Tag Archives: Solihull Moors

Tales From The Hot Corner

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Nottingham Forest vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2024.

Warning : there is a lot of red in this match report.

The Arsenal shellacking was only just two-and-a-half weeks ago, but such has been the sea change in our performances and the collective confidence in our team, that as we approached the final three games of the season, my thoughts could be summed up in just three words.

Three more wins.

If we could win the final two away games at Nottingham Forest and Brighton, plus the final match of the season at home to Bournemouth, then European football would be a strong possibility at Chelsea next season. And, whisper it quietly, but the current campaign would be marked as a success.

With my usual match day companions PD and Parky out in Spain for PD’s eldest son Scott’s Stag Party, this was a very rare solo trip for me. The kick-off in Nottingham was scheduled for 5.30pm and so I had lots of time on my hands. I decided to call in at Bicester en route for a little retail therapy, and as I left my Somerset village at 10.30am, my route to Nottingham was hardly the most direct. My car set off east, past Stonehenge and then up the A34 past Oxford, to Bicester, and beyond. As I drove past the signs for the Kassam Stadium to the south of Oxford, my mind flew back to the summer of 2004, almost twenty years ago, for Jose Mourinho’s first Chelsea game of note. It’s hard to believe that the 2004/5 title season is so long ago.

My companions throughout my day’s driving would be Tracey, Elizabeth and Beth; I had lined up a few CDs to play in the car and I decided to keep it clean and simple.

Three female voices.

Tracey Thorn, Elizabeth Fraser, Beth Gibbons.

The weather was fine, football was on my mind, and it drifted.

I went back to the drive-home from the West Ham game last Sunday. Up at Wembley, my mate Alan was watching his non-league team Bromley take on Solihull Moors to gain promotion to the Football League. Bromley had gone 1-0 up while the West Ham game was being played out, but the game had ended 2-2. We listened to the commentary of the extra-time period as we drove back along the M4. There were no more goals. It would go to penalties. Bromley missed an early effort, but went on to win 4-3. As the winning penalty went in, I punched the air. At the Hungerford exit, I pulled into a lay-by and texted Alan my congratulations. Exit 14 on the M4 will now forever be known as the Bromley exit.

All of these roads, all of these footballing memories, criss-crossing England and criss-crossing in our minds.

On my way under the M4, my mind drifted further and it was no surprise that it flowed back to Bank Holiday Monday when my local team Frome Town played Bristol Manor Farm in the Southern League South Play-Off Final. In the semi-final, we had easily dispatched Mousehole 3-0, and as I made trips to Stamford Bridge for the Tottenham and West Ham games in quick succession, my mind was otherwise full of Frome.

I met up with a few friends for a drink in a couple of establishments before the game. The anticipation was huge. On-line tickets sales had reached 1,000, then 1,400. Originally, I had expected over 1,500 but as the day dawned it appeared that a ridiculous gate of 2,000 might be reached. We got in at 2.30pm, and a quick look up at the Clubhouse End revealed an already buzzing pre-game atmosphere. The sight made me purr.

I watched the red shirts of my home town team in the first-half all alone having lost the other friends in the tumultuous crowd. I positioned myself next to the Ultras in the seated stand behind the eastern goal. Unfortunately, the visitors went ahead on just eleven minutes when Jayden Nielsen, a tormentor from two years ago when Manor Farm won 3-1 at Frome in that year’s semi-final, played in a ball for Ben Bament to tap in. Thankfully, on twenty minutes Matt Smith swung in a perfect corner for captain Sam Teale to head home. The rest of the first-half was a scrappy affair with few chances as the heavens opened.

In the second-half, I met up with my mates under the roof of The Cowshed and Frome turned the screw. Kane Simpson hit the post, James Ollis headed over. Then, Teale was fouled but Zak Drew saw his effort saved by former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. Thankfully, two close-in pokes from Simpson on seventy and seventy-six minutes saw the home team romp to a 3-1 triumph. The gate? An immensely impressive 2,235.

