Tales From Yet Another Loss

Posted on May 8, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Nottingham Forest : 4 May 2026.

It is amazing what one win did to my brain. That victory against Leeds United at Wembley, though far from convincing, was enough for the memories of the five consecutive league losses, without a single goal to our name. to begin to fade away. For a few days before our league match against Nottingham Forest at Stamford Bridge, I began to embrace the final five games of the season with a little more confidence. And on the drive to London, alongside the other two musketeers PD and Parky, I aired my thoughts.

“All of a sudden, I am looking forward to the end of the season. Two classic away days, including an end-of-season three-nighter on Tyneside for the final game, two home matches, including an enthralling home game with Tottenham on what could be one of the great nights in a long time, and a trip to the FA Cup Final thrown in for good measure. This one against Forest is the least exciting to be honest, but even this I am looking forward to.”

All because of a win; a big W at Wembley.

There had been an enjoyable spell in the pub before we made our way to Stamford Bridge by tube from Putney Bridge. We were joined by Ollie from Normandy, on his birthday, alongside his two mates Jerome and Franck, and also Brenda and Kerry from Kentucky. The pub was quieter than usual, but the laughs kept us going.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at 2.45pm, and it was time to check the team that Callum McFarlane had selected.

Robert Sanchez.
Malo Gusto.
Marc Cucurella.
Moises Caicedo.
Tosin Adarabioyo.
Trevoh Chalobah.
Cole Palmer.
Romeo Lavia.
Joao Pedro.
Enzo Fernandez.
Jesse Derry.

There was a full debut for young Jesse Derry after his fleeting appearance as a substitute up at Wrexham in the FA Cup in February.

His shirt was, in fact, number 55; a fine Chelsea number.

Between PD and I in The Sleepy Hollow, there were two empty seats with both Alan and Clive unable to attend. Empty seats, in fact, were dotted around many sections of the stadium. In the pub and on the tube, I had briefly chatted with the two Americans about the likelihood of an upgraded Stamford Bridge ever being realised, in whatever shape or form, and I mentioned my fear that we wouldn’t regularly fill a mega stadium. The debate about a whole stadium rebuild – or worse, a move – has trundled on for years now and I am beginning to wonder if I will ever see a change from us playing at the current Stamford Bridge in my lifetime.

The previous day, Aston Villa played a weakened team against Tottenham, and we howled. A day later, we all expected Forest to do the same.

Well, before we had time to settle down and get acclimatised to the players on display in Forest’s smart pin-striped shirts, we witnessed a calamity taking place around forty yards away. With one minute on the clock, Forest worked the ball to Dilane Bakwa on their right, and his inch-perfect cross over the heads of the two dithering centre-backs fell to Taiwo Awoniyi who leapt and headed cleanly past Robert Sanchez.

Fackinell Forest.

So much for a weakened team, so much for a little burst of optimism.

If I didn’t put my head in my hands, I surely should have done.

Sigh.

The game restarted, with spectators still finding their seats in the areas of the MHU around me.

With just two minutes on the clock, a small passage of play sent my mind reeling back in time.

Jesse Derry’s first touch of the ball at Stamford Bridge, and his subsequent spin away from his marker – pure poetry in fact – reminded me so much of Paul Canoville’s first-ever touch in his home debut, only yards away from where Derry skinned his man just over forty-four years later.

I missed Canoville’s infamous debut at Selhurst Park on 12 April 1982 but was present in The Shed when he became the first black player to play for Chelsea at Stamford Bridge on 8 May 1982 against Luton Town. He came on as a late substitute for Peter Rhoades-Brown, and my memory was of more boos – though perhaps not so intense as against Palace – from sections of the home crowd. Paul’s exquisite turn had me purring and must have caused twitches of annoyance from the bigots in the crowd that day.

I had been talking to Ollie about the size of the old Stamford Bridge in the pub, and I loved the fact that I used to be standing on a section of that huge sweeping terrace that someone stood on in 1905, in 1955 and in 1970, and all other years. There was a simple link to our past, and every other home game when I used to stand on The Shed, and although everything has changed so much since 1982, I like the idea that first Paul and then Jesse performed their home debut spins on the same patch of terra firma in front of the East Stand.

And, of course, all of this history would be lost should we move from the current Stamford Bridge site.

The game developed but it was not easy on the eye. We exhibited the same reticence to move the ball quickly and into space. The movement of others continued to annoy me.

On ten minutes, Enzo – who was looking the liveliest – took aim from twenty yards and stroked the ball at goal after nice play from Derry and Joao Pedro. The ball shaved the outside of the far post.

On fifteen minutes, another awkward cross from the Forest left, and a ridiculously stupid shirt pull by Gusto on Awoniyi and the referee Anthony Taylor awarded a penalty after a VAR review.

Igor Jesus converted the spot-kick and their players celebrated right under our noses by the corner flag.

Fackinell Forest.

Two minutes later, Palmer casually lifted a shot wide of the far post, and we all sighed as one.

Not so long after, the cheeky buggers among the Trick Trees’ support took the piss.

“Chelsea give us a song. Chelsea, Chelsea give us a song.”

The players on the pitch had given us nothing to shout about, and Stamford Bridge was deathly quiet. But it shouldn’t be like this should it? Our job is simple as supporters. It’s in the job title.

We carved a couple of half-chances. There was a deep cross from Gusto, and Derry volleyed dramatically over. Then, Palmer to Enzo and another shot from Derry, but a save at the near post from Matz Sels.

This, by and large, was tedious football, with nobody having the vision to pick passes. It wasn’t expansive. But such is the way of this tedious method of football these days. It is all so bone-crunchingly dull.

On thirty-eight minutes, a rare piece of skill, a beautiful drag back from Enzo but he couldn’t get his shot away.

