Straight after the away game at Villa Park, Chelsea were up against Southampton at Stamford Bridge with just two days of rest for players and supporters alike.
Aston Villa Saturday evening, Southampton Tuesday evening.
No time to breath.
I worked another early shift – up at 4.45am, work from 6am to 2pm, kick-off 8.15pm, back to bed God-only knows when – and a little part of me doubted my sanity. If ever there was a game to politely miss, it might be this one. We were on a run of three straight losses and Southampton were so far adrift of safety that they were hardly an exciting attraction. I recalled the away game in early December when we won an odd game 5-1, and some easy-to-please supporters were swooning with a new Enzo Maresca chant. It was clear, then, how poor the Saints team in 2024/25 would prove to be.
But I would be there, in my seat in The Sleepy Hollow, where I have been for most games since purchasing Seat 169 / Row D / Block 9 in the summer of 1997. Apart from the enforced absence of the COVID era, I haven’t missed too many. I would guess I have missed around twenty games since August 1997; through holidays, work commitments, occasional spells of illness, taking care of my mother in her declining years, but none through a simple “I can’t be bothered.”
“It’s what I do.”
Unfortunately, His Lordship was unable to attend this one. At about 4.30pm, I dropped PD off down by The Eight Bells. I wasn’t quite sure what my pre-match would entail, but I was pleased to be able to park up in exactly the same spot as against West Ham United three weeks earlier, right outside “The Elephant & Barrel.”
I took a photo of the setting sun bouncing off both the Clem Atlee and the Empress State Building to complete my recent triptych of Chelsea pre-match sunsets. As with the photographs, I posted it on Facebook under the title “And All The World Is Chelsea Shaped” after the XTC song of a similar title.
There were a couple of comments that soon followed about the band and the song.
It was 5pm, with still quite a wait until the game began. I decided to dive into “Koka” once again for a pizza. I spotted Gary walking on the other side of the North End Road and he came over for a quick chat. After my bite to eat, I walked up to “The Elm” to enjoy a drink and a catch-up with Gary, Alan, Daryl, Chris, his son Nick and Simon. I hadn’t seen them all together for a while. This was the only the second visit that I have ever made to “The Elm”. It’s ridiculously small, with the world’s smallest gents’ bogs to go with it.
One of the comments about my “Facebook” post came from Pete from Swindon, who I had spotted drinking in a quiet corner of “The Elm” and so I went over to chat to him. Many years ago, he had worked with XTC’s singer Andy Partridge in a department store in the town. I asked if Partridge still lives in Swindon.
“Yes, he still lives in the town. You’d see him around Swindon if you ever visit.”
“Ah, I don’t visit Swindon and I don’t visit it as often as I can.”
Pete smiled.
I was inside Stamford Bridge in good time. Fair play to the Saints faithful; three-thousand strong.
Karl, a friend who lives up on Tyneside, came down to my seat to say a few words. He was here with his young son Harry who was attending his first-ever game at Stamford Bridge. Ironically, Karl explained that Southampton would have been the first team that he would ever see Chelsea play at Stamford Bridge, but the game in early 1995 was postponed. I remember this well, since I had driven up from the West Country on my own for this, only for the match to be called off due to a waterlogged pitch or a frozen pitch, I forget what exactly.
I have been lucky; in almost 1,500 games, only four were called off with me at – or near – the stadia.
West Ham Away – 1986.
Watford Home – 1986.
Southampton Home – 1995.
Aston Villa Home – 1998.
In the early ‘eighties, it seemed that football schedules were often hit with postponements due to frozen pitches. Season 1984/85 was certainly hit by a few. On Saturday 23 February of that season, Chelsea travelled to play Coventry City at Highfield Road. I forget the reason for my non-attendance, but perhaps I had not been able to afford it. I had hoped for a 14,000 gate but just 11,430 showed up. We lost 0-1, a revenge for our 6-2 defeat of Cov earlier in the season. The game is memorable for the first start of the season for Micky Droy after his cameo appearance the previous Saturday. In fact, there is a great photo of Micky Droy with Coventry City’s Stuart Pearce, a photo that covers the Football League from Droy’s debut in 1970 to Pearce’s final game in 2002.
Back to 2025.
Clive was unable to make this game, so I was alongside Alan and PD.
Us?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku
Neto
Without Jackson nor Guiu fit, our “team full of wingers” were asked to adapt their games once more.
There had been rumours in the build-up to this match that many tickets were going spare, but as the minutes ticked towards the kick-off time, it was obvious that most seats were filled.
Good effort.
At the ridiculous time of 8.15pm, the game began.
The light yellow shirts and the dark shorts of the Southampton team brought back instant and disturbing memories of the “Iniesta” game against Barcelona in 2009. Soon into the match, the Matthew Harding tried to sing three different Chelsea songs at the same time, and it seemed wholly appropriate as Chelsea struggled to link passes and link players. The “team full of wingers” seemed to be doing their own thing. It was, suffice to say, all a bit frustrating.
We soon spotted a potentially physical battle between our own Tosin Adarabioyo and Paul Onuacho – “bless you!” – and in these days of slight and spritely attackers this was perhaps something to relish.
An old school battle.
Jadon Sancho, out on the right, advanced and fizzed in a cross towards the far post but the ball skidded away with nobody remotely close to the ball. In fact, the Southampton fans in row ten of The Shed Lower were closer than any Chelsea player on the pitch.
Pedro Neto was the most fluid of our attacking four, but in general the first ten minutes or so were full of misplaced flicks and kicks.
On fourteen minutes, the gargantuan Saints striker – at 6’7” he was built like the proverbial brick out-house – created some space inside the box but his effort was well over the bar.
“Good defensive clearance that, Onuacho.”
“Bless you!”
“Thank you.”
On twenty minutes, an encouraging move at last. Enzo Fernandez received the ball and combined a beautiful drag-back with a quick turn and was able to set up Cole Palmer. Unfortunately, despite steadying himself, his left-footed shot was ridiculously wide of the left-hand post. He had slipped just at the key moment.
Just after, Palmer found himself just eight yards out, but Aaron Ramsdale blocked the shot superbly. From the resulting Enzo corner, Tosin rose at the far post and headed across the goal. Rushing in at the far post was the previously quiet Christopher Nkunku, who bravely headed in despite the presence of a Saints defender.
There was a VAR wait, but the goal stood.
We were one-up.
Al and I went through our “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine.
On thirty-one minutes, I had to admire a fine cross from a Saints player down below me that found the head of Onuachu – “bless you!” – but Filip Jorgensen saved the day with a fantastic leap and tip away.
On thirty-three minutes, nice work from Sancho enabled Palmer to receive the ball and I willed him to finish using his favoured left foot from the right of the Saints goal. Alas, his low shot ended up a few feet wide of the far post.
In baseball parlance, Palmer was 0 for 3 thus far.
Not to worry, just three minutes later, Nkunku played a fine ball into the inside-left channel into the path of Neto, who slammed the ball, first-time, between the post and the ‘keeper.
A very fine goal.
I didn’t catch the Neto goal on film, but just before the break I was delighted to photograph another goal. Neto curled in a free kick from the left and Levi Colwill rose unhindered at the far post to head past Ramsdale.
Click.
Goal.
A run to the corner.
Click, click, click, click, click, click.
It hadn’t been the best of performances, but we were three-nil up.
If it was possible, Southampton were even poorer in the second half than the first.
On fifty minutes, a Nkunku header was pushed over by Ramsdale and then Palmer’s shot went straight to the ‘keeper.
“Palmer, swinging, caught : 0 for 4 in his plate appearances so far.”
On fifty-five minutes, decent play by Nkunku set up Palmer, but he appeared to be leaning back as he connected, and the ball was skied over the bar.
“Palmer, an easy out : oh for five.”
Neto, through on goal, stumbled.
Going forward, Southampton were nothing. They were, perhaps, peaking from behind their parked bus.
Some substitutions on sixty-eight minutes.
Tyrique George for Neto.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Sancho.
George impressed with his running and close control. He enjoyed a shot – sadly blazed over – and set up Nkunku. His efforts soon convinced the Matthew Harding to sing his name.
“Tyrique George – he’s one of our own.”
On seventy-eight minutes, some decent play by George down the Chelsea right, just inside the box, allowed the youngster to look up and spot an un-marked Marc Cucurella. It would have been easier for the full-back to smash the ball home with his right foot, but he took a touch for safety and swept it home with his more trustworthy left peg.
Chelsea were four to the good and there was a roar from the Stamford faithful. Cucurella is obviously loved by his teammates, and he enjoyed the hugs and handshakes.
I wasn’t sure about his Charlie Chaplin / penguin impersonation though.
We live in odd times.
Two very late substitutions and a debut.
Mathis Amouogu for Caicedo.
Josh Acheampong for Enzo.
A couple of late chances were exchanged, and then one final very very late substitution and another debut.
Shumaira Mhueka for Enzo.
The debutant almost scored with a header with his very first touch at the top level.
A late free kick for Palmer in prime Palmer territory was saved by Ramsdale.
“Oh for six.”
Sigh.
It stayed 4-0.
I don’t know about others, but sometimes I find myself driving along a road, and I spot a docile pigeon sat on the road ahead. I drive on, hoping that the sight of my car, the noise of my car or the vibrations on the road from the car initiate a sudden sense of panic and worry and the pigeon flies off to seek safety elsewhere.
Sometimes, the pigeon is a very stupid pigeon.
Sometimes, there is oncoming traffic.
Sometimes it is impossible to avoid the pigeon.
Sometimes, I grit my teeth and drive over the pigeon, hoping that it miraculously escapes.
Usually, in such circumstances, I look behind and see a flurry of soft white feathers floating up into the air behind me.
Southampton Football Club; you are a very stupid pigeon.
Our last visit to nearby Southampton, and their dull identikit St. Mary’s Stadium, was on a balmy evening in August 2022, when it certainly seemed that Thomas Tuchel’s Chelsea adventure was unravelling fast.
It seems longer ago than just over two years to me.
Saints were relegated that season but bounced-back in their first campaign in the Championship. However, it was with a certain amount of annoyance that our away game was announced for a Wednesday evening; it just makes everything rather rushed and squeezed.
I worked 7am to 3pm and collected PD and Parky. My “sat nav” suggested that the drive down to Southampton would take an hour and a half, but I always suspected that it would be slightly longer as we would drive into some rush-hour traffic around Salisbury and then on the approach into the city.
I was able to pass on some good news to the two lads about Frome Town. On the previous night, in West London, the team had beaten Hanwell 2-0, only our second league win of the season. There was also some lovely news off the pitch too. During the day, Frome Town announced that my friend Courtney from Chicago – featured in the Anfield blog in October – was to join the board and to lead the way with future initiatives.
I was so happy.
I was parked up at the central station car park at 5.15pm. We headed past the dire “away” pub on the main strip – plastic glasses, noise, crowds, I am too old for all that shite now – and aimed for the “Biergarten” German-style bar that has housed us for a few years on our visits to Southampton. We got in at around 5.30pm. We spotted Jimmy the Greek – or rather he spotted us – and PD got some Krombacher in for him and Parky and something a lot-less Germanic and a lot less alcoholic for me. Jimmy had just eaten, and I was starving. I asked if the food took long to arrive. With an early 7.30pm kick-off, and the stadium a good twenty-five-minute walk away, I didn’t want to be waiting around for some food.
I ordered a bratwurst, some potato dumplings and some sauerkraut at 5.40pm. At 6.30pm I was still waiting for my food.
The first fackinell of the report.
The away end at St. Mary’s has switched one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, with us in the south-west corner now. This meant that the walk was slightly less than before but would still entail a hike for PD and Parky who both walk with sticks. So, with an hour to go before the kick-off, the others left to get a head start on the walk to the match.
My food arrived at 6.40pm. I shovelled it all down my neck in ten minutes and was soon on my way to St. Mary’s, the rain now steadily falling.
I have walked to the stadium from the south a few times, but it really is a messy and dull approach, full of shabby industrial units, and gloom.
At about 7.10pm, I arrived, the rain falling harder, and I could hear a loud “carefree” booming away in the distance.
A quick security check – they didn’t spot my SLR, it was well hidden – and I was in.
Bearing in mind that this area had housed the home fans since 2001, I was surprised how spartan the concourse was, all exposed brickwork, no decoration, all very dull.
I was inside, near the corner flag, at 7.15pm.
Perfect timing.
Yes, it was odd to be visiting a stadium but with a different view, from a different corner. The whole point of the change was for the club to be able to utilise the larger space behind the Northam Stand to allow for a – Godforsaken – “fan zone”, but it was allied to being able to set up an entire end of safe standing for the red and white hordes.
As the minutes ticked by, I was shocked how few people were inside that new home end.
What in God’s name were they doing behind there, in the fan zone?
Were they all grooving away at a “Howards’ Way Foam Party” or something?
Before we knew it, it was time for another annoying part of modern football; the pre-match light show. I guess it was OK the first time we saw it at Chelsea, and elsewhere, but it is all a bit naf, now.
To make things worse, out came a few mobile phone torches, how very Barry Manilow circa 1985.
The teams appeared.
Enzo Maresca had changed things around, and there were a few surprise faces in our line-up.
Jorgensen
Gusto – Tosin – Disasi – Cucarella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Madueke – Palmer – Joao Felix
Nkunku
Or something like that.
We have become used to seeing Enzo Fernandez in a further-forward role of late, and I initially wanted to moan about Moises Caicedo being the lone defensive midfielder.
The home team contained many plain English names; Lumley, Walker-Peters, Stephens, Wood, Manning, Armstrong, Archer, Fraser.
They sounded like a “Dads Army” roll-call.
As the game kicked-off, the rain falling even more heavily, I trusted that Maresca had it all planned to perfection.
We were in all blue. This was forced on us because of the Saints’ white socks. There was something very odd about their black shorts. There was no trim at all, nothing. No coloured seam, no panels, no flash of red or white. Just a white number and a small badge. I approved. It made our shorts – still a dog’s dinner in my eyes – look even more ridiculous.
The Chelsea choir were in good voice, no doubt, as the game got going, but not so the home lot, who were really quiet. Given their current predicament, it is no surprise.
Despite their position at the bottom of the pile, the home team began brightly and Joe Aribo, the gum magnate, forced a decent save from Filip Jorgensen soon into the game.
On seven minutes, a Chelsea corner. It was difficult for me to see through the heads of the spectators but I spied a ball from Enzo that – SHOCK! HORROR! – cleared the first man. There was a leap from a Chelsea player and the ball was headed cleanly in.
YES!
There was confusion as to who scored. A few presumed that it was Tosin. Only when we spotted the team line-up on the TV screen a few minutes later did we realise that it was from the head of Axel Disasi.
Southampton 0 Chelsea 1.
Alas, just four minutes later, Southampton broke down their left and after a tight spin past Enzo, Kyle Walker-Peters prodded the ball back and Aribo arrived to volley the ball in.
Southampton 1 Chelsea 1.
Our defence must have been sucking on some of his Tangfastic gums and were distracted.
The home fans celebrated but “Gold” by Spandau Ballet was played over them, another aspect of the modern game that tires me out. Let fans enjoy themselves, in their own spontaneous way, for fuck’s sake.
The home team were surprising us. A lot of the play was in their final third down in front of us.
On seventeen minutes, the Saints; ‘keeper Joe Lumley attempted one of those kamikaze-style passes as beloved by connoisseurs of the modern game, but Noni Madueke was alert and intercepted the ball before advancing and slipping the ball out to Christopher Nkunku. He slotted the ball into a very empty net.
Fackinell.
Southampton 1 Chelsea 2.
