Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 April 2026.
Let’s start by time-travelling back to last weekend. The Easter Weekend meant four days away from work, and three games of football for me. As far as enthusiasm goes, it is fair to say that that Chelsea’s FA Cup tie with Port Vale was the lesser of the three. On the Good Friday, Frome Town played at Sporting Club Inkberrow with a slight chance of becoming Champions of the Southern League South. The Port Vale game was on the Saturday. And then Frome played host to local rivals Shaftesbury on Bank Holiday Monday. This is not demeaning the importance of the FA Cup – more of that later – but an indication of how excited I was to see my local team so close to becoming Champions.
After last season’s demoralising relegation from the Southern League Premier South, Frome has utterly surpassed expectations and has dominated the division from early on. Going into the home game with Shaftesbury, newly promoted and sniffing a play-off place themselves, my hometown team required just one point to be crowned Champions and thus gain automatic promotion back to Step Three of the non-league pyramid.
A mighty crowd of 1,096 assembled at Badgers Hill on a sunny afternoon and we watched as Dodge went 1-0 up via an audacious lob from David Duru which was a bit like David Speedie’s equaliser against Arsenal in 1985. However, two Shaftesbury goals caused us a spell of anxiety, only for Archie Ferris to poach two goals to clinch a 3-2 win.
There were scenes of elation on the pitch, in the stands and in the clubhouse after the match as fans and players mingled in celebration. Suffice to say, the post-match revelry lasted many hours and there must have been a fair few headaches the following morning.
I include a picture gallery from this Frome game at the end of this piece; it’s not very often Frome Town become Champions of their division after all.
So that was the final chapter in the Easter weekend. Thoughts now turned towards our match with Manchester City at Stamford Bridge on the following Sunday. This would be the first of a Mancunian double-header with United coming down to SW6 the following Saturday.
As game day approached, it seemed that the fate of Chelsea Football Club was not the only thing on our minds. There seemed to be an awful lot of noise surrounding Arsenal and Tottenham. It seemed that all three clubs were wrapped up in an end-of-season debate about priorities, though oddly West Ham were seemingly omitted from all of this conjecture.
Now then, I have never fancied the idea of Arsenal being more successful than us, and the thought of them winning this season’s title has continually made me feel ill. The thought of them winning the Champions League makes me feel even worse. But as this game with City drew near, there were some in our support who actively wanted us to lose, thus enhancing City’s chances of clawing themselves back into the championship race.
This is not for me. I have seen us play over 1,500 times and I have never wanted us to lose a game. Why would I? It’s a preposterous notion.
Legend has it that on the final day of 1997/98, at home to Bolton, some of the support wanted us to lose so we could relegate Everton. Now then, my recollections are not consistent with this at all. I remember some light-hearted booing from a small section of our crowd as we scored a second, thus condemning Bolton to relegation, but nobody was seriously wanting a Chelsea loss that day, surely? Just a few days later we were to play Stuttgart in the ECWC Final. Why would any fan of the club want a defeat on the Sunday before a Cup Final on the Wednesday?
Seeing Tottenham relegated to the second tier for the first time since 1976 is the stuff that dreams are made of, especially if we can relegate them in our last home game of the season. And yet, tied up in this notion of priorities for us in the last part of this season, was a view held by some that seeing Tottenham relegated meant more than a Chelsea FA Cup win, or Champions League qualification.
There were online polls and everything.
Unreal.
Even the thought of polls asking Chelsea fans about the importance of FA Cup wins sends me to a dark place where I solemnly wonder about some of my fellow support.
There’s a side issue here, too, where the importance of us getting CL qualification in a following season has increasingly become a bigger goal among our support than silverware in a current season.
Again, this baffles me.
For someone who supported us from 1971 to 1997 (silverware = zero) I find all this difficult to fathom.
Not prioritising an FA Cup win?
What on Earth would we have thought of that idea in 1997?
