Tag Archives: Reece James

Tales From Arnos Grove And Arsenal

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 1 March 2026.

Since we hadn’t been vastly outplayed nor overpowered in the three previous encounters with Arsenal this season, up until the home game with Burnley I was quite gung-ho about our chances in this away game at the Emirates Stadium. Then, the Burnley disaster – relatively speaking – came and went and my hopes took a battering.

I just couldn’t see us getting anything from this game, and many shared this view.

This would be our second visit to Arsenal in a month and, gluttons for punishment that we are, we were on our way once more. This time, Glenn and Parky were able to join in too, and as I drove east, we thinly discussed our chances, though talk was of other topics too.

I chatted a little about Frome Town’s 4-0 walloping of Bideford the previous day; a game in which my local team found the visitors from North Devon to be an obstinate nut to crack. However, a 1-0 lead after just one minute was then increased with three late goals. The gate was a healthy 506, bringing our league average up to 497. Dodge remain fourteen points clear at the top, with just ten games left. It’s obviously bad policy to take promotion for granted, but we are surely only a few more wins away from that. I am trying to get to as many games as possible, and because I have decided not to go to Parc des Princes for the PSG game – many reasons – I have highlighted a trip to Cornwall for a midweek game at Falmouth as a potential replacement. Whisper it, but the other three lads seemed keen too.

We spoke about the day being the twentieth anniversary of the passing of Peter Osgood and we all struggled to take it all in. How can that terrible morning be twenty years ago? We also spoke of the tenth anniversary of The King’s death, and how that coincided with a game at Norwich City. I remember unfurling my Peter Osgood flag at kick-off at that game and being captured fleetingly on the TV feed.

Twenty years ago. Ten years ago. Oh my.

Talking about the passing of time, this would be my twenty-first visit to The Emirates. I rarely miss a match at their new place. Barring a COVID game in 2020/21 and the League Cup game in 2013/14 when we had nine thousand there, I have seen them all.

And – roll on drums – Arsenal have not ended up as League Champions in all those years. Their last Championship was at Highbury in 2003/4.

It has been a very enjoyable time indeed, hasn’t it?

Too bloody right.

Our pre-match for this game took place, once again, in the Arnos Arms at Arnos Grove, just six stops to the north of the Arsenal tube station on the Piccadilly Line. We spent three hours in this large and welcoming hostelry until it was time to take the train south. As we left the pub, both Tottenham and Manchester United were losing.

It only took around fifteen minutes to get to Arsenal.

I took a photo of my four companions – Parky, PD, Jimmy and Glenn – as they slowly marched up the long incline at Arsenal tube. I always love visiting this station as it brings back memories of those visits to Highbury from 1984/85 to 2004/5 to see Chelsea take on our rivals in red and white, not to mention the 1997 FA Cup Semi-Final against Wimbledon. I visited Highbury on nine occasions. I love the hubbub out on Gillespie Road, full of matchday stalls, albeit of the wrong colours, and all the fast-food stalls. It’s a hive of activity. I imagined Ron Harris visiting the old Highbury with his father in the ‘fifties, an Arsenal family in those days. And I remembered my first visit in August 1984; a perfect day.

I decided to veer off and take a little tour of the stadium; an anticlockwise meander, and one that I have only ever done once before. I took a few photos, no surprises there, eh?

It started to rain as I made my way into the away block. There were familiar faces everywhere. In the pub, we had planned our exit strategy. If we were losing by two clear goals on eighty-five minutes, we would meet out by the Herbert Chapman statue. If the game was closer, we would stay ton the end. Getting out was all about causing PD and Parky as little discomfort in walking back to the tube as possible.

I took my position right behind the corner flag in row 2 at about 4pm. I shared a few images with some mates in the US and told them to keep a look out for me.

“North Face mustard, can’t miss me…and that’s my jacket, not my complexion.”

The stadium filled. I was aware that the Arsenal lot were to unfurl a new “tifo” before the game. I think it might have said “Being Second Best Isn’t For Everyone” but as it was paraded obliquely to my right, I couldn’t see it. In the League Cup semi-final, the pre-match was a light show, but on this occasion, it was flames and fireworks, as per.

Then “North London Forever” with the followers of the Woolwich Wanderers holding their thousands of bar scarves above their heads, bless them, the epitome of modern football.

Our team?

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Trevoh Chalabah – Mamadou Sarr – Jorrel Hato

Andrey Santos – Moises Caicedo

Cole Palmer – Enzo Fernandez – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

I was alongside Gary, John and Alan.

“Big game for Sarr, Gal.”

Each team had a pre-match huddle.

For the first time that I can remember, we attacked the Clock End in the first half. We had the best of the first quarter of an hour, but a lone shot from Cole Palmer on five minutes that was sliced high and wide of David Raya’s left-hand post was also unfortunately matched by three instances of worrying distribution from Robert Sanchez up the other end.

I wasn’t sure if my nerves could take too much more of that.

Yet again I was surprised how deep Declan Rice plays for Arsenal.

The Chelsea crowd did their best to get behind the lads.

The confusing “we’re going to have a party (future tense), when Arsenal fucked it up (past tense)” was aired and I did wonder if this welding together of the past and the future might signal that Arsenal have and always will bugger it all up somehow.

If so, ingenious.

Inspired, even.

I kept saying pre-match that I wanted us to keep it tight in the first ten minutes, not conceding, not getting their fans all agitated.

We had succeeded; it was a decent start.

On eighteen minutes, all eyes were on Captain Reece as he came over to take the first corner in front of us of the match. His gently back-spinning cross dropped just wide of the near post.

Alas, on twenty-one minutes, Arsenal did what Arsenal do, and they robotically scored from a corner. The ball came in towards the back stick where Gabriel Magalhaes headed the ball back across the six-yard box for William Saliba to score.

Bollocks.

This wasn’t much of a spectacle, and the noise levels were far from deafening. The home lot certainly didn’t seem like they were supporting a team on the cusp of a first title in twenty-two years.

On the half-hour, an odd Raya kick out, and he ended up sprawling as he was put under pressure by Joao Pedro, who was looking lively.

On thirty-six minutes, Arsenal broke away and really should have done better, but the chance to shoot finally fell to Rice, who blasted over. This was a rare free-flowing move from anyone.

I had to laugh when, late into the half, Gary commented that he finally realised that Moises Caicedo was playing. I laughed because five minutes earlier, I had realised that Andrey Santos was playing too. Their roles, often hidden in the patterns of passing, were evidently even more camouflaged in this game.

In the second minute of injury time, we lambasted Reece James for walking over to take the third corner of the half in front of us.

“Come on Reece, get a move on” was the clean version.

He whipped in a corner towards the near post, and amid the forest of bodies, Raya made a fine reaction save as the ball ricocheted towards him.

Another corner was awarded.

I remember thinking “not another drop into the near post AGAIN.”

There was a sizeable delay before this corner was taken, and perhaps this worked in our favour. The captain whipped it in, a blur, I snapped, bodies rose, the ball made the net ripple.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

Reece ran over to the corner flag, joined by his teammates, and after the initial guttural roar from my very soul, I jumped into action.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some were decent, some were shite.

But a great moment.

“If we can take two points off them here” – strangely this seemed just as important as us getting a pint – “we can really dent their title push.”

It became apparent that someone called Piero Hincapie, whoever he might be, scored an OG.

Smiles at half-time.

“If only we can hold on.”

We had learned that Tottenham had lost at Fulham – good – but United had come back to beat Palace – not good, but now it was all about us.

There were huddles from both teams before the referee began the second period, with us now attacking the far side. My pub camera had done its job. I wasn’t to use it much in this half.

I couldn’t help noticing how quiet everything was. I also couldn’t help spotting too many half-and-half scarves in our end.

I am not a violent man, but…

On forty-nine minutes, Sanchez was to the rescue as he ran out to clear a through-ball. Just after, Enzo received a ball from Joao Pedro and forced a fine save from Raya. Then just after that, another Reece James special was headed on by Trevoh Chalobah – who had really impressed me in the first half – and set up Joao Pedro to head at goal.

Well, dear reader, I was convinced we would score and was up and ready to scream, but Raya miraculously saved.

Bollocks.

On fifty-six minutes, a really lovely move from back to front, and a great cross from Reece on the right, and a flick on from Joao Pedro was just too high for Palmer to connect.

Ugh.

It had been “all us” in the last ten minutes.

“CAM ON CHOWLS.”

Alas, alas, alas.

On sixty-six minutes, Rice appeared like an arch nemesis in front of us and placed the ball down. It’s fair to say that he took a modicum of abuse from the away faithful.

Sadly, he spun the ball in, and although I did not see much the activity in the six-yard box, I did however see the ball fall inside the goalmouth and the net ripple.

Rice spun around and beamed the widest of smiles at us as he shuffled backwards before turning to run over to be with his teammates.

Fackinell.

It’s an image that I fear will forever be seared into my brain, just like the cry of joy from Julian Dicks as he scored against us at home in 1995, with us watching very close in the temporary stand at The Shed.

Arsenal were now 2-1 up.

Just after, we found ourselves up the far end. A crap corner from Neto, who had been booked just three minutes earlier, and the ball was hit out for Gabriel Martinelli to chase. Neto, humiliated by the terrible corner, raced behind him, but for some reason known to only him, decided not to try and catch up with the raiding Arsenal player and just put pressure on him. Instead, he wildly scythed him down.

A second yellow, a red.

“You idiot, Neto.”

As he walked past the away fans, he avoided eye contact with all three thousand of us.

“Braindead, Gary. Should be fined a week’s wages for that. Idiot.”

Oh bloody hell.

With the scent of victory in the air, Arsenal were now able to find their voices. They did make a fair old racket for a short time. But I could not give them, nor their team, much credit. We had spoken in the pub, quite candidly, how that “Invincible” team of 2003/4 contained some cracking players, and how they played some decent football under Arsene Wenger. But twenty-odd years later, this team seems to play football in a way that has turned many off. This robotic reliance on set pieces. This overly physical – to the point of being unlawful – style of anti-football has found few admirers outside North London. Nobody seems to be happy that Arsenal might win the league playing like this. It seems that we have come full circle from the “1-0 to The Arsenal” days of 1990/91. It’s as if Wenger never existed.

Mikel Arteta as the new George Graham.

Ugh.

On seventy-five minutes, some changes.

Malo Gusto for Hato.

Romeo Lavia for Santos.

Just after Kai Havertz came on for them.

“Oh God, no.”

After seventy-nine minutes, a very fine save down low by Sanchez from an Eberechi Eze effort.

On eighty-six minutes, more changes.

Alejandro Garnacho for Palmer.

Liam Delap for Enzo.

A real piledriver from Caicedo flew just over the bar. These were desperate times. On ninety-two minutes, a drifting and dropping cross from Garnacho dropped towards the far post but that man Raya leapt to claw away, another fine save.

I thought Delap did well in his late cameo.

On ninety-five minutes, the ball was floated towards Joao Pedro who balletically volleyed at Raya, who could not hold the ball. It fell to Delap…pulses racing now…and he poked the ball home.

The net rippled, I went ballistic, hugging a random stranger, punching the air.

But then.

Offside.

I turned and slumped onto the seat behind me.

Dejected.

At the final whistle, we edged out. I looked behind me and only saw Reece James – he had been magnificent all game, our best player by a country mile – coming over to applaud us.

Sigh.

I clocked two young lads in the Chelsea section smiling and occasionally laughing, while the rest of us mournfully paraded past, heads down, deflated. I have no evidence that they were Arsenal fans. I have no evidence that they were Chelsea fans. They spoke with foreign voices.

The difference in body language between them and the rest of us was insane.

I am not a violent man, but…

Outside, we met up and slowly made our way back to the waiting tube, not at Arsenal, but onwards to Finsbury Park, where we took the short hop to Arnos Grove.

A cheeseburger with onions helped ease my pain a little.

A little.

At around 7.45pm, I pointed my car westwards and began the long drive home.

Overall, I didn’t think we were particularly awful. We all shared this view. We had that purple patch before they scored their second. We had a few chances. Cole Palmer is a worry. Will we see him return to his form of old anytime soon? No, I know we didn’t play much expansive football. But we are still a young team, a team still learning about each other. To be honest, I did find the reaction of the Chelsea support to be so ridiculously varied that I had to wonder if everyone was watching the same match. Some were scathing about our performance. Some found it to be more positive. All I can say is that we were always in it, right to the very end. We weren’t beaten heavily.

I know as a spectacle it wasn’t brilliant. I would have hated watching it on TV. But that’s modern football for you. Most games are a tough watch these days.

Eventually I made it home.

This awayday had lasted from 9am to 11pm, and we have two more away days at Aston Villa and Wrexham on the near horizon.

It’s what we do, I guess.

I’ll see you there.

Tales From Some Kind Of Madness

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Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 4 January 2026.

So much to write, so little time. Let’s get going.

I was just finishing off the blog of the Bournemouth game when I heard that Enzo Maresca was to leave Chelsea Football Club.

It came as no shock to me.

In fact, I summed it all up to a few friends by saying that I was not surprised that I was not surprised.

Over the years, with increasing regularity over the last fifteen years, Chelsea managers do not last too long; even ridiculously successful ones such as Jose Mourinho, Carlo Ancelotti and Antonio Conte.

My thoughts about Maresca?

I had hardly heard of him when it was rumoured that we were heavily linked to him. I was “Maresca neutral” for most of his spell at Chelsea. These pages have hardly been a litany of praise, but there were moments when he seemed to be steering us in the correct position. I do remember one moment quite clearly though; over in New Jersey on that Sunday in July, with us holding a sparking new trophy, and with Maresca bathing in the glory, I did look at the smiles on the manager’s face and think to myself –

“I suppose I am going to have to start liking you now.”

But I was never a massive fan, though nor was I a heavy critic.

My relationship with the man was all rather tepid. I found it odd that – for an Italian – he seemed quite dull.

As the weekend approached, I had to get my head around the fact that there would be no Guardiola and Maresca battle at the Etihad Stadium on the Sunday. To say that I was not relishing the trip would be a fair summation.

But first, Frome Town were to play local rivals Westbury United on the Saturday. This game had certainly caught the imagination of the local populace. The two towns are a mere eight miles apart and the projected gated was between 1,000 and 1,500, a fantastic figure for our level. For me, the real bonus was that my friend Aleksey – from Houston in Texas – would be driving down from London and the dramas of SW6 to stay two nights in Frome to catch the game before then heading north to Manchester.

I met up with Aleksey along with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn – we met in 1977, our first game together came in 1983 – at “The George Hotel” on the Friday night. We then visited “The Sun “ and “The Blue Boar” and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. We spoke of Maresca – a little – and of Chelsea – a little more – and Frome Town – a lot more – and planned the details of the weekend. Alas, Glenn was unable to see the Frome game but would be joining us for the northern attraction later that weekend.

