Tag Archives: Tottenham Hotspur

Tales From Passyunk Avenue To Worcester Avenue

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Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 1 November 2025.

When I left the office on Friday afternoon, ahead of the game at Tottenham Hotspur on Saturday evening, a co-worker asked me about the match.

My answer was short and sweet.

“…dreading it.”

Our last two results had hardly been inspiring; an insipid display at home to Sunderland, and a very odd game at Wolves that resulted in a win but it didn’t leave many of us too enthralled. Then there is the nervousness that comes with these mighty games against traditional foes. I suspect that I wasn’t the only Chelsea supporter heading to N17 that was slightly queasy about that evening’s game. As I said to a few people, “it depends on which Chelsea shows up.”

Despite the evening kick-off, I was still up early. To save time, PD had picked up Parky in Holt at 7.30am and I collected them both at PD’s house in Frome at 8am. I then drove down to Salisbury to collect Steve.

It was a decent drive up to London and I was parked up at Barons Court at 11am. We then caught the Picadilly Line north. The others were off to meet up with Jimmy the Greek and Ian in a pub at Arnos Grove at around midday. I had other plans.

I have wanted to visit a Philadelphia-themed bar/diner for ages, and so as I had some time to kill on this particular match day in London, I alighted at Tottenham Court Road and set off through Fitzrovia, a part of London I had never visited previously. From there, it took me around twenty minutes to reach “Passyunk Avenue”, the original Philly bar in London, now part of a chain of four. It’s not far from the British Telecom Tower.

I stayed an hour, and I really liked it. As soon as you walk in, you are immediately transported to a dive bar in the US. The walls are adorned with all things-Philly, and the draught ales are – as far as I could see – all US imports. Unfortunately, the Philly cheesesteak that I ordered was average, but I loved the place. In lieu of the time that I have spent in Philadelphia, not least in the closing weeks of last season, I thought it worth including in this match report.

I want to go back, and when I do, maybe I should take a photograph of Peter Osgood in his Philadelphia Fury days and ask the bar staff to find a place for it next to memorabilia of the Phillies, the Eagles, the ‘Sixers and the Flyers.

After my visit, I walked to Great Portland Street and took a train to Kings Cross. I bumped into Philippa, Brian and Martin on the tube, and they didn’t seem particularly confident of our chances either.

At 1.30pm I joined up with the rest of the lads in the pub. We used it before the Arsenal away game last season, and the less said about that the better.

We stayed until 4.15pm. It’s a big old pub, in the Arts & Craft style of the early twentieth century, and we perched ourselves at a central table. The only negative was the fact that a children’s birthday party, complete with shrill shouting, was taking place in one of the wings.

We covered a large and rambling list of topics, too many to list here, but at no stage in the afternoon – despite the others quaffing a fair few bevvies – did we become even slightly confident about the outcome of the game. I must admit that we had a bundle of laughs between the five of us, including a top trivia question that was posed by Ian.

“Who was the only person to appear on two different songs on the same edition of ‘Top of the Pops’ in the 1980s?”

We caught an uber and chugged slowly towards White Hart Lane. And no, that’s not an error, we ended up at White Hart Lane, the actual road, where we hopped out and then walked the ten minutes to the away entrance on Worcester Avenue.

Incidentally, you must wonder why the White Hart Lane moniker never made it to the new stadium. In fact, Tottenham’s new stadium is nearer White Hart Lane than the old place. I know it’s rather wordy, but “The Tottenham Stadium at White Hart Lane” covers all the bases and links the old with the new. As a comparison, I can think of “Orioles Stadium at Camden Yards” in Baltimore and that gets shortened to Camden Yards, and I think it would be the same at Tottenham.

Christ, that’s enough time talking about them.

What about us?

Here was the team that Enzo Maresca had picked for this crucial fixture in the Chelsea calendar.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Enzo Fernandez – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

The pre-match drinkers in the pub were all split up in various sections of the away quadrant. I found myself in the usual place at this stadium, low down along the side, alongside Gary and John. However, there was the added spice of being right next to the three-seat-no-man’s-land that separated us from the home fans in the East Stand.

There was the usual pre-match bluster from the announcer who peddles the usual Tottenham “to dare is to do” guff as he stood on the pitch wearing a shirt and a tie that look too tight, and also a vision of Thomas Frank on the huge TV screens urging the supporters to get behind the team.

Modern football, eh?

I had read reports of the home fans making a special effort for this match and wondered if there was a special tifo earmarked for us. As the teams entered the pitch, there was the 2025 staple of dimmed lights and flames, but nothing much else.

“Oh when the Spurs” boomed out, and this was their “YNWA” moment; noisy at the start but then – I hoped – quiet thereafter.

The game began, and as always, we attacked their monstrous South Bank in the first half.

Tottenham in white / blue / white, Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.

With me standing, and everyone in the home section to my left sitting, I had a completely unhindered view of the game to my left. It was a brilliant position.

A Tottenham substitution came after just seven minutes.

“Great, that has upset their plan.”

By the end of the first quarter of an hour, I realised that it was us that had easily dominated possession, and I mentioned to Gary and John that we had “quietened them down”, which is always a priority, but sometimes easier said than done.

If I had tentatively approached this game with my fingers crossed – and possibly my eyes, my arms and my legs, like a human pretzel – now I had the warming sensation that we had a decent selection of players out on the pitch and that, minute by minute, we were the more dominant force.

Despite not creating much in the way of clearcut chances, I liked our ball possession, the way we utilised the wide men, and the combative nature of our midfielders.

After twenty minutes, there had been just two efforts on the Tottenham goal, from James and Garnacho, but I was content with our start.

We continued to control the tempo and control possession.

Marc Cucurella was his usual energised self, just in front of us, throwing himself into tackles, encouraging others.

“He’s so reliable on a day like this,” said John.

“He gets it how much we hate this lot” I replied.

Tombsy, in the row in front, said “I was just about to say the same thing.”

It was odd that the atmosphere in most of the stadium was quiet, such is the way these days, but the away support was trying to get some songs going.

I took one photo of such a moment, with the Chelsea support teasing Tottenham; it was a shot of the East Lower, docile and seated, save for one lone supporter, standing by herself and giving us the finger.

On the thirty-minute mark, a shot from Joao Pedro, one on one with their ‘keeper, but Guglielmo Vicario managed to block.

A rare Tottenham attack followed, but Mohammed Kudus blasted over the bar.

On thirty-four minutes, with Moises Caicedo doing what he does best, the sense of anticipation within the massed ranks of the three thousand away fans rose, as he won back-to-back duels high up the pitch. There was one last drag back towards Joao Pedro, and the anticipation levels were magnified further.

Joao Pedro was free, in space, with the goal at his mercy. I inhaled in expectation. One touch, and then a shot.

Bosh.

His effort flew high into the net.

Yes!

I turned and raised both my arms and screamed at the Tottenham support to my left.

You can imagine how much I enjoyed that.

While the scorer celebrated with his teammates in the corner, I gathered myself, turned back towards my right and roared among friends.

Two things to comment upon here.

One, we absolutely go to football for moments like this. There is no similar sensation in our humdrum lives.

I have said it before; I am a goal addict.

Two, there was no comeuppance for my guttural roar of joy coupled with my stare and triumphal stance from the nearby home fans. There was no scowling, no gestures, no irate body language, no pointing, no verbal abuse, nor real signs of annoyance. In some ways it annoyed me.

Aren’t you upset, Tottenham?

To be honest, and I had suspected it for a while, but I think I was positioned next to “Tottenham Tourist Central” if the appearance and demeanour of the spectators to my left were anything to go by.

The Chelsea fans bounced and bellowed for the remainder of the half.

On forty-three minutes, a cross from Gusto on the right, and a shot close in from Joao Pedro. However, Vicario’s reflex save was excellent.

But it again annoyed me that there was no applause, not even the slightest ripple of appreciation, from the thousands in the home areas to my left.

Bloody hell, what has the game come to?

Just after, a super ball from Chalobah inside the full back, but Garnacho’s touch was heavy. Our often-derided young defender had enjoyed a fine half, but Wesley Fofana was even better, a real plus thus far.

The tackle on James by Betancur seemed late, and a melee ensued. Incoming texts suggested the yellow should have been a red.

“We’ve rattled them,” said John.