Due to the disruption of the train service on this Sunday in London, our pre-match took place in “The Tommy Tucker”, just a few yards from the Fulham Road. Four of us from the West Country – PD, Glenn, Parky and yours truly – were joined by Ollie and Julien from Normandy, and it was grand to see them again. A table was booked for just after midday, and the pub became busier. I noted a few Mancunian accents, but these lads were keeping themselves to themselves and causing no bother. There was a cheer when Sunderland went 1-0 up at home to Tottenham. With West Ham walloping Wolves 4-0 the day before, our rivals from N17 were now entrenched in the relegation zone.
Ho ho ho.
Our game with City didn’t dominate our thoughts, but we were all, I am sure, concerned about the result. I mentioned to PD that I would, no doubt, be looking up at the TV screen during our match, willing the time on, especially if we were doing better than I had hoped.
I was out of the pub with an hour before kick-off, then consumed the worst cheeseburger of the season, and was in at 3.45pm.
Overhead were ominous grey skies surrounding Stamford Bridge, but these were interspersed with sunshine too.
There was a quick chat with Gary and Daryl, fresh from “The Clarence” and we pooh-poohed the idea of wanting us to lose.
“Nah, fack that.”
It took a while for Glenn and PD to join me in The Sleepy, but as kick-off approached, we were together.
Liam Rosenior chose this team (or had this team chosen for him, if the Machiavellian rumours are true…)
Robert Sanchez
Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Jorrel Hato – Marc Cucurella
Andrey Santos – Moises Caicedo
Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Pedro Neto
Joao Pedro
Before the game, two Chelsea stalwarts Frank Blunstone and Sylvan Anderton, both ninety-one years of age, appeared on the pitch by the tunnel and they bathed in the applause. Blunstone, a young winger in our first Championship team in 1955, is only one of two players still alive from that team. The other, former Bristol City manager Alan Dicks, is also ninety-one. It is a joy that they are still with us. Anderton played for Chelsea just after that league title win.
City were wearing a light grey kit with vivid lime socks, and I remembered seeing them wearing that combination at Chelsea once before. Those socks were as hideous twenty-odd years ago as they were in 2026.
The game began, and we attacked The Shed. We traded punches in a lively opening few minutes, with a break from Cole Palmer raising a cheer, only for a weak shot to drift past the post. Within the first ten minutes, an effort from Joao Pedro and another from Palmer gave us all a much-needed boost.
“Ten minutes, Paul.”
City looked to attack down our right as often as they could and Jeremy Doku was often involved. Malo Gusto was a reliable shield in those opening moments.
“Fifteen minutes, Paul.”
Just after, a beautiful run into space from Joao Pedro caused City grief, and I urged him to play in Marc Cucurella, well-advanced. He punched the ball through to the Spaniard, who adeptly scored low past Gianluigi Donnarumma. I was up celebrating, and I immediately loved the roar from my fellow supporters that accompanied the goal. It reassured me that large swathes of the Chelsea support hadn’t lost their minds. However, in a flash, I saw the linesman with his flag raised.
Ugh. Yeah, thought it might be.
“He should have played the ball half a second earlier.”
Bollocks.
We continued in an open game.
“Twenty minutes, Paul.”
As City played in and around our box, looking to penetrate and reach the looming presence of Erling Haaland, I was impressed that we kept our shape and flung bodies in the way of passes and shots. This showed commitment to the cause, something that isn’t always prevalent in our game (and yes, it hurts me to write that…)
There was a rousing “Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea” to “Amazing Grace”, the first real show of support; shame it had taken us a full quarter of the match to do so.
“Twenty-five minutes, Paul.”
We played a smattering of decent football in the City final third. There was a nice move, Palmer to Estevao to Pedro Neto, who came inside and forced a fine low save from Gianluigi Donnarumma. We all enjoyed another piece of skill from Pedro Neto, a sublime Zola-esque twist on the goal-line, so reminiscent of the Sardinian’s humiliation of Jamie Carragher in 2003.
“Thirty minutes, Paul.”
