Tales From North And South America

Posted on June 29, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Flamengo : 20 June 2025.

The 2024/25 football season began for me on Saturday 29 June when I flew out to Rio de Janeiro and saw three matches in that incredible city. The second game took place on the evening of my 59^th birthday on Saturday 6 July with an entertaining and noisy game between Flamengo and Cuiba at the Maracana Stadium. Almost twelve months later, my second-from-last game of this season would also feature Flamengo, but this time I would be crossing the Atlantic Ocean to see them play Chelsea in Philadelphia.

This is damned close to “completing the circle” and it’s good enough for me.

I am used to trips across the Atlantic. In September 1989 I visited North America for the very first time. I travelled over to New York with my college mate Ian and embarked on a ten-month odyssey of North America, which famously included a nine-hundred-mile cycle ride down the East Coast. Since then, my love for Chelsea Football Club and of travel, and of baseball and of Americana, kept calling me back.

But then, for some time, my love for the US waned. My last pre-season trip with Chelsea was in 2016 – Ann Arbor and Minneapolis – and I was not tempted by recent ones, especially when the club decided to play a bit-part role in the reality TV show that is Wrexham Football Club, not once but twice.

Modern football, eh?

We became World Club Champions against Palmeiras in 2022 – in lieu of 2021 – but then Gianni Infantino and the money-makers at FIFA decided to expand this competition to include a massive thirty-two teams and to stage a new version of the FIFA Club World Cup in the US.

And lo, I was conflicted.

Was I in favour of this competition?

Honestly, no.

More games, more expense, a new competition, FIFA personified.

Would I go? I was not sure.

But my mind went to work on this. If I was to go, it would be my twentieth trip to the US, and a perfect way to celebrate my 60^th birthday a few weeks after. The 2024/25 season would be a long and demanding season for me, for various reasons, but I knew for some time that it would almost certainly end with a trip to the United States for the latest incarnation of the Intercontinental Cup.

Soon into the planning stages, my old Chelsea mate Glenn showed an interest in going too, and it would be a lovely addition to the pre-season games we saw in Beijing in 2017 and then Perth in 2018.

The fixtures were announced with one game in Atlanta and two in Philadelphia. This pleased me no end. I didn’t fancy Atlanta as I had visited it a few times before, including two Atlanta Braves games in 1996 and 2002, but also en route to visit my friend Roma and her family in the Great Smoky Mountains a few times.

Two games in Philly would be more than perfect. I have a huge personal attachment to this city. My great great grandparents lived in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century for five years before returning to Somerset, and I visited the city in 2010 with my eighty-year-old mother, who often said that she wanted to see where her relatives had resided all those years ago. At the time of our visit in 2010, we only knew a few facts about our relatives; that they had been shipwrecked on the voyage to Philadelphia in Newfoundland and that they returned to England not too long after.

To see my team play in a city where my family had lived in the 1850s pleased me no end.

I made the decision to add New York to our trip, since I figured that it would be a mortal sin for Glenn not to see one of the greatest cities in the world with me.

Flights were booked. Match tickets were purchased. The accommodation took a while to sort out. But we were on our way.

Phackinell.

New York.

After months of preparation and anticipation, I picked up Glenn at his house in Harris ( ! ) Close in Frome at 4am on Saturday 14 July. Glenn’s only other trip to the US was to Florida in 1992. He went with a mate of ours, Chippy, who was the Liverpool fan from Frome that I saw in the Annie Road seats on my first visit to Anfield in 1985, but I digress!

He was excited, I was excited, ah the joy of foreign travel.

At 6.30am, I was parked up at my mate Ian’s house in Stanwell, so close to Heathrow T5. Ironically, prior to my trip to Rio a year earlier, I had booked a “JustPark” spot in Stanwell, and then walked to a bus stop to take me to T5 and the bus stop was just fifty yards from his house.

The 1230 flight to JFK departed a few minutes late, but the pilot knew of a short cut, and we landed in Queens ahead of schedule.

A little light rain welcomed us to New York, but our trip into the city could not have been easier or cheaper.

AirTrain to Jamaica, Long Island Rail Road to Penn Station.

$8.

Cheap as French fries.

Now then, dear reader, let’s delve back into Chelsea’s history.

In June 2001, I visited New York to see the New York Yankees play five games of baseball, but to also meet up with my friend Roma from North Carolina. I had an unforgettable week. On the last day together, we found ourselves in the main forecourt of Penn Station, which is a deeply unlovable subterranean hellhole right below Madison Square Garden. On that morning, I ’phoned Glenn who had been calling in to check on my dear mother while I was away. And it was during that ‘phone-call that Glenn told me that we had signed Frank Lampard and Emanuel Petit. So, a little bit of my Chelsea history took place right in the middle of Manhattan.

And here we were, walking past that very spot.

There should be a royal blue plaque to commemorate this moment on a wall nearby.

Up at street level, I took a photo of Glenn with a misty Empire State Building in the background, and my heart was buzzing and bouncing. An hour later, we had located our apartment on East 14^th Street, near Union Square, and were making our way to my favourite bar in Manhattan, “McSorley’s”, and our walk took us past the hotel on St. Mark’s Place where Roma and I had stayed in 2001.

At “McSorley’s” the New York Fairytale began in earnest.

Here are some highlights…

McSorley’s.

This was my fourth visit. In 1997, Ian – my college mate who was with me in 1989 – returned to New York with me to watch the first-ever “Subway Series” between the Yankees and the Mets, and we visited this grand old pub for the first-time with our friend Stacey, who we met in Florida nearing the end of our cycle ride in 1989. In 2001, I visited it with Roma on our first night together. In 2015, I met up with my friend Steve from Philly prior to a Mets game. Steve’s grandparents were married in the Ukranian church opposite. Steve loves it that the bar is officially on Shevchenko Place.

With Glenn, we stayed around an hour and a half and drank their light and dark beers – the only choices – which are always served in two half-pints. The place was heaving, full of happy tourists. We were given free crackers, cheese and onion, and some lads from Portland bought us two rounds of our beers. It was a perfect start to our trip.

Jack Demsey’s.

Unbeknown to Glenn, I had contacted some great friends in New York to stage a little “surprise party” for him underneath the Empire State Building in a fantastic bar, “Jack Demsey’s”, on West 33^rd Street. The “meet” was at 6pm, and by 7pm around a dozen friends had accumulated together, and a fantastic night followed. The bar was full of Palmeiras fans, and there were a few Fluminense fans floating about too. The usual watering hole for the New York Blues – “Legends” – had been block-booked by Fluminense for five whole days. Both teams from Brazil were playing two games in New Jersey. Every time that we saw a Fluminense fan, we sang “Thiago Silva.” The volume of Brazilian fans in the city shocked me but I loved the buzz of seeing so many fans enjoying life.

Later, my friend Dom took us to a rooftop bar right underneath the Empire State Building and another one too, and we caught a late cab home. It had been one of the greatest nights.

Ten Miles.

On the Sunday, we slept on, but by around midday we were up. The misty and cool weather was perfect for a walk through the streets of Lower Manhattan, and it was a pleasure to be able to see Glenn’s reaction to a new city. Many people who read my rambling prose have commented how they often feel like they are living vicariously through my experiences, and it was now rewarding to see Glenn’s reactions to places that were more familiar to me, but unfamiliar to him. I had mentioned to him on the flight that I was relishing this. It was as if I was seeing New York for the very first time all over again, but through his eyes.

We craved a meal at a typical diner – booths, stools at the counter, eggs over easy, free coffee refills, rude waitresses, you know the type – but our neighbourhood was sadly lacking in these. We eventually found an Italian restaurant for a filling sandwich and then an Argentinian café, complete with Diego Maradona references, for a coffee.

Our walk took us through Little Italy, the outskirts of Chinatown, close to the Brooklyn Bridge and South Street Seaport, all the way down to Wall Street, then Battery Park and views of the Statue of Liberty. From there, we delved into “Century 21” for a little shopping, then walked north up Broadway and eventually back to our digs. In total, we walked ten miles, and the last two were as painful as hell. But it had been a magnificent first full day, and a little like the ground travelled on my first full day with Ian back in 1989.

Old Friends.

On the Monday, my friend Stacey – from 1989 and 1997, but also from visits in other years including with my mother to her house in New Jersey in 2010 – came into the city and met us for breakfast on Third Avenue. Glenn departed to take in a ferry trip to Liberty and Ellis Islands. Stacey and I did our own tour but were dismayed when we found out that the International Centre of Photography was closed until 19 June. We are both keen photographers. Instead, I suggested that we visited the Lower East Side Tenement Museum. It was fascinating. We learned of a beer parlour that was run by a German family, and then a trader who was Jewish, and it really enabled me to go back in time, to let my mind wander. I studied the migration of Europeans into North America while at college and it is a fascination of mine, enhanced through my own family’s experience in Philadelphia.

We met up with Glenn at “Jack Demsey’s” at 2.30pm to enable us to watch a far from emphatic Chelsea victory over LAFC from Atlanta. The stadium in Atlanta looked so empty and the bar in Manhattan was empty too. It dismayed me that of the dozen or so Chelsea fans at “Jack Demsey’s” many were looking at their ‘phones, eating and chatting while the game took place. The game on the TV seemed an inconvenience.

My love affair with the US began to wane once again.

I remembered an odd football-related tale from 1990. On our return to England in that year, Stacey visited Ian in London but also came down to see me in Somerset. Later they stayed with some friends in Bristol, who happened to live near Eastville, the former home of Bristol Rovers. Glenn and I had seen Chelsea lose 0-3 to Rovers at Eastville in 1980, but I had remembered that Stacey went to see some greyhound racing at Eastville on her visit in 1990.

That all three of us had visited Eastville made me chuckle.

During the game, my friend Keith popped in to see us, and on walking north after the game we witnessed an event in Times Square celebrating the premier of the “F1” movie. Glenn even spotted the Frome driver, and former World Champion from 2010, Jensen Button.

High.

On Tuesday morning, we walked a large section of The Highline, and I was reminded of my walk there in 2015. I love it. It also took me back to my first week in Manhattan in 1989 when Ian and I stayed in a very cramped hostel on West 20th Street, right under the walkway which in those days was just an abandoned train line. Since 2015, the flora and fauna has established itself and parts are in complete shade from the trees.

Again, we spotted Brazilian fans, but hardly any European fans. Not surprisingly, the South Americans were taking this tournament very seriously. Out of nowhere, I commented that as most football supporters who go to games put club over country, I wondered if in one hundred years’ time, the dominant World Cup competition would be this club version rather than the established one for countries.

Would USA 2025 be as significant as Uruguay 1930?

Something to contemplate perhaps.

Meet Me At Stan’s.

Later that day, after a walk up Fifth Avenue, we took the 4 Line to Yankee Stadium, and met up with my friends Mike and Steve, both Chelsea fans, both Yankee fans, Mike from New Jersey, Steve from Philadelphia. We met at “Stan’s Sports Bar” on River Avenue, right opposite the site of the old Yankee Stadium, home of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle, Phil Rizzuto and Reggie Jackson, and a place that I visited twenty-three times from 1990 to 2008. It is where Ray Wilkins made his debut during the US Bicentennial Tournament in 1976.

I was in my element, talking to the lads, reminiscing, supping “Rolling Rock”, looking forward to the baseball, but also thinking back to 1993 when my friends Paul and Nicky from Frome met me here before a game against Detroit. And to 1997 when Ian and I drank amidst shouts of “Let’s Go Yankees” and “Let’s Go Mets” in the first official series between the two teams, giving a real football-feel to the night. And to 2010 when my mother and I had a drink in “Stan’s” before a game against Baltimore. And to 2012 and 2013 when Chelsea played two games at either end of the season at the new Yankee Stadium, acting as bookends to my personal season, and “Stan’s” was the pre-match bar once again.

Game 1 : 22 July 2012 – Chelsea 2 Paris St, Germain 2

Game 57 : 25 May 2013 – Chelsea 3 Manchester City 5

I last saw Mike at the City game, and I last saw Steve at that Mets game in 2015.

I worked out that this was my thirty-third visit to “Stan’s” and this made me smile. I have known Lou, the owner, since 1993 and I also got to know the chap who runs it too. It was a joy to see Mike again. The first two beers had been on him.

Yankee Stadium.

So, here I was. I was back at Yankee Stadium again, and it felt like I had never been away. My last visit was in late July 2015 for an easy win against Baltimore Orioles. Right after that game, I drove from the multi-story car park that used to abut the old stadium, to Charlotte in North Carolina, via an overnight stop in West Virginia, for a game against PSG.

As I have said in these reports before, I much preferred the old stadium; it was cramped, atmospheric, grubby, but reeked of atmosphere and history. I loved the way that the upper decks towered over the infield and resembled jaws waiting to clamp shut. I loved it there. The new place just seems like a shopping mall. Most of my fellow Yankee friends feel the same. A little portion of my waning interest in baseball since around 2010 has undoubtedly been the fact that old Yankee Stadium is no longer there. A lesson for everyone, I think.

Build it and they will come?

Maybe not.

For this game, we had super seats in row one of the upper tier above home plate and Glenn, bless him, had gifted my seat as an early birthday present. Unfortunately it was a dire game of baseball, quite possibly the worst I have ever seen. The visiting Angels got ahead early and eventually won 4-0. But I loved it, and I loved the tales that Mike and Steve shared. Mike used to work for the Yankees as an intern in 2001 and 2002.

It was my thirty-first Yankee home game; twenty-three in the old Yankee Stadium, eight in the new stadium and my record stands at 20-11.

More importantly, Glenn absolutely loved it. And he is now a Yankee fan.

Dodge In Brooklyn.

On the Wednesday, our last full day in New York, the sun came out and we enjoyed another full day out walking and sightseeing. We took a cab to “DUMBO” ; Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. I guess “DUMB” would have been just, er, dumb.

What a great setting. With the East River laid out before us, and the skyscrapers of the financial district to our left and the midtown skyscrapers to our right, I was lost in a world of my own, with a George Gershwin song only a few heartbeats away. Even here we were surrounded by Palmeiras fans. We walked back into Manhattan, over the gorgeous Brooklyn Bridge, and I can honestly say that in the hour or so that we were in Brooklyn and on the bridge we saw around five hundred Palmeiras fans. Like in Abu Dhabi, they were everywhere.

In 1989 and 1990, Chelsea fans were nowhere to be seen. As we descended towards the City Hall, we passed the spot in May 1990 where I met the only Chelsea fan that I had seen in the ten months of me being in North America. This fact still staggers me. He was an ex-pat who was wearing a Chelsea training top. I shared this story with Glenn. As I told the tale, I could hardly believe what I was saying.

One Chelsea fan in almost ten months.

There should be a royal blue plaque to commemorate this too.

One Vanderbilt.

We took a subway up to the gorgeous interior of Grand Central – what a space – and while Glenn chilled out, I ascended one of the newer skyscrapers in midtown, right opposite Grand Central and the famous Met Life building. A work colleague had recently visited it and recommended it to me. I loved it. It’s roughly the same height as the Empire State Building and towers over the nearby Chrysler Building. There are three observation decks, and each one is magnificent.

The lowest one is full of mirrors which make reality a difficult concept but enhance the feeling of space and light. The middle one contains a room of constantly moving ballons, facing north and the pencil thin new builds overlooking Centeal Park, and this just made me laugh and smile. The highest one is outside, just you and Manhattan.

“Good luck, enjoy the view, don’t fall off.”

The Last Night.

My friend Dom invited us up to his apartment on West 52nd Street for some last night beers and this was a lovely and relaxing evening. We met up at around 7pm and watched as the sun set over Hoboken and The Pallisades in New Jersey, and then night fell with the skyscrapers of Manhattan a fantastic backdrop. I last saw Dom in Wroclaw. We spoke about Manhattan, Chelsea fans in the US, work, mutual friends, and it was a perfect time.

From here, we visited another rooftop bar, this time overlooking Times Square. We chatted to some ES Tunis fans, and we told them that we had seen quite a few of their supporters, too, in Manhattan, in their red and yellow stripes. We spoke about numbers of fans, and I was asked how many Chelsea fans were coming from the UK. I stalled, gulped, and embarrassingly said “about one hundred.”

Suddenly, we didn’t feel like a very big club at all.

Rio de Janeiro.

Ahead of our road trip from Manhattan to Philadelphia, here is a small recap of the only other time that I have seen Flamengo play.

“I again took a cab to the Maracana and was deposited in the same spot as on Thursday for the Fluminense vs, Internacional match, but immediately the mood seemed different. More noise. More supporters. More banners. It seemed that Flamengo really were the city’s team. I felt a little conflicted.

Flu over Fla for me, though.

I had paid a little more for my ticket – £40 – but was rewarded with a sensational view high on the main stand side. I took a lift to the top level and the vast bowl of the Maracana took my breath away. I bought myself a beer – alcohol is allowed in the stands in Brazil – and raised a toast to myself.

“Happy birthday young’un.”

I really loved this game. It was a lot more competitive, and the noise was more constant, and quite breath-taking. Cuiba, from the city of the same name, only had a few hundred fans for this match and I didn’t even try to hear them. Surprisingly, Cuiba scored early on when Derek Lacerda waltzed through and struck a shot into the massive Maracana goals. For aficionados of goals, goal frames, stanchions and goalposts, these are beauties.

“Deep sag.”

It was a decent game. My view of it made it. Maracana, dear reader, is vast.

At half-time, I trotted out to the balcony that overlooked the city. I took a photo of a section of the Maracana roof support, pocked and cracked through time, and contrasted it with the lights shining on a nearby hill. Rio is surrounded by huge rising pillars of black rock. And here I was inside the city’s mammoth concrete cathedral.