In stoppage time, Kudus curled a very rare Tottenham shot at goal – their first of the match thus far – but Robert Sanchez was equal to it and pushed the ball away adeptly.

In the concourse, at half-time, smiles aplenty with a few friends.

Ian and Jimmy the Greek, supping pints, happy.

I breezed past Philippa, Brian and Martin.

“Don’t know why we were so worried. Playing well, aren’t we?”

And then a quick chat with Nina and David – last seen in Philadelphia in June – and the rare luxury of a pint, probably my first this season.

Happy days.

The second half began, and we continued the dominance.

We created more chances than the first half, and the Chelsea crowd were louder too.

Reece put pressure on Tottenham and won the ball, and a great move developed in front of us. Caicedo, enjoying a monster game, then set up Enzo, but Vicario was his equal.

Next, a James cross from in front of us but Enzo headed over.

Then a shot from Neto in front of goal, a miss-hit, but it was saved by Vicario.

Then a low cross from Garnacho on the left that somehow evaded a final touch.

In a nutshell, we were all over Tottenham like a rash.

On sixty-six minutes, Jamie Gittens replaced Garnacho.

How we laughed on seventy-three minutes when Xavi Simons, the substitute, was substituted.

Despite our domination, I was of course worried about us only winning 1-0 and was a little reticent about joining in with the load chanting of “it’s happened again.”

With a quarter of an hour to go, a shot from Neto from an acute angle, then Reece curled an effort over.

James was enjoying a hugely dominant game and let’s hope those worrisome days of injury tweaks are in the past.

On seventy-six minutes, Romeo Lavia replaced Gusto.

On eighty-five minutes, Estevao Willian replaced Neto.

On eighty-nine minutes, Tosin Adarabioyo replaced Fofana.

Throughout the second period, there were boos aplenty from the home support and this warmed my heart.

However, it still stayed at 1-0.

After winning 4-1 and 4-3 at this place the past two seasons, this was too tight for my liking.

We had two outrageous chances to score in injury-time. First up, a quick breakaway down our right, and Estevao played the ball in to Joao Pedro, who moved it on towards Gittens. Surely this would settle our nerves.

The ball bobbled, Gittens swiped, and the ball flew crazily high over the bar.

Fackinell.

Then, Estevao to Enzo, to Joao Pedro, but another fine save from Vicario when it looked easier to score.

Thankfully, the final whistle soon blew.

We had done it.

Another one.

Another victory at the New Three Point Lane.

The domination continues.

The Chelsea players came over to celebrate with us, while I took a rather self-indulgent selfie in front of the meek and demoralised Tottenham supporters.

And now I could whole-heartedly join in.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

Some numbers :

In the last eighteen games against Tottenham Hotspur in all competitions and all venues, Chelsea have won fourteen.

In the last seven visits to Tottenham Hotspur in the Premier League, Chelsea have won six.

In all our visits to their new stadium, we have won seven out of nine times.

Of my twenty-seven visits to “Tottenham Away (Love It)” my individual record is –

Played : 27

Won : 12

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

Gertcha.

We loitered around, as per usual, grabbing some chicken and chips at “Chickin Warriors” on the High Road so the crowds could dissipate.

We caught the 9pm train south at White Hart Lane to take us to Liverpool Street.

I spoke to a Dutch guy who had just arrived in London with his wife and son, and who had watched from the expensive seats above us. His son had been gifted a few items from the Tottenham club shop. I didn’t waste much time informing him which team I supported, and with a few Tottenham fans within earshot, I couldn’t resist dropping in a few mentions of us beating PSG in New Jersey in July. I also joked that there was still time for his son to eschew Tottenham and choose Chelsea instead.

I was getting some seriously dark glances from the locals, and I loved it.

We were back at my car by 10pm.

I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at midnight.

Back to Holt, back to Frome…I eventually made it home at 1.30am.

Oh – the trivia answer?

Alan Brazil.

“Tottenham, Tottenham” – the Tottenham Hotspur F.A. Cup Final Squad.

“We Have A Dream” – the Scotland National Football Team.

Tales From The Benches, The Anfield Road And The Sleepy Hollow

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 4 May 2025.

We were in for an alluring climax to the season. With two straight wins in the league on the bounce – not anticipated by me and probably many more – we were right in the thick of it in the scramble for Champions League and Europa League placings. Our next match, our ninth league game in London on the spin, was against newly crowned Champions Liverpool.

While huge parts of our Chelsea nation obsessed about the guard of honour, I shrugged my shoulders; it would all be over in less than ten seconds.

What with the closure of the District Line south to Wimbledon, there was a change of plan for our pre-match. “The Eight Bells” was jettisoned in favour of “The Tommy Tucker”, a mere Ian Hutchinson throw-in from the West Stand forecourt on Moore Park Road. I dropped PD and Parky right outside at just before 11am and then switched back on myself and drove over to my favourite breakfast spot, “The Half Moon Café” on Fulham Palace Road. If the other two lads could enjoy a four-hour session, then at least I could enjoy a full English.

I made it inside the pub at around 12.30pm, and the highlight of the time spent inside this busy boozer was the realisation that 1972 Olympic gold medallist Mary Peters was a few yards away. I can well remember watching her hop, skip and jump her way to her a gold in the pentathlon all those years ago.

For Mary Peters and Chelsea Football Club, Munich will always be a special city.

I left the pub earlier than the rest and reached the concourse just as Newcastle United scored a late, VAR-assisted penalty, to equalise at Brighton. Still, not to worry, a draw there did us a favour.

I reached my spot in The Sleepy Hollow, having smuggled my SLR in yet again. Before I settled in my seat, I took the camera out and took a few shots. However, a steward had evidently seen me and rather apologetically said “I have been told to tell you not to take use a professional camera.”

I smiled and replied “OK.”

At the end of the game, I would have taken 127 photos, but it was OK, I don’t get paid for any of the buggers.

I guess I was inside with a good forty-five minutes to go. There seemed to be many more obnoxious half-and-half scarves in the MHU than normal, and I feared the worst. I suspected an infiltration by you-know-who. Way atop our little section of seats, a father sat with his four-year-old son, who was wearing a Liverpool shirt under his jacket. I tut-tutted and tried to find someone else to be annoyed at. I didn’t take long. Sat behind me were four lads, two with half-and-halves, who seemed to be ignoring Chelsea’s pre-match kick-in down below us, instead focussing on the Liverpool players at The Shed End. By now Clive was alongside me, and we suggested to them that they were Liverpool fans. Their reply wasn’t in English, but they seemed to intimate that they were fans of football and soon dispersed. They must have had seats dotted all over the MHU.

The build-up to the match seemed to be rather low key in the stadium. The Liverpool fans were massed in the opposite corner, and one banner caught everyone’s attention.

IMAGINE BEING US.

Righty-oh.

The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. My light rain jacket kept out the chilly gusts.

By some odd twist of fate, forty years ago to the exact day, Chelsea were also pitted against Liverpool, but on that day in 1985 the match was at Anfield. More of that later.

The week before that game, on Saturday 27 April, Chelsea played Tottenham Hotspur at Stamford Bridge.

Let my 1984/85 retrospective recommence.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 27 April 1985.

For all of the big names coming to play us in matches at Stamford Bridge in that return to the topflight, none was bigger than Tottenham. It was the one that was most-eagerly awaited of all. And yet the problems of that era contrived against us. After the near riot at the Chelsea vs. Sunderland Milk Cup semi final on 4 March, there was a full riot at the Luton Town vs. Millwall FA Cup tie on 13 March, and football hooliganism was the talk of the front and back pages. Considering the history of problems between the two teams, the league game with Tottenham was made all-ticket with an 11.30am kick-off.

The result of this, much to my complete sadness, was that this crunch match against our bitter rivals only drew a crowd of 26,310, a figure that I could hardly believe at the time.

Sigh.

I watched from the back row of the West Stand benches with my match day crew and took plenty of photos.

Before the game, as a celebration of our ninetieth birthday – admittedly a month and a half late – we were treated to some police dogs going through some manoeuvres on the pitch (how apt) but also the Red Devil parachute display team, and if I am not mistaken one of them managed to miss the pitch and end up on the West Stand roof. I am sure some wag wondered if the guilty parachutist was Alan Mayes. Some blue and white ballons were set off in front of the Tottenham fans and we all looked on in bewilderment.

“Let’s just get to the game.”

