Tag Archives: Salisbury

Tales From A Home Away From Home

Posted on by
6

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 24 August 2026

The 2026/27 season was upon us. All the other Premier League games had taken place from Friday to Sunday, leaving just us and our near neighbours Fulham to go. An away game alongside the River Thames at Craven Cottage on a Monday night seemed appropriate considering all the other matches that were to take place in London over the next few weeks. Chelsea are set to play no less than seven consecutive matches in the capital, in league and cup; our first game outside the M25 at Everton will not be until Saturday 17 October. It seems miles away.

So, on this Monday night, everything close, everything to hand, everything in the Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham, everything in Fulham, everything in SW6. Everything nice and cosy. There was no need to even change the pre-match meet up; “The Eight Bells” was showing its other side on this occasion, an away pub and not a home one.

Everything was familiar. It was like being home away from home.

At the end of last season, after that depressing defeat at Sunderland, the summer stretched out in front of me, but although the World Cup was followed by many, it wasn’t for me. For the second time in a row, after Qatar in 2022, I boycotted the goings-on in North America. My main area of concern was the pricing structure of the games. How could anyone at FIFA claim that it was just and right to charge such extortionate prices? I was out for that main reason, but there were others too. In a nutshell viewed the tournament, ridiculously expanded to forty-eight countries, as out of reach of the common fan. God knows how those from around the world afforded it; my guess is that they would face huge bills to pay off on their return.

The FIFA World Cup 2026 and me would be like ships that passed in the night; one a mega cruise ship, ugly and brutal, churning up the waves as it gouged its way forwards and little old me on a one-man raft fighting the tides.

But then, to my shame, I buckled and decided to cave in, and I watched England vs. Argentina in the semi-final. England lost and I was morally bankrupt. I was not happy with myself for a few days after.

However, with no competition, Frome Town stole a march on my affections during the summer. First, we celebrated the wonderful news that the football club had agreed a two-year deal with the Frome Town Council, meaning that the club was locked-in and able to build for the future. All this just a year after it looked like the club, in its current form, might fold. The first of nine Frome Town games – five pre-season matches and four Southern Premier League games – took place just five miles away at Radstock Town on a beautiful sunny evening, my birthday, on Monday 6 July. I have utterly enjoyed watching my local team play in all these games, and my travels have already taken me to Devon, Worcestershire and Hampshire.

It was so noticeable that the release of Frome’s fixtures took place the day before the England vs. Argentina semi-final, and I was looking forward to the new fixtures one-hundred times more than the game in Atlanta.

As the summer continued, and as Frome began the league season with two wins but then two losses, I found myself well-and-truly entrenched in the Frome Town story, and Chelsea seemed somewhat distant. I was – I am not afraid to admit – a little concerned about my ambivalence. And then, just as I was nearing my place of work at Bowerhill near Melksham at around 5.45am on the day of the Fulham game my mind drifted to me being in the packed Putney End at Craven Cottage, cheering on the team, living every kick of the game, maybe witnessing some lovely skill by Cole Palmer or Joao Pedro, and I was back. I was back in the game.

I shouldn’t have worried about a thing.

Because every little thing was going to be alright.

I worked an early shift and, at 2pm, the familiar faces of Glenn Parkins and Paul Daniels were spotted in the front car park. As we set off to London, we updated each other with our stories from the summer.

The previous season will not sit well in our collective memories. It was a tough grind, with few high spots. There was the inevitable double over Tottenham, but other highlights were rare. My favourite away trip was the one to Wrexham; a new ground, a topsy-turvy game, a trip to the past.

Just before it had begun, of course, we had become World Champions. At the time it did not dawn on me how significant it all was from my timeline perspective.

1905 : Chelsea were formed.

1965 : I was born.

2025 : World Champions on my sixtieth birthday year and the club’s one-hundred and twentieth anniversary.

I liked that.

On the drive to London, we briefly spoke about Chelsea’s chances under new manager Xabi Alonso. Are many of the other main protagonists well-formed teams? I would suggest not. This is an odd period in the history of the topflight of English football. It seems that many teams are “works in progress”, including ours. Although a team from North London are firm favourites, I am tempted to use a phrase from their past to describe the race for this year’s title.