Five minutes later, a penalty shout after Joao Pedro danced into the box and fell by the goal-line. Then, another penalty shout and a bouncer at goal from Gusto, easily saved by Sels. There had been a couple of Forest chances but we had been playing slightly better in the closing moments of the half.

Enzo took two corners back-to-back and from the second one, Derry clashed heads with Zach Abbot. Both players went down. A penalty was given. Derry had gone down before in the game, but he stayed down, here, for a long time. We grew concerned. The minutes past. After an age, he was stretchered off, the poor lad. His home debut had been full of promise, too.

Both sets of supporters applauded him off and he was replaced by Liam Delap, with Joao Pedro shifting left.

Forest’s Abbott went off too.

Alas, in the fifty-fourth minute, Palmer’s penalty was low and weak, and Sels fell to his right and parried the shot. Palmer was unable to squeeze home the rebound.

The first half eventually came to and end on fifty-nine minutes.

There were boos at half-time.

Fackinell Chelsea.

There was a chat at the break with a few mates. I sent this text to the chaps in a WhatsApp Group.

“Turgid AI shite. No imagination. No spontaneity. No freedom. Dull percentage football. Automatons. Sick of it.”

This is my main gripe with football these days. Regardless of how Chelsea play, and God-knows we have been dire of late, the over-riding feeling is a sense of football changing for the worst with possession football eroding the sense of fun and enjoyment at every opportunity. AI getting hold of football and squuezing the life out of it.

Chelsea’s form might continue to nosedive for a while yet, but our football and the football of others is just so dire.

On a few occasions during that first half, I just lost it.

“One of you move!”

“Move for each other!”

There was simply no dynamism and no flair.

Sigh.

I saw our number 6 on the pitch at half-time, and my mind instantly played a trick on me.

“Thiago Silva.”

It was, of course, Levi Colwill and he replaced Tosin as the second half began for his first game of 2026/27. Let’s hope he is fit enough for the Cup Final.

Five minutes in, a shot from Cucurella was so high that the pigeons on the top of the Matthew Harding roof ducked for cover.

Cucurella had been having his usual game; tons of chasing down, tons of tackling, tons of energy, even though he has a tendency to get caught out of possession. If running around like an animated Corporal Jones was a determinant of caring, the Spanish defender would pass with flying colours.

On fifty-one minutes, a clean break down our left – “don’t panic, don’t panic!!!” – and Morgan Gibbs-White was able to push the ball across for Awoniyi to tap in from close range.

I immediately commented “that is the ball we should be playing” as Elliot Anderson played the ball forward intelligently to Gibbs-White.

There was a VAR check for offside, but Awoniyi was on by the narrowest of margins.

Fackinell Forest.

The response from the home support was immediate and provided the loudest chant of the afternoon by far.

“FUCK OFF EGBAHLI – YOU’RE NOT WANTED HERE.”

I am not so sure any of the protests on the Fulham Road hit home with the board, but this direct messaging service provided by 37,000 Chelsea supporters just might do the trick.

Andrey Santos replaced Lavia, the sixty-minute man.

On the hour, Forest lumped the ball forwards and a brave Sanchez and a possibly braver Gibbs-White collided. Another delay took place. Both players were substituted after a delay of six minutes. I noticed that Sanchez, with his head bandaged, did not receive much applause at all, which was a bit tight.

He was replaced by Filip Jorgensen.

At the other end, Delap caused a bit of a disturbance in the Forest box by completely missing a cross, but the ball fell to Gusto who re-worked it into the six-yard box, and Joao Pedro stabbed home at the second attempt.

Alas, he was offside via another VAR review, by the narrowest of margins.

The Chelsea crowd sang “we nearly scored” and I didn’t know whether to laugh or bloody cry.

We had a couple of shots on goal via Delap and Palmer.

With all the delays, I chirped to PD that “this game could still be going on when we come back for Tottenham.”

By now, vast swathes of blue seats were visible around Stamford Bridge.

Nine extra minutes of injury time were signalled.

Lo and behold, in the dying embers of a horrible match, Gusto swung in a deep ball towards Cucurella who headed the ball back towards Joao Pedro. He controlled the ball with his chest, and bicycle-kicked to perfection. What a fantastic goal. I was hoping my photo would do it justice.

Well. it almost did.

The score was a little more respectable, but this was such a disappointing affair against a weakened Forest team.

I looked up at the slightly fading gold adornments on the high walls above The Shed and it all looked a bit pathetic.

“World Champions.”

By now, these banners look like those gory and gaudy gilt additions in The Oval Office.

Maybe, Boehly and Eghbali will start to plan the demolition of the East Stand and replace it with a huge ballroom to take the attention away from the horrific play on the pitch.

Fackinell.

Yes, I stayed to the end. It’s what supporters do. It’s in the job description. Thousands had fled the scene of the crime by the end though. Bizarrely, I clapped the lads off. Don’t ask me why.

Outside, I met up with Ollie, Jerome and Franck underneath the Osgood statue and I took a photo of them. They were smiling, I am not sure how, and I bellowed “jeux sans frontières” as I left them, and I smiled too.

Don’t ask me why.

On the way home, with Manchester City dropping points at Everton – bollocks – I took a quick look at the league table, and our current form shook me to the core.

L L L L L L

And next up, Liverpool away.

Oh boy.

See you there.

Tales From My Blackburn Scrapbook

Posted on November 4, 2023 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Blackburn Rovers : 1 November 2023.

Treacherous waters ahead…

But first, we hoped, a little respite in the form of a home tie in the season’s Carabao Cup against Blackburn Rovers. Here was a game that we should win, surely?

