatively short period of time at Stamford Bridge. And quite right too.

Everybody loves Thiago Silva.

The man is a defensive colossus. He is calmness personified. He oozes class. In a season that has stumbled along with many a setback along the way he has stood out like a beacon of professionalism. How I wish that all of our players showed the same skill set and the same work ethic as Thiago Silva. Ah, I had best add N’Golo Kante here.

We need a banner for him too.

On the evening before the game, by chance, I caught a comment by an acquaintance on Facebook that Thiago Silva was looking to return to Brazil, to his childhood team Fluminense – for whom he played seventy-odd games – after he eventually leaves Chelsea. I loved this idea, of legends returning home, and of course I immediately thought of Gianfranco Zola returning to Cagliari for a couple of seasons after leaving us. I just hoped that we could tease another season or two out of our veteran Brazilian.

I then checked on Thiago Silva’s playing career and I was reminded that he had played for Milan, after his spell with Fluminense, from 2009 to 2012. And that made me think. I was lucky enough to see Chelsea play Milan in Baltimore in the summer of 2009, just ahead of our wonderful double-winning campaign under Carlo Ancelotti. I did a little research and soon realised that Thiago Silva had indeed played in that game. My heart skipped a little. I then checked a few photographs, as is my wont, and I spotted an image that made me smile. In the first-half of the game, which Chelsea would win 2-1, I had taken a photo, focussed on Frank Lampard, that also featured a veritable “Who’s Who” of top-ranking footballers from that era.

Ronaldinho, Didier Drogba, Alessandro Nesta, Jon Obi Mikel, our man Frank, Andrea Pirlo and – there he was – Thiago Silva.

So, here indeed was proof that this was the very first time that I had seen Thiago Silva play. It’s very likely that this was the first time that Frank had seen Thiago Silva play too, though his view was certainly different than mine.

Almost fourteen years later, the two of them are at the same club, although of course it was Frank who signed the cherished Brazilian during our interim manager’s first spell at the helm at the start of the COVID-ravaged season of 2020/21.

I then decided to flick through a few photos from that very enjoyable stay in Baltimore. I took plenty of the game of course – probably the highest quality match of the seventeen that I have seen us play in the US – but just as many of our fellow supporters too. One photo again made me smile. It featured my good friend Burger on the right of a group of random, blue-jerseyed, American fans who must have been drinking with us, or near to us, at the time. But I immediately spotted two other people that I recognised; Kristin and Andrew from Columbus in Ohio. I had not noticed their faces in this particular photo before. As luck would have it, those very same two people – friends of mine for a few years now – were going to meet us in the pub on the Saturday morning before the game with Forest.

As I continually say, Chelsea World is a very small world indeed.

We were all up in London at the usual time. I was parked up at around 10am. With PD still convalescing at home, his seat in my car and his seat in the stadium was taken by Glenn, my match-going friend from Frome since as long ago as 1983.

1983. You know where this is going, right?

The next match to feature in my look back at the 1982/83 season is the iconic and famous encounter against fellow strugglers Bolton Wanderers at their Burnden Park ground on Saturday 7 May 1983. In the years that have passed since this game was played, many of our supporters have bestowed upon it the title of “the most important match in Chelsea’s history” and it is easy to see why. Going in to the game we were fourth from bottom, one point below our opponents. Chelsea had been financially at risk for many a season, and the thought of dropping into the Third Division was not only depressing enough from a supporters’ perspective – the pain, the ridicule, the struggle to recover – it would also cause an extreme strain on the immediate future of the club with reduced revenues hitting hard, despite the tightening of strings inaugurated by Ken Bates over the previous twelve months.

Although my mind was full of worry about my upcoming “A Levels” in Geography, Mathematics and Technical Drawing, this was nothing compared to my concern for my beloved Chelsea Football Club.

My diary on the day tells that when I heard on the radio of Clive Walker’s low drive in the second-half giving us a 1-0 lead, I was not too elated because all of the other protagonists at the basement were also winning. However, after all the results came through, I was overjoyed. We had risen unbelievably, to fourteenth place.

I called it “quite a wonderful day.”

With emphasis on “won” no doubt.

How many Chelsea went to the game? The gate at Bolton was 8,687. The general consensus was that we took thousands. In the following week’s home programme, Ken Bates praised the “almost three-thousand” who were there. I have to say that a photograph of the away section of the ground on that rainy day in Bolton, with Chelsea playing in the all lemon kit despite no obvious colour clash, suggests that only around 1,500 were standing in a small section of terrace. However, at the time it was always a predilection for London clubs, especially, to invade the home seats at away games, so I am in no position to suggest that we did indeed not have around 3,000 up there. I know that some Chelsea were in the seats at the other end of the ground. There is another photo of the scenes at the final whistle and a good number of Chelsea fans are seen celebrating in the upper tier above a deserted home terrace along the side of the ground. The number in this section does in fact look like 1,500. So, around 1,500 on the terrace and around 1,500 in the seats. Let’s go with 3,000.

I always remember that on my first ever trip to Bolton’s new Reebok Stadium in 2004, I picked my long-time Chelsea mate Alan up en route and he told me a few stories about the game at Burnden Park in 1983. He, it goes without saying, was one of the three-thousand. I always remember how he told the story of how Breda Lee, loved by so many, was bedecked with good luck charms as she made her way up to Bolton on the Chelsea Special. Breda had lost her son Gary after a horrific incident at Preston in 1981, and would always travel on the Chelsea Special with John Bumstead’s mother Mary, and was seen by many Chelsea fans as their “Chelsea Mother.” On this day, Alan said that she was wearing a lucky four-leafed clover trinket, a lucky horseshoe, a sprig of lucky heather and was clutching a rabbit’s foot too.

It all worked.

The victorious Chelsea team that day was as follows –

  1. Steve Francis.
  2. Joey Jones.
  3. Chris Hutchings.
  4. Gary Chivers.
  5. Micky Droy.
  6. Colin Pates.
  7. Mike Fillery.
  8. John Bumstead.
  9. Colin Lee.
  10. Paul Canoville.
  11. Clive Walker.

The non-playing substitute – hard to believe in this day and age – was Peter Rhoades-Brown. I love it that four players from this line-up (Chivers, Pates, Bumstead, Canoville) still take part in the match-day experience at Stamford Bridge forty years later as corporate hospitality hosts.

I salute them all. And I salute the 3,000 too.

Forty years on, the day was starting to take shape. I dropped Glenn and Parky off outside “The Eight Bells” and then met up with Ollie at Stamford Bridge once more, this time with his cousin Julien, both from Normandy. I often write about the gathering of the clans on match days and this was no exception. By the time I reached the pub at 11.30am, a gaggle of friends – old and new – were well into a session. Sitting alongside Glenn, Parky, Ollie and Julien were Kristin and Andrew, fresh from a few days in Edinburgh, and with some fellow Ohio Blues, Steve and Jake who I met on their visit in 2019, plus Jeromy and Neil, who were attending their first game at Stamford Bridge. We all got along famously. It was also superb to meet up again with Jesus, from California, who we last saw at Watford last season, and who was another chap that Parky took under our wing while he was living in London many years ago. Completing the scene was Russ, originally from Frome, who now lives in Reading and was attending his first home game for quite a while.