“It’ll be 6-5 at this rate, Al.”
As the first half continued, we improved and became looser, more confident. I loved the way that Joao Felix found space, and he was often involved.
We had a spell with some good chances from Madueke and Joao Felix. Then a run from Palmer, after a great pass from Joao Felix, but his shot hit the base of the near post after a save from Lumley. Just after, a header from Tosin from a corner by Palmer grazed the bar.
This was an open game, but with a few errors all over the pitch. It had the feel of an old-fashioned match, despite periods of play when we slowed things right down. Palmer sometimes walked at a snail’s pace with the ball.
On thirty-five minutes, Joao Felix pushed the ball out to Madueke who advanced in the inside-right channel. This is where Noni often makes an incorrect decision, but after a shimmy or two to wrong-foot the defenders and get an angle, he guided the ball in at the far post, a shot that I just about captured on film, through the wind and the rain, across one hundred yards or more.
The Chelsea end roared.
Southampton 1 Chelsea 3.
The game seemed safe now.
The rain continued, as did the songs, many for players who have not featured for years.
Them : “That’s why we love Solomon Kalo.”
Me : “It’s fucking Salomon!”
Then, at a corner, some nonsense between the Saints captain Jack Stephens and Marc Cucarella. I saw the pull of the hair. There was a delay. Then VAR. Then the red card.
Oh boy.
In the closing moments of the half, a diving header from Joao Felix, but wide.
At the break, it was time for some “half-time hellos” for some folk that I had not had the time to see before the game began. It always amazes me, if I am honest, how so many of the same group of people appear everywhere, come rain and shine, and from distance too.
Scott from Lancashire.
Darren from Cheshire.
Mick from Yorkshire.
Rich from Leicestershire.
Heroes all.
What a pleasure to be so close to Madueke and Palmer appearing in front of us in the away section as the second half began. I thought to myself :
“If this goes well, we are in for a treat.”
I did not have long to wait. After thirty seconds of the new half, Madueke passed to Palmer, who reached the goal-line, nonchalantly lost his marker with a seemingly effortless turn and sent over a perfect ball towards the unmarked Joao Felix at the far post. His header was guided towards goal, past Lumley, but it dropped past the far post.
Ugh.
Our chances continued. Tosin hit the post. Then, Joao Felix set up Palmer whose low shot was saved by Lumley. The ball came out to Madueke…everyone thought “goal”…but a last-ditch tackle robbed Madueke of the ball.
Unbelievably, the home team did not always seem that they were a man down and, without wishing to sound condescending, they played some surprisingly decent stuff. A save from Joegensen kept out Mateus Fernandes.
There was a feeling that over-elaboration in front of the Saints goal, especially from Madueke, was our downfall. He was very involved though, and always seemed to occupy the thoughts and minds of at least two Southampton defenders, allowing others to find space around him.
He forced two saves from Lumley.
On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced him.
Five minutes later, a raiding Enzo pushed the ball into the path of Nkunku. His shot was part-stopped by Lumley but as the ball continued to roll forwards, Palmer whacked the ball in.
GET IN.
Southampton 1 Chelsea 4.
At last a second-half goal.
I caught his celebratory run towards us, his smile wide, his trademark hug.
It was at this point that the trickle of home fans leaving became a mass exodus, to which the Chelsea choristers had an easy riposte.
“Oh when the saints go marching out.”
On seventy-nine minutes, more changes.
Renato Veiga for Cucarella.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Palmer.
On eighty-seven minutes, Malo Gusto raced at a retreating back line and set up Sancho to his right. Our loanee took one touch and smashed the ball high past the hapless Lumley. It was his first goal for his childhood team.
Southampton 1 Chelsea 5.
There were a flurry of songs.
“Oh, Enzo Maresca. Oh, Enzo Maresca.”
There was one based on “Amarillo” – a bit shite to be honest…”and he comes from Italy.”
…mm, must do better.
Then, the loudest of the night – “We’ve got our Chelsea back.”
A plume of sulphurous blue smoke billowed into the sky as the players came over to share the love of our support. A fine moment.
On the ridiculously long and wet walk back to the car…yes, new territory, or at least a new exit route, we got a little lost…we realised we hardly saw any home fans. They had departed earlier. In the wind and the rain, we bumped into a few Chelsea stragglers; Salisbury Steve, Mick from Huddersfield, Leigh from Basingstoke, Lucio, a few more.
That bloody concourse. That bloody away end. That bloody announcer. Those bloody anthems. That bloody song. Those bloody scarves. That bloody clock.
A day out on Merseyside, a day out in Liverpool, a day out at Anfield.
And a few other things to talk about too. But let’s do this chronologically; an all-encompassing review of six football matches played over the past forty years.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Good.
First of all, let’s go back to 1984.
The next match featured in my review of the 1984/85 season was the notorious second leg of our Milk Cup tie against Millwall. This took place on the evening of Tuesday 9 October 1984. With me being a student in Stoke-on-Trent, this was always going to be a non-starter. I was nineteen, and yet to see an evening game in London, and I was never going to start with a trip to The Den. Eight years before, I could vividly remember watching the highlights on ITV of the away game at Millwall in the first few weeks of the 1976/77 season. Not only did we lose 0-3, but there was plenty of crowd trouble to boot, pardon the pun. In fact, in the following forty-eight years, many who went to this game have described it as the most horrific experience of their football lives. The mention by a couple of friends of “meat cleavers” should illustrate what Chelsea were up against on that sunny afternoon in “Deep South” all those years ago.
Millwall away? No thanks.
On this particular evening in 1984, I worked away on an essay, disappeared down to the local for a pint and then returned back to the flat to hear that we had drawn 1-1 at The Den. Kerry Dixon scored for us. The gate was just 11,157 and I suspect that 99% of them were blokes and a sizeable percentage were nutters. There has always been talk of this being the most formidable Chelsea “firm” to ever attend an away game and who am I to doubt it. Radio 2 reported no trouble inside the ground but that Robert Isaac, a Chelsea youth player who was on my radar, had been stabbed outside by some Millwall loons. This deeply saddened me.
The story was that he and some friends were confronted by some Millwall lads and were asked to name Millwall’s reserve ‘keeper. None of them could oblige, and Robert was slashed with a knife across his back. He was rushed to hospital and fifty-five stitches were applied. Over the past fifteen years, Robert and I have bumped into each other on a number of occasions and he joined us for a pub-crawl before the 2018 FA Cup Final. He always says that his thick leather jacket saved his life that night. He would go on to play thirteen times for our first team, then a few more for Brighton.
Next up, was a far-less terrifying home game against Watford on Saturday 13 October. I travelled down from Stoke by train and watched from The Benches with my new gang of match-day companions from London and the South-East, all of whom I still keep in contact with. Before the match, none other than Boy George appeared on the pitch and took loads of homophobic abuse from the home crowd. The back-story was that a video was being shot that day for the Culture Club single “The Medal Song” but I have no recollection of this. Maybe I disappeared off to the gents while this took place at half-time. In the video, the band member Mikey Craig – in full Chelsea kit – scores a goal at The Shed End.
We went 1-0 up via the dependable boot of Kerry Dixon, but Watford came back well to lead 3-1 with goals from Richard Jobson, Kenny Jackett and John Barnes, who had a blinder. There was a late consolation goal from the dependable head of Kerry Dixon. The gate of 25,340 contained a miserly four-hundred away fans.
On the following Saturday – 20 March 1984 – Chelsea travelled down to The Dell in Southampton and lost 1-0 to a Steve Moran goal in front of 20,212. Over this weekend, I was back in Frome but did not travel down to the game. Out in town that evening, my diary informs me that I bumped into Glenn who travelled down to Southampton but didn’t get in. I suspect the game was all-ticket, and I had never planned on going. After all, it would have been rude to come back home for the weekend, my family keen to hear of my first month at college, but then to bugger off to Southampton all day on the Saturday. I also bumped into PD during the evening, who also travelled to Southampton, and got in. He said that the away end was packed and that we ought to have won. He told me that there was no trouble inside The Dell, but he was knocked out after the game.
Let’s fast forward to 2024. However, before we meet up with PD again, forty years to the exact day since I bumped into him in “The Wheatsheaf” in Frome, I need to talk about two games involving our home town’s football club.
On the Tuesday, I drove up to the river city of Gloucester to watch Frome Town play a league game at Gloucester City. I travelled alone, but met up with some Frome friends at the game, and also Chelsea mates Andrew and Martin who live locally and follow their home city’s team in the same way that I follow Frome. Alas, on a wet night, Frome succumbed to a goal in each half to lose 2-0 in front of a gate of 601. We remained mired in a relegation place, but there have been some signs of late of a little resurgence.
As the week developed, thoughts turned to the first game in a mammoth weekend of football. My friend Josh, from Minneapolis, was over for the game at Anfield on the Sunday but was coming down by train from London to see Frome Town play Poole Town on the Saturday. He travelled down last December for a Frome game and vowed to return. He is, in fact, one of a little army of Chelsea mates in the US who follow Frome – hello JR, hello Steve, hello Jaro, hello Rick, hello the other Josh, hello John, hello Phil, hello Bobster – and there has been one recent addition.
I have met Courtney, from Chicago, at “The Eight Bells” for two Chelsea games over the past three years, and on the Wednesday evening he confirmed that he would be attending the Frome Town vs. Poole Town and Liverpool vs. Chelsea double-header too.
However, compared to Josh, his travel plans were far more stressful. He was flying over from Chicago, and was due to arrive in Frankfurt early on Saturday morning. He was then booked on a flight to Manchester, but hoped to swap to a London flight, and then drive down to Frome for the game. If not, he would be forced to land at Manchester at around 10am and then drive to Frome.
I woke on Saturday and soon texted both Americans. Josh was fine, and would arrive at Westbury just before midday, when I would pick him up. Courtney, however, unable to change his onward travel from Frankfurt, had arrived at Manchester at 10.15am.
I gulped.
“Poor bugger.”
With a section of the M4 being shut, I warned him that he would be diverted over The Cotswolds to reach Frome. I contacted a Frome director to reserve him a place in the club car park. It would be touch-and-go for him to make the kick-off. I was able to reserve him a car park place because…roll on drums…Courtney had splendidly sponsored the Frome match. Courtney, Josh and I were going to be wined and dined at the club at half-time, along with my two former school mates, the class of 1978 to 1983, Steve and Francis.
I picked up Josh at Westbury and gave him a little tour of my local village and my local town, including a pint at “The Three Swans” in Frome’s historic town centre. Meanwhile, Courtney was making good time and his ETA was to be around three o’clock. We then met up with Francis, and his mate Tom, at “The Vine Tree” for another quick drink before arriving at the ground a few minutes before kick-off.
It was a stunning day; warm temperatures, blue skies, and what looked like a decent crowd of over 500.
With five minutes of the game played, I looked over and saw Courtney arrive in the ground. I waved him over to where we were stood in a little group at the “Clubhouse End” and it was a relief to see him. Courtney had made really good time, and was now able to relax a little and take in his first ever non-league match.
The game was a very good one. Alas, the visitors went ahead in the tenth minute when our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips spilled a cross and there was an easy tap-in. However, just before half-time, Matt Wood – whose home kit Josh sponsors – slotted home from just outside the six-yard box from a George Rigg corner.
It was a case of all smiles at half-time as we got stuck into our jacket potatoes and chilli – thanks Louise!
With thoughts of our travel to Merseyside, I asked the two Americans a football teaser.
Q : which current league ground – the top four divisions – is closest to the River Mersey?
The answer follows later.
In the second-half, we decamped to our favourite spot in The Cow Shed, but a weak goal from the visitors gave them a perhaps undeserved 2-1 lead. We kept going, however, and were rewarded with a fantastic equaliser on the ninetieth minute when that man Matt Wood bravely headed in.
Pandemonium in the South Stand!
As match sponsors, we had the vote for Man Of The Match, but it was easy; Josh’s boy Matt Wood.
However, football can be a bastard.
In extra-time, a virtual copy of ‘keeper Kyle Phillips’ spill for the first goal resulted in a third, and winning, goal for the visitors.
This felt like a kick had been administered to the collective solar plexus.
Fackinell.
After the game, we were able to relax a little in the club house and I introduced the lads from the US to our board of directors. It had been a cracking afternoon and it was lovely for a couple of players, and the manager Danny Greaves, to meet Josh and Courtney. Courtney had been pleasantly surprised by the size of the stadium and the quality of the facilities, and he went off to buy a blue and white away shirt from the club shop. At 6pm, with a five hour drive up to his hotel in Liverpool ahead of him, Courtney said his goodbyes.
“See you tomorrow, mate.”
Honestly, it had been a lovely time, one for the ages.
But Sunday was another day, and it soon followed.
I was up at 6am, bright and breezy, and I soon spotted a text from Courtney. He had eventually arrived in Liverpool at 11.20pm after a couple of stops en route. I collected PD from his house and Josh from his hotel at 7am, and I collected Parky in his village at 7.30am.
After following our exploits via this blog since its inception in 2008, Josh has always wanted to join us in The Chuckle Bus for an away game, and here he was, sat next to Parky in the rear seats as I headed due north.
A week or so ago I decided that I would probably call this match report “Tales From The Football Road” because my journey would encompass a section of the M6, which is as near to a genuine and bona fide “football road”, for me anyway, in the UK. We would join the M6 in Birmingham, just as Walsall’s Bescot Stadium appears to the east, and it is the road that I use to take me to Chelsea away games against Everton, Liverpool, Manchester City and Manchester United, but also, historically, against teams such as Blackburn Rovers, Bolton Wanderers, Blackpool, Burnley, Wigan Athletic and Preston North End.
I am yet, however, to visit Edgeley Park, the historic home of Stockport County – where Chelsea played our first-ever league game in 1905 – and which is the closest league ground to the River Mersey.
The M6 took on a special importance on this weekend. It was the road that Courtney had taken on Saturday from the airport just south of Manchester to get down to Frome, and the road that he took back to his hotel in Liverpool.
The Football Road.
It certainly was.
As I headed past Bath, I was on the exact same route that Courtney had taken around fourteen hours earlier.
I tried my best to keep Josh entertained.
“You know Peter Gabriel’s song ‘Solsbury Hill’ mate?”
“Yep.”
I gestured outside.
“Well, this is it.”
We headed straight over the M4, into Gloucestershire, through some delightful Cotswold scenery. Thankfully the early rain eventually subsided. At Frocester Hill, the Severn Vale appeared down below. It was a breath-taking sight. Parky spoke about the Severn Bore and watching those that surf it, while I spoke about the river’s tidal range being the second highest in the world, but we then realised that we were becoming Severn bores.
We soon stopped at Strensham Services on the M5 for a McDonalds breakfast at about 8.45am. I then ate up the remainder of the M5, but alas the floodlights of The Hawthorns were hidden by dense fog as the M5 ended and the M6 began.
“2017 and all that.”
As I passed Stoke, I was reminded of 1984 and I told PD that forty years ago to the very day we had chatted in one of Frome’s pubs about that game in Southampton. I asked of his recollections of that game.
He had indeed been knocked out after the game, but by a policeman on horseback. There was no real trouble, but after the match, the local Hampshire constabulary had caused a panic among the crowd leaving The Dell, and PD ended up on the pavement. Our mate Andy spotted him and helped him recover. Later that week, the CID interviewed PD at his house in Frome after many complaints by the public about the behaviour of the local police that day. These were the days when football fans, in general, were viewed as low-life scum by many in the police force and it was considered fair game for them to whack football fans. I remember being thrown against a metal fence at St. James’ Park by a Geordie copper after celebrating a little too enthusiastically after a Chelsea goal earlier in 1984.