The second half began, and the intensity rose and fell. All eyes were on David Luiz. It was so good to see him play again. I last saw him play for Chelsea at the away friendly against St. Patrick’s Athletic in Dublin in 2019. The Fla – or ‘Mengo, take your pick – support never waned and were rewarded when Pedro tucked in an Ayrton cross on the hour. One through-ball from David Luiz will stay in my mind for a while. He was arguably their best player. It ended 1-1. The gate was 54,000. I was expecting more. Flamengo’s support is so huge that I was soon to liken them to Liverpool’s and Manchester United’s support in the UK combined

But there was one more thrill to come.

Whenever I saw photos of Maracana as a child and in later years, I was always mesmerized by its exit ramps, and I tried to imagine how many millions of cariocas – Rio’s inhabitants – had descended those slopes over the years. After the game, I walked them too.

The whole night had been a wonderful birthday present to me.”

Philadelphia.

And here we were, not too long before my 60^th birthday, on a Flixbus from just outside Madison Square Garden to the heart of the City of Brotherly Love, or perhaps – when I visited it with my dear Mum in 2010 – The City of Motherly Love.

I love the American road, and I had driven back from The Bronx in 2010 with my mother on this exact same route that Glenn and I were now taking. In fact, it almost mirrored the bus trip that a few of us took in 2012 after the game at Yankee Stadium against PSG, travelling down to Philly for the MLS All-Star Game in nearby Chester.

That was no ordinary journey, though.

On that memorable trip, my good friend Rick – a history buff – did some research into my relatives’ history and found out the details of their crossing of the Atlantic. The City of Philadelphia steam ship left Liverpool but was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September 1854. Additionally, it was its maiden voyage, a fact that nobody knew until then. Rick found my great great grandfather’s brother listed on a passenger list, and that was good enough for me. The shipwreck was part of our family’s aural history, though the exact facts were never known.

I loved the fact that I was exposed to the intimate detail of that journey, previously only faintly written and quietly whispered in family folklore, for the very first time as I was travelling to Philadelphia over one hundred and fifty years after the crossing.

Like Benjamin and Barbara White in 1854, we were nearing Philadelphia.

We had earlier passed the town of Newark and we spotted the Red Bull stadium – I had sadly watched a Chelsea loss there in 2015 – but then pushed on past the airport, over the Delaware River and headed on into the city. We were deposited in the wonderfully named area called Northern Liberties.

It was superb to be back.

We soon arrived by Uber at our rented house in South Philly, about a mile or so from Steve’s house, at about 3pm. That evening, there was a planned meet at the “Tir Na Nog” bar in the city centre. We knew that we were in for a heavy evening with the game less than twenty-four hours away, so we chilled out for a while. Our house was magnificent, a clean and cosy, yet spacious, terraced house, just perfect.

It’s number on Pierce Street?

2025.

It seemed very appropriate.

We took an Uber to “Tir Na Nog” and we arrived bang on 7pm.

Have I ever mentioned that I work in logistics?

Phackinell.

The hours we spent in “Tir Na Nog” were super. Friends from both the UK and the US mingled and laughed and joked. I met a few Facebook acquaintances for the very first time and it was a blast.

I’d like to thank everyone who bought me a drink, or seven.

Steve from South Philly rolled in. It was here that I first met his wife Teri and their daughters Linda, Elizabeth and Cassidy in 2012. Cassidy, now fourteen, would be with Steve for the Flamengo game. All three daughters love football, and Chelsea of course.

Back in 2012, I remember that I yelled out a full “Zigger Zagger” and scared the girls to death.

No such foolish behaviour this time.

Johnny Dozen was sat, unmoved, in a corner spot the whole evening. It was as if the whole bar was built around him. He is a good mate, and after we closed out the bar at around midnight, we sloped off to “Con Murphy’s” just around the corner.

Here, we go back to 2012, the day before the game in Chester, when I visited “Con Murphy’s” with some other mates.

We were relaxing outside on the pavement, having a bite to eat, supping some ales, when a taxicab pulled up outside the bar. A chap exited the cab with a couple of friends, and I immediately remembered him from a post-baseball game pint the previous night. I had remarked that he was a doppelganger for Carlo Ancelotti. On this occasion, we couldn’t let the moment pass.

As he approached the bar, I started chanting

“Carlo! Carlo! Carlo!”

This elicited further song from The Bobster, Lottinho, Speedy, Jeremy “Army Of One” Willard from Kansas, plus Shawn and Nick from the Boston Blues –

“Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.

2, 3, 4

Carlo, Carlo, Carlo.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.
And The Shit From The Lane.
Have Won Fuck All Again.
King Carlo Has Won The Double.”

We were roaring with laughter and “Carlo” approached us with an increasingly bemused look on his face. I explained to him about his uncanny resemblance to Carlo and guess what? He was a Scouser. To be fair to him, he took it all in great spirits and even posed for photographs with us. He said he had been mistaken for Jay Leno the previous night.

As one, all of our left eyebrows arched in disbelief.

The look on the faces of the other customers at the tables was priceless.

I felt like saying – “yeah, we serenade random strangers like him all the time back in England.”

Back to 2025, and the little gang of friends that had continued drinking – Johnny Twelve, Hersham Bob, his mate Paul, Glenn, Matt and his wife Rachel – shrunk to just Johnny Twelve and little old me. We chatted to Nicole, who ran “Tir Na Nog”, and it seemed that Chelsea Football Club had not exactly held out the arm of friendship to the Chelsea signature pub in Philadelphia. No contact, no promotions, no merchandise, no nothing.

A shame.

At gone 2am, I took an Uber back to 2025. I was starving so the driver opened his boot and gave me a huge pack of zingy “Cheetos” that I devoured on the way home. There was a further stop at a convenience store for more snacks.

I made it home, but I would soon be up in the morning for the game against Flamengo.

The match against the Brazilian giants was to kick-off at 2pm, which meant that we didn’t really have too long for pre-match drinks. We had planned a little splinter group meet-up at “Oscar’s Tavern”, a cracking little dive bar. Glenn and I were starving so wolfed down a breakfast that did not touch the sides. There were a few drinks with great friends Bob, Alex and Rob from England, Dom from NYC, Alex and his girlfriend from Brooklyn, Kathyryn and Tim from DC, Josh from Minnesota, Johnny Dozen from Long Beach, Jaro and his son Alex from Virginia, his neighbour Joe and his son Luke, and Steve from his house just two miles to the south.

We caught a subway down to the stadium, the sun beating down as we exited, and headed for a quick drink at a huge and impersonal “super bar” that sits close to both the Phillies’ baseball stadium and the Eagles’ NFL stadium. The Flyers’ NHL and the 76ers’ NBA shared stadium is close-by too.

There has always been sport stadia in this part of the city, and it once housed the long-gone JFK Stadium where the US section of “Live-Aid” took place forty years ago.

I wasn’t sure of the numbers involved but as expected, Flamengo fans outnumbered us. It was lovely, though, to spot familiar faces from home and the US as we drifted in and among the crowd.

Time was moving on and there were lines at both the North and West gates. Flamengo fans were everywhere. We joined the line at the West gate. QR codes had appeared on our mobile phones earlier and I was just glad that mine hadn’t disappeared into cyberspace somewhere.

Glenn and I made our way up the various ramps to reach the M11 section, which was a middle-tier just above the large TV screen at the southern end of the stadium. As soon as we reached our row, we saw Andy from Nuneaton, a friend of thirty years.

There was all sorts of hoopla and nonsense happening on the pitch and on the PA as the kick-off approached.

The northern end was full of Flamengo red, but with odd pockets of blue at the edges. The rest of the stadium was dominated by the colour red. Down below us, the Chelsea lower tier was only a third full. The stadium capacity is 68,000 and it looked around two-thirds full.

My initial thoughts about this tournament were ringing true; too many games, tickets too expensive, we are reaching saturation point but FIFA wants more, more, more.

I had mentioned to others that my ideal format for this would have been sixteen teams, four groups of four, the winners to the semi-finals, then the final. Five games maximum.

Is the US getting tired of European teams? I remember a great game in 2009 in Baltimore between Chelsea and Milan, both teams stacked with talent, as many Chelsea as Milan fans in the crowd and a gate of 71,203. And that was a friendly.

Yet this game in Philly was no friendly, it was an official FIFA game, only Chelsea’s second-ever non-friendly match in North America, yet the Chelsea section was a third full. It seemed that, as I knew, many of our US fans had said “no thanks” to this one.

The teams were announced.

Us?

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

James – Caicedo

Palmer – Enzo – Neto

Delap

Or something like that. It would take me a good few minutes to notice that Cole Palmer was on the pitch, and even longer to work out his position and role.

Flamengo, now managed by one-season wonder Felipe Luis, were now without David Luiz but boasted the arrival of Jorginho, who – from one hundred yards away – resembled Phil Cool.

I think the heat was getting to me.

Our section seemed to be where most of the UK fans had decided to buy tickets, which were at the cheaper of the two price ranges, and this did not surprise me. We love a bargain in the UK. As is the case, not many of us were wearing Chelsea gear, old habits die hard. I added a muted pink Paul Smith to the array of designer schmutter on display.

On the pitch, we were in the mid-‘seventies inspired semolina white with thin central feint red and green stripes.

The game began, and we played towards the Flamengo fans to the north.

The Brazilians attacked us early, with two shots that did not trouble Robert Sanchez, whose presence between the uprights troubled us.

On five minutes, a great through-ball from Enzo Fernandez gave Liam Delap the chance to run freely at the goal, memories of him at Portman Road in December, and his strong shot tested Agustin Rossi in the Flamengo goal. I think everyone in the stadium and beyond was thrilled by that one play and we hoped for more.

It was an eagerly contested match and on thirteen minutes, after a Flamengo free-kick was cleared, Pedro Neto put pressure on a Flamengo defender. The ball cannoned between the two players, and the ball spun forward, and so did Neto. We watched from afar as he raced away. Sadly, I didn’t have my SLR with me due to restrictions on what I could bring into the stadium, and my pub camera was not called upon to record his fine finish past Rossi.

I didn’t care.

We were 1-0 up.

GET IN YOU FUCKER.

Pandemonium in South Philadelphia.

I snapped the boys celebrating, and that was enough for me.

I whispered to Glenn :

“Back in England, there are fans of other teams saying ‘fucking hell, Chelsea are going to win this too’…”

Flamengo were fluid with the ball and ran at us from all angles, but we generally kept our shape, though it did seem that the heat was hurting us. Flamengo, used to the sultry heat of Rio, were not so deterred.

A long shot from Malo Gusto that did not trouble Rossi was a very rare chance for us.

Palmer was ridiculously quiet and hardly involved.

On thirty-two minutes, there was a hydration break, sponsored by a drinks company, and you just now there will be VAR breaks with sponsors very soon. The pitch was being hydrated too, with the sprinklers on.

With half-time approaching, the typically aggressive Marc Cucurella gave away a free-kick out on the Flamengo left. A deep cross was met by Gerson and his side-footed cross-come-shot bounced high, but Levi Colwill was on the line to head away.

We breathed a hot and sweaty sigh of relief.

Our attacks had petered out by the time the first half ended but Flamengo had stayed strong.

At half-time, Glenn trotted off to get some water for us both and that cost him $15. At least they came in decent aluminium logo’d cups. Elsewhere, a lad had bought three gin and tonics and a Diet Coke and it cost him $89.

There were no changes at half-time, but shadows gave way to sun in section M11, and I was glad to be wearing my Frome Town cap.

In the second-half, Steve and his daughter Cassidy came into our section to watch the game alongside us.

Soon into the second period, with most of the play now happening up the other end of the pitch, we had a major escape, a proper “get out of jail” incident. There was a terrible mix-up between James and Chalobah, which allowed Gerson to settle and steer a shot towards the goal. Thankfully, James had managed to back-peddle and block, but we watched with our hearts in our mouths as the onrushing Gonzalo Plata appeared, ghost-like, at the far post. Incredibly, his touch took the ball wide of the post and the angle must have defeated him.

We had a rare chance when a long Sanchez punt forced Leo Pereira, pressured by Delap, to knock past the post, his ‘keeper fully committed.

On the hour, a brisk succession of passes allowed a chance for Plata but his shot was well tipped over by Sanchez. It was a fine save.

Sadly, two minutes later the game changed. Cucurella gave up space as he was faced with marking two players, and a deep cross from our left was headed back towards goal by Plata. The loose ball – shades of the earlier chance – was tucked home by Bruno Henrique.

My heart sank.

Glenn : “It was coming, wannit?”

Their players all rushed over to the north-west corner, but that area was no Sleepy Hollow. The Flamengo fans were boiling over.

I was reminded of a “Mengo” chant that I had heard continually at the Maracana last summer and now it haunted me.

Enzo Maresca made some changes.

Romeo Lavia for Enzo.

Nicolas Jackson for Delap.

In the next attack, Flamengo won a corner on their right. Another deep cross caused panic, and it was again knocked back into the same area of space by the far post. This time Danilo turned it in.

Once 1-0 up, now 2-1 down, this hurt again.

The Flamengo players raced away to the same corner, again their keeper Rossi, all in yellow, raced up field with arms outstretched and it made me squirm.

It got worse, fucking worse. I didn’t see the incident, but Jackson went in “studs up” and was shown an immediate red.

Twat.

A header – over – from Enzo was a rare chance for us to level the game.

In a forlorn attempt to stem the flow, Maresca changed things again.

Noni Madueke for Enzo.

Marc Guiu for Palmer.

The supporters in M11 were disgruntled and upset, and it got even worse.

On eight-three minutes, Flamengo burst through into our box and after a rather fortuitous bobble from a shot, Wallace Yan steadied himself and slotted the ball in, again from the same part of the box.

Again, Rossi ran forward, arms raised, and I felt ill.

The game petered out and that was that.

The gate was given as 54,019 and I struggled to believe that only 14,000 seats were empty.

More like 40,000 at most.

We slowly walked back to the subway stop and all of us reckoned that it seemed a much longer walk than before.

“Probably because we lost.”

It was only 4.30pm or so, and so we met up another exquisite dive bar (“Bring your snorkel, Glenn”) called “Bob’s & Barbara’s” which soon got us smiling again. A few beers there did the trick, and it was great to meet up and chat with my old friend Mike and his son Matthew from New York, and another Matthew from South Carolina, who is a massive fan of international football, unlike me, and was soon off to his 69^th US game in Kansas, or somewhere.

“Just make sure they change ends at half-time in that one, mate.”

We spent a good amount of time there and could have stayed longer, but Steve walked Glenn and yours truly over to South Street where we devoured our first cheesesteak of the trip at “Jim’s” where we had visited in 2012.

“Steak, onions, Whiz.”

It was phantastic.

Our first match in Philly was done and dusted, but we now had to get something from Tuesday’s late game against Esperance of Tunis to ensure our safe passage into the last sixteen of this cup.

And that, my friends, is another story.

NEW YORK 2025

RIO DE JANEIRO 2024

PHILADELPHIA 2025 : A NIGHT WITH FRIENDS

PHILADELPHIA 2025 : CHELSEA VS. FLAMENGO

Tales From Our European Playground

Posted on June 2, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Real Betis : 28 May 2025.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.

We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.

We were in Wroclaw.

I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.

Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?

“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”

Parky immediately chimed in.

“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”

Howls of laughter followed.

Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?

Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.

Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?

It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.

Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.

We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.

Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.

We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.

On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.

On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.

I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.

We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.

With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.

We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.

After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.

In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.

We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.

The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.

Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.

Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.

You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.

Enough of these history lessons.

On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.

Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.

For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.

I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.

RIP Stephen Rouse.

The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.

Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.

The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.

Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.

Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.

We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.

Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.

When in Rome.

Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming up with the Tyrique George song.

At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.

At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.

At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.

Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.

PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.

Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.

My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.

I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.

I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.

The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.

We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.

It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.

Fackinell.

Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.

I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.

The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.

“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”

To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.

We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.

At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.

At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.

That made me laugh. What a small world.

We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.

Michelle led the way, and we followed on.

It was her finest hour.

We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.

I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.

If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?

At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.

At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.

Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?

Everyone wins. Everyone wins!

I hate modern football.

But here we all were.

Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.

Why were we here?

To see us win it all. Again.

Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.

Result.

I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.

The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.

Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.

Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.

The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.

Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.

Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.

I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.

I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.

“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”

It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.

The minutes ticked by.

There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.

The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.

Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.

I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.

“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.

Fantastic.

The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.

It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.

It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.

It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.

The desire was seemingly with them, not us.

Sigh.

Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.

The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.

“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”

“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”

On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.

At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.

Time to check the team again.

Jorgensen

Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.

Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?

Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?

Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.

I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.

At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.

I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.

On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.

Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.

They were together at West Ham United.

The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.

Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.

The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.

Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.

Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.

We looked poor.

There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.

Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.

But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.

Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.

Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.

“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”

On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.

The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.

Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?

Oh boy.

At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.

It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.

On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.

Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.

On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.

From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.

We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.

On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.

Levi Colwill for Badiashile.

Jadon Sancho for Neto.

No complaints from me.

We pushed on.

On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.

We were level.

GET IN.

Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.

Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.

On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –

“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”

He didn’t let me down.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.

We erupted again.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.

We were ahead.

Fackinell.

Our end boomed now.

“And it’s super Chelsea.

Super Chelsea FC.

We’re by far the greatest team.

The World has ever seen.”

Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.

Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.

“Get up, you fool.”

On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.

Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.

Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.

In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.

And we were 3-1 up.

More beautiful noise.

The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :

“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”

Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.

With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.

Lovely.

There was still more to come.

With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.

Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.

What a feeling.

Phew.

We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.

At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.

“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”

The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.

At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.

I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.

Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.

I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.

And what a night.

We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.

If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.

Europe really is our playground.

And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.

We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.

PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.

In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.

And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.

Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…

I will see some of you in Philadelphia.

Phackinell.

REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL

CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : “WE’VE WON IT ALL”

THANK YOU WROCLAW

“TYRIQUE GEORGE“

“OUR HOUSE”

Tales From Chelsea At Fulham

Posted on April 22, 2025 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 20 April 2025.

We were amid a solid run of games in London. Our local derby at Craven Cottage against Fulham was our seventh league game of nine consecutive matches in the capital. So, there was something very familiar as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky early on the morning of Easter Sunday.