Ski-hats were all the rage in 1984/85 and one photo that I took of Alan, Dave, Rich and Leggo has done the rounds on many football sites over the years.

The match, in the end, wasn’t that special. Tottenham went ahead via Tony Galvin in the first half but a Pat Nevin free kick on seventy-five minutes gave us a share of the points.

A week later, the action took place two-hundred or so miles to the north.

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 4 May 1984.

In 1984/1985, I only went to five away games due to finances, and the visit to Anfield was one of the highlights for sure. Liverpool were European Champions in 1984 and reigning League Champions too. They were in their pomp. Growing up as a child in the ‘seventies, and well before Chelsea fans grew tired of Liverpool’s cries of history, there were few stadia which enthralled me more than Anfield, with The Kop a beguiling wall of noise.

No gangways on The Kop, just bodies. A swaying mass of humanity.

Heading up to Liverpool, on an early-morning train from Stoke, I was excited and a little intimidated too. Catching a bus up to the stadium outside Lime Street was probably the nearest that I came to a footballing “rite of passage” in 1985. I was not conned into believing the media’s take that Scousers were loveable so-and-sos. I knew that Anfield could be a chilling away ground to visit. Famously, there was the “Cockneys Die” graffiti on the approach to Lime Street. My first real memory of Liverpool, the city, on that murky day forty years ago was that I was shocked to see so many shops with blinds, or rather metal shutters, to stave off robberies. It was the first time that I had seen such.

The mean streets of Liverpool? You bet.

I was deposited a few hundred yards from Anfield and took a few photos of the scene that greeted me. The local scallies – flared cords and Puma trainers by the look of it, all very 1985 – were prowling as I took a photograph of the old Kop.

Travelling around on trains during this season from my home in Stoke, I was well aware of the schism taking place in the casual subculture at the time. Sportswear was giving way to a more bohemian look in the north-west – flares were back in for a season or two, muted browns and greens, greys and blues, even tweed and corduroy flares – but this look never caught on in London.

At the time, I always maintained that it was like this :

London football – “look smart.”

Liverpool and Manchester football – “look different.”

I walked past The Kop and took a photo of the Kemlyn Road Stand, complete with newly arrived police horses. You can almost smell the gloom. Note the mast of the SS Great Eastern, which still hosts a fluttering flag on match days to this day.

The turnstiles were housed in a wall which had shards of glass on the top to deter fans from gaining free entry. Note the Chelsea supporters’ coach and the Sergio Tacchini top.

I paid my £2.50 and I was inside at 10.15am.

To complete this pictorial tour of Anfield before the game and to emphasise how bloody early I was on that Saturday morning – it was another 11.30am kick-off to deter excessive drinking and, ergo, hooliganism – there is a photograph of an empty, waiting, expectant Anfield. I guess that the photograph of the Chelsea squad in their suits was taken at an hour or so before kick-off. This is something we never see at games now; a Chelsea team inspecting the pitch before the game. I suspect that for many of the players, this would have been their first visit to Anfield too. Maybe that half-explains it.

My mate Glenn had travelled up with the Yeovil supporters coach for this game and we managed to find each other, and stand together, in the packed away segment at Anfield. My mates Alan, Paul and Swan stood close by. We were packed in like sardines on that terraced section of the Anfield Road that used to meet up with the Kemlyn Road, an odd mix of angles. Memorably, I remember that a lot of Chelsea lads – the firm, no doubt – had purchased seat tickets in the Anfield Road end, mere yards away from us, and a few punches were thrown. Even more memorably, I remember seeing a lad from Frome, Mark – a Liverpool supporter in my year at school – with two others from Frome only yards away in those very same seats.

The look we gave each other was priceless.

I see Mark at lots of Frome Town games to this day.

This was a cracking game. We went behind early on when Ronnie Whelan headed past Eddie Niedzwiecki and we soon conceded two more, both via Steve Nicol. We were 3-0 down after just ten minutes.

Welcome to Anfield.

We then played much better – my diary noted that it was the best we had played all season – and Nigel Spackman scored via a penalty at The Kop. Our fine play continued after the break, and Kerry Dixon slotted home in the six-yard box. Alas, a quick Liverpool break and a cross from their right. Ian Rush stuck out a leg to meet the ball at the near post and the ball looped over Niedzwiecki into the goal. My diary called it an exquisite finish and who am I to argue? I suppose, with hindsight, it was apt for Rush to score a goal at The Kop in my first ever game at Anfield. Writing these words forty years later, takes me right back. I can almost remember the gnawing inevitability of it.

Five minutes later, on about the sixty-fifth minute, Gordon Davies volleyed a low shot into the corner down below us.

Liverpool 4 Chelsea 3.

Wow.

We played so well in the remainder of the match but just couldn’t squeeze a fourth goal. We had outplayed them for a large part of the game. I remember being really surprised that Anfield was so quiet, and The Kop especially. Our little section seemed to be making all of the noise.

“EIO, EIO, EIO, EIO.”

“Ten Men Went To Mow.”

In that cramped, tight enclosure, this was a big moment in my life. I left Anfield exhausted, my throat sore, my brain fizzing with adrenalin, my senses heightened, drained.

We were all forced to take buses to Edge Hill, a train station a few miles out of Lime Street. Once there, I spotted a Chelsea lad that I recognised from Stoke, waiting with the rest of our mob, and preparing their next move, back into the city no doubt.

It took me forever to wait for a train that took me back to Crewe, where I needed to change for Stoke. I was, in fact, one of the last two Chelsea fans to leave Edge Hill that day.

These are some great memories of my first trip to Anfield.

Over the following forty years, I would return twenty-seven more times.

Back to 2025, and this was my fiftieth game against Liverpool at Stamford Bridge.

We lined up with a very strong formation, with the return of Romeo Lavia squeezing Moises Caicedo to right back and keeping Reece James on the bench.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

Liverpool were a mixture of familiar names and not-so-familiar names. I think I can name every single one of their 1985 squad, much less their 2025 version.

There were boos as both teams took to the pitch. I just stood silent with my hands in my pockets.

Within the first thirty seconds, or so it seemed, a pass from deep from Virgil Van Dijk set up Mo Salah. He attacked us from the right before attempting a low cross that was well gathered by Robert Sanchez.

This was a noisy Stamford Bridge, and the game had begun very lively. After just three minutes, we witnessed a beautiful move at pace. Romeo Lavia came away with the ball and slipped it through to Cole Palmer. The easy ball was chosen, outside to Pedro Neto. He advanced and I looked over to see Nicolas Jackson completely unmarked on the far post. However, after moving the ball on a few yards, Neto spotted the Lampardesque run of our current number eight and our Argentinian was able to kill the ball with his left foot and stroke it home with his right foot, past the diving Alisson, and Stamford Bridge went into orbit.

This was an open game, and Madueke’s shot whizzed past the post while Robert Sanchez saved well from Cody Gakpo.

Liverpool enjoyed a little spell around the fifteen-minute mark, but we were able to keep them at bay. I loved how Lavia and Caicedo were controlling the midfield. On twenty-three minutes, a magnificent sliding block from Trevoh Chalobah robbed Liverpool a shot on goal.

As the half-hour approached, I felt we were riding our luck a little as balls bounced into space from defensive blocks and clearances rather than at the feet of the opponents.

On thirty-one minutes, Noni Madueke played a one-two with Marc Cucurella, and his shot was inadvertently blocked by Jackson. The ball ran on to Caicedo, who dropped a lob onto the bar from the byline down near Parkyville.

On forty-one minutes, a snapshot from Neto hit the side netting. Just after, Jackson played in Madueke, who rounded Alisson to score, only for the goal to be chalked off for offside.

By now, the Liverpool lot, despite a flurry at the start, were quiet in their sunny corner of the stadium.

Liverpool did not seem to be creating as many threats as expected, and I was quietly confident at the break that we could hold on for a massive three points. I loved how Neto was playing, out wide, an old-fashioned winger, and Lavia, Caicedo and Enzo were a solid, fluid and combative three when we had the ball. Some of Jackson’s touches were, alas, woeful.

Into the second half, a magnificent burst from Madueke down in front of us – just a joy to watch – but a weak finish from that man Jackson. Just after, Nico slipped in the box. Just after, a fantastic dummy by Madueke out on the line, a little like Jadon Sancho at Palace, but he then gave the ball away cheaply.

Wingers are infuriating buggers, aren’t they?

