Tales From The Big Weekend

Posted on September 5, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 30 August 2026.

After our win against Luton Town in the League Cup on the Thursday, Chelsea’s next match was another home game – against Brighton – on the Sunday. But that fixture was only the middle fixture of games on three consecutive days for me.

Either side of the game with those pesky blighters from Brightonia, Frome Town were at Chertsey Town on the Saturday and at home to Bath City on the Bank Holiday Monday. Each one of these games were important, but as they came one after the other, I am breaking Tales protocol and writing about the last game here, rather than splice it together with a later Chelsea match report.

It seems the natural thing to do.

Three games in three days.

The big weekend.

But don’t worry; the Chelsea game is the sizeable filling in the middle.

Here goes, then.

An away game at Chertsey Town was the first on the agenda. They were top of the Southern League Premier South and represented a very difficult assignment for manager Danny Greaves and his troops. I drove up to London with my friends Louise and Steve, and we constantly spoke about Frome’s recent glories, and other points of interest, which invariably featured footballing minutiae from our personal histories. I am amazed Louise stayed awake.

I admitted to them that I was sorely worried about the possibility of Dodge getting zero points from the two games on this momentous weekend. Unbelievably, Steve was uncharacteristically gung-ho about our chances and predicted a win. I was so shocked, I almost crashed my car. Steve is, at times, rather negative – “glass half empty” – about football matters, so this was a real surprise.

We hit some dreadful weather en route, but at around 1.30pm we were huddled around a cosy table in “The Coach & Horses” just a few minutes’ walk from Chertsey’s neat Alwyns Lane ground. A gaggle of Frome’s loyal supporters were at the next table. I had visited it on the corresponding Bank Holiday weekend in 2024; a deserved 1-1 draw that time.

We took our seats in the fine main stand, and I spotted a few Chertsey supporters with Chelsea attire. The ground is just inside the M25, and the rollercoasters of Thorpe Park are visible at the northern end.

With one eye on Monday’s game, the manager made several changes to his starting eleven. It was a tight and combative match from start to finish. On thirty-seven minutes, Frome’s Archie Ferris poked home a cross from close range. It was a deserved lead. The home team enjoyed a dominant spell, but David Duru made it 2-0 just as the home team started to fade. A late consolation goal from Chertsey made the last few minutes incredibly tense, but Frome held on for a very fine victory. The gate was a disappointing 496 which included around forty travelling Frome supporters.

On the drive back to Somerset, I think I had caught Steve’s bug; I had a feeling that we could defeat Bath City on the Monday too.

Saturday evening was spent basking in the glory of Frome’s victory, but my attention soon turned to the Sunday. This would be our new manager’s first league match at Stamford Bridge, and of course there was a frisson of excitement about this.

However – and you might want to look away now, dear reader – I had to solemnly admit to myself that the Frome vs. Bath game on the following day was the biggest of the three. Bath City have experienced a massive fall from grace of late. In 1979/80, in the inaugural season of the Alliance Premier – the first-ever national “fifth division” – they finished second. In that season, Bath City were only three levels below Chelsea.

They have always found themselves in Step 1 or Step 2 of the non-league pyramid, and they have always been a big non-league outfit. However, they now find themselves in Step 3 after relegation last season. While Bath have dropped, Frome have risen and the game would be the first league match between the two clubs since 1906.

Yes, 1906.

One hundred and twenty years.

But first Brighton.

I collected PD at 7am, and Parky at 7.30am. There was the usual early morning McBreakfast at Melksham on the way. These morning matchday football routines are lovely, and they hark back to my childhood when there seemed to be a very clear set of events that I used to follow. I mentioned those joyful Saturday mornings of my youth in the Luton Town match review; “Sesame Steet”, “The Partridge Family”, Sam Leitch on “Grandstand” with his football preview. But before I settled in for a few hours of football, I would be sent down to the village post office to pick up a loaf of bread, and with a small amount of change I would purchase one or maybe two packs of football cards – four per pack – that contained the absolutely inedible bubble gum.