The mood in the car, however, was not particularly positive. I certainly thought that we would lose against our quiet neighbours. We have struggled of late, and Fulham would be no pushovers.

My Easter weekend had started poorly. On Good Friday, I watched as Frome Town played Dorchester Town, and the Dorset promotion-challengers had brought around three-hundred supporters to boost the crowd to a fine 708 at Badgers Hill. This was a fine pulsating football match, and it went 0-1 (a penalty), 1-1 (Albie Hopkins), 1-2 (a penalty) and 2-2 (Sam Teale) until former Portsmouth, Ipswich Town and Bournemouth striker Brett Pitman pounced in the eighty- ninth minute. At 2-2, our safety was still possible, but at 2-3 we feared the worst. When I snapped the second equaliser, close-in, we had all hoped that our complete comeback was on, and a remarkable survival mission was back on track.

Sadly, the following day, the results went against us and Frome Town were relegated to the Southern League South.

It was expected, but still painful.

However, one moment stuck with me as I slowly wandered back to my car after the match on Friday. Around two hundred of the away supporters had been massed in the small covered seated stand at the eastern end of the ground and so when Pitman slotted home that last minute winner, their support roared and made one incredible racket. It brought it home to me how passionate the supporters at Step 3 can be. It was, admittedly, a horrible moment but also a life-affirming moment too.

On the Monday, I dropped the lads off close to the Eight Bells and drove off to park up. Walking to the pub took ten minutes from my spot on Ringmer Avenue, I took a photo of the neat and well-maintained town houses of Fulham and posted the view onto Facebook with the title :

“Fulham. This hotbed of football.”

This was a sideswipe at Fulham, that most benign of clubs, but also a tongue-in-cheek comment about us too, since we are also based in Fulham, and are seen by outsiders as being soft Southerners with no edge, no passion and no gravitas.

Chelsea Football Club, though undoubtedly a global phenomenon now, are centered on the twin boroughs of Hammersmith and Fulham, but also Kensington and Chelsea.

It’s perhaps odd for outsiders – of the club, of London, of the United Kingdom – when they realise that our club is in Fulham. I suppose we take it for granted. I differentiate it all out of necessity.

I go to Chelsea, but I drink around Fulham.

Most of the drinking spots at Chelsea are in Fulham.

We very rarely drink in Chelsea.

We sometimes drink in Hammersmith.

We very rarely drink in Kensington.

We alight at Fulham Broadway tube station.

Stamford Bridge is in Fulham.

Chelsea are policed by Fulham Police.

“You’re going home in a Fulham ambulance.”

Chelsea is a Fulham club.

To add to this state of confusion, “The Eight Bells” is deep in Fulham but is never a Fulham pub. When Chelsea plays at home, it is steadfastly a home pub, when Fulham plays at home it is an away pub.

On the last few yards of my walk to this cozy pub, the bells of All Saints Fulham could be heard, an unlikely backdrop to a few hours of drinking and banter, laughter and smiles.

Unlike at Chelsea home matches, most of the chairs were stacked away to provide more standing room for punters, since Chelsea would undoubtedly flood the three away pubs in this area close to Putney Bridge tube station.

The pre-game was excellent. The four of us were joined by two long-standing US friends, Johnny Dozen and Cesar from California, and I also met up with Joe, from Virginia, for the first time. Joe lives right next door to my big friend Jaro, and he loves the intimate atmosphere of our home pub which he had visited once before. To complete a quintet of US supporters, Frank from Philadelphia was in attendance with his daughter, a follower of this blog, and a chap that I think I conversed with before on one social media platform or another.

This was nice.

My two friends Rob and, er, Rob, were in attendance too, and so there will be eight of us meeting up in the US again in two months: Joe, Frank and his daughter, Johnny Dozen, Rob, Rob, Glenn and I.

From Phulham to Philly.

Phackinell.

While others were quaffing copious amounts of ales and lagers, I was knocking back God-knows how many pints of “Diet Coke”.

At just after 1pm, we set off for the short walk over to Fulham Palace and Bishops Park and onwards towards Craven Cottage. However, firstly I commandeered the troops for a nice photo outside the boozer.

We split up a little outside the away turnstiles and I enjoyed a few moments to myself.

Along with the closeness of the main stand on Goodison Road, this is probably my favourite piece of terra firma on our away trips.

The ornate, red-bricked façade of the main stand, the Johnny Haynes statue, the black and white paintwork depicting “Fulham Football Club” on the cottage which dates from 1780, the neat, terraced houses leading away from the stadium, the quintessential Englishness of it all.

It was all very Fulhamish.

DJ was spotted hawking “CFCUK” on Stevenage Road.

“Only a pound.”

There was wisteria on the walls of an immaculate house on the corner of Finlay Street. I took a photo of this against a backdrop of the Johnny Haynes Stand and the cottage.

I mentally dubbed Fulham “Wisteria FC.”

And wondered if we should be called “Hysteria FC.”

There always seems to be panic and drama and commotion and noise at our club. In contrast, Fulham just keep floating on.

Smuggling my SLR into Craven Cottage is my easiest away challenge, and this was no exception. On this occasion, I took my place with my Sleepy Hollow companion Clive while Glenn watched alongside Alan and Gary. We worked out that this was my first trip to Craven Cottage with Glenn since a trip in November 2004 when we thrashed the home team 4-1.

Where does the time go, eh?

I looked around. At last, the Riverside Stand is complete, bringing the total capacity up to around 28,000. It’s a decent looking stand, though I miss the view of the river. Fulham must be the only stadium where one of the stands, The Riverside, has a better logo than the club itself. After Legia’s over-simplistic “L”, I was reminded of the awful “FFC” of Fulham.

I had spoken to many before this game and virtually everyone expected a poor performance from us, and many expected a loss. I reminded a few mates of the infamous walk that Rafa Benitez was forced to do at the Brentford away game in 2013, loudly berated by our fans on four separate occasions, when the dugouts were on the opposite side of the pitch much like at Craven Cottage. I wondered, should we lose, if a toxic atmosphere would again engulf the away end and Enzo Maresca would be haunted forever by Craven Cottage.

The kick-off at 2pm came close. The teams appeared from the corner, and there were the usual flames in front of the Riverside Stand. I yawned a hundred yawns. I saw that the home fans to my left were already flapping their carboard “noise-makers” in the air.

Modern football eh?

The teams lined up.

Fulham in white / black / white.

Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.

Us?

Sanchez

James – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

Chelsea attacked us in the Putney End and this isn’t usually the case in the first-half. It’s a bit of a misnomer this, since Putney is on the other side of the Thames. I am not sure why “the Fulham End” couldn’t suffice.

In the first ten minutes of the game, our end was full of noise, and I strained to make out the words of a new song.

Eventually, I worked it out.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Tune : “Voulez-Vous” by Abba.

Early on, there was a hearty “One Man Went To Mow” that got everyone involved, a battle song from the early to mid-‘eighties that always seemed better when we all used to sit until ten, but I guess things evolve and change.

Ah, the mid-eighties. Here we go.

Exactly forty years ago to this very day, Chelsea were playing at another away venue, but this time in the West Midlands and not West London. On Saturday 20 April, Chelsea visited The Hawthorns and beat West Bromwich Albion 1-0 with a goal from Kerry Dixon in front of just 11,196. I didn’t go to this one, but I remember Glenn went with Swan. It was another win in our recent resurgence.

In deepest Fulham, up the other end – the Hammersmith End – Fulham had a goal from Ryan Sessegnon quickly chalked off for offside.

There’s no doubt that we enjoyed most of the ball in this first quarter of the match, but good heavens it was tough to watch. Again, we found it hard to get behind the home defence. Nicolas Jackson reached the six-yard box and stumbled at a ball that was an easy grab for Bernd Leno. Crosses missed intended targets. Cole Palmer’s shot was saved. A Reece James free kick caused no problems.

In the stands, much to my annoyance, past heroes were serenaded, when the players currently on the pitch should have been prioritised.

“It’s Salomon!”

On twenty minutes, Reece James was put under pressure by two Fulham players and I immediately sensed danger. Sessegnon passed to Alex Iwobi. As he set the ball up for a shot, I spoke.

“Here we go, goal.”

And I watched the ball find the far corner.

Sometimes that sixth sense unerringly works, and it often works when other teams score. It must be a Chelsea thing. Fackinell.

The home fans made a bit of noise but nothing special. However, after their last-minute win at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day, they were now chasing their first-ever league double over us.

Encouraged by their goal, Fulham came more into the game, but Robert Sanchez was not threatened too severely.

Our play was marked by the usual slow and ponderous style of the second part of this season. Tensions rose in the away end. I didn’t see much to be happy about. Palmer looked a little lost. Not as lost as James, however, who once appeared to be positioned in left midfield. On the half-hour mark, I was screaming my displeasure at Levi Colwill who took a stupid swipe at a Fulham player from behind on the half-way line and received a booking.

“Stupidity!”

We hardly created any chances in that tepid and turgid first half. It brings me no pleasure to report that the word “turgid” is being used increasingly by Chelsea supporters this season.

Yes, Maresca was given a rough reception as he strode quickly over the pitch on the way back to the away dressing room in the corner. I was surprised that it was not more venomous.

On this first-half showing, I rated no players more than a 5/10. Reece was, quite literally, all over the place. I commented that it was, unfortunately, playing out just like I had glumly expected.

Clive and I stood, shell-shocked by it all, and we acknowledged the Fulham DJ cheeringly playing a song by Ian Dury.

“Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly.

Good golly, Miss Molly and boats.

Hammersmith Palais, the Bolshoi Ballet.

Jump back in the alley and nanny goats.

Eighteen-wheeler Scammels, Domenica camels.

All other mammals, plus equal votes.

Seeing Piccadilly, Fanny Smith and Willie.

Being rather silly and porridge oats.”

Oh boy.

“Reasons to be cheerful?”

I should have got back in to bed.

At half-time, Maresca made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

As we attacked the Hammersmith End, the Hammersmith Palais, the Hammersmith Odeon and the Hammersmith flyover, our play improved slightly. However, I soon commented to Scott that “our players look as bored as we do.”

There was a shot from Palmer straight at Leno.

In front of us, a rare Fulham attack but Gusto did ever so well to stretch out and block a shot on goal. Gusto has suffered this season, and I wonder where on earth his form from the last campaign has gone. On his day, he is a cracking player.

Neto, getting more involved on the right, saw his shot stopped by Leno, who was becoming the busier ‘keeper by far.

As the second half continued, a wide variety of songs rang out from the Putney End. Initially, the “Frankie Lampard scored two hundred” annoyed me as it was a typical example of a song being sung at the wrong time. I always say this is fine when we are winning easily and we can relax and serenade older players, but not when we are losing and playing poorly. It just seems odd to me.

Songs involving Dennis Wise, John Terry, Willian and, inevitably, Salomon Kalou were aired too.

After a while, I became less irritated and just appreciated the effort that the Chelsea fans were putting in to supporting the club, if not the current team.

The past has been bottled and labelled with love, but let’s support the players on the pitch.

Our chances increased. A shot from Sancho, a save from Leno after a Cucurella shot, plus another shot from Palmer that missed the target.

On seventy-eight minutes, Tyrique George replaced the disappointing Jackson.

His song was aired again.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Five minutes later, we worked the ball in from the right and it reached George just outside the box. His shot was hugely instinctive, and we watched, disbelieving, as the ball was swept into the left-hand corner. It was such a sweet finish.

Strangely, I hardly celebrated, as my first reaction was “about bloody time” but immediately after I lifted my camera and tried to snap the young scorer’s celebrations. The one photo I took was blurred, and is not worth sharing, but I soon realised that Tyrique’s celebrations matched mine.

There weren’t any.

He was just keen to get back to his own half and get going in search of the winner.

What a fantastic attitude.

All around me, arms were being pumped into the air and the Putney End was bouncing.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Neto, really involved now, forced another save from Leno.

Six minutes of extra time were signalled, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, in all blue, now. Gusto, a great addition in the second half, seemed to pull up with a hamstring problem on the far side and was replaced by Tosin, who was booed by his former fans.

In the third minute of injury time, a fantastic flowing move with quick passing worked the ball down our right flank.

Enzo to Caicedo to Enzo to Palmer to Enzo.

A square pass to Neto, free inside the box. He touched the ball and used its spin to set himself up. He turned on a sixpence and slashed the ball goalwards – just as I snapped – and the venom and velocity were just too much for Leno to cope with.

The net rippled.

The Chelsea end erupted again.

I punched the air.

I remember thinking “I LOVE THIS FUCKING CLUB” and then pushed my camera in between some bodies to capture the scorer’s wide smile as he ran back towards us in the Putney End.

What a terrible game, but what a magnificent final fifteen minutes.

One song dominated now.

“ONE TEAM IN FULHAM.”

Over the Easter weekend, there had been two very late goals. At Frome Town on Good Friday, it had gone against me. At Fulham on Easter Day, it had gone in my favour.

I wonder what the ecstatic mass of Chelsea supporters celebrating wildly as the Neto shot hit the back of the net looked like to the Fulham support in the Hammersmith End.

At the final whistle, there was an old school vibe to the Putney End as the team acknowledged our support, and – of course – the focus was on Tyrique, who looked so very happy.

Bless him. This was his moment, and I simply cannot begin to imagine what was going through his mind as he stood, at times a little bashful, in front of us all.

“Tyrique George – aha.

“Running down the wing – aha.

“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”

Lastly, my final photo of Frome Town this season. Chasing an equaliser, I captured this glancing header from the Town captain Sam Teale that bounced into the goal against Dorchester Town on Good Friday. Alas, it wasn’t enough to save us. I hope that Chelsea fans from all parts of the football world have enjoyed my tales of Frome’s first season back at it’s highest ever level as much as I have writing them. In a way, the sense of adventure has mirrored my recollections of Chelsea in 1984/85, when we again found ourselves back in the top division after, like Frome, a five year break.

I love the fact that Frome’s support continues to grow around the world.

Up The Fucking Dodge.

Tales From A Small Family

Posted on December 21, 2024 by Chris Axon

Astana vs. Chelsea : 12 December 2024.

“Onwards and eastwards.”

These were my closing comments for the Tottenham Hotspur blog, as I typed away in a Heathrow hotel.

Eastwards, indeed.

I was up early on Monday 9 December, and soon wolfed down a breakfast. I made my way to nearby Stanwell, where my friend Ian – whose daughter Ella had taken my spares at Tottenham – had very kindly offered to provide a parking space for my car while I would be in Kazakhstan. Ian dropped me off at Hatton Cross, and I then double-backed on myself to Heathrow where I caught a 9.15am National Express coach to Stansted. It was worryingly cold while I waited at the bus stop at Heathrow, and I began to wonder how I would cope with the colder temperatures in Almaty. I didn’t catch much sleep during the night, so I was happy that I managed to drop off as we wound our way clockwise around the M25. It is a well-travelled journey for me; Stansted is often a departure point for European adventures.

I was soon checked-in at the gate for the first part of my mammoth journey. First up was a three-and-a-half-hour flight to Istanbul – Constantinople for you Jimmy – which was set to leave at 12.50pm. I spotted a few Chelsea faces, around ten, who were on the same flight.

Thinking of Marc Cucarella’s problems at Tottenham the night before, I told a few Chelsea lads “it’s going to be icy and snowy in Almaty – I hope you have picked the right shoes.”

I had been contented with my planning for this trip. I was out via Pegasus and back via Azerbaijain Airlines, all for £418. The apartment that I had booked in Almaty was just £95 for four nights.

The flight left a little late, at maybe 1.15pm.

I did not care; I was on my way.

There is always so much to check and double-check on these trips, but I could now relax and relax I did; I probably slept for 75% of the flight.

We were due to land at Istanbul’s Sabiha Gokcen airport – the one on the Asian side, how fitting – at 8pm local time. I was awake for the approach and was able to set my eyes on the glorious lights of Istanbul and the Bosphorus to my left. I could not make out the Blue Mosque or Hagia Sophia but I knew that “they were down there somewhere” and that was enough for me. I just made out the lights on the bridge that I walked across in 2014. The plane was buffeted in the wind as it approached the airport, and the landing was rather bumpy.

There was only an hour and a half to wait for the onward flight. I met a few more Chelsea who had flown in on an earlier Pegasus flight. There was probably fifteen or twenty Chelsea on the second flight which left at around 10pm.

Again, I slept for much of the five-hour flight. There was more legroom, more space, on this flight and I soon drifted off. I had the extra pleasure of a window seat so was able to use my chunky pullover as a pillow.

However, at the mid-way point, I woke and decided to flip up the window-blind. Down below me, to my right, seemingly within touching distance, was an incredible sight. A huge white city – everything was white – appeared and everything was so clear, so pristine, so bright. Was it all constructed from marble? A vision in the darkness of the night. Stunning. How I wish I had the nous to turn my phone on and take a few photos. The moment lasted only a few moments.

Was it a dream?

I slept on.

I was awake again as we approached Almaty and I spotted roads and houses sprinkled with snow as we descended. We landed ten minutes late at 5.25am.

“Hello Kazakhstan.”

There’s a phrase that I never ever expected to utter in my life.

As we made our way out into the airport, I braced myself for that first blast of cold air.

There had been a little confusion in the weeks approaching this trip regarding my baggage allowance. The messages that I received from both airlines were not clear. Rather than be stung with excess costs, I decided to go for the “least risk” approach and take a small ruck-sac. As a result, I was wearing my chunkiest pullover in addition to my warmest jacket. I looked like the Michelin Man as I walked into the relative warmth of the airport.

I exchanged some sterling for the local tenge, and while I gathered my thoughts, I supped a large cappuccino. This spruced me up and, with the morning still ridiculously early, I was not sure what to do next. While I charged my phone, I chatted to Roy and we soon agreed to split the cost of a 9,000 tenge cab down to his hotel near the stadium where I could at least grab another coffee and try to work out a plan for the day.