“It’s up for grabs now.”

I am looking at a top four finish; this squad does have huge potential. With a strong start, who knows? 2026/27 is the tenth anniversary of 2016/17 after all.

I met up with Joe from Virginia at ”Koka” on the North End Road; a favourite of mine. He has been a Chelsea supporter for around thirty years and is a good friend. We shared our thoughts of the game ahead over a couple of pepperoni pizzas. I then drove us down to deepest Fulham and tried my best to locate a parking spot equidistant from the ground and the pub. I eventually found a space on Wardo Road. It had been a tough consignment though; I hoped that gaps in our defence were equally scarce later on.

“The Eight Bells” was rammed full of Chelsea, and we were unfortunately not allowed to stand outside with our drinks. The pub was crowded, stifling hot, and I wasn’t unduly happy when PD announced that the lads were about to walk up to Craven Cottage. Just before we left, Tommie from California arrived. I last saw him at Bramall Lane towards the end of 2024/25. He was visiting with both his parents and a mate from home.

It was just after 7pm.

The team had been announced while we were stood in the pub, hopping from one foot to the other to get out of the way of passers-by.

Robert Sanchez

Levi Colwill – Maxence Lacroix – Josh Acheampong

Malo Gusto – Reece James – Romeo Lavia – Jorrel Hato

Cole Palmer – Joao Pedro – Morgan Rogers

So, debuts for Lacroix and Rogers, but the team had a few surprises.

I was pleased Josh was in, and a big game for him.

Gusto at right wing-back, Reece tucked-in.

“Where’s Caicedo?”

“Not sure about the defence”

We walked through a glade of trees, with the evening sun cutting through the branches to the west over the river, and I am not so sure I have ever seen Bishop’s Park looking so photogenic. I wished that I had packed my SLR to do justice to everything, but I did not fancy risking it, so I was to make do with just my ‘phone for this game.

I can understand why Fulham is high-up on the list of favourite away games.

It didn’t take us too long to reach the familiar turnstiles on Stevenage Road. I said “adios” to Joe who had purchased a ticket in the top tier of their new Riverside Stand. He was able to do this because he had once bought a ticket a while back to a Fulham game and so was in their system. It was as easy as that. He wasn’t a Fulham member or anything. It seems it’s easier to obtain tickets for one club in SW6 and not the other these days.

It was lovely to be among the faithful once again as I slowly edged my way towards section P5. There were “hello mate” acknowledgements to many. I, indeed, was back.

I was in Row H, near the front, and I soon met up with Gal, John and Alan. I had been on my Jack Jones at Sunderland, so it was fantastic to be next to them again. Jason from Swanage was right behind me, Calvin from Brighton was right in front of me. There were waves and nods to many others.

Fantastic.

I comforted myself with the knowledge that because the rake of the terrace steps at Fulham is, like at Selhurst Park, so shallow, I rarely managed to get any decent shots with my SLR camera in any case. Oh well. I just needed to concentrate on other things and not match action. I was sure I’d cope.

It’s a great stadium at Fulham. There’s lots to admire. It’s neat and has its share of unique features. It is, however, still hard to fathom that London’s oldest club has won bugger all since 1879.

Before we knew it, a pre-match song by AC/DC was aired and it seemed totally incongruous. Something by Tommy Steele would have been more appropriate.

Flames and then fireworks were let off into the night in front of Joe and the Riverside Stand to my left, and the two sets of players strode across the pitch from the Cottage in the corner to the dug outs. Sulphur hung in the air.

I took a few photos. I surely couldn’t miss with those.

How strange that the two former Liverpool teammates Xabi Alonso and Álvaro Arbeloa found their way to be managing clubs a mile and a half apart via short stays in charge of arguably the biggest club in the world Real Madrid.

“There’s nowt so queer as football” as nobody has ever said.

The Fulham fans, it seemed, had been given white and black scarves to hold aloft. In front of their Hammersmith End, banners said this :

“HAVE BEEN. WILL BE. ALWAYS ORIGINAl.”