Everyone together, everyone happy.

Up on the platform at Putney Bridge tube, a few Forest fans were engaging in some light-hearted chat. The well-rounded vowels of their East Midlands accents made a change on match day in SW6.

“Bit of a free hit for us, this game, not expecting much but you never know.”

To be honest, we hadn’t thought too much about the actual match – probably with good reason – and Glenn admitted that he wasn’t expecting much from the game either. In our current predicament, the day was all about seeing friends and enjoying each other’s company.

Elsewhere in London, over twenty thousand Notts County fans were in town for the National League Play-Off Final against Chesterfield. One of them, Craig, a friend from college in Stoke, sent me a message to say he hoped that we were victorious against Forest. He hates Forest, does Craig.

I said to the Forest supporter “the only person worried the outcome of this game is a Notts County fan.”

This of course wasn’t strictly true, but it raised a laugh at least.

The front cover of the programme marked the exact twenty-fifth anniversary of our European Cup Winners’ Cup triumph in Stockholm against VfB Stuttgart.

A few personal memories…

A group of us went with the club to Stockholm, flying out from Gatwick on the day before the game, and flying back right after. It seems really expensive now, and it was then; £450 not including a match ticket. With inflation, that equates to just over £1,000 in today’s money. I drove up from Frome with Glenn and met up with Daryl, Andy, Mick, The Youth, Neil and Tony, three of whom still go to all the home games and many away games to this day. I always remember that on the coach in to the city from the airport, it became apparent that Chelsea had managed to split the hotels of a father and his teenage son. Tremendous. Thankfully, that faux pas was soon resolved.

We all stayed in a hotel a mile or so to the north of the city centre and that first night was as pleasurable as it gets. We went off for an Italian meal in a restaurant called “Pele” which was named after the Brazilian star’s 1958 World Cup debut in the city. We drank Spendrups lager and ate Italian as couples danced to the tango. It was a very surreal visit. Later, we found ourselves in a bar owned by the former Arsenal and Everton players Anders Limpar – the bar had the worst name ever, “The Limp Bar” – and he was serving that night. I remember a “sing-off” between Chelsea fans and an all-girl German choir. Another surreal moment.

On the day of the game, we bought some cans and soaked up the sun in a central park – I remember seeing Ruth Harding nearby – and then made our way to a crowded bar where Johnny Vaughan was spotted.

Then, back to the hotel and a nervous wait for the coach to the game. Once aboard, The Youth lead the community singing. Outside the Rasunda Stadium in Solna there were Chelsea everywhere. The gate for this game was 30,216 and we greatly outnumbered the Stuttgart fans. We must have had 25,000 there and I think everyone who travelled to Sweden got in. With road travel from the UK being highly expensive and time consuming, virtually everyone went by plane. At the time, it was the biggest single airlift out of the UK since World War Two.

Growing up as a Chelsea supporter, the twin cup triumphs of 1970 and 1971 were etched on our soul and in our psyche. For a while, the two stars on our chests celebrated those two wins. And here we were, twenty-six years on from Athens, with a chance to equal that celebrated feat.

This was a magnificent time to be a Chelsea supporter; some might argue the best of all. Glenn Hoddle had raised the profile of the club by reaching Europe in 1994, and then the signings came…Ruud Gullit, Mark Hughes, Gianluca Vialli, Gianfranco Zola. We were truly blessed. The 1997 FA Cup win under Gullit was followed by the League Cup under Vialli in 1998.

We all travelled to Sweden in May 1998 with a sense of being very capable of repeating that win in Athens.

Stuttgart were managed by Joachim Low and their star man was the striker Freddie Bobic. Their ‘keeper was Franz Wohlfahrt who had been on the receiving end of Spenny’s run in Vienna in 1994. The former German international Thomas Berthold played for them too.

Our team?

De Goey

Clarke – Leboeuf – Duberry – Granville

Petrescu – Poyet – Wise – Di Matteo

Flo – Vialli

Shades of Ryan Bertrand in Munich; Danny Granville at left-back. Vialli played Mark Hughes in the League Cup Final but he wasn’t missing out on this one.

At the game, I wore a Chelsea 1970 replica shirt and the scarf that my mother bought me after my first game in 1974.

In truth, the game wasn’t a classic, but the Chelsea fans were at our best that night in Sweden. The game hinged on a substitution. On seventy-one minutes, Gianfranco Zola replaced Tore Andre Flo. Within twenty-five seconds, Dennis Wise floated a ball through and the ball held up. Zola caught it sweetly on the half-volley and it rose all the way into the goal at our end. I was almost behind the flight of the ball.

Absolute fucking delirium.

I caught Glenn and Andy right after our goal.

In the last five minutes, Dan Petrescu was sent off but we were in control, the Germans were a spent force.

“Dambusters” rang out in Solna.

What a night. What a team. What a club.

Athens 1971. Stockholm 1998.

We had done it.

The euphoria was real. I have rarely been as happy at a Chelsea game. And yet most who were in Stockholm probably thought that it would not get any better than this. We were a cup team, no more, and the equalling of the 1970 and 1971 wins were seen as our “glass ceiling”. We knew we would never win the league…

We walked out into the Solna streets so happy. Famously, a local girl flashed her assets from a balcony as thousands of Chelsea fans walked past. We eventually found our coach.

Back at the airport, it was mayhem. There was coach after coach after coach in a massive line. In the terminal, we saw Ron Harris and Peter Osgood. Johnny Vaughan commented “it’s like the last chopper out of Saigon.”

The call went out that anyone on a Monarch flight should make their way to the departure gate. We sprinted. It was a matter of getting bodies on flights. We were lucky; we left at around 3am, on the same flight as actor Clive Mantle who I had photographed earlier outside the stadium.

Stockholm 1998 was one of the very best nights.

I’d rank the European wins that I have seen like this :

  1. Munich.
  2. Stockholm.
  3. Porto.
  4. Baku.
  5. Amsterdam.

Incidentally, the club’s photographs from that night were taken by Mark Sandom, who sits a few rows in front of me, and I sent away for a set when I returned home. I still need to frame one or two enlargements from that game and find space for one of them in my Blue Room.

…Solna 1998 gave way to Fulham 2023.

Unfortunately, Alan was unable to make it to this game, so I sat with Clive and Glenn in The Sleepy Hollow. There were more than a few mutterings of discontent at Frank Lampard’s starting eleven, but there was pleasure in seeing Lewis Hall at left back. In came Edouard Mendy between the sticks while Mateo Kovacic, Raheem Sterling and Joao Felix started too.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Hall

Gallagher – Enzo – Kovacic

Madueke – Felix – Sterling

The two Thiago Silva flags appeared at both ends of the stadium just before the teams entered the pitch. The one in The Shed was particularly striking. I loved it. I also loved the words of the match day announcer as he ran through the team.

“Number six, your captain, Thiago Silva.”

Despite our struggles this season, there appeared to be a near full-house at Stamford Bridge. The three-thousand Forest fans were already singing about “mist rolling in from the Trent” and their players looked smart in their plain red / white / red, a combination – the simplest of all kits – that rarely gets seen at Stamford Bridge these days.

