Tag Archives: Shaftesbury

Tales From A Day Of Priorities

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Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 April 2026.

Let’s start by time-travelling back to last weekend. The Easter Weekend meant four days away from work, and three games of football for me. As far as enthusiasm goes, it is fair to say that that Chelsea’s FA Cup tie with Port Vale was the lesser of the three. On the Good Friday, Frome Town played at Sporting Club Inkberrow with a slight chance of becoming Champions of the Southern League South. The Port Vale game was on the Saturday. And then Frome played host to local rivals Shaftesbury on Bank Holiday Monday. This is not demeaning the importance of the FA Cup – more of that later – but an indication of how excited I was to see my local team so close to becoming Champions.

After last season’s demoralising relegation from the Southern League Premier South, Frome has utterly surpassed expectations and has dominated the division from early on. Going into the home game with Shaftesbury, newly promoted and sniffing a play-off place themselves, my hometown team required just one point to be crowned Champions and thus gain automatic promotion back to Step Three of the non-league pyramid.

A mighty crowd of 1,096 assembled at Badgers Hill on a sunny afternoon and we watched as Dodge went 1-0 up via an audacious lob from David Duru which was a bit like David Speedie’s equaliser against Arsenal in 1985. However, two Shaftesbury goals caused us a spell of anxiety, only for Archie Ferris to poach two goals to clinch a 3-2 win.

There were scenes of elation on the pitch, in the stands and in the clubhouse after the match as fans and players mingled in celebration. Suffice to say, the post-match revelry lasted many hours and there must have been a fair few headaches the following morning.

I include a picture gallery from this Frome game at the end of this piece; it’s not very often Frome Town become Champions of their division after all.

So that was the final chapter in the Easter weekend. Thoughts now turned towards our match with Manchester City at Stamford Bridge on the following Sunday. This would be the first of a Mancunian double-header with United coming down to SW6 the following Saturday.

As game day approached, it seemed that the fate of Chelsea Football Club was not the only thing on our minds. There seemed to be an awful lot of noise surrounding Arsenal and Tottenham. It seemed that all three clubs were wrapped up in an end-of-season debate about priorities, though oddly West Ham were seemingly omitted from all of this conjecture.

Now then, I have never fancied the idea of Arsenal being more successful than us, and the thought of them winning this season’s title has continually made me feel ill. The thought of them winning the Champions League makes me feel even worse. But as this game with City drew near, there were some in our support who actively wanted us to lose, thus enhancing City’s chances of clawing themselves back into the championship race.

This is not for me. I have seen us play over 1,500 times and I have never wanted us to lose a game. Why would I? It’s a preposterous notion.

Legend has it that on the final day of 1997/98, at home to Bolton, some of the support wanted us to lose so we could relegate Everton. Now then, my recollections are not consistent with this at all. I remember some light-hearted booing from a small section of our crowd as we scored a second, thus condemning Bolton to relegation, but nobody was seriously wanting a Chelsea loss that day, surely? Just a few days later we were to play Stuttgart in the ECWC Final. Why would any fan of the club want a defeat on the Sunday before a Cup Final on the Wednesday?

Seeing Tottenham relegated to the second tier for the first time since 1976 is the stuff that dreams are made of, especially if we can relegate them in our last home game of the season. And yet, tied up in this notion of priorities for us in the last part of this season, was a view held by some that seeing Tottenham relegated meant more than a Chelsea FA Cup win, or Champions League qualification.

There were online polls and everything.

Unreal.

Even the thought of polls asking Chelsea fans about the importance of FA Cup wins sends me to a dark place where I solemnly wonder about some of my fellow support.

There’s a side issue here, too, where the importance of us getting CL qualification in a following season has increasingly become a bigger goal among our support than silverware in a current season.

Again, this baffles me.

For someone who supported us from 1971 to 1997 (silverware = zero) I find all this difficult to fathom.

Not prioritising an FA Cup win?

What on Earth would we have thought of that idea in 1997?

Due to the disruption of the train service on this Sunday in London, our pre-match took place in “The Tommy Tucker”, just a few yards from the Fulham Road. Four of us from the West Country – PD, Glenn, Parky and yours truly – were joined by Ollie and Julien from Normandy, and it was grand to see them again. A table was booked for just after midday, and the pub became busier. I noted a few Mancunian accents, but these lads were keeping themselves to themselves and causing no bother. There was a cheer when Sunderland went 1-0 up at home to Tottenham. With West Ham walloping Wolves 4-0 the day before, our rivals from N17 were now entrenched in the relegation zone.