This was another early start for me; a 4.30am alarm ahead of a day’s toil that would allow me to pick up my three usual passengers at 2pm. We were all well aware that Storm Ciaran was soon to hit the south of England and so I hoped that the drive up to London would be ahead of the expected rainstorms and gales. I would, we presumed, have all of that to contend with on the return drive home after the game. PD kept saying that the rain was due in London at 9pm.

On the drive towards the capital, the skies to the east and the north were fine, devoid of much cloud, and all very pleasant. However, behind me, in my mirrors, dense grey clouds haunted us most of the way but thankfully did not hit us.

Already through to the quarter finals were Port Vale and Middlesbrough. Could there possibly be a case of me tempting fate by writing about Port Vale in my previous match report? Should we get through later in the evening, an away game at Vale Park would undoubtedly be my favourite draw. The last time we played them was in 1929, almost a century ago. Alternatively, Ipswich Town would be decent; Portman Road is a ground that I am yet to visit. Alternatively, an away game in Newcastle or in Middlesbrough or in Liverpool or in Manchester would severely test me. Ouch.

At just after 5pm, I trotted into “The Rylston” to join up with PD and Parky, who I had dropped off forty minutes earlier. They were with Salisbury Steve’s mate Sam. I ordered some food and we chatted a little about the club at the moment. I could not lie; I told the boys that I honestly wondered if we would – could? – pick up a single point from the next treacherous six league games. I stayed in “The Rylston” for an hour and then an hour was spent in “Simmons” where there was a little pre-match meet-up between some friends from the US. I enjoyed a natter with Nick from California, Tim from Texas and Kim from California. I left the bar just after 7pm and was amazed, but pleased, that the rain had not yet hit.

Tickets for this game were back at the £26 level. Well done Chelsea.

Blackburn Rovers, eh? It has been a while.

In fact, the last time that we had met them was the weekend before a certain game in Munich in 2012, a narrow 2-1 win. In that game, we wore the 2012/13 kit and I hoped that it would not be worn in Munich. I did not like the precedent of the 2008/9 shirt being worn in Moscow. On that day, we thought that we had seen the last of Didier Drogba at Chelsea. After the game, the FA Cup was paraded and Roy Bentley made the Matthew Harding laugh with his antics. It was a lovely day, almost dreamlike from this point in time in a little less optimistic 2023.

Blackburn Rovers were relegated that season and have been battling to get back to the top flight ever since. They suffered relegation to League One – I still like to call it Division Three – in 2016/17 but were promoted the very next season.

I used to like going up to Ewood Park. On a few occasions I travelled up with my Rovers mate Mark, including my first visit in 1994/95, a 1-2 loss. There was a game in 1995/96 when I watched with my mate Alan in the home seats when we lost 0-3 and we were immediately sussed when we didn’t spring to our feet when Rovers’ first goal went in. In more hostile environments, we would not have got off quite so lightly.

There was the Gianfranco Zola debut in 1996/97 when Chelsea completely filled the lower section of the away end, but also had some fans in the top tier too, a healthy 4,000 in total. A fine game ended 1-1 on that occasion.

There was a game that I watched with Mark in a hospitality suite in 1997/98 as guests of a supplier for the toiletries company that we worked for. Until the opener this season, it is the only Chelsea game where I have “gone corporate” and it was an odd experience. The two of us had watched a Rovers vs. Villa game from the same hospitality suite the previous season too.

I have been up there eleven times in total, but all at the redeveloped Ewood Park, none at the original version. I missed the two most famous away games up there in recent years; the 4-3 win in 1998/99 and the 1-0 win in 2004/5, both mid-week games and difficult for me to reach.

The last time that I saw a game at Ewood with Mark was in 2003/04. By then Chelsea were the un-loved money men where once Blackburn Rovers held that mantle. One wonders if the media would have been so against Jack Walker and Roman Abramovich had their monies gone to more favoured teams on Fleet Street. I think we know the answer to that question.

Arguably our most famous game ever with them was the FA Cup Semi-Final at Old Trafford in 2007, a nice 2-1 win.

Of course there have been plenty of games at Stamford Bridge too. The first one for me was the opening game of 1988/89 when our terraces were closed due to the near riot against Middlesbrough. On that day, just 8,722 saw us lose 1-2. Depressing times.

I also remember the last game of 1995/96, a 2-3 loss, but acknowledged by everyone at Chelsea as the game in which the fans played a major role in determining the next Chelsea manager. Glenn Hoddle was to take over as England manager from Terry Venables and according to the English press, Ken Bates’ mind was full of George Graham as the replacement. The Chelsea choir had other ideas.

“You can stick George Graham up your arse.”

We serenaded Ruud Gullit that Sunday afternoon. He was soon named as our manager. Job done.

I was inside Stamford Bridge at around 7.15pm.

Still no rain.

Rovers only had 3,000 having turned down the chance to have more. This surprised me somewhat. On the Shed balcony were two away flags. One simply said “Darwen BRFC” and I quickly messaged Mark. It is his home town. It was Mark who first spoke to me about Adidas designer Gary Aspden – himself a native of Darwen – about his collaborations with the sportswear giant and the Spezial range especially. It was his story which eventually lead me to tracking down Carlos Ruiz at his incredible shop in Buenos Aires in 2020.

Just before kick-off, a brief flurry of texts.

Chris : “Good luck.”

Mark : “Not expecting much.”

Chris : “That’s OK. Neither am I.”

Good God, that Rovers away kit was shite.

Us?

Nice to see Benoit Badiashile back in the team. Reece James was starting again. Enzo back. Jackson too. And “Les”. No Mudryk.

Sanchez

James – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Ugochukwu – Enzo – Gallagher

Palmer – Jackson – Sterling

The Rovers team included solidly British and Irish names such as Brittain, Hill, Carter, Pickering Wharton, Travis, Moran, Garrett and Leonard, whoever they were.

I used to be able to name the Blackburn Rovers team, nay squad. Sigh.