I refuelled at Knutsford, then drove over the familiar Thelwall Viaduct. As we drove high above the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal, there was some local history for Josh. I explained how the Manchester cotton mill owners reacted to the higher rates being asked by Liverpool dock owners by forcing the construction of their own waterway, with docks at Salford, and how this heightened that particular inter-city rivalry.
Oh God, I was becoming the Mersey bore, now.
I drove onto the oh-so familiar M62 into Liverpool.
I was parked up, as I was on our last visit to Anfield, in a car park just off Dale Street just before midday, and just in time for the pubs to open. It had taken me exactly five hours to get from my house to the car park on Vernon Street. Above, blue skies and glorious sun. We had enjoyed fantastic pub crawls around Dale Street on PD’s birthday in January 2017 and January 2024, and we were back for more.
“Ye Hole In Ye Wall”.
This is rumoured to be Liverpool’s oldest pub, built in 1726. I treated myself to the first of two lagers for a change and it wasn’t long to wait for Courtney to arrive. I must admit, he looked rather tired, but he soon livened up.
“The Vernon Arms”.
Our third visit, the famous sloping floor, a chat with some local Liverpool fans at the next table, no animosity, all gentle banter. Josh recounted the story of the two of us having a drink in a bar opposite Yankee Stadium in 2012 for the PSG friendly, and meeting three young women who had brought little plastic bags of trimmed celery with them, having heard about it being a Chelsea “thing” yet completely unaware of “that” song and its full content.
“The Rose & Crown”.
A first visit, a little more chat with some Liverpool supporters, and we saw a late Kilmarnock goal defeat Rangers on the TV.
We needed to get ourselves parked-up, so I headed up to Goodison Park, via a slow drive-past Everton’s new stadium at Bramley Moore Dock. We could only really see the shiny roof as there was a high wall blocking our view. I have been tracking its progress since I called by before our first away game in 2022/23. There are several old warehouses close by that we earmarked to be used for hotels in the near future. The stadium should revitalise that stretch of the river.
The Mersey played a little part in my family history.
I had spoken to Josh and Courtney about how my great great grandparents had left Somerset for a new life in Philadelphia in 1854. They boarded the maiden voyage of the SS City of Philadelphia from Liverpool, but it was ship-wrecked off the coast of Newfoundland at Cape Race on 7 September, though – unlike the Titanic – no lives were lost. The Whites were to live around five years in Philadelphia before returning home.
Maybe next season, should Everton stay up, I will gaze out at the River Mersey from near the away end of the new stadium and think wistfully back to 1854.
“The Abbey”.
We visited this pub in the August of 2021 before a creditable 1-1 at Anfield, and I joined the lads in the cramped bar. Again, PD and Parky were talking to some locals. There was a quick chat with Tommie from Portmadoc about Rio de Janeiro, and then Josh and I met up with Courtney at the Dixie Dean statue at about 3.15pm.
We did a quick circuit of the old lady. This was their first-ever trip to Merseyside, and with this being Goodison’s last-ever season, it was only right that we circumnavigated the old place. I rattled off what seemed like a hundred different Goodison stories all at once and it is no surprise. I simply adore the place. You may have noticed.
Time was moving on and we needed to get our three arses up the hill of Stanley Park to Anfield. The wind was blowing now, but thankfully there was no rain.
Tommie’s brother, a staunch Evertonian, calls Anfield “Castle Greyskull” and as we approached it I could see his point.
Anfield used to be very similar to Goodison, nestled in among tight streets on all four sides. Now, because it has been able to expand, all of those adjacent houses have gone, and it sits atop the hill like a gloomy grey aircraft hangar, its two new and huge stands looming over everything. Goodison seems quaint and charismatic in comparison.
As we made our way towards the stadium, we could hear the music booming out from what I presumed was Anfield’s “fan zone”, which thankfully we have been spared at Chelsea.
“Stevie Heighway on the wing…”
Those bloody anthems.
Outside the away end, I passed over spares to Deano and I was inside at around 4.10pm. Despite the massive increase to the bulk of this newly-improved stand – the old “Annie Road” as the scallies called it – the concourse tucked behind the away end is still the same size, still cramped.
I took my place alongside John, Gary and Alan. A few familiar faces nearby, but lots of new faces too. The sun was high above The Kop and I wanted it to soon drop below the huge main stand. That bloody flag with the six European Cups made its way down the Centenary Stand, or whatever it is called these days. To my right, the humungous main stand, not one seat empty.
Fackinell.
“The Fields Of Anfield Road” again.
The entrance of the teams.
Scarves held aloft.
“You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
Those bloody scarves.
A barrage of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea” but this was lost against the pumped tannoyed muzak of an Anfield game day, Gerry Marsden and all.
A minute of applause in memory of Peter Cormack, a player from my youth, a decent player.
Right, the team.
A big shock that Reece James was starting and Malo Gusto was shunted over to the left to keep an eye on Mo Salah, who now looked nothing like Mo Salah. Romeo Lavia in with Moises Caicedo, a strong midfield duo, er pivot. Pivot, right? That’s what all the nerds call it, right?
Sanchez
Gusto – Colwill – Tosin – James
Lavia – Caicedo
Madueke – Palmer – Sancho
Jackson
Going into the game, I was confident, but was not that confident to think of a win. A draw would make me a happy man.
Being back in that bloody away end took me back to January when we were shellacked 4-1, and if Darwin Nunez hadn’t hit the woodwork on multiple occasions it would have been much worse.
It seemed odd not to see Jurgen Klopp stood in front of the Liverpool bench.
The game began and to my pleasant surprise we seemed to have most of the ball. But the home support, above us especially, were warbling out their old favourite :
“Fuck off Chelsea FC. You ain’t got no history.”
I chuckled to myself about their use of a double-negative.
Very early on, Liverpool broke and Tosin tangled with Diogo Jota just inside our half. The referee brandished a yellow, and I was so thankful that there was a Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, alongside the play, thus nullifying the threat of a straight red.
On eighteen minutes, Cody Gakpo was given the ball on a plate after a typical bit of madness from Robert Sanchez but his snapshot was hit right back into the arms of our worrying ‘keeper.
After a quarter of the match, it wasn’t much of a game, but we were still dominating most of the ball. Jadon Sancho on the left was often in space but did not use the ball wisely. Noni Madueke was more direct on the right. Cole Palmer was a peripheral figure. I liked the pairing of Caicedo and Lavia from the off, strong and resourceful.
It seemed like both teams were sounding each other out.
Salah went down in the box, but no penalty. Phew.
It was lovely to see Reece James patrolling the right-hand side of our defence and he slotted in well, showing some sublime early touches.
On twenty-nine minutes, Salah broke in from the right. I yelled at our defender to keep him outside. He came inside and shot. The ball hit Colwill but fell at the feet of Curtis Jones and Colwill made an attempt to nick the ball.
Penalty.
“Bollocks.”
Salah swept it in from the spot.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 0.
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
“Li-verpool. Li-verpool.”
Two minutes later, more menace from Salah as he crossed and Gakpo arrived late at the far post to prod home. Thankfully, Salah was adjudged to have crept offside. Phew.
The ball was pushed through by Caicedo to Jackson who wasted no time before smashing it high against the angle of near post and bar.
It was our first real attempt.
A couple of half-chances at either end.
At least we weren’t being over-run and over-powered like last season. This seemed like a slightly reticent Liverpool team.
In the closing moments of the first-half, as Sanchez rushed out to block from Jones, we were utterly amazed to see a penalty awarded, along with a yellow for our ‘keeper.
“That was just a normal block tackle, surely?”
VAR was called in.
No penalty. No yellow.
Very late on, Madueke broke down the right, Palmer withdrew to give himself some space and Madueke angled the ball to him. Was this the moment? Well, it was a moment but not the moment. Palmer’s shot glided just over the bar.
“Bollocks.”
The droll low burr of the Anfield announcer George Sephton, a presence at their games since 1971, introduced a younger and more excitable colleague to talk through a junior penalty-kick competition at The Kop at half-time. Sephton’s voice certainly evokes some memories. David James then saved a twice-taken penalty kick from a young Liverpool fan. The crowd booed. The announcer was in shock.
“Well, I don’t know what to say. You’ve just ruined that lad’s day.”
At the break, Pedro Neto came on for Sancho. My goodness, we certainly have options out wide. Soon into the second-half, just three minutes in, Caicedo picked out the run of Jackson and played a perfect ball through. Jackson advanced and calmly slotted past Kelleher. The away end erupted, but our joy was soon quelled by an offside flag. We waited for a VAR decision and, thankfully, it went our way. Jackson had stalled his run just right.
Goal.
Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1.
With that, Jackson led a charge from the half-way line down to the Annie Road and the players celebrated wildly, while I hoped for a couple of decent shots with my pub camera.
Sadly, just three minutes later, a cross from Salah on the Liverpool right, caught the entire Chelsea defence out. The ball was swept right into a wide corridor of uncertainty, and the impressive Curtis Jones was able to take a touch and then prod the ball past Sanchez. I looked at the linesman in the far right corner but there was no flag.
“Bollocks.”
Liverpool 2 Chelsea 1.
On fifty-two minutes, three changes.
Renato Veiga for James.
Enzo Fernandez for Lavia.
Benoit Badiashile for Tosin.
“Were they preparing those subs before the goal, John?”
“Think so, mate.”
I was surprised to see Lavia being replaced. He had played well. Perhaps this was a precautionary measure.
There was a very loud “allez allez”.
It’s odd that we hear “YNWA” before games at Anfield, but never during the actual games themselves these days. When did that stop?
We had more of the possession as Liverpool seemed happy to soak it all up, but there were only quarter-chances from a Madueke shot from an angle and a Palmer free-kick.
I sensed that the home support was worried though; they seemed quiet and nervous.
The away support got behind the boys with our loudest chant of the game thus far, a fine rendition of “Amazing Grace – the Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” version.
I remember surging and strong runs through the middle from Caicedo, plus energy and directness from Neto on our left. Palmer was, alas, a passenger for much of the second-half. Neto’s effort trundled wide of a post.
On seventy-six minutes, Christopher Nkunku replaced Madueke, and Neto swapped wings. His play deteriorated on the right.
Palmer lobbed a free-kick into the Liverpool six-yard box but Veiga headed over from a good position.
We still kept going. I could not fault our application, even if the attack lacked real bite.
“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”
My attention was drawn to the twin clocks that sit above the corner flags at The Kop.
Those bloody clocks.
I seem to spend inordinate amounts of time gazing up at those simple blocks of electric lights and I have done for years.
The extra-time ticked down, the time ticked away.
Nkunku almost touched the ball home, from a Neto cross, just a few yards to our left.
At the other end, Diaz picked up the ball and advanced.
“Don’t let him dance into the box.”
Thankfully his shot tantalisingly flew high and wide.
In the last second of the game, a shot from Malo Gusto was blocked and the referee blew.
Fackinell.
This had been my twenty-eighth visit to Anfield, and my record is relegation-form.
Won : 5
Drew : 8
Lost : 15
For : 28
Against : 45
I caught site of Courtney as we gathered together in the concourse. I am sure his weekend had felt just like a dream. He was to make his own way to Crewe and then catch a train down to London where he was working on the Monday and Tuesday.
I wished him a safe journey and thanked him for Saturday.
I didn’t envy his travel. Mind you, I didn’t envy mine. I still had around two-hundred miles to drive on this Sunday evening.
I stopped a couple of times to refuel – me, not the car – and I dropped off the lads before getting in at 12.30am. I was, of course, repeating Courtney’s breakneck mission on Saturday morning.
This football road.
Unfortunately, our football weekend had resulted in two defeats, but it had been a cracker.
There was international football ahead for Josh, and others in the coming week, with a trip to Athens for our game at Panathinaikos on Thursday.
I had an international game lined up too.
Merthyr Town vs. Frome Town next Saturday, ahead of Chelsea vs. Newcastle United next Sunday.
With our trip to Dortmund seemingly just hours behind us, the home game against bottom-placed Southampton soon arrived. On the drive up to London, the Famous Four were augmented by the appearance of Glenn who was taking Clive’s ticket and there were mainly positive thoughts from Germany. As for the game with the Saints, I was of the opinion that while we often talk about “must win games” this surely was going to be a match that Chelsea would win.
And a phrase that I saw more than a few times on social media was one that mentioned us eventually “clicking.”
Against Southampton, I too was hoping that we would finally click.
There were no ifs and buts. No perhaps. No maybe.
We would win this game.
Admittedly, our spending spree in the January transfer window had increasingly resembled a footballing version of “Supermarket Sweep” with players being flung into a shopping trolley by anyone remotely connected to Chelsea Football Club. At the final buzzer – “where do you think you are going Ziyech?” – there was a final reckoning.
“Who bought this bloke? Who is he?”
However, all of our monies and vouchers had been exchanged. We now hoped that Graham Potter would be able to concoct a palatable recipe after being presented with his new ingredients in a mystery bag of treats that reminded me of a football edition of “Ready Steady Cook.”
There had certainly been hints of things simmering along nicely, of a brighter future after a slight upturn against Liverpool and Borussia Dortmund, if not against Fulham and West Ham. We were certainly stirred by the very recent return of our trusty full-backs Chilwell and James and the burgeoning relationship between Silva and Badiashile, and our hopes were increased by the presence of the new playmaker Fernandez, the speed merchants Mudryk and Madueke and the light-footed attacker Felix.
Southampton, who had beaten us on a horrible night in late August, would surely be put to the sword?
Surely?
“Fuck me, we have to win this one, lads.”
The pre-match routine – home to café to pub to stadium – had been disrupted by the sad, if not surprising, news that the body of Christian Atsu had eventually been located in Turkey. Our former player was one of thousands who had perished in the series of earthquakes that recently hit that country. I tried to remember if I had ever seen him play for us. I am sure I that I hadn’t. I had, of course, seen him play against us for Newcastle United on a few occasions.
I was in the stadium early and couldn’t resist a few pre-game photos as the spectators slowly arrived.
I spotted three young lads appear down to my right in the West Lower, all wearing distinctive River Plate jerseys – white with a red sash – and one of them had draped an Argentina flag over his shoulders. I sent my two friends in Buenos Aires – both River supporters – a message and they were impressed. The three lads made their way down towards the Shed End but I eventually lost sight of them. In the ‘eighties, when it was so rare to be able to get hold of authentic foreign club jerseys, it was de rigueur to wear them at domestic football. My cotton Robe di Kappa Juventus shirt from 1985 made it to Stamford Bridge once or twice. It’s very rare to see foreign jerseys at Stamford Bridge today; I am sure these three lads would be given a free pass on this occasion.
Graham Potter’s team selection was a little surprising.
Kepa
Azpilicueta – Koulibaly – Badiashile – Chilwell
Madueke – Kovacic – Fernandez
Felix – Fofana – Mount
Blur’s “Song 2” and Harry James All-Stars “The Liquidator.”
The players entered the Stamford Bridge pitch and then stood at the centre circle as we remembered Christian Atsu.
The game began with us attacking the Shed End, or rather with Saints attacking the Matthew Harding; they easily had the better of the first fifteen minutes. Benoit Badiashile made a mess of a clearance but thankfully Kepa Arrizabalaga was on hand to block a low shot by Kamaldeen Sulemana. They followed this up with an effort that Kalidou Koulibaly blocked. Paul Onuachu, whose limbs reached Crouch-like proportions, was causing us problems with his physicality and determination. He went close with a header.
On eleven minutes, Noni Madueke enjoyed a run into the box but his low shot zipped across the face of the goal and the Southampton ‘keeper Gavin Bazunu saved. Soon after, there was a spritely spin and shot from David Datro Fofana but he could only ripple the outside of the side netting.
