Tag Archives: Sheffield Wednesday

Tales From Those Famous Streets

Posted on by
Reply

Chelsea vs. Djurgarden : 8 May 2025.

What of our Europa Conference semi-final second leg against Djurgarden of Sweden?

The build-up had been good. We had secured three consecutive victories in the league versus Fulham, Everton and Liverpool, and beat the Swedes 4-1in the away leg. We were facing a very exciting end to the 2024/25 season, with a European trophy and European places in our sights.

Right after the Djurgarden game at Stamford Bridge, there would be a four-day visit to Newcastle-upon-Tyne for the three of us, our favourite away game of them all. It didn’t take me long to work out that it would be pointless for me to return home to Somerset after the game at The Bridge and then drive north after minimal sleep during the day on Friday, battling heavy traffic all the way. Instead, I decided to plan to set off from Fulham on Thursday night and drive through the night to reach Tyneside in the small hours. PD and Parky were more than happy with this idea.

Once I had completed a 6am to 2pm shift at work on Thursday, after getting up at 4.30am, I collected the two lads from Parky’s house and pointed my car due east.

From the very start of my trip to London, it felt that the game against Djurgarden was a deviation, a bump in the road maybe, on my way to Newcastle.

And that felt strange.

I dropped the lads off at the bottom end of Fulham, after driving down the Fulham Palace Road and Fulham High Street, then edged north up through those famous streets, in our eyes, the streets that lead us to SW6; Fulham Road, Munster Road, Dawes Road, Lillee Road, Rylston Road. I remembered my Aunt Zena, on a visit to Somerset in her ‘eighties in 1994, when she mentioned that she once lived on Estcourt Road, as it met Rylston Road, and I loved the fact that I had a distant familial link to SW6, my faraway playground since 1974.

I popped into “Café Koka” near The Goose and quickly scoffed some tasty prawns and a summer salad.

Here we go :

“Memory Lane Café Number One.”

Chelsea vs. Sheffield Wednesday : Monday 6 May 1985.

I travelled down to this game by train on the Bank Holiday Monday. This would be a continuation of our very real rivalry against Sheffield Wednesday which had caught fire the previous season and had continued in the Milk Cup in 1985. Before the game, I took a few photographs of the stadium from the Fulham Road for a change. Needless to say, these have ended up on a few football stadium sites over the years. Chelsea conceded a goal via Mark Smith, but two strikes from Kerry Dixon gave us the share of the points. After the mammoth gates in previous games with Wednesday, I was hugely disappointed that just 17,085 were at this match.

I was feeling a bit weary, so popped into “Café Ole” for a lovely cappuccino.

“Memory Lane Café Number Two.”

Chelsea vs. Luton Town : Wednesday 8 May 1985.

Yes, dear reader, a second game at Stamford Bridge in just three days, the result of many postponements in a very icy winter. I did not attend this game, probably not surprisingly, but Chelsea won 2-0 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Pat Nevin, Sadly, the gate was just 13,789.

What with these stops on the way down the North End Road, I decided there would not be time to pop down to “The Eight Bells”, so I chatted to a few folks outside the ground and made my way in for 7.30pm. On the way in, I took a photo of a Union Jack flying on the Oswald Stoll, on a day that marked the eightieth anniversary of VE Day.

I made the mistake of mentioning to a couple of friends in The Sleepy Hollow that “they don’t seem to have brought many.” With thirty minutes to go to kick-off, there were only around four-hundred away fans in the far corner.

Then, ten minutes later, a very odd thing happened, and it was the precursor to the night’s “entertainment”. Around fifty away fans, lodged in the East Middle suddenly decided to hop over the fence between both stands and join up with the now growing number of Djurgarden supporters on the Shed Upper. I began to wonder how many Swedish supporters would be sitting in the home areas.

I had seen our team being shared on my phone while in the second café, and the presence of young Reggie Walsh was good to see. In a way, the often-maligned manager Enzo Maresca would be hammered for whatever team he picked for this second leg, with the boys already 4-1 up in the tie, our biggest first-leg lead in any semi-final surely?

This was the team he chose.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Tosin – Badiashile – Acheampong

James – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Walsh – Sancho

George

A quote about “playing all the right players but not necessarily in the right positions” came to mind.

Alan had a lovely story from Stockholm the previous Wednesday. He was staying with Pete in a hotel very close to the stadium, and they heard that the players were going through some training drills in the evening. Pete’s son works for the club in the youth section. Alan managed to get pitch side and took some lovely photos with a few of the players. I knew that Reggie Walsh was a local lad, but Alan told me that he grew up as a kid on Dawes Road, one of the famous streets that I mentioned earlier.

That resonated with me.

He must be our must local lad since Jodie Morris, the North End Road, and Alan Hudson, Upcerne Road.

At ten minutes to eight, the three Chelsea songs boomed out.

“Blue Is The Colour.”

“Parklife.”

“Liquidator.”

By now, I had fully comprehended the scale of the invasion. There were maybe one thousand Djurgarden fans in the West Upper towards The Shed, and around five hundred towards the Matthew Harding. Throughout the night, we spotted hundreds in the East Upper, the East Middle, the West Lower, the West Middle. A conservative guess might well be three thousand in the away allocation and three thousand in the home areas. And they were making a hell of a racket.

I shouted down to JD : “like Tottenham in the West Stand in 1982”.

In a nutshell, this was the biggest show of away supporters that I had ever seen in the home areas at Stamford Bridge. It was, of course, all rather humiliating.

Next, the entrance of the teams, and the Conference League anthem which still reminds me of “Baltimora” by Tarzon Boy, a hit in 1985…don’t ask.

I noticed that there was a small block of Chelsea supporters waving blue and white bar scarves in the middle section of The Shed. At the time, I presumed that these were giveaways from a corporate lounge somewhere in the bowels of the stadium but I would later learn that this was part of a “We Are The Shed” initiative.

With the away fans booming their chants from The Shed and the West Upper, there was a surreal atmosphere to the match, and this was enhanced by the deep purple clouds massing above the East Stand.

The Djurgarden crowd set off a few white flares.

The game began but struggled to come to life. It was a plodding performance from us, no doubt borne out of the first leg result in Sweden.

Jadon Sancho, in a blistering turn of pace down the left, had me excited for more, and a lovely touch by Tyrique George was a joy to see. But these were rare gems on a night that really struggled to get going.

There were chances from George and Keirnan Dewsbury Hall, with Reggie Walsh looking neat and tidy. His playing style reminded me of Billy Gilmour.

The goal on thirty-eight minutes was the highlight of the first half. Tosin Adarabioyo played a long ball to George, who neatly took it under control and quickly moved it forward to Dewsbury-Hall. He tuned inside and adeptly scored via the post.

I think that it is very safe to say that of all the 2,733 Chelsea goals that I have seen scored live, few were celebrated so tepidly.

And there was a very subdued “THTCÅUN / CÖMLD” from Alan and me too.

However, we were now 5-1 up.

The first half continued with an array of half-chances, blocks and easy saves, of which Filip Jorgensen made one, a nice reaction save from a deflected shot.

We were keeping an eye on the other semi-final tie, and both Alan and I preferred Real Betis to Fiorentina.

“Those Italians can be a naughty bunch.”

At the break, Shimmy Mheuka took over from Marc Cucurella and the troops were shuffled around.

On fifty-one minutes, a riser from a Djurgarden player was aimed right at Jorgensen, and then three minutes later there was a shot from the very same place on the pitch that was deflected for a corner. Between these two chances for the visitors, Dewsbury-Hall forced a save with a strong header.

Then, in a lively spell, Jorgensen saved well from a close header, and then George displayed some great skill to create some space but shot wildly over.

A cross from Sancho, but George was unable to finish from close in, but offside anyway. This second half was much improved.

Djurgarden went just wide, and their support took turns to bark out their team name.

The Shed one moment, the West Upper the next.

“DJURGARDEN! DJURGARDEN!”

This riled our support and – at bloody last – Stamford Bridge made some noise.

Another shot for Dewsbury-Hall. I think I counted five efforts from him during the game. He was, surely, our most effective player, there, I said it.

On seventy minutes, Jorgensen tipped over another riser at The Shed End.

Then, two substitutions.

Trevoh Chalobah for Reece James, Genesis Antwi for Sancho.

Not long after, Josh Acheampong shot just over after a fine assist from Antwi. Late on, a shot from distance from Walsh, who I was glad to see got the full ninety minutes, and then one final effort from Gusto, over.

In previous years, in 1998, in 2008, in 2012, in 2013, in 2019, in 2021, there were massive celebrations on reaching a UEFA Final.

Not so in 2025.

This is a weird competition this one, and it had been, undoubtedly, a so-so game.

But we’re on our way to Wroclaw, to play Real Betis, and I am sure we will have a blast.

As I walked along Dawes Road, I could hear the booming noise of the Djurgarden support way back at Fulham Broadway, and I silently commended them for their ingenuity and fanaticism but can’t wait to hear what the club say about this massive breach of security.

I would not be surprised to hear that many tickets were sold via our co-owner’s company.

If so, that’s bloody shameful.

I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long drive to Tyneside.

“Memory Lane Café Number One.”

Tales From The Dripping Pan And The Amex

Posted on by
3

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 8 February 2025.

So, two games at Brighton in seven days.

On Saturday 8 February in the Cup.

On Friday 14 February in the League.

Both games at 8pm.

They are a funny side, Brighton, almost as funny as us. We had beaten them 4-2 earlier in the season, and they had lost 0-7 at Nottingham Forest in their last league outing. But on their day, they are capable of much greater things. The two games would be a test of our resolve, and maybe a test of our support too.

For the FA Cup encounter, our support passed with flying colours. I believe that we were originally given 4,000 tickets, but this eventually went up to around 6,000 when it transpired that the home team was having trouble in shifting tickets.

If nothing else, having such a solid away support would be a good experience, a right royal show of strength, and a nod to previous eras when our away support was rock solid.

The travel plans were sorted out, but with a late change. It suddenly dawned on me that I could get an extra game in, at Lewes, while PD and Parky would be getting some beers in at a local pub. For this reason, I set off a little earlier than planned. I called for PD at 11am and I called in for Parky at 11.30am. The plan was to be parked up at Lewes train station at 2.30pm to enable me to attend the Lewes vs. Potters Bar Town game in the Isthmian Premier at 3pm. This is the same level of football that my local team, Frome Town, compete.

At Step Three – level seven – there are four divisions and I include here the average gates too :

Northern Premier / 726

Southern League Premier – Central / 560

Southern League Premier – South / 593

Isthmian Premier / 714

While I would be watching at Lewes, Frome Town would be playing a home game against Sholing. I am far from a ground-hopper, but my interest in watching a game at Lewes was piqued when I purchased the “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” book a few years ago. Of all the stadia within these isles, The Dripping Pan at Lewes was voted top of the pile. It certainly looked a quaint and quirky stadium with plenty of idiosyncratic features, but was it really the very best of the lot? I was about to find out.

The drive down to Sussex was rather boring, with murky weather overhead, and greyness all around me. There was fog early on, but at least the rain was minimal. The route itself did not help; rather than the more picturesque road south to Salisbury and then passing by Southampton and Portsmouth, past Chichester, my Sat Nav took me north to the M4, then around the M25, then down the M23. For once, I didn’t enjoy the drive too much.

I was held up in a little traffic on the M25 and eventually deposited PD and Parky in the centre of Lewes at 2.40pm. I made my way to the train station, but it took more time than I had hoped to get my newly acquired parking app to register my car. While I was cursing modern technology, a ‘phone call from PD.

“What’s the pub called, again?”

They were already lost.

Due to my delay at the car park, and despite The Dripping Pan being only a five-minute walk away, I entered the stadium four minutes late with the home team already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

I positioned myself on the large – for non-league standards – covered home terrace and got my bearings. It was indeed a quirky stadium, but the overcast weather did not help me to fully appreciate its charms. However, it certainly was different. There were beach huts as sponsor lounges, a viewing area atop a lovely grass bank, a substantial terraced away section, and a plush stand with seats along the side. There was a bar right behind the home end – it resembled a pub – and in the corner I spotted what can only be termed a rockery, with plants and palms. I hope the photos do it all justice.

But I had to think to myself; “the very best in Britain?”

I wasn’t so sure.

I watched from a few viewpoints to get the maximum effect. I spoke to a chap from Stoke, now living nearby, about how much I like the non-league scene these days. On the pitch, the home team equalised just before half-time but then conceded again before the break. However, my mind wasn’t really on this game. My mind was back in Somerset, and alas Frome Town were losing 0-1. The game at Lewes was a slow burner and only really came to life in the last fifteen minutes; the home team equalised with a fine goal, only to concede again in the fourth minute of injury time. Potters Bar Town, cheered on by around fifteen fans and one flag, won 3-2. The gate was 705.

In deepest Somerset, Frome’s fine revival came to a spluttering end, with a demoralising 0-3 home defeat. The gate there was a disappointing 452.

In truth, although my body was at The Dripping Pan, my head was at Badgers Hill throughout the entire afternoon, and it absolutely reminded me that I only tend to really enjoy football these days if I have a vested interest in one of the teams playing.

I met up with PD and LP after the game at “The John Harvey” and the two of them were squeezed in at a table with Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire. I made a point of saying that “the last time I was here, we lost 4-1”, that hideous game two seasons ago when Graham Potter visited his former club and was sent packing. We were well and truly stuffed that day.

“The John Harvey” is a cracking little pub in Lewes town centre, which itself is a cracking little town. We were soon joined by my Brighton mate Mac and his friend Nick. They are both occasional visitors to The Dripping Pan themselves.

I mentioned its place in “British Football’s Greatest Grounds” to the lads, and explained how Stamford Bridge is not featured at all. That’s right, dear reader, our beloved stadium is not even in the top one hundred. However, had the original pre-1993 edition still be in existence, I am sure that it would be in the top ten, such is the love these days of old-school stadia, original sweeping terraces, old stands, crush barriers, and the like.

Nick commented that Stamford Bridge could be a dangerous place to attend a few decades ago. However, the overall listings within the book were not really concerned with past spectator safety but were attributed to architectural significance, history, ambiance and atmosphere.

Mac remembered a game that he had attended at Stamford Bridge with Nick, as neutrals, back in 1985 against Sheffield Wednesday and I was rather pleased to tell them that I was going to be featuring that very game in my retrospective section of my report for the day’s match.

How’s that for synchronicity?

Let’s head back to February 1985.

Two days after the away game at Leicester City, Chelsea were at home to Millwall in the fourth round of the FA Cup on Monday 4 February. I listened to the match updates on Radio Two and was saddened to hear that we were 0-1 down. Later, the score went to 2-2 with our goals coming from Paul Canoville and Nigel Spackman, but then Millwall went ahead via Steve Lovell. In the eighty-seventh minute, our quite ridiculous penalty woes continued as David Speedie – despite netting from the spot at Filbert Street – blasted way over. We lost 2-3 and were out of the FA Cup. I had hoped for a gate of 24,000 so was probably pleased that 25,148 were at Stamford Bridge that night. The Millwall manager at the time was George Graham. I wonder what happened to him.