It had been a perfect afternoon. The pre-match nerves gave way to satisfaction, pride and relief. It was my thirty-fifth Frome game of the season, easily my most involved season, and one that I have enjoyed so much. It has provided a lovely alternative to the often cynical brand of football that is played at the top level in England. Non-league football is on the up, and I can’t wait to embark on another season in August when we will re-join the Southern League Premier and meet old foes such as AFC Totton, Dorchester Town, Swindon Supermarine and Winchester City again. We were last at this level in 2019.

Chelsea fans of a certain vintage often cite 1983/84 as our greatest-ever season. From a Frome perspective, 2023/24 will be hard to beat.

One extra story from Bank Holiday Monday. In the other Southern League Play-Off Final, the Central lot, Bedford Town defeated Waltham Abbey 2-1 in front of 2,052. Bedford are supported by my old Chelsea mate Glenn, aka Leggo, and it was perfect that three lads from the Chelsea Benches in 1983/84 were now celebrating promotions from their three “other” teams forty years later.

A perfect couple of days, no doubt.

After stopping at Bicester for an hour, I made my way up past Silverstone to join the M1 at Northampton. At Leicester Forest Services, I bumped into three good Chelsea mates Rob, Rob and Martin.

Very soon, I had turned towards Nottingham and those eight monstrous cooling towers at Ratcliffe-On-Sour. Their curves were catching the sun perfectly. I drove in over Trent Bridge, past the cricket ground, the floodlights visible, then the stands and lights of the City Ground and Meadow Lane. I was parked up at 4.15pm. Perfect.

On the short walk to the City Ground, I heard a loud roar, so much so that I stupidly wondered if there was a Notts County game taking place. I soon realised that West Ham had equalised Luton’s early goal. The shouts of relief were from Forest fans in various locales near the stadium. I took a few photos; scene setters. Further shouts told of further West Ham goals.

Forest were safe.

By the way, they like their replica shirts at Nottingham Forest. There was bloody red everywhere.

I made my way to the away turnstiles and said hello to a few friends; JD from Ascot, Darren from Crewe, DJ from London, Aroha and Luke from The Eight Bells, Ricky from London, Dave and Colin from South London, Liz and Pete from Camberley, Pam, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, and Stuart from Kilmersdon, just four miles away from me. Dave and Glenn sidled past.

At the security check, my SLR was waved in and I met Jason to collect a spare for Brighton on Wednesday. I was soon inside, in the sun-bleached hot corner, alongside Gary, John and Alan.

“Wish that sun would disappear behind that stand or some clouds, this is going to be a tough watch.”

Despite wearing sunglasses, I would be forever cupping my hand over my eyes at this game.

The team? It was the same one as against West Ham United last Sunday.

Petrovic, Chalobah, Cucarella, Silva, Badiashile, Caicedo, Gallagher, Madueke, Palmer, Mudryk, Jackson.

The home team contained Ola Aina and Callum Hudson-Odoi, former Chelsea youngsters.

The home support – I easily remembered how loud it was last season on New Year’s Day – was booming, especially in the corner of the main stand next to us. This was going to be a rocky game, this.

The teams walked onto the pitch.

Forest in red, white, red, their “Garibaldi” shirts mirrored in the stands. Chelsea in Eton blue.

“Oh mist rolling in from the Trent.”

The pace was booming.

At 5.30pm, the game started.

This was a warm evening by the banks of the Trent, and that sun made viewing difficult. We were low down too, with a difficult view of the pitch. Yes, a tough watch.

The home team began well and Djordje Petrovic needed to be alert to race out to pluck a lobbed effort from Chris Wood from the air.

On eight minutes, away on the far side, Cole Palmer sent through a ridiculously perfect through-ball for Mykhailo Mudryk to run onto. It was so well played, so delicious, that he did not have to break stride to strike. The ball was tucked in, low, at the far post. I roared but simultaneously chastised myself for not having my camera on hand to snap the goal. I made up for it with a shot of Mudryk’s leap of joy.

Nottingham Forest 0 Chelsea 1.

Alan : “They’ll have to come at us naaaa.”

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Both teams had spells on the ball. On fifteen minutes, Benoit Badiashile attempted to nibble a Forest player as he broke into our half. A free-kick and a booking for Badiashile. Gary was livid. Sadly, we were all livid as the free-kick was floated in and Willie Boly ran through and met the ball with an easy header at the back stick.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 1 Chelsea 1.

The home support roared.