Ho ho ho.

Our game with City didn’t dominate our thoughts, but we were all, I am sure, concerned about the result. I mentioned to PD that I would, no doubt, be looking up at the TV screen during our match, willing the time on, especially if we were doing better than I had hoped.

I was out of the pub with an hour before kick-off, then consumed the worst cheeseburger of the season, and was in at 3.45pm.

Overhead were ominous grey skies surrounding Stamford Bridge, but these were interspersed with sunshine too.

There was a quick chat with Gary and Daryl, fresh from “The Clarence” and we pooh-poohed the idea of wanting us to lose.

“Nah, fack that.”

It took a while for Glenn and PD to join me in The Sleepy, but as kick-off approached, we were together.

Liam Rosenior chose this team (or had this team chosen for him, if the Machiavellian rumours are true…)

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella

Andrey Santos – Moises Caicedo

Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Before the game, two Chelsea stalwarts Frank Blunstone and Sylvan Anderton, both ninety-one years of age, appeared on the pitch by the tunnel and they bathed in the applause. Blunstone, a young winger in our first Championship team in 1955, is only one of two players still alive from that team. The other, former Bristol City manager Alan Dicks, is also ninety-one. It is a joy that they are still with us. Anderton played for Chelsea just after that league title win.

City were wearing a light grey kit with vivid lime socks, and I remembered seeing them wearing that combination at Chelsea once before. Those socks were as hideous twenty-odd years ago as they were in 2026.

The game began, and we attacked The Shed. We traded punches in a lively opening few minutes, with a break from Cole Palmer raising a cheer, only for a weak shot to drift past the post. Within the first ten minutes, an effort from Joao Pedro and another from Palmer gave us all a much-needed boost.

“Ten minutes, Paul.”

City looked to attack down our right as often as they could and Jeremy Doku was often involved. Malo Gusto was a reliable shield in those opening moments.

“Fifteen minutes, Paul.”

Just after, a beautiful run into space from Joao Pedro caused City grief, and I urged him to play in Marc Cucurella, well-advanced. He punched the ball through to the Spaniard, who adeptly scored low past Gianluigi Donnarumma. I was up celebrating, and I immediately loved the roar from my fellow supporters that accompanied the goal. It reassured me that large swathes of the Chelsea support hadn’t lost their minds. However, in a flash, I saw the linesman with his flag raised.

Ugh. Yeah, thought it might be.

“He should have played the ball half a second earlier.”

Bollocks.

We continued in an open game.

“Twenty minutes, Paul.”

As City played in and around our box, looking to penetrate and reach the looming presence of Erling Haaland, I was impressed that we kept our shape and flung bodies in the way of passes and shots. This showed commitment to the cause, something that isn’t always prevalent in our game (and yes, it hurts me to write that…)

There was a rousing “Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea” to “Amazing Grace”, the first real show of support; shame it had taken us a full quarter of the match to do so.  

“Twenty-five minutes, Paul.”

We played a smattering of decent football in the City final third. There was a nice move, Palmer to Estevao to Pedro Neto, who came inside and forced a fine low save from Gianluigi Donnarumma. We all enjoyed another piece of skill from Pedro Neto, a sublime Zola-esque twist on the goal-line, so reminiscent of the Sardinian’s humiliation of Jamie Carragher in 2003.

“Thirty minutes, Paul.”

However, City had begun to dominate and there was a great save from a shot by Bernardo Silva from Robert Sanchez, who was roundly applauded by us. Yet, just seconds later, he booted the ball out into the City half, and it landed a good thirty yards from the nearest Chelsea player. The cheers turned to groans.

Robert Sanchez has that knack.

“He used to be shite, he was alright, think he’s back to being shite again” doesn’t really scan, though, does it?

“Thirty-five minutes, Paul” became “forty minutes, Paul.”

I was content with our showing. We hadn’t been out-muscled, or out-played, and had created a few chances. The best chance came right at the end of the half. In the first minute of added time, a Palmer free-kick out on the Chelsea left was swung in and Santos had an unhindered leap at the far post. I caught his header fly over the bar.

