Tales From London Again, Olé, Olé

Posted on October 16, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 10 October 2026.

The away game at Brentford seemed like a long time ago. That’s because it was a long time ago.

Three whole weeks.

The extended international break which embraced four England games – I couldn’t name all the opponents if you paid me – meant that there was no Chelsea in my life from Friday 18 September to Saturday 10 October.

And, for the first-time ever, I was more than happy. After that dismal performance in West London, I certainly felt that Xabi Alonso needed a lengthy period to replan and reset. I am sure I wasn’t the only one.

What would I do with myself in those three weeks? Unsurprisingly, Frome Town came to the rescue. There would be five games for me to get stuck into.

I took in a home FA Cup tie against Plymouth Parkway on Saturday 20 September. I enjoyed a competitive first half and Frome were in decent form. There really wasn’t much between the two sides. However, in the second period, we offered little until a late charge and fell to a 0-2 defeat. There was a decent crowd of 546, and a good away following from Devon.

On the following Tuesday, our furthest away trip in the league this season and a very competitive match against the same strong Parkway team. Despite conceding a poor goal early on, we recovered well and gave the home team a very tough battle. I was proud of the way we responded. Sadly, a second goal against the run of play proved decisive. An enjoyable match, though.

On Saturday 27 September, our first tie in the FA Trophy this season pitted us against old adversaries Willand Rovers. On a beautiful afternoon at Badgers Hill, Frome Town never really got going. We went 0-1 down on seventy minutes, but with five minutes to go a perfect cross from substitute Jon Davies found substitute Archie Ferris whose old-school header nestled in the net. We went to penalties, and assured efforts from Zak Drew, Albie Hopkins, George Dowling and Jon Davies, aided by two saves from Kyle Philllips, sent us into the next round. The highlight of this game was the appearance of Jimmy the Greek who joined my usual Dodgey match-day companions. He loved it.

On the following Tuesday, we met Somerset rivals Taunton Town at home. This was a decent game. We raced into a 2-0 lead on twenty-one minutes after two goals in a minute from Zack Ali and David Duru. In an open first-half, an own goal gave the visitors a lifeline. In the second period, their rapid breaks caused us problems, and they equalised on the hour. Frome then had a fair few half-chances but could not convert. The attendance of 656 on a wet old night in Dodge was – literally – fan-tastic.

Lastly, I travelled to Yate, just north of Bristol, on Saturday 3 October. Frome laboured on their huge pitch in the first half but kept it scoreless. The second half was a different beast: 0-1 down, 1-1, 1-2 down, 2-2, 3-2 up, 3-3. Our goals came from Albie Hopkins, George Dowling and Sam Meakes. However, the game will be remembered for the phenomenal support of some 100+ Frome supporters in the 520 crowd who really got behind the team. The standard for support for the rest of the season had been set. Top marks all round.

For the Bournemouth game, I left a little later than usual. I drove over to Nunney Catch, where PD and Jimmy joined me for a hearty breakfast before the Willand game a fortnight earlier, but I would be fuelling the car and not my stomach on this occasion. On this short ten-minute drive, the Somerset countryside looked immaculate. There was a surreal quality of light, with the early autumn colours being particularly intense in the surrounding fields and hedgerows, and the stone walls of houses and farm buildings jumping to life too. There was almost an Edward Hopper feel to the light. Everything was vivid and vibrant. It was as if I was being reminded that this was my home and that I was, surely, being foolish to be driving a hundred miles to a distant location. Frome Town, after all, were at home to Sholing up and over that ridge of land that defines Frome’s western border.

But no, London was indeed calling to the faraway towns, and by 8.30pm I had collected PD, Glenn and Parky. I sped east, made good time, and was parked up near Queens Club at 11am.

This was Chelsea’s eighth consecutive match in London, and I had mentioned to a few people recently that I was getting bored to death with it. I craved a fresh field, somewhere different. Thankfully, this will all change with a trip to Everton that is tantalizingly looming on the horizon. I look forward to that.

Has this been Chelsea’s longest-ever run of consecutive games in London? I wasn’t sure. However, I remembered that in 1989/90, the capital boasted no less than eight teams in the topflight (a record – and like this season, with no West Ham) so I checked the start of that season. My findings? From 19 August to 30 September, we played eight consecutive league games in London and nine with a home League Cup tie.

Is everyone still awake?

On the drive to London, we had spent many a minute discussing the modern malaise of topflight football, namely the dullness of the passing routines that dominate modern football.

Maybe it is because we will be celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of our magnificent 1997 FA Cup win this season, but I have been reminiscing about 1996 of late, and I made the point that in addition to us, there were entertaining teams everywhere you looked in the Premier League in 1996/97. Manchester United was a team of swashbuckling heroes, Arsenal could play a bit, Newcastle United were magnificent, Liverpool had some decent players, and even Sheffield Wednesday had Benito Carbone, Middlesbrough had Juninho and Southampton had Matthew Le Tissier. These days, we have regimented patterns of play and pressing statistics.

It’s enough to make a man cry.