At the other end, we watched a lovely old-fashioned tussle between Salah and Cucurella on the edge of our box.

Only one winner, there.

“He eats Paella, he drinks Estrella.”

On fifty-six minutes, Palmer shimmied into the right-hand side of the box and sent over a low cross towards Madueke. He touched the ball goalwards, but in the confusion that followed Van Dijk slashed at the ball and it ricocheted off Jarrell Quansah and into the goal, not that I had much of a clue what on Earth was going on. I just saw the net ripple.

It was an odd goal, in that nobody celebrated too quickly, as the spectre of VAR loomed over us all. The build-up to the goal included so many instances of potential VAR “moments” that I think it conditioned our thinking.

To our relief, no VAR, no delay, no problems.

But – VAR 1 Football 0.

Sigh.

Not to worry, we were up 2-0, and I had to ask the lads if they could remember the last time that we had beaten Liverpool in a league game at Stamford Bridge. Nobody could.

On the hour, Jackson worked himself into a great position but selfishly tried to poke the ball in from a very tight angle.

Liverpool, coming out of their shell now, enjoyed some chances. A great diving header from Levi Colwill denied them a shot on goal, and then they wasted a free header from a Salah cross.

On seventy minutes, another great slide from Our Trev denied them a shot. He was enjoying a magnificent game.

Another Liverpool header went wide.

This really was an open game.

On seventy-two minutes, Jadon Sancho replaced Nico, who is soon to enrol in the parachute regiment.

More Chelsea chances came and went. A shot from Madueke was blocked, a rasper from Sancho was saved well by Alisson, Palmer wriggled free and somehow hit the post from a ridiculously tight angle.

This was breathless stuff.

Another shot from Palmer, who looked rejuvenated.

“He wants it now.”

On seventy-eight minutes, Malo Gusto replaced Lavia, who had been a revelation.

On eighty-five minutes, a free header from Van Dijk, from an Alexis Mac Allister corner, and they were back in the game.

This caused our hearts to wobble, and as the game continued, we watched with increasing nervous concern. Just after, the next move, Palmer forced another save from Alisson, who was by far the busier ‘keeper.

A fine move, but Neto shot over.

On eighty-eight minutes, Reece James took over from Enzo, who had enjoyed another fantastic match.

The battle continued.

“COME ON CHELS.”

Six minutes of injury time was signalled.

Fackinell.

Not to worry, in the very final minute, Liverpool attempted to play the ball out from the back and Caicedo closed down and got to the ball just in front of a defender. The defender, however, got to Caicedo just before the ball.

Penalty.

Cole Palmer stroked it home, his first goal since January.

He ran towards the goal and turned towards the East Stand but I summoned up all of my psycho-kinetic powers to entice him over to us, under The Sleepy Hollow.

It worked.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Just after, the final whistle.

Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1.

I spotted two of the four foreign lads sitting close by, full of smiles, and I felt I owed them an apology for thinking that they were Liverpool fans. I gave them the thumbs up. They reciprocated.

This was a lovely day and a lovely match, and perhaps the best performance of the season thus far. We bounced out of Stamford Bridge and I subconsciously found myself singing Chelsea songs on the stretch from the West Stand forecourt to the tube station, just like in the old times.

Tales From The Famous Chelsea

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 3 April 2025.

I am always the same. While sitting at my desk at work from 6am to 2pm, I was occasionally worried about the evening’s key Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur match. No other fixture gets to me in quite the same fashion. No other game makes me as agitated.

I guess that it is all because of “The Run”; the run of fixtures at Stamford Bridge since late 1990 that has seen Chelsea only lose once against “that lot” from N17 in thirty-four home league games. Throw in an unbeaten five cup games at home and it comes to one defeat in thirty-nine matches.

It’s an unbelievable show of dominance of one topflight team over another. I have stated before that this must be the most one-sided record between two teams in any main league’s topflight over a thirty-five-year period.

Long may it continue, eh?

It had been eighteen ridiculously long days since our last game, a scratchy 1-0 win at home to Leicester City, and it felt great to be heading back along the M4 once again. It felt especially nice to have PD back alongside me after missing the last two games.

In that gap of eighteen games, my football obsession was satiated by attending five Frome Town matches.

Paulton Rovers vs. Frome Town : 18 March.

First up was a Somerset Premier Cup semi-final at nearby Paulton Rovers. This was a relatively easy 3-1 win in a fast and physical game against a team now two divisions below us after playing at the same level last season.

Basingstoke Town vs. Frome Town : 22 March.

I went with my mate Glenn to the league game at Basingstoke and met up with my Chelsea pal Leigh, from Basingstoke, in a local pub beforehand. On nearing Basingstoke, I admitted to Glenn that “I am glad I am seeing Frome play today and not Chelsea” and it felt like a seminal moment. It wasn’t a great game, but a James Ollis goal gave us a vital three points in our bid for survival.

Frome Town vs. Wimborne Town : 25 March.

Next up, was a run of three home league games. Unfortunately, the first of these was a very poor match in which last season’s bitter rivals Wimborne Town beat us 1-0. The, however, gate was a creditable 531.

Frome Town vs. Hungerford Town : 29 March.

A very decent crowd of 659 saw us lose 1-0 again, against Hungerford Town, in a game that was of slightly better quality than against Wimborne but our lack of firepower in front of the goal was again very telling. We were still mired in a relegation place.

Frome Town vs. Weston-super-Mare : 2 April.

Some respite came in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, played at Bath City’s Twerton Park, against National League South outfit Weston-super-Mare. Our opponents played a young team, but despite several chances to score, we succumbed to yet another 1-0 loss. Our lack of goals has plagued us all season.

Talking of other games, we return to 1984/85, and the briefest of mentions of the next match in my forty-year retrospective. On Saturday 30 March 1985, Chelsea travelled to Roker Park for a league game against Sunderland. I didn’t travel to this, and I don’t think many Chelsea did. The gate was a miserly 13,489. This came not long after them defeating us in the Milk Cup semi-finals and I don’t think it exactly captured the imagination of the Chelsea support. It also came six days after Sunderland lost 1-0 to Norwich City in the final so I don’t think it captured the imagination of the home support either. However, we came away from the game with a nice 2-0 win with goals from Kerry Dixon and a Micky Thomas penalty.

After grabbing a tasty bite to eat at a café – “222” – on the North End Road, I flew down to “The Eight Bells” where I chatted with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Ian inside the pub and my fellow Sleepy Hollow companion Clive – a first visit for him to our local – and his mate John on the tables outside.

During the day I had found out that the Fulham team changed in this pub when the team used to play at a local patch of land now occupied by Raneleigh Gardens. This would have been between 1886 and 1888. There’s football history everywhere in SW6 if you know where to look.

From this particular part of Fulham, we caught a tube up to the Broadway, and I was inside the stadium at 7.30pm.

The team?

We were so glad that both Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson had returned.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I chuckled as the “Dug Out Club Wankers” were drenched by the pitch sprinklers as they made their ceremonial walk across the centre of the pitch before the game.

It was if George Anstiss was having one last laugh from above.

“Get orf my bleedin’ pitch.”

Nearing kick-off, we were treated to a bizarre song to warm us all up and get us in the mood for football.

“You Shook Me All Night Long” by ACDC.

Answers on a fucking postcard.

That ain’t Chelsea, it ain’t even football.

Thankfully, we were soon back to the much more suitable “London Calling” by The Clash.

Then the dimming of the lights, but thankfully no flames in front of the East Stand. As the teams appeared, The Shed was a riot of colour. In the top tier, many flags were waved, while a large banner was draped from the balcony.

THE FAMOUS CHELSEA

Back in the ‘eighties, The Shed used to bellow “we are the famous, the famous Chelsea” but that seems to have died a death since then. The Geordies, however, still chant something similar to this day.

My mate Rob had appeared next to me just as the huge banner was beginning to be displayed and had sagely commented :

“You watch it unravel.”

I wondered if this might prove to be a worrying metaphor for, perhaps, the game ahead.

Meanwhile, down in the Matthew Harding Lower a huge – new – crowd surfer flag depicted The Rising Sun and Gus Mears.

This was a nice homage at both ends of the stadium for “CFC 120” as the club has termed it.

There was a change from the usual “Liquidator” by the Harry J All Stars with a perfectly timed incision of “Blue Is The Colour” into the pre-match routine leading right up to kick-off. I loved it that the crowd continued singing once the song had been forced into early retirement by the start of the match.