At least I recognised their exotic-sounding manager Jan Dahl Tomasson, who once briefly played for Newcastle United among others.

As the game kicked off, I presumed that the folk from Blackburn, Darwen, Accrington, Rawtenshall, Oswaldtwistle, Clayton-le-Moors and Ramsbottom would be singing songs throughout the evening about Burnley Football Club.

It’s their thing.

The game started.

Still no rain.

We were treated to a very rare occurrence at the kick-off as Enzo pumped the ball up towards Nicolas Jackson who got a shot in from an angle within ten seconds of the whistle.

It was a decent enough start, though it hardly got our pulses racing. Unsurprisingly, the away team were in no mood to attack and aimed to soak up pressure. Raheem Sterling, away in the far corner, cut inside and there was a strong penalty appeal as he tangled with a defender. Enzo then released James down the right but his shot was low and straight at the Rovers’ ‘keeper.

Our play deteriorated a little and there were some moans around us. Rovers tried to get in the game but their attacks were rare. The noise, even from the away support, was not great. The three of us – PD, Alan and I – sat with our arms crossed. We must have looked as grumpy as hell.

There was an easy save from Robert Sanchez down below us as Rovers threatened a little.

At last, something to cheer us up; we witnessed a sublime spin and turn from Cole Palmer on the half-way line. In fact, it was Palmer who produced most of the pleasing play in the opening period. His touch, skill and awareness was a constant treat. Enzo set up James again, and our right back advanced to find space but his low shot was drilled low and eventually wide of the far post. A fine shimmy from Enzo allowed him to create space but his weak shot was kept out by the Blackburn ‘keeper.

On the half-hour, a short corner was worked well – for once – and Conor Gallagher lofted a cross into the six-yard box. The ‘keeper flapped at it and the ball fell towards a Chelsea player.

I snapped with my SLR.

In it flew.

Who was the scorer? Ah, the returnee.

Badia – Badia – Bing.

We were 1-0 up.

Alan : “THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD.”

The Matthew Harding reprised one of its current songs.

“Todd Boehly went to France…”

I found it reassuring when I heard Alan solemnly comment that he refuses to sing that song. I refuse to do so too. I would feel uncomfortable singing that man’s name, giving him some sort of recognition.

I have already heard enough from Todd Boehly to regard him as a fool.

The away team mustered up a late effort on goal in a rather dull first-half, but Andrew Moran’s effort faded past Sanchez’ far post. Our ‘keeper had completed a couple of Word Search puzzles in that first-half.

At 9pm, as PD predicted, rain.

There was a slight scare at the very start of the second period when an early Chelsea attack broke down and Rovers attacked down the right. Harry Leonard just about kept ahead of the chasing pack but his shot was hit meekly wide, with the watching three-thousand away supporters no doubt trying to suck the ball in.

We improved in the second-half.

I loved an early through-ball that Enzo pushed forward early and into space. Two Chelsea players attacked the ball but the chance evaporated. But I loved this variation to the tap tap tap of balls being pushed around for the sake of it.

Sterling started to dazzle and he set up Enzo, who again left his shooting boots at home, a tame effort straight at the ‘keeper. It was then Palmer’s turn to shake off a defender with some fancy dancing, and he created an angled shot that flew over via the ‘keeper’s fingertips.

On the hour, the two players then combined, Palmer stealing the ball from a Rovers defender and feeding it inside to Sterling, who curled a fine shot into the goal, clipping it around the closest defender. It’s becoming his trademark goal. I snapped that one too

Get in.

[thinking : “Vale away next please”]

We had heard that West Ham were beating Arsenal, Newcastle were winning at Old Trafford. My mind drifted a little as I played with various scenarios. We had all admitted pre-match that getting to a League Cup Final, or even a semi-final, with this current team and squad in its current state of health and mind would indeed be something to celebrate.

What’s that saying about cutting cloth accordingly?

Once proud Chelsea, serial-winners, getting excited about a League Cup Final?

Yes. Absolutely.

It’s amazing how a – relatively – poor spell re-jigs expectations and aspirations. I think most of my close mates would kill for a stint in the Europa Conference next season.

A couple of substitutions.

Malo Gusto for James.

Levi Colwill for Badiashile.

We could relax a little now. Sterling set up Jackson who lazily blasted over. He was not having a great game. There was more trickery from Palmer and a low shot from outside the box. The ball took a deflection en route and hit the base of the post. A low shot from Gallagher went just wide. We were treated to The Sterling Show, with one mazy dribble into the heart of the Rovers’ penalty box drawing gasps from us all.

Two more substitutions.

Moises Caicedo for Jackson.

Noni Madueke for Palmer.

The away team broke through our ranks but the strong fist of Sanchez thwarted the low shot from the substitute Sigurdsson.

It stayed 2-0.

A much better second-half, with Sterling excellent.

On the walk back to the car, the rain continued, but the drive back to Wiltshire and Somerset was not as bad, truthfully, as on Saturday. However, the road near my house was even more flooded than on Saturday so I avoided it and quickly adjusted the last half-a-mile. I reached home at 12.45am.

Oh, another home draw, awaits us in the Quarter-Finals; Newcastle United.

Vale Park will have to wait until the Semi-Final.

Next up…groan…Tottenham away on Monday evening.

See you there.

1988/89

1995/96

1996/97

1997/98

2003/04

2011/12

2023/24

Tales From The Bluebrick

Posted on April 9, 2023 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 8 April 2023.

After the 0-0 draw at home to Liverpool on Tuesday, things only remained quiet at Stamford Bridge for a couple of days. While rumours swirled around about potential new managers – Julian Nagelsmann and Luis Enrique being the favourites – by the time we reached Thursday, one name from out in left-field gathered momentum.