Um, what?

I always liked the fact that Fulham’s old telegram address was “Fulhamish” (Chelsea’s was “Chelstam”) because it conjured up images of a rough-and-tumble amateurish way of doing things, quite befitting the club in the days of Tommy Trinder.

Well, on this night, those banners were plain gibberish.

We stood and waited.

Before the match, the players stood at the centre-circle. An image of Kevin Keegan appeared on the screen above the Hammersmith End.

There was applause even before the referee blew his whistle.

We have lost some special people over the summer.

Bobby Tambling – one of the most genuine and decent human beings that I have ever met – passed away on 3 June. He was such a lovely man that his scoring prowess could well be overlooked. It was a pleasure to know him. He will always be a true Chelsea legend.

Ken Bates – the irascible former Chelsea chairman – passed away on 11 July. I loved the way that Ken stood up for us on so many occasions. Bates and Chelsea were indivisible during his twenty-one years in charge. He fought for our cause and formed the CPO, his greatest ever decision. I still treasure the letter that he wrote to me in the summer of 1982.

Franco Baresi – along with Franz Beckenbauer and Bobby Moore, one of the greatest three central defenders of all-time – passed away on 31 July. I sadly never saw him play, but what a consummate defender. There are numerous stories of players swapping shirts with him after games, and his shirt always used to smell of Armani aftershave rather than the blood, sweat and tears of others.

And, of course, Kevin Keegan, who sadly left us on 20 July. Outside of Chelsea, he was my favourite player growing up. He remains my favourite England international. Not my favourite English player – Osgood, Wilkins, Lampard, Terry – but my favourite player during England games. Does that make sense? How I salivated at the rumours of him joining Chelsea from Hamburg in 1980. I loved his drive, his enthusiasm, his passion. How I loved seeing him play for Southampton in 1981. And then again in those two seasons with Newcastle United when he was regarded as a messiah. I was lucky enough to meet him twice; the second time in the tunnel before a game at Chelsea in 1995. He was so loved by everyone. His death, aged seventy-five, hit me so very hard.

The Fulham and Chelsea supporters clapped non-stop for him. He was the Fulham manager from 1997 to 1999.

RIP.

Eight o’clock approached.

First thoughts?

That kit looks bloody fantastic. What a beautiful shade of royal blue.

“Be even better with white socks, Gal.”

Cole Palmer kicked off, and I spent a few moments taking it all in, the formation, who was where, looking over at Alonso, talking to Gary. As the ball was headed up field by a Chelsea defender, there was a split-second when I thought to myself “which way are we playing?” It was clear that my mind had been working in several different dimensions for a few seconds.

The ball reached Palmer, and in a fluid moment of consummate skill, he played the ball forward to Joao Pedro. A clipped lob over Bernd Leno and the net rippled.

Fackinell.

The Putney End roared. I punched the air. I screamed.

Yes, I was back.

After the dust had settled – “what was that, thirty-seconds, Gal?” – Alan looked over towards me, smiling.

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

“Come on my little diamonds.”

We were both back.

And so were Chelsea.

This was a dream start down by the river.

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team the world has ever seen.”

Then a super loud “One man went to mow.”

I wondered if this was heard on the TV and if some folk, new to us, wondered why on earth we were singing that.

More songs.

“It’s Salomon!”

We dominated the early play but over the course of the first half, both teams had spells. Fulham were especially potent on the break, and the combination of Oscar Bobb and Josh King on their right continually tested us.

Upfront, we were playing with much more speed than before. The front three immediately looked a handful. There were shots from Rogers and Palmer.

This was, mainly, promising stuff.

But Fulham continued to worry us. Long bombs from Leno caused occasional panic.

Gary : “We almost scored too quick.”

Sanchez blocked a shot that was hit straight at him.

On twenty-four minutes, angled passing set King free and he approached where I was standing, no more than twenty-five yards away. A shot on target followed, but I hoped that Sanchez could cope. I only saw heads of those in front, but I heard the roar from the home fans.

Fackinell.

They had tied it at 1-1.

“Did it beat Sanchez the near post, Gal?”

Gal is shorter than me; he didn’t know.