While we huffed and puffed in the opening section of the game, The Sleepy Hollow claimed a victim, with Glenn quietly nodding off after some alcoholic fumes rolled in from the Thames. After an unlucky thirteen minutes had passed, a Forest cross from their left from Renan Lodi was bravely met by the leap of Taiwo Awoniyi, impressive in the away game on New Year’s Day, and the combined forces of Mendy, Badiashile and Silva were found lacking. The away team, in their first real attack, had struck.

The Forest fans erupted, the scorer did his best “Christ The Redeemer” and Forest players swarmed around him down below me.

Fackinell Forest.

I sent a photo of a dormant Glenn to Alan with the caption “one down.”

Our reaction was hardly immediate, and our attacks lacked precision and incision. Noni Madueke, looking so good at Bournemouth, tended to frustrate both himself and us. On one occasion, his turn was sweet but he then fell over himself. It summed up his luck. There was a shot on seventeen minutes, our first, saved, from Sterling and an effort from Hall was then blocked. Our best effort took a whole thirty minutes to arrive; a Hall cross, a Felix header, but too close to Keylor Navas in the Forest goal.

This was a really poor first-half.

Clive helped to alleviate the pain by buying us a hot chocolate apiece.

Just before the whistle, Mateo Kovacic – who has dipped in form quite shockingly of late – was replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek, the perennial squad player.

I was surprised that there were so few boos at the break.

Soon into the second-half, Glenn resurfaced and Russ came over to sit by us for the duration of the game. The Sleepy Hollow had undergone a significant reshuffle. We were now back to a four. Clive, who had been near suicidal during the first-half needed cheering up.

“We’ll win this 2-1 mate.”

He smiled. Or was it a grimace?

Forest, though, began the brighter and almost doubled their lead through Moussa Niakhate but his volley was blasted wide.

On fifty-one minutes, there was a nice interchange between Madueke and Trevoh Chalobah down our right and the ball was pulled back from the goal-line by Chalobah into the feet of Sterling, whose goal bound effort took a deflection before hitting the net.

Yes.

The crowd roared as Sterling briefly celebrated.

“C’MON CHELS.”

Immediately after, Forest retaliated with a tantalisingly deep cross that just evaded the nod of a red-shirted attacker.

The crowd rallied.

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

We were playing much better now. A few half-chances, and then on fifty-eight minutes, a strong run from Loftus-Cheek in the centre was followed by a prod of the ball to Sterling, who cut inside and left his marker Joe Worrall on his arse before perfectly curling an effort into the top far corner of the goal.

Bliss.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

His celebration, this time, was far more euphoric, and so was ours.

Clive was full of praise : “you called it.”

But this was Chelsea 2023, not Chelsea 2009 – that photo from Baltimore succinctly illustrates the cyclical nature of our sport’s teams – and just four minutes later, a ball was pushed into the six-yard box by Orel Mangala and I immediately feared danger. The ball was headed home by that man Awoniyi, with another unmarked team mate alongside him to give him moral support and guidance, with Mendy was beaten all ends up. A VAR review couldn’t save us.

Double European Champions Chelsea 2 Double European Champions Forest 2.

On seventy-three minutes, Kai Havertz replaced Felix and Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.

Clive threatened to leave.

I tried to give him hope.

“Sterling hat-trick mate.”

He definitely grimaced this time. But so did I.

Every time that Ziyech got the ball, either in the middle of a wriggling, shuffling dribble, or at a free-kick, I genuinely expected him to provide some magic. To be fair, his brief outing was not without merit but we could not, quite, claim the winner.

It ended 2-2.

The away fans celebrated loudly inside Stamford Bridge and out on the Fulham Road. This was a big point for them in their dogged fight to avoid an immediate relegation back to the Second Division, er The Championship.

The day seemed to be all about Nottingham. On the drive home, we were to learn that Craig’s Notts County dramatically edged out Chesterfield at Wembley, so well done to them. Forty years ago, Notts finished in a respectable fifteenth place in the First Division.

Talk about cycles.

Next up is the toughest away game of them all. I am fearing our trip to Manchester City next Sunday.

Anyone dare to join me?

Baltimore.

London.

Stockholm.

Tales From A Happy And Victorious Afternoon At The Vitality

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Bournemouth vs. Chelsea : 6 May 2023.

Yet another crazy Chelsea season was nearing completion. There were five games left; three away, two home. The next match was Bournemouth away, the easiest of trips for me.

With PD resting at home and out of action until the new season, we called in a last minute replacement. Mark, from nearby Westbury, was able to pick up a spare ticket and would join Parky – recovering after his own hospital appointment this week – and little old me as I made my way from Somerset to Wiltshire to Dorset, via the slightest of incursions into Hampshire.

I left home just after 7.30am. I knew that a few fans had already travelled down on Friday to make a weekend of it. I collected Parky at 8am and I picked Mark up in the Market Place in Westbury at 8.25am.

This brought back memories from almost forty years ago. The first time that I ever met Mark was on a trip up to London to see Chelsea play Leeds United in April 1984 when we went up in the same car. The driver was Mark’s mate Gary, but he has not been seen for years. Also in the car was PD and Glenn who obviously still go. Thirty-nine years later, four out of five ain’t bad, is it? We beat Leeds 5-0 that day and on the way back to Frome, we stopped off at the Market Place in Westbury and enjoyed an evening pint in “The Crown”.

My route from Westbury was simple enough; down the A350 to Warminster and then down the A36 to Salisbury, then the A338 – via a brief stretch on the A331 – to Bournemouth. As the crow flies, from my house, it is an hour and a half. With my two pick-ups, it took me two hours and ten minutes.

I had not seen Mark since the away game in Milan, so we had a good old catching-up session while I ate up the miles. We agreed on lots of things.

“Why hasn’t Badiashile featured at all? He was calm and efficient in his starts. Since then, nothing.”

“Can’t understand what Frank sees in Sterling. Hope he doesn’t start today.”

“Mudryk is a raw talent and needs game time.”

“In a four, no reason why Chalobah can’t play right back.”

“I like Enzo, though.”

For some reason, I fancied us to win at Bournemouth. I told everyone that I met before the game that “we surely can’t lose all our matches this season?” Although I was never sucked into believing that we had a bona fide relegation fight on our hands, we knew that a win would make us mathematically safe.

In fact, deep down, I suspected that those in our support that were genuinely worried about relegation had not really understood the complexities involved in a relegation struggle. I also think that some of our newer fans were almost revelling in a mock concern about this alleged relegation fight to help them get some “sufferance” brownie points among their peers.

For those who have been reading about 1982/83 this season…now then…THAT was a relegation fight.

I dropped Parky and Marky off outside “The Moon In The Square” and joined them a few minutes later. We breakfasted like kings while many in the pub sat watching the royal coronation on TV.

We met up with a few friends and the time soon passed.

At 1.30pm, we drove the ten minutes out to the Vitality Stadium, spotting a few Chelsea fans along the way. I squeezed my car into the allotted “JustPark” space on Holdenhurst Road and made my way towards the away end. It was ironic that while we have enjoyed many fine days out in Bournemouth since 2016, from October to April, here we were in May and there was drizzle in the air.