We were on our way.

In the build up to this trip, I had been emailing a local guy – Vijay – who I have been in contact with since 2003. Vijay owns an office furniture company in Almaty and we had been planning a meet up during my stay. He had even suggested that I could crash at his house until my apartment became ready at 2pm.

We arrived at Roy’s hotel, with the old school stadium floodlights peaking behind in the morning mist. There was a stand-off with the cab driver – who now wanted 33,000 tenge – but Roy stood firm. It was around 7am.

Cathy arrived in the hotel foyer. She was staying there too. Reports of her first hotel breakfast were not too appetising. We chatted about our plans for the up-coming FIFA World Club Cup in the US, and I have no doubt that I will bump into Cathy in Philadelphia in the summer.

I messaged Vijay to say that I had managed to grab tons of sleep on both flights and so would look around the stadium and then take a leisurely stroll towards the city centre.

At around 8.30am, I called in to a nearby McDonalds. They have been renamed and rebranded as “I’m” (as far as I could work out) after the US/Russia sanctions following the invasion in Ukraine. There was no breakfast menu, and I struggled with a burger at such an hour, but the coffee warmed me. I felt that I was a stereotypical tourist – I hate this feeling – but I definitely needed to optimise locations with Wi-Fi on this trip. An attempt to fire up “Uber” and “Yandex” did not work.

Incongruous Western Christmas songs aired on the in-house radio, how surreal. I quietly observed the facial features of the locals; a real mix, what an exciting trip this will be.

My phone charged further, I set out into the morning air. The sky was still grey.

Within ten minutes, I reached the Central Stadium, where Astana play their games while their indoor stadium is being renovated. Everyone was happy that we were not required in Astana where the temperature can drop as far as -25 at times. Here, in Almaty, the range during winter is -5 to -15.

I took a few photos of the façade of the stadium and then waltzed in. The pitch was covered with a thick tarpaulin, and a few workers were shovelling snow. I was befriended by a couple of them, and one offered me a little white sweet.

I nervously popped it into my mouth.

Fackinell.

It tasted of salt.

I would later learn that it was made from goat’s milk. While their back was turned, I spat it out onto the running track.

The stadium was a typically bleak former Eastern-bloc structure, and my eyes kept wandering over to the section to the right of the classic columns behind one goal – the Northern end – where we would all be gathered in two days’ time.

Not surprisingly, my camera – my “pub” camera for this trip, I could not risk my SLR getting turned away on Thursday – went into overdrive. I hope that you like the photos. I think I was the first away fan to visit the stadium, but a few more visited it over the next two days before the game itself.

I then began my momentous walk back to the city centre. I aimed for Ascension Cathedral as my apartment was nearby.

Soon into my walk, a few locals waved at me and seemed to strongly suggest that I put a hat on. But I wasn’t too cold, not yet anyway. I soon stumbled upon another stadium – Dinamo, in blue – and it appeared that this hosted both ice hockey and football. There was the slow hum of traffic on the city’s grid pattern streets, and I took it all in.

Almaty. What do you have for me?

More opulent than I had ever imagined, many fine buildings, happy locals – Moscow, are you reading this? – and I was mesmerized by the mix of facial types…some Slavic, some Turk, some from further East, Mongolian, Chinese, Nepalese? Even some with European features.

We are all one big mixing pot, right?

Some students outside a university building were enjoying a cigarette break, and it is some while since I have seen so much cigarette smoke in one place. Nobody was vaping.

I put the jacket hood up, but felt constrained, and didn’t fancy that feeling. I actually enjoyed the feeling of the cold air on my cheeks. It was all part of the experience. Even my scarf was loosely tied around my neck. My bobble hat was in my pocket and I hadn’t even brought a pair of gloves for this trip, the simple reason being that I didn’t own one.

I was feeling fearless, kinda.

At a second McCoffee stop – for the Wi-Fi honest…OK, and the toilets – I warmed up a little, but when I went back outside again, I wished that I had not come inside since it seemed twice as cold.

I walked on. The traffic was constant. I lost count of the times that I waited at lights to cross the busy roads.

Eventually, after a leisurely – and pleasurable – three-mile walk of two hours, I arrived at the glorious Ascension Cathedral. Out came my camera. It did not appear to be made of wood, but it is the tallest wooden Orthodox church on the entire planet. Inside – uh, oh…too warm – the richness of the religious decoration blew me away. A few locals lit candles. I said a prayer for all of us.

I had an hour to kill, so located the nearest bar – “Hoper’s” – which had just opened at 1pm. I am no fan of craft beer and wanted a simple lager. The barman Konstantin, a Russian from Almaty, suggested one from Blandford Forum in Dorset, which is – madly – the brewery where my grandfather worked before he moved to Frome.

Hall and Woodhouse, the home of Badger Beer – who would have thought that it would have got a mention on a trip to Kazakhstan? Once he heard my grandfather’s story, he grabbed my hand and shook it. There is a Hall and Woodhouse pub opposite where I work.

Anyway, alas – to Konstantin’s horror – he told me that the “Badger” lager was not available, so I made do with a disgusting Lebowsky lager from Russia. At least it only cost me £2.50.

I always say that the first few hours in a new foreign city simply cannot be beaten. I had revelled in my first taste of Almaty; a marvellous walk through alien streets, with alien faces at each and every turn, with the cold wind kissing my cheeks.

Konstantin played a Cocteau Twins song for me on the TV.

“Pearly-Dewdrops’ Drops.”

I was in heaven.

At 2.30pm, I arrived at my lodgings – the smallest apartment ever, a room with a loo – just as the owner’s husband arrived to see if I was “in.”

I had arranged to meet Vijay at 7pm, so for a few hours I slept.

Every hour counts on these trips.

Vijay arrived in a cab at 7pm, but I was still struggling to get out of my one room apartment. I had to negotiate three locks, all with keypads, and I found it all rather discombobulating. I don’t know what the local word for “Fackinell” is but it is the only swear word, or version thereof, that I did not utter in a frantic ten minutes of number-punching and both clockwise and anti-clockwise twisting and turning.

Eventually, the prisoner was free.

I hugged Vijay and we disappeared a mile or so south. We ended up at “Bottle” on Furmanov Avenue where we spent a brilliantly entertaining couple of hours. Vijay told me all about his company – he formed it in 2000 – and we spoke about football and, er, furniture. He is a Manchester United supporter, ever since he read copies of “Shoot!” magazine, like we all did, in the early ‘seventies in his home city of Singapore. Unlike most Manchester United supporters that I meet, he has been to Old Trafford; not once but thrice.

We shared two bottles of red wine which complemented our horse steaks, which were accompanied by chips, spinach and asparagus.

It was simply beautiful.

He suggested that the beautiful white city that I saw from 35,000 feet was Ashgabat, the capital city of Turkemistan, and confirmed that is constructed completely of marble. I have checked the flight path from Istanbul to Almaty, though, and it doesn’t exactly correlate. It must have been Ashgabat, though. Surely there are no two cities like this.

Vijay fancied one more stop, so we visited “William Lawson’s” which was shut, but then ended up at “Mad Murphy’s” where I supped a pint of Staropramen. Vijay had to head home, but he dropped me at one last bar – “Guinness Pub” – where I spotted Punky Al and two of his mates, faces familiar, names unknown. I also spotted my friend James (who I first met in Baku, 2017) with Tom, a Manchester United fan from Frankfurt, and a Chelsea fan from Dublin, whose name escapes me.

“Barman!”

Two more pints of Krombacher lager were consumed amid frenzied talk of our football fascination. James and Tom had been in town since Friday and on Monday they took a minicab with others in a tour group to go horse riding in the mountains.

You don’t do that on an away trip to Leicester.

They kicked us out at about 2am. I walked home, down the hill, and got back into the apartment unscathed at 2.30am, but my head was spinning with what the night had given me.

I didn’t fall asleep until 4am.

I woke at around midday on that Wednesday but was tired. I honestly think that I had expelled so much nervous energy during the build up to this trip that my body was telling me to rest up.

Work, blogs to squeeze in, photos to edit and upload, booking confirmations to check and double-check, a new phone to set up, a new laptop to plumb in, boarding passes, an Azerbaijani visa, emails, coach tickets, hotel bookings, packing lists, cameras, adaptors, Tottenham away, Heathrow, Stansted, Istanbul, Almaty, Baku, ticket vouchers, passports, travel, travel, travel.

I decided to postpone some more sightseeing on Thursday and Friday and went back to sleep.

I was out at 5.45pm, freshly showered and ready, and soon popped into a shop to buy a pair of gloves for £10.

From there, I enjoyed a lovely meal of meat and bean soup, then lamb ribs with potatoes and onions. With a “Diet Coke” – it shocked me that I didn’t ask for a beer – it came to another £10.

Up the road on Dostyk Avenue – not far from the final watering hole earlier that same day – I met up with around thirty Chelsea.

It was a blast.

Callum, an Eight Bells regular, Martin, Neil, Garry, Russ, Rich, Pauline and Mick from Spain, Scott, Gerry and Paul, Ben and James, Skippy from Australia, Only A Pound, and a lovely visit from the South Gloucestershire lot, Brian and Kev, Julie and Tim, Pete, and Dave from Cheshire.

And a few more too.

The Shakespeare was Chelsea Central in Almaty. Vijay had informed me that it was owned by the same guy as the Shakespeare in Baku, our main pub in 2019. Here, it was a fiver a pint.

That Wednesday in that Almaty pub was a proper hoot. On the way home, I called in to see the South Gloucestershire lot at “Hoper’s” for one last drink before I made tracks; their hotel was nearby, it was their “local”…Dorset, Somerset, South Gloucestershire…it must be a Wessex thing.

I made it back to the apartment at just after 1am.

I slept well.

Match day arrived and I was out at 10.45am. I dropped into a café for some pastries and a coffee – and Wi-Fi – and then continued my walk up the hill – phew! – to the Kok Tobe cable car, which everyone seemed to be visiting. The view at the top was excellent although there was a dirty brown fog hovering over Almaty. As in parts of Baku, I was able to smell the oil and gas in the air. The mountains to the south were spectacular, the skies were blue, and the temperature was bearable. My gloves and hat were in my pockets, my scarf was back in the hotel. I didn’t fancy being too hot, as I would be in a few bars very shortly.

I got the call from Jonesy, who had arrived via Antalya at 7am, and I began to walk north to the ticket collection place, but first made my way to see the Memorial Of Glory, close to the cathedral, en route. It is stunning and impressive.

From there, a twenty-minute walk to the collection point.

I lost count of the times I had checked my pockets for “wallet, camera, passport” during the day.

I gave Jonesy a hug and soon collected my match ticket. The club gave us a special commemorative key-ring, to say thanks” for making the effort to travel the 3,500 miles to Almaty.

A nice touch indeed.

Jonesy and I go back decades. I know that he went to Jablonec in 1994, but I met him a few months later. I remember that I always saw his name featured in “The Chelsea Independent” and his letters always resonated with me as being honest and succinct. Memorably we went with Paul from Brighton to Barcelona in 2000 when we almost made it to our first Champions League Final.

At the time, that day seemed like our biggest day ever.

I laughed when he told me that he bought a kebab at 7am from a kiosk as soon as he got in as it was the only place open.

We walked to The Shakespeare, arriving at around 3.30pm.

Cathy and Tombsy were sat outside having a fag, a perfect “welcoming committee.”

Inside, even more Chelsea. A hug with Luke, another Eight Bells regular, and a photo with Steve who I had not seen for a while. A hello to the previously un-named Gary. A chat with Spencer from Swindon about the US. Pete and I reminisced about him buying me a beer when we were 4-1 up in Baku and he then bought me one in Almaty, cheers mate.

Some had travelled via Frankfurt and Astana, some via Bishkek, some via Dubai, many via Istanbul.

There were a few local Kazakh Chelsea, but not too many.

We sat at a table to chat with Joe – a friend of Neil – and two of his mates. A gaggle of Chelsea joined us; a lad called Des now living in Qatar, plus some lads I semi-recognised.

Jonesy and I were blissfully content.

“This is the life, Jonesy.”

“We’ve been lucky, Chris.”

“We have, mate.”

The call went out to get a cab to a bar closer to the stadium. We just knew, from many personal experiences, how easy it would be to leave it too late and to get enmeshed in horrific traffic.

We hopped into a cab – five of us – and headed for the “Paulaner Brauhaus” which was, on paper, a fifteen-minute journey. Soon into the trip, Jonesy – quite unannounced – disappeared outside for a gypsy’s kiss – “I’ll catch up with you” – but we never saw him again that night. The cab kept moving, Jonesy kept slashing, what a horror show.

After a whole bloody hour, during which time the cabbie even stopped for fuel, we made it to this other pub. The traffic was virtually grid-locked but we had made it.

Toilets!

The bar was half-empty. The beer was served by local girls in full Bavarian garb.

I ordered some beers. We were on good ground; I told the lads that we had frequented the Paulaner beer hall on 19 May 2012.

Who should be in the bar but Des & Co., who offered us some of their two meat platters.

Beautiful stuff.

God knows what it consisted of, though.

With the kick-off at 8.30pm, we were still in the bar at 7.50pm. We put a spurt on and did the mile and a half or so in around fifteen minutes. We didn’t feel the cold.

By 8.10pm, I was through security, I had taken my first photo of a local fan, and I was searching for Alan, Gary, Pete and Nick.

Relax everyone, I work in logistics.

I found the lads easily. I stood between Gary to my left and Alan to my right.

So, here I was, here we were.

Chelsea versus Astana at the Central Stadium in Almaty, Kazakhstan. The furthest that any English team had travelled for an official UEFA game? Yes. Only in Tokyo in 2012 had I travelled further for an official Chelsea game. I looked around. It wasn’t a full house. We had heard that Chelsea had sold 475 tickets. My guess is that around 200 were from the UK. There was no segregation though. There were bona fide Astana fans mixed in with us in the Chelsea bit.

It felt like I recognised a bigger proportion of the Chelsea fans from the UK than the Chelsea players dressed in all black on the pitch.

Our team? It included two full debuts. Welcome Josh and Sam. It was a first sighting of Carney since his injury at West Ham in August 2023.

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga

Dewsbury-Hall – Rak-Sakyi

Pedro Neto – Chukwuemeka – George

Guiu

My Boca Juniors hat was on. My newly-acquired gloves were not yet being called into action. My Aquascutum scarf was in my room. At last, though, some of the expensive and cold-weather resistant designer clobber that many of us have horded over the last few decades of the casual movement were at last being properly tested.

My chunky green CP Company pullover was covered by my super warm off-white Moncler jacket. I was nice and toasty. There were still cold kisses on my cheeks, but all was good. The terraces were still dusted in snow, and I would later learn that the stadium manager would be sacked because of this. But my toes were not too cold…yet.

The game began.

We attacked the other end.

The stand to my left reminded me a great deal of the “distinti” at the old Communale in Turin. In fact, this stadium reminded me of the former Juventus ground so much.

Chelsea began the far livelier and attacked at will. With the action down the other end, I found it difficult to watch the intricacies of the game. Sadly, I knew my photo quality would not be too great.

On fourteen minutes, a goal.

Pedro Neto played a ball forward on the right to Marc Guiu on the right. He kept his footing as he danced forward on an icy pitch before entering the penalty area, drawing the ‘keeper and slotting the ball nicely home from just inside the six-yard box.

Alan and I did our usual “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine amid frozen laughter.

Soon after, Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall passed to Neto who accelerated away from his marker before crossing low for Guiu to bundle in at the near post. This goal was later given as a Aleksandr Marochkin own goal.

At this stage, I dreamed of Jeunesse Hautcharage heights.

A few more Chelsea shots threatened the Astana goal.

On thirty-two minutes, I heard the first “Astana” chant.

Four minutes later, Charles Chinedu tested Jorgensen from outside the box.

A song from the Chelsea North Stand in Almaty :

“It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.

It’s fackin’ cold.

It’s fackin’ cold. It’s fackin’ cold.”

I was coping OK. My gloves were still in my pockets.

Efforts from Acheampong and Chukwuemeka warmed us up (actually, no they didn’t, don’t be twat, Chris) and then from a corner on our right from Kiernan Stately Home, I caught the leap from Renato Veiga to put us 3-0 up.

“Free header.”

Just before half-time, Astana had a rare spell in our half, not so far from us. Their captain Marin Tomasov shimmied inside our box, and I caught his approach on film. His whipped shot hit the far post but rebounded in. The roar of the crowd was loud and hearty.

At half-time, I wandered off and took a few shots of some nearby fans. Nick and Gary had their own mission at the break. Word had got out that there were free cups of tea at half-time for Chelsea fans, but they glumly returned to our spot on the terrace to say that it had all gone by the time they had reached the front of the queue.

The second half was a dull affair as temperatures plummeted to -11.

Ouch.

I got the impression that a lot of the home fans at the other end left during the break, Maybe they had heard about the free tea at the our end.

Ato Ampah replaced the lively Neto.

Soon into the half, a dipping effort from Tomasov was well saved by Jorgensen.

The pace slowed as the pitch frosted further. Everyone did well to stay on their feet. There were no Cucarella fuck-ups in this game, thankfully.

On sixty-eight minutes, a few sections of the home crowd tried to start a wave.

“Fuck off.”

Tyrique George on the left had a lot of the ball, and Stately Home now bossed the midfield.

On sixty-seven minutes, Harvey Vale – I remembered his debut at Brentford – replaced Carney.

My feet were getting colder, and my hands were now stuffed inside my pockets. Still no gloves though.

On seventy-eight minutes, I noted Astana’s best move of the match, down their right but Jorgensen saved well.

Shim Mheuka Replaced Guiu.

On eighty-six minutes, Kiano Dyer replaced Rak-Sakyi.

In truth, I did not have a clue who some of these players were. Not to worry, they didn’t know me either.

It had been a professional show from these lads, and thankfully there were no significant injuries on the pitch. Off it, I am not so sure; the night was still young.

