Chelsea vs. Woverhampton Wanderers : 8 November 2025.

Rarely would a day be as totally devoted to football as this one.

When I went to bed on the Friday, I knew that as soon as I woke up, I would be on a conveyor belt of football-related activities that would last the whole day.

There would be a breakfast with my good friend Courtney from Chicago, visiting for a Frome Town game, then a blog to finish off, then a Frome Town game at 3pm, then a drive to London for a Chelsea game in the evening. And heaven knows what time I would be home from that.

During the week there had been, of course, the game in Baku and it was bittersweet to see so many friends travelling over for the match with Qarabag while I remained in England.

To coin a phrase from the Falklands War, “I counted them all out, and I counted them all back.”

Everyone enjoyed the trip by the look of it.

I was awake at 6.45am, and I drove into Frome to collect Courtney for a breakfast at one of the Farm Shops that have evolved over recent years in the local area. We chatted over a breakfast that included black pudding and Bubble & Squeak, and Frome Town was the dominant topic rather than Chelsea. It wasn’t surprising. He is, after all, the Frome Town chairman. Courtney had hoped that our game with Wolverhampton Wanderers would be shunted to the Sunday so he could attend two matches during his very short stay, but it wasn’t to be.

On the way back to Frome, I drove through a few local villages to give Courtney a taste of the local scenery. We drove past the majesty of the George pub at Norton St. Philip – built in the fifteenth century – and saw the stocks on the village green at Faulkland, then on into Frome via Hardington and Buckland Dinham, with the autumn colours giving a vibrant backdrop to our journey, and with a pure blue sky above.

Once I was home, I finished off the “match section” of the Tottenham blog after editing the photos and typing out the “pre-match” a few days before. As ever, it took me between three and four hours to complete the entire thing.

I eventually posted it at just after midday.

It was at this time that my usual match-going colleagues – PD and LP – were arriving in London at Paddington. They had made their own way up and were going on a mini pub crawl with “Greek” and “Salisbury” before the match and were then coming home with me.

I arrived earlier than usual at Badgers Hill, at around 1.45pm. It was still a beautiful day, no clouds above, and I was able to stop and chat to a nice selection of friends – a couple I met back in 1978 – and match-going acquaintances before the game with Hartpury. The visitors represent Hartpury College in Gloucestershire, and this was our first-ever meeting.

I was hoping for a gate of around 500 for this game. The two games before drew 525 and 514.

Before the match, the crowd quietened and the players of both teams stood in the centre circle. A bugler played “The Last Post” and this was followed by two minutes of pristine silence. I stood, head bowed, near the corner flag.

I was pleased that Courtney was able to witness this moment.

Of course, there is a special link with Chelsea Football Club and the recognition of remembering those lost in conflict, and I hoped that I would arrive at Stamford Bridge later that evening to witness the pre-match ceremony. If not, at least I had this.

Unfortunately, the first half of the game was a very scrappy affair and not many chances were created for either side. I thought the visitors shaded the first half-an-hour, but Frome slowly improved. I photographed a header from Albie Hopkins that brought a fine save from former Frome ‘keeper Seth Locke. We watched the first half from the Clubhouse End but switched to see the second half in The Cowshed along the side. Courtney chose to watch from the Clink End alongside the Ultras’ flag that bears his name.

I love the many little parts that make up Badgers Hill, all with their own little quirks and charms.  

My Chelsea mate Glenn appeared to watch the second half with my gaggle of Frome mates, and we were rewarded with a much-improved second half showing. We turned the screw as the game continued and played the last half-an-hour with three strikers. Although we went close, that all-important goal wouldn’t materialise.

It stayed at 0-0 and the gate was just shy of my target; 495.

It meant that Frome Town were in third place in the league but were top of the attendances by some margin.

Frome Town 473

Melksham Town 379

Westbury United 327

Malvern Town 311

Portishead Town 306

I met up with Courtney, with Glenn by my side, at the end of the game, just before I left the stadium.

“Well, I just wish both of you could hop into my car and we could go to Chelsea tonight, but…”

My voice trailed off.

I pulled away from the Selwood School overflow carpark dead on 5pm.

I was on my way east.

My GPS signalled that I would roll in at about 7.20pm.

“Perfect.”

On the drive to London, I half-listened to the Sunderland vs. Arsenal game. There were intermittent reports from Twickenham and the England vs. Fiji rugby union game, and after each one I belted out “no one cares.”

At around 6.30pm, I found myself driving right past Twickenham, and I certainly didn’t care.

When Arsenal went 2-1 up, I turned the radio off.

Traffic slowed a little, and I wasted a few minutes finding somewhere to park, but at 7.30pm I was parked on Barons Court Road opposite West Kensington tube station.

Despite my best efforts – and with speed limits always honoured – I reached the Matthew Harding Stand at 8pm. When I reached the turnstile, there were only four people behind me. However, I didn’t reach my seat until 8.07pm, thus missing the minute of silence, and the kick-off.

PD was happy to see me as I sidled past.

I would soon learn that we had got off to a very decent start.

I would also find out that a very late Sunderland equaliser had spoiled Arsenal’s day out in the North-East.

Right. I needed to acclimatize.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Joao Pedro – Garnacho

Delap

This was our second game against the Wanderers from Wolverhampton in ten days, but since the last match they had dispensed with their manager, and were now being coached by committee, one of whom could well have been their coach driver.