I stood alongside Gal, John and Al in the fifth row.

Just before the teams appeared, the noisy and overly-enthusiastic PA announcer pleaded for each of the individual four stands in turn to make “noise for the boys” and my eyes continually rolled.

The teams stood at the centre-circle and “God Save The King” was sung with gusto by all.

As the players lined up in readiness of the kick-off – we attacked our “end” in the first-half, not usually the case here – I absolutely loved Frank’s choice of a starting line-up.

I checked position by position. It was the team that I would have picked in a 4/3/3.

Kepa

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Chilwell

Kante – Enzo – Gallagher

Mudryk – Havertz – Madueke

Did Frank read the comments in my Arsenal blog?

I relaxed knowing that Raheem and Pierre-Emerick were not involved.

The drizzle had mostly petered out but the floodlights were still on. I noticed a surprising number of empty seats in the home areas. Sadly, a fair few were not filled behind me in our section. I find it inconceivable that one of the top fifteen clubs in Europe can’t fill all 1,200 tickets for an away game just one hundred miles away.

It was an open start to the game. The home team – ouch, those nasty zig-zag stripes – created a couple of tasty chances, but Kepa spread himself at his near post to save our blushes while another flashed past a post.

There were a couple of positive chants in support of Frank in those first few minutes.

“Super, Super Frank…”

“Scored two hundred…”

My man Noni Madueke had settled in well on the right flank, twisting and turning, running past defenders, a threat. On just nine minutes, from that right flank, Trevoh Chalobah touched the ball to N’Golo Kante who had time to cross. Conor Galagher moved towards its flight glanced it in at the far post past the marvellously named Neto.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

I just couldn’t bring myself to sing along to the “we are staying up” chants, nor could the young lad next to me. I get the desire for self-deprecation.

But.

Just.

Not.

Right.

Now.

Enzo set up Chalobah but Neto saved well. We looked neat on the ball, with Enzo looking to play in whoever he could whenever he could. Alas, on twenty-one minutes, Dominic Solanke and Ryan Christie set up Matias Vina who ghosted past defenders and, as he set himself up for a shot, I absolutely feared the worst. His lofted curler was perfectly placed beyond the reach of Kepa.

The game was tied 1-1.

I liked the way that Madueke feared nobody as he attacked down the right. His shots on goal showed confidence even if his shot selection and execution were awry. Down our left, seemingly within touching distance, a growing relationship between Gallagher and Mudryk was starting to flourish. The Ukrainian is certainly fast.

I glimpsed into the future at the potential of our very own “M & M” boys – “Mad/Mud” anyone? – causing havoc down the wings, the days of Arjen Robben and Damien Duff reincarnated perhaps, if not the days of Peter Rhoades-Brown and Phil Driver.

Ah, 1983.

Forty years ago, on Friday 6 May, I had an uneventful day at school but the twin nightmares of “A Levels” and a probable relegation were lying heavily on my mind. The very next day – Saturday 7 May 1983 – Chelsea were to visit Bolton Wanderers, one point and one place above Chelsea, in a pure “relegation six pointer”, and my diary noted that if we lost I felt that we would surely be relegated.

Despite seeing the game against Bournemouth being advertised by a few people, who really should have known better, as a “relegation six pointer”, this game wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

We were decent enough in that first-half and at the break I was quietly confident that my pre-game prediction of a Chelsea win would prevail. Kante was producing another 8/10 performance and while he is in the midfield, and Thiago Silva is in defence, we have a chance.

We lost our way a little at the start of the second-half, however, and while Bournemouth created a few chances, we slowed.

I turned to Gal : “Havertz always wants to take one touch too many, doesn’t he?”

This was a strange game now. There were patches of quality; we loved a magical twist out on the touchline from Madueke that made his marker look foolish. This had us all purring. But these were matched by moments of farce; an optimistic volley from Kante went high and so wide that the ball didn’t even leave the pitch.

The pro-Frank songs continued. However, on sixty-three minutes, he had us scratching our heads.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kante.

He was our best player. There was no midweek game to worry about. Was he carrying a knock?

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Oh bloody hell, Raheem…you again?

In the away section, things were getting a little testy. A chant for Roman Abramovich was loud, and an undoubted reaction to the substitutions that seemed to exemplify the current, failing, regime. A chant about the current owner was more forthright.

“Boehly – you’re a cunt.”

There were punches exchanged between two Chelsea fans a few seats behind me.

Christie blasted over. A superb sliding tackle on Solanke by Silva inside the penalty area went to VAR, but there was no foul. Havertz took an extra touch as he broke in on goal from an angle and the moment was lost.

The game rumbled on, with the mood seeming to change inside the away section every few minutes. Ben Chilwell pulled up on the far side and we feared the worst. Dave replaced him. At the same time, Hakim Ziyech replaced Madueke.

The appearance of Hakeem didn’t thrill me, or many, with much joy, but he hugged the near touchline and looked to cause trouble with that tip-tapping style of his.

Vina was clean in on goal to my left, but Kepa made an absolutely brilliant shot, his arm outstretched, strong wrists, magnificent. A Ziyech cross found the head of Havertz, but the effort was saved. On seventy-eight minutes, a corner was headed back across the face of the goal but Dango Ouattara headed over from virtually underneath the bar.

At this stage, it seemed we had lost the momentum and that a Bournemouth goal would be the typical, obvious, sad conclusion.

“Why did I think we’d fucking win this?”

On eighty-two minutes, Sterling and Ziyech stood over the ball at a free-kick on the right hand side of their defensive third. Ziyech floated an in swinging curler towards the penalty spot. The cross had everything. It always looked like it might trouble the defence and ‘keeper. The trajectory, pace and dip were all to perfection. A few Chelsea players rose and the leg of my boy Badiashile flicked the ball past Neto.

The net rippled beautifully.

YES!

His joyous run and slide was lovely to see, his smile wide.

We were back in front.

Phew.

Another substitution, just after, Joao Felix for Havertz.

“How long to go, Gal?”

“Six minutes.”

“Let’s hang on.”

The Chelsea crowd were rocking now.

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

On ninety minutes, a beautiful run by under-fire Sterling set up Felix who calmly slotted the ball low past Neto.

I screamed my joy at this one. The game was safe.

AFCB 1 CFC 3.

What a beautiful sight.

These were good times now at The Vitality.

“…when Arsenal fuck it up.”

One win doesn’t make a season, but this bugger was a long time coming. After six consecutive losses, at last three points for Chelsea, and for Frank.

After the game, the players walked over to reciprocate our applause for them. We were happy. They were grateful.

Back in the car, we realised that we had risen to eleventh place.

I made a very quick exit out, and dropped Salisbury Steve off on the way back. I was home by 7.30pm.

Easy.

Next up, two-time European Champions Chelsea take on two-time European Champions Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge.

See you there.

Tales From A Masterpiece

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Chelsea vs. Borussia Dortmund : 7 March 2023.

On a night of high drama at a wonderfully noisy Stamford Bridge, as Chelsea undoubtedly produced the finest performance of a deeply frustrating season, we defeated Borussia Dortmund 2-0 with goals in each half from the boots of Raheem Sterling and Kai Havertz, this from a twice-taken penalty, to secure our passage into the Champions League quarter finals once again.