The second replay of our Milk Cup quarter final against Sheffield Wednesday at Stamford Bridge took place on Thursday 6 February. On that day, I travelled back to Somerset by train from Stoke after a couple of morning lectures and so I listened in to the game on the radio at home. For those keeping count, Chelsea played six games in just twelve days, as miraculous as that sounds today. The whole radio programme was devoted to our game, a rare occurrence in those days.

The second replay against Sheffield Wednesday was a classic. They went ahead via Gary Shelton on twelve minutes, but we were level when an incredible bit of skill from Pat Nevin allowed him to set up a David Speedie header on thirty minutes. His “scoop” over the wall to himself was magical. Then, in the final minute, a Paul Canoville corner was headed home by the mercurial Mickey Thomas.

At home, in Somerset, I went wild and was close to tears.

For the first time that I could remember, we had reached a semi-final.

After the 25,148 gate on the Monday, Stamford Bridge hosted a crowd of 36,395 on that Wednesday. And that number included Mac and Nick, who went with some Sheffield Wednesday friends, and watched among the Wednesday throng from the north terrace. Mac admitted to me how scared he was that evening. The away end at Stamford Bridge was no easy place to slope away from, especially since there were often Chelsea supporters in other pens in the same end, sharing the same limited exit routes. On many occasions, Chelsea would secretly infiltrate the away pens too.

I never once watched a game from that north terrace; I think it is safe to say that I had my reasons.  

There is some TV footage of the baying Stamford Bridge crowd that night, several minutes after the end of the game, showing an ecstatic home crowd staying in the stadium, lording it over the away fans, in their pomp. There are extended shots of fans climbing all over the security fences, pointing and gesticulating at the Wednesday fans –

“WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY, WE’RE GOIN’ TO WEMBLEY – YOU AIN’T, YOU AIN’T”

Unfortunately, I can only access it via a private Facebook group and so can’t share it here but the venom and vitriol – AND NOISE – generated by those Chelsea fans…I can’t lie, virtually all lads…that night got me all dewy-eyed when I first witnessed it a few years ago. Those noisy days of my youth were spellbinding. I miss them dearly.

In Lewes, in 2025, we had made our way outside and stood with our drinks. It was about 6pm, so Julie and Tim left to catch an early train to the stadium. The closing moments of the England vs. France rugby match was taking place inside the pub and I did my best to show no interest whatsoever.

At around 6.30pm, we said our goodbyes to Mac and Nick – “See you Friday, mate” – and walked back to the station to catch the train to Falmer.

It left at 6.58pm.

I was inside the away end at 7.30pm.

Perfect timing.

The three of us were split up in various areas of the Chelsea support which in this case featured all of one end and wrapped itself around into a couple of sections of the stand along the side. As luck would have it, I was right in front of my usual match-day mate John. As kick-off approached, the away crowd grew and grew, and I was able to spot so many familiar faces. I have never really noticed before, but the seats at the Amex are padded. Nobody sits at away games. I had no real reason to notice before.

As kick-off approached, “Sussex by the Sea” was lustily sung by the home support, which looked to be at around two-thirds capacity. Our tickets were just £25. I have no doubt that the price was the same in the home areas. That’s poor from the Brighton support. On the premise that our extra thousand tickets sold out in just eight minutes, I wondered how many we could have sold in total, despite the problems of a late kick-off on a Saturday evening. Maybe eight thousand? Who knows.

A predictable show of flames and fumes in front of the stand to our right, and then the teams.

Enzo Maresca chose this line up.

Sanchez

Gusto – Tosin – Chalobah – Cucarella

Dewsbury-Hall – Caicedo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Nkunku

I suppose we had no choice but to wear the black kit, but it couldn’t have been easy picking out teammates in the evening murk.

I spotted that the match balls were a peach colour.

“Yeah, I know.”

The game – “Peachball” anyone? – began.

We attacked the far end and began well. Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall hit the side netting with the game’s first offering. Next, a nice move down the right. The ball was played out to Pedro Neto, who spun behind his marker and accelerated away. He passed to Jadon Sancho, who played the ball to Cole Palmer. Palmer tested Bart Verbruggen with a dipping shot that needed to be palmed over.

“C’mon Chels.”

From the corner that followed, which Palmer took, the ball was played back and square – to be honest I was distracted by something – and by the time I looked up, the ball had been played back into the box by Palmer and somehow ended up in the goal. I roared and fist-pumped, though I wasn’t exactly sure how or why Verbruggen had not dealt with the ball in.

We purred as we witnessed a lovely sliding tackle from Trevoh Chalobah as a Brighton attack found its way inside the box. However, not long after, Brighton attacked our other flank, our right, and Tariq Lamptey was able to cross. This time, Chalobah did not perform so well. His header went to a Brighton player, who set up to Joel Veltman. He curled a short cross into the danger area. Georginio Rutter rose unchallenged – between two defenders – and his well-aimed header dropped into the goal. I was right in line with the header and mumbled “goal” to myself before it had crossed the line.

Yeah, I bloody saw that one clearly enough.

Bollocks.

Twelve minutes had passed, and it was tied 1-1.

Within a few seconds, the stand to my left – I know where Mac sits, I spotted him – boomed “Albion, Albion.”

We noticed Christopher Nkunku coming back to receive a ball from a central defender, way deep, and this was not a one-off. He was playing in the midfield area and we were aghast. As the first half continued, and as we continued to struggle to put anything together, we noted how reluctant Nkunku was to occupy the space usually manned by Nicolas Jackson. I presumed that this was under the instruction of Maresca. With Palmer coming deep as well, we simply did not have much of an attacking threat. Neto, who had begun well, withered away, and Sancho was reluctant to advance. In truth, there was no movement upfront for the wingers to hit quite simply because there was nobody upfront.

It was all very lacklustre and poor. From both sides in fact, but of course we were more concerned about our lack of energy, creativity, drive and football intelligence.

The Chelsea choir, that had begun the game in relatively good form, began to fade.

An odd selection of songs honouring past players was aired.

“That’s why we love Solomon Kalou.”

Jimmy the Greek, who was a few yards ahead of me, turned to me and we both took turns to yell –

“It’s Salomon!”

This was a poor football match. Palmer, our creative force, was quiet and the rest seemed disinterested.

One passage of play summed it all up. A quick ball was played through to Sancho who was probably level with the Brighton penalty box. However, instead of him going on to the front foot and asking questions of his marker, within five seconds the ball was back with Chalobah in our own half.

Fucksake.

Our only notable chance came when Moises Caicedo spotted a rare run from Nkunku. His lofted ball dropped perfectly for a strike on goal, but instead the timid Nkunku hooked the ball over to Palmer whose headed effort lacked, well, everything and dropped lamely over the bar and onto the roof of the net.

Crap.

This was a grey and passionless performance.

Half-time arrived and the away end was numbed by our limp showing thus far. I said to a few mates “can we flip a coin and get it over and done with now?” The night was getting colder, and the football was not warming us up one iota. Sadly, the second period was bloody worse.

Soon into the half, a spirited chant from the away end tried its best to rally the troops.

“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”

How ‘eighties.

We dominated possession but had no idea how to break the home defence down. Sadly, on fifty-seven minutes, Brighton broke quickly via a searching ball from Rutter who found the dangerous Kaoru Mitoma. He played the ball in to Lamptey. His shot was blocked, and I saw players fall as the ball ricocheted around. The ball then ended up being aimed at Mitoma. From my angle, the ball appeared to hit his raised hand, but we all watched in agony as he took the ball down and placed the ball past Robert Sanchez.

Bollocks.

With that, Enzo Fernandez replaced the utterly forgettable Dewsbury-Hall.

Just after, chants for Roman Abramovich, but no chances.

A trio of songs from the Chelsea end.

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

“Cam On Chowlsea.”

“Carefree.”

We struggled to create anything. I can only recollect a few shots on goal. An effort from Enzo whizzed past the post. Marc Cucarella – booed by the home crowd from the start – set up Palmer but he was always stretching, and the effort went hopelessly high and wide.

I said to John “we’ve got worse this half.”

On seventy-five minutes, the wingers were changed.

Noni Madueke for Neto.

Tyrique George for Sancho.

The away end was like a morgue in the final portion of the game.

George tried his best, and on ninety-three minutes he turned inside and shot at goal, but the shot sailed over.

As the game drifted to its inevitable conclusion, there was the irony of a firm strike from Enzo being – wait for it – on target but it was saved by Verbruggen, only for the ball to have gone out for a corner in the build-up to the shot in any case. It was a shot on goal that wasn’t.

Oh boy.

The game ended and we were out.

Out of both domestic cups in early February.

There had been no reaction at half-time, and there had been no reaction to Brighton’s second goal.

Shocking.

It was, hand on heart, one of the worst Chelsea performances that I can ever remember seeing. One shot on target during the entire game? Good grief, Enzo Maresca.

As I exited past the padded seats, I wondered if I might need a padded cell in the coming weeks and months. I was aware that a few players were walking towards the away end, but I turned my back to them and left.

We hurriedly made our way back to Lewes, and I drove home. I reached my house just after 2am.

Fackinell.

And on Friday, we go back to the scene of the crime again.

See you there.

The Dripping Pan

The Amex

1985

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

Posted on by
Reply

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

Chelsea played Wolves on Monday 20 January and here we all were again, assembling at Stamford Bridge a fortnight later for another home game, this time versus our old enemies West Ham United.

I can’t deny it, during the day I was rather non-plussed about the early start for an early shift and the trip up to London for a game on the first day of the working week. I was up at 4.45am and I would not be back until around 1am. We, the fans who use up every spare penny and every spare minute to follow and support our teams, are slaves to TV schedules. And it is really starting to hurt now.

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

But for every negative there is a positive. With no Chelsea game at the weekend, I was able to spin down to Poole in Dorset, birthplace of my maternal grandmother, to see Frome Town play on the Saturday afternoon. It was an easy trip, just an hour-and-a-half, and around seventy Frome fans had made the journey. Despite gloomy grey skies, the threat of rain held off. Unfortunately, the first half was a non-event, a real yawn fest, with no team showing much promise. In truth there was just one worthwhile shot in anger, from Frome’s Albie Hopkins, a curler just wide of the far post.

I remember that before our 0-4 defeat at Bournemouth in 2019, Maurizio Sarri had us training in the morning of the game on that very same pitch.

Thankfully, the second half was much livelier, and much more encouraging from a Frome point of view. The away team were immediately on top, and threatening, with a lot more adventure in our play. On sixty-six minutes, the Poole Town ‘keeper showed “Spin The Wheel Sanchez” tendencies and mistimed his manic attempt to rush out and clear, allowing Hopkins to gather just inside the Poole half and lob a shot towards the unguarded goal. Thankfully it was on target. The Frome faithful in the 564 attendance went doo-lally. We held on for a fine away win, and the current run in the league stood at three wins, two draws and just one loss. I drove back home a very contented fan of The Dodge. The Great Escape was continuing.

The Setting Sun.

I dropped PD and LP off at “The Eight Bells” at 4.20pm – just two and a quarter hour since leaving Melksham – and then killed some time driving around the back streets of Fulham, waiting for 5pm to arrive and thus enabling me to park for free. On my slow meander, I spotted that some streets south of Lillee Road were marked as being available after 5pm on weekdays, but not on Saturdays, and I was able to park up right outside “The Elephant & Barrel” – formerly “The Rylston” – and this suited me just fine. There was even time for a super photo of one of the main tower blocks of the Clem Atlee Estate, with the setting sun glinting off its windows, and it was all very similar to the shot I took of the sunset and the Empress State Building two weeks earlier.

Fearing tiredness, I did think about grabbing a little sleep in my car, knowing full well that it would be a long night ahead. There was, after all, still three hours to kick-off. But no, my adrenalin was pumping now, and I set off for Stamford Bridge.

A Little Bit Of America.

I needed some sustenance, so stopped off at a new eatery at the bottom end of the North End Road, almost opposite the “Memory Lane Café Ole”.

“Popeyes” has been open a few months and I dived in for the first time. As a frequent visitor to the US over the past three decades or more, I often spotted “Popeyes” chicken restaurants, usually in the South, but I had never once visited. This was my first time, in the deep south of Fulham. It was pretty decent. I chatted to a couple of match-going Chelsea fans. One lad from just outside Dublin had paid £85 for a ticket. Ouch.

I have noted that in addition to “Five Guys” at Fulham Broadway, two other US fast food places have recently opened in the area; “Taco Bell” next to “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and “Wendy’s”, where “The White Hart” pub used to be. Of course, the long-standing “McDonalds” is situated on the North End Road too.

In addition to the US in the boardroom at Stamford Bridge, we now have a few more US restaurants nearby too.

It got me thinking.

In the days of me posting my match reports on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the addition of this little bit of info would probably have triggered a riot of comments and activity. It’s hard to believe that back in the heyday of the CIA from around 2009 to 2012, my posts would often get over a thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get a quarter of that volume.

I darted in to see Mr and Mrs B and Mr and Mrs T in “The Vanston Café” and then took a few “mood shots” of the matchday scene outside Stamford Bridge.

Pre-Match Razzle.

I was inside early at 7.05pm – 1905, a great number – and my good mate Alan was already in. We waited for others to arrive and the announcement of the teams. As usual, we directed a little bit of ire at the idiots watching from behind the cordon down below us as the players – year of the snake shirts, my arse – went through their routines. For the first time for a few months, a DJ was up to her tricks again, in residence in a booth behind these corporate guests.

She opened up with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears from 1985.

1985, eh? More of that later.

The music boomed away, making conversation quite difficult. I gave up talking to Anna. It got worse. We were entertained – or not – by something called “Fan Cam” which featured fans bedecked in Chelsea colours in the East Lower smiling and gurning at the camera, with the images projected on the giant TV screens. I noted one female fan waving a flag with a pole attached. How was she allowed in with that? Ah, maybe it was staged, a plant from inside.

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

Anyway, the whole thing just screamed “America” and I bet the West Ham fans, positioned just yards away, had a few choice adjectives to describe the scene to their right.

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

At 7.50pm, a little bit of normality with “London Calling.”

But then the lights dimmed, and a light show took over. There was also a segment of a heavy metal rock song that seemed to be totally out of place. It screamed America once again, but WWE or NFL, or some other faux sport.

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

The team had been announced an hour previously and the big news was “no Sanchez.” In fact, when Filip Jorgensen’s name was announced, there was noticeable applause. It was a shock that our Trev was dropped.

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

Thankfully, back to normality, the lights on, and a few blasts of “Liquidator.”

Sadly, Clive was not at this game, but it was lovely to be sat alongside Alan again after he missed a couple of matches over recent weeks.

Back in 1985, it was me who was not always present at Chelsea games.

Wigan Athletic Away.

After drawing 2-2 in the third round of the cup, we travelled to Wigan Athletic’s Springfield Park on Saturday 26 January 1985. I did not attend; I was stuck in Stoke, listening for updates on my radio. We demolished Wigan, winning 5-0 with Kerry Dixon getting four and one from David Speedie. The attendance was 9,708. In the next round we were drawn against Millwall at home, with the game set to be played the following Thursday. This was odd. Chelsea and Millwall rarely played each other, yet this would be the third encounter of the season. I doubted if I would attend the game at such short notice.