“The reds are staying oop.”

The first-half was an odd forty-five minutes. We enjoyed much of the ball, but did not cause many problems at all. I felt that Thiago Silva reverted to type and hovered with the ball at his feet on too many occasions, and we rarely played the ball quickly. Moises Caicedo found it hard to get going too. His thrust was gone. Too often we passed and passed. Marc Cucarella joined the midfield but the result was that he just helped to clog things up.

The two wingers were frustrating to watch. Mudryk often stood alone on the far side and we often chose not to use him. He needed to be further up field, on the last man, on the lip of the offside trap. With Cucarella off the wing, venturing inside, was he told to resist bombing up the flank? I don’t know. On the right, the left-footed Noni Madueke, was not greatly-used either.

Wingers can be so frustrating to watch. And their role has changed over the years. We are now in the purple period of inverted wingers. I suppose Arjen Robben was our first inverted all those years ago. How he used to love to cut in. Now, we have wingers cutting in to shoot, no longer always aiming a deep cross to hit the leap of a big man in the box. I miss those days.

I used to play as a right-winger in my school days and the idea was always to get around the outside to cross. Coming inside was never an option. I was decent for a few years, and I made my school debut as a ten-year-old in a team of twelve and thirteen years in the Spring of 1976, and played as a right winger for a few seasons. Sometimes I played as a second striker alongside a lad who went on to play one game for Bristol City. But I was happier as a wide player.

I was proud to make the first starting XI of the first team in our inaugural year at Frome College in the 1978/79 season. However, I can remember my report card at the end of that season when I played mainly in the first team but then slid out into the second team at the end for a couple of games. The PE teacher wrote that I had the ability to beat a man and put in a cross, but had virtually no confidence in my ability. I was mortified. I just wished that he had taken me to one side to explain all this to me rather than hanging me out to dry at the end of the school year. After that, I drifted along in the second team, my confidence shot to pieces.

I guess I was the world’s first introverted winger.

The first-half pottered along, and the home fans were still in good voice. They chose to make their feelings known about the rumours of the club moving to a new 50,000 stadium on the city outskirts.

“Stand up for the City Ground.”

 “Toton’s a shithole, I want to stay here.”

There were only a few efforts on goal from us. Nicolas Jackson was set up by Palmer but was thwarted. A long range effort was tipped over by the Forest ‘keeper Matz Sells. It felt like Forest had more shots on goal than us in that warm – but tepid – first half. Gallagher was booked for a “nothing” challenge on Hudson-Odoi.

It honestly felt a little like a training game. To our right, a few red and white beach balls had been tossed around during the first-half and it often felt that the players would rather be in Benidorm with PD and Parky. Well, not Benidorm per se, but you get my point. I was a little underwhelmed by it all to be honest.

Chelsea attacked us in the second-half.

Forest clipped the outside of Petrovic’ post with a long range effort but we rallied and seemed more intent to break quickly. Palmer was played in by Caicedo, looking much more involved now, but volleyed high.

Hudson-Odoi, keen to impress no doubt, had looked lively in the first-half, and his cross allowed Morgan Gibbs-White’s header to hit the post. Unbelievably, the rebound was smacked over from beneath the bar by Wood.

Fackinell.

There were substitutions :

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

Malo Gusto for Badiashile, with Chalobah moving alongside Silva.

Now it was our turn to hit the woodwork, a free-kick from Palmer and a glancing header from Silva.

So close.

Then, Hudson-Odoi cut in from the left and dropped a fine effort goal wards. It dipped drastically and clunked on top of the bar.

Fackinell.

Not so long after, on seventy-five minutes, the former Chelsea starlet moved inside again onto his right foot – “get closer to him!” – and dinked a really fine effort in at the bottom right-hand corner.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 1.

The home hordes boomed again. These fans were the loudest that we had encountered all season.

Time was running out and those three wins were looking rather optimistic. However, we had played better, faster, more intelligently as the second-half developed with Palmer showing that he is the main orchestrator. At the back, Silva was his cool self.

Two more substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Reece James for Gallagher.

My immediate thoughts : “why bring on Reece with just two games left this season? Let the bugger have a complete rest until August.”