We applauded the team, some of whom were still a mystery to me. It’s a shame that they could not get closer, stranded on the pitch, like relatives waving at an airport terminal.

I gathered my things and gingerly edged towards the exit.

“See you Sunday, Al.”

Out into the night, with no taxi aps to my name, I was resigned to a long walk back to the centre, and The Shakespeare would probably be as good a place as any to aim for. However, about twenty minutes into my walk, two local Chelsea lads caught up with me – it wouldn’t have been hard, believe me – and told me that there was a meet up at “Bremen Bar”, a place that Cathy had mentioned on Tuesday.

I was up for this. My flight home wasn’t until 2.35am on Saturday morning. We set off and arrived at around 11.30pm, an hour after I eventually left the stadium. The bar was packed full of Chelsea fans from all over. Mainly locals, but some from Belarus, but some from Russia, and Mongolia, plus around ten or so from the UK. I soon made friends. More beers. Some songs.

In fact, lots of songs.

The two lads with the “Belarus” flag were pretty decent with the “Chelsea Ranger” and I loved that the “Thiago Silva” song was probably the loudest of the night. I dared sing about Peter Osgood scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far, and my voice almost held out until the end. A group of English lads got going with the “Florent Malouda, Louda, Louda” chant and my voice definitely could not reach the high notes.

I felt like a broken man.

I mentioned to a few lads that I have taken Ron Harris up to Chelsea in my car and I had a nice idea to Facetime him, via his son Mark.

At about 12.15am, Ron Harris appeared on my ‘phone in Almaty and I think it is safe to say that a couple of the local lads almost feinted.

Fantastic.

Oh – a guy called Tim wanted a mention…a pleasure.

The place gradually thinned out.

At about 2.30am, a few of us took a cab to another bar, “Gastreat”, but this was a twenty-minute drive right past the football stadium again and out into the southern suburbs.

By this stage, I wondered if I would ever see my apartment again.

We stayed here for another two hours, and I met a few more lovely Chelsea folk. I had met Alex from Oxford and Bryn, from London I think, at the previous bar, but we chatted some more. There was a guy who surreptitiously handed me a Moscow Blues sticker. They must be quite rare these days, eh? This chap knows Only A Pound and Cathy too, and I loved that. I loved that someone in Moscow knows two of Chelsea’s finest in London.

I turned to him and said :

“We might be a big club but we are a small family.”

It genuinely feels like that. The match-going fraternity know each other and look after each other. It’s a great small family.

One of the local lads, who looked like Enzo Fernandez, called his wife to take a few of us home. She soon arrived. Back through the streets of Almaty we travelled once again.

I reached my apartment at 6am.

What a night.

Because of my very late finish, my last full day in Almaty took on a new plan. Vijay had very kindly invited me to his company’s end of year party at 7pm, very close to where we had enjoyed a meal on Tuesday. I did nothing during the day except sleep, not surprisingly, and I eventually stirred at around 4pm.

It was with a great deal of sadness that I packed up and locked up, then made my way out and up the hill for the final time. I was the first party-goer to reach the restaurant, and as the others arrived, one by one, not a word of English between them, I moved further and further away from my comfort zone. I looked out of the window at the night traffic crawling along and at the ever-changing colours of lights being projected onto a public building opposite. At last, Vijay arrived and I could relax a little.

This was another great night. Vijay sat me next to a guy that once worked for him but had moved on to work for a pharmaceutical company but was still friends. And he was a Chelsea fan. Like many at the game, this was his first sight of Chelsea. He watched from the stand to my left. I can’t imagine the thrill of seeing your favourite team, from three and a half thousand miles away, playing in your home city.

We chatted – thankfully a few could speak and understand English – and enjoyed some fine food. I loved my braised beef cheeks (and the chocolate fondant was to simply die for, darling). One by one we were asked to make a toast. I was truly happy to be able to spend some time in the company of Vijay, who is quite a character, and to try momentarily to understand the dynamics of that part of the world. I said a few things.

One of the guests, Russ, was very quiet and hardly said a word all night. When it was his turn to stand and make a toast, I feared what he might do. He had been drinking Monkey Shoulder whisky, alongside another co-worker, but what he said was pure poetry.

He stood. Everything was quiet. Still. Silent.

He pointed at the tumbler of whisky.

“The ice is cold, still. The whisky is hot, fire. Together, it works.”

I knew what he meant.

“We are all different, but in good company, we produce magical moments.”

At around 11pm, Vijay said the horrible words :

“Your car is here, mate.”

That was tough. It was a touching moment, surprisingly so. Everyone had made me so welcome.

I said to Vijay “I’m quite emotional” and he smiled.

“We are emotional people.”

Gulp.

I went around the room and said my goodbyes. Vijay walked me out to the waiting cab and we hugged one last time.

Thanks, Vijay.

Thanks, Almaty.

It felt like I was the only English person at Almaty International Airport in the small hours of Saturday 14 December. Thankfully, there were no problems with passports, boarding passes, bags and everything else. I made my way through to the departure gate but the 2.35am flight to Baku was delayed, maybe for around an hour.

As I waited, I felt drowsy. I could not wait to get up onto the plane and get some shut-eye. We eventually boarded at 3.20am and the plane took off around 4am. The plane caught up a little. It was meant to land at 5.25am but did so at 6.40am.

For the third time in my life, I took a cab from Heydar Aliyev airport to the north-east of Baku, along Heydar Aliyev Avenue, past the Socar-Tower – it is full of office furniture that I helped supply in 2014 – and into the city.

It virtually never snows in Baku but it was snowing now.

Fackinell.

This somewhat curtailed my sightseeing opportunities a little. I based myself at the Hilton Hotel, where I had previously visited but not stayed, on both previous trips, and took advantage of their Wi-Fi.

I ventured out to the promenade and spotted the Flame Towers in the distance. It was like a dream to be honest. There was even time to visit a friend that I made in 2019 and to spend a few lovely moments with their three-year-old son, plus a brief stop-off at the wondrous Heydar Aliyev art gallery and conference centre, one of my favourite buildings.

I was back at the airport at around 4pm and was now ready for the last stage of my momentous trip. Back in England, it was midday, and Frome Town were preparing for a home game against Swindon Supermarine. My flight back to Blighty was set to leave at 6.25pm, and it left on time. I hoped that there would be some great news on my ‘phone about the Frome result as I landed later in the day at Heathrow.

Again, I slept well on the six-hour flight home. Just after touching down at Heathrow, I received the wonderful news :

Frome 3 Swindon Supermarine 0.

Our second league win on the bounce.

Lovely.

It was around 8.30pm and I needed to get myself to my car. The buses were sporadic, a cab would cost me a whopping £40.

“But it’s only a mile and a half away, mate.”

Not to worry, I unbuttoned my jacket, let the air in, and walked back to the car. It took me the best part of an hour, and I did feel a little like Alan Partridge striding down the dual carriageway to the Linton Travel Tavern, but after the week of travel that I had encountered, it was nothing.

I reached home just before midnight, the end of most certainly the longest day of my life.

Where next Chelsea?

CENTRAL STADIUM

ALMATY

PRE-GAME

ASTANA VS. CHELSEA

POST-GAME

BAKU

Tales From Two Away Games

Posted on December 9, 2024 by Chris Axon

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 Snow, Sun And Rain

Posted on March 5, 2024 by Chris Axon

Brentford vs. Chelsea : 2 March 2024.

The week was a busy one. Monday; travel back from London. Tuesday; work and a blog late that evening. Wednesday; an early start for work, the Leeds game, and a late return home. Thursday; work and a catch up on some sleep. Friday; work and a blog in the evening.

Saturday was another day, another football day, and another early start. However, on waking at 6am I was in for a surprise. Without any hint of a warning there was snow outside. I couldn’t immediately tell if the snow was light or heavy, but the snow on the road at the end of my driveway didn’t look too deep. PD and I exchanged texts. I warned him that I might be a little late. The plan had been to call at his house in Frome at 7am. I contemplated changing my route, keeping to busier roads, but as I drove out and through the village, it was clear that the snow was of no risk to myself or my car. In fact, it was starting to melt already. I called at PD’s house at 7.02am. Game on.

The match at Brentford’s Gtech Community Stadium was a case of getting back to normal after the highs and lows – or vice versa – of games in the League Cup and the FA Cup. An away game in West London? What could be more straightforward than that, at least from a planning perspective.

We called for Parky at 7.30am and stopped at the local “McDonalds” in Melksham for sustenance. The trip to London was easy. There was no more snow, with only outbreaks of rain at times, as I made my way up the M4. There was drizzle at Heston Services. I had booked a “JustPark” spot on a private driveway in a cul-de-sac just yards from the River Thames from 10am, and I was parked up at 9.59am. If only the rest of the day could go as well.

This was Chelsea’s fourth match at Brentford’s new stadium and it seems like there have been more visits. Going in to the game, we were unbeaten; two wins and a draw. However, the Bees have had our number at Stamford Bridge in the top flight; three wins out of three visits. Despite them being in the midst of a poor run of form, and now with players missing, nobody expected an easy game. I know two Brentford season ticket holders. One, Chris – from work – was not expecting great things from his team. I could say the same about mine.

I had planned a gentle stroll along the northern bank of the River Thames. At about 10.15am, we found a window booth in “The Bull’s Head”, a quaint and quiet pub that seemed geared up to dining rather than drinking. There has been an inn on this site for over four-hundred years. The young lad serving us our drinks was a Brentford fan and was off to the game later. Outside, the rain. Inside, a few giggles. We were joined by our friends Aroha and Luke at 10.45am.

From there, a very short walk to “The City Barge”, another lovely pub, more open-plan than the first one, dating from the fourteenth century. We reached there at 11.45am and were joined by our friend Ricky. More chit-chat, more laughs. There were not too many football colours on show in these first two pubs.

At 1pm, we walked a couple of hundred yards west to “The Bell & Crown” which we visited on the previous two matches in December 2021 and October 2022. It’s another lovely pub, full of diners, but also football fans – Brentford fans – too. There were many red and white scarves on show. We spotted Cliff and Tim – Chelsea, no colours – enjoying a meal at virtually the same table as in 2022/23. Ricky chatted to me about his take on Brentford fans. Despite growing up in Hammersmith, he has only ever known a couple of them. They are an elusive breed for sure. He likened their support to that of rugby fans. A bit middle-class? A bit quiet? Maybe. I have always been surprised how quiet they are at Brentford.

But this is a great part of the world, a great location for a pre-game pub-crawl. I loved every minute of it. Brentford was quickly becoming one of my favourite away venues. In London, it would rank as number one, ahead of Fulham, Tottenham, Arsenal, Crystal Palace and West Ham – in that order – in the current top flight.

At 2.15pm, we set off for the game.

From the last pub near Kew Bridge to the stadium is only a ten-minute walk. The approach to the away turnstiles takes you along newly-cobbled streets, squeezed in beneath towering apartment blocks, an echo of the new Wembley that I have grown to despise. It’s an odd approach to a football stadium. Once through the first security checks, you plunge down steps to a lower level, then are shuffled along to find a turnstile that has less of a queue. It’s all very tight. The ground is hemmed in by two railway lines and a road. Sound familiar?

I was in at 2.40pm.

I was alongside Pete, John, Gary and Parky in row six of the east stand. We were behind the goal but not far from the corner flag. PD was across the way in the north stand. I saw familiar faces everywhere I looked. Luke and Ricky were in the last row where it rises up at an angle. There are odd angles everywhere at the Gtech. It even sounds like a geometric puzzle.

After hints of rain all day, it was at least dry as kick-off approached. I spotted a fan with a handmade sign that summed up the zeitgeist at Chelsea Football Club perfectly well.

“I don’t want your shirt!! I want you to fight for ours.”

Well said that man.

The team?

2. Disasi.

8. Fernandez.

14. Chalobah.

15. Jackson.

20. Palmer.

21. Chilwell.

23. Gallagher.

25. Caicedo.

26. Colwill.

27. Gusto.

28. Petrovic.

“Hey Jude” – an odd anthem – and the players entered to our left.

There were two team huddles.

Then a moment to reflect on the life of Stan Bowles, who recently passed away after a long battle with dementia at the age of seventy-five. Although he played most of his football at Queens Park Rangers, he also played at Brentford from 1981 to 1984 at a time when Ron Harris was the Brentford first team coach under Fred Callaghan. I saw Bowles play once against Chelsea, a horrific 1-3 home loss in the horrific 1978/79 season. He was some player; the definition of the football maverick of the ‘seventies. He might well be QPR’s most-loved player.

RIP.

The game began and I spent far too much of the early segment of the game trying to work out if Colwill, Chalobah and Disasi were a three at the back with Chilwell and Gusto as wing-backs, or if there was a flat back four with Chilwell in some advanced role that only he knew about.

The game began with Chelsea attacking the west end of the stadium. Chelsea dominated most of the early possession. I had to keep my eyes on the reinstated Ivan Toney, though. A ridiculous number of Chelsea fans had said that they expected him to score against us.

There was a half-chance for Enzo. It ended up going off for a corner. From the resulting cross, Axel Disasi headed on to the top of the net.

There was a rare chance for the home team, that man Toney, but Colwill snuffed it out. But then they improved a little and Yoane Wissa went close on two occasions. Then, from a long free-kick from the Brentford ‘keeper, a knock on and Wissa connected acrobatically. Thankfully, his shot was straight into the arms of Petrovic.

Nicolas Jackson twice found himself in good positions. On one occasion, he attempted one too many step overs and the ball was lost. Later, Conor Gallagher passed to Enzo, who set him up perfectly. Jackson rolled the ball past Mark Flekken in the Brentford goal, but seemed to take forever to decide which foot was best suited to knock the ball in to a waiting – and empty – net. We all groaned as Zanka arrived from nowhere to clear.

By this time, The Bloke Behind Me was annoying me with his constant berating of Jackson. It all got too tiresome, too tedious, too much.

There was bright sunlight now, with shadows appearing as the players danced in front of us. I wish I had brought my Ray Bans which had been stupidly discarded inside my car. Our hands shielded the sun instead.

On thirty-five minutes, a wonderful cross from the effervescent and bubbly Malo Gusto was met by the leap of Jackson, and I watched with a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction as the ball was headed down and in.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

After a few seconds of manic yelping, I quietly and silently turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and held a forefinger in front of my pursed lips.

The Bloke Behind Me smiled.

Brentford 0 Chelsea 1.

Phew.

The away section, all standing of course, roared – a la “Chelsea Agro” – a new chant.

“Malo Gusto. Malo Gusto. Hello. Hello.”

The heavens opened and we were treated to a wet end to the half, fans and players alike, despite the sun still shining. A metaphor for our season, our recent seasons maybe?

To annoy The Bloke Behind Me further, in the closing moments of the first period Jackson came in from the wing but could only force a save from Flekken.

It had been a decent-enough half. Gusto was the undoubted star, but Moises Caicedo had put in another solid shift. But it was no more than that; decent enough. We had tons of the ball, but we were not always linking in the right players at the right time. The home team were limited to a few testing breakaways.

The second-half began with Chelsea trying to attack the eastern end, where our 1,800 supporters were stood. However, our old problem of conceding soon after the break came back to haunt us. Just five minutes after the re-start, a ball was lumped into the box. It fell at the feet of Sergio Reguilon, who took a heavy touch.

“That could go anywhere.”

The Chelsea defenders were slow to react and Mads Roerslev rushed in to slam the ball home.

Bollocks.

Brentford 1 Chelsea 1.

Just after, we gave away possession way too easily and Vitaly Janelt had time to painstakingly shoot at goal. It hit the base of a post. Phew.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

The rain came again. But the sun stayed too. I sheltered my camera with my hand.

On the hour, that man Gusto raided down the right and found Cole Palmer. His side-footed effort had us dreaming and then squirming. It rolled a few yards past the post.

Fackinell.

Brentford peppered our goal via two efforts from Wissa and Reguilon. Our game was falling apart. On sixty-nine minutes, Reguilon was given far too much space out on the Brentford left and was allowed to cross. From a bouncing ball, Wissa scissor-kicked with great grace and the ball crashed into the net.

Brentford 2 Chelsea 1.

Oh bloody hell.

On seventy minutes, a tirade of negative noise from the Chelsea section.

“Roman Abramovich.”

“Boehly – You’re A Cunt.”

“Fuck Off Mauricio.”

“Jose Mourinho.”

I grimaced in silence. I suspect that I was not alone. There is a time for protest, but what became of the notion of turning up at Chelsea games and endeavouring, how bad the performance, to get behind the club and its players? I have mentioned this over the years and I have no qualms in mentioning it again.

“Players play. Managers manage. Supporters support.”

Isn’t that right? Please tell me otherwise.

We can moan like fuck in internet chat rooms, on forums, in pubs and bars, in coaches and cars, and we can bring placards to Stamford Bridge and prod them at directors and we can remonstrate and demonstrate before and after games, but – please – lets honour those ninety minutes as being the sacred time in which we try our hardest to support our players.

In the snow. In the sun. In the rain.

Fair weather. Foul weather.

Good times. Bad times.

On the pitch, we continued to struggle.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Chilwell seemed unwilling to close a player down, thus allowing a cross from the Brentford right. The ball was inch perfect. Reguilon rose between two defenders but his strong header hit the post.

I am bloody fed up of writing the names Reguilon and Wissa.

The beleaguered manager made some changes.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

Raheem Sterling for Colwill.

I liked the look of Sterling straight away. He posed questions that others were not keen to ask. Chances for Gallagher and Palmer. With eighty-three minutes gone and from a short corner – Mudryk to Palmer – the ball was looped in to perfection.

I saw two blue shirts jump. This was a goal. It had to be. Disasi crashed it in.

Yes.

Brentford 2 Chelsea 2.

Yes!

Almost ironically, the Chelsea crowd uttered a current favourite.

“Cus Every Little Thing Is Gonna Be Alright.”

Oh boy.