“So cheer us on through the sun and the rain ‘cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

And what a start.

From the whistle, the noise was deafening, the best of the season by far, and the returning striker Jackson almost caused immediate joy. Put through by Trevoh Chalobah, he raced on and found himself one-on-one with Guglielmo Vicario. There was a prod at goal, saved, but a crazy passage of play saw Micky Van de Ven attempt to clear, but the ball was hacked against Jackson’s shin. Our pulses were racing here, but sadly we saw the ball ricochet back off the right-hand post. There would be no celebrations in front of Parkyville just yet.

On six minutes, Marc Cucurella to Malo Gusto but just wide. That shot is featured here.

In the first quarter of an hour, I was very happy to see a far greater level of intensity and a much better desire to release the ball early, especially compared to the bore-fest at Arsenal.

Simply put, the threat of a pacey Jackson made all the difference since we now had a focus of our attack. On the right, Pedro Neto was also able to concentrate on his wing duties rather than ponce around in the middle and lose his way.

On eighteen minutes, a nice move twixt Jadon Sancho and Palmer on the left and there was a mad scramble in the Tottenham six-yard box, but Vicario was able to block virtually on the line.

There was a delightful turn / shimmy / dragback from Sancho that set up Palmer but the ball went out for a corner.

Dogged play from Jackson on twenty-eight minutes, hounding his defender, but a shot was blazed over.

By the half-hour mark, we were well on top, with Tottenham only threatening sporadically, mainly through Son Heing-min and Lucas Bergvall. Sancho showed lots of skill in tight areas but there was an infuriating reluctance to shoot. On the visitors’ rare breaks inside our final third, I loved the way that our players flung themselves at the ball to block. This showed spirit and character, and long may it thrive.

A lovely move on forty-four minutes resulted in a deep Neto cross from the right which was nicely met by Sancho. His wicked shot was on target but was incredibly well tipped over by Vicario.

At the other end, Robert Sanchez had been so quiet.

As the first half ended, we were happy, and there was a lovely sound of applause from the home areas.

In the concourse at the break, I spotted a chap with a River Plate shirt and I tapped him on the shoulder and could not resist the word “Boca” and a smile, but I wish, now, that I had stopped and asked if he was an Enzo fan.

Because everything was about to change.

After an early shot on goal from Palmer that tested Vicario again, the ball found its way to the feet of our talisman from Mancunia. I snapped as he eyed up the opportunity to cross.

His ball into the danger area was absolute perfection.

This felt right.

With my camera still poised, I snapped as Enzo – ex-River Plate – rose and planted the ball home.

MY ENZO.

GET IN.

The stadium exploded.

I was boiling over but shot a load of photos as the Argentinian raced towards us.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap,snap.

Enzo was hidden, submerged, for a few seconds, and I love the ecstasy on the face of players and supporters alike.

There had been a worry in the pub beforehand that without many local lads in our squad, the importance of this game against this opponent would be lost.

We need not have worried.

I looked at Alan.

We both smiled.

Paul Hogan : “They’ll have to come at us now.”

Barry Humphries : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Just after, Enzo attempted a very ambitious bicycle kick just past the penalty spot.

“Easy tiger.”

Two minutes after, the ball came out to the excellent Moises Caicedo from an Enzo free-kick, and he lashed it home.

The place erupted again, and I found it difficult to focus my camera on the melee in the far corner as the North Stand was moving so much.

Alas, VAR.

Alas, no goal.

Alas, a hairline offside from Levi Colwill.

Alas, the game we love is being strangled.

On sixty-three minutes, a massively wide effort from Neto, the ball curling out around ten yards from the corner flag in front of the West Stand.

Fackinell.

Tottenham went close on sixty-five minutes.

A substitution : Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Then, on sixty-nine minutes, Pape Matar Sarr broke and smashed a low drive from around thirty-five yards along the ground and seemingly at Sanchez. Our ‘keeper, maybe thinking about his post-match meal, his summer holiday, a long-lost unrequited love from his early years, or how the Matthew Harding roof stays up, wasn’t with it and his despairing dive only resulted in the ball deflecting high and into the roof of the net.

Bollocks.

Thankfully, a foul on Caicedo was spotted.

VAR.

A ridiculously long wait.

And I hate it how players from both teams were allowed to stand so close to referee Craig Pawson as he studied the pitch-side TV screen.

In such circumstances, the players should be corralled within the centre-circle.

Right?

Anyway, no goal.

Alan and I remained still and silent.

I don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour.

Fuck VAR.

However, the noise levels increased.

“This is more like it.”

I loved how Enzo twisted and turned down below me in the box, despite running out of space. His was a really fine performance on this night.

Vicario then saved from that man Enzo.

Another substitution : Reece James for Jackson.

Over on the far touchline, manager Maresca seemed to be getting the crowd in the East Lower pumped up. I noted that he was wearing a tangerine sweatshirt under his jacket, and it immediately brought memories of those orange sweatshirts that the players used to wear during their “kicking in” before games in the ‘seventies.

Twelve minutes of injury time.

Gulp.

Two more substitutions : Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo, Tosin Adarabioyo for Palmer.

I whispered to Alan : “anything could happen here, mate.”

The clock ticked…

I loved it when Dewsbury-Hall made two crunching tackles and after both his teammates raced over to “high-five” him.

Great team spirit.

The noise boomed.

To “Amazing Grace” :

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

In the very last minute, however, our nerves were sorely tested as Tottenham broke rapidly. Dominic Solanke – who? – played the ball to Brennan Johnson who crossed low towards Son at the far post. He slid and poked it goalwards, but Sanchez – I take it all back – made a remarkable recovery to move to his right and block the goal-bound effort.

Phew.

It was an absolutely magnificent save.

Soon after, the final whistle blew.

Thankfully, the famous Chelsea Football Club didn’t unravel.

Not this time.

Tales From The History Book

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Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 9 March 2025.

I did not attend the away game in Copenhagen, but I know two Chelsea fans that did. PD and Parky, who I collected at 7am and 7.30am en route to London for the home game with relegation haunted Leicester City, had stayed in Denmark for five days and four nights and had thoroughly enjoyed their stay. I was unable to get time off from work for this game due to staff shortages in the office. On the journey to London, they regaled me with a few stories from the city and the game.

Though I missed that match, I have a few others to describe.

In a match report that will mention Chelsea Football Club’s celebrations of its one-hundred-and-twenty-year anniversary, I will continue my retrospective look at the 1984/85 season, a campaign that took place two-thirds of the way towards that 120 figure.

Saturday 2 March 1985 : Ipswich Town vs. Chelsea.

I would like to apologise for my behaviour on this particular day. For hopefully the only time in my life, I prioritised Tottenham over Chelsea.

That’s hard to read isn’t it? I can assure everyone that it was even harder to write.

With the second-leg of the Milk Cup semi final coming up on the Monday night at Stamford Bridge, I was unable to traipse across to Suffolk for our league match against Ipswich Town. This was all about finances. I simply could not afford two train excursions in three days.

Instead, I took alternative action and decided to attend Stoke City’s home match with Tottenham Hotspur which was to take place only a ten-minute walk away from my flat on Epworth Street near Stoke’s town centre if not city centre. As a student at North Staffs Poly, there was reduced admission in the enclosure in front of the main stand on production of my NUS card and I think this equated to around £2. I could afford that.

I had already watched Stoke on two occasions thus far in 1984/85 – two predictable losses against Watford in the league and versus Luton Town in an FA Cup replay – and on this occasion, Stoke lost 0-1 after stand-in ‘keeper Barry Siddall made a grave error, allowing Garth Crooks to score in the second half. The gate was a decent – for Stoke – 12,552 and I estimated 3,000 away fans. I approved of the fact that the visiting support sang “we hate you Chelsea, we do” as it felt appropriate to feel the animosity from “that lot.”

It was the first time that I had seen “that lot” in the flesh since a horrible 1-3 reverse in November 1978 at Stamford Bridge. I still shudder at the memory of that game.

“We are Tottenham, from The Lane.”

Ugh.

The irony of Garth Crooks grabbing the winner against the Potters was not lost on me. Crooks once lived in Stoke, in Butler Street, just behind the away end, and very close to where I would live for two years until 1987.