Alex and I were to meet at midday on the Saturday, and I awoke to see a sunny day but with cold temperatures. I was slightly concerned that there would be a pitch inspection at 11.15am.

At 11.45am, I was mortified to see that the game had been postponed due to one section of the pitch, under the shadow of a tall stand (and ironically with solar panels on its roof), that was rock hard.

What a horrible shame. I was desolate. And I had to conjure up a “Plan B” for the day. I collected Aleksey, who was very pragmatic about things, and soon decided to take advantage of the stunning winter sun by going on what I called “The No Bloody Frome Town Game Pub Crawl.”

Over five hours we hit five pubs in the surrounding area of the town.

“The George” at Norton St. Phillip, a pub which dates from 1390.

“The Bell” at Buckland Dinham, a village where my maternal grandmother lived.

“The George” in Nunney, a village close to my home.

“The White Hart” in Trudoxhill, a village where I often enjoy a Sunday roast.

“The Woolpack” in Beckington, a village where The Smiths recorded their last album in 1987.

We finished it all off with a spicy curry.

Sunday morning arrived, and I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10am, then Parky in Holt? Where was Aleksey? He was already en route to Manchester, keen to drop his hire-car off and book in at his hotel before meeting us at 2pm at a pre-planned pub, his eighth of the weekend.

We stopped at Strensham for a drink and snacks and I decided to post this on “Facebook.”

“I can safely say that of the 1,525 or so Chelsea games I have seen so far, I have never felt less excited than I do today.

I guess it’s some kind of madness that propels me to games like this.”

Was I being over-dramatic?

No.

My reasons were many.

The Etihad is my least favourite away venue. We rarely get anything from our visits. The City fans, who I didn’t use to mind, have become pains, especially those who stand in the area next to the away supporters, and I always seem to be close to them.

City are such a well-oiled team, and after us losing our manager a few days before the game, I was full of nightmarish thoughts about a proper drubbing.

One name; Erling Haaland.

Fackinell.

The kick-off time on this winter’s Sunday was not 4pm, not 4.30pm, not 5pm, but bloody 5.30pm. What a joke. If and when I eventually decide to leave this level of football and take my support elsewhere, I will look back on all of the myriad reasons that combined to make me take the ultimate decision, and “Sunday 5.30pm kick offs up north” will be a major building block towards it.

There was snow forecast during the day. My mate Tommie in North Wales informed me that snow had fallen over night and more was on its way. Additionally, there were rumours of quote-unquote “severe snowstorms” to hit the south-west in the evening.

So, there would be a risk of my projected finish time of 1am being slid – pardon the pun – back a few hours.

I had to get to work the next day for 9am, so I would be sleep-deficient, and my car was in for a service too, so God help us if the snowy roads meant that I would not be able to cover the last few miles along country roads.

And let me re-emphasise; we had just lost our manager.

Ugh.

Is it any wonder I felt so little excitement?

There was snow on the peaks of the Malvern Hills to our west, and as we neared Birmingham, we drove through a little light dusting of snow.

At 2pm, dead on target, I reached “The Kilton Inn”, an old favourite, near Tatton Park, just a few miles from the M6. This pub acted as a base camp for many of our trips to Manchester and the north-west from around 2004 to 2009, and it is, memorably, where Glenn and I, along with Frank – RIP – stopped for a pre-match meal on the way to Bolton in April 2005. On that particular day (one day, I will tell the story in full ) I had popped into Frome to buy a copy of the Comic Relief single “Is This The Way To Amarillo” to take to Bolton.

Why?

Peter Kay was heavily involved, and we were all massive fans of “Phoenix Nights” that was based in Bolton. I surmised that should we win the league that day, it would be the perfect musical accompaniment. Of course we won, what a magical day, and Glenn played it non-stop on the magnificent drive home.

“Claude Makelele waits for me…”

Back to 2026. Glenn and I wolfed down a roast beef special and we stayed until 3.30pm. Just before we left, I asked Aleksey to take a photo of us twenty-one years on, in roughly the same spot.

Ah, the passage of time.

And yes, that’s the CD in my hand.

There were now five in my car, and I drove through Manchester – very close to the location of City’s old stadium in Moss Side – and I dropped PD, Glenn and Parky outside the away end at around 4.15pm. I drove down the Ashton New Road with Aleksey, parking up at my usual place. Outside, the weather was bitter. The cold wind stung my skin. Good God, this could be an horrific day.

I took a few photos of the outside, including a new Sergio Aguero statue, then through the surprisingly easy security checks, and in.

We were all spilt up. Aleksey and Glenn were in the lower level, while Parky came down from his allotted seat in row 30 to join me in row 5 of the upper level, thankfully ten seats away from the locals.

The stadium filled slowly as the night fell.

Thankfully, I was warmer in the stadium than outside it.

A glance at the team that interim coach Calum McFarlane chose revealed no Sanchez, nor Fofana, which worried me.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Chalobah – Badiashile – Gusto

James – Fernandez

Estevao – Palmer – Neto

Joao Pedro

We eschewed our away kits and chose royal blue. I approved.

The minutes ticked by.

My friend David, a photographer, who I met at Goodison Park a few years back had messaged me to say that he was at the game and was positioned just in front of the away fans. Glenn was in the front row so I wondered if he could get a candid photo of my mate at some stage.

The teams appeared, and I was happy with our support both in terms of number and noise. Despite the nonsensical kick-off time, hardly any seats were left unused.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

Whisper it, but I had made a pact with the footballing Gods on the way up to Manchester that I’d take a 0-3 defeat. PD had predicted “a cricket score” and others, including Nick and Allie behind me had made a pact at 0-3 too. The 0-6 in 2019 still haunts me.

Just before kick-off, the lights dimmed. In a very moving moment, we remembered former players, officials, personalities and fans linked to both clubs who had passed away in 2025.

Well done City.

Marvin Hinton and Joey Jones were among the five Chelsea folk, while Tony Book, Denis Law, Wyn Davies and the boxer Ricky Hatton were among the Manchester City brethren.

I also spotted a Ricky Hatton banner to my right; surely the only banner in a UK stadium that depicts a non-footballing sportsman. He was well loved in Manchester.

The game began.

We started reasonably well and dominated the first five and maybe ten minutes. We nibbled at half-chances inside the City final third but did not create too much. A corner was punched away by Gianluigi Donnarumma.

The game took a while to get going and I was not happy to spot snow falling, but thankfully it did not amount to anything.

On nineteen minutes, the game crackled to life. There was a half-chance for Estevao after a run by Neto, but his shot was blocked by Josko Gvardiol. Just after, an even better chance fell to Phil Foden but he swept his shot wide.

For the rest of the first half, I saw a Chelsea team withdraw further and further back and I made a note on my phone of a litany of City chances.

27 minutes : Haaland leapt, but missed, the ball whipped past the left-hand corner.

31 minutes : Foden headed over.

35 minutes : Malo Gusto kept close to a City player to inhibit his ability to shoot, and it went over.

37 minutes : a superb save from Jorgensen from a deflected shot from Haaland.

38 minutes : we gave the ball away and Haaland smacked a shot against a post.

For us, there was the occasional break but we were finding it hard to support the runners. Enzo impressed me though, making his presence felt, and putting his foot in when needed.

40 minutes : Rayan Cherki blazed wildly over.

Just after, Benoit Badiashile lost possession, and I thought that as the move continued, there was a moment when he could have swiped the ball away, but he paused, allowing Rudolph Reijnders to smack high, and smack home.

Bollocks.

The home fans, quiet in the main, now sang.

“City, Tearing Cockneys Apart, Again.”

I was trying to convince myself throughout the half that we were in it, but the five or six City chances told a different story.

At the break, McFarlane changed things.

Andrey Santos for Estevao.

This enabled Enzo to move forward while Palmer moved wide. The two full-backs switched over.

On forty-seven minutes, with Chelsea attacking us, Neto had a great run but there was a lacklustre finish. Then, just after a very fine move involving Palmer who passed to Enzo. In turn, he adeptly moved the ball to Neto but his shot was slammed over the bar.

This was better.

We enjoyed more of the ball as the half progressed and the support acknowledged it. Regardless of the result, we were playing much better than I had expected. I felt almost embarrassed by my “0-3” deal.

On fifty-seven minutes, we witnessed a “force of nature” run by Haaland into our box but Badiashile – having an up and down game – blocked him superbly.

At a corner down below us, Reece James demanded more support from the travelling three-thousand and we responded.

On sixty-two minutes, two more substitutions.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Jorrel Hato for Acheampong.

We witnessed a couple of suicidal passes across our defence including a horrific mis-kick from the ‘keeper.

A City version of “Amarillo” was aired.

“Show me the way to Istanbul.
Rodri scored in the Champions League Final.
We’re Man City and we’ve won the treble.
The greatest team you’ll ever see.
Shalalala lalalala City!! Shalalala lalalala City!!Shalalala lalalala City!!
The greatest team you’ll ever see.”

Shalalala my arse. We had Bolton.

Delap was an immediate thorn in his former team’s side and after seventy-one minutes there was a fine break, and Delap spun but shot at Donnarumma.

A mention here for the City substitute Abdukodir Khusanov from Uzbekistan. For some reason, I really felt for him on his miserable debut against us last season, so far from home, and was pleased he had recovered emotionally.

City attacked us still, but less often.

The minutes ticked.

A City player broke after Santos erred but Hato robbed the ball with a fantastic sliding tackle.

On seventy-seven minutes, Delap ran alongside a City defender, a good old shoulder-to-shoulder sprint, but the City player just had a little too much speed.

A cross from Gusto on the right narrowly avoided two onrushing players in the box.

The City fans yelled  : “We’re not really here.”

Actually, I was glad I was, for all my pre-match dread.

With ten minutes remaining, as City sang about United to the point of obsession – go figure – I kept thinking…

“If we get one now…fackinell.”

With five minutes to go, I said to John :

“About now, Kevin de Bruyne usually scores a cracker at the other end against us.”

On eighty-eight minutes, a lovely patient move but Palmer side-footed a shot at the City ‘keeper.

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

“COME ON CHELS.”

One minute in, Gusto ran into the box but just fell, his legs weak. I felt for him.

Four minutes in, Gusto broke on the right. The away end lurched forward, as one. I snapped – with my pub camera – just as the cross left his foot. It was a bloody magnificent cross, low and right across the six-yard box. I could hardly believe that Enzo was unmarked at the back stick. I snapped again.

He lunged at the ball, mis-hit it, kicked it again, the ‘keeper blocked, but the rebound was tucked home.

EUPHORIA.

EMOTION.

ECSTASY.

I was giddy with excitement.

We live for these moments.

I snapped, again, everything a blur down below me. I saw Enzo jump into the crowd. I envisaged Glenn being swamped by bodies, maybe David too.

Unreal.

We had done it.

Bloody Fucking Nora.

I know I had seen hundreds of Chelsea draws and the club has drawn many more but on ninety-four minutes at the horrible Etihad, this seemed the most important 1-1 ever.

The game ended and I gave random people hugs, saying to a few “thanks for staying” as I noticed quite a few Chelsea fans left at 0-1.

Why?

The players came over to celebrate. Enzo was joyous. Reece propelled Calum to receive the applause he so deserved. What a turnaround. Both of these players, plus Gusto and Chalobah, had been magnificent.

Top marks!

Outside, we met up and we managed a team photo.

We slowly walked back to the car. We dipped into a “Kebabbie” with PD and Glenn munching a ginormous lamb kebab while Parky and I chomped a piping hot pizza.

Life was good.

We hit some snow on the M6, but I kept going.

In the last hour, I played “Music Complete”, New Order’s last album from 2015.

It seemed the perfect way to end this craziest of days.

With song titles including “Restless”, “Plastic”, “People On The High Line” and “The Game” it seemed even more appropriate.

Football Complete.

I reached home at 1am.

Oh, and David captured Glenn with Enzo and I think you will agree it’s a magnificent photo.

See you at Fulham.

David’s Photographs :

https://www.rexfeatures.com/livefeed/2026/01/04/manchester_city_v_chelsea?filter=S&folder=Premier%20League%202025-26

THE KILTON INN

THE ETIHAD

TEAM CHELSEA

APRIL 2005 AND JANUARY 2026

WE ARE CHELSEA

Tales From “Bloody Hell, Chelsea”

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Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 27 December 2025.

I wasn’t happy that there was no Chelsea match on Boxing Day 2025. I was also annoyed that there was no Frome Town game on Boxing Day 2025. It seemed that the natural laws of football in the festive period were being flaunted.

At least, I suppose, travel was easier on the Saturday.

I was able to enjoy a little lie-in and picked-up PD at 9am and Lord Parsnips at 9.30am. Outside, it was bitterly cold.

I did admit to PD that a substantial part of me wished that I was off to watch Frome Town play a local derby at Shaftesbury at 3pm rather than drive the three hours up to Fulham yet again for the match against Aston Villa. Frome had won eight league games in a row and, after a fine win at home against Exmouth while I was in Newcastle last weekend, were now five points clear at the top. A visit to a new ground, just forty minutes away, did seem really alluring.

We breakfasted “on the hoof” and made our way to London. Above, no clouds. Ahead, not too much traffic. I dropped the chaps off at 11.50am near “The Eight Bells” and then drove through Fulham to park up at midday. I had a few moments to myself. I had to decide between my warmest coat and my small camera or another coat and my SLR. I didn’t fancy suffering for my art and dropped my Sony “pub camera” in the pocket of my “K-Way” jacket and slowly walked down towards Stamford Bridge. I stopped off at “Café Ole” for a cappuccino. There was another, small, bite to eat too. I then spent a few moments outside the West Stand, taking photos of the pre-match scene. Although the game was still four hours off, the place was getting busier by the minute.

I spent a few minutes talking to a few folks in the bar area of the Copthorne Hotel, then made my way back to Fulham Broadway to catch the tube down to “The Eight Bells” where the usual suspects were crowded around our usual table. It was a tight fit; eight of us were crammed in on chairs, stools and a settle. My friend Eliot – last seen in NYC in July – arrived with his son Skinny, and we caught up a little.

We spoke about the difficulty in obtaining tickets these days, and this turned into a memory of playing Barcelona away in 2000 when we both shared stories about how we got in that day. Eliot managed to get in without a physical ticket – it’s a long story based on bravado and luck – while I had managed to obtain a ticket from Chelsea’s official allocation – only 1,500 – using that long-forgotten piece of antiquity called a fax machine.

The group left the pub surprisingly early at around 4.15pm. There was a noisy group of Villa fans on the same train.

The news from Shaftesbury was varied. The home team had a player sent off early on, we went 1-0 up, they equalised, we went 3-1 up with a quarter of an hour to go but the home team scored two in the last ten minutes to share the points.