Frank Lampard.

Really? Yes, really, if only as a short-term stop-gap to last until the end of this season.

At first inspection, though, this seemed absurd. Why would Chelsea Football Club want to re-employ a former manager only two years and three months after dispensing of his services in January 2021? However, this would only be for nine league games, plus a stab at the Champions League, so there would not be much of a risk, at least to my eyes anyway.

I mulled it over. I was soon in favour, though many weren’t. I reminded a few that it was for just ten games or so. Hopefully, the move would inject some high-pedigree Chelsea DNA into our under-achieving squad, but would crucially give Todd Boehly and his team a few months in order to assess all candidates and to choose, this time, correctly.

Yeah, I know. Thus far, Clearlake have not impressed me with their – lack of – football acumen, but I live in hope.

I explained to a few friends that the Lampard move was so ridiculous it was ingenious.

If nothing else, the remainder of the season suddenly became a whole lot more interesting. Deep down, I am hoping that Carlo Ancelotti, so poorly treated by the previous regime in 2011, might fancy another stab at Chelsea. If he gave Everton a go in 2019, maybe he would fancy us four years later.

Watch this space.

One last comment about Frank Lampard, for now. I always thought that it was horrible that we never had the chance to say “goodbye and thank you” to Frank as a player. His last action for us involved being substituted at half-time in a dull 0-0 draw at home to Norwich City in 2013. He was then sacked as manager in the middle of the socially-distanced COVID season of 2020/21. Both instances must have weighed on his mind. At least, come May, we will be able to say “thank you” in the right way.

Our next game in this seemingly tortuous season paired us with Wolverhampton Wanderers at Molineux. Glenn had volunteered to drive to this one, enabling me my first game-day drink-up since Newcastle away in November. I looked at a few options for a pre-match venue and soon settled on “The Bluebrick”, a modern pub adjacent to a Premier Inn, just a stone’s throw from the city’s railway station but also very close to the football stadium too. It is also one of two pubs that are designated for away supporters. It ticked all the boxes.

On waking at 7am, my main objective was to convince myself to indulge in a few rounds of lager later in the day rather than stick to my usual dose of “Diet Cokes”; I was tempted to avoid alcohol for this game as I honestly have not missed drinking at all this season. This has to be a good sign.

However, I suspected that Frank Lampard had weightier issues on his mind.

Glenn, along with PD and his son Scott, called for me at 8am and Parky was on board soon after. We stopped briefly at Melksham for a bite to eat then made a bee-line for Wolverhampton. The plan was to arrive at 11am to give us three hours of drinking before the game. Coming in to the city from the south, by-passing Dudley, was a familiar route. The last couple of miles took us through classic Black Country scenery; passing narrow streets, climbing over bridges that took us over canals, shuffling through industrial estates, past small business, a few old-fashioned pubs, but also a few converted buildings now housing modern businesses. Glenn reached our destination just a few minutes past the eleven o’clock target.

“Good work, mate.”

We arrived just at the right time and claimed a sturdy table and bench combo outside the modern pub building. It was located just to the east of the city’s train station, alongside some railway arches, on a plot of land that has been the scene of recent urban renewal. I used to travel through Wolverhampton by train from Stoke to London on many occasions, and I have a feeling that the site of the current pub is pretty close to an old “Mitchell & Butlers” – a local brewery – illuminated sign that I used to spot in the ‘eighties. I always used to try to look out for the lofty Molineux floodlight pylons in those days too.

Talking of the ‘eighties…

Although there is no game to recall from 1982/83 in this report, as we are playing Wolves – one of our opponents in both that season and the current one – it would be apt to look at the fortunes of all teams that have appeared in both seasons. This briefest of summaries makes for quite alarming reading.

Chelsea since 1982/83

Major honours: 21

Highest position : Champions in 2004/5, 2005/6, 2009/10, 2014/15 and 2016/17.

Lowest position: 2^nd in Level Two 1983/84

Crystal Palace since 1982/83

Major honours: none.

Highest position : 3^rd in Level One 1990/91.

Lowest position: 21^st in Level Two 2000/1 and 2009/10.

Fulham since 1982/83

Major honours : none.

Highest position : 7^th in Level One 2008/9.

Lowest position – 17^th in Level Four 1995/96.

Leeds United since 1982/83

Major honours : 1

Highest position : Champions in 1991/92.

Lowest position : 5^th in Level Three 2007/8.

Leicester City since 1982/83

Major honours : 4

Highest position : Champions in 2015/16.

Lowest position : 1^st in Level Three 2008/9

Newcastle United since 1982/83

Major honours : none.

Highest position : 2^nd in Level One 1996/97 and 1997/98.

Lowest position : 11^th in Level Two 1990/91.

Wolves since 1982/83

Major honours : none.

Highest position : 7^th in Level One 2018/19 and 2019/20.

Lowest position : 4^th in Level Four 1986/87.

What a momentous four decades, eh? And our honours do not even include the lesser-valued UEFA Super Cup ( x 2 ) nor the FIFA World Club Cup ( x 1 ).

The staggering piece of info here is that Newcastle United, always one of the best supported teams in England, have not won a single major trophy in forty years, and in fact their drought goes back to 1969, a period of fifty-four years. Additionally, Wolves our next opponents once dropped down to the old Fourth Division and are themselves trophy-less in these forty years too.

We had a grand time outside The Bluebrick. We were joined by many friends throughout the afternoon and the pints – of “Madri”, not “Diet Coke”, I buckled – went down well in the beautiful spring sun. Not too long into our stay, one young lad got things going with a “Super, Super Frank” chant and at one stage some old-school celery was flying around. I watched as one small piece flew through the air and hit me square on the forehead.

It felt like I had been chosen to be anointed by the Chelsea Gods.

Or something.

