Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 4 January 2026.
So much to write, so little time. Let’s get going.
I was just finishing off the blog of the Bournemouth game when I heard that Enzo Maresca was to leave Chelsea Football Club.
It came as no shock to me.
In fact, I summed it all up to a few friends by saying that I was not surprised that I was not surprised.
Over the years, with increasing regularity over the last fifteen years, Chelsea managers do not last too long; even ridiculously successful ones such as Jose Mourinho, Carlo Ancelotti and Antonio Conte.
My thoughts about Maresca?
I had hardly heard of him when it was rumoured that we were heavily linked to him. I was “Maresca neutral” for most of his spell at Chelsea. These pages have hardly been a litany of praise, but there were moments when he seemed to be steering us in the correct position. I do remember one moment quite clearly though; over in New Jersey on that Sunday in July, with us holding a sparking new trophy, and with Maresca bathing in the glory, I did look at the smiles on the manager’s face and think to myself –
“I suppose I am going to have to start liking you now.”
But I was never a massive fan, though nor was I a heavy critic.
My relationship with the man was all rather tepid. I found it odd that – for an Italian – he seemed quite dull.
As the weekend approached, I had to get my head around the fact that there would be no Guardiola and Maresca battle at the Etihad Stadium on the Sunday. To say that I was not relishing the trip would be a fair summation.
But first, Frome Town were to play local rivals Westbury United on the Saturday. This game had certainly caught the imagination of the local populace. The two towns are a mere eight miles apart and the projected gated was between 1,000 and 1,500, a fantastic figure for our level. For me, the real bonus was that my friend Aleksey – from Houston in Texas – would be driving down from London and the dramas of SW6 to stay two nights in Frome to catch the game before then heading north to Manchester.
I met up with Aleksey along with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn – we met in 1977, our first game together came in 1983 – at “The George Hotel” on the Friday night. We then visited “The Sun “ and “The Blue Boar” and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. We spoke of Maresca – a little – and of Chelsea – a little more – and Frome Town – a lot more – and planned the details of the weekend. Alas, Glenn was unable to see the Frome game but would be joining us for the northern attraction later that weekend.
Alex and I were to meet at midday on the Saturday, and I awoke to see a sunny day but with cold temperatures. I was slightly concerned that there would be a pitch inspection at 11.15am.
At 11.45am, I was mortified to see that the game had been postponed due to one section of the pitch, under the shadow of a tall stand (and ironically with solar panels on its roof), that was rock hard.
What a horrible shame. I was desolate. And I had to conjure up a “Plan B” for the day. I collected Aleksey, who was very pragmatic about things, and soon decided to take advantage of the stunning winter sun by going on what I called “The No Bloody Frome Town Game Pub Crawl.”
Over five hours we hit five pubs in the surrounding area of the town.
“The George” at Norton St. Phillip, a pub which dates from 1390.
“The Bell” at Buckland Dinham, a village where my maternal grandmother lived.
“The George” in Nunney, a village close to my home.
“The White Hart” in Trudoxhill, a village where I often enjoy a Sunday roast.
“The Woolpack” in Beckington, a village where The Smiths recorded their last album in 1987.
We finished it all off with a spicy curry.
Sunday morning arrived, and I collected PD and Glenn in Frome at 10am, then Parky in Holt? Where was Aleksey? He was already en route to Manchester, keen to drop his hire-car off and book in at his hotel before meeting us at 2pm at a pre-planned pub, his eighth of the weekend.
We stopped at Strensham for a drink and snacks and I decided to post this on “Facebook.”
“I can safely say that of the 1,525 or so Chelsea games I have seen so far, I have never felt less excited than I do today.
I guess it’s some kind of madness that propels me to games like this.”
Was I being over-dramatic?
No.
My reasons were many.
The Etihad is my least favourite away venue. We rarely get anything from our visits. The City fans, who I didn’t use to mind, have become pains, especially those who stand in the area next to the away supporters, and I always seem to be close to them.
City are such a well-oiled team, and after us losing our manager a few days before the game, I was full of nightmarish thoughts about a proper drubbing.
One name; Erling Haaland.
Fackinell.
The kick-off time on this winter’s Sunday was not 4pm, not 4.30pm, not 5pm, but bloody 5.30pm. What a joke. If and when I eventually decide to leave this level of football and take my support elsewhere, I will look back on all of the myriad reasons that combined to make me take the ultimate decision, and “Sunday 5.30pm kick offs up north” will be a major building block towards it.
There was snow forecast during the day. My mate Tommie in North Wales informed me that snow had fallen over night and more was on its way. Additionally, there were rumours of quote-unquote “severe snowstorms” to hit the south-west in the evening.
So, there would be a risk of my projected finish time of 1am being slid – pardon the pun – back a few hours.
I had to get to work the next day for 9am, so I would be sleep-deficient, and my car was in for a service too, so God help us if the snowy roads meant that I would not be able to cover the last few miles along country roads.