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

On the Monday after the Saturday, on 28 January, we played our fierce rivals Sheffield Wednesday in the fifth round of the Milk (League) Cup. I did not attend this one either. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. A massive crowd of 36,608 saw an entertaining 1-1 draw with a goal from David Speedie equalising one from Lawrie Madden. Chelsea’s infamous penalty woes of 1984 and 1985 continued as Wednesday ‘keeper Martin Hodge saved one from Kerry Dixon. If that had gone in, Chelsea would have reached our first semi-final of any type since 1972. I listened to the whole game on Radio 2, a real treat. The replay would be just two days later, thus cancelling out the game with Millwall in the other cup on the Thursday.

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

This game took place on Wednesday 30 January. Are you keeping up? This means three games in five days. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. I had a pool game in the local, then came home to listen to the match on the radio. I remember the gut-wrenching feeling of us going 0-3 down in the first half. We quickly scored forty-five seconds into the second half, through Paul Canoville, but for some reason I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by my room-mate and his girl-friend bursting in to tell me that it was 3-3 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Micky Thomas. I could hardly believe them. With that, Canoville scored a fourth to give us a highly improbable 4-3 lead. As we all know, as the song says, in the dying moments, Doug Rougvie fouled a Sheffield Wednesday player in the box and the home team equalised via a Mel Sterland penalty. An extra thirty minutes were played but it it ended 4-4. It remains one of the games that I really feel bad about missing. The gate was 36,505.

The two clubs were such rivals in 1983/84 and 1984/85. Even our gates were well matched.

“Three-nil down, four-three up, Dougie Rougvie fucked it up.”

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

On Saturday 2 February, back to the normalcy of the league campaign and my only ever visit to Filbert Street. This was now our fourth game in just eight days. I caught an early morning train to Derby where I had a while to wait before getting a train to Leicester, arriving at 10.30am. There was a cheap fry up in a cheap café. I embarked on a little tour of the city centre – for the only time, I have not been back since – and made it down to the ground at 11.30am. I decided to buy a £4.50 seat in the side stand rather than stand on the terrace. I can’t over-emphasise the importance or cachet in going in the seats at away games in this era. For some reason, London clubs made a habit of it.

It was the done thing.

I guess it went hand-in-hand with the casual movement at the time. If you had a bit more money to spend – which I didn’t, I was a student – then you always tried to go in the seats. I had done so at Hillsborough in December and I would do it at Stoke later on that season.

Then there was the thrill of singing “One Man Went To Mow” in those seats, sitting until ten, and then thousands getting up en masse and putting on a show for the locals.

Brilliant times.

I circumnavigated the ground and the inevitable photos. I spotted Leggo, Mark and Simon. My mate Glenn from Frome arrived and I had a chat. There was a lot of fighting in the top tier of the double-decker to my left. A home area, Chelsea had obviously infiltrated it. I noted tons of Aquascutum scarves.

So much for sitting at away games. A bloke was in my seat and unwilling to move, so I was forced to stand in the gangway at the back of the slim section of seats.

After just four minutes, Gary Lineker headed home from a corner to give the home team a 1-0 lead. Thankfully, we were awarded a penalty on half-time. The Chelsea fans chanted for the ‘keeper to take the spot-kick after the misses of the past year or so.

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

But not to worry, David Speedie slotted it home. This was an entertaining match. Chelsea bossed the second half, but I also noted that Eddie Niedzwiecki made three stunning saves. It ended 1-1 before a gate of 15,657.

There was a thin police escort, past the rugby ground, back to the station and I saw groups of lads going toe-to-toe in a nearby park. I made it back unscathed, met up with Glenn again, then some other lads, and then a massive Chelsea mob turned up. There was a formidable police presence at the train station. I caught the train back to Derby, arriving just as their special came in from Lincoln. I kept silent.

Next up, two days later, was the Millwall FA Cup tie, but that’s another story.

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

Chelsea attacked the three thousand away fans and Parkyville in the first half.

Soon into the game, fifteen-seconds in fact, there was the first rendition of “Blue Flag – Up Your Arse” from the away support.

Blimey.

That must be a record.

The two sets of fans then traded Lampard chants for a few minutes, and I wondered if I was watching a pantomime.

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

Six minutes in, after a dull start, a little piece of magic from Cole Palmer in the inside-left position, twisting and creating space, but the ball went off for a corner.

On fifteen minutes, a chance for Noni Madueke as he danced in from the right but curled a shot just wide of the magnificently named Alphonse Areola’s far post.

West Ham enjoyed a little spell with Aaron Wan-Bissaka racing past his defender and setting up Jarrod Bowen who forced Jorgensen to block well at the near post. From the corner, Levi Colwill headed out and somebody called Andy Irving shot over. This was a rare attacking phase from the visitors who seemed more than content to sit deep – yeah yeah, low fucking block – and occasionally venture north.

We regained the impetus, but our play was rather slow. On twenty-two minutes, the ball broke for Palmer but he was stretching and the shot was well over. Two minutes later, some nice link-up play and a cross from Reece James but Marc Cucurella headed over.

Just after, a ball out of defence from Tosin towards Nicolas Jackson, but the ball hit him and he fell over.

Shades of classic Dave Mitchell in 1989 when he was put through at The Shed End and the ball hit him on the back of the head.

On the half-hour, a terrible ball from a West Ham player ended up at the feet of Madueke who raced away, deep into the box, and played the ball back to Enzo Fernandez who had supported the attack well. Alas, his rather scuffed shot bobbled past the far post. Enzo often drifted to the right with Cucurella coming in to support the midfield from the left.

But this was far from a great first-half show. My main complaint was the lack of movement from our attacking players. I must have shouted “angles” ten times in that first-half. We also lacked discipline and gave away far too many needless fouls.

On thirty-seven minutes, a Mohammed Kudus shot was saved by Jorgensen, who thankfully was showing none of Sanchez bizarre desire to pass to the opposing team.

On forty minutes, Jadon Sancho leaned back and sent a curler high over the bar. I was tapping away on my phone, recording a few notes to share here, when I looked up to see the end of a West Ham break, a Bowen shot, a West Ham goal.

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

On a night when a win – or draw – would send us back to fourth place, this now became an uphill battle.

We had high hopes in the closing moments of the half when a perfectly positioned free-kick presented Palmer with a fine opportunity to lift the ball over the wall. Alas, although the kick was superbly taken, Areola matched it with an absolutely superb save. There was some late Chelsea pressure late on, but we went in 0-1 down at the break.

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

During the break, I was well aware that the DJ was continuing her ear-drum bashing music show – it began with more Tears For Fears, “Shout”, how appropriate – but I did not spot the sight of those around her in the West Lower grooving and dancing, and seemingly having a whale of a time. This was pointed out to me afterwards.

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

Seriously, what on Earth was that all about? Evidence suggests that – again – people were placed in that area to create false jollity.

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

The ill-discipline of the first half continued into the second, with a silly early foul annoying PD and me alike.

Rather than make some changes at the break, Enzo Maresca chose to wait until the seventh minute of the second period.

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Throughout the match thus far, we were had been – sadly – totally out sung by the knot of West Ham supporters in the far corner. There were the usual songs about Frank Lampard and Stamford Bridge falling down, and the blue flag being pushed somewhere unsightly, but a few new ones too. I looked on with an uncomfortable expression.

West Ham conjured up a couple of chances too, the buggers.

On the hour, at fucking last, a loud and uplifting roar from the home areas.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

Neto had started out on the left but was now shifted to the right. To be honest, from this moment on, he changed the game.

First, however, a wild and lazy shot from Tosin, and we all sighed.

Down in the far corner, the away fans were full of mischief.

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

Well, that should result in your club getting hammered with a fine, lads.

Well done.

Then, a fine Chelsea move on sixty-four minutes. The ball was played intelligently, and it found Neto, teasing his marker Emerson on the right. A cross was clipped into the danger area. Guiu rose but did not connect. Instead, Cucurella on the far post played in Enzo. His shot was blocked but it fell rather nicely to Neto. I watched him. I focussed on his body language. He looked supremely confident and happy to be presented with a real chance. He ate it up.

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

I noted Alan wasn’t celebrating. He was waiting for the malodorous stench of VAR.

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

Neither Alan nor I celebrated. We did not move a muscle.

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

Ten minutes later, with the Stamford Bridge crowd thankfully making a little more noise, a move was worked through to Cucurella down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. He played the ball back to Palmer. He attacked Tomas Soucek and then Wan-Bissaka. Level with the six-yard box, he whipped the ball in. To my pleasure, but also astonishment, the ball found the net, and I only really realised after that the ball had been deflected in off Wan-Bassaka.

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

Soon after, a Tosin header went close, Palmer went just wide. Guiu, full of honest running, was unable to finish after fine play again from Neto.

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were seven minutes of added time and this became a nervy finale, with a mixture of desperate blocks and timely saves assuring us of the three points.

At around 9.55pm, the referee’s whistle pierced the night sky, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a quick getaway. I hot-footed it back to the car, collected PD and LP, and I did not stop once on my return home.

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

Such is life, though; after a night at football, I can never go straight to bed. There are things to review, photos to check, photos to edit, photos to share. I suppose I eventually drifted off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

Next up, the FA Cup and a trip to Sussex by the sea. And, unlike in 1985, there will be no replays.

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From Two Away Games

Posted on by
6

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 8 December 2024.

The game at a wet and windy Southampton behind us, we were now ready to think about the next hurdle during this mammoth month of nine matches in December.

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea.

It makes the pulses quicken, doesn’t it?

On the Saturday, I was busy, as busy as hell. My trip to Kazakhstan was coming up on Monday morning and I needed to make sure I had planned everything to be as near perfection as I possibly could. I also needed to write the blog from the Southampton game. With these two events to occupy my mind, there never was going to be a Frome Town game to attend on the first day of the weekend. My local team were set to travel down to Dorset and play Poole Town. As luck would have it, Storm Darragh was likely to wreak havoc, and the game was quickly called off during the first few hours of Saturday morning.

I was just about to launch into the Southampton match report when it was announced at around 10.30am that our three matches in the new FIFA World Club Cup – against Flamengo, Esperance and Leon, as drawn at around 7pm on Thursday – would take place in Atlanta and Philadelphia.

As if I needed something else to occupy my mind on this busiest of weekends.

But occupy my mind it did. Briefly, the plan will be to avoid the game against Leon in Atlanta, but to fly into New York and revisit that city before heading down to Philly for the other two games. The plan is for Glenn from Frome to ride alongside me. We quickly discussed a few notions and ideas, and I messaged a few close friends in the US. I also spoke to my good friend Steve who resides in South Philly, less than two miles from where we will be playing in June at the 67,000 capacity Lincoln Financial Field. To say he was ecstatic would be halfway there. I could sense his exhilaration on the ‘phone. He was truly thrilled.

Philly is a great venue for me. I visited it first in autumn 1989, then again for a baseball game in 1993, and another in 2008, then with my mother in 2010, and then again with Chelsea for the 2012 All-Star Game in nearby Chester, with baseball games on both of those visits too. It is the city where my great great grandparents lived in around 1860. I like it a lot. For once I have to commend FIFA in planning two games in one city, with the third game at least in the same time zone.

But that is next summer. There will be plenty of time to work on a plan for that in due course.

All of this talk of exotic away games…

There was a time when a normal Common or Garden, run of the mill, bread and butter (OK, FFS – everyone gets it!) away game used to excite me like nothing else.

The Tottenham away game would be my five-hundred and thirteenth away game. Forty years ago to the exact day – Saturday 8 December 1984 – my tenth ever away game was at Hillsborough against Sheffield Wednesday.

Let’s go back in time.

My first five away games had been in Bristol, four at Rovers and one at City. Then there were two within a month in March 1984 at Newcastle United and Cardiff City. Then a friendly at Bristol City, then the massive opener at Arsenal. While living in Stoke-on-Trent, I missed a lot of away games due to bad luck – being in the wrong place at the wrong time – and was forced to wait a few months for my next one, a lovely away day at our big 1983/84 rivals to the north of Sheffield’s city centre.

I remember a fair few things about that day, but I can consult my 1984 diary too.

I was up early at 7.30am, which was a good effort since there had been a boozy birthday party at our local in Stoke on the Friday night, which typically involved a fight with a local – a Stokie – who came unstuck with one or two of my mates. I woke with a slight hangover. I caught the train at 8.39am and changed trains at Derby. My flat mate Bryan travelled with me to Sheffield as he was off to a party that night in the city. We arrived at 10.15am. I clutched a map as I walked north – where I got the map from I have no idea – and it took me an hour to get to Hillsborough. Penistone Road seemed to go on forever. I was ridiculously early, but I enjoyed seeing such a huge stadium for the first time. I loved seeing the huge Kop and the iconic cantilever stand up close.  I walked around it. I took it all in. A hideous steak and kidney pie was purchased.

I bought a seat ticket for £4.50 for the upper tier of the away end, a real treat. I waited for others to arrive. The few Chelsea fans present at such an early time were kept in a secure enclosure behind gates. A few mates arrived. Dave from St. Albans. Then Alan from Bromley and Paul from Brighton. They let us in at 1.30pm. A meat and potato pie next. The view in the seats was excellent. I spotted Mark from Sudbury. Then Sharon and Paula, the programme girls. My guess was around 6,000 Chelsea. The first-half was poor but got better in the second-half. Paul Canoville was always a threat. On eighty minutes, Pat Nevin reached the goal-line and clipped a cross over for Gordon Davies to head home from close range. The celebrations were amazing. Pure ecstasy. Then “that bastard” Imre Varadi headed home, and our hearts sank. Our first away win of the season was tantalisingly close, but despite a few late chances, it ended level. The gate was 29, 373. Sitting nearby was an infamous skinhead, Lester, who claimed that Hicky had been arrested on the way up.

A convoy of fifteen double-decker buses took us back to Sheffield’s Midland station, arriving at 5.30pm. We learned we had drawn Wigan in the FA Cup. Bizarrely, I bumped into Bryan at the station, waiting for a friend to arrive for the party. I caught the 6.21pm to Derby, where there was a load of United fans on the way back from their defeat at Forest. I returned to Stoke at 8.14pm. Out for a pint at the college disco, I saw a Wednesday fan who I had met the night before and we exchanged peasantries. Then back to my digs, my head no doubt full of Chelsea songs from the six-thousand army in Sheffield who had been the stars of the show yet again.

These were the best times of my life; the seasons from 1983/84 through to around 1988/89.

I miss the feelings of youthful camaraderie, rebellious noise, ridiculous characters, silly moments, cutting terrace humour, and also the magnificent adventures as we experienced new away grounds and new cities as our travels spread around the country.

In contrast to those “rights of passage” seasons, the trip to Tottenham on Sunday 8 December 2024 would be my twenty-sixth Tottenham away game although three of those were at Wembley.