At 2pm, we set off for the stadium and I could not resist using the architecture of the old railways as a backdrop for a few photographs. Our walk took us under a railway line via a brief underpass and then over a canal using a narrow footbridge. Walking towards the away turnstiles, I stopped to chat with Neil Barnett who proffered a few differing opinions to mine regarding the return of Lampard.

There was just enough time for one more lager – a lovely “Pravha” – before reuniting with more mates. There was a riot of noise in the concourse. I hoped that the positivity seeped onto the pitch. I made my way into the elongated away section; my seat, alongside Scott, was way down towards the home fans in the once huge South Bank. PD was alongside Parky towards the middle. Glenn was away in the distance towards the North Stand. Glenn had visited the old Molineux with Bristol Rovers but this was his first visit to the remodelled version.

“The Wonder Of You” by Elvis Presley was followed by “Hi Ho Silver Lining” by Jeff Beck.

My jacket was draped on my seat; the temperature was rising despite occasional clouds. There were the usual flames before the players arrived on the far side.

I recollected my last two visits to Molineux. Back in August 2019, in the blinding sun, we put on a scintillating display under Frank Lampard as we won 5-2 with Tammy Abraham grabbing a hat-trick. Alas, in December 2021, in clinging fog, we stumbled in a desperate and dour 0-0 under Thomas Tuchel. You can imagine my thought process. Luckily, the weather was warming up.

Our team?

Frank Lampard chose these players :

Kepa

James – Koulibaly – Fofana – Cucarella

Gallagher – Kovacic – Enzo

Sterling – Havertz – Felix

I never really expected Mason Mount to start. I suppose that was a headline too far even in this crazy season; I am glad that Frank resisted. I personally would have preferred a 3/4/3 as I suspect would most. Who else was surprised to see Raheem Sterling start? Regardless of the formation, I just wanted way more aggression, much more passion, and an increase in efforts on goal.

Frank appeared in the haze on the far side. It was as if COVID had never happened. Just before play was cruelly halted in March 2020, we had beaten Tottenham 2-1, Liverpool 2-0 and Everton 4-0, and things seemed to be coming to fruition. I guess we will never know how that season will have ended up. But there’s no time for blue-tinted glasses; Fran’s managerial record has been hit and miss. Decent at Derby, mixed at Chelsea, mixed at Everton. The next instalment began.

What a let-down.

More aggression, much more passion, and an increase in efforts on goal?

It just didn’t happen.

In those insipid white and jade hoops, we attacked the South Bank in the first-half and generally had much more of the ball, but despite many corners, we rarely threatened Jose Sa – another Lavender Lad – in the Wolves goal. Our efforts on goal amounted to blocked headers, miss-hit shots and crosses zipping past knees, shins and ankles on the way through for goal-kicks. Joao Felix looked the only person who looked like he may or may not have been a top level player at some stage in his life.

The Wolves fans to my left were full of “rent boy” jeers.

The home team grew into the game as our early form soon faded. A few half-chances for them, but there was no real threat. Our attacking was as lethargic as ever. Sterling, away on the far side, did nothing of note.

A Mario Lemina effort from outside the box was blocked by Wesley Fofana. This was already a poor game of football. On the half-hour mark, a cross was headed out by Kalidou Koulibaly. The ball came towards Matheus Nunes, standing wide but just in the penalty box. A thought flashed through my head :

“This could go bloody anywhere.”

Well, it bloody well didn’t go anywhere. It was slammed with laser-like precision into the far top corner of Kepa’s goal.”

Fackinell Chels.

Just after, Diego Costa – still yet to score for Wolves this term – forced a save from Kepa. At this stage, Wolves were well worth their lead.

Just before the break, Felix – our best player I think – got a shot away, our first on target but it was easily gathered by Jose Sa.

The noise that had been present in the concourse before the game and at the start of the game had lessened and lessened. I commented to a friend in the break that this relatively decent set of players were proving to be as difficult to like as ever.

“Nobody can get a tune out of them.”

The second-half began. The sun was getting warmer and warmer. Thank goodness I had packed some sunglasses. But it was more of the same. More dull crosses, nobody making blind-sided runs into space, no movement up front, and nobody overlapping with pace down the flanks.

I hate to say it but it was as flat a performance as I have witnessed for ages.

I was so deflated that I only took twenty photos in that tedious second-half. I couldn’t even be bothered to make more than rudimentary notes on my ‘phone, not that anything was bloody happening anyway.

The support along that long lower tier soon petered out.

Reece James sized up a free-kick but it flew off target.

On the hour, Christian Pulisic replaced the hideously woeful Kai Havertz.

Wolves attacked sporadically but with purpose. We attacked more often but almost apologetically. It was as dire as it gets. A shot from Conor Gallagher after a counter-attack was blocked. The Felix effort in the first-half was the only one that Sa had needed to save.

My forehead was burning up.

On sixty-eight minutes, a triple substitution.

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for Felix.

Mykhailo Mydruk for Sterling.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella.

Our play continued to mystify, bewilder and annoy. I longed for a midfielder to spot James flying down the wing. I longed to see us chasing down second balls. I longed to see our players encouraging and cajoling each other to improve. I longed to see an occasional clenched fist.

This was bleak stuff.

We staggeringly picked up five bookings throughout the afternoon. Oh the irony.

It stayed 0-1.

I slowly walked out of the seats with no emotion on my face.

I met up with the lads and we slowly walked, forlorn, back to the pub. Glenn, bless him, had bought himself a coffee and had lined up four pints for us others.

There was the most solemn of most-mortems, but our spirits were raised when we called in, yet again, at “The Vine” at West Bromwich. There, I washed down my curry with a pint of “Thatcher’s Gold”, the eighth and final pint of my day.

Chelsea – it’s enough to drive you to drink.