I was surprised that Fofana was seemingly deployed out on the left for parts of the first period.
With half of the first-half gone, the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was absolutely shocking.
We were very disjointed and struggled to piece anything together. The good performance in Dortmund just three days earlier seemed light years away but of course this was a pretty different team with five new starters in Potter’s team selection.
On the drive to London, I had quipped “who are our main rivals playing today?” and I then added “Brentford and Fulham” and it very much seemed that we were only in a battle to finish as West London’s top team. Even at this stage of the season, we don’t appear to be able to rise too much further up the table. Are we really destined for a tenth place finish, mirroring that of the anti-climactic 2015/16 one?
The Southampton players, without a permanent manager, were helping to add to the ugly nature of this game by going down injured with a dull regularity. However, when they had the ball, they appeared to have belief in what they were doing. In contrast, we looked bereft of ideas.
“Oh When The Saints…”
On the half-hour mark, there was a fine zipped cross into the danger area from Ben Chilwell, but Fofana arrived too late to apply the final stab at goal.
Dave was the next Chelsea player to ripple the side netting.
At last, we enjoyed our best, brief, spell of the game. A decent move, a shot from Enzo, a cross from Dave but again just out of reach for Fofana. There was a daisy-cutter from Fofana but this was hit straight at Bazunu.
Sigh.
Then, alas, a clumsy tackle from Dave on Stuart Armstrong in a dangerous position. Step forward James Ward-Prowse, and his Exocet-launcher of a right foot. I took a ‘photo of our defensive wall, with Mateo Kovacic lying on the pitch to block a low drive. Ward-Prowse must have laughed at such a suggestion. His perfect delivery flew high past everyone and lodged inside the net.
The away fans roared and the scorer raced down towards the far corner of The Shed as if he had scored a last minute winner in a Cup Final.
Fackinell.
There were audible boos at the half-time whistle.
I was just silent and sad, and wondered if we could ever get back into the game. It was a very poor half from us. There was little fight and no real pattern to our play. An altogether rotten show. I didn’t glance over at the side-lines to often but the manager always seemed so passive. There seemed to be no fire inside him.
Fackinell.
“All our players are threes and fours, nothing more. Kovacic is especially poor, eh?”
At the break, Raheem Sterling – almost a forgotten man of late – replaced one Fofana while Koulibaly made way for the other.
Welcome back Wesley.
Sterling began the half on the left, right down in front of us in The Sleepy Hollow, and looked immediately dangerous. With the refiguring of our attack, though, Mount played more centrally and an early cross from Sterling just evaded Mount’s leap.
Five minutes into the second half, fifty minutes into the game, I noted the first stadium-wide chant of the entire match.
“Carefree.”
Just not good enough everyone. We are hardly carefree when it takes us fifty minutes to support the lads on the pitch. Must do better.
Soon after, a swivel and a shot from Dave, but wide.
Thankfully, the atmosphere improved on the hour, but this was hardly a wall of noise. There were more substitutions a little later.
Kai Havertz for Mount.
Mykhailo Mudryk for Madueke.
With that, Mudryk appeared down below us, forcing Sterling over to the right. Not long after, Sterling dribbled past two defenders and slipped the ball to Havertz, who returned the ball to Sterling. Sadly, his shot was blocked, rather fortuitously, by Ainsley Maitland-Niles. This was the chance that we needed but we fluffed it.
The whole stadium groaned.
Just moments after, the ball was pushed up towards Havertz on our left and the German did well to hold off a challenge. His perfect cross was met by Sterling’s header after he drifted away from a defender. This effort was miraculously blocked on the line and the same player stabbed the rebound goal wards but another defender forced the ball to blaze over. Another golden chance, fluffed.
Fackinell.
The visitors worked a fine move down their right and Theo Walcott, who used to be a footballer, whipped in a cross that Armstrong really should have eaten up. Kepa blocked well.
From the corner, with the ball bobbling around our box, Selou Mara attempted an audacious side volley but slammed his right foot right into Dave’s face. There was immediate concern for our captain’s health. I had visions of the toe of a boot hitting him in the eye. After a very long wait, he was stretchered off to loud applause. The whole stadium stood.
“We’ll just call you Dave.”
Bless him.
He was replaced by Trevoh Chalobah, another forgotten man.
At the same time, Conor Gallagher replaced Ben Chilwell, our sixth substitute of the day.
Twelve minutes of extra time were signalled.
A shot from Gallagher was saved by a hand from Bazunu after Chelsea pressure from a Felix free-kick. A one-on-one break from Southampton was thankfully snubbed out by a last-ditch tackle from Kovacic. A last minute whipped volley from Mudryk zipped past the post.
It was not to be.
Southampton had done the double over us.
There were more boos, louder now, as the referee blew.
A pet hate, booming music at the final whistle. When we lose, we don’t want that. We just want silence.
For fuck sake.
As I left The Sleepy Hollow, I glanced over at the away end, and remnants of red smoke were drifting over the away supporters.
I wondered what the three River Plate supporters made of the match. With Southampton playing in a white shirt with one broad red stripe, I suspect that they acknowledged the irony of it.
As I walked back to the car, everyone was bubbling with frustration, bewilderment and anger. Whereas many had been previously prepared to give Graham Potter time, this meek defeat to a lowly Southampton team might well have changed many opinions. I sensed this as I left Stamford Bridge.
I have never been one to want managers to be ousted after relatively short tenures. I was never a fan of our slash and burn methodology under Roman Abramovich despite the ridiculous success that it brought. But those days are gone and there are new owners in control of our club.
Where now Chelsea Football Club? What now Graham Potter?
Is this season a write-off? Are we going to be treading water until May? Is tenth place our lot? Or are there even darker days ahead? I sense that this will all get a little worse before it gets better, but that is just a gut feeling.
Next up, a derby at Tottenham and I, among many, are fucking dreading it.
An away trip to Southampton early this season meant that we were repeating three of the last four away games of the last campaign in the first three matches of the current one.
Last season we lost to Everton 1-0; this season we beat them 1-0.
Last season we beat Leeds United 3-0; this season they beat us 3-0.
Last season we beat Southampton 6-0; surely not?
The Famous Five left Melksham at around 3.15pm. I was driving again, and my fellow passengers were PD, Parky, Sir Les and Glenn the birthday boy, celebrating his fifty-fifth birthday a day before he was to begin a new job.
Southampton away is a breeze. At around 5pm, I was parked up in the small car park outside the city’s Central train station.
The evening heat surprised me.
“It’s nice out” I said.
“It is yes, but put it away, someone will see it” replied Parky.
The others dashed off to “Yates” for a pre-match tipple while I decided to grab a bite to eat in a nearby Italian restaurant. There were a couple of familiar Chelsea faces in there – “alright, boys?” – and I soon sat down for a pizza. This is standard for me. I reckon we could play in Kazakhstan, Bolivia or Zimbabwe and I’d still order a pre-match pizza.
I joined up with the lads in the pub, but none of us were keen to stay for any longer. There was a quick “hello goodbye” to a few troops before we set off to walk the twenty minutes or so to the stadium. The three Norwegians – four actually, I neglected to mention Jon in the Leicester City report – had been spotted in the pub. A couple of local lads were there too.
“Good trip down, Chris?”
“Oh yeah, easy.”
“Did Les come with you?”
“Yeah mate. But with PD in the passenger seat and Les sat behind him, the car kept veering to the left. It took me three attempts to get out of Melksham.”
We were down at the stadium as early as 6.15pm. It felt odd being there so early. I had to sort out a ticket for Young Jake, who none of us had seen for ages. We thought that his last game with us was the Norwich City FA Cup game at Carrow Road in 2018. There was time to chill out a little and relax. I shot off to take a few shots of the stadium.
“It’s no San Siro but surely there’s the chance to take a few decent photographs?” I thought to myself.
There wasn’t.
St. Mary’s is as bland as bland can be.
Talking of the San Siro, we – PD, Parky and I – are booked to head over in October, but we will be staying in Turin for three nights and will be joined by Dave who now lives near Nice and was last seen before the Tottenham away game late in 2018. I will be driving in to Milan on the day of the game. A version of “The Italian Job” perhaps? In a Fiat Chucklecento maybe? No, too much of a tight fit for four of us. Why Turin? When I returned home from Chelsea on Saturday night, it seemed that all the cheap flights to Milan had gone. The accommodation looked expensive too. I have no qualms about returning to Turin once again; it’s my favourite Italian city and far more interesting that Milan. As for the other Champions League aways, we are not going to Zagreb but I suspect that a trip to Salzburg is likely.
This was my second game in two days. On the Bank Holiday Monday, I drove to Bath to see Frome Town wallop local neighbours Larkhall Athletic 4-0. With the upcoming game against West Ham now taking place on Saturday, I am forced to miss Frome’s home FA Cup tie against Tiverton Town.
Now is a good time to slip into the conversation my second memory of the 1982/83 season. On Saturday 28 August, Chelsea opened up our fourth consecutive season in the old Second Division with an away game at Cambridge United’s Abbey Stadium. Did I go? No. I was still at school and would only go to four games that season, the same as in the previous campaign. On that particular afternoon, Frome Town got my attention as I watched a 0-0 home draw with Wellington in the old Western League – “a terrible game” says my diary – but I would have been no doubt elated with a 1-0 win.
Chelsea finished mid-table in 1981/82 and only the most optimistic of Chelsea fans would have hoped that we would make a sustained promotion push in 1982/83. Our only real outlay throughout the summer had been the almost laughable acquisition of much-travelled Bryan “Pop” Robson, who was thirty-six when we bought him. I for one, was not impressed.
The team that day?
Steve Francis in goal. Gary Locke and Chris Hutchings the full backs. Micky Nutton and Micky Droy as centre-backs. Colin Pates, John Bumstead and Mike Fillery in midfield. Colin Lee, Clive Walker and Pop Robson upfront, with Paul Canoville as a substitute.
Interestingly, Pates, Chivers, Bumstead and Canoville are currently employed by Chelsea to this day as match-day hosts in the corporate areas.
Even more interestingly, my friend Daryl spotted Pop Robson near Red Square before the Champions League Final in 2008, presumably on some junket with a UEFA sponsor.
Our match winner forty years ago?
Bryan “Pop” Robson.
I was to eat my words, for one game at least.
The gate was 8,124, and I am sure that around half would have been Chelsea.
Back to 2022.
Jake soon arrived and there was the chance to chat to a few friends from near and far. The “Ticket Man” arrived on schedule at 7pm and we were in the stadium just after. Down in the darkened but spacious concourse, more chit-chat with some and a few “nods” to others. With plenty of time to kick-off, I swapped tickets with PD and sat next to Glenn towards the back of the away section, right behind the goal. I usually watch from down low so this made a nice change.
Glenn is often with us at Southampton. There were a few games at The Dell and he was also with us in August 2001 when we opened up the new stadium with a 1-0 win. I have seen all of our fourteen games against the Saints at St. Mary’s – minus the COVID ones – and I kept saying to the lads “we’ve only lost once down here, the Benitez spell in 2013.”
As we waited for the game to start, there were a few half-hearted flames in front of the stand to our left. A brass band appeared, walking towards us, left to right, and they played “Oh When The Saints” as a large banner surfed along from right to left.
I turned to Glenn and said “I always remember a game here in 1994 when you were excited about starting a chant in the away end.”
We were in the seats along the side and Glenn began bellowing “Dennis plays for England” which the rest of the Chelsea support joined in with. Glenn’s recollection was that Wisey scored a late winner. Looking back, it was actually Paul Furlong on eighty-nine minutes. Perhaps Glenn had mentally confused the two moments.
To my surprise, Billy Gilmour and Ethan Ampadu were among the named substitutes.
The team drew a few shocked reactions.
Mendy
Dave – Silva – Koulibaly – Cucarella
Loftus-Cheek – Jorginho – Mount
Ziyech – Sterling – Havertz
No Reece James, no Trevoh Chalibah, we presumed injured.
The teams entered. As at Leeds United, we played in dark blue socks and I wondered why. Surely we have some royal blue socks knocking about somewhere. The home team’s kit was a shocker. Hummel brought out some absolute killers back in the ‘eighties and Saints even had their copy of the half-and-half Denmark kit. This current shirt – predominantly white – misses by a mile. The shirt of the Keegan era would surely have looked better; predominantly red with a broad white central stripe rather than the current version. I wasn’t even sure I liked the white socks either. Very odd.
The home areas took ages to fill up and there were quite a few empty seats dotted around. I saw no unused seats in our allocation of around three thousand. We took a while to get going but the songs soon boomed around the away end.
It was a muggy night in the Northam Stand.
As is so often the case with away matches in Southampton, the home team enjoyed the best of the early exchanges. We then began to get a foothold on the game. The pitch, usually excellent, was worn in many places, as if it was a mid-season game.
Our chances, or half-chances, started to stack up. Raheem Sterling scuffed a shot right at the Saints ‘keeper Gavin Bazunu. A chance for Hakim Ziyech came and went. Sterling looked as lively as any player on the pitch and on twenty-three minutes, a lovely move down our left involving first Kai Havertz and then Mason Mount set up the central striker. Sterling appeared to lose control of the ball on the six-yard box but was the first to react as it spun loose. He stabbed the ball in and wheeled away in delight.
Phew.
I suspect that this is just the sort of goal that is practised ad infinitum on the practice pitches at Cobham; all movement, all together.
The away crowd soon responded.
“We’ve got super Tommy Tuchel.”
Not long after, Ziyech played in Havertz in the inside-left position. He got his shot in from an angle but the shot was hit right at the Saints keeper.
From that moment, our play drifted.
Just five minutes after we had scored, Dave decided to whack the ball out for a corner rather than play it back to Edouard Mendy to deal with. At the time, I understood that call.
What were we always told at school?
“Safety first.”
Sadly, the resulting corner fell to an unmarked Southampton player – Romeo Lavia – who was loitering with intent outside the box. He took one touch and lashed it home. Glenn was raging. Only a few minutes earlier he had spotted two Saints players unmarked at the back stick at a previous corner.
Of course the home fans roared.
Our play deteriorated as the home team became stronger. I lost count of the number of passes that Ruben Loftus-Cheek misdirected. One run out of defence by him seemed to be in slow motion.
“Ross Barkley is a big unit but even he had a burst of pace” I moaned to Glenn. “Ruben makes Micky Fillery look quick.”
Our midfield in general – without a midfield general – looked so poor. Dave was caught out of position on a couple of occasions. We had no bite. The only plus point was watching Thiago Silva scoop a few balls up and over the heads of the advancing opposition out to the right wing. I could watch that man play football for hours.
Glenn was getting frustrated further : “no tackles!”
There was an awful moment when I thought that I had been transported back to the early nineties under Ian Porterfield when there seemed to be a never-ending sequence of head tennis on the halfway line. This was rotten football.
With the home support energised, it turned into a temporary Pompey Hate Fest. Mason Mount was deemed public enemy number one.
With the half-time whistle approaching – “blow up ref, let’s regroup at the break” – a laughably poor attempt at a tackle by Jorginho failed dismally and Southampton advanced with speed and purpose. As the move progressed I repeatedly shouted two words :
“Too easy! Too easy! Too easy!”
The ball was smashed home after a fine move by Adam Armstrong.
Too easy.
Two-one to Southampton.
“Oh When The Saints” boomed around the home areas.
Fackinell.
The referee blew for half-time almost immediately.
I turned to Glenn at the break : “this has been a timid performance.”