My “rights of passage” days have long since gone – sad, isn’t it? – but this fixture stirs the emotions like no other.

The plans for this game changed due to my travel out to Kazakhstan on the Monday. I had decided to stay up in London after the game, which meant that PD and Parky had to make their own arrangements.

When I woke on Sunday morning, PD and Parky were already en route to London. They would stay in London too, near the Eight Bells in Fulham, and then drive home on Monday.

I left for London at 11.15am, and hoped to get to Barons Court, my basecamp for games against Arsenal, West Ham and Tottenham, by 2pm. It was a painful drive up; wet, windy, lots of traffic. It meant that I didn’t reach Barons Court until 2.30pm. From there, a quick coffee to give me some energy, and then the District Line to Monument, a walk to Bank, the Central Line to Liverpool Street. It had only taken me thirty minutes to get across town. I caught the 3.30pm train to White Hart Lane – I had a warm jacket on, it was boiling in the train, and I was stood next to three Tottenham fans who used the word “bruv” every three seconds.

I had a couple of spares to hand over to a work colleague’s daughter and her boyfriend, and it transpired that they were on the very same train. The timings all worked out. I soon met up with them outside the away end and I was inside at 4.20pm.

As I walked in, through the little alleyway, I smirked at the usual pre-match Tottenham rhetoric booming out all around me. To hear it, one would be tempted to think that they are a club at Real Madrid levels of achievement.

They aren’t.

I was down in the bottom corner, row 2, right by the corner flag with Gary and John. It seemed we were below the level of the pitch; it must have been the camber.

As kick-off approached, the lights dimmed.

“Oh God, here we go.”

No Southampton laser beams, but thousands of home fans turned their phone torches on and the huge bowl looked like another Barry Manilow gig.

The mosaics in the towering South Stand spelled out “Audere Est Facere” which means “We’re Pretty Shite” in Latin.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Badiashile – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Or something like that. Being so low down it was difficult to tell if there were some subtle tweaks to our usual set up.

As at Southampton, Chelsea were in all blue. Tottenham were modelling shirts with an Arsenal-style affectation involving navy sleeves.

There was a lively start. We seemed OK.

However, on just five minutes, Marc Cucarella slipped and allowed Brennan Johnson, whoever he is, to race on in front of our disbelieving eyes. He was able to strike a firm cross into our box that former Chelsea youngster Dominic Solanke finished off with a sliding strike, the ball flying high into the goal past Robert Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 0.

Their support boomed, and Solanke ran towards us before aiming an imaginary bow in our general direction; another prick who is off our Christmas Card list.

We still had most of the ball but found it difficult to watch as on twelve minutes, Cucarella again slipped, right in front of us this time. This allowed a move to quickly develop. The ball was played into Dejan Kulusevski, who was allowed too much space. His – almost scuffed – shot crept in at the near post.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 0.

[inside my head : God, is this payback for the 6-1 in 1997? I hate this lot more than anyone else. Please God no cricket scores. Not here. Not against them.]

Well, thankfully, we didn’t crumble, we kept playing.

The next goal would be crucial, and we just had to score it. With the home team playing a high line, we kept pushing the ball into spaces out wide.

I saw Jadon Sancho advance on eighteen minutes, and I yelled out “don’t be afraid to shoot!”

Thankfully, he must have heard me because he ran on, then inside, and drilled a magical daisy-cutter into the goal, just inside the far post. I was right in line with his shot. I took great enjoyment with that one. Huge celebrations in our end. We were back in it, and well done us.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 2.

This was a good game, keenly contested, and I was absolutely involved.

A half-chance for a relatively quiet Cole Palmer but wasted.

We were all yelling obscenities into the dark North London night when, on thirty-four minutes, Sanchez kicked a clearance right at a Tottenham player, and then did something very similar a few minutes later.

I kept saying to John “we need to keep turning the screw here”. No escape, no let-up, no mercy, get into them Chels.

More half-chances for us in front of that ridiculously high and imposing South Stand.

Strangely, though, both sets of fans were relatively quiet. It surprised me that not one Chelsea supporter chose to sing about “winning 6-1 at The Lane.”

A Tottenham corner, against the run of play, and a header tickled the top of Sanchez’ bar causing the tightly stretched net to ripple.

Then, Nicolas Jackson – a threat in theory – had two great chances but was thwarted by some desperate defending.

At half-time, I would say that the mood in the Chelsea section was positive, even buoyant. I spotted PD behind me and he came down to join the three of us for the second period. At the break, Malo Gusto replaced the seemingly injured Romeo Lavia, who was injured in the closing minutes of the first half.

In the opening flurry of activity in the second period, Sancho was involved on our left and perhaps should have pulled the trigger a little more often. Pedro Neto came to life too. We began the second forty-five in great form, in great spirits, tons of energy.

A shot from the mightily impressive Enzo Fernandez, a shot from Gusto too.

We were all over Tottenham.

The volume increased.

On the hour, that man Sancho released Moises Caicedo and, as he burst into the box, he was clipped by Yves Bissouma,

The much-derided Anthony Taylor quickly pointed to the spot.

Yes!

I moved to the front of the gangway and prepared to capture the strike from Cole Palmer. I waited.

The shot.

The net rippled.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 2.

Scenes!

I prepared to set my little camera to record the scorer’s run towards us, but – standing right at the front – I was swamped by on-rushing supporters as it seemed the entire section wanted to get as close to Cole Palmer as possible.

It was mayhem.

I took my baseball cap off so that I didn’t lose it, I took my glasses off and gripped them tightly, I held on to my camera for grim life. I was getting pushed right up against the wall.

Fackinell.

At the end of it, I just laughed.

“I think I have just been sexually violated.”

Everyone was delirious with our equaliser.

Magnificent stuff.

We were absolutely the better team now, and the away fans knew it.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I said to Paul “I’ll take a 2-2 but I want to win it.”

On seventy-three minutes, the bloke behind me pleaded for Neto to push forward and provide an overlap for Palmer, who was shielding the ball only a few yards away. Palmer didn’t need any assistance. He twisted and turned, caressing the ball beautifully as he danced between a few Tottenham defenders. His shot was blocked, and it bobbled out to Enzo who lashed the ball in.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 3.

Oh my God.

The place erupted again.

I raced down the front, hoping to get some photos but got crushed again.

I was in pain this time, but I was just giggling away like a fool. The photos that I took of the celebrations are too blurred to even contemplate sharing.

I returned to my seat, and I gave John a good old-fashioned stare. At 2-2, I had said that I hoped for us to be able to sing the classic “Tottenham Hotspur – It’s Happened Again” and now we could sing it with, er, gusto.

It was a beautiful moment.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.”

Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

On eighty-four minutes, Palmer was shielding the ball away from Pape Sarr – “he’s not a footballer, he’s just a random selection of letters” – and I could hardly believe the idiocy that resulted in Palmer being chopped down.

Was I going down to the front of the stand to take a photo of Palmer’s second penalty?

No, not a chance. I waited in my normal seat.

We waited. And waited.

He ran, I snapped.

A Panenka.

I just burst out laughing.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 4.

The home areas were now thinning out although you would not know since – a cunning ploy this – all of the seats at the Tottenham stadium are very dark grey.

It’s as if they knew.

Some late substitutions and Joao Felx, Renato Veiga and Noni Madueke replaced Palmer, Cucarella and Neto.

There was a later consolation from Son Heung-Min, but that was it.

There was no “bastard Imre Varadi” waiting in the shadows in this game.

We had done them again.

Bloody fantastic.

“Nine goals in two away games in five days, not bad at all.”

Those Tottenham away games?

My record is now :

Played : 26

Won : 11

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

We can, I think, start to call it “Three Point Lane” once again.

I made my way out and chatted to Mick for a few minutes. We both agreed how everything has come together over the last few weeks. Enzo Maresca has got inside their heads and has given them belief.

“Football is all between the ears anyway, right?”

God, we are only a few points behind Liverpool.

Our sudden rise has, I can safely say, surprised every one of us.

I dipped in for some food on the High Road, then caught the 7.45pm train back to Liverpool Street.

Schadenfreude as I sat among them for half-an-hour?

Oh yes.

I returned to my car at Barons Court at around 9pm.

And here I am, sat in a hotel at Heathrow, ahead of a flight – from Stansted, don’t ask – at 12.50pm tomorrow that will take me to Istanbul, and from there to Almaty in Kazakhstan for the game against Astana on Thursday.

Onwards, and eastwards.

I might see some of you there.

Tales From 544 Miles And 40 Years Of Friendship

Posted on by
Reply

Sheffield United vs. Chelsea : 7 April 2024.

On this weekend of football, there would be the need for extensive travel plans to enable me to make back-to back trips to East Devon and South Yorkshire.

On the Saturday, I drove the seventy miles down to a Devon seaside town where Exmouth Town were up against Frome Town. This particular trip brought back some horrible memories from last season when the home team inflicted a 5-0 defeat on Frome. Frome went into this game in prime position in the league table, hoping for an away win, but also hoping that our rivals Wimborne Town might drop points at home to Paulton Rovers. In blustery conditions, playing on a soft pitch, the game was always going to be a tough one. It did not help when our star player Jon Davies went off early with a nasty injury. However, we soon heard that Wimborne were losing 1-0, and so a cheer went up from the decent away following. The game developed into a scrappy affair in very difficult conditions, and despite some late pressure on the Exmouth rear-guard, a goal was not forthcoming. The match ended goal-less. We were to learn that Wimborne had recovered well to win their game 2-1. Frome Town, however, grimly clung on to top spot, despite being level on points and with the same goal difference as Wimborne. We remained top because we had scored one solitary goal more.

Talk about tight margins…

I was up early, at around 7am, on the Sunday. Again, PD was my only travelling companion for this Chelsea trip, a visit to Bramall Lane for our game against Sheffield United. I picked him up in Frome at 8am. This would be PD’s first-ever visit to Bramall Lane; it would only be my second.

Over the years that I have been watching Chelsea play, our paths haven’t crossed too often.

My only previous visit to Bramall Lane had taken place on Saturday 28 October 2006.

From the date of my first Chelsea game in 1974 to this game thirty-two years later, we had only visited Sheffield United six times.

I travelled-up to the game in 2006 alone but dropped in to see a friend – and Sheffield United supporter – Simon at his house a few miles to the south and west of his team’s home stadium. On that occasion, we went 2-0 up soon into the second-half – goals from Frank Lampard and Michael Ballack – but my abiding memory of the match is how Jose Mourinho didn’t “go for it” in the remainder of the game. It left me a little deflated. Here we were, a team in our pomp, but seemingly happy to be content with a 2-0 win against a team that would be relegated at the season’s end. I remember saying to my match day companions “Ferguson would be urging his United players to score five or six against this lot.”

Our team that day?

Hilario

Ferreira – Carvalho – Terry – Bridge

Ballack – Essien – Lampard

Robben – Drogba – Cole

Petr Cech had been badly injured at the away game at Reading just a fortnight earlier, and Hilario was his replacement. But elsewhere, what a team, eh? At the end of 2006/7 – and despite only losing three league games – we would finish six points behind Manchester United in second place.

We stopped off for a breakfast at Strensham Services at 9.30am. The place was awash with Manchester United supporters en route to Old Trafford for their match with Liverpool. A part of me wanted to ask each and every one of them what they thought of their team’s late capitulation at Stamford Bridge the previous Thursday.

PD mentioned a “Facebook Memory” from forty years ago. On Saturday 7 April 1984, Chelsea walloped Fulham in the old Second Division in front of 31,947. This game is not usually featured as an important game in a season of many important matches, but it remains important to me. This was the afternoon that I first met my Chelsea pal Alan, who has been sitting alongside me at Stamford Bridge in The Sleepy Hollow since 1997 and at away games since 2006. This was perfect timing, since Alan would be attending his first Chelsea away game at Bramall Lane since Luton Town in late December.  

Forty years, eh?

From that chance meeting on The Benches in April 1984, we have shared so many amazing Chelsea moments, so much laughter, and our friendship is one that I absolutely treasure. From The Benches in 1984, to the Full Members Cup Final in 1986, to Wembley and then Fulham Broadway in 1997, to nights out in Blackpool, Scarborough and Brighton, to Stuttgart in 2004, to Bolton in 2005, to Depeche Mode at Wembley in 2006, to Moscow in 2008, to Munich in 2012 and Elizabeth Fraser at the Royal Festival Hall a month or so later, to Amsterdam in 2013, to Jerusalem and Bethlehem in 2015 and to New Order in Brixton in the same year, to Baku in 2017, and all points north, south, east and west in between, from “They’ll have to come at us now” to “Come on my little diamonds”, it has been a fucking pleasure.

We were back on the road at 10am and it didn’t seem too long before I had turned off the M1 at Chesterfield – the town’s crooked spire looking quite ridiculous – to approach Sheffield via the A61. I was aware that Sheffield was a city built on hills and I had mentioned to PD that I fully expected us to meet the brink of a hill and then to see the city displayed before us. I was not wrong. The sight of Sheffield down below us in the bright sunshine was splendid. There was a fleeting moment of being excited about visiting a relatively unknown city. I hope that I never stop experiencing those thrills, however mundane it might seem to others.

In the week or so leading up to the game, I had contacted Simon once again. I last saw him at a mutual friend’s mother’s funeral in Rotherham in 2015, but we often chat about the performances of our two teams. A few years ago, Simon embarked on a massive cycle ride – from south to north – and cycled through my home village without either of us realising it. In this recent chat, Simon had recommended the “Golden Lion” on London Road as being “away-fan-friendly” but I didn’t fancy getting there too soon in case this wasn’t the case.

So, my plan had always been to stop off en route to Bramall Lane and to drop into a local pub away from the madding crowd for a while. We did so at “The Abbey” pub at Woodseats, just as the road continued its slow march towards the city centre.

It was midday. We were ridiculously early for the 5.30pm kick-off, but we very content and happy to kill a few hours in this pub before getting closer to the ground. I soon texted Simon to say that we were plotted up at “The Abbey” and – typical – he said that it had been his local when he had lived nearby a few years previously. PD sank some lagers, I sank some “Diet Cokes” and we kept an eye on the events at Ibrox.

At around 2.30pm, I drove the last couple of miles into the city.

Sheffield is not a city that I know too well. There were visits to Hillsborough in 1985, 1986 and in 1996 and that sole match at Bramall Lane in 2006.

In previous editions of these match reports, I have called Sheffield “the forgotten football city” and it still feels to me that this rings true, and probably not just to me. The city’s two clubs are big – if not massive – yet the city has experienced just three Premier League seasons since Sheffield Wednesday dropped out of the top flight in the year 2000; Sheffield United in 2020/21, 2021/22 and now in 2023/24.

Sheffield Wednesday’s last major honour was the League Cup in 1991, their only success since an FA Cup win in 1935 and Sheffield United’s last honour was the Football League Championship in 1925.

It feels like the city is in desperate need of a footballing renaissance.