Players from those days lie deep in my memory to this day.

David Wagstaffe – Wolverhampton Wanderers.

Alan Bloor – Stoke City.

Dick Krzywicki – Huddersfield Town.

Allan Hunter – Ipswich Town.

Sunday traffic was light; I dropped the passengers off near “The Eight Bells” at just before 10am. Joe from Virginia would soon join them, along with my good friends Even, Jon, Roy and Hans from Norway. I spun around and parked up on Rylston Road and walked down to Fulham Broadway. For fifteen minutes, I was in agony; my hips were killing me. Those carefree days of me in 1971/72, scampering down to the shop, were a long way away. I’d like to think that the pain I was experiencing was due to those mesmerizing twists and feints that used to confuse opposing full-backs – and myself – during my footballing days, to give it all some sort of footballing credibility, but I suspect that the shooting pain was just due to the passage of time and old age.

I stopped by at the “Walham Green” pub and sat for twenty minutes, nursing a drink. Miraculously, when I stood up, the pain had gone. Behold the therapeutic powers of Fulham Broadway.

On the train down to Putney Bridge, I spotted my Brighton mate Mac in another compartment. We met up on the platform and while he shot off for a quick bite to eat, I joined up with the lads in “The Eight Bells”; the time was about 11.30am.

Unlike the Fulham game, the pub was a lot less crowded, a lot more homely, and a lot quieter. There were familiar faces everywhere. I sat on a table with Mac’s fine mates Barry, Rob and Guy. Brighton have given us a torrid time of late; those recent three away games were absolutely horrific. There was a 1-3 defeat at Stamford Bridge last September too.

I asked Mac how the Brighton faithful will react to Danny Welbeck in Chelsea colours.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Ah lovely.”

Barry shared a photo of some old – literally – Chelsea faces that he had seen on a recent “Facebook” post. He wondered if I recognised any. All of them were in their ‘sixties and ‘seventies.

“Well, I can spot Eccles, but that’s about it. He was the leader of The Shed back in the day, or to be exact, the North Stand.”

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 1.30pm after having safely smuggled the SLR camera in.

On the pitch, Gary Chivers and Jason Cundy were being asked to share their memories of the recently departed Bobby Tambling and Ken Bates.

I always remember the first time I met Bobby Tambling; it was with Parky and Glenn at a local Wiltshire pub, when Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti were in attendance too. It was in April 2011. Outside in the pub garden, I remember Parky and Bobby chatting away like they were old friends. They were sharing anecdotes about their hip replacements, and Parky could not believe how pleasant Bobby was. That was a Friday evening, and we soon bumped into Bobby walking along Fulham Broadway the following morning before a game and he was all smiles and laughter; a truly wonderful man.

Kick-off time approached.

We checked the team.

New signing Emilio Martinez had made it just in time.

Martinez

Fofana – Lacroix – Colwill

Pedro Neto – Gusto – Lavia – Hato

Palmer – Joao Pedro – Rogers

This looked an odd selection with square pegs in round holes; the pushed-on wing backs and the midfield duo especially.

A Xabi Alonso tifo involving a puny pun was unveiled in The Shed and the teams arrived.

Then, floral tributes with members of the families of Bobby Tambling and Ken Bates – I spotted Bobby’s widow Val – and some heartwarming applause for the two Chelsea legends.

Chelsea attacked The Shed. It looked like many of the visiting support had opted for the white away shirts. Mac wasn’t too happy with the blue with thin white pinstripes of their home kit. In the pub I had asked him about it, narrowly avoiding a mention of the 1983 FA Cup final.

“Not a fan. Prefer stripes. Saw Rangers on TV recently, and their kit looks like ours.”

Chelsea began well. My SLR was at hand on just four minutes to record a brilliant start for the chaps.

The corner from Pedro Neto near Parkyville.

The perfect flick-on from Joao Pedro. He must have been watching highlight reels of Archie Ferris. The ball was blocked on the line by the defender Mats Weiffer and ‘keeper Bart Verbruggen made a hash of grasping the loose ball. The ball dropped nicely.