Balls.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 5pm.

All day long I had been saying how difficult this game would be. We were playing an in-form team here, and I probably would have been happy with a point.

The surprising news was that Benoit Badiashile was given a start.

Fackinell.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Garnacho

Joao Pedro

Alongside me were Clive and PD, and thankfully the temperatures were not so Baltic as first thing. All the teams in and around us had won, albeit narrowly.

Two classic kits on show, the match began.

The game bristled to life and in the first two minutes, Moises Caicedo looped the ball towards Cole Palmer who gracefully brought the ball down. Alas his shot spun wide of Emiliano Martinez’ far post at the Shed End.

Soon after we were treated to a magnificent sprint from Reece James to win the ball from some poor unfortunate Villa midfielder, and the crowd roared its approval. The break was thwarted, just sensational stuff.

Then in the next minute, Villa’s first foray into our half, but Badiashile was strong in thought and strong in tackle, which is not always the case.

I liked the way that Alejandro Garnacho and Pedro Neto were occupying the far reaches of the width of the pitch.

“Chalk dust on their soles.”

It meant that Villa was stretched. We just needed to hit them early and hit those spaces.

Villa shouted about “empty seats” but nobody rose to the bait. The home crowd was, mainly, docile.

On the quarter of an hour, it really was all us. I could only really remember that Badiashile block.

A shot from Enzo was walloped wide.

On twenty minutes, a rapid succession of shots and stabs at goal from us in the Villa box were unrewarded as defenders lunged at balls to block.

I turned to Clive : “nice game of football this, we are playing well.”

Although the home support was hardly prolific, at least the players were awarded with the old “Amazing Grace” chant.

You know the words.

On thirty-three minutes, Garnacho to Neto and a header back to James, but the blast fizzed just wide.

On thirty-seven minutes, a corner in front of the Villa lot. Reece James curled a slow cross towards the six-yard box.

I snapped; a blur, too blurred to share.

To our amazement the ball bounced on the turf amidst a crowd of players and up into the goal, Martinez totally befuddled.

GET IN.

Had it gone straight in? I wasn’t sure. For that matter, neither were the players. For the first time that I could remember, the celebrations were split.

Joao Pedro and Enzo sped off towards Parkyville and collapsed on each other. Meanwhile, all the remaining eight outfield players rushed over to celebrate with Reece James. The goalscorer was announced in the stadium as Reece James. Or was it? My instinct to take a photo of the two rather than the eight was proved prescient; the Brazilian did indeed get the final touch.

We were in front.

Lovely stuff.

A few “THTCAUN/ COMLD” exchanges were shared.

Beautiful.

An effort from Palmer was saved by Martinez, and then Villa sent over a free kick from John McGinn that Joao Pedro hacked away. Honestly, they had hardly troubled our backline the entire half.

I spoke to a few friends at half-time in the stadium, and via messages in the US, and we had all agreed how enjoyable that had been.

One friend suggested that I had probably made copious notes on my mobile phone throughout the first period.

He was correct.

But, deep down, there was a tangible fear that we couldn’t keep it going and that this match would turn into one of our recent “game of two halves” scenarios.

What Chelsea would prevail?

It felt as though a whispered stadium announcement would not be amiss.

“Please take your seats for the Second Act.”

Within the first minute, a tantalising cross from Garnacho down below us in The Sleepy Hollow caused havoc in the Villa defence. I presumed that former Chelsea player Ian Maatsen had cleanly headed it behind for a corner, but there was a shout for a handball.

No penalty.

But then, almost imperceptibly, the away team improved.

I yelled “don’t let them get a foothold, Chels.”

Their star of the moment Morgan Rodgers shot at goal – their first real chance – but it was deflected wide.

Just after, a hell of a break; initiated by Sanchez. Palmer to Joao Pedro to Palmer, a cross to Garnacho but a sliding clearance from McGinn at the far stick. A minute later, a curling cross from James caused Martinez to twist and claw it away.

On fifty-seven minutes, Marc Cucurella set up Garnacho but the chance was spurned.

I spoke to Clive : “one of these days, Garnacho will hit the target.”

We were weakening a little now and our passing – “triangles of torture” – were tending to get the fans frustrated, and the players were losing confidence with each minute.

On the hour, Unai Emery made three changes.

Ollie Watkins for Buendia.

Jadon Sancho – who? – for Malen.

Amadou Onana for McGinn.

The Villa fans, sensing a revival, stepped up their support. I was hoping for something to match it from the home stands, to roar the boys home, but it was not coming.

A fine break from Villa, but a great block on his knees from Sanchez foiled Boubacar Kamara.

On sixty-three minutes, a poor clearance from Badiashile was easily intercepted and the ball was worked from Rodgers to Watkins. Sanchez raced out, but the ball was edged home.

Bollocks.

I was impressed that there was an immediate and loud response.

“COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.

COME ON CHELSEA.”

But Villa were on top now and we had to rely on two excellent saves from Sanchez. Efforts from Maatsen and then Watkins were blocked by our ‘keeper.

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

Now it was time for Maresca to retaliate.

Three substitutions of our own.

Malo Gusto for Cucurella.

What? Alongside James, our best player. I was dumbfounded.

Estevao Willian for Palmer.

What? Cole had a mixed game but is always a threat. Unless injured, he had to stay on.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

Garnacho has tons of tantalising potential, but I do wonder if he is going to be labelled as another Phil Driver, Jesper Gronkjaer or Mykhailo Mudryk.

Then, another one.

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.

Within two minutes, Delap was given a yellow and then ran around a lot without really ever getting involved.

A couple of chances were exchanged. Enzo tumbled in slow motion and a weak free kick was given to us in prime Reece James territory, but his shot thumped against the wall.

Again, I was pissed off that there was no wall of noise to roar us home.

On eighty-two minutes, PD left to walk back to the car. I left my seat and sat on the step above the walkway to allow him space to leave. Just as PD walked by, I saw a corner float in from the left and I shouted “FREE HEADER!”,

Not only a free header, but a free-goal, Watkins again.

Bollocks.

The Villa contingent roared again and I looked around in bewilderment.

“Bloody hell, Chelsea.”

There was a wasteful cross from Gittens, and we all moaned.

Villa had the best of the last few minutes. Caicedo uncharacteristically lost possession and Sanchez came to the rescue again. There was still time for another, superb, low save from Sanchez from a free kick. Honestly, if it was not for our ‘keeper, we quite probably would have lost 1-4 or worse.

Villa had made a lot of noise as their second half improved, and they ended the match with songs about winning the league. However, they reserved their loudest chant for their hated rivals Birmingham City. And by God, it was loud.

Ah, this was horrible. We had played so bloody well in that first period, yet we crumbled after the hour mark. What team are we? A blinkin’ frustrating one for sure.

As I trotted down the steps, I was reminded that on Boxing Day 2024, we were 1-0 up at home to Fulham yet lost 1-2 after a second-half collapse. And here we were again, experiencing the same Chelsea “fade” as twelve months previously.

I caught up with Big John, and I reminded him how we had wondered at the break if our first-half form would continue in the second, and we shrugged that Chelsea shrug.

“See you Tuesday.”

“You will.”

We now find ourselves a massive ten points behind Aston Villa and we are hanging on grimly to a fifth position that looks like being the best we can hope for this season.

At least the hot dog with onions at Fulham Broadway was bang on.

As I started to drive home on the elevated section of the M4, past Brentford’s ground, I was pragmatic and philosophical. Although this defeat had hurt – and there were real feelings of disappointment with the manager and the lack of atmosphere – I had a moment to myself thinking of all of the times that my father had driven on this section, how many times I had driven along here, of all of my mates driving these miles over the years, and how lucky we have been to be able to do all this.

Schmaltzy shite?

Maybe.

But it is Christmas.

Oh – and Martin; I made more notes in the second half.

Tales From The Bigg Market

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Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 20 December 2025.

With consecutive away trips to Cardiff and now Newcastle within five days, it was if these two fixtures were plucked out of the March 1984 football calendar for me to enjoy once again.

These two matches from over forty-five years ago still resonate.

Saturday 10 March 1984 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 31 March 1984 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

These were consecutive matches for me.

And so, it would be in 2025, too.

Tuesday 16 December 2025 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 20 December 2025 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Parky was unable to travel up to Tyneside for this one. I was up at about 4.45am, and I arrived outside PD Towers in Frome just as “05:59” changed to “06:00”.

I liked that.

Just in time logistics.

You know how it works by now.

We were blessed with completely clear skies for most of the long trip north, and this of course meant dry roads, a nice plus. There were no real traffic hold-ups. We stopped at Strensham Services in Worcestershire at 7.30am. There was a McDonalds breakfast, heartily wolfed-down by us both, and I filled my petrol tank. The weather outside was sublime.

I made great time. There was a comfort break at Woodall Services in South Yorkshire. I was loving this trip. Up onto the A1(M) and a hint of clouds to the north, and a hint of a rainbow too. One final comfort break at Durham Services, and then the approach to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The Angel of the North was at its brilliant rusty best, catching the sun, to my right. There had only been a few minutes of fine rain in the last few miles.

Jimmy The Greek had travelled up from King’s Cross, arriving at 11.30am, and had rewarded himself with a beer in the magnificent “Centurion Bar” at the train station. The plan was to collect him and then check in at the apartment I had booked to the west of the city centre.

I usually cross the river via the famous Tyne Bridge but on this occasion my Sat Nav took me over Redheugh Bridge which was further inland. For a few hundred yards, I found myself driving along Scotswood Road.

I couldn’t resist singing a couple of lines.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

This took me right back to my first Chelsea game when my father meticulously taught me the words to this famous Newcastle United song before the teams met at Stamford Bridge in March 1974.

I collected a smiling Jimmy at 12.30pm and we were soon checked in at the same apartments that we had used back in May. By 1.15pm, we were in an Uber heading down to the city centre.

Football fanciers often talk about “game management” these days, but for my perspective this weekend was all about “drink management.” I remembered the mess that I managed to get myself into in the small hours of our Sunday game at St. James’ Park last May. The kick-off on that day was at midday, and when PD woke me at 10.30am, I was in no state for football or anything. I was rancid. I promised myself an early finish on this Friday, ahead of another early kick-off on the Saturday, and on the Saturday, ahead of a long drive home on the Sunday.

We know Tyneside well by now. And although I wanted to “take it easy” – with PD’s full backing – I also wanted to visit a few new pubs too. So, I spent a while looking at the possibilities.

The quayside had been very well explored. In fact, we had virtually visited every pub along the stretch from the Wetherspoons in the west to the “Free Trade Inn” in the east.

The Wetherspoons on the quayside, “Off-Shore”, The Quilted Camel”, Bob Trollop”, “The Red House”, “The Crown Posada”, “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, “Akenside Traders”, “The Bridge Tavern”, “The Slug And Lettuce”, “The Head Of Steam”, “The Broad Chare”, “The Tyne Bar” and “The Free-Trade Inn.”

Fourteen pubs over one mile, all ticked off.

So, for this little session, I zoned in on the Bigg Market and I sorted out a pub-crawl that would not be too taxing.

Jimmy, PD and I started off at “The Beehive Hotel” at around 1.30pm. I had visited here in 2020 but needed to try it again. I had forgotten that this lovely pub has the cheapest drinks in the city. A trio of lads from The Eight Bells in Fulham were at a table and I shot over to say hello. My round of two “Cruzcampo” and one “Guinness” came to just £10.60.

I was falling in love with Newcastle once again.

Ryan from Stoke had seen that we were plotted up in “The Beehive” and joined us and stayed with us all night. The place was getting busy. We were perched on stools near the doorway. Space was at a premium. The last Friday before Christmas – “Black Eye Friday” – was heating up.

I had seen that my mate Foxy from Dundee had attempted to send me a message. About half-an-hour later, I then spotted that an image of a pint of Guinness had appeared on the chat. At that exact moment Foxy appeared right in front of me.

Our group was set.

Jimmy, PD, Ryan, Foxy and myself.

The five of us traipsed around five yards to a very quiet bar called “Pumphrey’s” and I supped another “Cruzcampo. Then, through an entrance between “The Beehive” and “Pumphrey’s” into the cobbled courtyard of “The Old George” and into pub number three. It was absolutely rammed, but thankfully we found a table. This fantastic pub is one of the city’s oldest and dates from the sixteenth century. It’s a rabbit warren of cosy rooms, and the place was heaving. By now, the football chat had veered off along several unexpected tangents, and the alcohol was flowing freely. From here, we edged along High Bridge to “The Duke Of Wellington.”

Then it was time for some food. Someone mentioned “Hooters” and although I rolled my eyes we were soon at a table, with me drinking another “Corona” as I nibbled on some mozzarella sticks. By this time, we had lost Foxy. The last time I saw him prior to this was in Dortmund. He tends to show up at random places and probably disappeared from the Bigg Market into some time-tunnel portal.

We had spent around six hours in the Bigg Market. It had been a blast. The locals? Friendly of course. The pubs? Welcoming. The drinking? We were just about in control, but only just.

“Where next Chris?”

I suggested “The Strawberry.”

“Great shout.”

Not only was it next to where Ryan was staying, but it was en route to our apartment too.

We clambered into an Uber and headed off to the fabled pub right next to the Gallowgate.

I remember that in the classic gangster film of 1971 “Get Carter” which was set in Newcastle’s underworld, Michael Caine’s character says to a rival “you’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape.”

Well, for those six hours we were Bigg men, and in increasingly bad shape.

There was time for a team photo outside “The Strawberry” and in we went. Who should be sat in a quiet corner of this pub but Gabby and Noel, and we sidled up next to them. Ironically, they had left a message on my Cardiff blog the previous morning.

I was aware that I needed to watch my intake, not wanting to over-do it. But I wasn’t sure what to drink.

“Surprise me Jimmy.”

Well, this didn’t go to plan really. He brought me back a rhubarb gin.

“Oh lovely.”

We stayed in “The Strawberry” for around two hours and we returned to our digs at around 10pm.

And that, for Tyneside, was an early finish.

I slept well that night.

I could hear Jimmy and PD at various moments in the morning, but I enjoyed a little lie-in. I was up at around 9.15am. We soon caught an Uber down to the quayside and were soon tucking into a large breakfast apiece at the well-visited Wetherspoons.

I wasn’t 100% but I was certainly in a much better state than in May.

We reviewed the previous night’s activity, and I was reminded that in “The Strawberry” – beneath the girders of the Gallowgate, right behind enemy lines – we apparently were told by one of the female bar staff to “keep the noise down”, such was the volume of our Chelsea songs.

“I don’t recollect that at all. Bloody hell.”

We then caught another Uber up to the ground. As we waited in traffic, I took a few shots of The Stack that has added more revenue to match-days at their stadium. The driver, bless him, took us right up by the away end. From there, we walked through the concourse to take the lift to the heavens.