The brief drive to my parking spot at a local school took me right past the “Golden Lion” pub. Just after 12.45pm, PD got drinks in. The boozer was full of Sheffield United fans, many wearing colours, and the walls were plastered with memorabilia. We zipped into the beer garden where two Chelsea supporters were waiting for my arrival. Tommie Senior and Tommie Junior – aged just four – were over from Los Angeles for a couple of games. I had sorted tickets for them for the Everton game, but they had managed to find tickets by themselves for this game.

We had a good old chat and waited for others to arrive. Deano, Dave and Gary – from Lancashire – joined us, along with a few more semi-familiar Chelsea faces, and then Simon arrived. It was lovely to see him again.

So here we all were; Chelsea fans from the West Country, Chelsea fans from Lancashire, Chelsea fans from California and a Sheffield United fan from Sheffield. It was a fine pre-match.

I explained the lyrics to Tommie of the Sheffield United “hymn” that would undoubtedly be aired during the game. Teaching a guy from Los Angeles about gallons of Magnet, pinches of snuff and greasy chip butties was perhaps one of my most testing conversations of recent seasons.

We set off for the ground in good time. I wanted to circumnavigate the stadium, no doubt like I did with Simon in 2006, and I wanted to take a few photographs of course. We walked across the car park where Yorkshire once played cricket until the main stand, now the Tony Currie Stand, was constructed in 1975. Until then, Bramall Lane was an oddly-lopsided ground, similar to the one at Northampton Town, hosting both cricket and football.

Simon told me that he had recently completed some research for a local website detailing the football heritage of Sheffield. Sheffield FC, located a few miles to the south, are the oldest football club in the entire world that is still in existence. They date from 1857. Nearby Hallam FC is third on that list, formed three years later.

Sheffield has so much football history, though very little recent silverware.

I loved the colours and the architecture at Bramall Lane, the old turnstiles, the angles, the red bricks, the signs and the way it feels like a part of the community. Simon lamented the facilities in The Kop though, where at half time you have to make a decision whether to use the toilets or get some refreshments. The queues are too long to do both.

As we turned a corner we wished each other well and said our goodbyes.

There is always a certain nervousness as I approach the stewards at the away turnstiles, but after I opened up my camera bag, the young lad made a comment that pleased me.

“Ah, a camera. Take some good photos.”

If only this attitude existed elsewhere.

The away concourse was packed, and the youngsters in our support seemed to be on the very cusp of throwing their beer everywhere. I nervously edged my way through, shielding the camera as I went. The 5.30pm kick off – ridiculous, thank you Footballing Gods – had obviously enabled many in our support to get tanked up from late morning.

I soon found our seats near the front. I soon asked a friend to take a photo of Alan and little old me to celebrate our Chelsea anniversary.

Lots of faces nearby. Lots of bevvied-up faces too. Fackinell.

It was obvious from the off that the gate would be several thousand shy of the capacity, a shame. There were swathes of empty seats in The Kop at the other end of the stadium. Bramall Lane is a neat enough stadium, but its single tiered stands on three sides do not give it much of a presence. I wondered if there were plans to enlarge the Tony Currie Stand. The pitch is set back from the pitch and there is certainly room in the car park behind. Our end was the only double-decked stand, but our support was stretched out in the entirety of the lower, and I suspected that it would be difficult to generate much noise.

The team? Thiago Silva returned, but alas there was no Malo Gusto.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher – Palmer

Jackson

The five of us were lined up in Row G as below :

Gal, John, me, Al, PD.

Sheffield United featured the wonderfully-named Bogle and Trusty, and also Brereton, the Chilean international from Stoke.

Bloody hellfire, duck.

The teams entered the pitch and the locals joined in with their hymn.

“You fill up my senses
Like a gallon of Magnet.
Like a packet of Woodbines.
Like a good pinch of snuff.
Like a night out in Sheffield.
Like a greasy chip butty.
Like Sheffield United
Come fill me again.”

With the sun shining above, the game began.

We attacked The Kop and began brightly enough. Noni Madueke made a few forceful runs out wide and at least one took him deep inside the Sheffield United box. I captured our first real shot in anger, one from the raiding Cole Palmer that was blocked.

A new song, but quite irritating too.

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

6/10.

After just eleven minutes, Conor Gallagher dropped a high ball from a corner on our right into a dangerous area of the box and to our amazement, Silva was completely unmarked and able to calmly side-foot the ball in on the volley.

I forget who it was now, but one of my favourite sporting comments came from somebody who, when talking about cricket, wished that, as a batter, he was able to face his own bowling. On this occasion, such was the lack of resistance, it looked like Chelsea attacking a Chelsea defence.

Sheffield United 0 Chelsea1.

Easy.

Alan : “They’ll have to cum at us naa.”

Chris : “Cum on me little diamunds.”

The away choir rattled the home crowd.

“Just like London, your city is blue.”

This seemed odd to me, as I still remember the titanic battles with Sheffield Wednesday back in the mid-‘eighties, and I wasn’t particularly happy that we were now siding with Wednesday. Old habits and all that.

We are a funny bunch, us football fans.

We all hoped to put a stranglehold on the game, but this is still a fragile team. Just like in 2006, we didn’t get at them. If anything, the home team came at us. The sun disappeared behind the clouds and we struggled to shine. Our passing was laboured and there was not enough bite in midfield nor movement in attack.

I was just about to praise the super-cool Silva for effortlessly dealing with an attack a few yards away when the same player inadvertently played a suicide ball to Oli McBurnie. The ball was passed to Senor Brereton but Moises Caicedo was suitably placed to deflect the effort away from Petrovic.

Phew.

The diminutive but busy Gustavo Hamer forced a fine save from Petrovic. The away support sighed with worry.

On the half-hour and with our chances drying up, the home team pounced. That man Hamer played in Bogle, running free, and from an angle he slashed the ball into the net, beating Petrovic easily at the near post.

Sheffield United 1 Chelsea 1.

Oh God.

The Blades in the main stand to our right sharpened their tongues and aimed some vitriol back at us.

“Just like Sheffield, your city is red.”

Righty-oh.

We countered with a few breaks, but it was all so unconvincing. The first-half petered out amidst moans in the away end.

At the break, the woman behind me – who had been slumped with her head in her hands for fifteen minutes, the victim of too many pre-match drinks – summed up the mood in the away end.

She was sick.

Luckily, Gary, John and I – who would have been in the line of fire – were away from the torrent as it cascaded down the terrace steps.

The second-half began and the temperature had noticeably dropped as the evening drew on. Sadly, it was the home team who went for the jugular. I wasn’t sure where Simon was watching the game, but he must have been happy with his team’s showing. They peppered our goal with a few efforts.

We retaliated with a couple of efforts; a header from Silva at a corner, a drive from Madueke.

“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”

On sixty-six minutes, the relatively quiet Palmer played the ball wide to Madueke and as he drove on and then twisted inside, I prepared my camera for a hopeful money shot. He shot, as did I. The ball fizzed past Ivo Grbic and I snapped away, screaming no doubt, as Madueke ran towards us.

Sheffield United 1 Chelsea 2.

Grbic then saved a good effort from distance from Palmer. A goal then, surely, would have killed the game.

Palmer was replaced by Carney Chukwuemeka.

Later, Madueke was replaced by Mykhailo Mudryk.

On eighty-six minutes, a superb save at full stretch from Petrovic kept a looping header out. It was one of the saves of the season, a magnificent stop.

I had been watching Benoit Badiashile and Cesare Casadei warming up near us on the touchline, but I was shocked to see them brought on so late in the game; Badiashile replaced Cucarella, Casadei replaced Jackson. I guess the idea was to pack our defensive lines full of taller players, but it smacked of desperation from my viewpoint in the away end.

Lo and behold, on ninety-three minutes, a Sheffield United attack did not want to die and a ball was chipped into our box. It was headed away by Enzo but only to a Sheffield United player. His header was flicked on. My sixth-sense easily sensed the equaliser. The ball fell, too easily, at the feet of McBurnie who bundled the ball in from close in.

Sheffield United 2 Chelsea 2.

Bollocks.

The anger in the away end was palpable, yet I am afraid I have seen this all too often to get too down about dropped points.

The referee soon signalled the end of the game.

Not much of a game, not much of a match report.

We stayed in ninth place, just away from everything of note.

PD and I slowly trudged back to the car, and for a while the match-day traffic slowed my immediate progress south. As we crept out of Sheffield, we devoured some home-made sandwiches, and I badly needed that sustenance. The traffic soon cleared, and I made good time on the return leg. I had driven five-hundred and forty-four miles to the games in Exmouth and Sheffield and I soon fell asleep once I reached home at midnight.

We have a rest of eight days now. On Monday 15 April, we reconvene at Stamford Bridge for the visit of Everton. See you there.

Tales From A Long Day At The Start Of A Long Month

Posted on by
Reply

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 1 October 2022.

My alarm sounded at 6.45am.

Good morning universe.

Here I was, here we were, back in action after an enforced lay-off. Our last game was the home match with Salzburg some seventeen days ago. Yet in this new month of October we faced nine games in just twenty-nine days. The plan will be to try and attend all of them. We were to begin this manic month with a trip to Selhurst Park for a game with Crystal Palace.

My weekend had begun with yet another concert – my sixth in a summer and autumn of music – that involved an act that was around in 1982. On Friday, I saw Toyah perform at the local venue in Frome.

She had opened the set with “Good Morning Universe” and it was stuck in my mind as I drove home after the concert. And it evidently remained in my ahead until the next morning too.

Toyah was a huge name in the UK music scene from 1980 to 1982, but her stardom soon drifted. I had seen her perform to a pretty small crowd in Frome back in 2015, but her popular “Sunday Lunch” videos with husband Robert Fripp, since lockdown in 2020, have put her back into the public eye once again. For someone who is sixty-four, her show was full of energy. I enjoyed it. The venue was packed.

There was always a slight resemblance between Toyah and my first-ever girlfriend from the summer of 1982. Although I did not dwell too much on it at the time, it later dawned on me that Toyah had a lisp, and that my girlfriend had the slightest of lisps too. I was always so delighted that Toyah’s determination to overcome a speech impediment allowed her to fulfil her career path. Forty years on, my own speech impediment still rears its very ugly head at unsuspecting moments and I hate it now as I fucking hated it then.

As I watched the singer on stage in Frome, my mind kept catapulting me back to summer and early autumn some four decades ago.

Here comes another seamless slide into 1982/83.

My reflective look at “the worst season of them all” continues with two Second Division games from forty years ago.

On Saturday 18 September, Chelsea played Oldham Athletic at Stamford Bridge. This game was notable as marking the debut of firebrand striker David Speedie who we had acquired from Barnsley for £80,000 in the previous May. I honestly cannot remember why his first start was delayed. The new boy got off to a flier, scoring two with a goal in each half. The attendance was 10,263. I remember being disappointed with this gate but philosophical too. In those days, such a gate was often reached by a few of the smaller clubs in the then First Division. My diary noted that I was “pleased that we thrashed Oldham 2-0” and I doubt that I was being ironic. A win, any win, in those forlorn days was definitely a thrashing. Trust me.

A week later, Chelsea travelled up to Hillsborough to play Sheffield Wednesday, who were always one of the bigger and more-fancied sides in the division at that time. The team remained unchanged from the Oldham game. The youngster Steve Francis in goal. A back four of Micky Nutton, Gary Chivers, Micky Droy and Chris Hutchings. A midfield of Mike Fillery, John Bumstead, Tony McAndrew and Paul Canoville. The striking partnership of Colin Lee and David Speedie upfront. The new season’s starting striker Pop Robson was already – ominously – relegated to a substitute role. A pretty decent attendance of 18,833 assembled for this game. Sadly, the home team went ahead after just twelve minutes and scored two more goals in the second period before two late Chelsea strikes from Fillery and Lee probably gave the result a much closer ending than it deserved.

I can confirm that I was at home that afternoon, listening to the score updates on Radio Two, because I can remember what was happening elsewhere at other games in England on that particular afternoon. It turned out to be a Saturday for the record books. As always, the striking music that heralded “Sports Report” at five o’clock, followed by the measured tones of James Alexander Gordon as he read out the day’s results, was the highlight of the afternoon. The Scot’s raising or falling intonation would allow the listener to know the result even before the scores were completed. He was a master of his craft.

“Sheffield Wednesday – rising – three, Chelsea – falling – OH SHIT WE’VE LOST – two.”

On this particular day, throughout the Football League, it was raining goals. We have not witnessed the like of it in English football ever since. The First Division led the way. In its eleven games, a mammoth fifty goals were scored.

Aston Villa 2 Swansea City 0

Brighton 1 Birmingham City 0

Coventry 4 Everton 2

Liverpool 5 Southampton 0

Manchester United 0 Arsenal 0

Norwich City 1 West Brom 3

Notts County 0 Ipswich Town 6

Stoke City 4 Luton Town 4

Tottenham 4 Nottingham Forest 1

Watford 8 Sunderland 0

West Ham 4 Manchester City 1

Meanwhile, in Division Three, Doncaster Rovers walloped Reading 7-5 at home. However, one Reading player scored four and still ended up on the losing team. His name? Kerry Dixon.

Chelsea’s start to the new campaign had been fair-to-middling. Nothing more. After seven league games, we had won two, drawn three and lost two. It was hardly inspiring stuff from a team that had finished in twelfth position the previous season. But they were my team, my club, and I loved them dearly. On the near horizon was a trip to Stamford Bridge to see Chelsea play Leeds United and, even forty years later, the thrill of the anticipation of that match still resonates.

As I have often documented, a trip to Crystal Palace’s stadium, deep in the hinterlands of South London, is always a troublesome one. I had been monitoring the best way in for a few days and all of the technical aids at my disposal were adamant that after collecting PD and Glenn, and finally, Lordy, the quickest route would be along the M4. So, this was what I did. Lordy was picked-up at 8.30am, but on nearing Swindon, our world caved in. There was a diversion ahead and so I was forced first south and then north of the motorway along smaller roads. It probably cost us an hour.

At Reading Services, I reset my sat-nav and it was sending me right into the heart of London rather than around the M25.

I drove on.

The route in was familiar. It took me along the A4, up to the junction with the North End Road, past those familiar Chelsea match day pubs. It even took me along Lillee Road, only a few yards from where I normally park for home games. But then, with the realisation that the national train strike had forced thousands onto the road network, our plans were hit hard again. Our slow drive through Fulham took the best part of an hour. We were not aided by some very slow changing temporary traffic lights just before Wandsworth Bridge. Eventually, around five-and-a-half bastard hours after leaving sleepy Somerset, we were parked up at my JustPark spot on Woodville Road with the massive TV pylon that dominates that hilly part of South London clearly visible yet still over two miles away. This huge structure was the tallest in London until as recently as 1990. We had given up on getting a drink before the game, but as we headed towards the already overflowing “Prince George”, we spotted a few friends drinking on the pavement outside a small jerk chicken café. We crossed the road to join them.

Rachel from Devon and Donna from Somerset were there. Rob from South West London was there, but without his mate Bob who was in Somerset watching his local team Waltham & Hersham in the FA Cup against Taunton Town. He has evidently reached that key stage – “local non-league team over Chelsea” – before me but I know that time will come for me too.