On eighty minutes, the ball was played in to Sterling, who had looked keen and animated since his arrival. A touch to take the ball away from his marker and then a shot – another dink – and the ball hit the net.

YES!

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 2.

There were no celebrations from the scorer. Time was running out.

Just two minutes later, Caicedo splayed a first time ball out to the right where James was free. His clipped and inch perfect cross was headed home with aplomb by Jackson – old school cross, old style header, old school bosh – and the Chelsea end exploded.

GET IN.

Before I knew what was happening, the scorer copied Axel Disasi’s run into the crowd at Crystal Palace. Chelsea fans ran down to the front, limbs were flying, I rather pathetically pointed my camera in the general direction of the melee while boiling over with joy at our ridiculous turnaround.

Fackinell.

Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 3.

As the supporters returned to their seats and as the players slowly walked away, Jackson was yellow-carded, the latest in a long line of silly bookings. I can forgive him that one though.

What a buzz.

The home fans above us and to our right were stunned.

The chances still came as the last few minutes, then injury time, was played out. These chances for both teams gave the game a ridiculously frantic ending.

But we were safe.

Despite the promise of a lap of honour from the Forest players after the game, many home supporters made their way to the exits.

“That’s right. Fuck off home to watch Eurovision” chirped Gary.

On the walk out of the away end, the Chelsea swagger was back. There were laughs with many mates. It had been an odd game, one that had gathered momentum as it wore on, but those scenes down below us in the hot corner when we got the winner will be talked about for ages.

All of a sudden, this difficult season is becoming a lot more palatable. Earlier, supporters complained of feeling distanced from our players.

But bridges are being built.

This feels more and more like our team, our club.

I got back to the waiting car at 8pm after walking alongside hundreds of red-shirted locals muttering away to themselves. I was soon heading towards those large cooling towers.

I put a new Cocteau Twins CD on.

“Feet Like Fins” boomed out as I drove over the bough of a long hill, the evening view ahead, the M1 in the distance, these roads criss-crossing with memories. A car with a “CFC” number plate drove past. I smiled to myself.

God, I love these football trips.

I was on the M1 at 8.30pm. The Sat Nav even took me down the Fosse Way, skirting Coventry, rather than the ultra-boring M42. I decided to extend the evening and so indulged in an hour long stop at “The Bell Inn” at Moreton-In-Marsh for a very very rare pint of lager as I reviewed the day’s activity and post-game reactions on my ’phone.

I eventually reached home at about 12.30am.

Next up, Brighton away on Wednesday.

See you there.

LEVEL EIGHT

LEVEL ONE

Tales From Another 5am To 1am Special

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2 May 2024.

I think it is fair to say that many of us in the Chelsea fraternity had been dreading the home game with Tottenham Hotspur. But then the away game at Aston Villa, and especially the second-half performance, gave us all some hope. I certainly approached the game with a lot more expectation than, for example, I could have possibly predicted after the 0-5 shellacking at Arsenal a week or so before.

I was up at just before 5am to work an early shift. The drive in to our own special part of London SW6 was as easy as it gets.

My pre-match was spent in very unfamiliar surroundings. PD and Parky, for the recent Everton game, had chosen to drink in “McGettigans” opposite the old booking hall of Fulham Broadway tube station. It is a pub that I had only ever visited on one occasion before; in the summer of 1997, with a new trophy to admire in our trophy cabinet (and only the fifth trophy in ninety-two hears I hasten to add), a little band of us did a Stamford Bridge tour. After, we decamped into “Bootsy Brogan’s” – the former “White Swan” – for a reflective pint. Over the years, the pub’s name changed a few times, but I had never returned. It has remained as the strangest of boozers. It is located perfectly for match days, a decent size, yet to this day I know of nobody at Chelsea who use it, nor who ever have. It’s a real enigma, like Chelsea Football Club itself.

I had popped in for a bang average pizza on Lillee Road and then joined up with PD and Parky, plus Salisbury Steve and Luke, at “McGettigan’s” just before 6pm. It was as I had remembered it from 1997, a big rambling pub with multiple floors. I eventually located my friends who were way down in a booth in the lower levels. Typically, there was no familiar, or even semi-familiar, faces on show. We had a good natter. Luke flicked up the Chelsea team on his mobile phone. A lot had been made of the injury list before this game, so – in a way – the team almost picked itself. There was one change from Villa; Alfie Gilchrist – who sounds like a Sarf Landon villain – in for Thiago Silva. With fourteen players out, it looked a decent enough team. On the bench was a host of youngsters, some of whom I was not familiar with.