I then encountered a problem. I had seen my digital ticket appear in my Google Wallet, but as I neared the ticket check, it had disappeared. Luckily, a fellow supporter suggested that I should delete the ticket from May, which was still in my wallet, so that there would be no confusion. This worked a treat.

We shuffled into the lift after a security check.

Jimmy and I said that we were PD’s carers.

“Does he need two, like?”

“Yes, Jimmy looks after his left leg and I look after his right leg.”

“Oh aye.”

“And he looks after the rest.”

In the bar in the heavens, we met up with Kev, Rich and Matt from Edinburgh; all Hearts supporters, but Chelsea too.

I was inside at around 11.45am and took my seat in around the sixth row from the front.

It was, dear reader, bloody freezing.

And foggy.

Those of us in the away end can usually spot the high land of Gateshead behind the Gallowgate End.

Not on this day.

The light grey seats of the stadium met the light grey steel of the stand roof, and the city down below was shrouded in a clinging grey fog, while the sky above was an impenetrable grey smudge.

The vivid green grass of St. James’ Park was the only colour of note on this bitterly cold day on Tyneside.

Our team was flashed onto the large screen to my left.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

There was a festive slant to the pre-match songs that boomed loudly out of the speakers, with songs by Shakin’ Stevens and Wham, but also “Our House” by Madness, maybe a nod to us visiting supporters. If so, a nice touch.

Then, bizarrely, some shite by Status Quo.

The teams were formally announced over the PA system, and we then were treated to the usual selection of pre-match songs at St. James’ Park.

“Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones.

“Blaydon Races.”

I can’t deny it; I mouthed along to these words.

I just couldn’t help myself.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.

Aa went to Blaydon Races, ’twas on the ninth of Joon,
Eiteen hundred an’ sixty-two, on a summer’s efternoon;
Aa tyuk the ‘bus frae Balmbra’s, an’ she wis heavy laden,
Away we went ‘lang Collin’wood Street, that’s on the road to Blaydon.

Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

Then, oddly “Hey Jude.”

The entrance of the teams.

“Local Hero” by Mark Knopfler.

I was right in the mood now…but still bloody freezing.

I seemed to be absolutely surrounded by Scottish lads, mainly Rangers but a few Hearts too. There must have been around a dozen beside me and behind me. Foxy was a lone Dundee United fan, but I had not yet spotted him at the stadium.

For the first time that I can remember, I was watching an away game by myself…Alan, Gary and John didn’t travel to this one. And it felt so odd.

The game began at 12.30pm and we attacked the Gallowgate. I was happy with our start, and our first chance came in the first minute as Cole Palmer attempted to lob Aaron Ramsdale from the left-hand corner of the box but although several Chelsea supporters thought it was going to drop in, it always looked like narrowly missing the target. The ball dropped on the roof of the net.

Sadly, in the next move of the game, Newcastle disposed Wesley Fofana just inside our half and moved the ball out to their right. Jacob Murphy sent over a stunning cross that Anthony Gordon met. I was purring at the excellent point blank save from Robert Sanchez, but the rebound sat up nicely for Nick Woltemade to tap in from close range.

Three minutes had elapsed and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

Two minutes later, we built a fine move down the left and Alejandro Garnacho fancied his chances outside the box, but the ball flew over the bar.

Just after, Malo Gusto was injured inside our box, and our players were irate when the referee Andy Madley let play continue. There was another Murphy cross that found Gordon again, but Sanchez leapt to produce a stunning finger-tipped save.

As the first half settled, we found it so difficult to build moves and seemed prone to collapsing into one almighty mess whenever the home team attacked.

Newcastle United managed to get the ball in the net via former Blue Lewis Hall, but Fabian Schar had impeded Sanchez in the build-up, so it stayed at 1-0.

We were chasing shadows by now and were second-best in all areas.

On twenty minutes, Gordon sent over a cross from their left and Woltemade’s run was perfect and his finish flashed inside the far post.

We were 2-0 down with not even a quarter of the game gone.

Bloody hell.

But wait. VAR was called in to review a potential offside. I wasn’t convinced. We waited for three minutes. The goal stood.

On twenty-seven minutes, a stupendous first-time volley from Schar but Sanchez saved well.

The away end throughout all of this was mainly silent. There had been some very half-hearted chants at the start but as the lacklustre performance on the pitch was played out before us, we just stood, with the cold clawing at our bones.

At last, on thirty-five minutes, a semi-decent chant.

“CAREFREE.”

Just after, we somehow produced a shot on goal. It was deflected and in one of those odd moments, the ball appeared to be going in towards the goal, but in fact was rebounding out of the penalty area. A few of us in the heavens were taken in.

Pedro Neto bundled the ball in, but used his hand, so the goal was immediately disallowed.

On forty-four minutes, a chance for Woltemade went begging as he lunged at a ball at the far post but failed to connect.

What a dire bloody first-half for us.

I chatted to Andy from Nuneaton at the break.

“I’m finding this harder to do, Chris. Maybe one day soon, I’ll give it all up.”

“I know mate.”

“It’s the travelling, really.”

“Andy, I love the aways though. Love them. It’s the homes that I find a bit of a chore.”

“It’s the other way for me. I enjoy the homes. I can get to London by train from Nuneaton in just under an hour. It means I can have a few drinks. I’m not driving. Nice.”

Garnacho had been disappointing in the first half. On several occasions he had the determination to get past the full-back, but often his touch let him down. On two occasions he ran out of pitch. I would later say to Kev that “it’s not like ice hockey and he can run behind the goal…”

There were no changes at half-time. For all our deficiencies, the home team had been very very good.

Within the first few minutes, I sensed that Palmer – who had been desperately quiet in the first half – was in a lot more space, perhaps because he was told to hold back a little. After just three minutes, running at a defender, he was crudely fouled.

OK, a chance. I settled myself. My tiny “pub camera” was at the ready. Both Palmer and Reece were over the ball.

We waited.

To my surprise, Reece approached the ball and struck it towards goal. I snapped. Imagine my – our – elation when it dipped over the wall, evaded Ramsdale’s dive and nestled in the nets.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

This signalled an awakening in the heavens. Whereas there had been moans and silence, now we sensed an unlikely comeback.

On fifty-one minutes, a fine break but the ball looked like it got stuck under Neto’s foot and the chance squirmed away.

Just after, Ramsdale made a fine save from James.

There was a rugged shoulder charge by Trevoh Chalobah on a Newcastle player that might have gone against us. Play was waved on.

On fifty-five minutes, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Enzo Fernandez and James moved to right-back.

We then took the game to the home team, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, with the home support growing nervous and then deathly quiet. James was now revelling in his right-back position, ably supporting the midfield when he could. Enzo just kept things moving. Caicedo looked stronger with each minute.

This was turning into a good old game of football, with attack and counterattack, time after time. There was a natural ebb and flow to it. We were all enthralled.

On sixty-seven minutes, Sanchez released a fantastic bomb of a pass towards Joao Pedro. It was inch perfect. With Malick Thiaw close, he headed the ball behind him, spun, and was away. It was a stunning piece of skill. I had mentioned in a previous blog how I liked his hold up play. Well, here he was holding up the ball for himself to run onto. I had memories of Mark Hughes heading the ball into space for him to run onto against Vicenza in 1998.

We saw him approach Ramsdale. I made the quick decision that I wouldn’t be able to grab my camera and take a snap. Instead, I concentrated on this joyous moment. I sensed a goal. After spinning away so magnificently, I knew our striker’s confidence would be rocketing as he cantered in on goal.

He steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

The shot was rolled close to Ramsdale, but past him.

We just waited, now, for the net to bulge.

PANDEMONIUM.

I punched the air continuously for what seemed like ages.

My elation, actually, surprised me. But it left me so happy.

So happy that a Chelsea goal, after 1,527 games, still means so much.

I turned the camera in on us and snapped a photograph of the screaming, gurning, cheering, shouting, smiling fans up in the heavens.

What a come-back.

And what a second half that continued to entertain us and enthral us. Chances were created at both ends. Garnacho must have had three chances to score but either missed the target or shot tamely at Ramsdale.

Newcastle United changed their attack line; they were going for it too.

On eighty minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Palmer, who had faded a little.

It seemed that we were on top, but the home team created chances of their own. We had to rely on an amazing recovery by James who sped across the Gallowgate penalty area as if his life depended on it to nick the ball just before Harvey Barnes could fully connect.

Shots from Caicedo and another from Garnacho went close but not close enough.

This was truly breathless stuff.

The game ended with a couple of Newcastle chances.

There was also a late VAR review involving a tackle by James on Barnes that I didn’t really see. Thankfully the challenge was said to be fair.

It ended 2-2.

What a second half of football.

I loved it.

And yet again we came away from a Chelsea game talking about “a game of two halves” and how we manage to get ourselves into such ridiculous predicaments.

Not to worry, we descended the steps, I bumped into Foxy – and then lost him again – and we goaded the subdued home fans as they sloped past us at ground level.

“Two-nil and you fcuked it up.”

I bumped into Andy from Nuneaton, his face gleaming.

“See you next week, mate!”

We reassembled and dropped into a huge bar to the north of the Bigg Market. We sat outside and oddly the cold air didn’t seem to bother us as much as it really should have. Later we spent two hours in a comfy bar next to “Pumphrey’s” called “The Market Shaker” and relaxed over a few beers, or “Cokes” in my case.

Saturday night in the Loony Toon was just starting to warm up and this bar, I guess, was typical. Several groups of women appeared, in various stages of undress, as did a massive line of lads in a nativity-themed fancy dress parade, all holding hands, dressed as angels, wise men, Joseph, Mary, a donkey, a star, a bale of hay: bloody impressive.

Then a bloke in his fifties began strutting his stuff on the dance floor and was dancing like a lunatic. He clearly wasn’t dancing, or even moving, or breathing, in tune to the music. I then realised that he had the incredible knack of dancing to the previous song, like some ridiculous musical interpretation of a “Two Ronnies” sketch.

I joked with Jimmy that Foxy would suddenly appear from the cellar.

Of course, Foxy eventually showed up, and he stayed for a drink or two.

The Hearts lads left to catch their train. Jimmy left to catch his train. Foxy left us to head back to his hotel.

PD and I hopped a few doors down to indulge in a magnificent hot and spicey pizza that hit all the right spots.

We were back at our digs at 8pm.

There would be an early alarm call at 6am in the morning…

FRIDAY NIGHT

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Tales From European Royalty

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Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 30 November 2025.

The game at Burnley was going to be the first of three games in a tight five-day spell for me.

Saturday : Burnley vs. Chelsea.

Tuesday : Chelsea vs. Barcelona.

Wednesday : Frome Town vs. Bashley.

I had titled this little series “Burnley, Barca & Bash” and was revelling in the varying experiences that the three matches would bring.

But then the wheels came off. On the Monday evening, I began to feel grim. I slept on the sofa that night – always a bad sign – and by the time I heard the 4.30am alarm on the Tuesday, I knew that I had been hit with a bug. I felt horrid. I ‘phoned in sick for work, and then texted PD and Parky to say that I would not be going to London that evening. I virtually slept the entire day but managed to see Chelsea demolish Barcelona 3-0 on my laptop.

That evening, I was tempted to turn to Facebook and write :

“I’m beginning to like you, Maresca.”

But no, not yet.

Wednesday merged into Thursday then Friday and I hardly moved from that sofa. Saturday brought a marked improvement, but I was still too ill to contemplate a Frome Town away game at Didcot. I bided my time.

Thankfully, on Sunday I was sufficiently better to be able to drive up to London for the home game with Arsenal. I had planned to pick up Paul in Frome at 9am, but such was my lethargy that I found it hard to get going. I had lost almost a stone in just five days. Eventually, I called for him at 9.30am, and then Glenn in Holt at 10am.

We stopped at Melksham for a Greggsfast and I am not sure if that helped or hindered my well-being.

By the time I joined up with everyone in a packed – and way too warm – “Eight Bells”, it was around 2pm, and after a quick “hello” to those inside, I sat at the outdoor tables. In truth I felt as weak as a kitten.

Three very good mates from Virginia soon arrived. Jaro and his son Alex, plus their neighbour Joe – I was with these three fine fellows in Philadelphia in June – had been present at the Barcelona game, and I felt bad not seeing them on the Tuesday. They had loved that game, and I was especially pleased to hear how good the atmosphere had been. Between Tuesday and Sunday, the three of them had met up in a very cold and wet Poland to see Legia Warsaw play Sparta Prague on the back of Jaro’s trip to visit his parents. Now Jaro and Alex were sneezing and coughing with some sort of affliction too.

We sat outside in the refreshing Winter air – I needed the crisp temperatures to keep me awake – and chatted about all things Chelsea and then decamped to “The Kings Arms” and sat inside while a strong contingent of Liverpool fans watched their game at West Ham United.

We backtracked and caught the tube to Fulham Broadway and posed by the “match board” – lovingly old-fashioned – outside the West Stand before we went our separate ways. I couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of smuggling my SLR in, so was forced to make do with my “pub camera.”

I was in early. A few mates filtered through: Gary, then Daryl, then Clive. However, I reserved the biggest smile when I saw Alan sidle up towards us. It would be his first Chelsea game of the season.

“Welcome back, son.”

It was time to start thinking about the game. Arsenal were six points ahead of us, and I am sure I was not alone with my thoughts about beating them and reducing the gap to just three points. Not that I thought that we could win the league.

No, not yet.

Enzo Maresca chose this team to face Arsenal.

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Estevao – Fernandez – Neto

Joao Pedro

There was the usual hoopla with flames in front of the West Stand, and crowd-surfing banners at both ends.

The away fans were momentarily loud before the game began with a rather parochial ditty – stolen from Anfield – about winning the league at various locations.

“We won in at The Lane – twice!!!” (oooh, bless you…)

Chelsea retaliated with our “COEYNST” chant, and it was advantage Chelsea.

Joking aside, regarding Arsenal’s commendable domestic haul and our overseas triumphs, I strongly suspect that they wish that they were a bit more like us, and we wish that we were a bit more like them.

Arsenal can boast thirteen League Championships, fourteen FA Cups and two League Cups yet just two international trophies.

Chelsea have won six League Championships, eight FA Cups, five League Cups but a massive eleven international trophies.

As a young Arsenal supporter said to me en route to Baku in 2019, “Chelsea are European royalty.”

As the game kicked off at 4.30pm, it is fair to say that the atmosphere within Stamford Bridge was absolutely bristling.

Chelsea attacked Parky, Jaro, Alex and Joe at The Shed End in the first half.

Rather than petering out, the pre-match noise continued into the first quarter of an hour, and Chelsea were in the ascendency on the pitch with the young Boy from Brazil Estevao lighting up our play.