However, City had begun to dominate and there was a great save from a shot by Bernardo Silva from Robert Sanchez, who was roundly applauded by us. Yet, just seconds later, he booted the ball out into the City half, and it landed a good thirty yards from the nearest Chelsea player. The cheers turned to groans.
Robert Sanchez has that knack.
“He used to be shite, he was alright, think he’s back to being shite again” doesn’t really scan, though, does it?
“Thirty-five minutes, Paul” became “forty minutes, Paul.”
I was content with our showing. We hadn’t been out-muscled, or out-played, and had created a few chances. The best chance came right at the end of the half. In the first minute of added time, a Palmer free-kick out on the Chelsea left was swung in and Santos had an unhindered leap at the far post. I caught his header fly over the bar.
Bollocks.
The big question at the break was this :
“Can we play two halves the same?”
For some reason I noticed the mood in the stands at the start of the second period. We had more than held our own in the first half, yet there was no reaction to the players as they reappeared for the second half. Spectators quietly returned to their seats, though a fair few did not bother returning for quite some time, and there was no hint of a cheer or a roar to greet the players. It was all very sedate and all very apathetic. Did I imagine it, or were there times when a similar situation years ago might have resulted in a few roars of support from the Chelsea faithful to create a mood of hostility against a fancied team? I am sure that this sort of practice still exists in the various hotspots of European club football.
Just not in SW6.
It was if the spectators at Stamford Bridge were returning for the second act in a hushed West End theatre.
“Pass the bonbons, dear.”
City, attacking The Shed, began the second period on fire. There was a very early chance for Haaland in the very first minute, then Rayan Cherki screwed a shot wide.
On fifty minutes, Cherki was given time to float a cross towards the six-yard box and Nico O’Reilly rose to glance a header down and past Sanchez.
The City mob celebrated, we slumped in our seats.
Soon after, the City supporters roared.
“WE’RE NOT REALLY HERE.”
Just after, a shot from Antoine Semenyo – a great addition to their team – was deflected wide by Cucurella.
“BLUE MOON, YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE.”
I spoke to PD : “could be a long half.”
Wesley Fofana then managed to backtrack and head off the line and clear.
On fifty-seven minutes, Cherki collected a short corner and ran across the pitch, unhindered, looking for a team mate to hit.
As he ran on, Glenn commentated succinctly.
“Oh shit…oh shit…oh shit…”
His cute pass found Mark Guehi, who tucked the ball low past Sanchez.
Bollocks.
We weren’t in it. There was still half an hour to go. I held my head in my hands.
We conjured up only half-chances. We created only scraps. When needed to be called in to action, Donnarumma dealt with everything.
On sixty-seven minutes, Rosenior made some changes.
Romeo Lavia for Andrey Santos.
Alejandro Garnacho for Estevao.
Yet in the very next minute, Moises Caicedo was pick-pocketed after a pass out from Sanchez, and Doku raced on to score.
The city lot celebrated and soon did their trademark Poznan, though I suspected there was no looking back in anger, only glee.
After the game was lost, we created a few chances.
A ball from Cole Palmer to Joao Pedro was headed wide.
There was a daisy-cutter from Cucurella.
A reactionary save from Donnarumma from Cucurella’s header, close in, denied us a goal.
There were three late changes.
Dario Essugo for Caicedo
Liam Delap for Joao Pedro
Josh Acheampong for Gusto.
There had been a warm ripple of applause for Mateo Kovacic as he entered the pitch from the City bench.
The linesman signalled eight minutes of injury time and we sighed again. I stayed to the final whistle. I must be a masochist.
So, there we have it. Two games from two different levels of the football pyramid. Of course, if I was feeling particularly mean-spirited, I could have called this one something different.
“Tales From Champs And Chumps” anyone?
Sometimes it’s the gallows humour that helps us cope.
It was a long and solemn drive home, and I eventually reached home at about 10pm. When I woke up the next morning, I wasn’t gleefully warmed by us helping City to overtake Arsenal, but depressed because we had been humiliated yet again this season.
CHELSEA VS. MANCHESTER CITY
FROME TOWN VS. SHAFTESBURY