Meanwhile, at Portman Road, Chelsea succumbed to a 0-2 defeat against Ipswich, so there is no doubt that I was doubly miserable as I walked home after the match.

Monday 4 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Sunderland.

This was a special day – or evening – for me. Although I had seen Chelsea play a midweek match at Bristol Rovers in 1976, the game against Sunderland was the first time that I would ever see a midweek game at Stamford Bridge. After the aborted trip to London on Wednesday 20 February, this second-leg took place a full nineteen days after the first semi-final at Roker Park.

I attended a couple of morning lectures and then caught a mid-morning train to Euston. I got in at 12.30pm, which seems ridiculously early, but I suspect that I wanted to soak up every minute of the pre-match vibe around Stamford Bridge. I bought double pie-and-mash at the long-gone café on the North End Road and mooched around the local area until 4pm when I made my way to Stamford Bridge. I spotted Alan and Dave. There was already a queue at The Shed turnstiles. I can remember to this day how odd it felt to be at Stamford Bridge in the late afternoon ahead of a game. It was so exciting. I was in my element. It was sunny, it was surprisingly warm.

I was in as early as 5.15pm. The game didn’t start until 7.30pm.

I took my place alongside Al, Dave and the others in the West Stand Benches.

What a buzz.

A lot of Sunderland arrived late. My diary reports that they filled two and a half pens in the North Stand, so my guess was that they had 6,000 at the match. Chelsea filled one section near the West Stand.

The gate was 38,440, and I have read that many travelling Wearsiders were unable to get in to the ground.

Remember we trailed 0-2 from the first game.

The atmosphere was electric, and a breakthrough came after just six minutes. David Speedie smashed home with a cross-shot after being set up by Pat Nevin at the North Stand end. Superb celebrations too. I was hugging everyone.

Sadly, on thirty-six minutes we watched in agony as a Sunderland breakaway took place and former Chelsea player Clive Walker struck to put the visitors 3-1 up on aggregate.

The noise continued into the second half. Sunderland hit the bar. However, there was soon heartbreak. A Chelsea defender made a calamitous error that allowed Walker to nab a second. We were now 4-1 down and virtually out.

This is when Stamford Bridge turned wild. I looked on from my spot in front of the West Stand as the whole stadium boiled over with malevolent venom. Chelsea supporters flooded the pitch, trying to attack the away fans in the North Stand pens, and there was a running battle between police and home supporters. It was utter mayhem.

Incredibly, a policeman was on the pitch and inside the Chelsea penalty area when Colin West scored Sunderland’s third goal of the night. To be truthful, my memory was of a police horse being on the pitch, but maybe the hysteria of the night was making me see things. Then, a Chelsea supporter emerged from the West Stand, raced onto the pitch and tried to attack Clive Walker. Late on, Nevin lobbed the Sunderland ‘keeper to make it 2-3 (2-5) but by then nobody cared.

Speedie then got himself sent off.

I was heartbroken.

I walked back to South Kensington tube – one of the worst walks of my Chelsea life thus far – mainly to avoid West Ham and their ICF, who had been playing an FA Cup tie at Wimbledon, and who would be coming through Fulham Broadway.

I eventually caught the 11.50pm train from Euston and finally reached Stoke at around 2.30am, and I was surprised to see around fifteen Chelsea supporters get off at Stoke station. I got to know a few of them over the next couple of years.

So much for my first-ever midweek game at Stamford Bridge. Even to this day, forty years on, this game is looked upon with shame, and warped pride by others, as an infamous part of our history.

When I awoke the next morning, the events at Stamford Bridge the previous night were on everyone’s lips. In truth, I just wanted to hide.

If ever there was evidence needed of “we’re a right bunch of bastards when we lose” then this was it.

Saturday 9 March 1985 : Chelsea vs. Southampton.

I was back in Somerset when this match was played, but did not attend. In truth, I was low after Monday’s events. This weekend was spent “in hibernation” in my local area, and on the Saturday afternoon I went out on a walk around my village. I caught a little of my local football team’s game in the Mid-Somerset League but then returned to my grandparents’ house to hear that we had lost 0-2 at home to Southampton. After the Sunderland game, I had predicted that our gates would plummet. I envisaged 15,000 against Saints. On the day, 15,022 attended. If only our strikers had been as accurate as my gate guestimates.

In truth, the trouble at the Sunderland game would spark an infamous end to the season. There would soon be hooliganism on a grand scale at the Luton Town vs. Millwall game, trouble at the Birmingham City vs. Leeds United game on the last day of the season, in which a young lad was killed, plus the disasters in Bradford and in Brussels.

The later part of 1984/85 would be as dark as it ever got.

Ahead of the game with Leicester City on the Sunday, I drove down to Devon on the Saturday to see Frome Town’s away game at Tiverton Town. This was a first-time visit for me. With both teams entrenched in the bottom of the division, this was a relegation six-pointer. In truth, it wasn’t the best of games on a terribly soft and bumpy pitch. Both teams had few real chances. There was a miss from James Ollis when one-on-one with the Tivvy ‘keeper, but Frome ‘keeper Kyle Phillips made the save of the season in the last minute to give us a share of the points. There were around fifty Frome Town fans present in the gate of 355.

On the Sunday, we stopped for a breakfast in Chippenham, and I arrived in London in good time. It was the usual pre-match routine. I dropped the lads near The Eight Bells, then parked up opposite The Elephant & Barrel. I walked to West Brompton and caught the tube down to Putney Bridge tube. I squeezed into a seat at our usual table and was able to relax a little.

Jimmy and Ian joined us, and then my friend Michelle from Nashville, who I first met for the very first time in Turin in March 2009. I had picked up some tickets for her at Stamford Bridge for the Juventus away game and we met up so I could had them over. I last saw Michelle, with Parky, in Porto in 2015. Neither of us could possibly believe that it was almost ten years ago. Alas our paths won’t cross in the US in the summer; Michelle will attend the Atlanta game while I am going to the two fixtures in Philadelphia. It was a lovely pre-match, though I am not sure Michelle understood all of our in-jokes, our accents, and our swearing.

There was time for a quick photo-call outside the boozer – Michelle had previously visited it before a Fulham away game – and we then made our way to Fulham Broadway.

It was a sunny day in SW6.

We were inside in good time, and we caught the introductions of some Chelsea legends before the entrance of the two teams.

We would celebrate our actual 120th birthday on the following day, but this was a superb first-course.

Dennis Wise, Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink, Kerry Dixon, Ron Harris, Frank Blunstone.

Lovely applause for them all.

The ninety-year-old Frank Blunstone, a young winger in our first Championship during our golden jubilee of 1954/55, was very spritely and it was a joy to see him.

Ron Harris, now eighty, was flanked by his son Mark and his grandson Isaac.

How quickly the time goes. It didn’t seem so long ago that everyone at Chelsea was celebrating our centenary with our second league title, as perfect a piece of symmetry as you will ever see.

I also like the symmetry of me turning sixty in our one-hundred-and-twentieth year.

Anyway, enough of this bollocks.

The two teams emerged.

Us?

Sanchez

Fofana – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Sancho – Palmer – Nkunku

Neto

The return of Wesley Fofana against his former team. A team full of wingers. A false nine. Nkunku wide left. Square pegs in round holes. Round pegs in square holes. Sanchez in goal. Clive, still injured, at home. My mate Rich alongside PD, Alan and me in a flat back four. Michelle in the Matthew Harding Lower.

Leicester City in a kit the colour of wallpaper paste.

The game began.

In the very first minute of play, Cole Palmer went down after a challenge by Luke Thomas, whoever he is, but the appeals for a penalty were met by stoney silence by the referee.

Soon after, Pedro Neto whipped in a great cross from the right but…um, shouldn’t he have been elsewhere, possibly nearer the goal? Anyway, despite having a team full of wingers, nobody was running into the box to get on the end of the cross.

There was a Leicester attack, but a shot straight at Robert Sanchez.

Soon after, an effort from Palmer went wide, deflected away for a corner. From the ensuing kick, Palmer created space but shot high and wide.

“Oh for two. Here we go again.”

The away fans were shouting out about “football in a library” and the Stamford Bridge thousands responded by…er, doing nothing, not a whisper of a response.

On nineteen minutes, Jadon Sancho was fouled by Victor Kristiansen, whoever he is, and an easy penalty decision this time.