My pre-match was spent in two locations; “The Half-Moon Café” for a full English, and then “Walham Green” for a few drinks with the usual suspects, where I again quoted Ian Dury with a post on “Facebook.”

“I could be the driver of an articulated lorry.”

I left to take a few outside shots of Stamford Bridge with my trusty SLR and was inside as early as 2pm. I wanted a few moments of quiet contemplation before the rough and tumble of a Premier League game. Over in the West Stand, our erstwhile travelling companion Ron Harris was attending his first game at Chelsea for eighteen months; he was a guest of the club with his son and daughter, celebrating the refit of the Harris Suite.

The team news?

Emiliano Martinez

Josh Acheampong – Maxence Lacroix – Levi Colwill – Pep Chavarria

Jordan Henderson – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Morgan Rogers

Joao Pedro

We had commented during the day that we are loathe to spend any money at Stamford Bridge – on programmes, on food and drink, on merchandise of any kind – and that, in reality, it shouldn’t be like this. I should be happy to give Chelsea some extra pennies during the season in addition to my £1,030 season ticket. But such is the sense of resentment with many of the club’s policies, that I tend to spend nothing at all these days. With half-an-hour to go, I was absolutely parched but immediately resented paying £4.59 for a bottle of “Diet Coke.”

No sale.

The ground filled up slowly. In the fourth row of The Sleepy Hollow, PD, then Alan, then Clive – fashionably late – joined me.

Overhead, blue skies. Inside, a fine mild temperature. Down at “The Shed”, a super new banner depicting the proud image of Bobby Tambling was held aloft.

It seemed implausible that it was October and yet we had only played just five league games.

But the time had arrived for our next one.

“Let’s go to work.”

The game began.

Within seconds of the start, we witnessed a foraging run from Palmer, in the inside right channel, and he was allowed space. He ate up the yards. As he approached the white lines of the Bournemouth penalty area, and halted his strong run to reposition his mind and look for options, I asked Alan “where’s Frank Lampard when you need him?” which has become a somewhat sad rhetorical question that I have often trotted out since he departed from our team in 2014.

Despite four other Chelsea players in the box, including full back Chavarria, the ball was instead played back towards Henderson, in prime Lampard territory, and the new signing took a perfect swipe at goal from the edge of the “D.” Luckily, I was right behind the course of the ball and saw it swerve, perfectly, beyond the reach of former blue Djordje Petrovic. It did not matter one iota that the shot clipped the post on the way in. We were 1-0 up and barely sixty seconds had elapsed. I clicked as the unlikely scorer raced off towards the East Lower in reckless abandon.

There was a quick “THTCAUN / COMLD” from Alan and myself, and I checked my phone for a couple of messages. Before I had a chance to really pay much attention to our next move, I saw the ball work its way out to the left-hand side of the Bournemouth penalty area and it fell for Morgan Rogers to clip a fine curler towards the goal. I judged there to be a slight flick-on from the head of a Bournemouth defender. It did not matter; the ball curled into the other corner of Petrovic’ goal.

Fackinell.

We were 2-0 up after – what? – just over two minutes?

Alan doubted we had ever scored two goals so early in our one-hundred-and-twenty-one-year history. Don’t worry, I haven’t looked it up.

There was the slight worry of the goal being chalked off due to offside, but VAR didn’t spoil it.

Just after, I saw that Frome Town were 1-0 up in beautiful bucolic Dodge City thanks to a George Dowling strike against Sholing, whose squad had been bolstered recently by the arrival of Andrey Shevchenko’s son Kristian. Just four minutes had passed in that game.

Everything was rosy in SW6 and BA11, but being a typical football fan, we all knew that my two team’s opponents could easily put the kibosh on proceedings.

Indeed, in the fifth minute of play at Stamford Bridge, a rapid break down the Bournemouth left, and a ball that just beat an offside shout allowed Rayan a chance, but he blazed wildly over.

We, unsurprisingly, dominated possession, but I have to say that at times the reluctance to push on and move the ball quickly was a little annoying. Midway through the first half, the away team enjoyed a little spell, but we coped with everything. Despite the 2-0 lead, I found myself getting upset with bits of our play, whether it was a ball that was played behind a team mate rather than in front – meaning an extra touch, some dithering, and the disruption of momentum – or the lack of movements of players into acres of space.

Maybe they were all waiting for everyone to be perfectly set before Passing Play 78/e could take place.

With Bournemouth looking a little more competent, I semi-seriously muttered something about “this game going 2-2 at this rate.”

A shot from Henderson drifted wide.

Cole Palmer, an extended deal recently signed, was a joy to watch on many occasions during this period.

He just does things…differently.

Watching Chelsea without him over the past few seasons would have been so much grimmer.

On thirty-eight minutes, another tight ball through to Rayan that again looked offside – to Alan and me anyway – and the Brazilian sped onto the ball. His shot at goal was well parried by Martinez, and the ‘keeper – clumsily – saved the follow-up shot from Ryan Christie. The loose ball was hacked away by Chavarria. Late on in the half, Martinez saved well from Antonio Silva.