It was always going to be a long day for me, this one. I had set the alarm for 4.30am so I could do an irregular 6am to 2pm shift. Thankfully, traffic was light on the way into London and at 4.30pm, I was parked up at Bramber Road between the North End Road and Queens Club. Heaven knows what time I’d be reaching my Somerset village after the game.

Throughout the day I had been quietly confident of us progressing against Dortmund. I felt sure that their 1-0 lead from the first leg could be overturned. I just felt it in my water. I had to smile when my fellow Frome Town supporter Steve, who would be watching the home game against Bashley – another team that plays in yellow shirts and black shorts – commented that he hoped both Yellow Walls would come tumbling down. Quite.

Pre-match was spent flitting between Stamford Bridge to chat to a couple of friends, a chip shop on Fulham Broadway for sustenance and “Simmons” to meet up with the usual suspects.

Just outside the Shed End, I chatted briefly to Mark M.

“I think we’ll do it. I think those buggers will raise their game and we’ll go through.”

And this was one of the main reasons why I was predicting a win and a safe passage into the next round. Myself and many others could not help but think that the Chelsea players, with just this one remaining trophy left to win in this dullest of seasons, were very likely indeed to go all out for a win against Dortmund. And yes, that would raise questions about desire and commitment to the cause in more mundane fixtures, but Mark smiled when he replied.

“Rather have us go through with that the case, rather than the alternative though.”

On the approach to the West Stand, supporters were being confronted by our very own yellow wall of hi-vis wearing stewards, a long line of them, who were asking for punters to show match tickets. It was calling out for a photograph and I duly snapped away. I was more than optimistic that the night would be supremely photogenic.

As I began to wolf down a saveloy and chips inside the busy chippy, I made room alongside me for a Dortmund fan. I had walked past “McGettigans” just as he had been in a discussion with a bouncer about being admitted into the pub. It didn’t surprise me that he had been turned away. We began chatting and I explained that I had attended the first leg. I also bravely retold the story of my “phantom trip” to see Borussia in 1987, hoping that he – Klaus, with his daughter alongside him – would understand my English. He was originally from Dortmund but now lives in Bonn. It was his first ever visit to London for a Champions League game. I again remained confident about a passage into the quarters and I told them so. As I sidled past them on leaving, I shook Klaus’ hand and said “when we beat you later tonight, you’ll remember this conversation.”

I then bumped into Mark W.

“Just walked up from Putney. There’s loads of them down there. In loads of pubs.”

It was no surprise that the Germans had travelled over in numbers. We had heard ridiculous stories of how many Eintracht Frankfurt supporters had descended on the capital in previous years and it was now the turn of the yellow and black hordes from Westphalia.

In the bar, my confidence was still surprisingly high. Jason and Gina from Dallas, remaining in London from the Leeds game, met up for a quick chat before disappearing off for a pre-match meal in one of the banqueting suites. I could sense that the mood in the small bar was buoyant. You could taste it in the air.

“Just need to avoid conceding an early goal.”

I walked up the Fulham Road with Parky. I was aware that the younger element in our support had planned a Liverpool-style welcome for the Dortmund coach outside the main gates between 5.30pm and 6pm – flares, noise – but I had not heard how well that had gone.

I was soon inside.

The three-thousand away fans were already occupying their allotted zone, though the section was configured slightly differently than the away area for a domestic league game; more in the lower, less in the upper, I know not why.

At 7.30pm, news filtered through that the kick-off had been delayed until 8.10pm. I wondered if the fans’ “welcome” had caused this.

We heard the team, a trusted 3-4-3.

Kepa

Koulibaly – Fofana – Cucarella

James – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Sterling – Havertz – Felix

For some reason, Chelsea had decided to position two blowers at either end of the West Stand, pitch-side, and for a few minutes before the pre-game ceremony really got going, these blew dry-ice into the air. I must admit that it added to the atmosphere and the sense of drama despite me preferring fan-led initiatives.

Clive : “Gary Numan is on the pitch next.”

Indeed, how very 1980.

Next up, a laser light show. Again dramatic, but it was as if we were being spoon-fed our atmosphere rather than being able to create our own.

Then the entrance of the teams. I’ll say it once again; I much preferred the dramatic walk across the pitch and the line-ups in front of the West Stand.

The game was almost upon us.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

But first, it was time for the away fans, seemingly all bedecked in yellow and black scarves, to give us all a show. It was, I have to say, stunning. Just as the teams stood for the anthem, scarves were held aloft. Then, a first for me, the Borussia players sprinted over to the away corner to show their appreciation. By now, the mosaic depicting many of our players was draped over both tiers of The Shed.

And then.

And then the yellow flares took over the away section, then the whole Shed End, then that part of the pitch. Alan likened it to a scene from the trenches of Picardy when mustard gas floated terrifyingly across battle lines. The scene reminded me of a Turner painting of the River Thames that I had recently seen at the art gallery in Liverpool; a yellow wash with broad brush strokes.

I wondered what masterpiece was going to unfold on the canvas before me.

This was it then. A massive game. Up until now, our season had been decidedly patchy, like one of those hideous denim jackets – “Kutte” – that many German football fans love to wear to games, but here was one easy path to redemption. Win this one boys and most – not all – will be forgotten.

Into them Chelsea.

We began so well, with some deep penetration – especially down the Chilwell and Felix flank – bringing us immediate joy, despite us watching the action through a cadmium yellow haze.

I was so pleased to see Julian Brandt, one of their best players in Germany three weeks ago, being substituted after just five minutes. The man mountain of Niklas Sule still stood in our way, though.

Our fine start – a header from Kalidou Koulibaly, a shot from Kai Havertz – helped to stir up a noisy reaction from us.

But the sight of all that yellow smoke drifting into the cold evening air, plus those sulphurous notes hitting our senses too, had set the tone. We were up for the vocal battle.

The atmosphere was bloody fantastic.

Even though I had seen many obvious tourist-types during my wanderings pre-match, wearing far too many friendship scarves for my liking, the old-school support had reacted so well in those early minutes. Again there had been a collective decision to ignore doubts about Graham Potter and to simply support.

And how.

The noise boomed around Stamford Bridge.

After having the best of the first fifteen minutes, the away team then had a little spell. Fearing danger, Alan had begun to share his packet of “Maynard Wine Gums”, our European good-luck charm for many a season – I have a ‘photo of Alan with a packet before the Vicenza game twenty-five years ago – and we managed to ride the storm.

There was, however, one moment of high drama. There was a foul in “Ward-Prowse” territory and Marco Reus – who did not play in the first-game – struck a fine free kick towards goal. Kepa flung himself across the goal to save well.

Phew.

A goal then would have been catastrophic.

Despite our keen start, the away team were now bossing the possession but we looked confident when we broke. As the minutes passed, it became an even game. At times we struggled a little to win the ball.

But the noise still gratifyingly rose out of the stands.

On twenty-seven minutes, a wicked cross from Reece James was whipped into the six-yard box but without anyone arriving to meet it. The ball rebounded out to Havertz who unleashed a thunderous strike goal wards goal. The effort slammed against one post and then seemed to spin slowly across the face of the goal, again with nobody close, and off it went for a goal kick.