Alas, the camera missed the nimble flick-in from Romeo Lavia, his first goal for us, but my first reaction was to quickly check the linesman to my right, but his flag was kept down. No infringements.

GET IN.

I captured the celebrations, naughtily taking place in front of the away fans.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

What a start. We continued to play some lovely stuff in the Brighton half.

On fourteen minutes, a throw-in from Jorrel Hato, a headed pass from Joao Pedro to Morgan Rogers, who shuffled past Mario Vuskovic. His square ball was pushed in by Neto on the six-yard line.

Beautiful stuff.

We were purring.

“We’ve got our Chelsea back” sang the crowd.

On twenty-four minutes, Neto chased down Feri Kadioglu and played the ball inside to Joao Pedro, but his shot – on film – was guided just past the left-hand stick.

On twenty-eight minutes, a rare Brighton attack but a hint of things to come. There were three attackers roaming at large down our left, with only one Chelsea shirt in sight.

“Fallen asleep there Chels.”

The resultant cross was thankfully claimed by Martinez.

Brighton then enjoyed a little spell.

However, on thirty-two minutes, there was a lovely interchange of play between Hato and Rogers – quick feet to release the ball – and this allowed Hato to race up the left. He won the footrace with Wieffer and crossed low. As the ball flew off Joao Pedro’s boot, I clicked.

GOAL!

This made up for the earlier miss.

I always remember Mac’s reaction to us signing Joao Pedro.

“Good luck with the sulky twat.”

I wondered, briefly, what his thoughts were as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Mac Lads.

This goal, oddly, brought back memories of Gary Chivers’ goal versus Newcastle United in October 1980. That one came from a rapid move down the left too. And, also oddly, Clive – a few seats along – thought the same. The ball travelled in different parts of the pitch in 2026, but it had the same feel as the goal from forty-six years ago.

Three-up and hinting at more, my mind wandered, far too quickly for my liking.

“Two wins in two games. Will this team surprise us all, gel ridiculously quickly and mount a serious challenge for the title?”

Yeah, I know.

Throughout all this attacking wizardry, Cole Palmer had been a little quiet. He gave away possession on a couple of occasions early on and didn’t dominate in the way he can.

On thirty-five minutes, Neto missed his challenge, allowing Diego Gomez in on goal. His shot was parried by Martinez – on film – but Malick Yalcouye slammed a shot in off the far post.

Bollocks.

On forty-one minutes, Rogers rifled a shot from distance just past the post. Gomez, at the Matthew Harding, headed wide.

At the break, I had no complaints, apart from the noise and the atmosphere.

It was darned quiet.

At half-time, a message from Mac.

“Exactly as I saw this going.”

The game recommenced, and Brighton managed to have a bigger share of the game. However, three minutes in, Martinez pumped a long first-time ball forward, enabling Joao Pedro to slalom his way forward – pictured – but he seemed to take one touch too many and his run was blocked.

On fifty-five minutes, a Brighton free-kick and a header at the back stick from Gomez that glided past the other post.

I was waiting for the net to bulge.

Phew.

A minute later, we went wide of the far post, then a minute after that Rogers walloped a ball into the six-yard box but Palmer uncharacteristically volleyed over the bar.

Then a couple of Brighton efforts, and a fine Martinez save. Sadly, from the resulting corner, Yalcouye played a ball in to Pascal Gross whose attempted pass to a teammate flew in off Joao Pedro’s leg.

There was still half-an-hour to go, and it was getting nervy. It felt that we were sitting back way too much. At 3-2, this was a different game completely.

On sixty-four minutes, Maxim De Cuyper headed wide of the far post.

Martinez saved well down low from Olivier Boscagli.

This was getting even more edgy.

On sixty-eight minutes, Xabi Alonso made some changes.

Josh Acheampong for Fofana.

Moises Caicedo for Neto.

Reece James for Lavia.

It meant that Gusto was pushed out wide.

The crowd responded with a loud, and much needed chant.