We spoke about plans for the last four games of the season and the time soon passed. This was a 7.30pm kick-off – an earlier one than usual, good – and so we left the pub at 7pm.

I picked up several copies of the match programme on the way in. There was a photo of Thiago Silva on the cover, and the programme included a feature on a proper dodgey character on pages 22 and 23.

The kick-off soon came around.

Before the game got going, Alan and I brought each other up to speed with our second loves.

Alan has a season ticket at Bromley in the National League. He first started watching his local team in around 1979 when they played at a much lower level. He has enjoyed their resurgence in recent years. On Sunday, Alan is attending the National League play-off at Wembley against Solihull Moors. The prize is a place in the Football League. Alan will therefore be missing the West Ham game. I have spoken to Alan in the past about missing a Chelsea game because of Frome Town. It hasn’t happened yet, but I am sure it will.

Talking of play-offs, the previous day – Wednesday 2 May – I had watched Frome Town play Mousehole at home in the one game semi-final of the divisional play-offs. On a wet night, Frome blazed into a deserved 3-0 first-half lead via two goals from James Ollis and one from Kane Simpson. This was a sturdy, dominant performance with three well-taken goals. It was a different game in the second-half, and despite a sending-off for George Rigg, the home team held on. The gate was a magnificent 1,099. It was the second gate of over one thousand at Badgers Hill in just five days. On Bank Holiday Monday, Frome meet old-foes Bristol Manor Farm, in the play-off final. We are expecting the gate to top 1,500. Revenge is in the air since Manor Farm defeated us in the semi-finals two years ago.

Just before the game began, the two teams did their huddles, but the Tottenham one was down in front of their fans. I had not seen that anywhere before. I remember how Celtic were the first team, to my knowledge, to do the huddle in around 1995/96, and it was their “thing.” Since then it has been adopted by virtually all teams. The first time that I can remember us doing a huddle was when we played Vicenza in the ECWC semi-final in 1998, with us all dressed in yellow, on a rainy night in SW6.

The latest in a long line of Chelsea vs. Tottenham games kicked off. This was my forty-first Chelsea vs. Tottenham game at Stamford Bridge since my first one in October 1974, and I had only seen us lose three times; in 1978, in 1986, in 2018. 

The noise was thankfully buoyant. The “Willian” song was sung loudly by the Matthew Harding, not because of the player but because of the dig at Tottenham. It got the game off to a raucous start.

We attacked the three thousand away fans and the three thousand home fans in The Shed. We almost got the game off to a dream start. Alan and I had spent a few seconds discussing how we don’t always play to Mykhailo Mudryk’s strengths, but he sped clear down the left and passed to the on-rushing Nicolas Jackson. In a flurry of activity, a shot was blocked and a rebound landed at Cole Palmer’s feet, right under the bar from our perspective. To our disbelief, he wasn’t able to correctly adjust and his effort excruciatingly flew over the bar. I was stood and my hands instinctively cupped the back of my head. Why do football fans do that when a shot dramatically misses the target? Is it intuitive or is it developed over time? I was just aware how much of a cliché I looked.

A proper “head in hands” moment.

There was a phenomenal dribble down the left from Mudryk, but he really should have passed outside to a free team-mate, and his effort blazed over. There was a riser from Noni Madueke. Then an effort from Gilchrist, another rising shot, that flew over.

A lovely shimmy inside from Madueke and a left-foot curler that I thought was just going to sneak in, but it narrowly missed the top left corner.

This was good stuff from Chelsea. I need not have been worried.

On twenty-four minutes, I was surprised that Conor Gallagher and not Palmer, dolloped a long ball at a free-kick towards the far post.

My first thoughts : “too far, that.”

But I still clicked. I caught the moment that Trevoh Chalobah rose like a salmon – talking of clichés – and beautifully headed across the Tottenham ‘keeper, whoever he was, and into the net.

The stadium roared as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Tottenham support.

Good work, son.

