Tales From One Team In Fulham

Posted on October 5, 2023 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 2 October 2023.

After our pleasing, but narrow, win at home to Brighton & Hove Albion in the League Cup, one game dominated my thoughts.

But it wasn’t our next game, the SW6 Derby at Craven Cottage.

It was Frome Town’s FA Cup tie at Ramsgate in Kent.

I had mentioned to a few work mates and close friends during the build up to this match in the competition’s Third Qualifying Round that I was more excited about it than any other game during the season thus far; more so than the previous eleven Frome games and – gulp – more so than the previous eight Chelsea ones.

It had dominated my thoughts so much that I had subtitled my Facebook post from the MHU before the Brighton game with the words “The UK’s biggest Wetherspoons is in Ramsgate.”

My reasons were clear and obvious. For starters, it would be my longest ever trip to see Frome Town play. The distance from my village in the east of Somerset to the tip of Kent would be 186 miles. It could be a classic FA Cup tie, an away game in a far flung ground, a new ground at that, with all of the associated dreams of advancing further. There would be the chance to meet up with a band of loyal supporters. There would be the hopes of an entertaining game. There were hopes of drama. If we sneaked a win, or even a draw, we would be in the hat for the Fourth Qualifying Round draw on the Monday. There was the anticipation, however misguided, of getting past these two rounds to qualify for the First Round Proper and to meet a Football League team for the first time since 1954.

On 24 November, Frome Town played host to Leyton Orient in the FA Cup in front of a mighty 8,000, losing 0-3.

We all hoped for some sort of repeat.

On the night before the game, the directors, players, management team and a handful of supporters travelled to Ramsgate by coach. My friends Louise and Steve, the club’s historian and my friend for over forty years, travelled up too. On the Saturday morning, one mini bus and three further cars set off from Frome; my car was one of them. I picked up Simon and his son Charlie, plus his mate Ethan, just after 8am. Also setting off was Trotsky and Terry from Launceston in Cornwall; their trip was a mighty 289 miles.

One coach, one mini-bus, four cars.

We would have around forty fans there.

Pre-match was spent in the massive pub that looks out onto the beach and the English Channel. It was a gorgeous day and every one of us mentioned how impressed we were with the town, nestled around a decent marina, close to a small harbour, a vibrant sea-front with bars and cafes.

Southwood Stadium was a treat, with uneven terraces at both ends, a raised bar area overlooking the 3G pitch in one corner, and a concrete-roofed main stand that oozed charm and was surprising sleek and chic.

Frome started the better team and dominated the early exchanges. The home team really ought to have taken the lead just before the break but a chance was spurned. Alas, Ramsgate improved after half-time and went 2-0 up. A late Warren Maidment goal made it 2-1, a score that flattered us slightly. The gate was a healthy 720.

The dream was over.

But it had been a lovely adventure in the World’s oldest football competition and one that everyone had thoroughly enjoyed. Even a long delay in Kent on the drive home didn’t dampen our spirits too much. I returned home at around 10pm, my FA Cup journey on pause now until January. I had seen three of Frome’s away games – at Falmouth, Plymouth and Ramsgate, 932 miles in total – plus the home replay against Plymouth. I had missed the home tie against Clevedon due to Chelsea duties.

It had been a blast.

Thanks, Dodge.

However, I was somewhat pleased that there was no Chelsea game on the Sunday. On the Monday, the alarm sounded at 4.30am and I worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I had promised PD and Parky that I would drop them off outside “The Eight Bells” at 4.30pm.

I did so at 4.29pm.

I hoped that it was a good omen.

I went off to park up on Whittingstall Road close to Parsons Green tube station. I had booked a “JustPark” spot from 4.30pm to 10.30pm.

On my walk down to the pub, I spotted the old pottery kiln that stands just off the New King’s Road. I was reminded of a recent snippet of family history. A couple of weeks ago, I took a day off work to travel down to Parkstone in Poole with my Canadian cousin Kathy and her husband Joe, who were visiting England for a month. My grandmother Gladys and Kathy’s grandfather Bill were siblings. Their surname was Lovelace, a beautiful name. However, after being widowed our great grandmother could not cope with the onerous task of looking after five children and so Bill was sent to Ontario in Canada to begin a new life at the age of just ten. I once met Bill, a very quiet man, at Heathrow in 1978 when he was passing through to visit another grandchild who was working in Kenya.

We visited the house where our grandparents were born. This terraced house was quite close to the site of Poole Pottery and the dwelling was probably built by the owners to house the workers. In her research, Kathy had uncovered the news that their father had been a “moulder” at the pottery, and we were lost in thought for a moment as we envisaged him walking off to the pottery each day for a hard day’s graft. We were pleased that he wasn’t a general labourer; that he had a trade.