Chances continued – Sterling came so close after a twisting run into the six yard box – but the game soon ran out of time.

We met up in the away concourse and hobbled back to the car. We all shared the same opinions about everything.

“Fair result.”

“Poor game.”

“Two poor teams.”

My route up onto the M4 from the parking spot took me right underneath those towering blocks next to the away entrance, along that very same narrow road that we had walked along three hours previously. I was on the west-bound M4 in very good time – a quick exit is another reason why I like going to Brentford – and I was back home by 8pm, a very early finish for a change.

A wait now, but there is an anniversary of sorts on Monday 11 March.

Chelsea vs. Newcastle United.

See you there.

Tales From Three Little Points

Posted on February 15, 2024 by Chris Axon

Crystal Palace vs. Chelsea : 12 February 2024.

As we travelled up to South London for the away game at Selhurst Park against Crystal Palace, we wondered if the performance of the season at Villa Park would turn out to be a solid stepping stone for the rest of the campaign. Or just a mad “one-off”.

Selhurst Park is a real ball-ache to reach. Driving up from the West of England, we are at the hands of the Sat Nav Gods. It’s basically a case of “top, middle or bottom.”

Top – up the M4 as far as the familiar turn off down the North End Road, past The Goose, then down to Wandsworth Bridge and then south-east in a straight line to Crystal Palace Football Club.

Middle – up the M3, around the M25, along the A3, almost as far as Kingston-upon-Thames, then through the B-roads of South-West London, nudging due east to Selhurst Park.

Bottom – up the M3 and then all of the way around the M25 to “six o’clock” before a dead straight route north up the A23 to the stadium.

On this particular afternoon, at just after 2pm in Melksham, the GPS went for the middle option. It suggested a journey of three hours. In reality, hit by traffic at a few key places, it became four hours. I had sorted out some parking at a private house just off Holmesdale Road, which runs north-south behind the home stand at Selhurst Park, and over the last few miles we tried to spot a pub to base ourselves for an hour. We had almost given up on finding anywhere, but I happened to spot a pub – “Pawson Arms” – a short drive from my parking space. There was even a free parking space right outside the pub.

Perfect.

It was a home pub – full of Palace fans, full of Palace photos and memorabilia on the walls – but we sidled in and stood next to the bar. It was busy but not ridiculously so. It was nigh-on perfect, as away pubs go. Andy – a friend of a friend – arrived at about 6.45pm and I passed over a spare ticket. A few minutes later, we hopped in the car and I drove to my JustPark location, just a few yards off Holmesdale Road. The Selhurst Park floodlights were easily visible. We began the march up the hill to the ground.

“Don’t remember it being this bloody steep last time.”

It took me a long time to visit Selhurst Park for the first time. My first visit was in August 1989 and a game against the then tenants Charlton Athletic, a match we lost 0-3. I watched from the middle of the Holmesdale Road terrace. My first game against Crystal Palace was in October 1991, a dull 0-0 draw, and the Chelsea support for that game was in a horrible corner section of the Arthur Wait Stand at the Holmesdale Road end. I include a few grainy photos.

We turned left at the top and began the slow walk down to the away turnstiles. I heard a young American lad, bedecked in a Palace scarf, ask where the fanzone was. I felt like saying to him “bollocks to the fanzone mate, get yourself down the “Pawson Arms” for an authentic pre-match experience”.

Three spares were handed over to other lads and at about 7.40pm, we made our way in.

I was down the front – row five – with Parky, John and Gary. Our usual match day companion Alan was convalescing after a health scare a few miles away in Anerley. We hope and pray that he can re-join us for a Chelsea game soon. Selhurst Park doesn’t change too much does it? However, for the first time I spotted a press box, illuminated, in the rear reaches of the old sand opposite, beneath the corrugated roof. This was my first evening game at Selhurst for ages and ages. I remember a FA Cup replay against Wimbledon in 1995, but nothing since.

More bloody flames. More bloody fireworks. Oh dear oh dear.

While the Holmesdale Ultras displayed a variety of stark messages for the club’s board to ignore and the general public to perhaps spot on the TV feed, the Chelsea away support was rocking.

Our team? Thiago Silva came in for the injured Benoit Badiashile. Raheem Sterling was again not chosen to start.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Silva – Chilwell

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher– Jackson

Palmer

The home team were without Michael Olise and Eberechi Eze, their fleet-footed forwards. On the far side, Roy Hodgson looked frail while Ray Lewington lent on a post near the dugout.

Fine singing from the away section of the Arthur Wait Stand continued as the game began at 8pm. We dominated early possession. However, as the first-half continued, unfortunately our old habits resurfaced way too easily. We were passing the ball from side to side, but with no incisive passes to hurt the Crystal Palace defence. In fact, it was the home team who dominated the early chances, often breaking through our lines with ease. A shot from Jean-Philippe Mateta was saved by Djordje Petrovic.

It seems almost sacrilegious to say it, but Thiago Silva continued to slow things down. In his defence, there was little movement in front of him, but it was still so frustrating. It was if he was suffering from the football equivalent of “the yips” or the dart player’s worst nightmare of not being able to release the dart.

Elsewhere Cole Palmer was anonymous.

On the half-hour mark, a Palace player attempted a Paolo Di Canio scissor kick but the ball was not cleared. A calamitous scene ensued. Moises Caicedo and Noni Madueke colluded to get in each other’s way.

“Get rid! Get rid!”

The ball was picked up by Jefferson Lerma, who dropped his shoulder and curled a magnificent effort wide of Petrovic but not wide of the goal.

Crystal Palace 1 Chelsea 0.

“Glad All Over” rang out.

Bollocks.

As the rest of the dour first-half continued, we became aware that we had not engineered a single effort on the Crystal Palace goal. So, after all, maybe Villa Park was indeed a mad “one-off” and this was the real Chelsea. We tended to attack down the right where there was an awkward alliance between Malo Gusto and Madueke. Their fine performances the previous Wednesday were not able to be repeated. On the left, Ben Chilwell and Nicolas Jackson struggled. The whole team struggled.

On forty minutes, Moises Caicedo lost possession and an almighty chase took place. Thankfully, a typically well-timed sliding tackle by Silva saved the day.

On forty-five minutes, a meek shot from Conor Gallagher was scuffed wide of the far post; our first shot of the game. Bloody hell.

At the break, Mauricio Pochettino replaced Madueke with Christopher Nkunku.

Nkunku was stood at the centre-circle, awaiting the restart. But, all of a sudden, several players were seen knocking footballs around between them. What was going on? Was this post-modern football here?

“Don’t bother with the game, nor scoring, just pass the ball to each other. Just enjoy yourself. You will still get paid.”

We tried to work out why there was a delay. We then realised that the football match was missing a key ingredient; a referee.

What could the matter be? Was the referee was stuck in the lavatory? Did nobody know he was there?

In an odd attempt at humour, the Palace PA played “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley.

“Don’t worry about a thing ‘cus every little thing is gonna be alright!”

I wondered if this was, or had been, a Palace song. It certainly was a Chelsea song. It first appeared way back in 2010 and I specifically hearing it first during a 5-0 win at Fratton Park.

The Chelsea fans soon latched onto it.

“Don’t worry about a thing ‘cus every little thing is gonna be alright! CHELSEA!”

After an age, the ref Michael Oliver appeared. The game restarted.

And how.

After just two minutes of the second-half, with “Three Little Birds” still bouncing around the Arthur Wait, a fine ball from the hot and cold Caicedo found Gusto on the right. His pull-back to Gallagher was cleanly despatched despite the ball bouncing high as it approached him.

Screams. Shouting. Mayhem. The players raced towards us. I was pushed, lost my footing, and almost lost my glasses. Photos were an impossibility until everything had died down.

Crystal Palace 1 Chelsea 1.

It seemed as if the momentum had switched. We had witnessed a ridiculous few minutes when a song had rejuvenated the support and – possibly, probably – had sparked life into the team.

I wondered if the Palace DJ would be awarded an assist for the equaliser.

The support roared on. With Nkunku in the middle, we caught a lot of Palmer as he drifted right. Chelsea dominated the play, with much of the action right in front of us. On a few occasions, I held my camera ready for Gusto or Palmer or Gallagher to break free.

Palmer went close.

At the other end, Silva heroically blocked a shot from Matheus Franca but stayed down. He was replaced by Levi Colwill.

An hour had passed.

Efforets from Chilwell and Jackson went close.

At the other end, a rare Palace break and a fine save by Petrovic from Franca.

On seventy-eight minutes, Raheem Sterling replaced Jackson.

On eighty-three minutes, Alfie Gilchrist replaced Gusto.

A chance for Sterling but he needed extra touches and the chance went begging. A Disasi header was parried by the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson.

Time was passing.

We entered injury time.

John mentioned that the last two visits to Selhurst Park had resulted in ridiculously late winners; Hakim Ziyech in February 2022 and Conor Gallagher in October 2022.

Well…

On ninety-one minutes, a fine break. Sterling found himself in space and passed to Palmer. I clicked. The photo shows Gallagher and Enzo racing through in support. Palmer advanced and adeptly slid the ball to Gallagher. The finish was exquisite, a slide-rule pass into the goal. It showed Jimmy Greaves levels of calm.

Pandemonium in South London.

Fackinell.

The players raced towards us all again.

Football – I fucking love you.

Crystal Palace 1 Chelsea 2.

John and his late winners.

It got better.

Two minutes later, we broke from our own box, the ball steered out to Palmer once more. He raced away, Nkunku occupied the thoughts of a key defender, and the ball was perfectly pushed into Enzo. He steadied himself, took a moment, then clipped the ball high into the net. I snapped that goal but not the ensuing madness in front of us once again.

Crystal Palace 1 Chelsea 3.

Game over.

Phew.

The away section was on fire by now, and the supporters were a heady mixture of joy and disbelief. We sauntered out, regrouped and walked up and then down the hills of Selhurst to get to our car.

The getaway was ridiculously quick and the Sat Nav chose the top route to head back. It felt odd driving within half-a-mile of Stamford Bridge on the way home.

It had been another long day. I returned home at 1.40am.

Next up, yet another away game, the third in a row.

Manchester City await.

See you there.

1991

2010

In the last few minutes of the game, my ears registered a new song emanating from the rowdy fans to my right. It didn’t take long to work out that it was a few lines from a Bob Marley song. More and more Chelsea joined in as our brains deciphered it. It had been an easy night, so we needn’t get carried away, but the song provided a nice uplift…a positive vibe for once.

“Don’t worry – CLAP CLAP – about a thing…CLAP CLAP CLAP – ‘cus every little thing – CLAP CLAP – is gonna be alright.”

2024

Tales From ‘Boro In Our Borough

Posted on January 25, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Middlesbrough : 23 January 2024.

My seat for the second leg of the League Cup semi-final against Middlesbrough was in row Q – the rear row all but one – of the Matthew Harding Upper and I was inside with about fifteen minutes to go. There had been a greater queue than normal outside. It was a very mild night in SW6. I was beginning to regret to regret wearing a bulky puffer jacket. Up the other end, in The Shed, were the brightly-coloured visitors from Teesside, around 5,000 of the buggers, their biggest turnout at Stamford Bridge since “that” game in 1988.

While we attempted to overturn a narrow 0-1 deficit from the first leg on this Tuesday night in the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham, just twenty-four hours later, Fulham would be attempting to overcome a similar result in their semi-final against Liverpool. All of a sudden, our home borough was the centre of attention.

While latecomers took their seats, I remained quietly confident of us advancing to yet another Wembley Cup Final. And – of course – we hoped that Fulham would join us.

On the pitch, the ground staff in matching dark grey puffer jackets of their own prodded away at the wet grass using forks. Then the lights dimmed, and the 1-2 punch occurred.

Firstly, the pulsing electronic beat boomed out of the stadium’s speakers, the strobe lighting began and then the flames flashed into the sky.

Secondly, the “what the fookin’ hell was that?” from the away support.

It was a very colourful away support, with many of the ‘Boro bedecked in red and white scarves and with replica shirts on show under unbuttoned jackets. I remember a similar number of Tottenham fans at our semi-final in 2019, occupying those same two tiers, and with everyone dressed in dark jackets, a large unsavoury mob, almost looking like a European team. This lot were far more brightly attired. There were a few flags dotted around too.

“We Built the World.”

“You Make Me Happy When Skies Are Grey.”

“We Are Boro.”

My Middlesbrough mate Chris texted me :

“You’ll probably win the match, but I’ll be happy if we out-sing you.”

With the players of both teams on the pitch, they then moved to the centre circle and the PA asked us to remember one of our own.

I only ever saw Tommy Baldwin play once for Chelsea. On Saturday 10 October 1974, my second-ever visit to Stamford Bridge, Tommy played against Tottenham in a game that we won 1-0, the goal coming from an early John Hollins penalty.

The Chelsea team that day was :

John Phillips.
Gary Locke.
Ron Harris.
John Hollins
Micky Droy.
John Dempsey.
Steve Kember
Tommy Baldwin.
Charlie Cooke
Ian Hutchinson
Peter Houseman.

It was also the only time that I saw John Dempsey play. Later that season, Tommy joined Manchester United on loan before drifting away from Stamford Bridge and finishing his career with a few games at Brentford. He had been a stalwart at Chelsea for eight years, playing almost two-hundred games as a bustling midfielder or inside-forward.

I often used to see Tommy Baldwin meeting up with other former players as they congregated together before darting off to engage in hospitality activities on match days. Unfortunately, Tommy had been unwell for quite a while and on Monday we heard that he had sadly passed away. He was seventy-eight. Tommy Baldwin was nicknamed “The Sponge” for reasons that were sometimes debated. There are those that said that it was because of his ability to soak up pressure, attack after attack, in his midfield role. But I suspect that those that knew him better, knew that this was a name derived from his ability to drink. I had read through the detailed obituary that appeared on the Chelsea website on Monday evening; it was a fine summation of his time as a footballer in Chelsea colours and illustrated his often-under-appreciated role in that most revered of Chelsea teams.

Although his name was not widely known outside SW6 circles – unlike Bonetti, Osgood, Cooke, Harris, Hollins, Hudson et al – his role in the functioning of the team was acknowledged by us all. He was as no footballing Corporal Sponge.

While his image appeared in black and white on the two TV screens, both sets of supporters applauded in his memory.

Rest In Peace Tommy Baldwin, The Leader Of The Team.

I scanned our team.

Petrovic

Disasi – Silva – Colwill – Chilwell

Palmer – Caicedo – Fernandez

Sterling – Broja – Mudryk

We attacked the Middlesbrough fans in the first-half. They were, unsurprisingly, noisy.

“That’s why we sing this song for the ‘Boro all night long.”

For the first ten minutes or so, it seemed like a seamless continuation from the game on Teesside a fortnight ago. They were sat back and we took forever to move the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, while the movement upfront was almost non-existent. A few pumps up field from deep did not hit targets.

There were a couple of worrying signs early on. Raheem Sterling was ball-watching during a ‘Boro attack, leaving his wide man ridiculously free but thankfully the ball stayed on the opposite side. Then, after getting sucked inside, Ben Chilwell had to race back – and across – like an express train as we were embarrassingly cut open down our left.

But we enjoyed a couple of efforts in this period; one from Mykhailo Mudrk, one from Chilwell.

Djordje Petrovic got down well to save to his right.

On fifteen minutes, a swish move down our right involving Cole Palmer and Raheem Sterling set up Armando Broja. From my seat, I could not see the fine detail, but only the ball ending up in the net. We would soon find out that Johnny Howson had stuck out a leg and had scored the goal for us. But, I did not celebrate. Such is the spectre of VAR these days – even when it is not being used – that my celebrations were dulled. Of course, there was no flag, no nothing. The goal stood. It came at just the right time because the supporters in the Matthew Harding were starting to get a little agitated and nervous.

Phew.

The tie was tied.

The rest of the first-half, unlike in Middlesbrough, certainly went to plan.

On twenty-eight minutes, some solid play between Sterling and Axel Disasi down the right set up a chance for Broja. His shot was blocked by a defender but Enzo Fernandez was on hand to slam the ball in. A slide into the corner from Enzo. I could celebrate that one.

Eight minutes later, Disasi broke up an attack with a superb tackle and passed to Sterling. As Sterling, who had enjoyed a mixed opening period, raced on, so did Disasi. Sterling played the ball back to our rampaging defender and his low finish put us 3-0 up. There was another slide into the corner.

“That makes up for the chances we missed in the first-half two weeks ago.”

It was all Chelsea now.

Some were singing “We’re Going To Wembley” but I resisted. It was a little too soon for me.

Middlesbrough tried to keep their shape but they suddenly looked tired.

Despite the away fans dominating the night for most of the first-half – the twin staples of “your support is fooking shit” and “shall we sing a song for you?” were often heard – they were silent now.

On forty-two minutes, Palmer pick-pocketed a Middlesbrough defender and casually, and coolly, swept the ball in to the net.

Chelsea 4 Middlesbrough.

Now I could join in…

“Que Sera Sera.”

It had been an excellent half. After that slow start, we had grown as the game progressed. Petrovic had made the one save when he was needed. It was a joy to see Chilwell patrolling the left flank, and just inside him Levi Colwill looked a steady centre-back. We had been treated to two trademark sliding tackles from Silva. Disasi had enjoyed his best half for ages. In midfield, Enzo and Palmer created a few chances with their intelligent play and Moises Caicedo – not the easiest player to appreciate – was very solid. Broja was steady if not spectacular. Sterling was back on his game. The only negative was Mudryk, as perplexing as ever, a mixture of breath-taking speed mixed with jaw-dropping slowness of thought.

But we were happy at the break.

Fackinell.

At half-time, Nonu Madueke replaced Mudryk.

“It’s probably for the best.”

The second-half began and I wasn’t quite sure how to behave. Did I want us to rampage away and score four more or conserve ourselves for the FA Cup game on Friday? In truth, we controlled the game without causing too much further damage to the scoresheet nor the away team’s morale.