However, Robert Sanchez needed to spread his legs to block an Arsenal shot from an angle on twelve minutes.

A cross from Neto seemed a perfect chance for Estevao to score but his shot was blasted over the bar.

Next, a curler from Estevao went just wide.

At around the twenty-minute mark, it was all us now, and Arsenal seemed a very poor imitation of the team that had marched to the top of the table this season (even though I call them “the robots”).

On twenty-six minutes, I could hardly believe my eyes as Reece James accelerated at break-neck speed to chase down an Arsenal player and to win back the ball. On several occasions in that first-half, Reece was the Reece of old, and his pace was truly mesmerising. In a nutshell, he was everywhere and set the tone for our highly aggressive play.

On twenty-nine minutes, Joao Pedro won the ball in the Arsenal half but could not get his shot away in time.

We broke well via Estevao but a shot from Enzo, nicely involved at the top end, was easily saved by David Raya.

I found it ironic that Arsenal fans were singing songs against the referee.

“Anthony Taylor, it’s all about you.”

So, it wasn’t just us then.

On thirty-five minutes, there was a loose ball midway into our half. I saw Moises Caicedo – a life-force in this game again – take a swipe at Mikel Merino, whoever he is, and I immediately thought of the infamous Paul Gascoigne tackle in the 1991 FA Cup Final, only because Caicedo fell to the floor on impact too.

Players crowded the referee. After a VAR intervention, a red card was brandished to Caicedo.

Bollocks.

In the closing moments, Gabriel Martinelli forced a decent save from Sanchez.

As half-time began, “Blue Monday” by New Order rang out, and I grasped it as an omen.

At the break, Alejandro Garnacho replaced Estevao.

After just three minutes of play, I snapped a wide angle shot of Reece James taking a corner down below us.

Miraculously – to my mind – the ball met the near post leap of Trevoh Chalobah and the ball looped up and dropped into the goal.

My mind was a mixture of sudden emotions.

Get in you bastard / a roar of joy / fancy Arsenal being beaten by a set play / can I take a decent shot of the celebrations with my sub-par camera?

I did OK.

One nil to The Chelsea, as the song doesn’t go.

Understandably, the game opened-up as Arsenal tried to exploit the extra man and the space.

The home crowd was roaring again.

“We all follow the Chelsea, overland and sea…”

On fifty-four minutes, Liam Delap replaced Joao Pedro.

On fifty-nine minutes, a clean cross from Bukayo Saka and a clean header from Merino, and it was level.

Bollocks.

We countered with a cross from Garnacho but a lame Neto header.

Chances were traded; Delap shot at Raya, Arsenal shot over the bar.

Another Neto chance, curling a shot just wide.

Chelsea tried to prise an opening, but Arsenal managed the occasional chance too. They had been – maybe I am biased – a disappointment in this game. I expected more from them.

The game finished 1-1 and – cliché coming up – there is no doubt that we had the moral victory.

I wearily made my way back to the car – a cheeseburger with onions at Fulham Broadway did not help my cause – and we made a tiresome way home.

Next up, the headache of a tiring midweek visit to Elland Road after my return to work.

All…gulp…aboard!

Tales From Passyunk Avenue To Worcester Avenue

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Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 1 November 2025.

When I left the office on Friday afternoon, ahead of the game at Tottenham Hotspur on Saturday evening, a co-worker asked me about the match.

My answer was short and sweet.

“…dreading it.”

Our last two results had hardly been inspiring; an insipid display at home to Sunderland, and a very odd game at Wolves that resulted in a win but it didn’t leave many of us too enthralled. Then there is the nervousness that comes with these mighty games against traditional foes. I suspect that I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter heading to N17 that was slightly queasy about that evening’s game. As I said to a few people, “it depends on which Chelsea shows up.”

Despite the evening kick-off, I was still up early. To save time, PD had picked up Parky in Holt at 7.30am and I collected them both at PD’s house in Frome at 8am. I then drove down to Salisbury to collect Steve.

It was a decent drive up to London and I was parked up at Barons Court at 11am. We then caught the Picadilly Line north. The others were off to meet up with Jimmy the Greek and Ian in a pub at Arnos Grove at around midday. I had other plans.

I have wanted to visit a Philadelphia-themed bar/diner for ages, and so as I had some time to kill on this particular match day in London, I alighted at Tottenham Court Road and set off through Fitzrovia, a part of London I had never visited previously. From there, it took me around twenty minutes to reach “Passyunk Avenue”, the original Philly bar in London, now part of a chain of four. It’s not far from the British Telecom Tower.

I stayed an hour, and I really liked it. As soon as you walk in, you are immediately transported to a dive bar in the US. The walls are adorned with all things-Philly, and the draught ales are – as far as I could see – all US imports. Unfortunately, the Philly cheesesteak that I ordered was average, but I loved the place. In lieu of the time that I have spent in Philadelphia, not least in the closing weeks of last season, I thought it worth including in this match report.

I want to go back, and when I do, maybe I should take a photograph of Peter Osgood in his Philadelphia Fury days and ask the bar staff to find a place for it next to memorabilia of the Phillies, the Eagles, the ‘Sixers and the Flyers.

After my visit, I walked to Great Portland Street and took a train to Kings Cross. I bumped into Philippa, Brian and Martin on the tube, and they didn’t seem particularly confident of our chances either.

At 1.30pm I joined up with the rest of the lads in the pub. We used it before the Arsenal away game last season, and the less said about that the better.

We stayed until 4.15pm. It’s a big old pub, in the Arts & Craft style of the early twentieth century, and we perched ourselves at a central table. The only negative was the fact that a children’s birthday party, complete with shrill shouting, was taking place in one of the wings.

We covered a large and rambling list of topics, too many to list here, but at no stage in the afternoon – despite the others quaffing a fair few bevvies – did we become even slightly confident about the outcome of the game. I must admit that we had a bundle of laughs between the five of us, including a top trivia question that was posed by Ian.

“Who was the only person to appear on two different songs on the same edition of ‘Top of the Pops’ in the 1980s?”

We caught an uber and chugged slowly towards White Hart Lane. And no, that’s not an error, we ended up at White Hart Lane, the actual road, where we hopped out and then walked the ten minutes to the away entrance on Worcester Avenue.

Incidentally, you must wonder why the White Hart Lane moniker never made it to the new stadium. In fact, Tottenham’s new stadium is nearer White Hart Lane than the old place. I know it’s rather wordy, but “The Tottenham Stadium at White Hart Lane” covers all the bases and links the old with the new. As a comparison, I can think of “Orioles Stadium at Camden Yards” in Baltimore and that gets shortened to Camden Yards, and I think it would be the same at Tottenham.

Christ, that’s enough time talking about them.

What about us?

Here was the team that Enzo Maresca had picked for this crucial fixture in the Chelsea calendar.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

The pre-match drinkers in the pub were all split up in various sections of the away quadrant. I found myself in the usual place at this stadium, low down along the side, alongside Gary and John. However, there was the added spice of being right next to the three-seat-no-man’s-land that separated us from the home fans in the East Stand.

There was the usual pre-match bluster from the announcer who peddles the usual Tottenham “to dare is to do” guff as he stood on the pitch wearing a shirt and a tie that look too tight, and also a vision of Thomas Frank on the huge TV screens urging the supporters to get behind the team.

Modern football, eh?

I had read reports of the home fans making a special effort for this match and wondered if there was a special tifo earmarked for us. As the teams entered the pitch, there was the 2025 staple of dimmed lights and flames, but nothing much else.

“Oh when the Spurs” boomed out, and this was their “YNWA” moment; noisy at the start but then – I hoped – quiet thereafter.

The game began, and as always, we attacked their monstrous South Bank in the first half.

Tottenham in white / blue / white, Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.

With me standing, and everyone in the home section to my left sitting, I had a completely unhindered view of the game to my left. It was a brilliant position.

A Tottenham substitution came after just seven minutes.

“Great, that has upset their plan.”

By the end of the first quarter of an hour, I realised that it was us that had easily dominated possession, and I mentioned to Gary and John that we had “quietened them down”, which is always a priority, but sometimes easier said than done.

If I had tentatively approached this game with my fingers crossed – and possibly my eyes, my arms and my legs, like a human pretzel – now I had the warming sensation that we had a decent selection of players out on the pitch and that, minute by minute, we were the more dominant force.

Despite not creating much in the way of clearcut chances, I liked our ball possession, the way we utilised the wide men, and the combative nature of our midfielders.

After twenty minutes, there had been just two efforts on the Tottenham goal, from James and Garnacho, but I was content with our start.

We continued to control the tempo and control possession.

Marc Cucurella was his usual energised self, just in front of us, throwing himself into tackles, encouraging others.

“He’s so reliable on a day like this,” said John.

“He gets it how much we hate this lot” I replied.

Tombsy, in the row in front, said “I was just about to say the same thing.”

It was odd that the atmosphere in most of the stadium was quiet, such is the way these days, but the away support was trying to get some songs going.

I took one photo of such a moment, with the Chelsea support teasing Tottenham; it was a shot of the East Lower, docile and seated, save for one lone supporter, standing by herself and giving us the finger.

On the thirty-minute mark, a shot from Joao Pedro, one on one with their ‘keeper, but Guglielmo Vicario managed to block.

A rare Tottenham attack followed, but Mohammed Kudus blasted over the bar.

On thirty-four minutes, with Moises Caicedo doing what he does best, the sense of anticipation within the massed ranks of the three thousand away fans rose, as he won back-to-back duels high up the pitch. There was one last drag back towards Joao Pedro, and the anticipation levels were magnified further.

Joao Pedro was free, in space, with the goal at his mercy. I inhaled in expectation. One touch, and then a shot.

Bosh.

His effort flew high into the net.

Yes!

I turned and raised both my arms and screamed at the Tottenham support to my left.

You can imagine how much I enjoyed that.

While the scorer celebrated with his teammates in the corner, I gathered myself, turned back towards my right and roared among friends.

Two things to comment upon here.

One, we absolutely go to football for moments like this. There is no similar sensation in our humdrum lives.

I have said it before; I am a goal addict.

Two, there was no comeuppance for my guttural roar of joy coupled with my stare and triumphal stance from the nearby home fans. There was no scowling, no gestures, no irate body language, no pointing, no verbal abuse, nor real signs of annoyance. In some ways it annoyed me.

Aren’t you upset, Tottenham?

To be honest, and I had suspected it for a while, but I think I was positioned next to “Tottenham Tourist Central” if the appearance and demeanour of the spectators to my left were anything to go by.

The Chelsea fans bounced and bellowed for the remainder of the half.

On forty-three minutes, a cross from Gusto on the right, and a shot close in from Joao Pedro. However, Vicario’s reflex save was excellent.

But it again annoyed me that there was no applause, not even the slightest ripple of appreciation, from the thousands in the home areas to my left.

Bloody hell, what has the game come to?

Just after, a super ball from Chalobah inside the full back, but Garnacho’s touch was heavy. Our often-derided young defender had enjoyed a fine half, but Wesley Fofana was even better, a real plus thus far.

The tackle on James by Betancur seemed late, and a melee ensued. Incoming texts suggested the yellow should have been a red.

“We’ve rattled them,” said John.

In stoppage time, Kudus curled a very rare Tottenham shot at goal – their first of the match thus far – but Robert Sanchez was equal to it and pushed the ball away adeptly.

In the concourse, at half-time, smiles aplenty with a few friends.

Ian and Jimmy the Greek, supping pints, happy.

I breezed past Philippa, Brian and Martin.

“Don’t know why we were so worried. Playing well, aren’t we?”

And then a quick chat with Nina and David – last seen in Philadelphia in June – and the rare luxury of a pint, probably my first this season.

Happy days.

The second half began, and we continued the dominance.

We created more chances than the first half, and the Chelsea crowd were louder too.

Reece put pressure on Tottenham and won the ball, and a great move developed in front of us. Caicedo, enjoying a monster game, then set up Enzo, but Vicario was his equal.

Next, a James cross from in front of us but Enzo headed over.

Then a shot from Neto in front of goal, a miss-hit, but it was saved by Vicario.

Then a low cross from Garnacho on the left that somehow evaded a final touch.

In a nutshell, we were all over Tottenham like a rash.

On sixty-six minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.

How we laughed on seventy-three minutes when Xavi Simons, the substitute, was substituted.

Despite our domination, I was of course worried about us only winning 1-0 and was a little reticent about joining in with the load chanting of “it’s happened again.”

With a quarter of an hour to go, a shot from Neto from an acute angle, then Reece curled an effort over.

James was enjoying a hugely dominant game and let’s hope those worrisome days of injury tweaks are in the past.

On seventy-six minutes, Romeo Lavia replaced Gusto.

On eighty-five minutes, Estevao Willian replaced Neto.

On eighty-nine minutes, Tosin Adarabioyo replaced Fofana.

Throughout the second period, there were boos aplenty from the home support and this warmed my heart.

However, it still stayed at 1-0.

After winning 4-1 and 4-3 at this place the past two seasons, this was too tight for my liking.

We had two outrageous chances to score in injury-time. First up, a quick breakaway down our right, and Estevao played the ball in to Joao Pedro, who moved it on towards Gittens. Surely this would settle our nerves.

The ball bobbled, Gittens swiped, and the ball flew crazily high over the bar.

Fackinell.

Then, Estevao to Enzo, to Joao Pedro, but another fine save from Vicario when it looked easier to score.

Thankfully, the final whistle soon blew.

We had done it.

Another one.

Another victory at the New Three Point Lane.

The domination continues.

The Chelsea players came over to celebrate with us, while I took a rather self-indulgent selfie in front of the meek and demoralised Tottenham supporters.

And now I could whole-heartedly join in.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

Some numbers :

In the last eighteen games against Tottenham Hotspur in all competitions and all venues, Chelsea have won fourteen.

In the last seven visits to Tottenham Hotspur in the Premier League, Chelsea have won six.

In all our visits to their new stadium, we have won seven out of nine times.

Of my twenty-seven visits to “Tottenham Away (Love It)” my individual record is –

Played : 27

Won : 12

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

Gertcha.

We loitered around, as per usual, grabbing some chicken and chips at “Chickin Warriors” on the High Road so the crowds could dissipate.

We caught the 9pm train south at White Hart Lane to take us to Liverpool Street.

I spoke to a Dutch guy who had just arrived in London with his wife and son, and who had watched from the expensive seats above us. His son had been gifted a few items from the Tottenham club shop. I didn’t waste much time informing him which team I supported, and with a few Tottenham fans within earshot, I couldn’t resist dropping in a few mentions of us beating PSG in New Jersey in July. I also joked that there was still time for his son to eschew Tottenham and choose Chelsea instead.

I was getting some seriously dark glances from the locals, and I loved it.