It was 2-0 in SW6 and 1-0 in BA11 at the break.

After the debacle at Brentford, this was so much better. At half-time, we were happy bunnies.

The second half began and Chelsea again got off to a storming start. A lovely ball from Acheampong on the right was swept forward to Neto, and I photographed the moment that he rode a tackle from Silva, gathered himself, then spotted the waiting Joao Pedro inside the box. There was another Lampardesque finish here, and I caught our striker’s firm smash of the ball that flew into the net.

Pedro Neto to Joao Pedro.

For Pete’s sake, we were 3-0 up.

We had played just one minute of the second period. And it looked like my worries about a 2-2 scoreline were unfounded.

However, just five minutes later, an archetypal defensive mess from Chelsea and the away team plundered a goal. A low corner from in front of the quiet away corner was not cleared. Caicedo hacked at the ball, but the clearance struck Evanilson and ricocheted into the goal.

Again, we endured a slightly shady spell. But thank heavens that Moises Caicedo was back in the team. His positional play really is impressive.

On the hour, Alan muttered “we are hanging on here.”

Thankfully, on sixty-seven minutes, a fantastic ball just down below me by Chavarria – full of earnest endeavour, full of running – was tee’d up beautifully for that man Joao Pedro to poke home.

Thankfully he provided me with some lovely moments to photograph as he ran towards us.

“Joao Pedro again, olé, olé.”

Beautiful.

It was 4-1 now.

Phew.

Just three minutes later, a free kick in a very good position, and I photographed the whole shebang. Firstly, Palmer and Henderson chatting. Then the dummy from Palmer. Then the strike from Henderson.

What a beauty.

Petrovic was beaten with an incredible curler.

The photos continued as the two Chelsea players ran away together, pointing at each other. This training-pitch gem had been brilliantly reconstructed on the Stamford Bridge pitch.

“Hendo again, olé, olé.”

5-1.

Lovely.

The Matthew Harding begged The Shed to give them a song, and they – quietly – obliged.

Xabi Alonso made some late changes.

72 minutes : Romeo Lavia for Caicedo and Marco Palestra for Joao Pedro.

The debutant Palestra instantly reminded me of Paolo Maldini.

83 minutes : Danny Welbeck for Neto.

84 minutes : Estevao for Rogers.

88 minutes : Malo Gusto for Palmer.

Standing ovations for all five from me, if not too many others.

In the ninety-second minute, Estevao should have made it six but his shot from close-in failed to force a save.

Sadly, down in Deepest Dodge, Frome Town succumbed to a ninetieth minute goal that gave Sholing – no Shevchenko junior, nor his watching father – a share of the points.

Not to worry. This had been a decent game in West London, and the three points – plus five goals – gave us all a welcome fillip before our travels begin.

Right then, how do I get to Merseyside?

The International Break : Game One – Frome Town vs. Plymouth Parkway.

The International Break : Game Two – Plymouth Parkway vs. Frome Town.

The International Break : Game Three – Frome Town vs. Willand Rovers.

The International Break : Game Four – Frome Town vs. Taunton Town.

The International Break : Game Five – Yate Town vs. Frome Town.

London Again, Olé, Olé.

Tales From A Night Of Firing Blanks

Posted on February 17, 2025 by Chris Axon

Brighton And Hove Albion vs. Chelsea : 14 February 2025.

Last Saturday, it was a case of “out of the Dripping Pan and into the fire” as Chelsea meekly exited from the FA Cup at the hands of an efficient, but hardly domineering, Brighton team.

As luck – or not – would have it, we were to play them in a league game just seven days later.

A trip to Brighton with three thousand close friends on St. Valentine’s Day?

How romantic.

As Friday approached, a part of me hoped that the management team could re-groove our appetite for creative and effective football during the week, but a larger part of me was resigned to the fact that our malaise would be beyond any quick fix.

I feared a repeat.

At least it wasn’t all about Chelsea on this sporting weekend. After the game at Falmer, I was going to head on to Bexhill-On-Sea to stay the night at my Sleepy Hollow Comrade Clive’s house, in preparation for a flit up to south-west London for Frome Town’s away game at Walton & Hersham at 3pm on the Saturday.

As I left work at 3pm on Friday – a very busy day of work, I had been up since 5.15am – it did not take me too long to realise that of the two football games on the horizon, I was relishing the latter rather more than the former.

During the week, on the Tuesday, there had been another trip to a Frome Town away game. For the second ever time, I made my way to Taunton Town. On a cold night, the visitors started slowly but quickly grew into the game. By the time the half-time whistle blew, a few Frome stalwarts found themselves agreeing with my comment that we had edged the first half.

The domination continued into the second period, and we enjoyed a couple of purple patches where we absolutely dominated the game. Half-way through the second half, we were awarded a penalty, but Albie Hopkins sent a shot low to the goalkeeper’s left that he was able to parry. Unfortunately, Hopkins could not nod in the rebound.