“CAREFREE.”

On seventy-two minutes, Pep Chavarria took over from Colwill.

Two minutes later, a throw-in from Gusto, a neat lay-off from Joao Pedro and Palmer raced forward. He ate up the yards and with calm efficiency he swept the ball in at the far post.

What a lovely strike.

Chelsea 4 Brighton 2.

That’s better.

More noise.

“PALMER AGAIN, PALMER AGAIN, PALMER AGAIN OLE, OLE.”

I said to Alan : “to be honest he has been 5/10 until now.”

Brighton continued to attack and carve out chances. One effort was slashed wide from a corner.

Sadly, Caicedo had to be replaced by Valentin Barco on eighty-two minutes.

Towards the end of the game, my fellow occupants in The Sleepy Hollow – Alan, Clive, PD – departed and so it was only me that witnessed the last goal of the game on ninety-five minutes. Another long throw, the ball was headed on, and a free header for Gross.

Thankfully, that was it.

The whistle blew soon after the re-start.

Phew.

There was some sort of gallows humour on the way out.

“3-2, now 4-3…I guess we will win 5-4 at Arsenal.”

No, don’t put any money on it.

It had been a game that started so well with lots off attacking verve, but one that soon became a roller-coaster ride like those experienced by thousands at Thorpe Park.

But Alonso will learn fast and make the right changes.

Won’t he?

Let’s hope so,

I made my way back to collect PD and Parky and who should I see talking to three friends on the Fulham Road?

Eccles.

I messaged Barry to tell him.

I reached home at around 6.45pm with another game heavily on my mind.

The plan was to meet up with a few close friends in the FTFC clubhouse at around 1pm on Bank Holiday Monday. I have a digital season ticket at Frome, and until this day, the scanning process had not worked. My old Oakfield Road School teammate Steve – manning the gate with his father Maurice – was surprised as I was when there was a lovely big green “tick” on his scanner. I took that as a positive sign.

There were Bath fans in early at Badgers Hill, and it soon became apparent that we would be witnessing the largest ever away following seen at Frome Town in decades and decades. I had spoken to a director a fortnight earlier and they had budgeted for an attendance of 1,000, expected 1,200, but I – and others – was hoping for 1,500 at least.

I soon met up with Louise, Steve, Francis, Tom and Glenn. We could not believe how many away fans were in. They began to cluster as one black mass in The Cowshed to our right. The weather had been favourable; there were grey skies in the morning – perhaps deterring many from travelling too far on this day’s holiday and enticing them to the match instead – but as from midday there were blue skies overhead.

As game time approached, Badgers Hill looked an absolute picture.

All stands were full; there were still spectators queuing at the turnstiles and a buzz of huge anticipation hung in the air.

The visitors had featured heavily in the local news of late; a consortium that included Tears For Fears’ Curt Smith were about to swell the coffers of the club to the quite amazing tune of £6M.

And here they were visiting little old Frome for the first time in a league game since 1906.

The teams strode onto the pitch to the tune of “A Town Called Malice” and we girded our loins.

The first half was a relatively mundane affair, and Frome Town had to rely on the heroics of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips to keep the score tied. With five minutes to the break, the last of the spectators eventually made their way in. We all played “guess the gate” and the consensus was around 1,700.

The second half began with the red shirts attacking us in the club end.

Eventually, the home support found our voices.

I bellowed out –

“COME ON YOU” – but stopped at saying the word “reds.”

I just can’t do it.

There were a few chances for both teams. Bath wasted a golden one-on-one; the chance of the match.

Frome manager Danny Greaves made some changes.

Three substitutions on sixty-four minutes.

Our play improved.

“AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY THE DODGE, AWAY.”

Two more substitutions followed on eighty minutes.

Just after, a Warren Maidment throw-in (pictured), a scramble, and substitute George Dowling, with his first touch of the game, rifled the ball in via a deflection.

GET IN.

He had only been on the pitch for less than twenty seconds.

The home team held on, and the away fans sloped back to Twerton, Weston, Lansdown, Odd Down, Bathampton and Whiteway.