We were back at my car by 10pm.

I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at midnight.

Back to Holt, back to Frome…I eventually made it home at 1.30am.

Oh – the trivia answer?

Alan Brazil.

“Tottenham, Tottenham” – the Tottenham Hotspur F.A. Cup Final Squad.

“We Have A Dream” – the Scotland National Football Team.

Tales From West Bridgford

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Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 18 October 2025.

For the second time in less than four weeks, I was headed up the Fosseway for an away game.

Then it was Lincoln City, now it was Nottingham Forest.

Due to the lunchtime kick-off, at 12.30pm, the three of us had agreed that this would be an “in and out” mission, with no time to have much of a pre-match – no drinks – nor a post-match. This was football but cut to the most basic of away days. Sometimes it happens like this. Burnley at 12.30pm on another Saturday in the near future is another one.

Everything was dark as I pulled out of my driveway at 6.40am. I quickly sped over to Nunney Catch to top up the car’s petrol tank, and then picked up PD at 7am, and then Parky at 7.30am. After a quick pitstop in Melksham for an early breakfast, we were away.

The journey north-east was pretty decent apart from a slight detour through Cirencester due to an RTA and then a quarter of an hour wait at traffic lights at Moreton-In-Marsh.

Overhead, the skies were light grey. It conjured images of the Chelsea away kit from 2018/19, but – alas – with no orange to sit alongside it. The autumnal colours outside were not at their visual peak simply because the sun was unable to penetrate the thick cloud cover and light up the autumn hues. It was all rather muted.

I hoped that our performance alongside the River Trent would not be something similar.

I was parked up at 11.30am at my JustPark slot on Fleeman Grove, just a fifteen-minute walk from the City Ground. I have used JustPark for Chelsea away games for quite a few years now, and during the week I found out that it began life when the founder asked a friend where he parked at Stamford Bridge for Chelsea home games.

“We just asked someone if we could park in their driveway, and we have been doing it ever since.”

West Bridgford seemed a decent location, full of pre-War semis, with neatly trimmed gardens, and it seemed that there still might be families tucked away behind lace curtains, fathers with Brylcreem, mothers with pinnies, listening to the home service. I almost expected a “Just William” character to appear at a gate, wearing a cap, holding a slingshot catapult, and sporting a cheeky grin.

“Alright, me duck?”

While PD and Parky trotted off to the away turnstiles, I had a little mooch around the rear of the Brian Clough Stand, originally the Executive Stand, that dates from 1980. The lower section of this stand used to house some of the away supporters, and I have a vivid memory of watching a game there in 1987 when taking celery to Chelsea games was at its height. Although I managed to smuggle a bunch of celery in under my voluminous jacket, the police were out in force to search others, and as a result, there were several large piles of celery deposited outside the away turnstiles that day. It was a comical sight.

From celery in 1987 to cameras in 2025, I was at it again.

Alas, my allotted “pat down” steward spotted my camera bag bundled up in my hand-held jacket and for a moment, I was a little agitated.

“On that’s a nice camera. In you go.”

My SLR was in.

If only all grounds, including Stamford Bridge, was as easy.

It was around midday, so the away concourse and the away seats were filling up now.

A steward asked to see my ticket as I approached the top of the aisle that led to my section. I had to chuckle as she advised me that “the rows are alphabetical, and the seats are numbered.”

Shocker.

I caught the players going through their pre-match drills, dressed in subtle green training tops that matched the colour of the shorts.

The skies overhead were still light grey with no hint of the sun breaking through. As kick-off approached, we were treated to the usual assault on the senses with pumped dance music booming around the stadium.

“Freed From Desire” and “Insomnia” are fed to us ad nauseum now and are the modern day equivalents of the more organic and natural supporter-generated classics such as “Chelsea Agro, Chelsea Agro, Hello Hello” and “You’re Gonna Get Your Fuckin’ Heads Kicked In.”

Joking aside, these musical interruptions work against an atmosphere rather than add to it.

The teams entered the pitch, and as they broke, the old Forest anthem of “Mull Of Kintyre” signalled Kop-style scarfing, with the home supports joining in at the allotted time.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent, my desire is always to be here, oh City Ground.”

On the drive up to Nottingham – we were calling it Dottingham in lieu of an old ‘seventies advert for “Tunes” – we rued the fact that our injuries would impact Enzo Maresca’s team selection, and here was the evidence.

Robert Sanchez

Reece James – Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Romeo Lavia – Andrey Santos – Malo Gusto

Pedro Neto – Joao Pedro – Alejandro Garnacho

Or something like that.

In truth, it took me all the first half to work out the midfield positions, and after forty-five minutes, only Gusto remained so from then on it didn’t bloody matter anyway.

The game began.

Nottingham Forest – red, white, red.

Chelsea – white, green, white.

There was a very early scare within the first minute as sloppy play from Malo Gusto – probably the most erratic player in the squad – allowed Taiwo Awoniyi, now fully recovered from last season’s health scare, a chance but he sent the ball wide of the goal at our end.

On four minutes, some neat Neto trickery on the right was followed by a cross that pin-balled around for a few seconds but that eventually flew over the bar via Andrey Santos at the Trent End.

Alejandro Garnacho on the left and Neto looked lively, but the midfield trio seemed lost.

On the quarter of an hour, there had been a litany of mis-placed passes from both sides, and I wearily commented to Gary : “gonna be 0-0, this.”

On eighteen minutes, Trevoh Chalobah nervously let in Morgan Gibbs-White, but his effort smashed against the red post that held the netting taut rather than anything more worthwhile.

Then, in the very next minute, the same Forest player jumped high to try to connect to a Douglas Luiz set up but only succeeded in lashing it high and wide.

“Has Santos touched the ball?” bemoaned Gary alongside me.

On twenty-eight minutes, a free kick at the Trent End and Reece James took aim. Sadly, the kick was so poor that it resembled a bloody pass back.

Neto kept applying himself on the right, but Garnacho had faded.

On thirty-eight minutes, the best move of the match involving the two Pedros, but Santos walloped over. Then just after, Joao Pedro lost his marker with a lovely shimmy / twist / turn and chipped a decent pass on to Santos. I expected a goal. Sadly, the low shot was struck wide of the right-hand post.

Fackinell.

In truth, it had been a poor first-half.

I turned around and chatted to Richard from Swindon and Jason from Swanage, and to be blunt, the half-time natter was more entertaining than the forty-five minutes of dire football that had preceded it. As the combatants returned to the pitch, Gary amused himself by lampooning the sheer size and length of Forest’s Murillo’s shorts.

Despite the inadequacies of our play thus far, none of us could believe the wholesale changes at the start of the second half.

Moises Caicedo for Lavia.

Marc Guiu for Santos.

Jamie Gittens for Garnacho.

I was happy to see Caicedo on the pitch but wondered why he had not started.

Just four minutes into the second half, as Neto took hold of the ball on the Chelsea left, and therefore right in front of the support, he touched the ball on.

Showing my uncanny ability to grasp the situation and to impart my quite considerable knowledge of football, I muttered, with disdain, “no you should have played it first time”, but I then watched as he strode on, advancing towards the goal-line in front of me before chipping a cross into the box. I looked across to see the leap of Josh Acheampong and the ball fly into the corner of the net closest to me.

I celebrated wildly and called myself several unsavoury names.

My camera was called into action, but the viewing position is so awful being so low down at Forest that I just blindly shot a few photos.

However, I like the one I took of the players – blurred – celebrating but with the faces of the home supporters – crisp and in focus – sternly watching from the stand behind.

I spotted Neto completely losing himself as he double fisted during a celebratory scream towards the Chelsea faithful.

Soon after, strong play from Guiu won us a free kick. The twin threats of Neto and James stood over the ball. After a wait, James touched it sideways, and Neto struck it home. We celebrated again. This time, there were no photos taken, I was simply lost in the moment.

Neto celebrated with another clenched fist salute and primeval scream.

“You deserve that, matey.”

This two-goal blitz had come out of nowhere, but we didn’t care.

The calls for the Forest manager Ange Postecoglu to be sacked in the morning rang out from the away end.

With Chelsea at ease with the two-goal cushion, this became a lot more pleasing to watch.

However, football is a cruel mistress and Gary warned “next goal is important.”

I replied, “let’s hope there isn’t one.”

Just before the hour, the increasingly impressive Joao Pedro tucked the ball just wide of the near post.

However, not long after, Neco Williams appeared to have the goal at his mercy but blazed a shot wildly over the bar.

From a deep corner, Robert Sanchez managed to get down to smother a goal-bound effort from Nikola Milenkovic and then sprung up to tip over a follow-up effort from Ibrahim Sangare. These were two bloody great saves.

As a shot stopper and claimer of crosses, he is a solid 8/10, but his distribution and footballing intelligence seems to be stuck at 5/10.

I realised that despite our far better showing in the second half, the game could easily have been tied at 2-2.

There was more drama ahead. Callum Hudson-Odoi, who appeared as a second-half substitute when we went 2-0 up, set Igor Jesus up in front of the goal. As he swung at the ball I whispered “goal” and the ball crashed into the back of the net.

Bollocks.

2-1.

But within a nano-second, the ball had come back out and had appeared to hit a post on the way.

No goal.

“How did that not go in?”

From the ensuing break, Guiu blasted way over.

Fackinell.

On seventy-eight minutes, Estevao Willian replaced the tireless Neto, my man of the match.

I wanted us to keep it tight, but I also wanted Estevao to show us some trickery. Very soon after his appearance, he did ever so well to doggedly win a tackle – a great part of his game – and I was hoping for some nice bits of skill too.

I commented to Gary that our lack of players in the centre of defence due to injuries was so bad that John Sitton was un-zipping his tracksuit.

Instead, on eighty-one minutes Tosin Adarabioyo replaced young Josh.

Soon after, a loose ball on the edge of the box, and a Forest defender and Reece James both went for it. At that moment, I thought that the Forest player was going to get to the ball first but might do some damage to our captain in the follow through. The intent was there from both sides. In fact, both players met the ball – fairly and squarely – and the resultant noise boomed around the stadium. Rarely have I heard a louder tackle. It made me shake, well almost.

I said to the bloke next to me that I was happy that Reece didn’t pull out of the challenge. An injury might well have followed.

From the resulting corner, Estevao stroked in a ball that Matz Sels could only flap at, and the ball fell conveniently towards Reece James. The captain slammed it home. I did not see the net ripple; I just heard the roar.

More intense celebrations to my right, but with arms flailing away, I was only able to obtain three decent snaps.

By now the away was booming.

“Cheer up Postecoglu. Oh, what can it mean to a fat Aussie bastard and a shit football team.”

Peter Reid has a lot to answer for.

In the dying moments, a ridiculously poor sliding attempt to get the ball by Gusto gave the referee no option but to hand out a second yellow.

Oh boy.

Well, that was just daft.

But it did illicit a little gallows humour from the travelling faithful.

“Red card again, ole, ole.”

“Ten men again, ole, ole.”

By now, the home fans were flipping up their seats and heading home.

“Is there a fire drill?”

At the final whistle, a roar from us and we waited for the players to walk over. The last to arrive, dramatically, was the captain, and we serenaded him.

He replied with wide smiles.

It had been a very odd game. A poor first-half, but a much better second-half. Despite the 3-0 margin, we were lucky not to concede. Let’s put it behind us and try to iron out some inconsistencies.

We walked back to the car, but before we reached the final few hundred yards, a couple of smiling Forest fans shouted out “he’s sacked”, and – quite frankly, and despite the songs – I was flabbergasted.

It was around 3pm, and my Sat Nav guided me through the city. The return route was not a repeat of my journey to Nottingham. Instead, it took me further west, down the A42, the M42 – a stop at Tamworth Services, a very rare visit – and back home via the M5, the M4 and the A46.

Frome Town were playing at home against Winchester City as I drove home, and a couple of friends flashed-up score updates.

The previous Saturday – the international break weekend – I had watched Frome beat Falmouth Town 2-0 on a perfect afternoon for football with a few good friends. There had been autumn sun, pitch side drinks, chats with mates, a keen game of football, a home win, a decent gate, only £12 to get in, and then Glenn and I treated ourselves to a lovely post-match meal in a cosy local pub. And we were home by 7pm. It was as near perfect a Saturday afternoon as I could imagine.

Later that evening, I texted Glenn “I think we’ve seen the future.”

On this occasion, the footballing Gods were not on our side.

Frome went 1-0 up early on, then conceded an equaliser, then missed a penalty in the second half, and then apparently had a genuinely good goal ruled out in stoppage time. At least the gate was a season-high 525.

I reached home at around 7.30pm.

It had been a decent day.

Next up, two home games in quick succession, against Ajax on Wednesday and Sunderland on Saturday.

Oh, and an away game at Portishead on Tuesday.

See you there.

Tales From A Second-Half Fade

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Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 14 January 2025.

After the 3pm kick-off on the previous Saturday, I felt rather off-kilter as I made my way up to London with PD and Parky for a Tuesday evening game at home to Bournemouth. There is always a nice and natural rhythm to a run of Saturday games and one week seems to me like a perfect rest period for players and fans alike. After a week of inactivity – no Chelsea – most fans are chomping at the bit for the next instalment.

However, after a rest of just two days, the Sunday and Monday, we were at it again.

I had to chuckle after I had just after picked up the lads in Melksham and Parky, sitting at ease in the back seat, had commented “it’s tiring work, these midweek games” without a hint of irony.

Before setting off from Melksham, the football world had received the sad news that the former Manchester City player and manager Tony Book had passed away at the age of ninety. I would not normally mention things such as this, but Tony Book once played for Frome Town for a short while at the start of his career, which later took him to Bath City and Plymouth Argyle before joining City at the age of thirty. My father always told me as a youngster that Tony Book came from Peasedown, no more than eight miles from my home village, but it would appear that his home city was indeed Bath, but he played his first football for Peasedown Miners. There was a trial at Chelsea in his early years.

Tony Book was undoubtedly Frome Town’s most famous ex-player.

RIP.

As I stopped for fuel at Membury Services, I spotted that my mate Clive posed a question to me via a WhatsApp message.

“Who was the first British goalkeeper to win the European Cup with two separate teams?”

As I drove off, I had an idea, a strong idea, of who this might be. As I was driving, I asked PD to message Clive my answer.

I was pleased that I was correct.

Anyone have any ideas?

At around 4.30pm, I dropped the lads off along the Fulham High Street and they made their way to “The Eight bells.” Our pre-match activities were to differ on this occasion. I shot up to Charleville Road, just off the North End Road, to park up. I dived into an Italian restaurant and treated myself, but although the food was tasty, the portion sizes were miniscule and the prices expensive. Not even the charms of the two Italian sisters who work there might entice me back.