Drinks were guzzled. A blue flare was let off on the pavement outside the pub opposite. PD and Parky shot off to collect a ticket. Glenn and I set off just before 2.30pm to sort out tickets too.

By 2.40pm, I was in the queue for the Arthur Wait.

“Makes a bloody change to get to a game at Selhurst Park and it’s not pissing with rain.”

There was the usual bag check. While I waited in line, I spotted a listing of “prohibited items” on a poster next to the turnstile. Featured was an image of a camera with a “detachable lens” and the cold sweats came on. I had memories of the last encounter with Crystal Palace, at Wembley, and we all know how that ended. Thankfully, my camera was allowed in.

I shuffled through the packed concourse.

Selhurst Park. If it didn’t exist, you’d have to invent it.

However, for all of its cramped inefficiencies, people would soon lament its passing should it ever be replaced by a single-tiered stadium – “soul-less bowl” is the go-to phrase, eh? – either on the same site or elsewhere.

Each stand is different. Opposite our viewing area is the main stand, an Archibald Leitch original, eerily similar to the Johnny Haynes Stand at Fulham, and thus, the old East Stand at Stamford Bridge. To the right, the slight tier of seats of the Whitehorse Lane Stand, with ugly executive boxes above. In the corner between the two stands is the platform where Bex and his cohorts appeared in the original “The Firm” film from 1989. To the left, the steep two-tiered Holmesdale Road Stand, with its curved roof, a throwback to the Edwardian era but the newest of all the current stands. The Arthur Wait Stand was once all standing, and it remains a dark and brooding beast of a stand. The three thousand Chelsea fans, as always, were to be based here, though this hasn’t always been the case. The sightlines aren’t great. In fact, with my position in row eight, down low, I soon decided early on to try not to snap too many photos since my view of the game would be so poor.

A few friends spoke of similarly difficult journeys to the stadium. As kick-off approached, I spotted many clusters of empty seats in the home stands. Palace surely have a more local fan base than us, but I suppose the train strike must have had an adverse effect on numbers. It is a pet peeve that not all attendances are published either online or in the Sunday ‘papers these days. It has all changed after all of those games without fans in the nightmarish seasons of 2019/20 and 2020/21. Not even Chelsea’s home programme includes attendance figures anymore. So, maybe we’ll not know the official attendance for a while, anyway.

This annoys the fuck out of me.

My spreadsheet has half-empty columns.

And what is a world with half-empty columns, eh?

Kick-off approached. The teams entered from that far corner. It suddenly dawned on me that we would be wearing that God-awful away strip. Overhead, there were clouds but there was no hint of rain. I was glad that a rain jacket was left back in the car. I was wearing a subtle-coloured Marc O’Polo sweatshirt; an homage to one I that bought in 1986 or so when that particular brand was much-loved by football fanciers at the time. If the 1986 version was apple green, this one was more mint.

There was a minute of silence in remembrance of Queen Elizabeth II and this was followed by a hearty rendition of “God Save The King.”

This, of course, was Graham Potter’s first league game in charge.

In a “Costa Coffee” on the walk to the stadium, I had briefly spoken to fellow-fan Andy about the switch.

“Is Potter an upgrade on Tuchel?”

I just shrugged my shoulders, unsure.

The game kicked-off and it was clear that we were playing four at the back.

Kepa

James – Fofana – Silva – Chilwell

Jorginho – Kovacic

Then God knows what…

Sterling – Havertz – Aubameyang – Mount

From my position down low, it wasn’t clear.

The game began and we dominated the first – er – seven, count’em, minutes. Thiago Silva was our main pass master, touching the ball often, and looking to play balls in to others. However, the home team had hardly touched the bloody ball when Wesley Fofana gave up possession too easily and the ball quickly found Jordan Ayew. I watched in horror as his perfectly whipped-in cross dropped perfectly at the foot of Odsonne Edouard and Kepa was beaten. Sadly, I caught this goal on camera, but thankfully the image is too blurred for my stringent quality assurance department to allow it to be shared.

It was a killer cross. But where was our defence? Answers on a postcard.

Michael Olise impressed me with his direct play in front of me, but it was Eberechi Ebe who then forced Kepa into action.

With a quarter of an hour gone, we had no attempts on target. Then, an easy header looped up easily into Vicente Guaita’s reach.

Gal was getting annoyed with Aubameyang, though to be fair, the striker had not received much service. It’s difficult when players from rivals find themselves at Stamford Bridge. I know full well that I am going to find it hard to warm to Aubameyang. Is it irrational? Who knows? Gal, from his words – that were certainly annoying the bloke behind me – it will be longer for him to approve of the former Arsenal striker.

Put it this way, at this moment in time, Gal rates Mark Falco more than Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang.

There was a header from Mason Mount that flashed wide of the near post.

Halfway through the first period, I leant forward to chat to Calvin : “this is all a bit boring mate.”

Sterling hit the base of a post but I think the move was offside anyway, as was another that quickly followed.

This was hardly inspiring stuff.

The sun was out by now and it was surprisingly hot on this October afternoon.

The central section of around four hundred of their “ultras” – yeah, I know – were now jumping up and down to a chant that was so loud that I couldn’t hear it.

They looked like they were doing some sort of silent flash mob thing.

Bless’em.

(I know they are doing their best to get the atmosphere going, God knows we need it in this bloody country, and they are easy targets…but why just can’t people get behind their teams without this fucking contrived nonsense?)

In their defence, they did produce a few banners in the first-half about the lack of fan involvement in our national game but I am not sure who this was aimed at.

I hope there are similar banners throughout Europe as we rush headlong into the monster of the Qatar World Cup.

There next followed some confusion and more than a little worry. One on one, Silva appeared to hold back Ayew. The defender was booked. VAR then signalled a possible red card. Having not seen the apparent swipe of the ball by Silva’s hand, this was all a bit difficult to work out. Anyway, panic over, no red card.

“Think we got away with that” I said to John, two seats along.

With around ten minutes of the first half remaining, a fine move brought us some cheer. A diagonal found the leap from Silva – strangely well-advanced – and his header found Aubameyang. His quick turn, a swivel, and a shot was exquisite.

GET IN.

The bloke behind might well have ruffled Gal’s hair.

I am sure it wasn’t, but it felt like Aubameyang’s first touch.

It certainly seemed to me that it was an unlikely goal. Unsuspected. Out of the, er, blue.

Chelsea roared : “How shit must you be? Our number nine scored.”

In the closing moments of the half, a back-pass to Gaita was punished with a direct free-kick inside the box. More anguish from the under-performing Mount as his shot cleared the near post. There had been a lovely loose run from Havertz, drifting with ease, past several defenders and I was prepared to celebrate one of the great goals but the shot drifted wide of the far post.

There was time for a quick photo-call with Lordy at half-time.

Soon into the second-half, Potter replaced Jorginho with Ruben Loftus-Cheek.

His slow trudge across the pitch suggested to me – maybe it was just me, I am sure it was – that he realised that he had eventually been found out.

We had a couple of half-chances as the game continued; Chilwell over, a shot blocked from Havertz. Sterling was as lively as anyone, but our link-up play was a little too laboured for my liking, and the away crowd was getting a little frustrated.

As for the defenders, James was the star. I hardly noticed Wilfred Zaha at all.

An upturn in our form was mirrored in the Arthur Wait.

“On when the blues go steaming in, oh when the blues go steaming in, I want to be in that number, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

“Oh when the blues.”

“Oh when the blues.”

“Go steaming in.”

“Go steaming in.”

“I want to be in that number, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

“Oh when the blues.”

“Oh when the blues.”

“Go steaming in.”

“Go steaming in.”

“I want to be in that number, oh when the blues go steaming in.”

It was deafening. Top work everyone.

This was followed by an equally loud “Ten men went to mow.”

Lovely stuff.

With twenty minutes, two superb saves from Kepa, foiling Zaha on both occasions.

On seventy-six minutes, a double switch.

Conor Gallagher for Havertz.

Armando Broja for Aubameyang.

The play creaked along.

A look towards Alan.

“Shite, mate.”

He nodded.

I spent some moments preparing an epitaph to post on “Facebook” at the final whistle.

On eight-five minutes, a final substitution.

Christian Pulisic for the poor Mount.

The epitaph was nearing completion.

“That was a hard watch. Milan must be quaking in their boots. At least Frome Town won.”

Just at that moment, maybe two seconds later, a sideways push of the ball from Pulisic to Gallagher.

A touch, a shot.

I watched the ball fly into the goal despite what looked like a valiant attempt by Guaita to claw it over. His fingertips could not deny us a goal.

I roared.

The away end roared.

Fackinell.

Alan : “they’ll have to come at us now.”

Chris : “come on my little diamonds.”

For the second time in eight months, a last minute goal at Selhurst Park had sent us into a frenzy.

At the final whistle, Gal and his nemesis – at it like hammer and tongs in that feisty encounter in the first-half – embraced with smiles.

I thought to myself : “get a room, lads.”

This was a fortuitous win, no doubt. I am not going to enthuse too much about it. I have to say that I am particularly worried about our two games against Milan over the next week or so, but I am filled with a huge sense of anticipation too.

Maybe not as much as the Leeds game in 1982 but you catch my drift I am sure.

In reality, more than a few friends have admitted that if we do drop into the Europa League, at least we might get some good trips out of it.

“The final is in Budapest” Calvin had reminded me.

But it’s just the fear of getting humiliated against Milan that I fear most. Nobody wants that. They should be two huge games. I honestly can’t wait.

With traffic locked, we popped into a cheap and cheerful “Chicken Cottage” – they evidently love their chicken in around Selhurst Park – to let the flow ease up a little and eventually left Thornton Heath at 6.15pm. Via another diversion on the A303, I eventually reached home four hours later.

I had picked PD up at 8am. I had dropped him off at 10pm.

Just in time for “Match of the Day.”

Just right.

Next up, one of the Italian greats.

Chelsea versus Milan at Stamford Bridge.

I’m off to practice some Italian swear words.

See you on Wednesday evening.

Postscript :

The BBC recently took the shocking decision to drop the reading out of all of the classified football scores on Radio Five Live at five ‘clock every Saturday.

Words fail me.

Tales From Wednesday On Sunday

Posted on by
6

Chelsea vs. Sheffield Wednesday : 27 January 2019.

Sunday Six O’Clock.

Our match in the fourth round of the FA Cup against Sheffield Wednesday was to begin at 6pm. This was just a ridiculous time for a game of professional football. As I have mentioned before, there was a part of me that just wanted to swerve it. But this was the Cup. It wasn’t just any game. Regardless, it had felt bizarre to be collecting PD and then Parky for a game on a Sunday and saying to both of them “good afternoon “as they slipped into my car. It felt bizarre to be heading to London on the M4 midway through the afternoon. And it felt bizarre to be entering the pub – “The Famous Three Kings” – at 3pm.

And it certainly grated to be watching a London derby between Crystal Palace and Tottenham on TV which had kicked-off at 4pm. Why the bloody hell that one could not have started later – virtually all the spectators would be back home by 10pm – and we could have had the earlier spot is beyond me. But it is further damning evidence that the Football Association only ever plays lip service to the needs of the match-going fan. Of course, I felt for the away supporters – six thousand strong – more than anyone who would not be back in South Yorkshire by midnight at the very earliest. The fixture was so very wrong on so many levels. I’m getting irate just typing this.

I always remember that in the middle of the match programme of my very first game in 1974, the programme editor had debated the spectacle of Sunday football, which had been trialed for a number of reasons that season, and there was a selection of letters from Chelsea fans both in the “for” and “against” camp. Those “against” often cited religious reasons – “the day of rest” et al – and so heaven knows what they would have thought about a Sunday evening kick-off.

But the three of us were there.

We decided that, should we be successful against Sheffield Wednesday, our favoured draw in the Fifth Round would be an away game at Doncaster Rovers, but please not at six o’clock on a Sunday please. We briefly mentioned Millwall. No thanks. There were comments about the scrapping between the ne’er do wells of Millwall and Everton the previous day. None of us bother with the fighting these days – well, I never did, what is the point of hitting someone who simply does not like the same team as myself?  – but we had to admit that Everton earned some Brownie Points for heading straight into the eye of the needle in “Deep Sahf.” Not many firms do that. But rather them than me. We have only played away at Millwall four times in my life and I have mitigating circumstances for avoiding all of them. In 1976, I was eleven. In 1984, I was scared shitless. In 1990, I was in Canada. In 1995, my car was knackered. Maybe next time, there has to be a next time, I will run out of excuses.

We met up with a few others, and settled to watch Palace humble Tottenham with two first-half goals. We took especial glee when Tottenham missed a penalty. I roared as if we had scored a goal in fact, and the pub roared alongside me. It wasn’t their week for penalties, was it? Over in the far corner of the pub was a group of well-dressed Sheffield Wednesday fans – virtually all males, but a few kids too – and I spoke to a couple of them. One lad had never visited Stamford Bridge before. How could he? He was about twenty years old, and their last visit was in the last few days of the twentieth century. It was never like this in the ‘eighties.

The ‘Eighties.

It seems odd now, and especially to our legions of new fans, but for two or three seasons the rivalry in the mid-‘eighties between Chelsea and Sheffield Wednesday gave the matches between the two teams a very special edge. Sheffield Wednesday have always been a big club – the bigger of the two teams from the steel city – but in my first ten years of being a Chelsea fan, we never met since they were mired in the old Third Division. When they eventually won promotion to the Second Division in 1979, just as we were relegated from the First, we would play them incessantly for the best part of the next twenty seasons.

The rivalry built as Chelsea, with perfect dagger-in-the-heart timing, overcame all-season-long league leaders Wednesday on the very last day of the iconic 1983/84 season to become Second Division Champions, and the mutual dislike continued the next season as we were embroiled in a famous trio of games in the League Cup quarter-finals. I went to both the league games in 1984/85, but did not attend any of the League Cup games due to finances and travel limitations. But I certainly watched on with glee as we came back from trailing 3-0 at half-time to lead 4-3 at Hillsborough in the first replay – it was Paul Canoville’s finest hour – only for Doug Rougvie to scythe down a Wednesday player in front of our travelling support at the fated Leppings Lane to force a second replay. We won that game 2-1, and we were heading to our first semi-final of any description in thirteen long seasons. In those days, under the tutelage of Howard Wilkinson – before he was given his “Sergeant Wilko” moniker by the Leeds fans, with whom he won a League Championship in 1992 – Sheffield Wednesday were known for rugged defending, no frills, no thrills, route one football, a Northern Wimbledon. In 1983/84 and in 1984/85, our more skilful and entertaining football gave us a deserved edge. We had Pat Nevin. They had Gary Shelton. It was simply no contest in the entertainment stakes. Wednesday were Friday to our Crusoe, Watson to our Holmes, always subservient. We dominated them and they disliked us for it, though there was never a Leeds level of pure hatred.