It ended 0-0, but the Frome supporters present were warmed by a very fine performance. The team rose to third-from-bottom.

There is a second part to the away game at Taunton, an addendum. On the way home from work on Thursday, I stopped for some provisions at a petrol station. I was sure that I spotted Albie Hopkins waiting behind me in the queue. I was to find out later that the Frome squad did some gym work that evening. It surely was him, but at the time I wasn’t 100% sure. So, I didn’t say “hello”. As I returned to my car, I wondered how the conversation might have gone.

Me : “You’re Albie, aren’t you?”

Albie : “Yes, mate. Why?”

Me : “Oh, I follow Frome Town. I go to a fair few games.”

And then it dawned on me that my immediate point of reference, since my mind tends to work in straight lines, would have undoubtedly been the game at Taunton on Tuesday.

Oh God, the penalty miss. Good job I stayed schtum.

When I left Melksham at 3pm on Friday, my projected arrival time at Lewes Railway Station car park was 6.15pm. There would be, just, enough time to meet up with the Mac Lads at “The John Harvey” once again before getting a train down to Falmer. This was the plan.

Unlike Saturday, the Sat Nav suggested the southerly option to the M3 before cutting across county. I was happy with this since I don’t honestly think that I could have stomached another spell of motorway madness for over three hours. I drove past Stonehenge, then onto the A303. I was directed off the M3 and onto the Hogs Back, and then south-easterly through some occasionally narrow and slow-moving back-lanes. On the B2130, I waited a while for a high Luton Van to extricate itself from a lane marked by overhanging trees, potholes and oncoming traffic. We were going so slow that it almost felt like I was taking part in a Chelsea attack. In the earl-evening shadows, I almost expected Robert Sanchez to appear behind me, ghostlike, and tap the rear windscreen, asking for directions out of the penalty box.

Shudder.

All the while, my ETA at Lewes was being pushed back.

Eventually I slotted onto the A27 just north of Hickstead and I had the finish line in my sights. However, the ETA was now 6.45pm, and so I contacted Mac to regrettably let him know that I would be heading off to the game straight away. There would be no pre-match meet-up this time. I drove past the Amex, atop the slight hill at Falmer and dropped down into Lewes. I was lucky to nab one of the last few parking spaces and then caught the train into Falmer. My friends Frances and Steve caught the same one and we muttered our dissatisfaction with last Saturday’s game, while hardly showing much hope for the evening’s re-match.

Yes, it did feel odd to be back at the same stadium so soon since the last game. I can remember two consecutive away games against Stoke City in 2015 – a gap of eleven days – but there were two home matches between those.

I retraced my path up to the entrance to the away end and made my way in.

Soon inside, I bumped into Paul and Andy – both from Brighton – and friends of mine since the ‘eighties. We all gave each other old fashioned looks as if to say, “here we bloody go again.”

The eighties…

Just over forty years ago, on Wednesday 13 February 1985, Chelsea travelled north to face Sunderland in the first leg of the League Cup semi-final. Sunderland had dispatched Crystal Palace, Nottingham Forest, Tottenham Hotspur and finally Watford in previous rounds – no mean feat – but I was confident that we would prevail, especially over two games. However, attending the first semi-final at Roker Park was always going to be a mission impossible for me, a student in Stoke, and I never even contemplated making travel plans for this match.

Looking back on those times, there is a certain regret that I never attended any of the three Sheffield Wednesday ties nor this first Sunderland semi-final.

After a glut of games – six matches in twelve days remember – there had been a blank Saturday before this match because of our elimination from the FA Cup, and so the payers had enjoyed a week away from competitive football.

This was the very first semi-final of any description that I was actively witnessing as a Chelsea supporter. I was a Chelsea fan in 1971 when we beat Tottenham in the same competition, but I was only six, and I have no recollection of being aware of those two matches.

On that day in 1985, I had morning lectures, then caught a bus up to Hanley to see “Blood Simple” at a local cinema. In the evening, I listened to the game on the radio. Our team?

Eddie Niedzwiecki
Colin Lee.
Joey Jones.
Colin Pates.
Joe McLaughlin.
Paul Canoville.
Pat Nevin.
Nigel Spackman.
Kerry Dixon.
John Bumstead.
Mickey Thomas.

Chelsea had a very healthy following up at Sunderland. The gate was 32,440 and we must have had 7,000 in the away section, the open Roker End.

My diary noted that Colin Lee played throughout the game with a heavily bandaged thigh. Alas, Joe McLaughlin went off after just ten minutes and was replaced by Dale Jasper. Sadly, it was not a night to remember for our promising young midfielder. During the first half, the youngster – asked to work alongside Pates in defence – gave away a cheap handball inside our penalty area, and Colin West slammed home the spot kick. Then, in the second-half, Jasper pulled back West and the referee had no option but to award a second penalty. Eddie Niedzwiecki got a hand to it, but West bundled the ball home after it came back off the post.

I remember watching the highlights on TV. I remember how cold it looked. Niedzwiecki played in tracksuit bottoms. Players slipped on the icy surface. Those who went have told me how bitter it was, and there were grim reports concerning the violence outside before and after the game.