The replay was shown on the screens; the Chelsea fans groaned.

Yep, beaten at the near post.

Bloody hell, Sanchez.

Fulham came at us again. We had to rely on some last-ditch defending. We had drifted badly, like a rowing boat on the Thames with no cox.

On the half-hour, sublime pace from Palmer set up Joao Pedro but his snatched volley flew wide.

Another break and another shot followed.

“COME ON CHELS.”

Efforts on goal at both ends soon tallied up. Fulham certainly looked dangerous and at times our defence looked shaky. I kept saying to myself “it’ll take time for it to gel.”

Another shot from the home team.

Gary : “They’ve had more chances than us.”

Me : They have.”

And with that insightful dialogue completed, just five seconds later Palmer beautifully set up Lacroix who had steamed ahead and in turn pulled the ball back for Rogers to steady himself and blast home.

GET IN.

The payers celebrated and the Chelsea crowd too.

A version of the “Just Can’t Get Enough / Timo Werner” chant, adapted for the scoring-debutant, was aired and lasted well into the half-time break.

Palmer whistled a shot narrowly past the post.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH.”

All was good in the Putney End; we were 2-1 up at the break.

However, I did sense that there might well be more goals on show in the second forty-five minutes.

“This could end up 3-3, Gal.”

Soon into the second period, Palmer raced through past various Fulhamish defenders but his effort was wide (I think – I could not see.)

Just after, on forty-nine minutes, a quick move from Sanchez to Rogers to Joao Pedro, who waited for Palmer on the overlap.

He moved the ball on and drew the ‘keeper. The crowd roared. It was 3-1. No, I didn’t see the goal.

Thankfully the celebrations took place in front of me – on the run in, I loved the “cold” Palmer celebrations from Rogers and Reece – and my phone went into bloody tourist overdrive.

Some turned out to be OK.

“OH XABI ALONSO. OH XABI ALONSO.”

Sadly, just five minutes later it was 3-2. Sanchez blocked a first effort Timothy Castagne but the ball looped back for Gonzalo García to head home.

3-2.

Blimey.

On sixty-five minutes, Alonso made some subs.

A debut for Pep Chavarria who replaced Hato and Enzo Fernandez replaced Lavia.

Yes, there were boos for Enzo; mainly from the home end, but a few from within our support.

I quickly nailed my colours to the wall.

“OH ENZO FERNANDEZ. OH ENZO FERNANDEZ.”

There were many more cheers than jeers.

The game continued on, and it became a little nervy.

More substitutions followed.

76 minutes : Pedro Neto for Gusto.

82 minutes : a debut for Geovany Quenda who replaced Morgan Rogers.

83 minutes : Estevao for Palmer.

There were efforts at both ends of the pitch and we had a goal called-back for offside after Quenda strayed too far forward before releasing Joao Pedro who found the net.

There was a massive sigh of relief at the end of the four added minutes.

Phew.

I soon made my way out of the packed stand and I spotted Tommie with his parents; they had loved it.

I walked back to the car, aching all over. I had been on my feet for four hours. This football lark sure takes it out of you.

I picked up PD and Parks at 10.30pm on Finlay Road and I eventually made it home at 1.15am.

It was too tight a game for me to fully enjoy it, and our defence needs tightening up. Sanchez needs a whole book written about him.

Next up, the trips to London continue.

Thursday : Chelsea vs. Luton Town.

Saturday : Chertsey Town vs, Frome Town.

Sunday : Chelsea vs. Brighton & Hove Albion.

I will see some of you somewhere.

Walking Ahead To Season 2026/27

Fulham vs. Chelsea

Kevin Keegan RIP

The First Nine Games Of My Season

Radstock Town vs. Frome Town

Buckland Athletic vs. Frome Town

Frome Town vs. Worthing

Frome Town vs. Salisbury

Frome Town vs. Weymouth

Frome Town vs. Wimborne Town

Frome Town vs. Evesham United

Havant And Waterlooville vs. Frome Town

Frome Town vs. Gosport Borough

Tales From One-Hundred-And-Nine Minutes

Posted on by
3

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.