I shot off down to the re-opened “Broadway Bar & Grill” – formerly The Kings Arms – and met up with Mehul, originally from India, but now living in Berlin via a few years in Detroit. I last met up with him at Christmas 2019 on a boozy pub-crawl around Fulham. He was with his friend Pete, originally from near Swindon, and now living in Berlin too.

This was Pete’s first top-flight football match since Swindon Town’s lone season in the Premier League in 1993/94. Pete explained how Glenn Hoddle, who jumped ship to manage Chelsea after winning promotion for the Robins in 1993, is still referred to as “Judas” in Swindon circles. I can readily remember a Swindon Town supporter who worked as a fitter alongside me in a factory in Trowbridge, who had a snarling expression at the best of times, who seemed to hold me personally responsible for Hoddle’s deflection from his local team. Football, eh?

I explained to them both how Glenn Hoddle played an absolutely pivotal role in the upsurge in Chelsea’s fortunes over the past thirty or so years. Having seen Swindon’s entertaining football during the 1992/93 season on TV and at one game against Newcastle United, I can certainly remember being so thrilled to hear that he was to join us, despite his Tottenham past.

I made it to my seat at 1905, as good a time as any.

I noticed that Bournemouth did not take their full 3,000 allocation. It looked like the lesser 2,200 which resulted in a slightly different configuration to the away section.

The starting eleven caused a slight stir with Moises Caicedo again starting at right-back, but with Reece James and Malo Gusto available but on the bench. I was surprised that the long-term injured Romeo Lavia was the only player retained from the Morecambe game on Saturday. Would he be able to manage two games in four days?

Anyway, Enzo Maresca is the manager, he has the badges, while I will admit that I am a tactical moron.

This was the line-up :

Sanchez

Caicedo – Acheampong – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I had said to various friends in the pre-match chitter-chatter that although three points were vitally important, it was just as imperative to play some good football, to see our confidence return, to “get back on the treadmill.”

The game began, and nobody could complain about our opening. There was an early Enzo miss from close in during the first few seconds, and on six minutes Cole Palmer had a free-kick saved by the Bournemouth ‘keeper Mark Travers. On nine minutes, there was a delicate lob from Palmer that drifted just past the frame of the goal. All of this was a pre-amble to a lovely piece of football on thirteen minutes.

The ball was pushed into Nicolas Jackson by Enzo, and despite being surrounded by three Bournemouth defenders – Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew – Nico managed to hold on to the ball with great strength and wriggle out of a tight space with the ball. There was a finely gauged pass to Palmer, who had made a run past three more Bournemouth defenders – Cuthburt, Dibble, Grub – to perfection. With the ‘keeper in front of him, just one man to beat now, he paused slightly, effectively a dummy, and as the ‘keeper fell to one side, Palmer cooly slotted the ball to the other side and into the net.

There were joyous celebrations all around Stamford Bridge.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

I likened the cool finish to Jimmy Greaves. Alan likened it to George Best.

CFC 1 AFCB 0.

On twenty minutes, the away team enjoyed a little more of the ball, but we still looked in control. We seemed more tenacious in midfield than in previous games.

On twenty-eight minutes, Enzo showed some lovely close skill and forced a low save from Travers to his right from twenty yards out.

On thirty-two minutes, all eyes were on Noni Madueke who was faced with the prospect of having to beat two Bournemouth defenders. I caught on film his tight control, his acceleration, his changing body shape as he miraculously sped clear. His final decision – a shot and not a pass – was his downfall. It smacked the near post. If only.

On thirty-seven minutes, yet another piece of shambolic play from Robert Sanchez gifted the away team with their first real chance of the first period. He played the ball straight to Justin Kluivert – a pass intended for Palmer – and after a little pinball in the Chelsea penalty area, it was the same Bournemouth player who hit the base of the left-hand post. The ball was hacked away by Moises Caicedo down below us and again Jackson did ever so well to wrestle himself from a physical challenge, turn and sprint away. This was gorgeous football. Alas, his strike at goal hit the base of the left-hand post at the other end of the ground and it stayed 1-0.

On thirty-eight minutes, a deep curler from out on the right wing by Palmer evaded everyone apart from the leap of Jackson. His downward header was superbly parried by Travers, and the bouncing rebound was slashed wide by Jackson again.

Snot.

It was a real curate’s egg of a first-half. Good – no great – in parts, but with still an annoying number of wayward passes. We created way more chances than Bournemouth – as evidenced by the predominance of the name of Travers thus far – but it stayed, worryingly at 1-0.

The noise in the stadium was truly terrible too.

But you knew that.

I joked with Frank who sits behind me that “we can’t bring Cucarella on to liven things up because the fucker is already on.”

Ho hum.

The second half began, and we seemed to be sleep-walking during the opening moments which was a big worry. Three minutes into the half, the otherwise impressive Enzo gave a loose pass to Romeo Lavia, and it was snapped up. The ball was played to Antoine Semenyo and as he raced away. As he set himself to shoot, Caicedo bundled him over. It was a penalty all day long.

Kluivert smashed it high into the goal.

CFC 1 AFCB 1.

I loved the crowd’s reaction, immediately after the goal.

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

The loudest of the night.

There was a bonkers foul by Lavia just after, and I was fuming. Just when we needed leaders to calm things down and to steady the ship, we gave away a cheap free kick. Thankfully it came to nothing.

I didn’t see the foul on Cucarella – the hair pull, give me strength – and I only saw the quite pathetic rolling around by Cucarella, no doubt screaming in agony. There was confusion as VAR got involved, players hounded the referee on the touchline, the referee seemed the centre of attention again.

A yellow, no red.

Pah.

On fifty-six minutes, Reece James replaced Lavia, with Caicedo trotting inside alongside Enzo.

On fifty-seven, a solid crunch of a tackle from Enzo, and the ball fell to Jackson, but that man Travers was able to save.

The away team grew in confidence. They were a well-trained unit that broke well. I said to Alan “we’ll do well to draw this.”

A Bournemouth corner resulted in a fine block by Sanchez from a shot by Brooks.

Just as I was thinking something along the lines of “well maybe if they attack us, we can exploit the space they leave behind them”, a rapid break down the inside-left channel cut us open and Semenyo, danced past Josh Acheampong way too easily and slashed the ball high past Sanchez with his left foot.

CFC 1 AFCB 2.

Fackinell.

Sixty-eight minutes had passed.

There was an immediate substitution. Although he had impressed against Crystal Palace, Josh had struggled here. He was replaced by Tosin.

A shot from Jackson was blocked by either Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthburt Dibble or Grub, I forget who.

With a quarter of an hour to go, I noted that there was a bit more fervour from the home support, thank heavens.

But Bournemouth still created two chances of their own with ten minutes to go, and our second-half fade, a trademark of late, was all too familiar.

On eighty-one minutes, a double substitution from Maresca.

Pedro Neto for Madueke.

Joao Felix for Caicedo.

There was a magnificent save from Travers, at full stretch, a header from Tosin from a Palmer free-kick.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

More than a trickle of fans had decided to leave.

Four minutes in, from virtually the same position as the previous free-kick six minutes earlier, Palmer and James stood over the ball. It was Reece’s turn. I snapped as he struck. The ball stayed low and miraculously bent its way around the wall and nestled into the goal.

The net rippled.

What a sight that is.

CFC 2 AFCB 2.

Reece wheeled away in ecstasy.

Phew.

In the ninety-ninth minute, Tosin headed wide. No last-minute madness this time. It stayed 2-2.

It was, alas, only our third point out of the last fifteen. And the really worrying thing is that these five games were against teams that we ought to be beating; Everton, Fulham, Ipswich, Crystal Palace, Bournemouth.

Oh well, on we go.

Next up is a home game on Monday against Wolverhampton Wanderers.

See you there.

The answer?

Jimmy Rimmer.

Manchester United 1968.

Aston Villa 1982.

Tales From Gus Mears’ Club

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Chelsea vs. Morecambe : 11 January 2025.

Before we hit a spate of home games at ridiculous times on ridiculous days, here was a traditional 3pm kick-off on a Saturday.

For the second time in five seasons, we were to play Morecambe in the Third Round of the FA Cup. Back in 2020/21, on Saturday 10 January, we beat The Shrimpers 4-0 at a closed Stamford Bridge. Four years and one day later, we were to meet again.

Our FA Cup run that season ended in defeat at Wembley, but the start of it seemed to be themed around the comic Eric Morecambe. We played a home game against his hometown team in the third round and then the side, Luton Town, that he developed a deep love for, eventually becoming the club president, in round four. We defeated Luton Town 3-1, but Frank Lampard was sacked the very next day.

Us against Morecambe in 2021?

Kepa

Azpilicueta – Zouma – Rudiger – Emerson

Gilmour – Mount

Hudson-Odoi – Havertz – Ziyech

Werner

So much has happened since, eh?

There are none left in 2025.

On the drive up to London in the morning, I said to my fellow passengers that there would be no players from the afternoon’s game who would still be playing in four years’ time.

Controversial? I am not so sure. Let’s hope I am wrong. We need some sort of continuity, or modern football becomes even more difficult to appreciate and respect.

Over to you, Chelsea.

While PD and Parky were re-acquainted with “The Eight Bells” and Ron – more FA Cup games, 64, than any other Chelsea player – and Glenn headed off to Stamford Bridge nice and early, I had some time to kill.

I had set off from Frome at 6.45am and three hours later I had arrived at my new parking spot on Charleville Road. I fancied a new routine on this cold but pristine morning in West London. I wolfed down a tasty breakfast at a new spot – “Hazel Café” – on the North End Road and then took a tube from West Kensington to Earl’s Court.

For a leisurely hour I walked south from Earls Court to Stamford Bridge, and my path took me through Brompton Cemetery, where I was keen to locate the final resting place of our club’s founder Henry Augustus “Gus” Mears, and to hopefully capture a few wintry photographs of the gravestones with the bulk of the East Stand behind. I have only walked through Brompton Cemetery once or twice before while en route to a game at Chelsea, and I remember being struck by its gothic undertones.

I fired up my ‘phone to find the exact location of the final resting place of our founder, and luckily it was just off the main walkway. Just before, I spotted the ornate art-deco tombstone of Emmeline Pankhurst, the leading light in the suffragette movement.

I made my way south.

Looming to the west, the steel roof supports of the East Stand at Stamford Bridge were almost lost in the glare from the winter sun.

The gravestone of Gus Mears is unpretentious and did not strike me as being particularly ornate or over-fussy. There are simple words to describe, in our eyes, his most formidable achievement in his thirty-eight years.

HENRY AUGUSTUS MEARS

FOUNDER OF THE CHELSEA FOOTBALL CLUB

He is buried with his son, Henry Frank Mears, who died in the First World War aged just nineteen.

The tombstone might be plain and understated, but the edifice which it faces more than makes up for it.

Stamford Bridge has been our home since 1905.

What memories lie within.

As I edged closer to the East Stand, I walked over to the railway-line and tried my best to take some photographs of our stadium from a never-previously photographed viewpoint. It was lovely to do so. It reinforced my love for this little piece of real estate in London SW6.

I popped into the hotel, very briefly, to chat with Ron and Glenn, but then zipped down to southern Fulham, arriving in the pub at 12.15pm. The day, thus far, had been magnificent. A cold fresh Saturday morning skirting Stamford Bridge. What could possibly be any better?

There were laughs with the usual suspects in “The Eight Bells” but the pub was a lot quieter than usual. I had spotted many Morecambe fans, in town early, and bedecked in red scarves, looking for watering holes around Stamford Bridge, and a couple had made it to our local, although with any club colours clearly hidden.

PD, Parky and I were joined by Dave, Salisbury Steve, Salisbury Leigh, Jimmy the Greek, Ian, Nick the Greek, and Nick the Greek’s good lady.

Ours, of course, was not the only FA Cup tie in London on this day. Brentford were at home to Plymouth Argyle, also at 3pm, and there was to be the Leyton Orient vs. Derby County game at 6pm.

Mark – a guy from Frome, but now living in Derby, and a Derby County fan – was off to the latter game and wanted to call in to have a chat with PD and myself before they moved over to East London. I met up with him at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town game in October, the first time that our paths had crossed since school days. However, on his way into London in a mini-bus with friends they heard that the game at Leyton Orient was called-off. However, Mark and his two Derby mates spent a nice while with us, and we chatted about all things football.

I had to laugh a while back when Mark told me that the Ram logo from the old main stand roof at the now dismantled Baseball Ground is currently in his shed. As far as stadia memorabilia goes, that must win some sort of award.

We left the three Derby lads to it and set off for the game. I was inside at 2.30pm.

During the afternoon, I chatted with Rob and Scott – friends in The Sleepy Hollow – about our plans for attending the FIFA World Club Cup in June. Rob, along with his wife Alex and his mate Rob, will be alongside Glenn and little old me in Philadelphia. I had to laugh when Scott explained how he had an even bigger nightmare buying tickets than me. The procedure via the FIFA website wasn’t too clear, nor easy. Each applicant had to set up their own account. It didn’t help my cause when I realised that I had inadvertently used Glenn’s access code for my two tickets, and so I had to gamble that my code would work for him. After a nervous ten minutes, he was in.

We were in.

See you in Philly.

The minutes ticked down and I looked at the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen.

Us against Morecambe in 2025?

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga

Lavia

Neto – Nkunku – Felix – George

Guiu

Or something like that.

Pedro Neto was the only player retained from the game at Crystal Palace, and it surprised nobody.

I prefaced the day’s activity with a photo and a nod to Eric Morecambe on “Facebook.”

“We’re playing all the right passes, but not necessarily in the right order.”

The game began.

Well, I was tempted to call this “Tales From The Cemetery And The Morgue”.

I know it was “only” Morecambe, who were second-from-bottom of League Two, but the atmosphere at the game, throughout virtually every second of it, was bloody terrible. I felt sorry for any long-distance Chelsea supporter who was attending this as their first-ever game at Stamford Bridge.

There. I have got that out of my system.

All eyes were keenly focussed on the returning Reece James, and it was from his free-kick that Axel Disasi headed over the bar in the first two minutes. Despite the likelihood of Morecambe defending deep (1996), Parking the Bus (2004), using a low-block (2021), they surprised us with a quick counter-attack down their right that Filip Jorgensen did well to parry. There was another Morecambe attack and shot soon after.

The away fans could be heard in the far corner.

“Football in a library.”

I guess “morgue” didn’t scan.

The Chelsea chances kept materialising in a packed penalty area in front of The Shed. A shot from Joao Felix, off for a corner, then over from the resulting corner from the same player.

Another header from another corner.

A Tosin header crashed against the bar from a Pedro Neto corner.

Disasi over the bar too.

Alan and PD alongside me were getting frustrated with a lack of drive, and a lackadaisical approach, but in the defence of the players it is sometimes difficult to raise a tempo when there is simply no space to move.