Despite the 0-2 reverse, I was wildly optimistic of us turning the tie around in the second game against Sunderland.

As for the second game in 2025 against Brighton, I was inside the away seats with about twenty minutes to go. On Saturday it was seat 73. Tonight, it was seat 93. This meant that, unfortunately, I would be forced to watch much of the action through the goal nets, never an ideal situation. I was alongside Gary, John and Alan, all wearing various bobble hats. It was, again, a cold night.

Our team?

Filip Jorgensen.
Malo Gusto.
Marc Cucurella.
Moises Caicedo.
Trevoh Chalobah.
Levi Colwill.
Pedro Netro.
Enzo Fernandez.
Christopher Nkunku.
Cole Palmer.
Noni Madueke.

On Saturday, we had 5,900. Tonight, it would be 3,000. Again, Chelsea in all black.

The same routine as Saturday; flames, smoke, “Sussex by the Sea.”

At 8pm, the match began. Malo Gusto broke quickly down the right wing in the first two minutes and set up Cole Palmer, square and in a good position. However, his shot was well over. I groaned and wondered if it was a taste of things to come.

Despite many moans throughout the week about our poor performance on the previous Saturday, I was pleased to hear a decent selection of songs coming out of the away end around me in the first ten minutes or so. The Chelsea fans, at least, had started the game well. We had begun the brighter but then the home team had a little spell, and we needed to be on our toes.

On twenty minutes, Noni Madueke raced down the right and played the ball inside to Palmer. Sadly, we witnessed another poor effort; the shot was sliced wide. However, Madueke stayed down having twisted or strained something of importance and after a few minutes of treatment was forced to leave the field of play. He was replaced by Jadon Sancho.

Pedro Neto swapped flanks to accommodate Sancho on the left.

On twenty-two minutes, a beautiful, curved ball from deep from Palmer found Christopher Nkunku but the chance passed by.

Five minutes later, Bart Verbruggen released a rapid punt up field, aimed at the effervescent Kaoru Mitoma, and I immediately sensed danger. I happened to have my SLR to hand and although I did not capture Mitoma’s incredible cushioned first touch, I did capture him just about to spring past Trevoh Chalobah, who was the poor victim of Mitoma’s precise control. We all watched as he spun inside and struck a firm and low shot past Filip Jorgensen into the bottom corner.

Bollocks.

The home crowd roared. I looked over to where Mac was situated but couldn’t see him. He was, no doubt, smiling away.

On the TV replay, we wondered if our ‘keeper could have done better.

But there was one thing that was uppermost in our minds : “why can’t we occasionally hit a long ball like that?”

Ironically, straight after the Brighton goal, Jorgensen did hit a long one up to Neto, but he blasted over.

As the game continued, John reminded me that we had now played over two hours of football with not one single shot on target.

Fackinell.

Another shot from Neto but blocked.

I joked that it was nice of the Chelsea players to play a very high proportion of their passes right in front of us in the away end, venturing further up field on very rare occasions. However, I was bored rigid. This type of football might be statistically advantageous, but it gives nothing to the game as a spectacle.

Football is all about entertainment, right? Well, this rigid and dull conformity in our play does nothing for me.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

No change of pace, no individuality, football for robots.

If this is the future of football, God help each and every one of us.

On thirty-six minutes, a rare attack. There was a fine chip into the box from Nkunku out on the right and then a leap from the otherwise quiet Enzo Fernandez. His header dropped into the goal. This was met with a roar of relief in the away end, only for VAR to rule it out for a push by Fernandez as he jumped for the ball.

On thirty-eight minutes, Brighton advanced down their left flank through Georginio Rutter. His shot was deflected by Levi Colwill onto Jorgensen, who reacted well to save, only for the ball to find Danny Welbeck who then played in Yankuba Minteh. He found a yard of space and pushed the ball past Jorgensen, who was now on his knees.

Bollocks.

On forty minutes, Gusto had another off-target shot.

Our play was getting worse and there was no urgency. Our play wasn’t pass-and-move, it was pass-and-stay-still. I can’t see it catching on.

Just before the break, a load of spectators immediately behind me – about twenty-five perhaps – vacated their seats and I hoped that they would return for the second half.

At half-time, all was doom and gloom as the night got colder still.

However, Noel, who was a couple of rows in front with Gabby, proclaimed that he was still confident.

“That’ll be your toothpaste” I replied.

John, Gary and I were unconsolable.

“Worse than Saturday.”

“It’s worse than Saturday because there has been no fucking reaction to Saturday.”

“Nothing.”

“What has Maresca been telling them all week?”

“Fackinell.”

Thankfully, the supporters re-filled the seats behind me at the start of the second half, but…God…the second period was worse still.

There was a little gallows humour from Gary to keep me sane – “Nkunku has got balloons that have gone past their sell-by date” – but the football on the pitch was truly dreadful.

On fifty-seven minutes, at last a little teaser of skill from the otherwise woeful Palmer. He dropped a ball out to Neto on the right but the resulting cross only found a defensive head.