Bollocks.

The big question at the break was this :

“Can we play two halves the same?”

For some reason I noticed the mood in the stands at the start of the second period. We had more than held our own in the first half, yet there was no reaction to the players as they reappeared for the second half. Spectators quietly returned to their seats, though a fair few did not bother returning for quite some time, and there was no hint of a cheer or a roar to greet the players. It was all very sedate and all very apathetic. Did I imagine it, or were there times when a similar situation years ago might have resulted in a few roars of support from the Chelsea faithful to create a mood of hostility against a fancied team? I am sure that this sort of practice still exists in the various hotspots of European club football.

Just not in SW6.

It was if the spectators at Stamford Bridge were returning for the second act in a hushed West End theatre.

“Pass the bonbons, dear.”

City, attacking The Shed, began the second period on fire. There was a very early chance for Haaland in the very first minute, then Rayan Cherki screwed a shot wide.

On fifty minutes, Cherki was given time to float a cross towards the six-yard box and Nico O’Reilly rose to glance a header down and past Sanchez.

The City mob celebrated, we slumped in our seats.

Soon after, the City supporters roared.

“WE’RE NOT REALLY HERE.”

Just after, a shot from Antoine Semenyo – a great addition to their team – was deflected wide by Cucurella.

“BLUE MOON, YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE.”

I spoke to PD : “could be a long half.”

Wesley Fofana then managed to backtrack and head off the line and clear.

On fifty-seven minutes, Cherki collected a short corner and ran across the pitch, unhindered, looking for a team mate to hit.

As he ran on, Glenn commentated succinctly.

“Oh shit…oh shit…oh shit…”

His cute pass found Mark Guehi, who tucked the ball low past Sanchez.

Bollocks.

We weren’t in it. There was still half an hour to go. I held my head in my hands.

We conjured up only half-chances. We created only scraps. When needed to be called in to action, Donnarumma dealt with everything.

On sixty-seven minutes, Rosenior made some changes.

Romeo Lavia for Andrey Santos.

Alejandro Garnacho for Estevao.

Yet in the very next minute, Moises Caicedo was pick-pocketed after a pass out from Sanchez, and Doku raced on to score.

The city lot celebrated and soon did their trademark Poznan, though I suspected there was no looking back in anger, only glee.

After the game was lost, we created a few chances.

A ball from Cole Palmer to Joao Pedro was headed wide.

There was a daisy-cutter from Cucurella.

A reactionary save from Donnarumma from Cucurella’s header, close in, denied us a goal.

There were three late changes.

Dario Essugo for Caicedo

Liam Delap for Joao Pedro

Josh Acheampong for Gusto.

There had been a warm ripple of applause for Mateo Kovacic as he entered the pitch from the City bench.

The linesman signalled eight minutes of injury time and we sighed again. I stayed to the final whistle. I must be a masochist.

So, there we have it. Two games from two different levels of the football pyramid. Of course, if I was feeling particularly mean-spirited, I could have called this one something different.

“Tales From Champs And Chumps” anyone?

Sometimes it’s the gallows humour that helps us cope.

It was a long and solemn drive home, and I eventually reached home at about 10pm. When I woke up the next morning, I wasn’t gleefully warmed by us helping City to overtake Arsenal, but depressed because we had been humiliated yet again this season.


CHELSEA VS. MANCHESTER CITY

FROME TOWN VS. SHAFTESBURY

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 Gtech

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Brentford vs. Chelsea : 13 September 2025.

What did I do in the international break?

Well, I didn’t watch any international football, that’s for sure.

Thankfully, the fortnight was over and Chelsea were back on the agenda. We were due to complete our “London Series” with the fourth match in a row against teams from the capital with a game at Brentford’s Gtech Stadium.

Unfortunately, PD was unable to get hold of a ticket, so it was only Parky who accompanied me up to The Smoke for this one.

“It’ll be just like the old days”, he chirped during the lead up to the weekend, harking back to those days from around 2008 when the Chuckle Bus consisted, in the main, of just the two of us.

With the game in West London not beginning until 8pm, I had decided to give any notion of a long day shuffling around a succession of pubs a miss and picked up Parky at 2.45pm. I am not getting any younger and I am beginning to feel the burden of arduous hours on the road.