On the hour, for the first real time, the whole crowd sang as one.

“CAREFREE.”

That’s more like it.

Some substitutions.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Chilwell.

Conor Gallagher for Broja.

On seventy-seven minutes, Gallagher played in Palmer down below me, who did not bother with the burden of an additional touch and – as cool as you like – side-footed the ball in. Soon after, a blue flare was thrown onto the pitch from the MHL. It made for a great photo opportunity if nothing else.

On eighty-one minutes, Gallagher passed to Madueke, who shimmied and danced past a marker before slamming the ball at goal. The shot took a large deflection.

Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 0.

I was impressed that the away fans had been singing in the build up to the sixth goal and continued doing so when the goal came and for a while after too. Fair play to them. The biggest compliment that I can give them is that they reminded me of us when we were in our hey-day.

There was even time for a late debut.

Leo Casteldine – “player number 54 where are you?” – replaced Sterling.

I am unsure if we were being intentionally ironic, but we sang :

“Shall we sing a song for you?”

Middlesbrough had two late goals; one annulled for offside but one stood, a fine low effort by Morgan Rogers.

At the whistle, Chelsea 6 Middlesbrough 1.

I quickly gathered my stuff and headed out.

“Blue Day” from 1997 blasted out on the PA. As I headed down the multiple flights of stairs at the rear of the stand, I heard the sweet voice of Doris Day. It did not compute. The opening bars just made me think of “that” Leeds song.

I then got it.

“Que sera sera.

Whatever will be, will be.

We’re going to Wem-ber-lee.

Que sera, sera.”

On the Fulham Road, there was some boisterous behaviour, some name-calling, some gesturing, some punches, some arrests.

Outside the town hall, I spotted a female ‘Boro fan, arm in arm with her man – to possibly stop herself from falling over – who pointed at two Chelsea women and shouted “Chelsea Rent Girls!”

Well, I had never heard that one before.

We got back to the car and set off for home at 10.30pm. I would be home by 1am. We hoped that the little brothers from Craven Cottage would do the business in the other semi-final, but our business in our borough was over for a few days.

Next up, Aston Villa in the other cup on Friday.

See you there.

Postscript 1 :

There was a regret that I didn’t hear Tommy Baldwin’s song during the game. Admitedly it is best suited for pre-match beers in the pub or concourse, but we always used to sing it at games.

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’re the Fulham Road supporters and we’re louder than The Kop.”

Postscript 2 :

Nice to see my two friends Annette and Mark featured in the evening’s programme. They sometimes act as my unpaid spell-checkers.

Tales From One To Remember

Posted on November 16, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 November 2023.

After the euphoria and shock of our 4-1 victory at Tottenham Hotspur on Monday, we were now presented with another equally tough opponent. The league fixture list had provided us with a home game against the current English and European Champions Manchester City. During the first few miles of our drive up to London, PD set the scene.

“I think Man City today will be more of a test to see where we are.”

But I replied.

“Well, to be fair, we said that about Tottenham.”

However, Manchester City are the current benchmark for English football and they have been for a few years now. We held that mantle, relatively briefly in retrospect, in 2004/5 and 2005/6 and now find ourselves at a position in the pecking order not too dissimilar to around 2001/2 and 2002/3. We are seemingly adrift of the main bunch of contenders, chipping away at whoever we come up against, and so be it.

The day before the City game at Stamford Bridge, I attended my sixteenth Frome Town game of the season, an easy 3-0 home win against the current league leaders Willand Rovers in front of a slightly disappointing crowd of 436. It pushed my home town team into second place in the table. On the Sunday came my fifteenth Chelsea game of the season.

It rained all of the way up to London, but thankfully by the time I had parked up on Bramber Road and walked down the North End Road to pop into “Café Ole” for a bite to eat, the rain had completely abated. We had set off early on this Remembrance Sunday. Parky had wanted to attend the service, or at least the two-minute silence, at All Saints in Fulham, a stone’s throw from “The Eight Bells” and where we attended the hundredth anniversary of the cessation of World War One before the Everton game on 11 November 2018.

As I ploughed into a full English, instrumental versions of songs by James Blunt and Glenn Medeiros provided a backdrop that I didn’t really appreciate; I wanted something a little more “football” and something to stir me a little, something with a bit more bite. As the anaemic muzak continued. I flicked through bits and bobs on my ‘phone and soon realised that the day marked the fortieth anniversary of one my favourite-ever Chelsea games.

All those years ago – Saturday 12 November 1983 – Chelsea played host to Newcastle United in the Second Division. I reviewed season 1983/84 in my match reports of season 2008/9, but this game is so important to me – and to others – that I think it is worth sharing again.

“I was unemployed throughout the season…but had been to the home games against Derby in August and Cardiff in October. The biggest game of the season was to be against Arthur Cox’s Newcastle United. They were the favourites for promotion and boasted Keegan, Beardsley, McDermott and Waddle; a good team. I had travelled up alone for the first two games, but had arranged to travel up by train with Glenn, from Frome, for the first time for the Geordies’ game. We would have reached Chelsea at about 10.30am and I distinctly remember having a cuppa in the old “Stamford Bridge Restaurant” with him. Two Geordies were sitting with us.

“Keegan will score a hat-trick today, like.”

I remember we got inside the ground when the gates opened at 1.30pm. Even to this day, I can remember peering out on a misty Stamford Bridge, Eurythmics playing on the pre-match show, in amazement how many people were “in early.”

By 2pm, The Shed was getting very full. Back in those days, we were used to average gates of around 12,000 in the Second Division. In April 1982, we infamously only drew 6,009 for a league game. In the First Division, in 1983-84, even champions-to-be Liverpool only drew 32,000. Football was at a bit of a low ebb. The recession was biting. After narrowly avoiding relegation to Division Three in May, however, Chelsea were rejuvenated in the first few months of 1983-84 and the Chelsea support was rallying around the team. We drew 30,628 for the Newcastle game in November 1983…a monster gate, when the average Division Two gate was around 11,000. We watched from The Whitewall.

Chelsea slaughtered Newcastle 4-0 and I fondly look back on that game as one of my favourite games ever. We absolutely dominated. Mention this game to anyone who was there, though, and they will say two words.

“Nevin’s run.”

Just before half-time, with us leading 1-0, Pat Nevin won a loose ball from a Newcastle attack in the Shed penalty box on the West Stand side. I would later read a report from “When Saturday Comes” founder Mike Titcher that Pat had nut-megged Keegan ( but I can’t confirm this ) and then set off on a mesmerizing dance down the entire length of the pitch, around five yards inside the West Stand touchline. This wasn’t a full-on sprint. Pat wasn’t that fast. At five foot six inches he was the same height as me. Pat’s skill was a feint here, a feint there, a dribble, a turn, a swivel, beating defender after defender through a body-swerve, a turn…it was pure art, a man at his peak…he must’ve left five or six defenders in his wake and I guess the whole run lasted around twenty seconds, maybe more…he may well have beaten the same man twice…each time he waltzed past a defender, the noise increased, we were bewitched, totally at his mercy…amazingly he reached the far goal-line…a dribble of around 100 yards. He beat one last man, looked up and lofted the ball goal ward. Pat’s crosses always seemed to have a lot of air on them, he hardly ever whipped balls in…his artistry was in the pinpoint cross rather a thunderbolt…a rapier, not a machine gun. The ball was arched into the path of an in-rushing Kerry Dixon. We gasped…we waited…my memory is that it just eluded Kerry’s head and drifted off for a goal-kick, but some tell that Kerry headed it over.

Whatever – it didn’t matter. On that misty afternoon in West London, we had witnessed pure genius. I loved Pat Nevin with all my heart – still my favourite player of all time – and most Chelsea fans of my generation felt the same.”

Despite our successes over the past twenty-five years, 1983/4 will never be surpassed as my favourite ever season.

I had a little wander up to Fulham Broadway. There were chats with Chidge and Marco, while DJ shoved a copy of “CFCUK” in my hand. Marco and I reminisced about that game forty years ago and I retold the story of the Geordies in the café; we were stood in 2023 right opposite to where that self-same café stood in 1983.

I took a few “scene-setter” photos then caught the tube down to Putney Bridge.

I stepped foot inside “The Eight Bells” at 12.30pm. PD had been there since 11am. Not bad for a 4.30pm kick-off. The pub was full of like-minded souls; virtually all chaps in our forties, fifties and sixties, but with a few young’uns too, and I noted some gents with ties, jackets and medals – including Parky – who had called in after the church service. The music here was far better than in the café. Soon into my three hours in the pub, we were treated to “Alternative Ulster” by Stiff little Fingers and tons more tracks from my – and our – youth followed. I flicked through “CFCUK” and enjoyed reading articles by Marco, Chidge and Tim Rolls. I loved Tim’s phrase “amortisation groupies” in a piece about the club’s financial outlay finding approval from the kind of people that seem to suddenly know everything. It’s always a good read.

The rain held off on the way to the stadium, the air still misty and so similar to the pre-match feel of the game forty years previous.

We were inside early, at about 4pm I suppose. I have recently bought a new ‘phone and I had to re-enter details to enable me to gain access to the stadium’s free Wi-Fi. It disturbed me a little to see that in the drop-down menu of reasons for my visit, which I had to tick, “football” was not listed. After huffing and puffing for a few seconds, I reluctantly selected “entertainment and events.”

Good grief.

As I looked around, a chap wearing a River Plate jersey and a Chelsea scarf caught my eye. I went up to have a word with him. Martin was from Buenos Aires, a River season ticket holder, and on his honeymoon; his wife had a ticket in The Shed, they were unable to get two together. We traded barbs and laughs about Boca and River. I showed him photos of my trip to his home city in 2020. He was here, plainly, to see Enzo Fernandez. Where I favour the blue of Boca, he tends to favour teams in red – “Arsenal” – but here he was wearing a blue Chelsea scarf and that was good enough for me. This was his first-ever game in England. The players were warming up down below me and he shouted out “Enzo!” a few times, but the music was blasting and there was no chance that he could be heard.

The rain had held off, and we prepared ourselves for the unique way that our club is able to call on the services of the Chelsea Pensioners as we remembered the fallen. I surely can’t remember two minutes of silence at games in November forty years ago; this seems a relatively new development.

The “Last Post” followed a seemingly brief moment of silence. As at the Frome Town game the day before, the bugler played every note to perfection.

After, a roar.

“Come on Chelsea.”

Us?

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Silva – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

This was almost the same team that won at Tottenham, albeit with a little tinkering at the back. Manchester City eschewed the chance to wear one of their dayglow kit alternatives and went with their sky blue home kit.

The game began.

It was a very decent start indeed with Chelsea aggressively involved all over the pitch. There was a shot from Reece James within the very first minute. Nicolas Jackson, derided in some quarters of late, was sniffing at every opportunity to gain a yard, to edge ahead of his man, to create a chance. It was noisy, reassuringly so.

“These late kick-offs are great. Gives everyone the chance to have a few more scoops in the pub.”

There was, however, an odd chant from the three thousand City fans in The Shed.

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

It immediately confused the rest of the 40,000 crowd since not only have we won it, we have won it twice, the last time against City – as if anyone needs reminding.

Were City “in” on a private joke? Surely this was the explanation. I wondered if it was akin to Manchester United fans singing “Who the fuck are Man United?” and left it at that.

Chelsea, the Matthew Harding, responded with –

“We saw you crying in Porto.”

We had the upper hand in the first quarter, moving the ball quickly, looking sharp, playing as a unit. Cole Palmer and then Conor Gallagher had attempts at Ederson’s goal. Whisper it quietly; we were on top.

Then, on twenty-five minutes – the pace relentless – there was a clash of heads between James and Disasi down below me and I was focussed on the injury prone James. Almost as an afterthought, I looked over to see a cross just miss the far post and Thiago Silva clear, while more bodies fell to the floor in the immediate area. I re-focussed on the two defenders on the ground. After a few moments, the rumour went around that the referee had signalled a penalty.

Who? What? Where? When? How?

As always, the punters within the stadium were the last to know what was going on. After a wait, Erling Haaland – maybe two touches until now – swept the ball in. Nobody expected him to miss. Despite our fine play, we were losing.

Chelsea 0 Manchester City 1.

Soon after, a free-kick, and James curled one goal wards but Ederson flicked it over.

I said to Clive “Zola would have scored.”

From the corner that followed, Gallagher sent in a delivery with pace. Thiago Silva was unmarked as he edged forward to meet it and supply the deftest of touches, his glancing header nestling in the bottom far corner. We erupted and I was boiling over as I photoghraphed his slide past Parky and the resulting celebrations in the corner. We love our corner celebrations at Chelsea, eh?

Royal Blue 1 Sky Blue 1.

No more than five minutes later, Enzo – who was getting stuck in defensively – won the ball and pushed the ball to Palmer who then found the advancing James. His low cross was bundled in from close range by Sterling. The place erupted again. We were ahead.

Munich & Porto 2 Istanbul 1.

GET IN!

Chelsea shots peppered the City goal, but that man Haaland had the goal at his mercy, only to draw a quite magnificent save from Robert Sanchez down low. We all expected him to score. Phil Foden then curled one past a post. This was a super game.

Alas, we fell asleep at a corner, taken just below me. The ball was played back to an un-marked Bernardo Silva, their main play-maker thus far, and his first-time cross was headed home via the leap of Manuel Akanji. It seemed all Chelsea defenders were too busy marking other City players.

Thiago 2 Bernardo 2.

Oh boy.

It had been a relentless first-half.

At the break, the inhabitants of The Sleepy Hollow were upbeat and positive. This had been a fine game of football thus far. I did however say to a few friends :

“If somebody had said we would see four goals in this half, I would have been supremely worried.”

The second-half began and just after I took a wide-angle photo of a free-kick from out on our left, the ball was lost and City broke at pace, with Foden slipping in that man Haarland to convert from close range. He celebrated with the away fans. I felt sick.

Celery 2 Bananas 3.

City now dominated and I feared another goal. However, we clawed our way back into things and were absolutely buoyed on the hour by a scintillating shimmy into the box from Palmer, slaloming past close defenders, but with a shot that was stopped by Ederson, the Illustrated Man.

The applause rang out. It was, maybe, a condensed version of the run from Pat Nevin forty years ago.

Mauricio Pochettino made two changes.

Malo Gusto for James.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Enzo.

After a tentative performance at Tottenham on Monday, Reece was more gung-ho in this game, defending more rigorously and using his speed and strength to challenge his foes. Enzo had started well, but seemed to be tiring. The injection of the Ukrainian was just what we needed. Not long after, a shimmy from Mudryk and the ball was played into Moises Caicedo. He found Gallagher with a square pass, who let fly from outside the box. Ederson spilled the ball and two Chelsea players pounced. It was Jackson who stabbed the ball in.

The place erupted once again.

More photos, interspersed with me screeching and yelling. After his slide, I turned and punched the air. Fans all around me were losing it.

Sean Lock 3 Eddie Large 3.

The rain fell now, but the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was electric.

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

So loud.

“Flying high up in the sky, we’ll keep the blue flag flying high.”

I looked around to see Martin, the Argentinian, singing songs of praise to our beloved Brazilian.

“Ooh, Thiago Silva.”

His smile was wide; a great sight.

…inside my head : “Fuck Arsenal.”

There was a massive shout for handball – Kyle Walker, inside the box? – on seventy minutes but maybe that was an optical illusion visible only to a thousand or two in the Matthew Harding. To say I was bemused would be an understatement.

Jack Grealish had replaced Doku for City on the hour mark and now Mateo Kovacic replaced Julian Alvarez. I was amazed that there were a few boos, but these were rapidly outnumbered by a large burst of clapping and applause. He was well liked, most of the time, at Chelsea was our Croatian Man.

The game moved into its final minutes.

Malo Gusto, tearing in, slammed a curler high and wide of Ederson’s goal.

On eighty-six minutes, the ball came loose just outside our penalty box, Rodri slammed it towards goal and it took a huge deflection off Thiago Silva and left Sanchez stranded. My heart sank.

“Oh God. Not even a point.”

What a bitter pill.

Blue Flag 3 Blue Moon 4.

Armando Broja replaced Caicedo.

Palmer dropped back into midfield, but Pochettino was certainly going for it. This was such an enthralling game. Very few left early. A lengthy eight minutes of injury time was signalled.

“Come on Chels.”

We urged the players on. The noise was relentless. This was incredible stuff. Broja had looked a handful and with time running out, Sterling – a magnificent performance throughout – clipped the ball in to him. Ruben Dias made a rough challenge and it looked a penalty from the off. The maligned Anthony Taylor pointed to the spot.

There was, then, an unseemly kerfuffle as both teams crowded the referee and a player from each side was booked in the melee. The always confident Palmer took the ball. By now, I was feeling the pressure. But I am glad that my heart was showing no signs of palpitations nor was there tightness in my chest. I looked around. There was tension on the faces of many.

“Come on Cole. Come on my son.”

He advanced. I clicked. He scored. I yelled. I clicked some more.

What a fucking game of football.

Palmer & Sterling 4 Ake & Kovacic 4.

Not so long after, and with Les replacing Nicolas, the hated Taylor blew up. The game was over. I was exhausted, again. I was exhausted after Tottenham, I was exhausted after this to. Surprisingly, “Blue Is The Colour” was not played at the end. Instead, “Park Life” accompanied our joyful exit from the stands.

The memory of this game would surely live with us for a long time.

I stopped by the Peter Osgood statue to sort out tickets for upcoming games, and shook hands with a few mates who were just as exhausted as myself. Thankfully, the rain soon abated and I walked back to the car in the dry.

There have been a few 4-4 draws of late, eh?

2007/8 : Chelsea 4 Aston Villa 4

2007/8 : Tottenham 4 Chelsea 4

2008/9 : Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4

2019/20 : Chelsea 4 Ajax 4

And now the best of the lot on Remembrance Sunday 2023.