We reached home at around 10pm.

May I wish all my friends a safe trip to Madrid during the next few days.

My next game is the home match with Brighton next Saturday; maybe we should steal their manager again?

See you there.

Tales From The Last Days Of Roman’s Empire

Posted on May 9, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 7 May 2022.

After the defeat at Goodison Park, the end-of-season run-in stared us in the face. Five games to go. Four league games and the FA Cup Final. Of the league games, three were at home with one away. It was all about finishing in the top four.

Over the past ten seasons, it is a goal that has been reached with a grinding regularity.

2012/13 Third

2013/14 Third

2014/15 First

2015/16 Tenth

2016/17 First

2017/18 Fifth

2018/19 Third

2019/20 Fourth

2020/21 Fourth

The two seasons of us not hitting a Champions League place stick out like two huge sore thumbs. It has been a pretty decent decade. And yet, the previous ten seasons were even more successful.

2002/3 Fourth

2003/4 Second

2004/5 First

2005/6 First

2006/7 Second

2007/8 Second

2008/9 Third

2009/10 First

2010/11 Second

2011/12 Sixth

The past twenty years has clearly brought an incredible and sustained period of success for us all. But with the Roman Abramovich era coming to an end, there will be continued question marks about Chelsea Football Club’s ability to remain in the lofty positions that we have become accustomed. When questioned about all this by a few non-believers, my response was always the same :

“Ah, it won’t really matter. I’ll still go.”

The next step in our fight to remain at the top table was a home match with the old gold and black of Wolverhampton Wanderers.

In SW6, there were developments.

Late on Friday, a photograph of Todd Boehly outside Stamford Bridge, smiling contentedly, appeared on the internet. Early on the Saturday morning – the day of the Wolves match – the club issued an official statement.

“Chelsea Football Club can confirm that terms have been agreed for a new ownership group, led by Todd Boehly, Clearlake Capital, Mark Walter and Hansjoerg Wyss, to acquire the club.”

So this was it, then. The last days of the Roman Empire were here.

Ever since Roman decided to sell up on the evening of the Luton away game and after the introduction of sanctions were imposed on the club on the morning of our game at Norwich, I have of course been concerned about the immediate and long-term future of the club. Yet I have not had the time nor the patience to delve too deeply into all of the options that may or may not be available for the club.

I implicitly trusted the club to make the best decision.

In the meantime, there were games to attend. Players to support. Noise to be made. The home game against Wolves was no different.

Pre-match was pretty typical. I stopped for a breakfast at a lovely old-fashioned café opposite Putney Bridge station. There was a heady mix of laughter and banter with old and new friends from near and far in “The Eight Bells” at the bottom end of Fulham. Andy and his daughter Sophie – or Sophie and her father Andy, take your pick – joined us for the first time. It really pleased me to see them walk into the already crowded pub. There was plenty of dialogue about the past, present and future. Sharing our table were three lads from Minnesota – Chad, Josh, Danny – and my old pal Rich from St. Albans. Five or six of the Kent lads sat at the bar. Steve from Salisbury was with us again.

We made plans for next Saturday’s Cup Final.

It was a fine and sunny day in SW6. Jackets were not required. We made our way to the stadium. At Fulham Broadway, I spoke to Steve about the Chelsea supporter who had so sadly committed suicide in front of a train in the evening after the West Ham game two weeks’ earlier.

What a sad, sad tale.

Up at street level, I stopped for a chat with a few Chelsea characters outside the “CFCUK Stall” which is a required pit-stop for many on match days. On the walk to the West Stand forecourt, I spotted Steve and PD scoffing a quick burger to soak up some of the pre-match ales.

This would be another gate of around 32,000. I had managed to sort out three spares for a few people. Our match day companions Gary, Alan and Clive arrived.

Clive, without knowing it I am sure, sported the colours of the long-time rivals of Todd Boehly’s Los Angeles Dodgers. He was wearing a black and orange Fred Perry polo-shirt, the colours of the San Francisco Giants. Rob, who sits behind me, and has a passive interest in the Dodgers, suggested he should bring his Los Angeles cap to a game.

Let’s hope that this US / UK tie-up – if approved by the powers that be – proves to be fruitful. I have a baseball past and my comment at this stage – there will be more, no doubt, stay tuned – is this.

In 1955, the Brooklyn Dodgers won their first ever World Series.

In 1955, Chelsea won our first ever League Championship.

I like that fit. I have often said that if the Dodgers still played in Brooklyn, I would be a fan.

Let’s just hope that Boehly and his chums don’t decide to relocate us to the west coast. The town of Aberystwyth, despite it hosting our pre-season training camps there in the ‘eighties doesn’t really need a Premier League club does it?

I hadn’t clocked the teams on the TV screens, so as the players assembled down below it was time to work it all out.

Mendy

Rudiger – Silva – Dave

Alonso – Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – James

Pulisic

Werner – Lukaku

I liked the idea of us playing two up front.

How ‘eighties.

Albert from the row in front spotted Petr Cech, all alone, in the underused executive tier. I snapped him. Soon into the game, Dave – at home – somehow knew that Todd Boehly was a few seats along. I snapped him too. Like Roman, a proper scruffy get.

It was all Chelsea, attacking the Shed, in the first ten minutes with the visitors hardly getting the ball over the halfway line.

There were two half-chances in that opening flurry. A shot from an angle by Werner but saved by Jose Sa. Next up was a shot by Romelu Lukaku at the near post but he didn’t get enough on it. There was a little weave from Christian Pulisic and a curler that drifted wide. We were utterly dominant.

On twenty-three minutes, we applauded the memory of Kyle Sekhon.

Rest In Peace.

By the time of the half-hour mark, Wolves were slowly getting a foothold in the game. Their fans were doing their best too.