Soon after collecting the old rascal, I was well aware that Frome Town were kicking off their FA Cup match at Shaftesbury in Dorset at 3pm. I had toyed for the idea of attending both games but decided that it was all too risky. Chelsea would be the priority on this day.

On the previous Saturday, I had driven down to the cathedral city of Winchester to see Frome meekly exit the FA Trophy. Winchester City, from the same division, had beaten us 2-0. Shaftesbury play in the same division as Frome too and I was hopeful that my hometown club would be victorious in this scene-setter to the evening’s main event.

I stopped at Membury Services near Swindon to check the score; losing 0-1.

I stopped at Heston Services near Heathrow to check the score; losing 0-1.

Bollocks.

It’s a very familiar drive into West London on the elevated section of the M4 and the sights are oh-so familiar. Rising to where John Prescott’s ill-fated “bus and taxi lane” used to terminate, I never fail to get a little shudder of excitement as I see the skyscrapers of the city in the distance. Closer in, the vast expanse of gleaming windows of the now vacated GSK Building occasionally reflects winter sunsets as I drive into London for evening games.

It’s quite a site and quite a sight.

Way to the north, I always peek to see the Wembley Arch, and in previous years I would always look to spot the floodlight pylons at Griffin Park just south of the M4.

I always check for what I call “the Seven Sisters”, a line of tower blocks to my right, a title that is a little off since there are only six of them, but I figure it’s the thought that counts. Also in view is what Parky calls “the pepper pot”, the tall tower that forms the centrepiece of the London Museum of Water & Steam.

Then, just a little further along, the expensive car dealerships, perched and overlooking the motorway.

It was at this point that I exited the M4, swung around the roundabout where the North Circular, the M4 and the A4 meet, and then turned back westwards to drop Parky off outside the “Bell & Crown” pub on the banks of the River Thames at Chiswick.

It was 5pm.

I had left my village in Somerset at 2.15pm.

Job done.

I edged further west to park up at Ferry Quays, and just as I did so, a score flash from Shaftesbury made me smile.

In the one-hundred and second minute of play, Sam Meakes had plundered a very late equaliser for Frome Town.

Lovely.

There would be a replay at Badgers Hill on Wednesday evening, and on that occasion, Frome would take precedence over watching Chelsea in Bavaria on the TV.

I met up with Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Minnesota Josh for an hour or so of chuckles, laughs and banter as the sun began its slow dip beyond Kew Bridge.

Within seconds of arriving, a beer was spilled from the low wall, and Josh’s sunglasses were knocked into the murky Thames below. In stepped Parky who hooked them out of the water with his trusty walking stick. I was hopeful that this moment would not be the most exciting few seconds of the entire evening.

We bumped into a smattering of other friends and acquaintances, and it was a gorgeous way to idle away around for an hour and a half.

Not much was said about the upcoming game; no point spoiling the moment, eh?

I left them to it as I fancied taking a few “mood shots” of the stadium. The walk up to the Gtech Stadium took me right along the border between Chiswick and Brentford, which are both covered by the London Borough of Hounslow.

Everything is so cramped at the Gtech Stadium, nestled underneath the M4, shoved between train tracks, narrow roads, and new high-rise flats. There is a splash of red at the box office and at the main entrance, but grey steel, grey windows, and grey cladding otherwise dominate the structure. The box office is recessed underneath offices to generate an extra little space, and the main entrance is inconspicuous. Blink and it will be missed. There is almost a sense of claustrophobia in this intimate part of West London.

I walked back out onto the main road and approached the away entrance, which is tucked away underneath the towering high rises that soon shot up in the void between the stadium and the M4. There was a ticket check, then a cheerful pat-down, and I was through. I had my Sony “pub camera” clasped in my fist and it was not spotted. I will only be able to bring my Canon SLR to games once the weather worsens and I can smuggle it under a jacket.

Down the steps to the away entrance, then into the surprisingly roomy concourse, then up the stairs to the upper concourse. Not a square inch of space is wasted at the Gtech.

I was inside the away seats at around 7.15pm. The Chelsea players were warming up a few yards away. This was a view that would cost the Dugout Club Wankers at Stamford Bridge thousands of pounds, but in the away section at Brentford it cost me just £30.

I was alongside Gary and John in the fourth row from the front and level with the corner flag, an excellent spot.

The team that Enzo Maresca had chosen was a head-shaker alright.