“That’s weird, you know…him being a potter. The other two areas of England known for pottery are Chelsea, the home of my football club, and Stoke-on-Trent, where I went to college.”

Funny game, pottery.

…Graham Potter to complete the circle? Nah. How about Percy Axon, the former chairman of Stoke City in the ‘seventies instead? Yes, that’s a much better fit.

We even visited the interior of the local church where Gladys Lovelace and Thomas Axon were married in 1921.

Let’s get back to Fulham.

I joined PD and Parky at our usual table at 5pm and the place soon filled up. Salisbury Steve soon joined us. I was sat next to five visitors from the US, and I presumed that they had gone to the NFL game at Tottenham at the weekend; instead they were calling in to London, a first visit, after a few days at Munich’s Oktoberfest. They all had tickets to the game so I gave them a little background.

“Oh, they hate us, Fulham. And we don’t mind them, which winds them up even more.”

They were from Indianapolis and Joe, who got the brunt of my spiel, was a QPR fan.

Yeah, I know.

DJ had handed me a copy of “CFCUK” and so I had passed it over to them.

Anyway, they promised me they would take a look at the blog so this is for them.

“Hope you enjoyed the game.”

Courtney from Chicago and Kevin from Toronto were in our little group of Chelsea loyalists and it was good to see them. Paul, who I last saw in Baku, was back for a couple of games from his home in Brisbane. When he lived in London, he used to run the Eight Bells’ Sunday league team.

That Chelsea world keeps getting smaller.

We set off for the ground at 7pm. Throughout the drive to London, there had been sporadic outbursts of rain. Thankfully, I remained dry on my walk from the car to the pub and thankfully the walk to Craven Cottage was dry too. We were joined by friends Rob and Martin, both who sit behind me at Chelsea.

I bumped into Big John as I approached the ground.

“Not really too excited about this one. Why am I here? A sense of duty? Habit? Routine? I really don’t know.”

Despite a chap with a loudhailer imploring fans to have bags checked in a specific turnstile, I ignored him and shot through a normal one. I was in like Flynn. Job done.

It didn’t seem five minutes since the last game at Craven Cottage; that odd, feisty encounter in January when we played well and then didn’t. As with that occasion, I would be watching way down the front of the Putney End. Alas the rake is so shallow down there that it makes spectating – and photography – very difficult.

I reached my seats just as Alan arrived. Gal was already there. Parky arrived a little later, John later still.

A special mention for Charlotte and Paul from Somerset.

“So good to see you both.”

The rain was holding off. Fingers crossed.

Amazingly, the main stand – now with a dinky logo all of its own – was still not completed, with nobody sitting in the central area of the upper deck. There was the darkening of the lights, and a few Fulhamistas went all Barry Manilow on us and held their ‘phone torches up.

Bless.

Just before the teams strode across the pitch from the Cottage, electronic dance music pumped out and it all felt ridiculously incongruous. At least there were no fireworks; Chelsea take note.

Us?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Gallagher – Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Broja – Mudryk

I remember that Willian played a blinder for Fulham in January. He started again for them.

Chelsea wore the new sponsor’s name for the first time.

“Infinite Athlete.”

Bring back “Bai Lin Tea”, say I.

We attacked the Hammersmith End, but as I predicted, my view was annoyingly poor. I didn’t expect great things from my SLR all night.

I liked our energy, pace and movement from the start and we totally dominated. An early effort from Armando Broja flew over and there were a few groans. He was offside anyway.

“A sighter” I thought to myself.

The midfield three fought for every ball, and the wide players showed a willingness to come close to receive balls to their feet or to stay wide and stretch out their markers. Early on it seemed like it would be a half-decent performance. I was soon warming to the game, to the evening, to the whole experience. Despite my flirtation with my local side, Chelsea is my team, these are my players, despite me not feeling too connected to many of them. I soon joined in with the singing.

“One team in Fulham. There’s only one team in Fulham.”

We needed to remind them who was who and what was what; this was, after all, the SW6 Derby. The blurb on the electronic signs on the Riverside Stand might well say “London’s Original Football Club” but they are still shite. One hundred and forty-four years and not one single major trophy.

Fackinell.

The irony is, had they beaten Atletico Madrid in Hamburg in 2010, I would have been genuinely pleased for them. And that sums up the Fulham / Chelsea rivalry perfectly.

We continued to purr and Mudryk enjoyed a few advances down the left, inside and out. His turn of pace is so electric. We just need to plug it in and use it.

Fulham had an occasional attack, an occasional corner. Our defenders stood firm.

On eighteen minutes, a clipped cross from Levi Colwill found an unmarked Mudryk. He leaped to chest the ball down, to cushion it, then swept the ball home.