The end was nigh.

On sixty-three minutes, Brighton recovered the ball and started a move. However, I focused on Levi Colwill who had given the ball away but was now sat on his arse appealing for a foul to be given. I was fuming. Can anyone imagine John Terry or Gary Cahill doing this? The ball was worked out to Minteh. There was a one-two with the always canny Danny Welbeck, and Minteh advanced. My eyes flipped back to Colwill, now slowly jogging back, and I began venting. Before I could blink, Minteh danced past a gathering of Chelsea defenders who were showing the same lackadaisical tendencies as Colwill, and smashed home. One final half-arsed attempt by Colwill involved him lunging at nothing and it made my blood boil.

We were 0-3 down.

Bollocks.

I fumed at Tombsy.

“Did you see Colwill there? Fucking disgrace.”

Way too late, Maresca made three substitutions.

Reece James for Gusto.

Tyrique George for Neto.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Caicedo.

At least the youngster George added a little late vitality to the game, but by now the away end was decimated. People had left en masse at 0-3 and I warned the lads that I would be off at the eighty-minute mark.

My problem was this. When I am with PD and LP, who both walk with sticks, we are allowed to “fast-track” to the platform at Falmer. Tonight, I was by myself. If I left at the end of the game, I would probably face an hour-long wait. In an ideal world, it would be Chelsea leading 3-0 and I could set off at eighty minutes a happy man.

Alas not. In fact, I left earlier still, on seventy-eight minutes. For only the fifth or sixth time in almost 1,500 games I left early. I felt awful ascending those steps to the exits.

Outside, the night bit me. To keep myself warm, I raced down the slope, and it seemed that my exit strategy was working. There were few people ahead of me.

Thankfully, just as I approached the final ramp at the station, the 2146 train pulled in. By 2153 I was back at Falmer. By 2245 I was back at Clive’s house in Bexhill-On-Sea.

Clive would soon confirm that we had not managed a single shot on target the entire game.

Yes, dear reader, we had been firing blanks on St. Valentine’s Day.

Clive and I endured a typical post-mortem, and it was dominated by negatives.

The only positive was that I was off to see Frome Town the next day.

1985 : Chelsea

2025 : Frome Town

Tales From The First Day Of Autumn

Posted on September 4, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Crystal Palace : 1 September 2024.

Since we last spoke…

…two Frome Town matches.

On Bank Holiday Monday, a healthy 738 assembled at Badgers Hill, but the home team unfortunately went down 0-2 to our cross-county rivals Taunton Town. Frome weren’t outclassed but just lacked a killer punch in front of goal. Of note in this game was the return of Jayden Nielsen, who Frome signed from Bristol Manor Farm in the summer – a top signing in my opinion – but who then returned to his former club after only a few friendlies as a Frome player. Lo and behold, the player then quickly signed-for Taunton Town after only a few games for Manor Farm. I can only hope that Jadon Sancho has a bigger impact at Chelsea than Jayden Nielsen at Frome Town.

On the Saturday before the Crystal Palace match, I drove through the shires of Southern England to attend the FA Cup game at Easington Sports, who sound like a Sunday pub team and play in Banbury. They had defeated Bristol Manor Farm, of all teams, in the previous round and so would not be taken lightly. Frome conceded early, but equalised via a nice lob from striker James Ollis. Despite several excellent goal-scoring chances in the second-half, the away team could not put the game to bed. A replay would take place on the Tuesday after the Crystal Palace game.

The new season has been tougher than we had hoped at Frome Town but I am undoubtedly enjoying the games. They bring me great pleasure.

With games in August and September over one weekend, it seemed like I would be taking a footballing journey from summer into autumn. Whereas the Saturday match involved a journey through new pastures, new roads – some of them bumpy – and a new ground, not to mention sightings of detectorists and steam engine enthusiasts, and a few other Bank Holiday oddballs, the Chelsea game at home to Crystal Palace on the Sunday seemed very normal. With a 1.30pm kick-off, there would be another early start for us, but we still love our Chelsea trips even after all these years.

I dropped PD and Parky off at the bottom end of Fulham and then parked up near Normand Park. I darted into the “Memory Lane Café” at the bottom of the North End Road for a quick bite to eat. I have decided to keep my forty-year retrospective look at 1984/85 going throughout this season, but will tend to concentrate on the twenty-two games that I saw in person during that memorable campaign.

By the time of the first day of September in 1984, I had seen Chelsea play three games that season. I have briefly detailed the friendly at Bristol City and I have far-from-briefly mentioned the league opener at Highbury in the last edition. The next game to talk about is our home opener against Sunderland, complete with former Chelsea winger Clive Walker, which took place on 27 August, another Bank Holiday game.