Fackinell.

Next up, more drama. Chelsea on top again. The noise booming. A Raheem Sterling shot – after a run from deep – was saved but the ball reached Havertz. Cool as you like, the German curled an exquisite effort up and into the far top corner. I celebrated wildly but soon saw an off-side flag.

“Yeah, to be fair, Sterling did look offside.”

This was good stuff.

“Bellingham is quiet, in’ee?”

The whole stadium was now one huge unit.

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

Next, a chance for Koulibaly was fluffed but the ball ran on to Felix but his shot was straight at Alexander Meyer in the Borussia goal. Then a shot from Chilwell, attacking space so well, but his effort went wide.

“Be brilliant to get a goal just before the break.”

Throughout the first-half, it was reassuring to see Marc Cucarella playing so well. His game was full of incisive tackles and intelligent passing. A huge plus.

With forty-three minutes on the clock, a move developed on our strong left flank. Often in this half Havertz was to be found in a slightly deeper role with Sterling in the middle up top. On this occasion, the ball was moved out of defence by Cucarella. The ball found Havertz who wriggled away down the left – liquid gold – and he then back-heeled to Mateo Kovacic who kept the ball moving. A cross from Chilwell was zipped in to the waiting Sterling. He stabbed at the ball but completely missed it. He did well to get to the ball again, take a touch and blast the ball goal wards. In the blink of an eye, the ball rose to hit the net high.

The Bridge shook.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Euphoria? You bet. Perfect timing. Perfect.

The players celebrated in front of the away fans. Snigger. Snigger.

At half-time, everything was good in my world, your world, our world.

In 1983, things were…different.

After the win at home to Blackburn Rovers, Chelsea travelled over to The Valley to play Charlton Athletic. The date was Saturday 5 March 1983. The result was horrific. We were 2-0 down at half-time and we went on to lose 5-2. Our scorers were Colin Lee and Pop Robson. The attendance was 11,211. I remember seeing highlights from this game on YouTube a couple of years ago. I saw half-baked football with the stadium at quarter capacity. I would advise against anyone doing the same. The former European footballer of the year in 1977 Allan Simonsen scored one of the five Charlton goals. Things were at a low ebb again.

Never mind, help was on hand. My diary noted that Bob Latchford, then at Swansea City, was going to join us on Saturday.

He didn’t.

Let’s get back to 2023 sharpish.

The second-half began and we were attacking the Matthew Harding as is our wont. We began the half in the same way that we had finished the first.

Again, this was good stuff.

After five minutes, there was an attack, developed well from right to left, that ended up with a cross from Chilwell that eventually resulted in a shot, saved, from Kovacic. But there had been a shout for handball, strangely not by myself, as the cross was whipped in.

Some of the crowd shouted “VAR”.

Fuck that.

We went to VAR.

The usual delay.

Then the referee was asked to check the TV monitor.

I chatted to Alan : “The longer these take, the better likelihood of a penalty. If they look at the TV, even more so.”

Penalty.

I didn’t cheer, I just can’t.

Havertz had the ball, carrying it, waiting for the protestations to pass.

A slow run up, a halt, a wait, a strike.

It hit the post.

The ball was cleared.

Fackinell Chels.

But, salvation.

Unbeknown to me, there had been encroachment.

The TV screen told the story.

“Straftsossausfuhrung Unerfrufung” gave way to “Betreten Des Strafraums. Wiederholung Des Strafstosses.”

Anyway, the whatever, the kick was to be retaken.

“Havertz again. Not convinced. Think he’ll miss again.”

A few fellow sufferers in the Sleepy Hollow were looking away. They could not dare to see it. I watched.

The same, lame, run up. The same side. In.

YES!

Pandemonium in the Sleepy Hollow, pandemonium at Stamford Bridge, pandemonium everywhere.

On aggregate, Chelsea 2 Borussia Dortmund 1.

Deep breaths, deep breaths.

On the hour, Stamford Bridge was again as one.

“We all follow the Chelsea.”

There was a clear chance for Jude Bellingham, but remarkably he volleyed wide.

Conor Gallagher replaced Joao Felix. The substitute provided fresh legs and kept our momentum going. But as the night grew older, and as the remaining wine gums were eked out between Alan, Clive and little old me, the nerves began to be tested.

A save by Kepa from Marius Wolf as the ball flew in.

On seventy-five minutes, Sterling raced through but I thought he was offside. He advanced, passed to Gallagher, goal. The flag was raised for the initial offside.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

On eighty-three minutes, Potter changed personnel.

Christian Pulisic – who? – for Sterling.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Kovacic.

On eight-seven minutes, one final change.

Denis Zakaria for Enzo.

An extra six minutes of extra-time were signalled so Alan turned his stopwatch on.

I lived every tackle, every pass. The stopwatch passed six minutes, it entered the seventh. I watched the moment that the referee blew up.

Phew.

We were there.

Superb.

“One Step Beyond” boomed and I hurriedly put away my camera before turning to leave. All around me were smiling faces.

“See you at Leicester, Al.”

I needed to put something up on “Facebook” and it soon came to me.

“We Are Chelsea. We Do Europe.”

This has clearly been a difficult season and the football has, by our high standards, been very poor for more than this current campaign. But this game was so gorgeous to be part of. It was a complete joy to, at last, witness a proper game of football – “just like we used to” – with the added bonus of an active and energised crowd adding support and noise.

A masterpiece? It felt like it. Absolutely. It was one of those great Chelsea nights.

Walking along the Fulham Road, everyone seemed to be smiling. There were chants and songs. Along the North End Road, a car played “Blue Is The Colour” while one of the song’s original singers walked alongside me. It was a lovely moment.

“Cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

The car continued on, now “toot-tooting” its horn as it disappeared into the night.

Everyone was super-happy on the drive home.

I eventually reached my house at 1.30am, just as snow started to fall, but I knew that I would not be able to crash straight away. My mind was still flying around – “Benfica next round please” – and I was able to upload a photo or two onto the internet. At just after 2.30am, I must have fallen asleep.

4.30am to 2.30am, mission accomplished.

See you at Leicester.

Tales From The Bridgford Stand

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Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 1 January 2023.

I have detailed our season from forty years ago during the current campaign’s match reports and although many performances in 1982/83 were poor, very poor, I am sure that I would have concluded each of the four games that I physically attended in that season from long ago with a spirited round of clapping to show my support of the team, my team.

After the final whistle blew at Nottingham Forest’s City Ground on the first day of 2023, I gathered my belongings – camera, baseball cap – and began shuffling out along the row to the aisle, not wanting to lose any time before exiting the stadium and beginning the long drive home. I just didn’t feel that I could justify even the most basic show of support for the team. I couldn’t even be bothered to see how many players, if any, had walked over to our allotted corner of the Bridgford Stand to thank the fans.

And it brings me no joy to report this either. No joy at all. But it’s a sure sign that I don’t have much of a bond with this current set of players, unlike in days gone by.

My mantra has always been “players play, managers manage and supporters support” and although I still stand by these basic principles, there are occasions in my Chelsea-supporting life when the last part of this “Holy Trinity” of Chelsea fundamentalism becomes oh-so difficult.