We both wanted Tuchel to bring on Armando Broja for the miss-firing Havertz. Towards the end of the half-time break, with the grass getting an extra dose of water from the sprinklers, we spotted Tuchel chatting with Mateo Kovacic on the pitch. The manager then sat alone on the bench for a number of minutes.
I just found all of this a bit odd.
One presumes that he had said enough to the players in five minutes and didn’t need ten. Personally, I would have taken fifteen.
“Oh, before you go back out on that pitch, just be aware that there are supporters out there who have travelled down from the north of England, from the Midlands, from East Anglia for tonight’s game and they won’t get home until about 2am in the morning but will need to be up again for work within a few hours, knackered, and they will do it all again and again and again…”
I saw him studying some sheets in a folder.
It almost raised a wry smile.
“Never mind the first-half stats, pal, just fire some fucks into them.”
No real surprises, Tuchel replaced Loftus-Cheek with Kovacic.
“Kovacic, Our Croatian Man…”
Soon into the second-half, Southampton broke down our right and a shot from close in was blocked on the line by Cucarella. Mendy made a fine reaction save to tip over the follow-up effort.
The home fans really turned up the heat on Mason.
“You skate bastard. You skate bastard.”
“Mason Mount, we fucking hate you.”
We struggled to get things moving. Oh for a playmaker, oh for a Cesc Fabregas.
On the hour, there was a loud, proud and defiant “Carefree” from us followed by derisory applause from the home fans.
Sadly, our play stagnated further. I saw little movement off the ball and the mood in the away end was falling fast.
With twenty minutes or so left it was all change, three substitutions :
Ben Chilwell for Jorginho.
Armando Broja for Dave.
Christian Pulisic for Havertz.
I expected a ripple of applause for Broja from the home fans; there was nothing, the ungrateful sods.
We all revelled in the great rush into space from Broja and his strength in twisting and turning past two players. He left them for dead before sending in a cross. This augured well for the rest of the game or so we hoped. In reality, despite his more aggressive movement and enthusiasm, his only other noticeable action involved a header near a post that never looked like troubling the ‘keeper. Kovacic added a little burst of energy too, but this soon petered out as moves slowed down and died. Pulisic looked remote and uninterested wide on the right. My recollection is of him hardly bothering to go past players, but my photographs would prove otherwise. How Ziyech stayed on all game is a mystery.
The minutes ticked by.
From a corner, Silva was in the right place at the right time. The ball hit him on the line.
I fully expected us to lose another goal.
3-1 would not have flattered them.
In a scene that was reminiscent of the Leicester game, Mendy appeared in the opposing box for a late corner or two.
When the ball was hoofed up field, one of my photographs completely captured our night, with Cucarella nervously falling to head the ball away, being pressured by a Saints attacker, the goal open and vulnerable.
I spent some of the last minutes of the game watching that fucking dachshund on the “Vitality” advertising boards trot around the stadium at roughly the same pace that our team had been doing all match.
The final whistle blew.
Southampton 2 Chelsea 1.
We got what we deserved, no doubt.
A posse of young Southampton fans to our right spent many a minute goading us as we waited to drift away into the night. I was pragmatic about it.
“Bollocks. Let them enjoy themselves, the little twerps.”
Some other Chelsea supporters were a little more hostile.
It was all a pantomime show to me.
In days gone by, there is no doubt that Chelsea would not have taken such a defeat well. Recriminations would have been enacted outside the stadium as fans would have sought revenge.
“We’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose.”
We all met up outside and slowly trudged back to the car. That walk always seems twice as long when we lose.
There was a small scale altercation.
A mouthy young Southampton fan wearing the hugely odd combination of a bar scarf and a Stone Island sweatshirt was heard to shout “Chelsea Rent Boys.” This was like a red rag to a bull to one or two in our support. The youngster escaped into the night with a warning.
All five of us were at a low ebb. There really were no positives from the night. Only two or three players had average performances.
On a muggy night in Southampton, we were the mugs.
We stopped off at the always-busy “McDonalds” at the bottom end of the A36 at about 10.30pm. A couple of lads enjoyed a burger. I downed the inevitable coffee. Outside, the air still warm, I got a little philosophical.
“We are so unused to defeats. Over the last twenty years, we have had a magnificent ride. It’s all been massively good fun. But remember that ninety per cent of people who go to football in this country have no hope of seeing their team win anything. That’s quite something really. That so many go just for the love of their team. Quite admirable really. Not saying we should not get concerned about defeats, but maybe we just need to re-focus our targets.”
That reset button might have to be adjusted again over the next few weeks.
The immediate reaction out there in Chelsea Land was split. Some want Tuchel gone. Some want to persevere.
Me?
I’m fucking looking forward to the San Siro in October I know that.
Chelsea Football Club was hurting. Two consecutive home defeats, to the disparate talents of Brentford and Real Madrid and with conceding seven goals in the process, had surprised us and had made us smart. Were we that bad in both games?
Yes, sadly. We had created many chances during the second-half of Wednesday’s game, but our finishing had been poor.
The Chelsea conundrum was continuing. We were in third place in the league; admittedly no mean achievement. And it was quite likely that we would finish the season in that placing. But for much of the campaign our performances had been unconvincing. We hadn’t pushed on from last season. But the talent was there. It just needed to be harnessed correctly.
However, after a bleak few days following The Great Unpredictables, I was thoroughly looking forward to a little spin down to Hampshire, to Southampton, to St. Mary’s. It was nice to have a game so close to my home; it was barely a ninety-minute drive. And our record down there has been pretty decent. In my twelve previous visits to this stadium, there was just one defeat.
There were five in my blue Chuckle Bus on Saturday morning. I collected PD, his son Scott, Parky and Glenn at 8am and we made excellent time.
With blue skies overhead, the road south from Warminster hugged the River Wyle to my west with the chalk uplands of Salisbury Plain to my east. The magnificence of Salisbury Cathedral’s spire, resplendent in the early morning sun, took my breath away as it always does. I hugged the eastern edge of the New Forest as I continued south. Entering into Southampton, I am always reminded of two moments.
The first came in 1981. On a sunny Saturday in April of that year I attended a game at The Dell, their old shoe-box stadium, between Southampton and Nottingham Forest, the then European Champions. One of my father’s customers had kindly gifted us two of their season tickets and I was very happy to be able to see one of my non-Chelsea heroes, Kevin Keegan, play at last. It was my second non-Chelsea professional game. The first also involved Nottingham Forest, the 1978 League Cup Final, again a gift from one of my father’s work associates. There haven’t been many over the years. This was Chelsea game number 1,344. In the UK, I have seen maybe thirty professional club games not involving Chelsea, of which around ten were in Scotland.
The second came in 2003. We were heading to “The Victory” pub outside the train station – alas no more – and on the last approach as the road rises into the city centre we were listening to the 2003 Rugby Union World Cup Final on the car radio. We heard “Jonny Wilkinson kicks for glory” and had the briefest of “whoops” before turning the radio off and getting back to supporting a sport that mattered.
It was the same approach into the city this year.
To my right, the horizon was pierced by the towers of the cranes that load and offload thousands of sea containers every day. Then, a gasp, a massive cruise ship – ugly, grotesque, hideous, an eye-sore – appeared. I am sure I have seen the same one berthed at Southampton before. Southampton as always is the embarkation point of many cruise ships. In my childhood, a very early memory, I am sure my parents drove down by the quayside to see the QE2 before it set off. I personally hate the idea of cruises. Fuck that. I like to self-govern my holidays, not leave my sightseeing plans to others.
I was parked up outside the train station at 9.30am. Sadly the usual café where we have enjoyed breakfasts and pints for a few years had closed. We ended up doing a little tour of three of the city centre’s pubs.
“Yates” : already mobbing up with Chelsea, a few familiar faces. We ordered some breakfasts. This is the main Chelsea pub in the town centre. It’s OK at the start but gets too busy. And uses plastic glasses. I met up with Mark from Westbury, Paul from Swindon and Bank from Bangkok.
“The Standing Order” : we spotted a little pocket of Chelsea so joined them for a drink. This is a home pub, but as nobody tends to wear colours at away games, we glided in easily.
“Stein Garten” : we met up with Alan and Gary in this German-style bar. We were joined by Kathryn and Tim, still smarting from the two losses on their trip. Before they headed back to Virginia, they – we – were all hoping for a win to put the run of poor form to a close.
Time was moving on and we still had a twenty-minute walk, at least, to reach the stadium. Our route would take us serendipitously through the churchyard of St. Mary’s. The first incarnation of Southampton Football Club was as St. Mary’s Young Men Association. The church certainly has its history. This is the church that inspired the Southampton’s nickname and also their current stadium name. When the new stadium opened in 2001 – we were the first league visitors – it was known as the Friends Provident Stadium, and I am glad that has now changed.
I silently said a little prayer for our chances later as I walked past the church’s grey stone walls.
I was in the right place for a prayer.
Beyond the church’s steeple, I spotted a tower block that was clad in red and white.
Perfect.
I marched Kathryn and Tim towards the main entrance, past the Ted Bates statue, and we joined the throng of away supporters at the turnstiles.
“Bollocks, it’s ten to three. I can’t see us getting in on time.”
Lo and behold, the Footballing Gods were on my side. I got in with ten seconds to go.
Have I ever mentioned, perchance, that my line of work just happens to be in the world of logistics? I think it may have passed my lips once or twice.
For a change, we were out of the sun in the front rows and half-way back by the corner flag. Sadly, this stadium is quite possibly the dullest of all of the new builds that have infested the United Kingdom in the past two or three decades. The only remotely interesting features are the red and white panels under the roof at the rear of the stand and the red astroturf around the perimeter of the pitch. At least there are no executive boxes. Despite the bland feel of this stadium, over the years I have managed to tease a few decent photos out of my camera at St. Mary’s. The shadows on a sunny day, like this one, have helped add something to my photographs of the players as they confront each other on the pitch. I hoped for more of the same on this occasion.
I quickly scanned the players on the pitch – I much prefer us in all yellow than with black shorts – and tried to piece it all together.
Mendy
Christensen – Silva – Rudiger
Loftus-Cheek – Kante – Kovacic – Alonso
Mount – Havertz – Werner
No Broja for the home team, but Livramento was at right-back for them.
Mase with a new haircut, shades of Johnny Spencer in Vienna. Ruben as a wing-back again, but we had heard that Dave had tested positive for COVID. Pleased to see Kovacic playing. A chance for Werner. So many had painfully admitted that they had given upon him, myself included.
The game began.
We attacked the other end in the first-half.
Very soon into the game, with me still getting my bearings – “where the fuck is Parky?” – and trying to work out the team’s shape, that man Timo Werner saw a low shot ricochet back off the far post. Soon after, Kai Havertz slammed one over the bar. We were dominating this one, despite a couple of rare Southampton attacks, and we could hardly believe it when a Loftus-Cheek cross from the right found Werner’s head, but he had the misfortune to hit the bar this time.
“He has generally been poor for us, but he has also been so unlucky.”
On eight minutes, Loftus-Cheek played the ball in to Mount with his back to the goal. He controlled the ball so well and deftly spooned the ball out to his right, our left, where Marcos Alonso was raiding.
Bosh.
Goal.
Get in.
Alan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”
We tended to prefer our left flank as an attacking avenue – “listen to me, attacking avenue, for fuck sake man” – but on sixteen minutes the ball was played into Mount from the right and after setting himself up nicely, he swept a perfectly-struck shot into the goal, just inside the far post.
2-0 and coasting on the South Coast.
Werner went close again, but then on twenty minutes a rapid break from us, with Werner the spearhead, had us all willing him on. He rounded the ‘keeper, shades of a Torres at his peak – er for Liverpool – and the lively calmly slotted the ball in from what looked like a pretty slim angle.
Superb.
Well done that man. Well deserved.
On the half-hour mark, after another searching ball down our left, Werner wriggled into the box and let fly with a shot that rattled the other post – “oh no” – but luckily the ball rebounded nicely to Havertz who, to his credit, was supporting the attack well.
On the half-hour, we were 4-0 up.
But what bad luck for Timo, who had hit a “hat-trick” of sorts thus far; left post, cross-bar, right post.
Alan summed it all up rather succinctly :
“Timo has hit the woodwork more times than Pinocchio does when he has a wank.”
With the goals flying in, I surely wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter who was suddenly becoming fixated with the number nine. In 2019, Saints lost 0-9 at home to Leicester City. In 2021, Southampton lost 0-9 at Old Trafford.
Next to me, Dave remembered the time, in early 2015, when we went 4-0 up at Swansea City within the first forty-five minutes.
What was my biggest away win? I recollected a 6-0 at Wigan in 2010, the week after we beat West Brom 6-0 at Stamford Bridge.
Goals, goals, goals.
We were on fire.
We attacked and attacked. We spotted more than a few home fans disappearing down exit tunnels well before the half-time whistle.
“You’ve had your day out, now fuck off home.”
Meanwhile, where was Parky?
At the half-time break, the always crowded concourse at Southampton was a pretty joyful place. I was so pleased that Kathryn and Tim, not to mention Bank from Thailand, were finally witnessing a win.
We saw Christian Pulisic warming up.
Alan : ”Who’s coming off?”
Chris : “Havertz, I reckon, give him a rest.”
For once I was right.
The second-half began and it was the same old story.
Just four minutes into the second forty-five minutes, Alonso played the ball in to N’Golo Kante. He advanced and attempted a little dink over Forster. This was palmed away but only into the path of Werner who shot just as I shot but at the same time that a chap in front threw his hand up. A ‘photo ruined but I did not care one jot.
Five.
Wow.
There was a rare save from Mendy – a belter actually, a fine save – but this was the home team’s only real chance all game.
To be fair, most home fans remained and urged their beleaguered team on.
“Oh when the Saints go marching in.”
Our reply was obvious.
“Oh when the Saints go marching out.”
On fifty-four minutes, a ball stretched them out down their right and Alonso pushed the ball square to Pulisic. His effort was stopped by Forster but Mount was on hand to tuck it in.
The joy of six.
Lovely.
The game, even more so now, was over. Southampton were dead and buried. At last Parky showed up. He had been doing a tour of the away end.
Reece James replaced Thiago Silva.
Hakim Ziyech replaced Mount.
I liked it that Livramento was applauded by us when he was substituted.
The home team looked shell-shocked, well beaten. To be fair, more stayed to watch the last half-an-hour than Dave and I expected. Fair play to them. There was time for a few songs.
“Kovacic our Croatian man.
He left Madrid and he left Milan.
He signed for Frank and said “fuck off” Zidane.
He signed for Chelsea on a transfer ban.”
I urged the team on. We all wanted more. We wanted tons of optimism ahead of the trip to Madrid. Although no more goals came, the away end was a fine place to be on this particular Spring afternoon. The best effort was from Alonso but it flew low past the far post.
Southampton 0 Chelsea 6.
Superb.
In the city of ships, this was a real cruise.
On the slow walk back to my car, I took the chance to get my camera out and take a few photographs of some features and buildings that took my eye. We stopped off for a curry just before the Civic Centre with its imposing clock tower. As I sat down, I realised that I had previously been on my feet for around eight hours. The curry hit the spot, and the trip home – the roads clear of traffic now – was quick and easy.
Another midweek home game, another two-hundred-mile return trip to London, and another League Cup tie against opposition that we had recently played at Stamford Bridge in the league. But most importantly of all, this was Glenn’s first game at Chelsea since the Everton match in March 2020. He has seen action at Arsenal, Liverpool and Brentford this season, but this would be his first game at HQ in nineteen months.
After two games against Aston Villa in League and League Cup, here was the second of two games against Southampton in the same competitions.