Bloody hell, it was in.

GETINYOUFUCKINGBASTARD.

I screamed like a fool.

The away end, already bubbling along nicely, exploded with arms flailing everywhere. After the dust settled, I looked over to Alan.

The quickest “THTCAUN / COMLD” soon followed.

Less than ninety seconds later, Cole Palmer’s played a ball through to Broja. The Fulham defender Tim Ream tried to clear but made a hash of it. The ball struck Broja. The net rippled gloriously.

I completely lost it this time, arms outstretched, and even louder screams.

“Bloody hell Chris, this reaction is heart-warming.”

Chelsea were back and so was I.

We played some nice stuff for the remainder of the half. I immediately had thoughts of a cricket score but knew that this might well turn out to be a close game should the home team grab a goal.

I kept looking over to the spectators in the lower tier of the new stand to my left. A couple of blokes resembled Prince William and Prince Albert of Monaco; surely not. Next to him was a family from the US, the father wearing an Arizona Cardinals jersey, the mother smiling as she recorded the antics of the Chelsea support.

“Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy.”

Then a bearded fellow nearby who showed us his Chelsea logo on his ‘phone, then joined in with a few of our songs.

…mmm, our songs.

It was one of those evenings, like at Brentford a year ago, when we really plundered the Chelsea songbook.

But songs in praise of Frank Lampard, Timo Werner, Dennis Wise, Salomon Kalou, Cesc Fabregas?

Even Willian, bloody Willian?

No.

That’s infuriating.

It is also infuriating that so many Chelsea supporters think it’s “Solomon” Kalou.

I joined in with the “Vialli” chants out of respect for our late player and manager but that is a little different.

Rant over, for now.

A shot from Enzo, bang on form again, rose too highly and sailed over.

We continued to dominate and I can’t really remember Robert Sanchez being tested at all. This was a fine showing and things were beginning to tick. Conor Gallagher was full of his usual running but he had added some fine passes to his armoury on this damp night in SW6; yes, the rain had started again.

We were up 2-0 at the break and all was well with the world.

There were plenty of old school heads in the Hammersmith End and it was good to see. I wondered what the visitors from Indianapolis were making of it all.

Ian Maatsen replaced Mudryk; we presumed that he had suffered a knock. I had spotted Mauricio Pochettino with his arm around the player’s shoulder as they walked off the pitch at the break. I thought nothing of it, but…

In the away end, the singing continued.

“Todd Boehly went to France…”

“Conor Gallagher, da da da – da da da da…”

“Oh Thiago Silva…”

“His hair’s fucking massive…”

“Mudryk said to me…”

At least these five were playing.

But then a very loud song about flutes, religion and terrorism.

Oh boy.

Do we sing about low emission zones, “Tesco” meal deals, global warming, puddles, the price of breakfast cereals or the pedestrianisation of Norwich city centre?

No, because these are not relevant at football.

Oh well, another rant over.

The home team managed to see a lot of the ball in the second half but thankfully didn’t manage to do a great deal with it. Was this whole half of football a nod to Mourinho-style game management – “no need to score any more, this game is won” – or was it a result of tiredness and a slackening of intent by Pochettino and his players?

Not sure.

But we were off the pace compared to the first forty-five minutes.

Raheem Sterling replaced the tiring Broja.

Maatsen struck a shot that hit the framework of the goal at the Putney End, but there were so many people in the way that I could not see if it was the post or bar. Corners from in front of the Cottage were also a mystery for me. I pointed my camera at the pitch whenever my view was not obstructed.

Willian danced in from the Fulham left a few times. On one occasion, the ball was fed into Sasa Lukic but Sanchez’ outstretched left leg hacked the ball away. A goal then would have turned us into jabbering wrecks.

The Chelsea fan in the lower tier to my left had been supporting the team a little too openly for his own good and was lead out by four security guards.

The side was refreshed with some late substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Palmer.

Noni Madueke for Caicedo.

Alex Matos for Palmer, a debut.

The game deteriorated further.

Thankfully, no further worries or scares.

Fulham 0 Chelsea 2.

At the end, I messaged a few friends “Thank God it’s over.”

I hurried back to Whittingstall Road and then collected the chaps from outside the stadium. I was famished so stopped at Reading Services for a top up of junk food. The A350 was closed at Chippenham so I was forced onto the A4. All of this meant that I eventually reached home at 1.35am.

I can’t ever go straight to sleep, so after reviewing my photos and chatting to a few mates in the US, I eventually called it a day at 2.30am.

It had turned out to be a twenty-two hour day.

Chelsea, eh?

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Come On You Blues

Tales From The Warm Cloak Of Friendship

Posted on September 25, 2023 by Chris Axon

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.