Sigh.

Let’s not kid ourselves. That second-half performance at relegation-haunted Forest was dire.

So let’s leave 2023 for the moment and go back in time.

I have a few stories to tell.

The next match from forty years ago to re-tell is the West London derby at Stamford Bridge against Fulham that took place on 28 December 1982. Going in to the game, Chelsea were two thirds of the way down the Second Division in fourteenth place, with a chance of promotion looking very unlikely. Our local neighbours, however, were riding high. They had been promoted from the Third Division in 1981/82 and were a surprise package the following season, and were currently in third place behind QPR and Wolves.

In the mini “West London League” of the 1982/83 Division Two season, dear reader, Chelsea were third of three.

But that didn’t stop the huge sense of anticipation that I felt as I set off with my parents as we made our way up to London for this game. I can remember we stopped off at Hungerford on the A4 for me to buy a newspaper and I was elated with the size of the gates that had attended games the previous day. Now it was Chelsea’s turn.

Back in October, there had been a fine crowd for the visit of Leeds United, but I knew only too well that a sizeable proportion of that crowd had been lured to Stamford Bridge for the thrill and buzz of a potential set-to with the Yorkshire club’s support. For the Fulham game, the allure would be of a purely footballing nature, and I wasn’t sure if that would increase numbers or reduce them.

To be truthful, I can’t remember a great deal about the game. I was in The Shed, my preferred position towards the tea bar but just under the roof, just above the walkway. My parents watched the game from virtually the back row of the towering East Stand having bought tickets on the day. Fulham were in all red, and were backed by a pretty decent following on the large north terrace.

The Chelsea team?

Steve Francis, Joey Jones, Chris Hutchings, Gary Chivers, Micky Droy, Colin Pates, Clive Walker, John Bumstead, David Speedie, Alan Mayes (Mike Fillery), Peter Rhoades-Brown.

My diary notes that it was all one-way traffic in the second-half and we really should have sewn it up. Just like the Leeds game in October, it ended 0-0. But the real star of the show was the attendance figure of 29,797, and this bowled me over.

I have a distinct memory of waiting outside between The Shed and the East Stand for my parents to appear and being mesmerised by the thousands upon thousands of people streaming out of the ground. I waited for ages for my Mum and Dad to finally show up.

29,797.

I can hardly believe it forty years later.

1982 was an odd year for Stamford Bridge attendances. Despite us averaging just 13,133 in 1981/82 and 12,728 in 1982/83 during the Second Division league campaigns, the old ground served up a volley of super gates during that year.

In early 1982, we drew 41,412 for the game against Liverpool in the fifth round of the FA Cup, quickly followed by 42,557 for Tottenham’s visit in the Quarter Finals. Then, in the latter part of the year, Stamford Bridge witnessed 25,358 for the visit of Leeds United in October to be trumped by the huge gate of 29,797 against Fulham.

Many Chelsea supporters of my generation often quote the huge gate at Christmas in 1976 for the home game with Fulham as a quick and easy response to the “WWYWYWS?” barbs of opposing fans. With Chelsea riding high in the Second Division, and with George Best and Bobby Moore playing for Fulham, a massive crowd of 55,003 flocked to Stamford Bridge on 27 December 1976.

It’s some figure, eh?

Yet I think the 29,797 figure in 1982/83 is even more remarkable.

In 1976/77, our average home attendance in the league was a healthy 30,552.

55,003 equated to 1.8 times the average.

Yet in 1982/83, we floundered all season long and our average gate was a lowly 12,728.

Here, the 29,797 gate equated to 2.3 times the average.

Put it this way, if the Fulham gate of 1976 had matched the 1982 coefficient, it would have been a ridiculous 71,524.

Regardless, these were huge numbers, in both years, for Second Division football.

On New Year’s Day 1983, Chelsea travelled to Gay Meadow, the quaint home of Shrewsbury Town and lost 2-0 in front of 7,545.

Oh my bloody God.

1983 was going to be a tough year.

But I still look back upon those times with a lot of fondness. I suspect that the Chelsea players were on four of five times my father’s weekly wage as a shopkeeper, and I certainly felt – undoubtedly – that they were my team. A few of the players were only a few years older than me. There was a bond, no doubt. And I love it that three of the players who lined up against Fulham forty years ago – Pates, Bumstead and Chivers – are still part of the match day scene at Stamford Bridge as hosts for the corporate hospitality crowd.

In forty years’ time I can’t imagine the same being said of any of the current squad, some of whom earn in a week what I earn in several years.

It’s a different ball game, eh?

Fast forward forty years and we find ourselves on New Year’s Day 2023.

My car was full as I made my way north; alongside me in the front was Paul, while in the back seat were Donna, her son Colby and Parky. I had set off from my Somerset village at 9.30am. By 2pm, I found myself edging towards the Trent Bridge county cricket ground, with the floodlights of the City Ground beyond. As I turned right along Radcliffe Road, I spotted the large “Trent Bridge Inn” and my mind raced back to 1987.

On my first-ever visit to Nottingham Forest, in late February, I had travelled by train from Stoke with my football-mad mate Bob, a Leeds United supporter from Bramley in West Yorkshire. And, quite unlike me, I had totally forgotten that we had dived into this pub before the game.

My diary tells of the day.

We had caught the 11.07am from Stoke to Nottingham, changing at Derby, and the fare was only £2.30. Celery was all the rage at Chelsea in those days, and Bob took a photo of myself brandishing a clump of the afore-mentioned “apium graveolens” on Trent Bridge with the City Ground in the background.

We bought £5.50 tickets in the away section of the main Executive Stand and then sunk a few pints in the pub. After a pie at a local chippy, we got in at 2.45pm. I can well remember large piles of celery outside the turnstiles after some supporters were searched and the offending vegetable taken off them. The local police were quite bemused that so many of our away support were bringing the stuff to the game. I must have hidden my stash in my voluminous jacket because I remember throwing the stuff around at key moments once inside. We had around 1,500 in the seats and maybe the same number on the open terrace to my left. I wasn’t impressed with their rather poxy home end, the simple Trent End terrace with its basic roof. My good mate Alan was a few seats in front of me.

It wasn’t a great game, but I made a note that Micky Hazard played well in midfield. A goal from Pat Nevin on sixty-five minutes gave us the points but we had to rely on a fine penalty save from Tony Godden, late on, from Gary Birtles to secure the win. The gate was 18,317.

I caught up with Al on the walk back to the station, but we had to wait a while for the 6pm train to Derby. At Derby, I devoured another pie – and chips – and then Bob and I stopped for a few more pints outside the station before catching the 8.09pm home. On returning to Stoke, we narrowly missed a ruck at our students’ union involving some Blackpool fans, whose team had played at nearby Port Vale that afternoon. Such was life in ‘eighties Britain.

Pies, pints, cheap rail travel, pay-on-the-day football, celery and ad hoc violence lurking like a dark shadow.

Oh the glamour of it all. But I would not have missed it for the world.