As I worked a 7am to 3pm shift, altered to allow me an early finish, I thought a little about my motivation for the evening’s game. I soon realised that despite the chance to see the league leaders play again, it was all about sharing Glenn’s excitement of being back at Chelsea and – equally important – being back in his former season-ticket seat in The Sleepy Hollow alongside PD, Al and little old me.
PD collected me outside work and I sat in the back seat alongside Glenn, with Parky riding shotgun in the front.
While the lads visited “The Goose”, I was feeling peckish and so dived into the adjacent pizzeria for sustenance, a rare treat on a midweek game. I joined up with them all at “Simmon’s” along with Daryl, Simon, Alan, Gary, Pete, Andy, Luke and Doreen. On the walk down the North End Road, I remembered that it was forty years ago – almost exactly – since we played Southampton in a two-legged League Cup tie, and I mentioned this to a few people throughout the night.
On the face of it, there was nothing too special about the 1981/82 season. We were solidly entrenched in the Second Division, our third of five seasons in the second tier, and we would finish it twelfth out of twenty-two. Our highest gate was for an early-season game with Watford of 20,036 while the lowest was an end-of-season date with Orient which drew 6,009. Importantly for me, it marked the first season of independent travel to Chelsea, including my first-ever game in The Shed for the season opener against Bolton.
We had tied the first leg at The Dell 1-1, notable for the debut of seventeen-year-old ‘keeper Steve Francis’, and this was against a formidable Southampton team that included Kevin Keegan. The second leg at Stamford Bridge – on 28 October 1981 – drew 27,370 and we defeated the First Division team 2-1. I attended neither game, but I can easily remember the buzz of victory in the sixth-form the next day. In typical Chelsea fashion, three days later at Rotherham United we lost 0-6, probably the most infamous result of them all. PD attended both the Southampton games and the match at Rotherham.
Forty years ago. Bloody hell. Although we were playing some average football in the league, the League Cup victory against Southampton would be a taster for an even bigger upset in that season’s FA Cup, when we defeated the European Champions Liverpool 2-0 at Stamford Bridge.
1981/82 – with a huge dose of hindsight, to say nothing of a yearning to be that young once again – was one of my favourite seasons. It marked me starting to find my way in the world, partly through going to a few Chelsea games by myself, but also by attending the local youth club in Frome on Friday evenings which helped me overcome my shyness, baby step by baby step. By the summer, there was a few blissful moments with my first girlfriend.
As I said, forty years ago. Fackinell.
The bar seemed quiet. Apart from our merry band of a dozen, there were very few of the regulars in the bar. The talk was of Newcastle at the weekend more than Southampton that night. I know that a fair few Chelsea that are still going to Tyneside despite not having a match ticket. The lure of a night out in the Loony Toon is hard to resist.
The crowds were milling around the forecourt outside the West Stand though, and – as is often the case on midweek games – there were the usual gaggle of perplexed folk, clutching tickets, unsure of which entrance to use.
Just outside the steps to the Matthew Harding, I spotted a sallow youth wearing not only Chelsea tracky bottoms, but a hideous long sleeved training shirt – the one with yellow and blue geometric shapes that are likely to induce fits – with the equally horrific short-sleeved home jersey – ditto – on top.
I fear for the future of humanity.
Just as I was about to scan my ticket, after queuing for around ten minutes, a gentleman was turned away with “you need the lower tier turnstiles” ringing in his head.
I hoped that our false nine, tens and elevens would reach the goal easier than his quest for his seat.
Inside, a decent away turnout of three-thousand and another splendid near-capacity gate of around 40,000.
I mentioned the 1981 Southampton game to Alan.
“In those days, it was a massive competition for us.”
“Yeah. The only one we had a realistic chance of doing well in, to be honest.”
There was no Tino Livramento in the Saints team. We guessed that Armando Broja was unable to play against us.
Chelsea’s team?
Arrizabalaga
James – Chalobah – Saar
Hudson-Odoi – Kovacic – Saul – Alonso
Ziyech – Havertz – Barkley
I wondered what was going through Our Callum’s mind. From an attacking outside left position in one game to a right wing-back role the next.
Typically, the stadium was full of parents with young kids, making good use of the half-term holiday. The atmosphere was never great, but there were outbreaks of support throughout.
We began the brighter team and I joked “anything less than a 12-0 win and I’ll want my money back”. After 4-0 and 7-0 home triumphs, there was a very real hope for more goals. An early header from Saul was well saved by Fraser Forster.
“Look at his kit, Al. Virtually red stripes. Brian Moore must be turning in his grave.”
We remembered how the erstwhile presenter of “The Big Match” seemed obsessed with kit colour clashes back in the ‘seventies.
We created a few more attacks, with Ross Barkley looking keen to impress with some neat touches and a few encouraging passes. A shot from Kai Havertz went close. But Southampton were proving a far sterner test than Malmo and Norwich City. After they found their feet, they began attacking themselves and managed a few shots at Kepa in our goal. There was a nice moment when Saul controlled the ball with ease and neatly passed. He hasn’t had the best of starts to a career with us, but the applause that followed must have warmed him. It felt that the home crowd were going out of their way to try to encourage him. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
On the stroke of half-time, even better was to follow. A magnificent ball from Saul out to Marcos Alonso on the left was a joy. The subsequent cross was knocked behind for a corner. Subsequently, Ziyech aimed at the six-yard box and the leap from Havertz was well timed. The ball flew into the goal.
Chelsea 1 Southampton 0.
Excellent.
At half-time, there were updates from the other cup ties.
“Bloody hell, Al, that QPR versus Sunderland game throws up some League Cup horror stories from the mid-’eighties.”
1985 : a loss to Sunderland in the League Cup semis.
1986 : a loss to QPR in the League Cup quarters.
Shudder.
I had barely settled in my seat at the start of the second-half when a surge from Kyle Walker-Peters was followed by a low shot from an angle. Kepa lost it and Che Adams tapped it in from under the bar.
Bollocks.
The roar from the 3,000 away fans was horrible.
Two goals either side of the half and “game on.”
Although not rich in quality, the game opened up and chances began to accumulate at both ends. Havertz squirmed inside his marker on a run towards goal but Forster saved well. The German then over-ran the ball when he was clean through.
Well, that was far from silky.
No matter about making a silk purse from a sow’s ear.
He had made a pig’s ear of that.
Kepa was occasionally called into action down at The Shed End.
Forster then saved well from Barkley, then from a Saul header and then from a fine James free-kick.
I was surprised that Barkley was substituted, but not that Ziyech was replaced. On came Mason Mount and Ben Chilwell, who played out on the right with Our Callum now back to the outside left position that he surely prefers.
A fine effort from Saul, curling in on goal from a distance, forced another agile save from Forster.
Then, schoolboy humour as Southampton made a substitution.
Enter the marvelously named William Smallbone.
“Bloody hell. If your surname is Smallbone, you ain’t gonna call yer son Willie, are you? Is his middle name Richard?”
But the sub was soon causing Kepa to save from a close-in header.
Southampton made a total of five late substitutions. Tino Livramento received a warm reception, as did the Munich man Oriol Romeu. Old warhorses Theo Walcott and Shane Long appeared too.
With tensions rising a little, Big John in the front row stood up, yelled some support – or otherwise – and the onlooking bobble-hatted young lad, no older then four, looked on in awe.
The last ten minutes sped past. Callum hit the side-netting, with Glenn getting wildly excited a few seats away, but Kepa stole the show with two fantastic saves, both stretching cat-like to his left, to deny Southampton a possibly deserved win. Real quality at the death. Phew.
With the game finished at 1-1, it was another case of penalties in front of the Matthew Harding to decide the tie.
With Theo Walcott hitting the post – Kepa with a slight touch – and Young Willie skying his effort (“Smallbone, big foot” – Alan) it did not matter that Forster brilliantly saved from Mount because James struck the last penalty coolly home.
Into the quarters we went.
Back at the car, all of us having raided a nearby shop for late-night Scooby snacks, we were relieved.
We hadn’t played well. Southampton must have felt aggrieved not to have won the tie themselves. Our intensity wasn’t great, and it all felt rather loose and disjointed. Both ‘keepers had enjoyed fine games, which probably says a lot. For every good pass, there seemed an equally poor pass a few seconds later. In the first-half, Hudson-Odoi seemed to spend half his time running towards our half with the ball. I am going to resist calling him “Wrong Way Callum” for now. Apart from Kepa, our team were 6/10.
But we won, and that can only breed confidence.
Glenn had enjoyed seeing everyone in the pubs again. And it was lovely to have him back in The Sleepy Hollow.
On Saturday, the most enjoyable domestic away game of the season awaits.
It had not been a great five days. A 0-1 home defeat against Manchester City on the Saturday was followed by a 0-1 away loss at Juventus on the Wednesday. There was much introspection and self-assessment. The second-half at Tottenham suddenly felt a long time ago. Were we not as good as we had thought after we bounced along the High Road? We weren’t wholly sure. And although the two defeats were not thumpings – far from it – they were worrying enough. We suddenly looked an average team – “bang average” as the football chatters would have it – and we needed some sort of salvation against the Saints of Southampton.
There was one phrase that was surely being used throughout the various Chelsea nations.
Chris, England : “This is a must-win game.”
Boomer, Scotland : “Fucking must-win, game, no?”
Kev, Wales : “Must-win game, this.”
Russ, Australia : “Must-win game. Fackinell, mate.”
John, USA : “This is a freaking must-win game.”
Leigh-Anne, Canada : “Must-win, game, eh?”
I had returned from a sensational four days in Turin at around 9pm on the Friday night. At 5.30am, I was up and ready for the next chapter of the season. I called for PD at 7am and Parky at just before 7.30am. It felt odd to be driving east on the A303 and then the M3 just twelve hours after I had been heading in the opposite direction. To be honest, my head was full of Turin, and this just seemed like “The Italian Job, Part Two.” With no fuel drama on this occasion, I was parked up at around 10am. While my co-supporters made a bee-line for “The Eight Bells” I spent a little time at Stamford Bridge, chatting to a few acquaintances and sorting out something at the box office.
At around midday, I met up with PD and Parky in the tiny interior of the best pub in Fulham. We had a typical pre-match. We were joined by friends from near – Ray, Watford – and far – Courtney, Chicago. I first bumped into Ray, who was meeting a former work colleague, at the Rapid friendly in Vienna in 2016. I had never met Courtney before, but he had been reading this blog, the fool, for a while and fancied meeting up for a chin-wag. It was good to see them both.
Courtney was “fresh meat” for PD and Parky who were full of tales of Chelsea’s far-from pristine past, and there was even a tale of a more modern, ahem, bout of boisterousness at Arsenal from a few years ago. There was a bit of rough and tumble at Arsenal before our 1-0 win there in early 2016 and Parky was nowhere to be seen throughout the first-half. During the half-time break, he showed up in the away seats, alongside Al, Gal and myself, but with an ear heavily bandaged.
“Fackinell. He looked Vincent Van Gogh.”
Courtney laughed.
“Anyway, do you fancy a beer, Parky.”
“No. I’ve got one ‘ere.”
Boom.
We were inside Stamford Bridge in good time once again. The three thousand away fans were already settled into the away section, and this already had the feel of a good old-fashioned football Saturday. The pleasant weather of late was now replaced with grey clouds and rain. It had the air of a traditional autumnal football game. Some would say “run of the mill” but I was pleasantly excited as the minutes clicked towards the old-fashioned kick-off time of three o’clock.
Blur’s “Park Life” got the juices flowing further as it was aired with ten minutes to go.
“All the people. So many people.”
It just seemed to add to the air of anticipation.
The teams entered. There was a minute of applause in memory of one of England’s 1966 winners, the recently deceased Roger Hunt.
RIP.
The rain was falling as I checked the Chelsea team.
Mendy
Chalobah – Silva – Rudiger
Azpilicueta – Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Chilwell
Werner – Lukaku – Hudson-Odoi
In Thursday’s “La Gazzetta”, Mateo Kovacic was judged to have been our best player on the night against Juventus, scoring a 6.5 mark out of 10. Federico Chiesa was quite rightly judged to be Juve’s star performer with a justifiably fine 8.5. Most of Chelsea’s troops scored 5 and 5.5. It was a fair summary to be honest. Against Southampton, we needed a few players to score 7 and 8 or more. But our opposition would be no mugs. They still boasted the Munich man Oriol Romeu but also the new acquisition Tino Livramento.
Martin Atkinson blew his whistle and the game began.
The malaise in our midst seemed to have been exorcised after only a few minutes of play. We started very well, brightly probing away in all areas of the pitch.
After just nine minutes, a corner from deep in Parkyville – near where Courtney was watching – was taken by Ben Chilwell. It swing in and reached the leap of Ruben Loftus-Cheek at the edge of the six-yard box. His flick on bounced down and Trevoh Chalobah stooped at the far post to head it home. There was a roar from the Chelsea faithful – “back on track” – as the scorer ran over to the other corner flag, sliding on his knees, triumphant.
“Nice one, Clever Trevoh” and I suddenly realised that Clive, sitting alongside me, deserved an assist for this goal. He had just been mentioning a concert coming up involving Ian Dury’s son Baxter.
“Knock me down with a feather.
Clever Trevor.”
One-nil to Chelsea and everything was alright in the world again.
We attacked with pace, and found space, but it certainly helped that the away team were happy to attack us when they could. This opened up the game and we fully exploited the spaces to be found in their defensive third. It was already proving to be an entertaining game. In their most fruitful attack, the trusted boot of James Ward-Prowse sent a shot narrowly wide.
A peach of a volley from our Ruben went narrowly wide too.
Next up, Ben Chilwell advanced but a shot was blocked.
“Alonso would’ve volleyed that.”
But Saints were not playing dead, and Theo Walcott should have finished with a goal but his header was wide. The away fans were not particularly loud but their “Oh When The Saints” was a constant backdrop in the first half of the first half.
Antonio Rudiger embarked on a typically spirited dribble up through the inside left channel, and players backed off. He shaped to shoot, but instead played in Lukaku with a deft pass. The striker turned it in. I celebrated for a nano-second but soon saw the raised yellow flag in front of the West Lower.
Bollocks.
I loved the way that Ruben was playing. Strong, determined and running in straight lines, how old-fashioned. Long may he flourish.
With four minutes of the first-half remaining, the ball was switched from one side of the box to the other. Near the goal-line, Callum Hudson-Odoi took his time to review his options. A fine scooped cross easily found the leap of the often lambasted Timo Werner. His leap was clean, as was his header from close-in.
Get in.
At last a goal for the under-fire German. How he celebrated. How we celebrated. Two-up, happy days. But…there is often a but these days. There seemed to be a delay. To our obvious dismay the TV screen signalled “VAR Review : Possible Foul Play.”
Who? What? Where? When? Why?
Not only was there no recollection of a foul in the build-up to the goal, the decision took a while to come through.
No goal.
Boos. Lots of them. An incandescent Tuchel was booked.
Bollocks.
It transpired that Dave had committed a foul on a boy wearing an Athletic Bilbao striped shirt when he was a mere twelve years old, thus rendering Timo’s goal illegal.
Oh boy.
This last action spoiled the first-half, but there was much to admire. Chalobah looked in fine form, strong in possession, and positive when under pressure. Loftus-Cheek was a lovely revelation. We hoped for further dominance in the second period.
We began well enough with the honest endeavour of Timo the highlight. But then we seemed to fall apart a little. I found myself thinking “this isn’t joined up” just as Clive spoke about things being “disjointed.”
On the hour, a terrible lunge by Chilwell on Livramento inside the box gave Atkinson the easiest of decisions.
“Nailed on penalty. What was he thinking?”
Ward-Prowse tucked the ball in.
Bollocks.