Tellingly, neither Alan nor I moved a muscle.

Sigh.

In our youth – 1984/85 – we would have been up and cheering.

Sadly, Palmer struck the penalty low and the Foxes’ ‘keeper Mads Hermansen – great name – saved well.

Bollocks.

“Oh for three.”

On twenty-five minutes, a mess in the Chelsea box. A cross came in, Sanchez made a hash of his attempts to gather, the ball hit Tosin and looped up onto the bar and Colwill was thankfully able to back-peddle and head away before the lurking Jamie Vardy could strike.

Throughout this all, I heard circus music.

On twenty-seven minutes, Cole was “oh for four.”

After thirty-nine minutes, Moises Caicedo floated a ball from deep into the box towards Marc Cucurella but, stretching, he was unable to finish.

I spoke about Vardy.

“How we could do with him running into the channels, causing havoc, stretching a defence.”

Our play was not so much “quick, quick, slow” as “slow, slow, slower.”

We saw a couple of late half chances from a Caicedo shot and a timid Nkunku header but there were predictable boos at the break.

Pah.

“Palmer has gone into his shell after the penalty miss.”

As the second half began, the sun was still shining but the temperature had dropped. I noted an improvement in tempo, in movement. Down below us, a Cucurella effort was blocked for a corner.

On fifty-one minutes, that man Vardy wriggled in and crashed a shot in from close-range at an angle, but Sanchez had his angles covered and blocked.

Just after, the otherwise energetic and engaged Neto let himself down and crumpled inside the area under the most minimalist of touches from a Leicester player. Everyone around me was quickly irritated by this behaviour. As he laid on the pitch, making out that he was mortally wounded, the shouts of anger boomed out.

I joined in.

“GET UP. GET UP! WE DON’T BELIEVE YOU.”

Bloody cheating footballers.

He limped to his feet and the boos rang out.

On fifty-five minutes, there was a great claim by Sanchez following a low cross from the Leicester right.

An hour had passed and just as we had finished praising Cucurella for his fine aggressive play in all areas of the pitch, I started filming some of the play down below me so I could show a clip of the game to a friend in Azerbaijan. Photos are clearly my thing, and I very rarely do this. On this occasion, luck played its part as I caught the play leading up to a super-clean and super-clinical finish from the man himself.

“Get in Cucurella.”

A great goal, and the three players involved were becoming the main lights in this once mundane match. Neto, despite his painful play-acting, was full of running and tenaciousness. Enzo was a real driving force in this game, trying his best to ignite and inspire. Cucurella was, as ever, full of energy and application.

We were 1-0 up.

Phew.

We had edged our noses in front against a stubborn but hardly threatening Leicester City team.

Alas, on sixty-nine minutes, Cole was 0-5.

Two substitutions on seventy-three minutes.

Tyrique George for Palmer.

Trevoh Chalobah for Fofana.

A shot on goal from Enzo was blocked by Conor Coady, who used to be a footballer, and there was a shout for a penalty. VAR dismissed it.

On eighty-eight minutes, Pedro Neto hounded and chased the ball in a display of “top level pressing” and was roundly applauded for it, his redemption complete.

A minute later, a final substitution.

Josh Acheampong for Nkunku.

It had been another afternoon of middling effort matched by disdain from the terraces for this false footballer.

Tyrique George impressed on his cameo appearance and broke well, late on, setting up Enzo but his low drive was blocked well by Hermansen.

It ended 1-0.

This wasn’t a great game, but we had deserved the win. Miraculously it pushed back into the top four.

“How the hell are we the fourth-best team in England?”

Quality-wise, this is a really poor Premier League season.

We headed home. However, this would be a busy week for me as I would be returning to Stamford Bridge the following day and for the Copenhagen return game on the Thursday.

More of all that later.

Really, though, fourth place?

Chelsea vs. Sunderland

Tiverton Town vs. Frome Town

Chelsea vs. Leicester City

The Goal

Tales From Two Away Games

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Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 8 December 2024.

The game at a wet and windy Southampton behind us, we were now ready to think about the next hurdle during this mammoth month of nine matches in December.

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea.

It makes the pulses quicken, doesn’t it?

On the Saturday, I was busy, as busy as hell. My trip to Kazakhstan was coming up on Monday morning and I needed to make sure I had planned everything to be as near perfection as I possibly could. I also needed to write the blog from the Southampton game. With these two events to occupy my mind, there never was going to be a Frome Town game to attend on the first day of the weekend. My local team were set to travel down to Dorset and play Poole Town. As luck would have it, Storm Darragh was likely to wreak havoc, and the game was quickly called off during the first few hours of Saturday morning.

I was just about to launch into the Southampton match report when it was announced at around 10.30am that our three matches in the new FIFA World Club Cup – against Flamengo, Esperance and Leon, as drawn at around 7pm on Thursday – would take place in Atlanta and Philadelphia.

As if I needed something else to occupy my mind on this busiest of weekends.

But occupy my mind it did. Briefly, the plan will be to avoid the game against Leon in Atlanta, but to fly into New York and revisit that city before heading down to Philly for the other two games. The plan is for Glenn from Frome to ride alongside me. We quickly discussed a few notions and ideas, and I messaged a few close friends in the US. I also spoke to my good friend Steve who resides in South Philly, less than two miles from where we will be playing in June at the 67,000 capacity Lincoln Financial Field. To say he was ecstatic would be halfway there. I could sense his exhilaration on the ‘phone. He was truly thrilled.

Philly is a great venue for me. I visited it first in autumn 1989, then again for a baseball game in 1993, and another in 2008, then with my mother in 2010, and then again with Chelsea for the 2012 All-Star Game in nearby Chester, with baseball games on both of those visits too. It is the city where my great great grandparents lived in around 1860. I like it a lot. For once I have to commend FIFA in planning two games in one city, with the third game at least in the same time zone.

But that is next summer. There will be plenty of time to work on a plan for that in due course.

All of this talk of exotic away games…

There was a time when a normal Common or Garden, run of the mill, bread and butter (OK, FFS – everyone gets it!) away game used to excite me like nothing else.

The Tottenham away game would be my five-hundred and thirteenth away game. Forty years ago to the exact day – Saturday 8 December 1984 – my tenth ever away game was at Hillsborough against Sheffield Wednesday.

Let’s go back in time.

My first five away games had been in Bristol, four at Rovers and one at City. Then there were two within a month in March 1984 at Newcastle United and Cardiff City. Then a friendly at Bristol City, then the massive opener at Arsenal. While living in Stoke-on-Trent, I missed a lot of away games due to bad luck – being in the wrong place at the wrong time – and was forced to wait a few months for my next one, a lovely away day at our big 1983/84 rivals to the north of Sheffield’s city centre.

I remember a fair few things about that day, but I can consult my 1984 diary too.

I was up early at 7.30am, which was a good effort since there had been a boozy birthday party at our local in Stoke on the Friday night, which typically involved a fight with a local – a Stokie – who came unstuck with one or two of my mates. I woke with a slight hangover. I caught the train at 8.39am and changed trains at Derby. My flat mate Bryan travelled with me to Sheffield as he was off to a party that night in the city. We arrived at 10.15am. I clutched a map as I walked north – where I got the map from I have no idea – and it took me an hour to get to Hillsborough. Penistone Road seemed to go on forever. I was ridiculously early, but I enjoyed seeing such a huge stadium for the first time. I loved seeing the huge Kop and the iconic cantilever stand up close.  I walked around it. I took it all in. A hideous steak and kidney pie was purchased.

I bought a seat ticket for £4.50 for the upper tier of the away end, a real treat. I waited for others to arrive. The few Chelsea fans present at such an early time were kept in a secure enclosure behind gates. A few mates arrived. Dave from St. Albans. Then Alan from Bromley and Paul from Brighton. They let us in at 1.30pm. A meat and potato pie next. The view in the seats was excellent. I spotted Mark from Sudbury. Then Sharon and Paula, the programme girls. My guess was around 6,000 Chelsea. The first-half was poor but got better in the second-half. Paul Canoville was always a threat. On eighty minutes, Pat Nevin reached the goal-line and clipped a cross over for Gordon Davies to head home from close range. The celebrations were amazing. Pure ecstasy. Then “that bastard” Imre Varadi headed home, and our hearts sank. Our first away win of the season was tantalisingly close, but despite a few late chances, it ended level. The gate was 29, 373. Sitting nearby was an infamous skinhead, Lester, who claimed that Hicky had been arrested on the way up.