After the celebrations had died down a little, the mood changed.

VAR. Possible off-side.

Up came my hands to cup my head again.

We waited.

And waited.

Then a VAR check for a foul.

Memories of that VAR mayhem in the first-half at their place this season.

Boos.

One of the reasons why I hate VAR is that referees now have a reason to defer the decision-making process if they – and their linos – are unsure.

“Let VAR decide. Fuck the fans. They can wait.”

The goal stood, but I never cheered, nor did Alan, nor PD.

Who the fuck cheers a VAR decision?

Next, a close one from Mudryk, but just off target.

On the half hour, one song boomed around The Bridge.

“STAND UP IF YOU HATE TOTTENHAM.”

We continued to out-pace, out-think, out-play Tottenham for the rest of the half, but they did have two, late, rare attacks. A header from somebody, and a Chalobah block from another, those Tottenham players without names.

In the closing minutes of a really entertaining game, Clive posed a question to get us thinking.

“Name five England players from the ‘eighties whose surname began with the letter G.”

…mmm, the ‘eighties, my era, when I cared for the national team, let me think.

“One is easy, the other four not, one player played just one time.”

Alan soon got the easy one. Over the half-time break, and then into the second-half (it felt odd being distracted from the football) I managed to get the other four. Admittedly, I guessed around six or seven times incorrectly, but I got them. Clive and I often send ourselves photo teasers on “WhatsApp” to keep our minds fresh; it’s usually players or grounds. It’s our little way to stave off dementia.

Just after half-time, I was happy. I had guessed the last one.

“YES! FUCK DEMENTIA!”

There is no doubt that Tottenham bossed the first part of the second-half and we were limited to the occasional rare break, often including Madueke and Jackson, not so much Mudryk. But we held firm and limited Tottenham to the odd half-chance. There was a rare chance for Palmer but he leaned back as he shot and the ball was well high.

As the game wore on, the away fans found their voice. Just before the hour, we heard their uber-dirge for the very first time.

“On when the Spurs…”

There was a shimmy, a body-shake, from Palmer that almost defied description. He is so casual, so laid-back, almost indifferent to what else is going on, and he then produces moments of utter charm and delight. He is a real talent. Without him, this season really would have been difficult.

But Tottenham were in the ascendency now. On the hour, we were hanging on.

Alan : “If Tottenham don’t win this, it’ll be a miracle.”

I was reminded of “that” game in 2018, when we scored first yet they came back to score three, with two at The Shed End.

Ugh.

On seventy-two minutes, the industrious Marc Cucarella won a free-kick outside the box. Palmer shaped to take a shot, and I shaped to take a shot with my camera.

He caught it, I caught it.

The ball slammed against the bar, bounced up, but Jackson showed sublime predatory skills and hung in the air to nod the ball into the open corner. This was down below us at our end. We had a perfect view of this.

It dropped in.

I yelled and ascended the steps to my left, punching the air. I then had my wits to capture the run and slide by the scorer into the corner.

Oh boy, what a moment.

In truth, we scored at just the right moment. Tottenham had been on top, but were, now, surely beaten. A few of their fans decided to leave.

The rest of the game?

I have to say that Tottenham’s finishing was absolutely woeful. In another game, they could have tied it up. But this was Tottenham, at Chelsea, and after all these years, after all these games, there must be now, surely, something in the THFC DNA that says “no.”

The place grew noisy, noisy as hell.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Everywhere they go.”

Now, this was as noisy as I have heard it all season I think. Teenagers from Ruislip and Rayners Lane, schoolkids from Stoke Poges and Surbiton, battle-hardened former skinheads from Walworth and Wandsworth, grandmothers and grandfathers from Oxford and Cambridge, loyalists from Frome and Trowbridge, Stamford Bridge first-timers from New York and New Delhi, locals from Fulham and Pimlico, all joined together in song.

And one more for luck.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

There were three late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

Josh Acheampong for Gilchrist.

Jimi Tauriainen for Jackson.

More profligate finishing for Tottenham in front of The Shed gave the game a comical ending.

This was a very decent Chelsea performance.

Cucarella magnificent, Caicedo rejuvenated, Gallagher relentless, Palmer with understated efficiency, Jackson running and fighting, Chalobah firm and steady, even Badiashile was cool under pressure.