The gate was announced as 2,051.

We had smiles as large as Cley Hill, a local landmark that can be spotted on the horizon if you know where to look.

We basked in the glory some more.

I was worried about winning a solitary point in this toughest of weekends, but Frome Town had won six.

And good old Chelsea had picked up three too.

Fackinell.

Three wins out of three.

What a blinkin’ glorious weekend.

And here’s to many more.

See you at Arsenal

Game One : Chertsey Town vs. Frome Town

Game Two : Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion

Game Three : Frome Town vs. Bath City

Tales From Memory Lane Café

Posted on December 28, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 27 December 2023.

The drive up to London had been horrible. Due to traffic congestion throughout the journey, and not helped by persistent rain, it took four hours rather than the usual three. I had set off from my house at 10.30am, then collected the three others, but wasn’t parked up on Mulgrave Road until 2.30pm.

We were in town for the delayed Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace game, pushed forward a further day from Boxing Day. As I battled the rain and spray I was able to tell the chaps all about the game that I had seen on Boxing Day, the local derby between Frome Town and Melksham Town. It was a mad but deeply enjoyable encounter that resulted in two players from each side being sent off, plus the visiting Melksham manager too, and a 2-2 draw in front an attendance of 696, the highest home league gate of the[i] season. It had it all. I was breathless at the end of it. Proper football.

I made my way down the North End Road, the rain almost stopped, and decided to call in for an all-day breakfast at “Café Olé” for the second time this season. As I sat at the table, I tuned in to the café’s wi-fi to put out a post on “Facebook.” I wanted to detail what was happening exactly forty years ago to the day.

On 27 December 1983, we played a game against Portsmouth at Stamford Bridge. I uploaded a couple of photos with a little narrative. I then realised that it was in this same café back in November before the Manchester City game, in the exact same café, the exact same table even, that I had detailed a similar “forty years ago” moment on “Facebook.”

So, 1983/84.

For my generation it’s everybody’s favourite season, and I will be dipping in to its reach seam of memories occasionally during this campaign. I originally wrote about that season in greater depth during my 2008/9 match reports on its silver anniversary. There will be a few more “memory dips” this season. Let’s go back in time…

I travelled up with my parents…they had seats in the East Lower, but I had decided to get in amongst the boisterous and noisy supporters in The Benches, for the first time in fact since my first ever game in 1974. Up until that point, all of my games that season had been in The Shed, but both Glenn ( who was staying in London with his grandparents ) and myself fancied a change. Portsmouth, newly-promoted and with Mark Hateley and Alan Biley upfront, would bring a good following to The Bridge and we were both looking forward to some banter with the away fans on that huge slug of terrace to our left.

And – it would give us a chance to get in amongst the trendies.

Yep – December 1983 against Pompey was when I was brought fully up to speed with the football fashions of the time. Both Glenn and myself had entered the season completely oblivious to the movement which had been developing, unbeknown to us, in the main football cities since 1977.

Since then, many books have been written and many magazine articles devoted to this vibrant sub-culture; ”the thing with no name” one Manc has called it…but I can only describe it from my perspective.

Most youth trends are music based. God knows, Britain in 1983 had many; there had been the Mod revival of 1979, skinheads, suedeheads and two-tone / ska boys and girls were in abundance, the punks were still around from 1977, there were those into heavy metal with their long hair and denim, the Goths were around, there was rockabilly, psychobilly, soul boys ( definitely a London phenomenon )…then we had the lighter end of it all – the new romantics, with girls – and boys – who dressed like make-up was going out of fashion…hip hop was making inroads from across the Atlantic too.

But – as Glenn and myself were to find out over the remaining months of that most seminal of footy seasons, here was a movement which was solely based around what young people wore to football. It was a tantalisingly “underground” movement – that’s what made it so amazing to us. None of my friends back in Frome would be clued up about it for years and years.

The season was fermenting most beautifully; not only were Chelsea playing some great football, I was also going to more games – and now this.