It wasn’t brilliant stuff, but chances were being created.

On twenty-eight minutes, Neto attempted to turn back the ball from the goal-line, but a defender jumped up and the ball hit his arm. The referee had no choice but to point to the spot. Sadly, Christopher Nkunku’s penalty save was at an easy height for the Morecambe ‘keeper Harry Burgoyne to save. The ball ran out to Nkunku, but the ‘keeper blocked again. Burgoyne had been the star of the show thus far. For Chelsea, Felix was often involved and was piling up scoring chances. On the wings Tyrique George and Pedro Neto were industrious but without end product. Marc Guiu and Nkunku were yet to get involved.

Just after, Disasi clouted a ball from his own half towards a totally non-existent run from a non-existent Chelsea player. It had my vote for the worst pass of the season thus far.

An effort from Guiu went close. Yet another effort from Felix, but Burgoyne met it with a very fine save. There was a tidy spin from George out on the left, but Nkunku’s header flew over the bar.

On thirty-nine minutes, with the place still silent, a move broke down and the ball spun out to Tosin. There was a semi-audible whisper of “shoot” and the centre-back moved the ball on and did so. After so many misses from players further up the field, there was almost laughter in the air as his shot was deflected past the hapless Burgoyne to give us a 1-0 lead.

I looked towards Alan. I saw him pause. At the same moment, we had the exact same thought. I took off my glasses and was just about to offer them to him. Instead, he donned his own glasses.

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

Ernie : “Come on my little fat hairy legs.”

We laughed.

“God, we have been together too long.”

Just after, the same scenario. Tosin on the ball, shouts to “shoot” but the long shot whizzed just past the post.

From the Morecambe fans :

“1-0 up, you still don’t sing.”

Half-time arrived and everyone was rather non-plussed. I wondered what the mood was like at half-time at our FA Cup game against Wigan Athletic, at Stamford Bridge, on Saturday 5 January 1985. During that game, which I did not attend, we had somehow contrived to let in two first-half goals to the away team – Paul Jewell, Mike Newell – but thankfully we managed to even up the score in the second half via goals from Pat Nevin and David Speedie.

Us against Wigan Athletic in 1985?

Niedzwiecki

Wood – Pates – McLaughlin – Rougvie

Nevin – Spackman – Thomas

Davies – Dixon – Speedie

There would be a replay later.

The gate was just 16,220. It had been a mixed day for FA Cup crowds; 36,000 at Liverpool vs. Aston Villa, 32,000 at Manchester United vs. Bournemouth, 29,000 at Tottenham vs. Charlton Athletic, but just 11,000 at West Ham vs. Port Vale.

My 1984/85 retrospective over, we return to 2025.

At the break, the manager made three changes.

Malo Gusto for Reece James.

Marc Cucarella for Lavia.

Jadon Sancho for Neto.

The introduction of Cucarella seemed to be the catalyst in a much-improved second forty-five minutes. It was his burst down below us that set up a shot for Renato Veiga after the Spaniard’s cross was cleared. Veiga’s shot was parried by Burgoyne but Nkunku was on hand to smash in the rebound.

No balloon. I guess he some respect for the opposition. Fair play. In fact, the celebration was very muted indeed. Nkunku doesn’t look the happiest camper at the moment.

The chances stacked up again. Yet another Felix effort flew over. Cucarella came inside and saw his right-footed shot hit the side netting. A Disasi header at a corner came close.

The away team had given up attacking in any form at all by now.

On seventy minutes, the ball was played inside by the improving George, and Sancho must have heard a shout from Tosin as he let the ball run through his legs.

Another “shoot!” and this time Tosin’s effort was quite magnificent, the ball curling and crashing into the net from twenty-five yards.

His run towards my waiting camera was euphoric.

Five minutes later, George played a ball square down below us and Felix took a touch and delicately aimed a slow but precise roller into the Morecambe net at the near post. His goal was well-deserved. Another muted celebration.

Two minutes later, The Sleepy Hollow was treated to more excellent build-up play below us. That man Cucarella – his energy had revitalised us – passed to Felix who danced and weaved ahead of his marker and then unleashed a curler past Burgoyne at the far post.

Beautiful.

There was a late rally from the away team with two shots on goal – one a tired roller at Jorgensen, one wildly over – but Chelsea were good value for the 5-0.

The referee, perhaps wisely, played only two seconds of injury-time.

Game over.

Into Round Four we go.

Our next smattering of league games at Stamford Bridge were finalised using a random date generator, copious amounts of acid and a British Rail train timetable from 1974.

Tuesday 15 January : Bournemouth.

Monday 20 January : Wolverhampton Wanderers.

Monday 3 February : West Ham United.

Wednesday 26 February : Southampton.

Have I ever mentioned what I think of modern football?

Outside : Brompton Cemetery.

Inside : Stamford Bridge.

Tales From One-Hundred-And-Nine Minutes

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Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 15 May 2024.

I swung into the car park of the “Horse & Groom” pub, on the A36 in Salisbury, at just after 3pm. Waiting for me was Salisbury Steve. Way back in August, I had popped into the very same pub before the two of us went off to watch his local non-league team, Bemerton Heath Harlequins, play a game against my local non-league team Frome Town. It was Frome’s first away league game of the 2023/24 season, and here we were, meeting up at the self-same pub ahead of Chelsea’s last away league game of 2023/24.

This was going to be yet another long day at work, on the road and in the stands. I was up at 4.15am and God knows what time I would return. PD and Parky had made their way to Melksham for 2pm and I quickly whisked them south-east to collect Steve. Unfortunately, road works between Southampton and Portsmouth and then road closures later meant that the three-hour trip to Brighton, or rather Lewes, ballooned to four hours. I pulled into one of the last remaining car park spaces at Lewes railway station at around 6.15pm. We usually drink in this lovely historic town before games at the Amex Stadium but we decided to head to the ground. On the five-minute journey in we spoke with some locals about the news that Premier League clubs were to vote on binning VAR.

I’ll say only this. From my experience, 99.9% of match-going fans in the UK want to see it gone.

I spent a little time outside the stadium, taking it all in, taking some photos, chatting to a few Chelsea friends. Brighton’s stadium is a decent arena, and a visit there is quite unlike any other in the top flight. This would be my seventh visit, and we are yet to experience a pre-match in Brighton itself. The Lewes pre-match is as good as any in the Premier League, and I do like the Brighton stadium. It is roomy and pleasant with enough quirky features to keep it away from the “soul-less modern bowl” epithet of modern football connoisseurs. The greenery of the South Downs was visible beyond the west stand and there was a cloudless blue sky above. I like it how seagulls fly and soar above the stadium, as if they are trained specifically for match days. Thankfully, there are no lions at Millwall, nor tigers at Hull City.

I spoke to Allie and Nick, two Chelsea stalwarts who never miss any games, and I soon stopped moaning about the four-hour journey in. Their car had broken down on the outskirts of Brighton and would be sitting overnight in a local garage. At least they had found a lift back to The Smoke.

This would be my third successive season of not missing a Chelsea away league game. God willing, should I manage Bournemouth on Sunday, it will be my first-ever season of not missing a single first team game.

I spotted the Brighton Memorial Garden for the first time – a nice feature – and the gentle rise of the sloped pathway allowed me to take a few more photos. I had to laugh that the home club chose to feature a photo of an old team group posing with comedian Norman Wisdom above the main entrance. A football club must have a lot of self-confidence in itself to be OK with an image like that. I can’t imagine Ken Dodd at Anfield nor Bernard Manning at City.

It was odd to see a player profile of Bruno Saltor on a large poster opposite the main stand. How many Chelsea fans had completely forgotten him? Yes, me too.

I was soon inside the roomy away concourse. What a nice change not to be pressed together like sardines, unlike at other new builds like Arsenal and Tottenham. The boys had bought me a lager; my first pint on a “driving match day” of the season. I guess I needed to celebrate another complete away record somehow. It was lovely to bump into Whitey, who I had not seen at Chelsea for years and years. We reminisced about Juventus away in 2009; fifteen bloody years ago. Shudder.

I made my way into the roomy away end. Waiting to chat as I reached row D was Ross. I had remembered that he had posted on “Facebook” in the morning that he was on his way down to the game with Richard West, aka “Mr. C.” from The Shamen, a band from the late ‘eighties and early ‘nineties. I had a brief thought of meeting him for the first time even though we are friends on “Facebook”. Lo and behold, it worked out that they would be in the adjacent two seats. Excellent. We said our hellos and readied ourselves for the evening’s entertainment.

Unfortunately, yet again at The Amex, my seat was right behind the goal nets. I knew that my camera would struggle to get many good photos on this particular night. I made sure I took some of the setting; the stands, the angles, the setting sun.

Kick-off approached.

So, here we were. We had experienced a demanding season with a new manager, new players, an odd ownership group, a new transfer strategy. For the most part it has been a struggle. Supporters have openly expressed how distanced they feel from the players. Yet over the past two months there has been a marked improvement – minus that painful blip at Arsenal – and we were now in touching distance of European football next season. Until very recently I was convinced that we would finish tenth and would be without European football – those beautiful away trips – for a second successive season.

We faced two games against the beach towns of Brighton and Bournemouth. The south coast of England had played a big part in my travels thus far this season; I had watched Frome at Falmouth, Plymouth and Ramsgate and Chelsea at Bournemouth. It felt just right to be ending my away trips in Sussex by the sea.

Our team?

There was one change from the tight win at Forest; Malo Gusto replaced Trevoh Chalobah at right-back, thus meaning that he was shunted inside at the expense of Thiago Silva.

Petrovic – Gusto, Chalobah, Badiashile, Cucarella – Gallagher, Caicedo – Madueke, Palmer, Mydruk – Jackson

In the Brighton team were former blues Billy Gilmour and Tariq Lamptey.

At 7.45pm, the game kicked-off. We were in that very dark navy. I just hoped the players could pick each other out. I was struggling.

Being so low down, I struggled as we attacked the far goal and it took me a while to get into the game. Thankfully, Chelsea were involved from the kick-off and the speed of Noni Madueke on the right caused a flutter in the Brighton ranks. However, young Lamptey on the Brighton right started the game equally well and the home team threatened us too.

The former Brighton duo of Marc Cucarella and Moises Caicedo – now blonde – were boo’d relentlessly from the off and I found it all a bit boring and boorish.

Cucarella went sprawling in the box and the referee pointed at the spot. My first reaction was that it looked a little soft. After a lengthy VAR review, involving the referee checking the pitch side monitor, the decision was reversed. The home crowd roared and it was the noisiest they had been all evening.

There was a leap and a header from a Brighton player right in front of us, but then the excellent Malo Gusto sent a dipping shot in on goal but the Brighton ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen was able to finger-tip it over.

On thirty-four minutes, we had stretched Brighton a little and the ball was played out to Cucarella. He did well to spot a runner and dig out a cross. There was contact, a stooping header, and the ball flew up and over Verbruggen into the goal.

GET IN.

Brighton 0 Chelsea 1.

The players raced off to celebrate and I snapped away, to the left of the nets. I had not spotted who the scorer was, but I knew soon enough.

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

Beautiful stuff.

The Chelsea end were in a sudden celebratory mood.

“We’re all going on a European tour, a European tour, a European tour.”

We pushed forward and a shot from Palmer was cleared. Then, a nod-in from Jackson but he was flagged offside.

I didn’t see the incident that left Mykhailo Mudryk sprawled on the floor for several worrying minutes. For a while he was motionless. Eventually, he was substituted by Christopher Nkunku.

With nine minutes of added time signalled, we traded chances. There was another cross from the left, but Nicolas Jackson shinned it over. Then, a cross from Lamptey and Joao Pedro leapt but struck a header against the bar.

It was 1-0 to the visitors at the break.

It had been a first-half in which both sides had enjoyed spells of domination but Chelsea shaded it. In the second-half, I hoped for more of the same, but also more photos. I had hardly taken any in the first period.

So, the game re-started with “us attacking us” and my camera was primed.

It was an open game and chances continued to be traded. Nkunku looked fresh and nimble, and soon flashed a shot wide from an angle. We looked dangerous on the counter-attack, and our supporters shouted words of encouragement as we attacked the open spaces. Brighton were causing more of a problem to us in the second-half and there were several near misses. The home crowd had been surprisingly quiet in the first-half but were coming to life.

On sixty-five minutes, we broke again with pace. Gusto pushed deep into the Brighton box and spotted Nkunku inside. In a flash, the ball was swept in to the goal with the minimum of fuss.

Brighton 0 Chelsea 2.

I was so low down that I struggled to get any goal celebrations of note.

For a while, the Chelsea supporters took the piss out of one of the home supporters in the stand to our right. I didn’t know the reasons for ridicule, but the poor bloke was getting pummelled with insults. He was slightly overweight (like many of us) and so was an easy target. After minutes of abuse, the Chelsea choir turned the knife deeper.

“You fat bastard, you’re texting your Mum.”

With that he left.

Reece James replaced Gusto and Raheem Sterling replaced Madueke.

The game seemed to be petering out with Chelsea well in charge. Jackson was upended just outside the box by the Brighton ‘keeper but Raheem Sterling wasted the resultant free-kick.

I was proud to see our support clapping both Lamptey and Gilmour when they were substituted. But I had to laugh when Brighton replaced the dangerous Julio Enciso with Ansu Fati.

The Chelsea support to my right sang “we’ve got our Fati back.”

Late on, there was a rough tackle out by the touchline on Reece James and our captain reacted by lashing out with his leg. I spotted it immediately. My mind raced back to David Beckham in France in 1998. A VAR review was signalled and, no surprises, Reece was red carded. What a silly boy.

Fackinell.

Thiago Silva replaced Jackson.

A mammoth ten minutes of added time was signalled and everyone thought the same; “here we go.”

An effort from Simon Adingra smacked against the base of Petrovic’ right-hand post and then in the eighth minute of extra-time, a cross towards the near post by Joao Pedro was touched in by their substitute Danny Welbeck.

Brighton 1 Chelsea 2.

Welbeck’s goal did not surprise me at all. The veteran striker has a good record against us.

More substitutions.

Lesley Ugochukwu for Gallagher.

Cesare Casadei for Palmer.

The last three minutes of the game were tense and nervy.

At last, the referee blew up.

Phew.

With the late, presumably unplanned, appearance of Thiago Silva, I was at least able to get some decent close-up photographs of our much-loved Brazilian legend in his final away game for Chelsea Football Club. He looked emotional as he clapped the away support for the last time.

“Oh Thiago Silva.”

We were back at my car in Lewes at 10.30pm, but those road closures again meant that our journey home was another long one. After I had dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 1am, I suddenly felt peckish. I stopped at a nearby all-night-garage and bought myself a Chelsea Bun.

There is no punchline.