Colour me happy.

All the Tottenham lot had disappeared by the time I collected Ron outside the hotel. We walked up the North End Road among beaming Chelsea fans. Parky and PD were happy. Alas, the M4 was shut at Reading and so my cruise home was delayed. I eventually got in at 1am; another 5am to 1 am special. But I loved it.

Next up, another London derby.

Chelsea vs. West Ham United.

See you there.

Pub

Programme

“I’m from a small village in Somerset and I became a Chelsea fan – like many of my generation – as a direct result of the FA Cup win in 1970. I don’t remember the game, I just remember being around the school play yard immediately afterwards and somebody said Chelsea had won the Cup. I don’t know what, but something stuck – maybe it was the sound of the name. I was coming up to five at the time and my parents weren’t really into football, but with each passing season I became more of a fan. Then, on Christmas Day in 1973, my parents announced that they were taking me to a game, and just thinking of that now reminds me how excited I was to be going to Stamford Bridge. We only had a black-and-white TV set at the time and I don’t think I was prepared for the full colour experience that was going to hit me!

My dad was a shopkeeper in Frome and he wasn’t able to get too much time off work, but he arranged things with his boss so he could drive us up to London on March 16, 1974 – the 50th anniversary of which has recently passed. I was as excited as any eight-year-old possibly could be. I remember the tube ride to Fulham Broadway after we had arrived in London, and finally feeling like a Chelsea fan for the first time. I’d never had the chance to prove that to anybody before. We had tickets on the benches, in the West Enclosure, Row 6, towards the North Stand. At that time, the East Stand was being built and, with the TV cameras being on the West Stand back then, you never really saw what it looked like until you went. We won 1-0. Hutch [Ian Hutchinson] scored after about 10 minutes, from a cross, and I can still picture it – he kind of headed it down into the goal. My dad was only able to get time off work for us to come up twice a year, but I started to go more often once I was in sixth form.

Then I was at college in Stoke-on-Trent for three years in the mid-Eighties, which enabled me to go and see a fair few away games as well. My favourite season was 1983/84 and that was a real rite of passage campaign. I was 18, starting to go to pubs and make friends around the area. Chelsea fans from Wiltshire and Somerset always stick together because there weren’t many of us around at the time, and we still do to this day. Another important year was 1997 – getting silverware again after all those years. I was a Chelsea fan when we won the European Cup Winners’ Cup in 1971, but I don’t remember anything about it because I was only six. I remember nothing of the League Cup loss to Stoke the next year either, but I remember the cup quarter-final against Arsenal in 1973 – Osgood scored the goal of the season in the draw at the Bridge, then we lost the replay at Highbury. I remember all the near misses, the League Cup semi-final losses against Sunderland and Sheffield Wednesday, in 1985 and 1991. That’s why 1996/97 was such a memorable season, because we started to chip away at the top clubs and we had some fantastic players: Wise, Gullit, Vialli, Hughes, Zola. Magnificent. That whole FA Cup weekend we stayed up at my friend’s in south London and they were just magical times.

Growing up, I’d had one of those old pub mirrors in my bedroom – a Chelsea one – and every morning I’d gaze at it and think, “Will we ever win more than the four trophies on that mirror?” It always felt like if we could replicate ’70 and ’71 that would be quite a thing, so winning in Stockholm in 1998 to do the FA Cup and Cup Winners’ Cup back-toback again was a wonderful night. We’ve had so much success since then, and I don’t have space to go over it all here, but I’m still making that journey from Frome now, as a home and away season-ticket holder. I enjoy the good times but I don’t get too down when we don’t do so well. Football is such a fantastic thing and I’ve met so many good friends over the years. It’s all the other stuff that keeps us going – meeting up in the pub, the friendships and the laughter.

Among the friends I’ve made is someone who brings the story full circle. Ron Harris lives near me and he now comes up to games in my car. He was playing in the first game I ever went to, so it’s really quite surreal for me to be driving up to Chelsea, look in my rear-view mirror… and there’s Ron Harris sitting in the back seat.”

The Five England Players

Paul Gascoigne.

Eric Gates.

John Gregory.

Paul Goddard.

Brian Greenhoff.