“What – a totally new way of dressing up, based on football? Yes, please. Where do I sign up?”

There’s no point trying to reinvent history – up until December 1983, I really had no clue, though Glenn had met some casuals on an away day to Carlisle I believe. However – looking back – I guess by some kind of fashion fluke, I could have been mistaken for a football trendy. I have a photo of myself, taken on holiday in the summer of 1981 in Italy with my two Italian pals Tullio and Mario with me wearing a polo shirt, cords and a pair of Dunlop Green Flash. If I squint and avoid the glaring mistakes, I guess I could be mistaken for a football trendy. But I’d really have to squint hard. The horrible bog standard English schoolboy haircut gave it away. If I had been in the know, I would have realised that The Wedge was the way forward. There are people in their forties who coolly claim that the whole movement, the whole football thing, began with The Wedge in Liverpool in 1977. Who am I to argue? However, during the summer of 1983, I had helped myself to a great new haircut…before it the standard fringe and hair over the ears…we all had this haircut. Horrible it was. But, I decided to change all that…get a side-parting and sort myself out. Without really knowing it, my transformation from clueless fan to wedged-up trendy was beginning.

So – The Benches 1983 – a crisp sunny winter morning, my first Chelsea Xmas game and Glenn and myself clocking all of the hitherto unnoticed fashions of the time.

Why were those lads only wearing light blue jeans, many with side splits over their trainers? Look at all those pastel-coloured jumpers. They’re either “Pringle” ( small lion rampant, how Chelsea ) or “Lyle & Scott” ( yellow eagle ). I had only ever heard of “Slazenger. Why are all the trainers either “Nike” or “Puma” or “Adidas”? Wait, what are they? “Diadora”? Never seen them before.

Then the hairstyles…those side-partings, those huge flopping fringes, the famous flick… lads with hands in pockets, posing, walking up and down the Benches like a catwalk…what is that badge…a crocodile? And another! What is that?

John McEnroe’s “Sergio Tacchini” and Bjorn Borg’s “Fila”. Desert boots. Scarfs. Ski-jackets. Bright colours. Swagger.

Glenn and myself were hooked. Funny – at the time, it really was the cult with no name. Glenn called them “trendies”, quite correctly as it happens…but the cult was never really sure of itself…I would learn later – after much research – that “the football trendies” were known as “casuals”, “scallies”, “perries”, “dressers” and “trendies” depending where you were in the UK.

And here’s the thing – it was all about football; the terraces, the away games, the specials, the buzz, the noise, the colour, the lifestyle.

Chelsea versus Pompey at Xmas 1983 opened my eyes. The game ended 2-2 and has almost gone down in casual folklore. Pompey always seemed to have a photographer in their 6.57 firm and there are a few from the north terrace that day in circulation. Kerry Dixon infamously missed two penalties during the match but the one abiding memory is of a lone Pompey fan sauntering in, high on the terrace, hanging on to a fence, gesturing to us down below and wearing a pink pullover.

My diary from that day records our words to him as ”who’s the poser in the pink?” but this has since changed in popular culture to “the wanker in the pink”, as featured in a line within John King’s “The Football Factory.”

Several years ago, I chanced finding a photo from the game – both teams were wearing exquisite Le Coq Sportif kits – showing Kerry going up for a header with the West Stand in the background. I wondered if I might be spotted in the crowd. I zoomed in and found myself, way right, almost out of shot. I loved seeing myself from all those years ago, complete with floppy wedge. I include it here. I don’t like including photos on this site that aren’t mine but I make exception on this occasion. I include a few photos from Fulham Broadway of the Pompey mob, the North Stand – which, alas, I never stepped foot on – and the game.

Ah the memories.

Back to 2023.

I soon found myself catching a train from that same southbound platform at Fulham Broadway to join up with the lads at “The Eight Bells.” There was just time to take a couple of photos of the old station exits, including the ancillary one that was only used on match days. It bypassed the booking hall and went straight from platform to street level in a steep ascent. I had taken an outside shot too, to complete the picture. It’s an almost forgotten and un-noticed feature of the old station that I am sure 90% of current match-goers simply do not notice. That and the old Shed wall; that’s all that’s left from my first visit to Chelsea in 1974.