After the tumultuous events of the Saturday game at Arsenal, here was another long-awaited occasion; our first match in England’s top flight since a home game against Arsenal – another 1-1 draw – in May 1979. I travelled up with my parents for this one – my father drove – and I paid for the three West Stand tickets at £6 a pop. I had worked all summer long in my first-ever job – packing yogurt at a local dairy – and so must have been feeling flush. My diary informs me of a couple of things that I have long forgotten. My father evidently bought us a couple of small lagers in the old West Stand bar – that long room at the south-western corner – and our small instamatic camera, that I obviously wanted to use to capture the historic occasion, unfortunately chose not to work, though this was probably because my father had dropped it on at least two occasions during the day. If only I had a photo of my father and I from that moment, supping on lagers, making small talk, having a giggle. It would have been priceless.

Our seats were very close to the sprawling North terrace, half-way down. I popped down to say “hello” to the four lads that we had met on The Benches during the latter part of 1983/84, and it thrills me to say that I am in contact with all of them to this day.

Alan – he sits next to me at all our games, we go everywhere.

Paul – I see him at a couple of times each season.

Mark – I see him at loads of games each season, he goes everywhere.

Leggo – I saw him at Luton last season, and we talk a lot about Frome Town and Bedford Town.

A helicopter – how flash – arrived on the pitch before kick-off with the Second Division Championship trophy, and it was thrilling to see John Neal smiling as he held it. Alas, the gate was only 25,554, and I was expecting at least 30,000. Sunderland had around five-hundred in one pen. Apparently we gave the returning Walker a fine reception.

There is a photo of Stamford Bridge on this day, no doubt from the helicopter, that often appears on the internet and it’s a real beauty, showing the shape of the stadium at that time. We took the lead early in the game when Paul Canoville shook off two defenders and touched the ball past the on-rushing ‘keeper, the ball only just making it over the line. Kerry Dixon had a goal cancelled for offside and Canoville then hit the bar. Our play weakened in the second-half, but I reported that my man of the match was Colin Lee, resolutely defending at right-back. Forty years on there is still a feeling of disappointment that we couldn’t breach the 30,000 barrier for this match.

One thing is for certain; my diary was not full of the myriad of nerdisms that followers of football now earnestly use as they describe modern football. No overloads, no pockets of space, no low blocks, no high lines, no high presses, no patterns of play, no transitions, no turnovers, no re-cycling.

It was a simpler game in 1984, undoubtedly more naïve, but I bloomin’ loved it.

On the return journey, we stopped off for more small beers at “The Pelican” pub on the A4, and another “Axon Family Chelsea Day Out” was in the books. Looking back, with hindsight, there wouldn’t be too many more over the years; a handful, maybe Arsenal at home 1987, Wednesday at home 1987, Swindon away 1988, Charlton 1988, Everton 1991. But these are just lovely memories from forty-years ago. Just to be able to share a lager with my Dad once more…at Chelsea. Bliss.

To complete the 1984 story, on the following Friday, on the last day of summer, Chelsea played Everton in an evening game at Stamford Bridge. I did not attend, but my diary tells me that I travelled in to Frome to watch the game – it was live on TV, a treat – at a mate’s house. Again, I was disappointed by the attendance – just 17,734 – as Everton, playing in swish silver Le Coq Sportif shirts – won 1-0 with a goal from Kevin Richardson. Later that night, in the pubs of Frome, I bumped into Glenn who was wearing a Pierre Cardin roll-neck that he had purchased for £3 “off the back of a lorry.”

Fackinell.

Forty years on from these seminal moments in our lives, we had all assembled in the pubs, bars and cafes around Stamford Bridge once again. I had a little flit around the stadium before going down to the local. Dave – another of The Benches “crew” from 1984 – dropped in to see LP, PD, Salisbury Steve and little old me at “The Eight Bells” and we had a lovely pre-match for a couple of hours. We discussed the Europa Conference draw and especially the three away trips. All of our eyes are locked on an away day to Kazakhstan, with Greece a possibility and Germany unlikely. Dave saw the team and set me up for guessing it.

“It’s the team most of us would pick.”

I guessed it correctly, apart from me forgetting we had signed Pedro Neto and opting for Mykhailo Mudryk instead.

Sanchez

Gusto – Colwill – Fofana – Cucarella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

With industrial action taking place, we then had to wait a while to catch a delayed train from Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway. We got in just before the teams entered the pitch. Before I knew it, I was at my seat alongside PD – alas no Clive nor Alan on this occasion – and the players were soon doing their pre-match huddling.

The game began. Bright sunshine. Yet the floodlights behind both goals were on; answers on a postcard. Three-thousand away fans, one flag – “Whyteleafe Palace” – and not too many empty seats anywhere after the late arrivals finally settled.

The first fifteen minutes all belonged to us. We played some decent progressive stuff. Cole Palmer was the first player to go close, curling a sweet low shot just past the far post that I managed to catch on my pub camera. The appearance of my “reserve camera” was all due to the weather. I have no need for a jacket on hot days like these, so there was no way to smuggle my usual SLR in. Have I told you all how much I adore modern football?

Adam Wharton, who apparently plays for England, forced a save from Robert Sanchez on fifteen minutes.

“Ah, I see Will Hughes, the albino, is playing for them. I remember him at Derby years ago.”