They had good gates at Hillsborough though. I remember being annoyed when our league game at Hillsborough in 1984/85 attracted a whopping 29,000 but the return fixture down at Chelsea only drew 17,000. I remember feeling let down by my fellow fans. And annoyed with myself for missing the two League Cup games at Chelsea earlier that season. A few grainy photographs of that day, inside and out, are featured in this report.

Only on rare occasions did they have the better of us. They prevailed over us during our League Cup semi-final in 1990/91, when we assembled at noon on a Sunday – another silly time, see above – and the virtually silent crowd watched as we were ripped apart by the same free-kick routine within the same half of the first game. It was a massive anti-climax that one, especially having beaten Tottenham in the previous round, as mentioned in my previous match report. We did get some sort of revenge during the 1993/94 season when we beat them away in the FA Cup on the way to our first FA Cup Final in twenty-four years. But we don’t talk about that.

So, Wednesday. Yeah, we remember you well.

I can certainly remember chatting on many occasions to a lad called Dave during my time at college in Stoke, and he was a Sheffield Wednesday supporter, from Yorkshire, and we always kept it light-hearted, even when – after too many pints in our students’ union – he accosted me, semi-seriously, and said –

“You support a fascist football club.”

It was the era of racism, hooliganism, political extremism, the miners’ strike, Thatcher and Scargill, and Dave was – like many at my college, in fact – of a socialist persuasion, and I could not summon the energy nor wit to defend my club, so I just retorted –

“Yeah, and you support a fucking shit one.”

I remember he simply smiled and hugged me.

Those were the days.

Sheffield Wednesday. Bloody hell, where have you been? It reminded me of that school friend that I once had – not a close friend – but a protagonist for the same starting spot in the school football team, and a rival in a pathetic pursuit of the prettiest girl in class, who had suddenly moved a few miles and, as a result, had been forced to change schools. I’d see him every day for four years, then all of a sudden, nothing. You wonder what sort of life he was living. In the case of Sheffield Wednesday, it has been a case of life in a parallel universe with trips for them to Yeovil Town, Burton Albion, Southend United and Bristol City rather than trips to Manchester United, Juventus, Bayern Munich and Paris Saint Germain for us.

Two Ghosts.

The three of us left the pub and caught the tube to Fulham Broadway. We changed onto the District Line at Earl’s Court. Standing on the platform waiting for the Wimbledon train always takes me back to my first visit to Stamford Bridge. I wonder if my grandfather and his pal stood on that same platform on their sole visit to Stamford Bridge in the ‘twenties. It is quite likely. Outside the Oswald Stoll Foundation, while PD and Parky went on to the stadium for another pint, I stopped for a bite to eat at the busy match-day pop-up café. Damn it, they were out of pie and mash, but I devoured a salt beef – and gherkin – roll, as I sat outside for a few moments. A slug of away supporters marched past, full of noise, but no maliciousness, singing the praises of former Chelsea youngster Sam Hutchinson, who was now a regular in their blue and white stripes. I looked up at a tablet of stone whose words commemorated a visit by the Duchess of Wessex to the Oswald Stoll buildings – for ex-servicemen – in 2009. It mentioned a respect for the “fortitude and resilience” of those soldiers of both World Wars. I looked up and saw the sepia figures – “ghosts” – of Ted Draper and Ted Knapton marching purposefully towards Stamford Bridge for the 1920 FA Cup Final.

The salt beef was thick and succulent, the gherkin was juicy, the brioche roll was soft. The evening was getting darker. I needed to move on.

Six Thousand.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 5.30pm. Tottenham would soon be out of their second cup competition within the space of seventy-two beautiful hours. What a lovely hors-d’oeuvre before the main meal, a high tea at six.  For the second successive game, Parky was forced out of his seat in The Shed. For the second successive game, I let him swap with me. For the second successive game I was behind the goal in the Matthew Harding Upper. With hindsight, I was incorrect in saying that my last game in that section before Thursday was the 1995 game with Bruges. It was in fact a year later against, of all teams, Sheffield Wednesday, when their bright orange shirts matched the rust of the Lots Road gasworks that were visible in the distance behind the slowly rising Shed. Facing me was a wall of six thousand away supporters, already noisy. There would be no doubt that this would be their day, their noise would dominate. We had matched Tottenham on Thursday, but I doubted if we could counter the Wednesdayites on this occasion. There was a smattering of flags draped over The Shed Balcony. Their nickname is due to the part of Northern Sheffield where one of their first grounds was placed, Owlerton.

“Salisbury Owls.”

“Worksop Owls.”

“Chapeltown Owls.”

Walking up from the city’s train station in the middle of Sheffield to Hillsborough on that wintry day in 1984, I was surprised how far out I had to walk, a good three miles. In the pub, we had admitted that however lengthy and arduous a replay would be, we would nonetheless go. Hillsborough is still a classic stadium – my last visit was in 1996 when we toppled them off the top of the Premier League with a very fine 3-0 win – and it is such a shame that the name will always and forever be tainted with what happened on Saturday 15 April 1989.

I soon spotted the self-styled “Tango Man”, bare chested and tattooed, in the front row.

Two Teams.

The players were announced. In addition to Sam Hutchinson – admirably recovered from a seemingly-career ending injury in our colours – the Wednesday team included familiar names Keiren Westwood, Steven Fletcher and George Boyd. The Chelsea starting eleven included Willy Cabellero – on the cover of the programme – Ethan Ampadu in the deep midfield berth, Callum Hudson-Odoi on the right, and a debut for our new striker Gonzalo Higuain. Supporters of a nervous disposition must have been squirming at the sight of current boo boys Marcos Alonso and Willian appearing on the same flank. I spotted Gianfranco Zola pose for photographs with a couple of young lads sporting Cagliari scarves in the front few rows of the Matthew Harding Lower. I get that, I like that. Despite no apparent link with us, Cagliari – because of Zola – will always be linked with Chelsea. One day I might wear my royal blue and white Moscow Dynamo scarf to a game. In the upper reaches of the East were hundreds of empty seats. Also – incredibly so, I think – five corporate boxes in a row, stretching for fifty yards or more, were completely devoid of spectators, including the one belonging to our owner. On the pitch, on Holocaust Memorial Day, was a “Say No To Antisemitism” banner.

The First Forty-Five.

Songs about Blades dominated the first few minutes as the away team carved out an early chance, with Adam Reach hardly testing Caballero from an angle down below me. We could not believe that Westwood in the Shed End goal was wearing a dark kit, virtually the same as the outfield players’ uniforms. Brian Moore would be turning in his grave; he used to love a clash of kits to obsess about on “The Big Match.” It is no bloody wonder my generation struggles with the styles and techniques of modern day football. Instead of talking catenaccio, liberos, wingless wonders and total football, Brian Moore and Jimmy Hill were forever rabbiting about teams having the same colour socks.

We dominated the early stages, and Higuain – hair thinning to match his once considerable paunch – did well to engineer a shot which drifted wide of the far post from close in. Mateo Kovacic looked lively – for once, cough, cough – as he chased balls and tackled well.

With about twenty minutes played, the ball was played through to Reach by Fletcher, and Ampadu robbed him of the ball. The referee Andre Marriner pointed straight at the spot and I immediately doubted my sanity and football-spectating skills. Surely he had got the ball? While Ethan was down, clutching his shin, and with trainers on, it dawned on us that VAR was being called into action. Marriner was wrong, no penalty. With that Marriner gave himself a yellow card and booked himself in at his local “Specsavers.”

Not long after, a move inside their box came to an end when we lost the ball to a challenge, some hundred yards away from me. There was a delayed reaction from our players, the referee and our supporters alike, but Marriner signalled towards the spot. Was VAR used? I had no idea.

“Quite a week for penalties” I whispered to the chap to my right.

Willian seemed to offer the ball to new boy Higuain, but it was Willian who placed the ball above Ossie’s ashes. Another staccato step, another successful penalty to us.

Chelsea Sunday 1 Sheffield Wednesday 0.

Out came the chorus from The Shed.

“VAR is fookin’ shit, VAR is fookin’ shit.”

Quite.

For all of the online and offline moans about Callum Hudson-Odoi, there was a considerable buzz when he had the ball at his feet. Despite our ridiculous amount of possession, we struggled to create many more chances of note. There was little service to Higuain. The away fans had provided a fair proportion of the entertainment in the first-half. There was even a Sheffield version of the Derby County chant that Frank Lampard loves so much.

“If you don’t fookin bounce, you’re a Blade.”

It must be a Derbyshire and South Yorkshire thing.

The Second Forty-Five.

The first real action of the second-half almost embarrassed Caballero, who scrambled back to protect his near post when a, presumably, miss-hit cross from the Wednesday right caught him unawares. It was only their second effort on goal the entire match.

Soon into the second period, we were treated to some sublime skill from Willian, who killed a ball lofted towards him with the outside of his right foot, before a “now you see it, now you don’t” shimmy took him away from his marker. He created enough space to send over a cross but Alonso wasted the opportunity. There was a wild shot from Kovacic shot which almost hit the roof above my head. I did notice on two occasions in quick succession a massive gap in the middle of their defensive third – enough for a game of bowls – but neither Higuain spotted it, nor our midfielders ran into it. At times, we chose to play the ball to the nearest man, the easiest option, rather than hit a killer ball into space.

There was a header from Higuain, just wide.

But the play was opening up on both flanks now; we were simply going around Sheffield Wednesday’s Siegfried Line. Willian and Hudson-Odoi were becoming the main players. Indeed, on sixty-four minutes, a great ball from Andreas Christensen released our Callum, who brought the ball down perfectly and turned inside with an ease of movement that defies description. His finish was almost a formality.

Chelsea Sundaes 2 Sheffield Puddings 0.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek replaced Ampadu, and Kovacic was realigned deeper. Still the pace of Callum and Willian had Wednesday chasing shadows. I did like the look of their diminutive number ten Barry Bannan, though. He was their best player by a country mile.

Higuain was replaced by Giroud with ten minutes to go. Jorginho replaced the quiet – again – Ross Barkley.

A pacey run from Hudson-Odoi and the ball was played in to Willian. An alert one-two with Giroud and the ball was side-footed, but with a firm prod, past Westwood.

GET IN.

Chelsea 3 Sheffield Wednesday 0.

Wednesday’s children were full of woe.

At last a forward pass from Jorginho tee’d up Giroud in the box but his over-ambitious bicycle kick was shinned wide.

Throughout the game, I had been warmed by the words issuing forth from a young lad – no more than ten or eleven – who was sat right behind me and who gave his father a running commentary.

“What are you DOING Willian? Why don’t we shoot more? No wonder we don’t score enough goals. Come on Chels!”

At the end of the game, as easy a match as I could ever imagine, I gathered my things and turned. I caught the father’s eye and said –

“Love your boy’s take on the game. A perfect mix of enthusiasm and frustration.”

Round Five.

Into the last sixteen we went, into Round Five, it had been an enjoyable evening.

There was a definite case of “After the Lord Mayor’s Show” after Thursday, but we could ask for no more from our players. I bumped into the trail of away supporters as I made my way slowly down the Fulham Road. They seemed a bit subdued. It is not surprising. I did not envy their trip home. I would be home, God-willing, at around 11pm.

Outside the town hall, I overheard a bloke who was chatting to someone on the ‘phone. He was a middle-aged Wednesdayite and philosophical.

“It was a good day out, that’s all.”

On Wednesday, the cups behind us and on hold for a while, we reconvene on the South Coast at Bournemouth.

I will see the lucky ones there.

1984/1985 : Kerry Dixon On The Prowl.

1990/1991 : A Rumbelows Cup Anti-Climax.

1996/1997 : The Shed Rises As Sheffield Steel Goes Rusty.

2018/2019 : A Willian Spot Kick.

2018/2019 : A Free-Kick In Front Of The Wednesday Away Support.

2018-2019 : The Debutant.

2018/2019 : Burst.

2018-2019 : Pace.

2018-2019 : Nike Football.

2018-2019 : The Third Goal.

2018-2019 : A Winning Smile.

2018-2019 : Together.

2018-2019 : Duel.

 

 

Tales From The Front Row

Posted on by
2

Chelsea vs. Derby County : 31 October 2018.

A Frank Fest.

During the day, I mentioned to a work colleague – fellow Chelsea fan Paul, who came up with us for the Huddersfield Town game last season – that I didn’t want the return to Stamford Bridge of Frank Lampard to dominate things too greatly throughout the evening’s game with Derby County. In 2017, Frank appeared at half-time against Swansea City, and everything on that day was nigh-on perfect. Tons of affection for Frank, flags in honour of him, and feelings between player and fans reciprocated nicely. He took the microphone, and his words were of love and appreciation. So, we have already experienced a “Frank Lampard Day” at Stamford Bridge, and I wasn’t too keen on things getting awkwardly out of control during the upcoming game. Frank was returning as a former hero, but as also a rival. The League Cup is not high on my list of priorities each season, but here was another game we needed to win. I had visions of it all going a bit OTT.

I said to Paul :

“We need to get behind our team. We need to win the game.”

But I knew how these things develop these days. I was sure that there would be songs for Frank Lampard throughout the game.

The Gang Of Five.

The Chuckle Bus was at capacity on the drive to London; PD, Sir Les, Lord Parky, Glenn and I were crammed inside as PD took over driving duties once again. There was the usual heavy traffic and we were not parked until around 6.30pm. There would only be time for a couple of liveners in “Simmons Bar” down at the bottom end of the North End Road, which was unsurprisingly busy, before the game. Of the five of us, only Glenn seemed super-excited about the evening’s match. Not that I was underwhelmed. Just not bitten by the same bug as Glenn. If anything, I was more excited about being able to watch the game from a slightly different perspective. As Derby County – some four thousand strong – had been given most of The Shed, Parky was bounced over to the West Lower. In a secret pact, the two of us had agreed to swap seats. I would be in row two of the West Lower, while he would be watching from my usual seat in row four of the Matthew Harding Upper. We decided to keep it a secret from Alan, PD and Glenn. In the bar, it was lovely to meet up with King Jim, among others, at a game again. Jim comes to the occasional match these days and it is always a pleasure to see him. There were people everywhere as I walked quickly towards Stamford Bridge. This was yet another full house at Stamford Bridge. Good efforts everyone.

Flags And Banners.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, the image of Frank Lampard on a banner – the same one as against Swansea City in 2017 – dominated the Matthew Harding to my left. It hung from the balcony, flanked by two other banners, although not all together at the same time.

“GOAL AFTER GOAL, GAME AFTER GAME” and “FOREVER A BLUE, FOREVER A LEGEND.”

And a legend he most certainly is. Our greatest ever player? Probably.

One Of Our Own.

Late on Tuesday night, just as I was finishing off my match report of the Burnley game, I heard through a Chelsea mate of mine that our former Chelsea player, youth team coach and manager Ken Shellito had sadly passed away. Ken had been a Facebook friend of mine for quite a few years, and although we rarely interacted, Ken seemed like a thoroughly decent man, and Chelsea through-and-through. I met him – very briefly – on two occasions. The first time was in 2008 after a CPO event in London when my friend Beth, from Texas – everyone knows Beth – and I enjoyed a few boozy hours in the company of some former players in a cosy boozer after the main event. Ken seemed overwhelmed by the attention and love that other fellow fans were showing him. He seemed humble and courteous. I only spoke to him for a few moments. I later saw him – maybe three years ago – in the Chelsea hotel before a game. Again, our meeting was fleeting. It is often said that had Ken Shellito not suffered a career-ending knee injury in the early ‘sixties, he would have been remembered as an England World Cup winner in 1966. Commentators from that era say his presence would have been assured. He was that good. In the end, he played just one game for England.