I reached the pub at about 3.45pm. Glenn, my mate from beside me on The Benches in 1983, was with Parky, PD and Salisbury Steve in “The Eight Bells” with some German lads who have featured in these tales before. Ben used to work for a company on the Swiss border that I used to contact for onward shipping of our furniture. He has visited Chelsea a number of times; the last time in 2019. He was with Jens and Walt, who we had met before, plus another chap called Michael. Everyone was getting on famously, despite the barmaid mischievously putting a couple of “WW2” films on the pub TV for their viewing pleasure. They were howling with laughter. Kyden originally from Kent, but now living in Florida called by for a drink and a chat. The pub wasn’t too busy. We rarely, if ever, visit this pub for an evening game. Top marks to Salisbury Steve who was first in at 11.30am. That’s pretty keen for a 7.30pm kick-off, eh?

I was shocked, and saddened, to see a huge poster advertising a PSG club shop in London on the northbound platform as I alighted at Fulham Broadway. There are no words.

I was inside Stamford Bridge very early at about 6.30pm. I waited for the troops to arrive. For a team that has seemed to have had our number on occasion recently, I was staggered to read that we had won our last dozen games against the Stripey Nigels in all competitions; I hoped it would be unlucky thirteen for them.

Nobody, though, seemed confident.

Our team was announced, and there was a full first team debut for Christopher Nkunku.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Colwill

Caicedo – Gallagher

Maatsen – Nkunku – Mudryk

Jackson

…”or something like that.”

Ben, Jens and Michael were around fifteen yards away to my right but Walt was down in The Shed. There was the usual “lightshow and flames bollocks” before the teams entered the pitch.

At 7.30pm, the game started and Crystal Palace began brightly attacking the Matthew Harding. They enjoyed a couple of efforts on our goal.

“Colwill is too tall for a full-back.”

On eight minutes, we were treated to a magnificent turn of pace from Mykhailo Mudryk who slotted a perfect pass through for Ian Maatsen. It ran away from him a little but he poked a toe at it as the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson raced out. Sadly, a Palace defender recovered to clear from just a few yards out.

On thirteen minutes, a very fine move carved Palace open. A majestic turn / drag-back from Malo Gusto had the crowd purring and the right-back then set off up field. A little fortune saw the ball continue to Nkunku, who had two stabs at getting the ball between two defenders into Gusto, who had ridiculously continued his run from the inside-right channel to the inside-left channel. His perfect low cross was pushed home by Mudryk.

GET IN.

We roared but he seemed subdued. There was no trademark Chelsea run to the corners. The central celebration seemed odd.

Not long after, a terrible pass from Nicolas Jackson – intended for Nkunku I think, but it hit a Palace player – did his cause no good whatsoever, but thankfully the move that followed fizzled out.

On twenty-one minutes, Mudryk was in on goal after good passing from Caicedo and Jackson but Henderson saved well. There was a roller from Jackson across the goal but wide of the far post. Next, at last some consierable styrength and doggedness from the currently maligned Jackson who battled off the challenges of two Palace defenders and set up Nkunku, who was not able to get a shot away.

This was decent stuff from Chelsea.

Pass the smelling salts, nurse.

And it was reassuring to hear genuinely positive reactions from the crowd. Stamford Bridge was clearly not a riot of noise, but there was warm applause from our surprisingly intricate and pleasing passing movements.

A pass from Gusto to Maatsen, but wide.

In the last ten minutes of the half, the game died a little. The frustrations from the crowd returned. Nkunku seemed peripheral now. Maatsen looked out of place out wide, often afraid to take his man on, too often happy to play the ball back. I spotted how slow Moises Caicedo is with the ball.

“Seen treacle move quicker.”

For all of Conor Gallagher’s energy, we missed a playmaker.

“Oh please exploit the spaces out wide.”