And let me re-emphasise; we had just lost our manager.
Ugh.
Is it any wonder I felt so little excitement?
There was snow on the peaks of the Malvern Hills to our west, and as we neared Birmingham, we drove through a little light dusting of snow.
At 2pm, dead on target, I reached “The Kilton Inn”, an old favourite, near Tatton Park, just a few miles from the M6. This pub acted as a base camp for many of our trips to Manchester and the north-west from around 2004 to 2009, and it is, memorably, where Glenn and I, along with Frank – RIP – stopped for a pre-match meal on the way to Bolton in April 2005. On that particular day (one day, I will tell the story in full ) I had popped into Frome to buy a copy of the Comic Relief single “Is This The Way To Amarillo” to take to Bolton.
Why?
Peter Kay was heavily involved, and we were all massive fans of “Phoenix Nights” that was based in Bolton. I surmised that should we win the league that day, it would be the perfect musical accompaniment. Of course we won, what a magical day, and Glenn played it non-stop on the magnificent drive home.
“Claude Makelele waits for me…”
Back to 2026. Glenn and I wolfed down a roast beef special and we stayed until 3.30pm. Just before we left, I asked Aleksey to take a photo of us twenty-one years on, in roughly the same spot.
Ah, the passage of time.
And yes, that’s the CD in my hand.
There were now five in my car, and I drove through Manchester – very close to the location of City’s old stadium in Moss Side – and I dropped PD, Glenn and Parky outside the away end at around 4.15pm. I drove down the Ashton New Road with Aleksey, parking up at my usual place. Outside, the weather was bitter. The cold wind stung my skin. Good God, this could be an horrific day.
I took a few photos of the outside, including a new Sergio Aguero statue, then through the surprisingly easy security checks, and in.
We were all spilt up. Aleksey and Glenn were in the lower level, while Parky came down from his allotted seat in row 30 to join me in row 5 of the upper level, thankfully ten seats away from the locals.
The stadium filled slowly as the night fell.
Thankfully, I was warmer in the stadium than outside it.
A glance at the team that interim coach Calum McFarlane chose revealed no Sanchez, nor Fofana, which worried me.
Jorgensen
Acheampong – Chalobah – Badiashile – Gusto
James – Fernandez
Estevao – Palmer – Neto
Joao Pedro
We eschewed our away kits and chose royal blue. I approved.
The minutes ticked by.
My friend David, a photographer, who I met at Goodison Park a few years back had messaged me to say that he was at the game and was positioned just in front of the away fans. Glenn was in the front row so I wondered if he could get a candid photo of my mate at some stage.
The teams appeared, and I was happy with our support both in terms of number and noise. Despite the nonsensical kick-off time, hardly any seats were left unused.
“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”
Whisper it, but I had made a pact with the footballing Gods on the way up to Manchester that I’d take a 0-3 defeat. PD had predicted “a cricket score” and others, including Nick and Allie behind me had made a pact at 0-3 too. The 0-6 in 2019 still haunts me.
Just before kick-off, the lights dimmed. In a very moving moment, we remembered former players, officials, personalities and fans linked to both clubs who had passed away in 2025.
Well done City.
Marvin Hinton and Joey Jones were among the five Chelsea folk, while Tony Book, Denis Law, Wyn Davies and the boxer Ricky Hatton were among the Manchester City brethren.
I also spotted a Ricky Hatton banner to my right; surely the only banner in a UK stadium that depicts a non-footballing sportsman. He was well loved in Manchester.
The game began.
We started reasonably well and dominated the first five and maybe ten minutes. We nibbled at half-chances inside the City final third but did not create too much. A corner was punched away by Gianluigi Donnarumma.
The game took a while to get going and I was not happy to spot snow falling, but thankfully it did not amount to anything.
On nineteen minutes, the game crackled to life. There was a half-chance for Estevao after a run by Neto, but his shot was blocked by Josko Gvardiol. Just after, an even better chance fell to Phil Foden but he swept his shot wide.
For the rest of the first half, I saw a Chelsea team withdraw further and further back and I made a note on my phone of a litany of City chances.
27 minutes : Haaland leapt, but missed, the ball whipped past the left-hand corner.
31 minutes : Foden headed over.
35 minutes : Malo Gusto kept close to a City player to inhibit his ability to shoot, and it went over.
37 minutes : a superb save from Jorgensen from a deflected shot from Haaland.
38 minutes : we gave the ball away and Haaland smacked a shot against a post.
For us, there was the occasional break but we were finding it hard to support the runners. Enzo impressed me though, making his presence felt, and putting his foot in when needed.
40 minutes : Rayan Cherki blazed wildly over.
Just after, Benoit Badiashile lost possession, and I thought that as the move continued, there was a moment when he could have swiped the ball away, but he paused, allowing Rudolph Reijnders to smack high, and smack home.