Tuchel exchanged Mason Mount for the disappointing Hudson-Odoi. There was a slight improvement, but only just. We stumbled along and Southampton looked a little stronger.
“We could lose this.”
Another half-chance for Werner.
Jorginho for Kovacic.
With the substitute trying to scoop the ball out to Rudiger after a Mendy faux-pas, he was brought to the ground by the scorer Ward-Prowse. The Italian seemed to make the most of it to my eye. Atkinson waved a yellow at the Southampton midfielder, but then VAR wriggled its way into the game again. Another delay. A few people chanted “VAR.”
“I ain’t cheering if this is a red. Looked like Jorginho went down too easily to me. Bloody VAR.”
We waited and waited.
Red.
I didn’t cheer.
The rain was falling heavily. The stadium had a typical autumnal vibe.
“Don’t fancy the walk back to the car, PD.”
Chelsea, maybe seizing the advantage now, suddenly looked stronger.
Barkley for Loftus-Cheek, who had tired in the second-half.
Chelsea dominated again now, and a sublime lofted pass that split the defence from the last substitute Barkley out to the raiding Azpilicueta was simply sublime. A first time cross from Dave picked out the run from Werner, who guided the ball past McCarthy in the Saints goal.
Get in.
“WHATAFUCKINGGOAL.”
The Bridge erupted. A slide from Timo this time. He was then mobbed justifiably, by his team mates.
Superb.
There was time for a crazy denouement. Sustained Chelsea pressure in the Southampton box resulted in the goal frame being clipped not once but twice in quick succession, by Lukaku and Azpilicueta, and the crowd were quickly into convulsed with frustration. The loose ball broke to Chilwell, the left-back. He swiped at the ball as it sat up nicely for him. The goal bound shot looked perfect. McCarthy clawed at it, but from my viewpoint, it looked like it had crossed the line.
Goal Line Technology spoke : goal.
Yes!
To Clive : “Alonso would’ve volleyed that.”
The players celebrated wildly down below us.
Chelsea 3 Southampton 1.
Beautiful.
The Saints had been beaten in the October rain.
This indeed was a lovely, action-packed game of football. VAR had been involved, never a good thing in my mind, and had annoyed most of the fans present. But we came away with three points, and three points that put us top of the pile once more. However, our joy was about to be clipped.
Downstairs, my good friend Rob approached me. I had seen him ever so briefly before the game. But he spoke to me in greater depth now.
His face was red.
“Just to let you know. My Mum passed away today. I saw her this morning in the home. The last words I said to her were “I am off to see Chelsea now” but I took a ‘phone call from the home on the way here.”
I gave Rob a big hug. What words are of use at a time like this? It was a terrible end to an otherwise fine day.
“It’s weird because my first ever game at Chelsea was a 3-1 win over Southampton.”
I wished Rob well and I sent him a little text message later in the evening.
We got drenched on the walk back to the waiting car – soaked, absolutely soaked – but that seemed irrelevant.
At just before seven o’clock in the morning, I made my way into the darkness. I stood, alone with my thoughts, hood up on my jacket, a light drizzle in the air. I was waiting for Glenn, the day’s designated driver, to arrive to pick me up ahead of the Boxing Day game against a slightly rejuvenated Southampton. I heard the village church bell’s strike seven. I wondered what was in store for us.
Glenn duly arrived, with PD alongside him. We soon picked up Lord Parsnips and were on our way. As we headed east, the rain increased making driving difficult for him. I had not seen Glenn for a while; the last time was on the aborted away game against the same opposition in early October. With Glenn driving, this allowed me to indulge in a few drinks – OK, a sesh – for the first time at Stamford Bridge all season. The stretch of largely non-alcoholic home games stood at fourteen. There had been the odd pint here and there, but nothing too wild.
Fourteen games. Bloody hell. That has to be a record.
So, I had been relishing this for a while.
I had awoken early, at 4.30am, and knew that I wouldn’t be getting back to sleep again. My early morning thoughts, evidently, were about pints as well as points.
The rotten rain continued all of the way to London. At just before ten o’clock, Glenn dropped us off at West Brompton tube station and we soon caught a train to Putney Bridge. I had arranged to meet some friends from Germany at “The Eight Bells” and as the train left Parson’s Green, I looked ahead to the compartment in front and there they were.
Ben, Jens and Walt.
The day was off to a good start. Both Ben and I work in logistics. It was perfectly logical, therefore, for us to be on the same train.
I have known Ben for a good six or seven years. He used to work for a company that assists with getting our office furniture delivered in Austria, Germany and Switzerland. I managed to get tickets for the three of them for the Stoke City game just after Christmas in 2017, and Ben and Jens bumped into us after the Crystal Palace away game during the Christmas break last season. It was great to see them again. For this game, a friend had come up trumps for three tickets together in the Matthew Harding Lower.
At about 10.10am, I was the first one to enter “The Eight Bells.”
It felt good to be able to get the beers in.
We soon settled in our corner and the drinking, and not too much thinking, began. Jason Cundy popped in before his busy day ahead working for the Chelsea media team. I quickly pulled up his photo from 1991/92 to show the visitors. On this trip, the lads were again going to the darts on the Friday, and they had picked the West Ham United vs. Leicester City game on the Saturday. Ben supports Borussia Mönchengladbach, Jens supports Hamburg and Walt supports Bayern Munich. I did edge towards asking the three of them which English team they follow but Walt’s answer “not Arsenal” was good enough for me. We were joined by Mark from The Netherlands and his sister Kelly from High Wycombe, who we had not arranged to meet, but who often pop in. Next in were three from the US; Mehul and Neekita from Michigan, Matt from Illinois.
So, modern day Chelsea; England, Germany, The Netherlands and the United States. During the game, I would bump into a mate from Thailand who comes over once or twice a season.
All of us together, all sharing a beer, all having a laugh.
Good times.
I know that overseas supporters often get a rough ride at Chelsea – and elsewhere – but I get bored reading about it. I know plenty of passionate and clued-up foreign supporters of our club. The problem, at Stamford Bridge specifically, are the tourists – not Chelsea fans – who add us to the list of things to do in London without doing any research or background checks on what is likely to occur at games. That said, it still saddens me that many of the fans from overseas supporters’ clubs still buy game day scarves; surely they are aware of the hatred of these monstrosities?
In February, the boot will be on the other foot.
Let me explain.
I recently booked a flight to Buenos Aires to catch as many games as I can – but no darts, cough cough – and it will be interesting to see how I am treated by the locals.
Why Argentina? Why Buenos Aires?
It is no secret that I love visiting different football stadia, and I am a big fan of Simon Inglis, who has been the doyen of football architecture in the UK for decades. His book “Sightlines” (2000) featured stadia around the world and not just football; stadia devoted to baseball, cricket, rugby union among others are painstakingly detailed. However, underpinning the entire book – every couple of chapters – is the author’s attempt to visit as many of Buenos Aires’ twenty-five professional football stadia as he can in a crazy few days. This entranced me all those years ago, and I recently re-read it all again. And it started a train of thought.
I wanted to experience South America and I wanted to experience, for sure, South American football. I craved Argentina. It is, undoubtedly, one of the last remaining countries where passionate, to the point of irresponsible and bordering on violent, support still exists. I wanted to delve deep into Buenos Aires but I soon realised that their season runs concurrently with ours and so that would be difficult. I couldn’t realistically plan to miss a few Chelsea games, although I have done so in the past.
This Chelsea thing. I’ve got it bad, right?
So, thoughts turned to Brazil and Rio de Janeiro. Theirs is a summer season. I tentatively looked at going over to see Flamengo or Fluminense or Botafogo or Vasco da Gama this summer, but Baku took over.
And then, it dawned on me that for the first time ever, there would be a winter break in English football in 2019/20. This meant that there would be a window of opportunity to visit Argentina. I looked at the dates. I preliminarily booked two weeks off in February to cover all eventualities. Around ten days ago, the TV games were firmed up for the Premier League reaching into February, and our free weekend would come between an away game against Leicester City and a home game with Manchester United.
I honed in on the Primera Division games planned for the weekend of Saturday 8 February, knowing that there would be a spread of games over four or five days.
I threw caution to the wind and booked my flights and I booked a hotel.
With superb timing, the very next day – Christmas Eve – that weekend’s games were confirmed and it meant that I would, hopefully, get to see four games, probably five, during my stay.
Friday : Estudiantes vs. Defensa Y Justicia.
Saturday : Lanus vs. Newell’s Old Boys.
Sunday : Independiente vs. Arsenal Sarandi and River Plate vs. Banfield.
Monday : Huracan vs. Aldosivi.
And it got me thinking about football tourism. I began to question why the Premier League seems to be the main destination for visitors outside our national boundaries. Is it because of our historical role as the birthplace of the sport? Is it because of the way the Premier League is marketed? Is it because of the language? Everybody speaks English, right? Is it because, by and large, we are a friendly lot? I do not know of the figures, but English football has always attracted visitors from Europe, but it seems to be the main footballing destination for visitors outside Europe too. Yet, for me, there are valid alternatives for visitors from Brisbane, Beijing, Bangkok and Baltimore. Certainly for a more visceral experience, visitors from distant lands might be better placed to visit the leagues of Germany and Italy or even the former communist countries of the old Eastern Bloc. The noise and intensity. The real deal. Not some watered down version. Because I will say it, yet again. Apart from away games, following Chelsea these days gets quieter and quieter with every passing season. And fans at Old Trafford, The Emirates and other venues say the same.
How about a Belgrade derby, a match in Moscow or a Legia Warsaw vs. Widzew Lodz battle?
Thought not. I think those games might be just a little outside many peoples’ comfort zones. I am keen to hear if Borussia Dortmund supporters are getting slightly weary of all the football tourists heading over to be part of “The Yellow Wall” which has to be a bit of a cliché by now. And what of the thoughts of Barcelona and Real Madrid fans? There must be just as many football tourists who plot up at the Nou Camp and the Bernabeu as at Old Trafford, Anfield and Stamford Bridge these days?
Of course it could be a double-edged sword all of this. A quick immersion in to the passionate and noisy nature of Argentinian football might make me realise how anaemic our football has become. A couple of mates, seasoned travellers themselves – Tommie from Porthmadog in North Wales and Foxy from Dundee in Scotland – have assisted in my plans for Buenos Aires, and two others, who I have not yet met, have both declared that it is the best place to watch football these days.
Watch this space.
We popped over the road to “The Temperance” and the drinking continued. Mark, who is local to the area despite having lived in The Netherlands for ages, spoke of how the pub used to be a snooker hall, and how he remembers playing there many years ago.
The Temperance.
What a great name for a boozer. None of us fancied joining any latter day temperance movement, though, and the drinking continued at a pace.
On the drive to London, we had briefly touched on Southampton. Not so long ago, it seemed that Southampton, Norwich City and Watford were certs for relegation, but the Saints had shown a sudden resurgence under Ralph Hassenpfefferstadenschnitzelheimerhuttel. None of us were making grandiose comments about a sure fire win, despite the magnificence of our play at Tottenham.
This was Chelsea, after all.
On the final few hundred yards to the stadium, the rain had stopped but the skies were dull and full of cloud.
OK, the game…once again : “do I have to?”
Please bear in mind that this was a very poor match from start to bloody finish and I had been knocking back “Birra Moretti” and “Peroni” since 10am, so this one isn’t going to win any prizes.
Here goes.
My guess after Tottenham was that the 3/4/3 might well be replaced for the standard 4/3/3 but Rudiger, Zouma and Tomori kept their places.
We lined up as below –
Arizzabalaga
Rudiger – Zouma – Tomori
Azpilicueta – Kante – Jorginho – Emerson
Willian – Abraham – Hudson-Odoi
The Sleepy Hollow lined up as below –
Chris – Alan – Glenn – PD
The old team were back together again for the first time since Brighton in September.
Southampton had a full three thousand, an easy away game for them. Rather than their usual red and white stripes, they showed up in a waspish black and yellow. The “Munich Two” were involved, with Ryan Bertrand starting but Oriel Romeu only on the bench.
Chelsea again dominated possession early on but were met with a solid wall of deep-lying midfielders and a solid defence. It was clear that we needed a little intuition and some pace out wide to get through the massed ranks of Southampton players. They were solid and defended tenaciously. It was like trying to manoeuvre a way through a variant of The Terracotta Army.
“They shall not pass.”
Soon into the game a beam of sunlight lit up a small section of the East Upper, but this also exposed the fact that there were pockets of empty seats throughout the stadium. And the absent foreign supporters from all over the world surely couldn’t be held totally responsible for every single one of those.
Our build up play was slow and ponderous, and it took an age for our first shot on target of note. My camera was hardly used in the first part of the game, but I miraculously caught Callum Hudson-Odoi’s swipe at the ball which was deflected wide.
The game struggled to get out of first gear.
Ten minutes later, a Southampton attack down our left flank resulted in Michael O’bafemi – the young Irish lad – being allowed to twist into space and we watched as he ripped a fine effort high past Kepa to give the visitors a surprising lead, and a blow to us.
Bollocks.
The Southampton players celebrated down below us, the gits.
Was there a reaction?
Not really.
The crowd stood and sat in some sort of Turkey, roast potatoes, Brussel sprouts, parsnips, peas and carrot induced torpor, and the players looked out of sorts too. It was brewing up to be another frustrating match at Stamford Bridge. The moans and grumbles continued throughout the first half as we struggled to break down the resolute defence.
I took a photo of my pal Rob, sitting a few rows behind me, to mark the fiftieth anniversary of his very first game at Stamford Bridge; Chelsea vs. Southampton, 1969.
He was with his son Joe.
Well done Rob. Fantastic stuff.
Down below us on the Stamford Bridge pitch, there was stagnation. It was all very dull and all very predictable. There was no spark. It was shocking stuff. We hardly caused the Southampton ‘keeper to make a save in anger. There was a real reluctance to shoot on target and the extra wide men simply did not deliver.
Sigh.
At the start of the second-half, Frank reverted to a 4/3/3 as Mason Mount came on to replace Kurt Zouma. We hoped for some forward runs, some penetration, and soon into the second period, my infrequently-used camera miraculously captured our second real attempt on goal. Tammy Abraham was set free but lashed wide from an angle, only bothering the side netting.
Southampton became a little more adventurous and then Hudson-Odoi struck from outside the box, but the ball touched the top of the net, and the Saints ‘keeper was untroubled. By now, the mood in the home camp was deteriorating.
My very first Boxing Day game at Stamford Bridge came along as late as 1992. Until then, with no car and few local Chelsea mates that I knew, and with my parents solidly staying at home on every Boxing Day, and with no train service to London, I had been unable to attend a single game on all other Boxing Days. When I eventually did attend a game, it felt as if I was attending some sort of “Londoners only” event, a special match for invited guests only. It felt lovely. On that occasion – I have written about it before – I managed to smuggle my father’s bulky camcorder into the East Upper and my over-riding memory of that day – enhanced by playing the ten minutes of film that I shot – was the real increase in noise (clapping, shouts, voices from the crowd, encouragement) as the ball was sent into the Southampton half. In those days, it was a massively different style of football and much of it involved midfield battles. But as soon as there was a sniff of an attack, the crowd were on it and involved. Even in the East Upper.
In 1992, the gate was 18,344 but it felt as though everyone present was there to support the team. We had won nothing in twenty-one years and a trophy was still five years away, but it felt as though we were all in it together.
On Boxing Day in 2019, any fan involvement was not worthy of the name.
The game continued in front of a quickly worsening atmosphere.
Christian Pulisic came on for a very poor Hudson-Odoi.
Nathan Redmond should have made it 2-0 but Kepa saved well after a quick break.