On twenty-one minutes, Wesley Fofana’s long ball – good, let’s switch our ways to attack – found Noni Madueke and he advanced into the box, but with defenders chasing him, he was unable to replicate a successful prod like Paul Canoville’s from forty years ago. The ball skidded past the far post.

Just after, Neto to Enzo and a lovely lofted ball towards Madueke, whose clip on the volley was well-saved by the Palace ‘keeper Dean Henderson. Brilliant football.

Then, twenty-five minutes in, a great move. Levi Colwill won possession deep in his own half and released Madueke on the right. He raced past his man, advanced, and steered the ball inside to Palmer. I shouted “Jackson’s free” and he must have heard me. A pass to our striker and a neat finish at the far post. The linesman kept his flag down. I instantly dismissed the threat of VAR.

I punched the air.

“GET IN.”

Half-way through the half, a drinks break.

Two cold lagers with my Dad would have been lovely.

There was more decent play from us as the first period continued. I noted how Neto was hugging the left touchline, but was probably underused. A lot of our attacks came down the right.

On forty minutes, there was a fine through ball from a Palace player – Hughes I think – that was beautifully cut out by Madueke in his own box. The ball was collected and played inside to Colwill who was striding into the midfield. In a split second I thought of the phrase of “Total Football” and I had visions of Ruud Krol playing right-half while Johann Cruyff covered him. The ball was played from deep right to far left, and the move was a joy to watch. It all ended with a cross from the left and a header from Jackson which was saved by Henderson. Alas, no goal, but the move of the match.

PD was purring; “brilliant.”

It had been a good half of football, no doubt. It warranted more than the one goal.

There were none of the usual moans at half-time in The Sleepy.

These were saved for the opening moments of the second-half when Hughes, already booked, pulled down the advancing Palmer in a central position. No second yellow. The resulting free-kick, on film, drew another fine save from Henderson, arching his back to tip it over. From the corner, Colwill headed down and wide, clawed away by Henderson, also on film.

From that moment, our play fell apart and we looked a poor shadow of ourselves. The away team got going and we looked second best.

Rob, from Melksham, had joined us in the second period, and he commented “we’ll need to score two or three to win this.”

On fifty-three minutes, Wharton shimmied into the box, and the ball rebounded out to Cheick Doucoure. His shot was blocked by Fofana but the ball fell nicely to Eberechi Eze, who immaculately dispatched a curler into the goal, past the despairing dive of Sanchez, who quite possibly was reacting to a shot five minutes earlier. Anyway, he was late for this one too.

It was 1-1.

Bollocks.

The Stamford Bridge crowd – quiet, of course – at least responded with a defiant “CAREFREE” but then went back to our normal noise levels and our normal behavioural patterns.

I have grimly noticed, especially at home games where I am almost always sat, that my watching position at Chelsea games these days is often with my arms semi-crossed, with one arm up to my chin, looking like a prize knobhead, like a connoisseur at an art gallery or museum, or an adjudicator at an intensive interview session, or a chess player awaiting the next move from an opponent.

What a prick.

What have I become?

“Just old, mate.”

At least I wasn’t holding a pair of glasses in my hand and chewing on the tips like an ultimate art gallery wanker.

I wish I was more animated and involved but football these days can invariably be a dull sport and a dull spectator sport.

Pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass.

Thank God for the odd moments of spontaneity, of intuition, of grace and beauty, those moments that get us agitated and off our seats.

The game grew scrappy. The rangy Palace attacker Jean-Phillipe Mateta was developing quite a battle with either or both of our centre-halves. I like a good old-fashioned battle.

On 58 minutes, a substitution.

Joao Felix for Neto, quieter now.

We were exposed on a couple of occasions as Palace ran at us.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the injured Malo Gusto.

This necessitated a shift in personnel that took me too many damn minutes to work out.

“Can you buggers stand still for a minute?”

On seventy-six minutes, another rapid Palace break and the ball was played inside to Daichi Kamara. His powerful shot was hit straight at Sanchez, but it appeared that his butter fingers had lost the ball. Thankfully, there had been enough of a block for the ball to deflect over. Phew.

Felix floated around but flattered to deceive. Palmer was crowded out and forced to come deep for the ball. He would later, in frustration, kick the ball against the hoardings and get booked. It was one of those days.

On 74 minutes, a substitution.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke.

The game continued on, and we all grew nervous. What had happened to the Chelsea from 1.30pm to 2.15pm? Enzo, who started well, had been a metaphor for our demise.

In the eight minutes of extra-time, the game came to life. Eze went close but Cucarella blocked. Then, Nkunku raced forward centrally and passed to Jackson who smashed the ball against the side netting.

Late on, a beautifully clipped ball from Enzo in his own half was played ahead of Jackson. He raced in on goal but his shot – on film, just – was parried by Henderson.

Bollocks.

So, a weekend of 1-1 draws.

Next up, Bournemouth away at 8pm on a Saturday night, but before that there will be four Frome Town games in 2024 and two Chelsea games in 1984.

See you there, or then.