What I’d give for someone to loft a ball into those wide open spaces for a willing wide man to attack.

A sturdy tackle on Maatsen by Chris Richards released the ball for Palace. A deep cross towards the far post from Jordan Ayew always looked like causing us grief. Michael Olise, lively in the half-thus far, was scandalously unmarked and he had time to chest the ball down and smack past Djordje Petrovic at the near post. Caicedo had lost his concentration. Terrible defending.

It was 1-1 at the break.

So, moans at half-time. The relative positivity from the first half-hour had evaporated. It seemed to be the same old Chelsea of 2023/24.

One step forward, several steps back – and sideways.

In the first minute of the second period, I spotted how easy it was for the Palace attackers to roll off our defenders.

After a few more minutes of toil, I said to PD “there is nothing unexpected about our play.” All of it was without invention, without a spark, all of it in front of the defensive lines.

On fifty-three minutes, a Palace free-kick went just wide.

“We could lose this, boys.”

I looked over at the Germans; at least they were still awake.

Benoit Badiashile – he had impressed me at the end of last season, but has played poorly of late – allowed Jean-Philippe Mateta to roll off him and break. Badiashile and also Disasi raced after him but could not stop a shot on goal. Petrovic saved well at the near post.

A debut for Romeo Lavia on the hour, replacing the really poor Maatsen. Thiago Silva replaced Colwill at the same time.

Gallagher pushed up, Lavia sat alongside Caicedo and immediately looked more mobile and interested than his new midfield partner.

On sixty-six minutes, Gusto was so tenacious to stop a rapid break. Whisper it, but a few of us would not be unhappy if Gusto replaced Reece James in the long-term. We love Reece but his play has stalled for a while. He is so injury-prone and is too quiet for a captain. Gusto was enjoying a really excellent game.

More substitutions with twenty to go.

Noni Madueke for Nkunku.

Armando Broja for Mydryk.

More than a few supporters : “how is Jackson still on the pitch?”

Jackson then missed a one-on-one. Gallagher prodded the ball centrally – a great ball actually, one we had been missing – but the young striker fluffed his lines and his shot faded wide. Jackson fell into the netting and probably wished that the goal would swallow him up. Shortly after, we thought there was redemption.

A cross from Silva was deflected but Jackson pounced at the far post.

A roar.

We celebrated wildly.

He celebrated wildly down below.

He slid.

He crossed himself.

He closed his eyes.

He pointed to the sky.

He was mobbed by team mates.

I took some half-decent photos.

Then, after about a minute or so, to my disbelieving eyes : VAR.

Silence in my brain, sadness in my heart.

I was still stood, but slumped back against my seat.

No goal.

Oh do fuck off.

A save from Olise by Petrovic after an error by Silva.

Broja rippled the side-netting.

Late on, Madueke – who had looked lively – fell just inside the box after a corner. There had been a challenge, but I did not really see it. I could not judge its severity. With Madueke down, Palace broke with four against one. The referee played on. I screamed expletives. I’m good at that. That chance thankfully passed, but then VAR was signalled. I am tired of VAR now. I didn’t applaud nor cheer.

Eventually, a penalty was given.

Again, no cheer from me.

Jackson took the ball. Gallagher took the ball. Then Madueke, the fouled, took the ball. He looked confident. A staggered run-up. I clicked.

Goal.

I cheered now alright.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Eighty-nine minutes had passed.

Bloody hell.

Eight minutes of injury time were signalled.

One last substitution.

Alfie Gilchrist for Badiashile.

The young lad certainly made a strong impression in his first fleeting minutes as a first-team player. There was the “gee-ing up” of team mates, at least one crunching tackle, and much running around like a man possessed.

Alfie. Alf. Welcome to the show, son.

There was just time for one last save from Petrovic, again down low at the near post, again from Olise.

It finished 2-1, a well-won victory if not an easy one.

We rose to tenth place. It is, I think, where we will be come May.

Next up, an away game at Luton Town and a visit to the Oak Road End once again. I will see some of the lucky ones there.

1983