At last – at bloody last – it looks like our arid period of poor football has ended, though of course this is only two games in a week after months upon months of stultifying fare. But there were so many positives to take from this game.

My favourites?

Palmer – fantastic, the future.

Cucarella – another blinder.

Sterling – sensational, please keep it up.

Gallagher – tireless, relentless, a leader.

James – strong, resolute, back to his best.

A mention for the manager too. I like him. I hope he likes us. It’s a romance just waiting to blossom.

On the way back in the car, we were purring at our performance and we looked forward to a full fortnight of relaxation before the daddy of all away trips, Newcastle United.

“It’s good they will come at us because we struggle against teams who sit back.”

See you there.

Tales From Tottenham Away, Love It!

Posted on November 11, 2023 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 6 November 2023.

Not much happened in this game, eh?

Without further ado, let’s try and cobble together some sort of coherent description of a ridiculous night of football in North London, though I am not sure that I am going to be able to sufficiently contain it all in one piece. Maybe it will need several addendums, many edits, perhaps even a re-write.

Let’s go.

After three home games – a draw, a loss, a win – we were now back on the road. The game at Tottenham – funny how we always call them Tottenham, but Tottenham often call themselves Spurs – was filling me, and I am sure countless others, with dread. Unbeaten in the league thus far, they were carving out a decent start to the season with Ange Postecoglou in charge. Chelsea, in comparison, had been patchy at best. I had commented to several mates that we were in the middle of a phony war thus far; many of our players were out injured, many of the teams that we had been paired against were not of a very high standard. The last few weeks had felt a little phony, a little false.

Tottenham away though. This was a bloody test alright.

With our game with them being moved to a Monday, it allowed me to drive up to the Malvern Hills on the Saturday to follow my local team. On a wet, then misty, then sunny afternoon, Frome Town won 3-1 away at Malvern Town. It was deeply enjoyable. I wasn’t quite so confident about the visit to N17.

I set the alarm for 4.30am to enable me to work a flexi-shift of 6am to 2pm. I was subdued and quiet throughout Monday as I battled a few logistical problems. I tried not to think too much about the upcoming game. The time flew past and at just after 2pm I picked up PD and Parky in the pub car-park opposite my place of work and then shot around to collect Sir Les from his house. I then drove south to collect Salisbury Steve from his gaff a few minutes after 3pm.

We were on our way.

“Take a draw now.”

“Be happy with nil-nil.”

Steve supplied me with Jelly Babies to keep me alert and I ate up the miles. The traffic was light and we were parked up at Barons Court tube just after 5pm. We dipped into a local café for some drinks before heading east and then north.

Barons Court to Holborn to Liverpool Street to White Hart Lane.

Tottenham away – “love it!” – is a familiar journey.

I had worked out that this would be my twenty-fifth away game against Tottenham, though this includes a few at Wembley Stadium too. My overall record was pretty decent.

Won : 9

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

I know that during the long unbeaten stretch, I veered away from going to White Hart Lane, convinced that my appearance would put the glorious run to an end; I didn’t show up from 2001 to 2008 at all.

But I have had some superb times in this part of London and a few of them flitted through my mind. These days we always alight at the White Hart Lane over ground station, though for all of the first half a dozen visits, I always used to get off at Seven Sisters tube and then walk up the High Road to the old stadium.

For some reason, the game in August 1987 – only my second-ever visit – came to mind. I travelled up with Glenn by train from Frome. It seems odd now, but we shot over to Upton Park and had some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” and even had a drink in “The Queens” pub on Green Street. I think Glenn just fancied some authentic East End food before our trip into north London. We had begun the season with two wins and Chelsea descended on White Hart Lane in huge numbers and with high hopes.

I remember walking into a pub with Glenn – halfway up the High Road – and being, obviously, wary, but then relishing the joy of being among many Chelsea fans who were dropping in for pre-match refreshments en route. We had huge numbers there that day; I had bought a seat in the Park Lane after the home opener the previous weekend while Glenn nabbed one from a tout outside. Thousands filled the pens in front. There looked like severe crushing until the police moved the away support into a section under The Shelf. It felt magnificent to be part of such a huge away support. The gate was a massive – for the time – 37,079 and we must have had 8,000. I remember we played in white shorts. We lost 0-1, fucking Nico Claesen with a very late goal at the Paxton Road End. Ten days later, at Old Trafford, I can remember similar scenes; Chelsea travelling in huge numbers and our away support being shuffled along into one of the side pens of the United Road Paddock, with the United fans outraged as they had to move along into another pen.

“What the fook is going on?”

Incredible times. Chelsea away in the ‘eighties. You had to be there.

Our escapade across London had gone well. At Liverpool Street, the tribes were amassing; a few shouts from a Chelsea crowd behind us, a few shouts of “Yid Army” on the platform. We just missed a train but caught the next one. I sat with PD. Les was by himself. I saw Parky talking to a Tottenham chap. I knew he wouldn’t give the game away. Steve was chatting away too, but I wasn’t sure if that bloke was Tottenham or not.

There is always a frisson of tension for this game.

At about 6.30pm we reached White Hart Lane station. Out onto the High Road, the huge stadium loomed large. The atmosphere, unlike a previous visit, wasn’t too prickly. As we sloped north towards the almost hidden approach to the away section, I spotted two away supporters, both with Chelsea tops, both with Chelsea scarves.

I could not help but think one word.

“Tourists.”

We were inside pretty quickly. It was easy too, despite having to go through a metal detector. Knowing this would be the case, I left my SLR at home and instead took along a small pocket camera. I placed this under my phone and wallet to the side of the frame of the detector and the security guard didn’t clock it; we were in.

I knew that my ticket was, as in the previous three league visits this fine stadium, down low in row three and I knew that my pocket camera would not be able to take too many decent photos. To make up for it, I had decided to turn the camera on us, the fans, and as I walked through the away concourse I began to snap away.

There was a surprise reunion with Andy and Steve-O from California and also Chopper from New York. The away support was in good form, singing defiantly. I hoped the singing would continue inside.

Down in our section – 118, nearest the home support, next to the pretentiously named East Atrium – the troops were amassing. I continued to click my camera, the focus on mates not millionaires.

The kick-off approached.

Nerves? Yeah, just a bit.

The lights dimmed in the stadium, and there was an instruction on the TV screens.

“Lights On.”

With that, thousands of mobile ‘phone torches were hoisted above heads in the towering South Stand and elsewhere.

“What’s this? A fucking Barry Manilow concert?”

Good grief.

To continue the cringe-fest, I spotted a flag in the opposite corner.

“We’re Loving Big Ange Instead.”

Barry Manilow. Robbie Williams.

For Fuck Sake.

But then the mood changed.

I very much approved of the way that Tottenham Hotspur marked the upcoming Remembrance Day. As the two teams lined up on the centre circle, two Chelsea Pensioners in bright red (usually so incongruous at a Tottenham versus Chelsea game, but on this occasion just right) placed two poppy wreaths on the turf. Well done Tottenham for inviting the Chelsea Pensioners; top marks. I was sure that the PA announced that there would be a rendition of “The Last Post” and then a minute of silence, but after the last few notes of the haunting tune finished, the crowd roared.

Tottenham in all white – but looking slightly off-white to my eyes – and Chelsea in all blue.

Our team?

Sanchez

James – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

Our seats were filled.

Standing behind me was Lee. I had not seen him for such a long time. He was there with his son Kayden. It was his boy’s first-ever away game. It was wonderful to see them both.

At 8pm, the game began.

I had, repeatedly, told others – not surprisingly – that we needed to keep them at bay in the first part of the game. Well, we could not have started more poorly. A Tottenham move down their left was then switched to their right and, horribly, I had a perfect view of what developed. The ball was played out via James Madison and then to Pape Matar Sarr to Dejan Kulusevski.

“Get closer, get closer.”

Sadly, Levi Colwill didn’t get closer and he allowed the Tottenham midfielder time to cut inside and shoot. His effort deflected off the defender and into the net.

Fucksake.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 0.

Only six minutes had gone.

Calvin sneaked into the row in front, standing alongside his father and uncle, and we shared some banter.

Chelsea were chasing shadows and other clichés in the opening part of the game and it wasn’t long before the home team pounced again. A flowing move down their left fed in Son Heung-Min who deftly flicked it low past Robert Sanchez.

Noise.

Oh fuck.

A quarter of an hour gone and we were 0-2 down.

But then, a quick glance to my right and I, and others, spotted the raised yellow flag of the linesman a few yards away.

Please. Please. Please.

I honestly cannot remember if the VAR check was long or short, but the decision was upheld and so the score stayed at 0-1.

Behind me, there was the gravelly and rasping voice of a Chelsea fan who was singing alone and pleading others to do so too. He was irritating all of those around us. I am pretty sure the same bloke in virtually the same seat was doing the same last season too.

“And he fucked off after an hour” said John, and we smiled.

To be honest, the Chelsea choir had begun well and there were outbreaks of support, but the home areas, completely full, were in the ascendency with their, um, three songs.

“Oh when the Spurs…”

“Glory Glory…”

“Yid Army…”

Yawn.

And then, imperceptibly, we slowly got into the game, especially with some progressive play down the wings. There had already been a half-chance for Nico Jackson, but as the half-progressed we had more of the ball.

I am not sure if I had a clear view of it, but the idiotically named Destiny Udogie went in recklessly on Raheem Sterling and VAR was called into action again; no red card, a yellow.

With a player from each side down, Caicedo exploited some space out on our left to find Sterling, who was increasingly involved. He ran through, and despite a couple of bobbles, lifted the ball into the net from an angle.

GET IN.

How we celebrated.

Alas, VAR was involved for the third time and judged that the ball had ricocheted back off a Tottenham defender and hit Sterling’s upper arm.

Bollocks.

However, it was half-way through the half and we had improved.

It is worth noting that I had no idea that Romero had carried out a petulant kick at Colwill during the build-up. I was probably too busy doing one of ninety-seven other things.

We dominated the play with home attacks rare.

The Chelsea support was roused.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

On thirty-five minutes, a Chelsea move deep into their box and the ball was pin-balled around. It fell nicely to Moises Caicedo just outside the penalty area.

I uttered the immortal words :

“Hit it you fucker!”

Hit it, he did, and the ball flew into the bottom left corner of the goal.

Wild, and I mean wild, celebrations.

YES!

And then, and then, the awful realisation that there was a raised flag for offside over on the far side. It then became crazier. As crazy as it has ever been. The goal was cancelled, an offside somewhere, but then as we were getting our head around that, the TV screen signalled VAR for possible violent conduct and we stood bewildered and confused, and I suppose a little elated. I don’t know and I was there for fuck sake. It was mad, it was shite, it was all the things I knew that I would hate about video technology. After what seemed an age…five minutes, six minutes, seven minutes?…Christian Romero was sent off, not sure what for at the time, but a penalty was awarded to us too.

Oh boy.

The ever confident Cole Palmer struck the ball goal wards and it cannoned in off the right upright.

Chelsea 1 Tottenham 1.

GET IN YOU FUCKING BEAUTY.

With Sterling dancing down the left wing, Chelsea continued to dominate the rest of the first-half. We had the ball in the net again, a break down the left, but Sterling had gone too soon, thus negating the eventual goal from Jackson due to an offside decision. Did that go to VAR? Not a clue.

By this stage, the little group of supporters in my immediate area were starting to chat away to each other; it felt like we were starting to initiate a self-help support group. There was chit-chat about our fortunes and misfortunes, smiles at the ludicrous nature of the match thus far, self-deprecating humour, hugs when goals were scored, glum faces when things went against us.

To my right, Parky, Gary, John, to my left a girl – voraciously swearing, I approved – with her boyfriend, in front Calvin and his father and his uncle, behind, Lee and his son, quietly taking it all in, then a smiley chap who I semi-recognised who was enthusiastically revelling in every second of the madness.

A ridiculous twelve extra minutes were added on to that first-half. It finished just before 9pm I guess. I felt exhausted. Phew.

I made my way out to the concourse – with an eye to more fan photos – and spoke to Noel from Brackley.

“I can’t watch that. We’re off.”

Noel is no fool. He is as level-headed as they come. I see him everywhere with his wife. Yet he was so disgusted by the farce of VAR that he had decided that enough was enough.

I was shocked, but maybe not. Just a few minutes before, another mate – Rob – had said that if we hadn’t scored that penalty after all those layered VAR decisions, he would have left too.

I hate VAR. Always have. Football is about passion and momentum. The ebb and flow of the game can be tantalising. It is a game that mustn’t be stopped in its tracks for the slightest misdemeanour. We might have gained something through VAR, but look what we have lost. VAR is killing football, the spectacle of football, and I fear that it might eventually turn me away from the professional game.

Nerds are taking over the game.

Fuck them.

A substitution at the break :

Marc Cucarella for Colwill.

The game re-started with Chelsea attacking our end. Both John and I commented that Reece James, now in full vision in front of us, seemed to be playing within himself. His fragile body continues to worry us all.

We had much of the ball in the first part of the second-half. On fifty-five minutes, Sterling broke away centrally, Chelsea three on two, but a terrible pass outside to Palmer was hit right at Udogie. The ball became free, but Udogie then hacked Sterling down. Others around me had remembered that Udogie had been booked earlier and it soon became obvious that he would get his marching orders.

Tottenham were down to nine men with over half-an-hour to go. The game then reached a strange stage. It seemed that a win was almost sure to happen, and of course nothing was further from the truth. We relaxed a little bit too much and slowed our tempo. Tottenham’s defensive line was so high that at times they could have been queuing up for tickets at Seven Sisters.

But we did create chances.

From a lofted cross, Jackson, from under the bar, headed at Pierre-Emil Hojbjerg.

A shot from our Reece; wide.

Balls out of midfield into space were lazy.

Jackson, one on one against Guglielmo Vicario, but another good chance missed. The ‘keeper did well. The away end sighed three thousand sighs.

I made a bold statement to John : “Jackson will score, don’t worry.”

Marc Cucarella ran onto a ball over the top of the Tottenham line but spurned the chance to either shoot or pass to Sterling to his right. The Tottenham goalie was turning into our nemesis. Couldn’t he fuck off down to Seven Sisters too?

On the hour, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Enzo.

On seventy-five minutes, with the Tottenham line still playing silly buggers, the ball was pushed forward for Sterling. I snapped his pass inside to Jackson, who – at last – slipped the ball easily past Vicario.

Now we exploded.

GET IN.

Such wild scenes in row three and throughout the away segment. Hugs with everyone.

YES.

But then. The inevitable VAR check. Was Sterling off?

We waited.

Goal.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 2.

“Told you he would score, John.”

Calvin started to initiate a song.

“Spurs. Spurs are falling apart again.”

…mmm, that didn’t seem right using “Spurs.”

Malo Gusto for James.

Mudryk wasted virtually every chance that he was given…good grief, that boy can frustrate.

The drama continued. A Tottenham free-kick was lumped into the box. There was a knock on and a white-shirted body – Dier – thumped the ball in from beyond the far post.

I spotted another flag.

Offside.

Fackinell.

Then, Son shimmied into the box, and as he advanced I think we all expected the worst. He was forced a little wide but still managed to get a shot on target. The out-stretched dive of Sanchez saved the day.

“Fantastic save!”

I don’t think I noticed Les replace Raheem.

We continued to press on. There was no room for game management on this crazy night in North London. Conor Gallagher was set free and, just at the right moment, played the ball square to Jackson who finished with a fine finish.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 3.

Deep into injury-time / VAR time, we were bouncing. Good old Chelsea had done it again. We serenaded the home fans and how :

“Tottenham get battered. Everywhere they go. Tottenham get battered. Everywhere they go.”

With that, and as we continued to sing this infamous song, another long ball pierced the Tottenham defence, this time releasing two. Jackson was in no mood to pass to Mudryk, who had already flashed one high over the bar, and rounded the ‘keeper to score.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 4.

Bloody hell.

I was up on my seat now, bouncing, as were others.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

I grasped Lee’s hand.

“So good to see you mate.”

To be fair, credit where credit is due, the home fans stayed until the end and resolutely got behind their team with their songs of support.

At the final whistle, after eight minutes extra, joy unbounded.

Quite bizarrely, only right at the end, did the name Mauricio Pochettino flicker inside my head. What a night for him, eh?

During the day, an occasional thought about us beating Tottenham had entered my head – “just imagine!” – but I soon dismissed it as lunacy. But, against all odds and further clichés, we had done it. Sure, it wasn’t a convincing performance but this is a team that is still evolving. This team needs to be given a little slack. It needs time to grow.

I would later discover on the internet that some fans had been scathing of our performance, which I found a little unnerving, and I wondered if I had got carried away with the emotion of it all. I even read that some fellow couldn’t bring himself to cheering our third and fourth goal as he was so livid with our performance.

Me? Oh, I can forgive Chelsea for winning 4-1 at Tottenham.

Sometimes, football isn’t pretty. Sometimes it frustrates. But sometimes you have to just wonder at the madness of it – and the joy of beating Tottenham. Again.

We were in no rush to leave. We knew that the streets would be mobbed for a while. We enjoyed the moment. This was my fourth visit to their new digs and my record was pretty decent.

Won : 3

Drew : 0

Lost : 1

That meant that my overall record at Tottenham Away – “Love It!” – now stood at :

Won : 10

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

The Tottenham PA played a few songs; I thought initially that it was a cynical ploy to drown us out, but whatever.

The first one up was the Postecoglou- remix of “Angels.”

The residual Chelsea support gave it a special ending :

“We’re loving Chelsea instead.”

The five of us met up outside and drifted away into the night. We ate up some junk food on the High Road, then turned left onto White Hart Lane to join the residual queue at the train station. We caught the 11.18pm train to Liverpool Street and then made our way across London. We reached Barons Court at 12.30am. Last week against Blackburn, I got home at 12.45am. At that time on this night I was still in London.

We continued on. I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 2.30am, I dropped the lads off in Melksham at just after 3am and I eventually got home at 3.40am.

It had been a great night.

GAME