Groans.
With twenty minutes or so remaining, the dangerous Redmond finished off a long Southampton move with a delicate touch past Kepa.
Chelsea 0 Southampton 2.
Fackinell.
Pedro replaced Willian late on.
Pulisic created the final shot on goal, but typically off target, screwing a low shot past the right hand post.
By this time, the atmosphere around me was caustic and abrasive.
I wanted to go home.
Sadly, this was another woeful performance. Whereas a couple of months ago, match-going fans were supremely positive with the way things were going, now many have changed their tune. Fair enough, each to their own. But this is still a long term project and we need to stick with it. And I’d like to see a more positive atmosphere at Stamford Bridge, but that’s just me.
Postscript 1 :
Glenn would later tell me that while he was waiting in the concourse with Les from Melksham before our match, the Tottenham vs. Brighton game was on TV. As Tottenham scored a second goal, a voice – a Chelsea fan, from England – was heard cheering. Les reprimanded him, rather strongly.
“What are you doing?”
“He’s in my fantasy team.”
I hate modern football.
Postscript 2 :
On the two other recent occasions of Chelsea losing at home to poor teams – West Ham United and Bournemouth – at least wins on both occasions for Frome Town helped raise my spirits slightly. On this occasion, no such luck; a 4-1 loss at Les’ Melksham Town.
Postscript 3 :
In the after game interview, involving Jason Cundy pitch side with Frank, there were no punches pulled. But Frank took everything on the chin. He answered all of the questions honestly and without serving up silly excuse after silly excuse. I totally admire his approach in these interviews. I am longing for us to turn the corner. For him, for all of us.
Postscript 4 :
At the halfway stage in the league season, we are in fourth place.
By a rather strange twist of fate in the odd world of the scheduling of football matches, the two teams to which I am most emotionally tied were playing within six miles of each other on the same weekend and just twenty-three hours apart.
Frome Town of the BetVictor Southern League Division South were at AFC Totton at 3pm on Saturday 5 October.
Chelsea of the Premier League were at Southampton at 2pm on Sunday 6 October.
These two divisions represent levels one and eight of England’s football pyramid.
Premier League, Championship, Division One, Division Two, National League, National League South, Southern League Premier South, Southern League Division One South.
As the weekend approached, the lure of seeing two football games became increasingly tempting. With a little more planning, I could have – at a push – stayed over in Southampton on the Saturday night, but that would have meant that I would have been unable to have a pre-match beer before the Chelsea game as I would need to drive home under my own steam. My pal Glenn had volunteered himself for driving duties for that game. It would mean a rare chance for a few pints before a game for me. That was too tempting to resist. Going in to Saturday, I carried out a few chores and soon decided that a trip south to Totton was too tempting to resist too.
So, a bit of a first here. I know that I have briefly touched upon the exploits of my local team on this site on several occasions (Frome Town were, after all, the first team that I ever saw live, in September 1970), but due to a couple of reasons that will become self-evident, I will include a little match report here.
This would be my fourth Frome Town game of 2019/20. There was an entertaining 1-1 draw with Evesham, a good 3-1 win against Barnstaple, but a poor 1-2 defeat against Slimbridge. All of these games were at home. The three crowds averaged around 220. Frome had enjoyed a fine start to the season, but had weakened recently. “Dodge” – as in Dodge City, our little nickname for this once wild town of The West – were still in third place. The game at AFC Totton, on the western edge of Southampton, would be my first Frome Town away game of the season. It’s only an hour and a quarter’s drive from Frome; straight down the A36, through Salisbury, easy. I was parked-up at 2.15pm ahead of the 3pm kick-off. It was £9 to enter. Their stadium has an impressive stand on one side, where I took a seat, a low cover opposite and open-air enclosures behind both goals. I soon spotted club crests for both AFC Totton and Southampton Football Club on the gate leading onto the pitch. AFC Totton occasionally hosts Southampton youth team fixtures. There is the tie-up. The pitch was exceptional in fact. I spotted a couple of Saints shirts during the afternoon.
Frome Town raced into a two-nil lead with goals from Rex Mannings and Joe O’Loughlin in the first quarter of an hour. Our play was quick and incisive. Just as I texted a mate back home to say “it’s all us”, we let in two quick goals. The second effort was superb; the nippy right winger cut in, Robben-esque, and dipped a magnificent curler high into the far corner. I was right behind the flight of the ball. I stood up to applaud. It was sensational.
The little band of fifteen Frome Town supporters changed ends at half-time. I chatted to a mate who I often see at Frome; Jamie is an exiled Arbroath fan, now fully behind Frome Town. We both explained how we would much rather watch Frome Town live rather than Premier League or international games on TV.
In the second-half, it was a lot scrappier, but the home ‘keeper was sent-off for handball outside the box. A central defender went between the sticks. Jon Davies smacked the resultant kick against the wall but was on hand to rifle home the rebound. With a 3-2 win, Frome rose to second in the table behind local rivals Paulton Rovers. The gate was 248, a common amount for this level. At the end of the game, all Frome players walked over to clap the travelling band of supporters, a good half of which I know, and shook hands with every single one of them.
Lovely stuff.
So, there you have it. Frome Town. Level Eight.
Who knows, one day when I feel the need, I might even set up a Frome Town website of my own. I could call it “Well Dodgey.”
People always remember when Mork and Mindy first appeared on TV in an edition of “Happy Days”. Followers of Frome Town – of which I know that there are a few in the US, lured in by my love of both Chelsea and Dodge – might look back and remember it gracing this website first.
Nanu fucking nanu.
Well Dodgey
On the Sunday, Glenn collected me at 8.45am. Well, he actually showed up a whole hour early – he got his times mixed-up – and we soon collected PD, PD’s son Scott, and Scott’s mate Dan, who featured in the League Cup Final tale from last season. In another report recently, I noted the sad demise of my local village team – Mells & Vobster United – but I am pleased to report that it has risen like a phoenix from the ashes to stake a place in the Mid-Somerset League Division Three. I can’t even begin to fathom at what level in the pyramid this represents. But this pleased me. My grandfather played for Mells & Vobster in the 1920’s. I made my debut for the reserves aged thirteen in 1978 and played a few more games in the ‘eighties. Dan is on the committee too. It’s all good stuff.
Another little quirk of fate. Dan is soon moving into a bungalow in Frome which is currently owned by a Chelsea couple – Dave and Karen, erstwhile match day travel companions of The Chuckle Brothers – and which was originally built by my grandfather’s brother Jack before he emigrated to Australia, whose grandson Paul I met out on tour with Chelsea on the Gold Coast last summer.
“Chelsea World Is A Very Small World” – Part 862.
Sadly, this particular Chelsea Away Day was soon hit with a problem. Skirting Salisbury, Glenn’s Chuckle Bus lost power and we stopped as he checked a few things. He turned the ignition again, but there was a puff of blue from the exhaust, and just like Tottenham Hotspur’s claim to be a top-ranking club, our journey went up in smoke.
Glenn had no choice but to dial for roadside assistance. The four of us took a cab into Salisbury and nimbly caught the 1013 train to Southampton Central. We then enjoyed our usual Southampton pre-match routine of a Full English and a few pints of “Peroni.” Sadly, Glenn was unable to report a quick fix and was on his way home on the back of a recovery vehicle. At least we soon sold his match ticket to a fellow fan.
The time soon passed. We caught a cab up to the stadium; PD has just had an operation on his leg, just like Parky – the missing warrior – and so he can’t walk too far. On the walk towards the stadium, we passed through a little tunnel which is bedecked in Southampton images and features their current marketing battle cry of “WE MARCH ON.”
In the darkened concourse under the away seats, I squirmed as I heard more than a few – youngsters, to my ears – singing the “Y” word to “The Famous Tottenham Hotspur.”
Twats.
We were inside with about fifteen minutes to spare. The usual seats, low down, row five, sunglasses on, the sun occasionally hot.
Outside And Inside
The team?
We were back to a 4/3/3.
I do like how Frank can mix it around. The big news was that our Callum was starting for the first time this season. And Jorginho was still anchoring.
Arrizabalaga
Azpilicueta – Zouma – Tomori – Alonso
Jorginho
Kante – Mount
Hudson-Odoi – Abraham – Willian
I was stood alongside PD, Alan and Gary.
“We don’t often lose down here, Gal.”
We were the first team to play at this stadium in 2001 – a win – and, after ten subsequent league visits, we had lost just once in the league, a terribly weak capitulation under Rafa Benitez – who? – in 2012/13.
I had seen all of eleven games at St. Mary’s. It’s an easy away game for me, after all.
The flags waved – “WE MARCH ON” – and the jets of flame burst into the air in front of both main stands. We were last at St. Mary’s almost a year to the day ago; Sunday 7 October 2018. This was remembered by myself as a fine Chelsea performance, a 3-0 win, almost a high-point under Sarri. Ross Barkley and Eden Hazard were on fire. Even Alvaro Morata – who? – scored. Another repeat performance please.
Flags And Flames
The Chelsea choir were in good voice as the match began, and Chelsea – in all blue – were defending the goal in front of the 3,000 loyalists.
In the first few minutes, the home team looked eager. In fact, from the kick-off taken by Tammy, we lost possession and failed to stop a move developing. A rasper from Nathan Redmond flew narrowly over Kepa’s bar. Our game slowly improved. Marcos Alonso was often involved in setting up attacks, and we started to look capable of breaking into some areas that would hurt the home team. A low shot from distance from our Tammy, set up by our Callum, was easily saved by the Saints’ ‘keeper Angus Gunn.
With a quarter of an hour played, Callum spotted a burst from Tammy and played a lofted ball into the inside-left channel. The ‘keeper raced out to the edge of the box, but there was no AFC Totton style handball. Instead, Tammy lobbed the ball high – ridiculously high – into the air and over the ‘keeper and we then watched as the ball dropped right on the line. It had been up in the air so long that Tammy was able to sprint forward and watch from very close range as a Saints defender Maya Yoshida tried to hook the ball clear.
Was it a goal?
To me, it looked like it.
Tammy celebrated, a good sign.
No loathsome VAR required this time. Goal line technology to the rescue. A quick decision. A quick roar from the Chelsea faithful.
Alan : “THTCAUN.”
Chris : “COMLD.”
I caught Tammy’s leap of gleeful celebration if not the goal.
Off to a good start, lovely stuff. The mood in the Northam Stand improved further.
There was the latest, of many, versions of the “Tottenham get battered song.”
In Baku, it started out as this :
“They’ve been to Rotterdam and Maribor.
Lyon and to Rome.
Tottenham’s got battered.
Everywhere they go.
Everywhere they go.”
This season, the complexities were ignored and it soon became :
“Tottenham gets battered.
Everywhere they go.
Tottenham gets battered
Everywhere they go.
Everywhere they go.”
It now seems to be this :
“Tottenham got battered 7-2 at home.
Tottenham got battered 7-2 at home,
7-2 at home”
We also aired Callum’s “Buffalo Soldier” song – with full intro, which not all of us know – and this soon morphed into “The Banana Splits.”
It’s all a bit messy.
“We’ve won it all” was – falsely – sung too.
As a few of us have mentioned, let’s win the World Club Championships before we can even think of singing that. And even then, it seems a pretty loathsome chant.
On twenty-four minutes, we engineered a great move again in the inside-left channel. We put the home team under pressure, and some slick passing from Jorginho and Willian found Mason Mount, who coolly slotted home. His celebration was caught on camera too. His hands were cupped over his ears; our Portsmouth-born pup was enjoying this. Two more efforts from Mount – one just over, one screwed well wide – were evidence of our upper hand.
But poor defensive play on the half-hour mark set us back. From a throw-in on our left, Yan Valery set off on a solo dribble past what seemed like – and was – half of our team. It was awful defending.
“After you, Claude.”
His astute low cross was prodded in by Danny Ings.
Fackinell.
“No clean sheet this week, either.”
The dangerous Redmond was put through but his shot hit the side-netting at Kepa’s near post. Thankfully, with forty-minutes played, Alonso found himself in acres of space on the left. He found Willian, who found Kante. I begged him to hit it to Gunn’s left, where I could see space. His shot hit a defender, and wickedly deflected to where I had originally hoped.
We were 3-1 up.
GET IN.
I captured the celebrations in the haze of the shadows at the Chapel Stand end.
Thankfully, Jorginho was able to clear a goal-bound shot on the edge of the six-yard box when Fikayo Tomori gifted the ball to Ings.
“Jorginho, Jorginho, Jorginho.”
His rebirth has been amazing. It shows, I think, how fickle us football supporters can be.
Egg on faces for some who chose to lampoon him last season? Sure.
It had been an open and eventful half of football. Surely there would be other goals? Pre-match, I had predicted a 3-0 win for us. I was hopeful for further efforts and chances. At times our expansive and high-energy football was a joy. It was a beautiful antidote to the over-passing under Sarri. It was so enjoyable.
The second-half began, with Chelsea attacking the away section. Our noise was good all game long. The home fans only really got behind their team when they scored. It was to be a poor showing from them.
A Braziliant run from deep from Willian was the first notable show of skill in the second period. His burst through the middle, eating up ground voraciously, was followed by a well-aimed pass to Callum, whose low shot across Gunn was deflected wide after a leg was flung out at the last minute.
There was a Southampton free-kick from James Ward-Prowse which failed to trouble Kepa. A rare shot from Yoshida was easily saved.
“His only save this half, PD.”
We were well in control of this game despite the quality of the first-half.
On eighty-minutes, some substitutions.
Mateo Kovacic for Mason Mount, who had run his royal blue socks off all game.
Christian Pulisic for Callum Hudson-Odoi, who had been a lively threat when we were purring.
With six minutes remaining, Michy Batshuayi replaced Tammy Abraham, who had enjoyed another sensational outing.
Eight goals this season.
Beautiful.
As the Chelsea hordes changed from singing “Is There A Fire Drill?” – tedious – to “Oh When The Saints Go Marching Out” – much better – we kept attacking as the home team tired.
“One Man Went To Mow” boomed around the away section as a fine move developed. Alonso kept the ball well on the far touchline. The song reached its conclusion.
“Ten men, nine men, eight me, seven men, six men, five me, four men, three me, two men, one man.”
To Jorginho. He waited for movement. A pass to Michy.
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”
Michy to Pulisic. A superb give and go. Michy in behind. A sublime touch from Pulisic. Michy in space.
A low shot through Gunn’s legs.
GET IN.
More celebrations, this time right in front of us.
Celebrations
AFC Totton 2 Frome Town 3
Southampton 1 Chelsea 4
A perfect double.
PD is never Willian’s biggest fan, but even he admitted that he had been exceptional all game.
“Man of the match for me, P-Diddy.”
Prince Willian
The whistle soon blew and we all waited for the players and management team to walk down towards us. More photographs. This was, I think, the most enjoyable part of the entire day, the entire weekend. Just as Frome Town’s players had joined in with the celebrations at the end of Saturday’s match, here were the rank and file of Chelsea Football Club joining forces to completely revel in the moment.
Frank’s hugs with his players and his smiles towards us?
Priceless.
We loudly serenaded our beloved manager.
“Super Frankie Lampard” and it felt good, it felt very good.
Frank and Friends
We left the stadium with a bounce in our step.
This was a fine win.
The day continued its take on “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” with another cab to the station, another train to Westbury, a car to Frome and the second van of the day to Mells.
It had been a very fine weekend.
We are sitting pretty in the league, we are in the mix in the Champions League, we play the worst Manchester United side that I can remember for a long time at home in the League Cup, Tammy is among the goals, the youngsters are the talk of the town, Frank is the gaffer and we are one.
CHELSEA/esque 