Growing up in the ‘seventies, I was aware of his presence at Chelsea as the youth team manager during our barren and financially-weakened years of 1975 to 1977. After Eddie McCreadie left our club before the start of the 1977/78 season – we were all mortified – the club turned to Ken Shellito to manage the team. Even though I was only twelve, I remember thinking that following McCreadie would be a tough act to follow. But our Ken did a reasonable job in his first season as we returned to the top flight for the first time since 1975. Pride of place were the two home victories against reigning English and European champions Liverpool. Everyone talks about the 4-2 FA Cup win in January, but just as impressive was the 3-1 league win in March, a game that I attended, and which fulfilled all my fantasies about Chelsea as unfancied underdog overcoming all of the odds. It was only my twelfth Chelsea game, but one which I wondered would ever be surpassed in terms of excitement and joy. I need not have worried, eh? In the following season, we suffered from the off and the club decided to sack Ken Shellito around the Christmas period. His Chelsea career was over. He spent many of the latter years in Malaysia with his wife Jeanie and young daughter. Until the end, he ran a training camp which I believe had links with Chelsea Football Club.

After the teams entered the pitch, and after there was a mention of Glenn Hoddle and his recent hospitalisation, and then the tragedy in Leicester involving the City chairman Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha, the players formed in the centre circle as an image of Ken Shellito was flashed up on the TV screens and we applauded the memory of both. It had been a horrid few days for us all.

I clapped heartily.

I knew him and yet I did not know him, but another loyal Chelsea servant and supporter has sadly passed.

Ken Shellito RIP.

The Team.

Manager Maurizio Sarri had unsurprisingly changed the Chelsea team for the visit of Derby County. In came a few squad players. Willy Caballero in goal. A back four of Davide Zappacosta, Andreas Christensen Gary Cahill and Emerson. A midfield three of Cesc Fabregas, N’Golo Kante and Mateo Kovacic. Up front were Willian, Alvaro Morata and Ruben Loftus-Cheek.

The Lowdown.

This was only my fourth game in the West Lower since its birth in 1997 and eventual completion in 2001. There had been previously been games against Coventry City in 2000, Leeds United in 2004 and Fulham in 2011. I was officially in row two, but the rows were staggered a little and I was effectively sat in the front row. I was as low down as I could possibly be. The view was far from great to be honest. It was lovely to see some players up close – in the first-half, Zappacosta, Loftus-Cheek and Kante especially – but I generally found it hard to concentrate as my perspective was so awful. Apart from a small wedge of around eight-hundred Chelsea fans in the south-east corner, where the away support is usually based, Derby had the entire end. In front of the Chelsea support, was a banner honouring Frank’s assistant.

“JODY MORRIS – CHELSEA THROUGH AND THROUGH.”

Jody’s story is pretty incredible. I remember seeing his debut in the 5-0 rout of Middlesbrough in 1996. He was quite a wild child in his youth. Who would ever have thought that he would develop into a respected coach? Certainly not me.

Soon into the game, a familiar face steadied herself, aided by a steward, and sat down in the front row a few seats away.

“Hiya Felicity.”

She looked fleetingly at me, but there was no reaction. She watched the entire game in silence, alone in her own world. Felicity used to watch the lads train at Harlington. She used to bring them cakes. I saw her, briefly, last season at a game and I was surprised to see that she still attends matches. I am sure she has some form of dementia, bless her, but it was a lift for me to see her still attending games, bedecked in her Chelsea coat.

I thought to myself : “Felicity. Chelsea through and through.”

Rammed.

The Shed was going to be the epicentre of any noise during the game. Derby had come in numbers. Four thousand? It seemed more like five thousand. They were making a din right from the start.

Derby have their own version of “the bouncy.”

“If you don’t fuckin’ bounce. If you don’t fuckin’ bounce you’re a red.”

They had one for Frank.

“Frankie Lampard is a ram. He hates Forest.”

And then one for us.

“Football in a library, tra la la la la.”

Déjà vu.

Here are some observations from our League Cup tie with Fulham in September 2011, which we narrowly won on penalties, and when I was also seated in the same section of Stamford Bridge.

“My seat was in row 6, all of the way down towards the Fulham fans in The Shed. I looked around and saw hundreds of unfamiliar faces. I heard a few foreign accents. I took a few photos of The Bridge from this new angle. I sat myself down – not much legroom – and prepared myself for a mind-numbingly quiet evening. It’s another cliché that the West Lower is one of more reserved parts of The Bridge. By the time of the kick-off at 7.45pm, the 3,500 away fans had all arrived and were singing their hearts out. The rest of the place took some time to fill up, but I was very pleasantly surprised to see few empty seats.”

“The Fulham fans were getting behind their team, singing a whole host of songs, some of which I had never heard before. In comparison, the West Stand was silent and the MHU barely murmured.”

“A few chances for both sides, but from my angle, I was struggling to make sense of the shape of the play.”

“If I am honest, I wasn’t enjoying the game. The Fulham fans were making too much noise and I was getting rather frustrated with the lack of support from the Chelsea fans around me. In the West lower, many couples weren’t even talking to each other, let alone getting behind the team via songs of encouragement. Despite the songs of derision cascading down on us from the away fans, I couldn’t bring myself to truly despise them, unlike the supporters of other teams. I tried to put myself in their shoes. It reminded me of life as a Chelsea fan in my youth, railing against the bigger teams, forever the underdog. Forever the underachiever.”

“The referee blew his whistle to end the 90 minutes and I inwardly groaned. I had been in purgatory for the whole game – surrounded by predominantly silent fans – and I was only able to yell out a few shouts of support on a few occasions throughout the duration.”

In 2018, seven years later, I experienced a lot of these same feelings.

The First-Half.

After only five minutes, I was able to watch at close-hand as Ruben Loftus-Cheek played the ball to Davide Zappacosta. His low cross was comically turned into his own net by Chelsea loanee Fikayo Tomori. As easy as that we were 1-0 up. We were all over Derby County in the first part of the game.

It was deathly quiet in the West Lower. To my right, the Derby fans mocked us.

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

Within five minutes, however, Derby had equalised. The lump that is Tom Huddlestone played the ball out to Jack Marriott and it looked to me like the angle was too acute. Imagine my surprise when he calmly slotted the ball past Caballero. The away fans bounced.

Martin Waghorn, a solid rock of a striker, fluffed his lines when through on goal, seemingly tripping over the ball and wasting a golden opportunity.

On twenty minutes, as a move developed, I held my camera to my eyes and snapped a rather blurry photograph – certainly not worth sharing – of Zappacosta as he blasted across the goal. I looked up to see that the ball had ended up in the net. Another Derby OG, this time from their skipper Richard Keogh.

I took a few photos as Ruben wiggled his way towards goal, moving the ball nicely, but his shot was wide. Willian then blasted over.

Soon after, just before the halfway mark, Mason Mount played a perfect ball across the six-yard box. Caballero was not close to it. Waghorn poked it home easily.

“Bloody hell, Chelsea.”

The away fans bounced again, and then aimed another dig our way.

“Shall we score a goal for you?”

I lost count of the number of times that Zappacosta, in acres of space, pleaded with his arms wide open to receive the ball from Christensen or Cahill. Often he was ignored. He is a basic player really, but he was again involved on forty minutes as he found himself inside the Derby box. Eventually the ball spun loose, and Cesc Fabregas was on hand to smash the ball in at Scott Carson’s near post.

Bloody hell, 3-2.

The highlight of the rest of the half was the magnificent way that Willian brought a high ball down with the subtlest of touches. It reminded me of Zola doing the same thing at Anfield in around 2003, when the Scousers in the Centenary Stand applauded him.

Banners.

At half-time, I checked out a few of the banners that I would not normally get a chance to see from my usual position in The Sleepy Hollow. I love the old “547 SW6” flag which pays homage to the old – and much-missed – HQ of the original Chelsea Supporters Club at 547 Fulham Road, which I used to frequent before home games until the mid-eighties. I still see one of the chaps who used to serve inside – Peter Kemp – at many away games, although we have never spoken. He is another who the “through and through” phrase could easily be applied. Behind and above me were banners from everywhere.

Adelaide, Vancouver, Devon & Somerset, York, Perth Western Australia, East Belfast, Bermuda, Slovenia.

Just in front of The Sleepy Hollow, a banner which has recently been added.

“ONE93 KERRY DIXON.”

Not So Super.

Five minutes into the second period, came our noisiest chant of the game thus far.

“Super, super Frank. Super, super Frank. Super, super Frank. Super Frankie Lampard.”

The noise roared down from the Matthew Harding. Frank, obviously, turned and applauded. But he then signalled “enough, support them on the pitch.”

I agreed with Frank. It annoys myself and quite a few others how a sizeable section of the Chelsea support wastes no time at all – every bloody match – in singing about Frankie Lampard scoring against West Ham, Dennis Wise scoring against Milan and Demba Ba scoring against Liverpool. And yet there are few raucous songs in support of players actually playing.

And yet I thought back to September 2014 when we watched in horror as Frank Lampard played as a substitute for Manchester City against as at The Etihad. I cannot lie. I can’t hide the truth. I can’t hide from the sense of hypocrisy I felt. I did sing his name that day. We had, though, not been able to give him a proper send-off at the end of the previous campaign. His last game in Chelsea colours was the insipid 0-0 with Norwich City when he was substituted by Jose Mourinho at half-time. It was as an inglorious end to a Chelsea career as I have ever seen, certainly not befitting one of our all-time greats. He did not appear in the final game away to Cardiff City. So, in my defence, I think there were extenuating circumstances for the songs at Manchester City in 2014. I thought, as did many, that we had not said “goodbye and thank you” in a way that was correct. And here was an opportunity to show him some love. After all, we might not have seen him as a player ever again. That is my explanation for it. If you don’t agree, sue me.

But we said thankyou to him then, in the autumn of 2014. And we said thank you to him at Stamford Bridge in the January of 2015. And again in February 2017.

Enough was enough.

Suffice to say, I didn’t join in with the singing of his name during the game in October 2018. I’m not so sure I even sung before the game if I am honest.

The Second-Half.

Would more goals follow? I expected so. I had been impressed with Derby. We had played beneath ourselves, almost disinterested almost. We worked a few forays into the Derby box in the first part of the second-half but there was no cutting edge. On the hour, a Cahill header from a corner was palmed over by Carson. If I am honest, by now I was finding the game rather painful to watch. Everything was squeezed into a narrow field of vision. And we were hardly in exhilarating form.

David Luiz replaced Andreas Christensen.

Pedro replaced Ruben.

Marriott forced a fine save from Cabellero on a quick break. Mount then shot wide. Derby were still in it. There was a moment when the away fans reacted noisily and passionately to a shot, igniting the entire away end, and I longed for the days when our home fans were similarly partisan. Those days, the days when the atmosphere was venomous, seem so far away now.

Yeah, I know. A familiar story.

A great cross from Zappacosta – him again – found Morata in acres of space but his header was not worthy of the name. Another header from Morata went well wide. The same player then jumped with great body shape, twisting in the box to meet a Willian corner and getting a great deal of power on it – another photo too blurred to share, damn it – but Carson did well to save.

Two saves from Caballero kept us ahead. A hand was dabbed on a close effort from Keogh and he then smothered another Mount shot. Things were getting nervy now. An effort from Marriott was saved. Then the old warhorse David Newgent, a late substitute, shot across Caballero and I watched, painfully, as the ball seemed to be going in. Thankfully it hit the far post, and miraculously bounced back straight into big Willy’s arms.

Phew.

Not long after, the final whistle blew and we counted our blessings.

It been a strange old game. It had not been pretty. But, on Halloween, we were thankful it didn’t turn into a horror show.

Into the last eight we went.

Shots.

As I was watching from a different viewpoint, it would have been amiss of me not to take a greater share of photographs than usual. I took over two-hundred and fifty with most in concentrated bursts, and the majority before the game and then after. Here are a few from the match itself.

Frank & Jody.

There was the inevitable post-game hugs and handshakes between the players and management of both teams. All eyes were on two of our own.

Pictures.

A gallery of some of the images of the night. Down low, the immense height of the East Stand still staggers me. It was even more impressive when it was first built in 1974. There was no stand like it in England.

Postscript : 1985.

On the drive home in PD’s Chuckle Bus, I happened to mention a video clip to Glenn that I had revisited during the week but which was first aired on a “Facebook / Chelsea In The Eighties” group at the start of the year. In the quarter finals of the League Cup in the 1984/85 season, we drew 1-1 at home to Sheffield Wednesday. We then drew the replay at Hillsborough 4-4, and then beat them 2-1 in the second replay at Stamford Bridge. I didn’t attend any of those games, but I can remember watching the highlights of them all on TV. Wednesday were huge rivals with us in that period. At the end of the final game, there was a pitch invasion, such was the hysteria among our support in reaching a semi-final for the first time in thirteen seasons.

The video that I spoke about was a rare six-minute clip – never aired on TV – at the end of the game, when the cameras were left to roll and the immediate post-match euphoria was captured for eternity. It shows an edgy mass of lads – honestly, virtually no females – in The Shed, The Benches and the North Stand singing and chanting and taunting the away fans. It shows a few scuffles with the police, trying to keep order, and of a vibrant, excited and noisy Stamford Bridge. Nobody wanted to go home. The areas mentioned were full of lads. Jeans and jackets. Hardly any Chelsea colours, it was 1985. Lads standing on the fences. Attitude. A baying mass of humanity. Police horses trotting up and down in front of The Benches. And the noise was loud, as loud as hell. I quickly fumbled for my ‘phone and thankfully found the video. The commentator, who spoke briefly about wanting to see a few unruly Chelsea fans get hit by the truncheons of the Old Bill, was Peter Brackley, who recently passed away.

While Parky slept, and PD and Les were silent in the front, Glenn and I watched – intensely and intently – at the images from thirty-three years ago.

We were mesmerized.

“We’re going to Wembley. We’re going to Wembley. You’re not. You’re not.”

“You come all this way. And you lost. And you lost.”

We even caught a hearty rendition of Chelsea singing “You’ll never walk alone.”

It was a Chelsea song too in those days.

And all because we had reached a League Cup semi-final.

On the drive home, we had heard that we had drawn Bournemouth – again, same as last season – in the final eight, and I knew that if we were to be victorious in that game, the difference between 1985 and 2018 would be vast. And I understand that. In 1985, Chelsea Football Club was a different beast. In 2018, we are ridiculously successful. Reaching a League Cup semi really is no big deal.

But it would be bloody lovely to have some of that adrenaline, passion and boisterousness once again. Or just 50 percent of it.

We can dream, eh?