Bollocks.
The home fans, quiet in the main, now sang.
“City, Tearing Cockneys Apart, Again.”
I was trying to convince myself throughout the half that we were in it, but the five or six City chances told a different story.
At the break, McFarlane changed things.
Andrey Santos for Estevao.
This enabled Enzo to move forward while Palmer moved wide. The two full-backs switched over.
On forty-seven minutes, with Chelsea attacking us, Neto had a great run but there was a lacklustre finish. Then, just after a very fine move involving Palmer who passed to Enzo. In turn, he adeptly moved the ball to Neto but his shot was slammed over the bar.
This was better.
We enjoyed more of the ball as the half progressed and the support acknowledged it. Regardless of the result, we were playing much better than I had expected. I felt almost embarrassed by my “0-3” deal.
On fifty-seven minutes, we witnessed a “force of nature” run by Haaland into our box but Badiashile – having an up and down game – blocked him superbly.
At a corner down below us, Reece James demanded more support from the travelling three-thousand and we responded.
On sixty-two minutes, two more substitutions.
Liam Delap for Joao Pedro.
Jorrel Hato for Acheampong.
We witnessed a couple of suicidal passes across our defence including a horrific mis-kick from the ‘keeper.
A City version of “Amarillo” was aired.
“Show me the way to Istanbul.
Rodri scored in the Champions League Final.
We’re Man City and we’ve won the treble.
The greatest team you’ll ever see.
Shalalala lalalala City!! Shalalala lalalala City!!Shalalala lalalala City!!
The greatest team you’ll ever see.”
Shalalala my arse. We had Bolton.
Delap was an immediate thorn in his former team’s side and after seventy-one minutes there was a fine break, and Delap spun but shot at Donnarumma.
A mention here for the City substitute Abdukodir Khusanov from Uzbekistan. For some reason, I really felt for him on his miserable debut against us last season, so far from home, and was pleased he had recovered emotionally.
City attacked us still, but less often.
The minutes ticked.
A City player broke after Santos erred but Hato robbed the ball with a fantastic sliding tackle.
On seventy-seven minutes, Delap ran alongside a City defender, a good old shoulder-to-shoulder sprint, but the City player just had a little too much speed.
A cross from Gusto on the right narrowly avoided two onrushing players in the box.
The City fans yelled : “We’re not really here.”
Actually, I was glad I was, for all my pre-match dread.
With ten minutes remaining, as City sang about United to the point of obsession – go figure – I kept thinking…
“If we get one now…fackinell.”
With five minutes to go, I said to John :
“About now, Kevin de Bruyne usually scores a cracker at the other end against us.”
On eighty-eight minutes, a lovely patient move but Palmer side-footed a shot at the City ‘keeper.
Six minutes of injury time was signalled.
“COME ON CHELS.”
One minute in, Gusto ran into the box but just fell, his legs weak. I felt for him.
Four minutes in, Gusto broke on the right. The away end lurched forward, as one. I snapped – with my pub camera – just as the cross left his foot. It was a bloody magnificent cross, low and right across the six-yard box. I could hardly believe that Enzo was unmarked at the back stick. I snapped again.
He lunged at the ball, mis-hit it, kicked it again, the ‘keeper blocked, but the rebound was tucked home.
EUPHORIA.
EMOTION.
ECSTASY.
I was giddy with excitement.
We live for these moments.
I snapped, again, everything a blur down below me. I saw Enzo jump into the crowd. I envisaged Glenn being swamped by bodies, maybe David too.
Unreal.
We had done it.
Bloody Fucking Nora.
I know I had seen hundreds of Chelsea draws and the club has drawn many more but on ninety-four minutes at the horrible Etihad, this seemed the most important 1-1 ever.
The game ended and I gave random people hugs, saying to a few “thanks for staying” as I noticed quite a few Chelsea fans left at 0-1.
Why?
The players came over to celebrate. Enzo was joyous. Reece propelled Calum to receive the applause he so deserved. What a turnaround. Both of these players, plus Gusto and Chalobah, had been magnificent.
Top marks!
Outside, we met up and we managed a team photo.
We slowly walked back to the car. We dipped into a “Kebabbie” with PD and Glenn munching a ginormous lamb kebab while Parky and I chomped a piping hot pizza.
Life was good.
We hit some snow on the M6, but I kept going.
In the last hour, I played “Music Complete”, New Order’s last album from 2015.
It seemed the perfect way to end this craziest of days.
With song titles including “Restless”, “Plastic”, “People On The High Line” and “The Game” it seemed even more appropriate.
Football Complete.
I reached home at 1am.
Oh, and David captured Glenn with Enzo and I think you will agree it’s a magnificent photo.
See you at Fulham.
David’s Photographs :
THE KILTON INN
THE ETIHAD
TEAM CHELSEA
APRIL 2005 AND JANUARY 2026
WE ARE CHELSEA