With just two points on the board this season, it felt like they were down already. Their team was largely unfamiliar to me; here was an ensemble of whoevers, whatevers, and even a Hoever on their subs bench.

Well dear reader, despite the apparently decent start, as soon as I plonked my ‘arris on Seat 369, the game went to pieces. It was if it was my punishment for arriving unfashionably late.

So, for this, I am truly sorry.

The game meandered along at a very leisurely pace.

One incident on twenty minutes summed up my frustration and the frustrations of those around me. The ball was just outside our box after a tepid Wolves foray into our half, and Enzo was on the ball, centrally. I looked up to see Pedro Neto, right on the halfway line, holding his position, but ready to bust into acres of space, his marker tucked inside.

I yelled out “hit him Enz’, it’s in your locker.”

He ignored me – maybe I should learn Spanish – but chose to play trigonometry in the “D”, knocking the ball to a spare defender, who then played it to Sanchez; we favoured tiny triangles in the penalty box rather than a long chip into space.

How irritating.

“Fackinell.”

Thankfully, we then saw a flurry of activity at The Shed End.

Enzo crashed a bouncing bomb of an effort at the Wolves goal, but their ‘keeper Sam Johnstone tipped it over. From the resulting corner, Enzo’s inswinger was hacked off the line by a defender. We then hit the side netting with a shot from close in.

On the half-hour mark, the Matthew Harding suddenly realised that it is their job to support the team and a rather lacklustre and lethargic “Come On Chelsea” was heard.  

The play down below me was equally lacklustre and lethargic.

I mumbled to myself “the new Chelsea ethos – why take one touch when you can take five?”

There was a slightly more spirited show of support when an “Amazing Grace” rumbled around The Bridge but this was a poor game, both on and off the pitch.

In the closing moments of the half, Joao Pedro screwed a shot wide of the far post after an effort from Enzo was blocked. Alejandro Garnacho was the instigator of this chance, and he looked like the only one who was being a little more direct. Marc Cucurella was full of fight, but only these two seemed to be playing with much integrity.

Just before half-time, my Frome mate Steve messaged me: “another 0-0 would be cruel.”

At the break, I heard from PD about their four-stop pub crawl from Paddington to Fulham; seven hours of it. Gulp.

The second half began with Steve’s words ringing in my ears.

Two goalless draws would indeed be cruel.

In the first minute, a bursting run from Pedro Neto and a cross to the otherwise quiet Liam Delap, but his delicate touch went well wide.

Five minutes later, Garnacho and Cucurella teased an opening down below me. The former sent over a cross with his right foot, and I watched with pleasure as Malo Gusto arrived at the back post to head down and in.

Chelsea 1 Wolves 0.

Phew.

My rise to my feet for this goal was slow, and it honestly shocked me. Maybe I was just fed up I didn’t have my camera out to snap the goal. I made sure I took some of the celebrations. It was Gusto’s first-ever goal for us.

A strike from outside the box from Delap was hardly worthy of the name.

On the hour, the first shot of the game from the visitors.

On sixty-four minutes, a change.

Estevao Willian for Delap, and Joao Pedro was shunted forward. This warmed the crowd, especially in the absence of Cole Palmer; someone to excite us.

His impact was sudden. He accelerated past two markers and aimed a low cross towards Neto in the box – on film, but too poor to share – but the ball was deflected towards Joao Pedro. He slammed it in.

Goal.

Chelsea 2 Wolves 0.

Lovely stuff.

Wolves were faced with the choice of “stick or twist” and chose the latter. They opened up a little. On seventy-three minutes, an aimless punt was headed away by Trevoh Chalobah, and Enzo adeptly pushed it up towards Garnacho. This time, my camera was ready. He put the burners on and raced past his marker. As he neared the box, he spotted Neto inside. My photo is a little blurred, but I think it captures the moment. Neto slammed it in.

Chelsea 3 Wolves 0.

That goal could have been Pedro and Diego Costa in the autumn of 2016.

We were home and dry now, and the manager changed things again.

Marc Guiu for Pedro Neto.

The substitute came close, soon after, when Moises Caicedo won the ball back, and set up a move involving Estevao and Joao Pedro, whose shot was parried, and Guiu could only stoop and head against the post on the follow up.

If only Marc Guiu could be a little more like Mark Hughes.

Garnacho was on fire, and set up Guiu, but a shot went wide.

Two late substitutions.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Jamie Gittens for Joao Pedro.

On eighty-five minutes, a Cucurella error and a rare Wolves shot on goal.

Meanwhile, in the closing moments, The Shed occupied itself with some old-school chanting…

“We’re the middle, we’re the middle…”

“We’re the west side, we’re the west side…”

It would have been pretty funny if Wolves joined in.

“We’re the white wall…”

The game was won – well won – in the end, but oh that first-half, as at Frome, was so poor.

I met up with Parky for the first time of the day as I picked them both up on Lillee Road.

Sadly, traffic delays on the M4 and a diversion via the A4 meant that I did not reach home until 2.30am. I couldn’t even be bothered to check the photos from both games and shot straight to bed soon after.

6.45am to 2.45am.

Sixteen hours of football.

It’s a good job I am on time-and-a-half on Saturdays.

See you all at Burnley.

FROME TOWN VS. HARTPURY

CHELSEA VS. WOLVERHAMPTON WANDERERS