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Chalobah – Hato

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Buonanotte – Gittens

Joao Pedro

The defence seemed ridiculously unfamiliar.

“Have you chaps met each other yet?”

The manager chose a first start of Jorrel Hato, a debut for Facundo Buonanotte, and persevered with Jamie Gittens.

On the bench, sadly, were the more esteemed Cole Palmer, Marc Cucurella, Reece James and Malo Gusto.

Was Maresca over-thinking, being too smart, resting players ahead of Bayern on Wednesday and United on Saturday?

Only time would tell.

There was the usual Premier League intro of “Insomnia”, forced darkness, strobe lights, them mosaics from the slender stand to my right.

Next, a shared “Hey Jude”, with both ends singing along.

The teams appeared to our left.

At 8pm, the referee Stuart Attwell whistled.

Rather than dilly-dally with a methodical pass back to a central defender, a Brentford player sprinted to receive the ball and walloped it forward. All of a sudden we were watching Wimbledon from 1988.

It came to nowt.

The Chelsea choir were in a noisy mood at the start of the game, and there was a particularly loud rendition of “OMWTM” that must have sounded decent on TV. We paraded a few of the old favourites but then fell into the predictable trap of singing about former players from years ago when the players from 2025 needed support. Frank Lampard, Dennis Wise and someone called Solomon Kalou were serenaded.

“It’s Salomon!” I shouted a few times.

On the pitch, there was a brisk start to the game with the debutant Buonanotte looking lively in the central position just behind Joao Pedro, who wasn’t really playing as an out-and-out centre forward because, you know, modern tactics, and all that, and instead played in the half-spaces that seem to exist in managers’ minds, if not on the pitch itself. As the half would progress, Joao Pedro got himself lost in these half spaces, while on the left Jamie Gittens seemed reluctant to exploit even quarter spaces.

But the start was decent enough, and a Joao Pedro shot was blocked, while at our end the lanky frame of Tosin similarly blocked an effort from the home team.

Moises Caicedo was his usual self, blocking, tackling, passing, a dream.

After a quarter of an hour, it was all us, and we were camped inside the Brentford half. However, all of the meaningful attacks were streaming down our right with Pedro Neto always available. On the left, Gittens was lost in the evening murk.

Brentford struggled to piece together much of their own, but then our form dropped and we struggled too.

On thirty-four minutes, I sighed as a ball from Trevoh Chalobah to Neto just didn’t have enough speed on it to give Neto the needed momentum. With that, the move broke down, and the ball was then played to Jordan Henderson. Now then, I have never thought too highly of Henderson, but I had to gasp at the excellence of his long ball towards Kevin Schade. It was absolutely on the money.

Fresh from his whistle-stop tour of Arabia and Amsterdam – talk about different ends of the spectrum in which to live – his decision to retire to Hounslow surprised me, but here he was with the ball of the game.

Schade was able to wriggle past the scrambling Tosin, and when the striker came inside, I only expected one outcome.

I did not see the ball hit the net, but I heard the roar.

Bollocks to you Jordan Henderson.

El-Ettifaqinell.

Just after, there was a rare chant from the home end.

It’s the one thing that has surprised me about Brentford in their new stadium. This is the time of their lives, their high-water mark, playing in a tight and compact stadium, set up for noise, but they are so quiet and timid. It was honestly a shock to be able to hear them.

We struggled to get back into the game in the last part of the first half, and the sight of a corner from Enzo grazing the post raised hardly a flutter.

This had turned into a hard watch.

I turned to Andy from Nuneaton.

“You wouldn’t cross the road to watch this if it wasn’t Chelsea, would you?”

There were multiple changes at the break, and a few of us were surprised that Gittens re-appeared for the start of the second period.

So, Mister Maresca, what you got?

Marc Cucurella for Hato.

Reece James for Fofana.

Tyrique George for Buonanotte.

It took me a few minutes to work out if there had been any fine tweaks to the positions. Was George now the striker, the half-striker maybe, with Joao Pedro behind? I wasn’t sure.

Soon into the second-half, George was released and did well to get a shot away from an angle. The reliable Kelleher was down well to touch it away for a corner.

Then came the first in a succession of “Reece James taking a corner” photos from yours truly and I don’t, thankfully, include them all.