I was parked up at my JustPark space on Radcliffe Road at 2.15pm. We walked towards the “Larwood & Voce” pub but this was home fans only. Next up was the “Trent Bridge Inn” but this was home fans only too unlike in 1987. Eventually, we headed over the bridge towards Notts County’s Meadow Lane stadium where their bar was open for away fans. But I didn’t fancy the queues so excused myself and set off on a little mooch around the City Ground. Both of the football stadia and the cricket ground are all with easy reach of each other. It’s a real sporting sub-section of the city.

This would be my first visit to the City Ground since February 1999 and only my third visit ever. I must admit that it felt so odd to be walking around the same area almost twenty-four years after the last time. On that day, with Chelsea very much in the hunt for the league title, I had travelled up to the game with my then girlfriend Judy. On that occasion, we had managed to get served in the “Larwood & Voce” and I remember it being full of Chelsea.

Forest were fighting a losing battle against relegation and Chelsea easily won 3-1 with two goals from Bjarne Goldbaek and one from Mikael Forssell. Pierre van Hooijdonk scored for them. We had seats in the lower tier of the Bridgford End towards the small stand along the side, close to the corner flag. The gate was 26,351.

What I remember most from this game took place in the busy car park after the match had long finished. I had decided to wait for the Chelsea players to board their coach back to London to hopefully take a few photos, and I have to say there were fans everywhere. It wasn’t exactly “Beatlemania” but not far off.

Now then, I have to say that Judy absolutely adored our manager Gianluca Vialli and she was keen to meet him. I snapped away in the melee and took photos of a few players including Marcel Desailly, Frank Leboeuf and Vialli. All of a sudden, I had lost Judy. I then spotted her, next to Vialli, looking all doe-eyed. After a few moments, she walked towards me with a huge grin on her face.

Luca had autographed the back of her hand. She was ecstatic, bless her.

So, as I walked down a little road towards the slight main stand, the colour red everywhere, and across that same car park, my mid cartwheeled back to early 1999, another time but the same place.

There are plans afoot to replace the stand on this side with an impressive new structure. Once built, the stadium will hold 35,000. I could not help but notice Forest’s two stars everywhere. They won the European Cup in 1979 and 1980 in a period when English teams completely dominated football’s main prize.

1977 : Liverpool.

1978 : Liverpool.

1979 : Nottingham Forest.

1980 : Nottingham Forest.

1981 : Liverpool.

1982 : Aston Villa.

With both Chelsea and Forest able to sport two stars apiece, was I hopeful for a high octane four-star game of football?

No, sadly not.

I wolfed down a hot dog with onions, then a quick spin around to the away turnstiles. This time, Chelsea were allocated the side towards the Executive Stand which is now named the Brian Clough Stand. I was standing around twenty-five yards away from where I watched in 1987. I chatted to Jonesy, who did not miss a single match in 1982/83, and still has the mental scars to this day.

I sidled up alongside Gal and John – Al was unable to make it this time – and Parky soon joined us too.

My third ever game at Nottingham Forest and the first game of 2023 was moments away.

Our team was announced.

Kepa

Dave – Silva – Koulibaly – Cucarella

Zakaria – Jorginho – Mount

Pulisic – Havertz – Sterling

Faithless’ “Insomnia” was played before the game began. Additionally, there was a minute of applause for Pele, the World’s greatest ever player.

Rest In Peace.

I was soon distracted by a rather wordy banner on the balcony at the two-tiered Trent End.

“The Garibaldi that we wear with pride was made in 1865.”

I had to enquire to what that referred but I presumed it was the type of shirt. In fact, it was the colour of the shirt. What was it with the people of Nottingham and Italy? Forest choosing the colour of an Italian general and County giving Juventus their black and white stripes.

Chelsea attacked our end in the first-half. That’s not usually the case at away games. It felt odd. We began with much of the ball, with the home team hardly having a sniff. In the first part of the game, many of our moves inevitably involved moving the ball to the two central defenders, Silva and Koulibaly, who dropped aerial bombs into the Forest box.

Silva, I can understand. Koulibaly, not so.

Regardless, there were a couple of half-chances, nothing more.

The home fans were soon singing a dirge that I remembered from 1999 if not 1987.

“City Ground.

Oh mist rolling in from the Trent.

My desire is always to be here.

Oh City Ground.”

This song was from 1977/78 when Forest won the league under Cloughie. The badge from that era still features on their shirt to this day. I am not going to describe it as a design classic, but it’s not far off. It always seemed to be ahead of its time when it debuted as long ago as 1973. It still looks decent to this day, though I still squirm at the lower case “e” being used. It is almost perfection.

On then minutes, right against the run of play, Morgan Gibbs-White sent a ball through for Brennan Johnson but Kepa was able to save his low effort and the follow-up too.

It was a warning against complacency.

A couple more half-chances for us, but nothing concrete.

On sixteen minutes, Mason Mount pushed the ball to Christian Pulisic who chose his moment to pick Kai Havertz at the near post. The ball looped off the shin of a defender up onto the bar but Raheem Sterling was on hand to wallop the ball in from close range.

Get in.

Sulphurous blue smoke rolled in from the Bridgford End.

The rest of the first-half did not produce a great deal of note. Silva, as ever, exuded class throughout and was on hand on a few occasions to snub attacks with consummate ease. Forest defended deep and tried to raid on the occasional counter attack. There were rare shots at goal from Dave and Pulisic.

Our support was only roused occasionally.

It was hardly a classic.

The second-half began and how.

Forest were on the front foot right from the off and Kepa made two decent saves in the first two minutes, the first from Taiwo Awonyi, and again from Johnson, who really should have passed to the free man inside.

On ten minutes, Gibbs-White – a footballer, but also a brand of ‘seventies toothpaste – crashed a shot against Kepa’s bar, with the ball bouncing back up off the line. No goal.

To our dismay, we were letting them run at us at will.

The first substitution and Mateo Kovacic for Zakaria.

Just after, on sixty-three minutes, a corner from down by us, and a scramble at the near post. A header, the ball bounced in the air again, but the Chelsea defenders miss-timed their leaps. The ball was prodded home by Serge Aurier.

Fackinell.

The place erupted.

“Come On You Reds” has never sounded louder.

The Forest fans around us, excitable at the best of times, were now besides themselves.

The substitutions continued with three at once.

Hakim Ziyech for Sterling.

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for Mount.

Conor Gallagher for Jorginho, who was apparently still on the pitch in the seventy-third minute. Who knew?

But this was dire stuff, both on the pitch and off it, with our support reduced to a murmur amidst moans of discontent.

Carney Chukwuemaka for Pulisic.

There was one, remarkably late, half-chance, a deep cross from Ziyech – who was criminally under-used during his brief cameo – just evading a Chelsea touch, any Chelsea touch, at the far post.

At the final whistle, groans. But I am sure I detected a few boos too. This was such a dire second-half performance and it almost defies description. Thankfully, our exit out of Nottingham was painless, and I reached home bang on midnight.

We now play the high-flying Manchester City twice in four days.

Oh, and in the West London League of 2022/23, echoes of forty years ago, Chelsea lie third behind Fulham and Brentford. On we go.

1987 : “Pies, pints, cheap rail travel, pay-on-the-day football, celery and ad hoc violence lurking like a dark shadow.”