“Fight, fight – wherever you may be. We are the boys from the Black Country.”

Our play had deteriorated.

A Werner goal was called back for a push. I heard the whistle so didn’t celebrate. Just after, we were up and celebrating a goal and doing the whole “THTCAUN / COMLD” routine. After the ball seemingly missed everyone, the lone figure of Ruben Loftus-Cheek at the far post nimbly slotted the ball in from a difficult angle.

GETINYOU BASTARD.

After a good few seconds – thirty seconds? – the ref signalled a VAR check.

“Ah bollocks. These things always result in a disallowed goal, Al.”

The review took forever. God almighty, how is that possible? It should be done and dusted within a few seconds.

No goal.

Pantomime boos.

The play deteriorated further. If the first-half against West Ham was a shocker, this was worse. With a minute of play remaining, the best chance of the game went to Wolves. There was a super save from Edouard Mendy from Pedro Neto and then Leander Dendoncker followed up by thrashing the ball over the bar.

Then, at the other end, the ball was played into Lukaku and he did well to spin and shoot low but Sa saved. Then, another Wolves break and another shot blazed over.

There were moans from me with Oxford Frank at the break.

“Not sure if any of those players out there today could even be classed as mediocre.”

The second-half began with us attacking the Matthew Harding.

Werner went close in the opening minute and then Reece James went even closer with a direct free-kick when everyone was expecting a curling cross.

On fifty-one minutes, Lukaku did ever so well to hunt down a ball and win it from a defender. He appeared to be tripped right where the penalty area meets the goal line. Play carried on and I was bemused. Thankfully the dreaded VAR worked in our favour.

Penalty.

Lukaku, with a small break in his run, slotted home.

GET IN.

Another “THTCAUN / COMLD.”

There was a fine run from Werner down below me but with Lukaku screaming for the ball AND IN SPACE, Timo lazily misfired elsewhere.

We were suddenly on fire. Just two minutes after our goal, a lovely ball into space from Pulisic FOR LUKAKU TO RUN ONTO and a sweet and easy finish. Just bloody lovely. Lukaku sprinted away. I caught his jump. Happy with that. We were purring.

Chelsea Dodgers 2 Wolverhampton Midgets 0.

The MHL chanted to the West Stand.

“Boehly give us a wave. Boehly, Boehly – give us a wave.”

There was no wave.

Chances were exchanged. This was a much better half than the first. But it truthfully could not have been much worse. Thankfully the noise levels from our support rose too. With twenty minutes or so to go, there was indecision from Antonio Rudiger but Mendy saved well. A Chelsea break, but Sa saved well from Kovacic. A cheeky lob from Lukaku dropped onto the top of the net with Sa back peddling. We sung his name and he clapped back. If Chelsea is a conundrum this season, then our purchase of Lukaku is the biggest piece of the puzzle.

By now, we ought to have been clear and with three points in the bag. But that elusive pass still eluded us. In the pub, with Andy and Rich, I had said that we were a team of runners – Pulisic, Werner, Kovacic, Ziyech, even Kante and Mount to an extent – but we missed someone that could hit those runners with a pass.

Come back Cesc Fabregas.

On seventy-nine minutes, we lost possession and Wolves – who had been improving steadily – broke with pace. Francisco Trincao dribbled and cut inside.

I uttered the immortal words “don’t let him shoot.”

He shot.

The flight of the ball seemed to befuddle Mendy. It didn’t befuddle me; I was right in line with its bloody flight.

2-1, fackinell.

They continued to run at us. I fully expected a goal a few minutes later but Trincao saw his shot deflected just wide of the goal. A toe-poke from Raul Jiminez went wide. We were hanging on here.

Two late substitutions.

Sarr for Dave.

Havertz for Lukaku.

Odd choices in hindsight. Should we not have packed the midfield?

A massive seven minutes of extra-time were signalled. The substitute Havertz shimmied and slid a shot just wide of the near post. We were apparently chasing a third goal when three points were all.

For a team not known for its attacking devil-may-care attitude, this was odd, it was out of control. Who was leading the team out there? Who were the talkers? Who was taking charge?

Sadly, nobody.

In the ninety-seventh minute…

Inside my head : “Why didn’t we clear it? Worried now. Has to be a goal. Cross. Header. Simple.”

We were crushed.

At the final whistle, boos.

Yes, it felt like a loss, of course it did.

Moans. Rants. Grumbles. Annoyance. Disbelief.

On my slow trudge through the crowds, behind the Megastore and onto the West Stand forecourt, I walked with one of my passengers to our car. Over the course of just five minutes, around ten fans said the same thing :

“We could have done with you out there today, Ron.”

It was a quiet drive home, but we soon put the result behind us, kinda. It was a gorgeous evening with the countryside as I headed west looking beautiful during the first blush of spring. That Manchester United were getting gubbed at Brighton certainly helped. Coming up in a seismic week, we have Leeds United away on Wednesday and Liverpool at Wembley on Saturday.

Odd times, but still good times. And don’t be told anything else.

Postscript :

On the Sunday morning, it was a typical time for me. A cuppa, some tunes, and the task of choosing and editing some of the one-hundred plus photos from the match to share on social media. I spotted the figure of Saul, late in the game, going up for a header.

What?

Was he playing?

Maybe I missed this late substitution.

I checked the match details. He had come on as a replacement for Marcos Alonso at half-time. Bloody hell. How is that possible for me to miss that? I hadn’t even been drinking. I honestly felt like I should head off for a lie-down in a quiet corner and ponder my very existence. Thankfully, two friends hadn’t noticed him either. I didn’t feel quite so foolish.

This match report is dedicated to Saul : Mister Invisible.

With just four games left now, every game is huge.

I will see some of you at Elland Road on Wednesday.

Come on Chelsea.