Gittens then enjoyed his best run of the entire game, forcing a corner, but was then ironically substituted. On came the hopeful saviour, Cole Palmer.

God knows where everyone would play now.

Ah, I think I got it. Tyrique George moved over to the left, and Palmer moved behind Joao Pedro.

Am I right?

From row four, it wasn’t easy to slot everything into place.

Fackinell.

I captured a shot from Cucurella that was straight at Kelleher.

Our play improved immeasurably.

I, and probably hundreds of thousands Chelsea fans who were watching in TV Land thought the same thing.

“Funny that. Playing our best players. Playing better.”

Neto looked especially spritely down the right, away on that far side. On the hour, a cross from Enzo – improving after a dreadful first half – lofted a hopeful ball towards a leap of Joao Pedro. The ball broke to Palmer who swept it in with the minimum of fuss.

A roar from the Chelsea faithful, but no self-aggrandising celebrations from the scorer. He raced straight back to his own half.

Get in.

Just as I was jotting down a few notes on my phone, I looked up to see Robert Sanchez fall to his right and tip and effort from Schade around the far post, a magnificent stop.

I loved a run deep into the box in front of me, lots of flicks and touches, but the run from George just ran out of steam.

On seventy-four minutes, a clean run from Neto on the right and a perfect pass to Palmer. With the goal gaping, I absolutely expected the net to bulge even if I wouldn’t see it.

He shot.

A block, or a save, I know not. I just saw Palmer hold his head.

Ugh.

On seventy-six minutes, one final change.

Alejandro Garnacho for Joao Pedro, and so Tyrique George again moved into the middle.

Now then, Garnacho. Who remembers his first game for Manchester United? His debut was against us at Old Trafford in April 2022 when a late Cristiano Ronaldo goal gave them an undeserved 1-1 draw. Our new signing came on as a late sub in that game, and I remembered how a memorabilia collector who featured Garnacho among the players in his portfolio was happy to pay me £50 for my ticket stub knowing that he would later sell it on, autographed, as a memento from that debut.

I have called the young Argentinian “the peroxide plonker” in the past, and as he lined up on our left, I could not help reminding myself of this.

To his credit, the former United starlet impressed me greatly in the short time that he spent attacking our end. I kept thinking back to Jadon Sancho, another United mis-fit, and his promising debut at Bournemouth last autumn.

On this day, Garnacho – at least – showed plenty of desire to get past his marker and create havoc in the danger areas. More of the same please.

On eighty-six minutes, the debutant shimmied and rolled the ball back towards the penalty spot, but there was nobody there to meet it. I remember thinking “where is Frank Lampard when you need him?” but a Brentford clearance was far from perfect. The ball ended up rolling towards Caicedo. There was a touch to create space and to set himself up, and he then drilled the ball goalwards.

Did I see the net ripple? Of course not.

But I heard the noise and saw the gorgeous celebrations.

GET IN.

My camera was on hand, after I had punched the air a few times no doubt, to record the scene down below me.

Limbs, limbs and more limbs.

Beautiful stuff.

I spotted Enzo walking away, his arms around the shoulders of Garnacho, no doubt whispering words of encouragement in Spanish but with an Argentinian twang.

Soon after, Sanchez was able to scramble across his goal to maintain our slender lead.

Whereas there had been time-wasting from the home team at 1-1, now there was none of it. There was a renewed urgency in their play.

The away end was buoyant, and we were hoping that we could hold on. However, in the fourth minute of extra time, a long bomb of a throw-in on their left caused chaos inside our six-yard box and Fabio Carvalho pounced to stab home, the far post unguarded.

Oh bollocks.

Just after, Garnacho set up Palmer but he lofted the ball over.

A second winner was not forthcoming.

Time ran out.

Ugh.

This felt like a loss and all the other well-used cliches.

On a slow walk back to the car with Parky, I mentioned to a few friends that because of our poor first-half showing, perhaps we never really deserved the full three points on this day in West London.

And I suppose it was time to be pragmatic.

Whereas others were full of rage, I guess we all need to practice a little patience here. After all, it is just the start of another long season.

However, the irony of an extra-time equaliser saving Frome Town but of an extra-time equaliser robbing Chelsea was not lost on me.

We stopped at Reading Services at 11.45pm – what a crap time to be halfway home – and I finally reached my house at 1.30am.

My next game will be at Old Trafford.

See you there.