A convoy of fifteen double-decker buses took us back to Sheffield’s Midland station, arriving at 5.30pm. We learned we had drawn Wigan in the FA Cup. Bizarrely, I bumped into Bryan at the station, waiting for a friend to arrive for the party. I caught the 6.21pm to Derby, where there was a load of United fans on the way back from their defeat at Forest. I returned to Stoke at 8.14pm. Out for a pint at the college disco, I saw a Wednesday fan who I had met the night before and we exchanged peasantries. Then back to my digs, my head no doubt full of Chelsea songs from the six-thousand army in Sheffield who had been the stars of the show yet again.

These were the best times of my life; the seasons from 1983/84 through to around 1988/89.

I miss the feelings of youthful camaraderie, rebellious noise, ridiculous characters, silly moments, cutting terrace humour, and also the magnificent adventures as we experienced new away grounds and new cities as our travels spread around the country.

In contrast to those “rights of passage” seasons, the trip to Tottenham on Sunday 8 December 2024 would be my twenty-sixth Tottenham away game although three of those were at Wembley.

My “rights of passage” days have long since gone – sad, isn’t it? – but this fixture stirs the emotions like no other.

The plans for this game changed due to my travel out to Kazakhstan on the Monday. I had decided to stay up in London after the game, which meant that PD and Parky had to make their own arrangements.

When I woke on Sunday morning, PD and Parky were already en route to London. They would stay in London too, near the Eight Bells in Fulham, and then drive home on Monday.

I left for London at 11.15am, and hoped to get to Barons Court, my basecamp for games against Arsenal, West Ham and Tottenham, by 2pm. It was a painful drive up; wet, windy, lots of traffic. It meant that I didn’t reach Barons Court until 2.30pm. From there, a quick coffee to give me some energy, and then the District Line to Monument, a walk to Bank, the Central Line to Liverpool Street. It had only taken me thirty minutes to get across town. I caught the 3.30pm train to White Hart Lane – I had a warm jacket on, it was boiling in the train, and I was stood next to three Tottenham fans who used the word “bruv” every three seconds.

I had a couple of spares to hand over to a work colleague’s daughter and her boyfriend, and it transpired that they were on the very same train. The timings all worked out. I soon met up with them outside the away end and I was inside at 4.20pm.

As I walked in, through the little alleyway, I smirked at the usual pre-match Tottenham rhetoric booming out all around me. To hear it, one would be tempted to think that they are a club at Real Madrid levels of achievement.

They aren’t.

I was down in the bottom corner, row 2, right by the corner flag with Gary and John. It seemed we were below the level of the pitch; it must have been the camber.

As kick-off approached, the lights dimmed.

“Oh God, here we go.”

No Southampton laser beams, but thousands of home fans turned their phone torches on and the huge bowl looked like another Barry Manilow gig.

The mosaics in the towering South Stand spelled out “Audere Est Facere” which means “We’re Pretty Shite” in Latin.

The team?

Sanchez

Caicedo – Badiashile – Colwill – Cucarella

Lavia – Enzo

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

Or something like that. Being so low down it was difficult to tell if there were some subtle tweaks to our usual set up.

As at Southampton, Chelsea were in all blue. Tottenham were modelling shirts with an Arsenal-style affectation involving navy sleeves.

There was a lively start. We seemed OK.

However, on just five minutes, Marc Cucarella slipped and allowed Brennan Johnson, whoever he is, to race on in front of our disbelieving eyes. He was able to strike a firm cross into our box that former Chelsea youngster Dominic Solanke finished off with a sliding strike, the ball flying high into the goal past Robert Sanchez.

Fackinell.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 0.

Their support boomed, and Solanke ran towards us before aiming an imaginary bow in our general direction; another prick who is off our Christmas Card list.

We still had most of the ball but found it difficult to watch as on twelve minutes, Cucarella again slipped, right in front of us this time. This allowed a move to quickly develop. The ball was played into Dejan Kulusevski, who was allowed too much space. His – almost scuffed – shot crept in at the near post.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 0.

[inside my head : God, is this payback for the 6-1 in 1997? I hate this lot more than anyone else. Please God no cricket scores. Not here. Not against them.]

Well, thankfully, we didn’t crumble, we kept playing.

The next goal would be crucial, and we just had to score it. With the home team playing a high line, we kept pushing the ball into spaces out wide.

I saw Jadon Sancho advance on eighteen minutes, and I yelled out “don’t be afraid to shoot!”

Thankfully, he must have heard me because he ran on, then inside, and drilled a magical daisy-cutter into the goal, just inside the far post. I was right in line with his shot. I took great enjoyment with that one. Huge celebrations in our end. We were back in it, and well done us.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 2.

This was a good game, keenly contested, and I was absolutely involved.

A half-chance for a relatively quiet Cole Palmer but wasted.

We were all yelling obscenities into the dark North London night when, on thirty-four minutes, Sanchez kicked a clearance right at a Tottenham player, and then did something very similar a few minutes later.

I kept saying to John “we need to keep turning the screw here”. No escape, no let-up, no mercy, get into them Chels.

More half-chances for us in front of that ridiculously high and imposing South Stand.

Strangely, though, both sets of fans were relatively quiet. It surprised me that not one Chelsea supporter chose to sing about “winning 6-1 at The Lane.”

A Tottenham corner, against the run of play, and a header tickled the top of Sanchez’ bar causing the tightly stretched net to ripple.

Then, Nicolas Jackson – a threat in theory – had two great chances but was thwarted by some desperate defending.

At half-time, I would say that the mood in the Chelsea section was positive, even buoyant. I spotted PD behind me and he came down to join the three of us for the second period. At the break, Malo Gusto replaced the seemingly injured Romeo Lavia, who was injured in the closing minutes of the first half.

In the opening flurry of activity in the second period, Sancho was involved on our left and perhaps should have pulled the trigger a little more often. Pedro Neto came to life too. We began the second forty-five in great form, in great spirits, tons of energy.

A shot from the mightily impressive Enzo Fernandez, a shot from Gusto too.

We were all over Tottenham.

The volume increased.

On the hour, that man Sancho released Moises Caicedo and, as he burst into the box, he was clipped by Yves Bissouma,

The much-derided Anthony Taylor quickly pointed to the spot.

Yes!

I moved to the front of the gangway and prepared to capture the strike from Cole Palmer. I waited.

The shot.

The net rippled.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 2.

Scenes!

I prepared to set my little camera to record the scorer’s run towards us, but – standing right at the front – I was swamped by on-rushing supporters as it seemed the entire section wanted to get as close to Cole Palmer as possible.

It was mayhem.

I took my baseball cap off so that I didn’t lose it, I took my glasses off and gripped them tightly, I held on to my camera for grim life. I was getting pushed right up against the wall.

Fackinell.

At the end of it, I just laughed.

“I think I have just been sexually violated.”

Everyone was delirious with our equaliser.

Magnificent stuff.

We were absolutely the better team now, and the away fans knew it.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

I said to Paul “I’ll take a 2-2 but I want to win it.”

On seventy-three minutes, the bloke behind me pleaded for Neto to push forward and provide an overlap for Palmer, who was shielding the ball only a few yards away. Palmer didn’t need any assistance. He twisted and turned, caressing the ball beautifully as he danced between a few Tottenham defenders. His shot was blocked, and it bobbled out to Enzo who lashed the ball in.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 3.

Oh my God.

The place erupted again.

I raced down the front, hoping to get some photos but got crushed again.

I was in pain this time, but I was just giggling away like a fool. The photos that I took of the celebrations are too blurred to even contemplate sharing.

I returned to my seat, and I gave John a good old-fashioned stare. At 2-2, I had said that I hoped for us to be able to sing the classic “Tottenham Hotspur – It’s Happened Again” and now we could sing it with, er, gusto.

It was a beautiful moment.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.”

Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

On eighty-four minutes, Palmer was shielding the ball away from Pape Sarr – “he’s not a footballer, he’s just a random selection of letters” – and I could hardly believe the idiocy that resulted in Palmer being chopped down.

Was I going down to the front of the stand to take a photo of Palmer’s second penalty?

No, not a chance. I waited in my normal seat.

We waited. And waited.

He ran, I snapped.

A Panenka.

I just burst out laughing.

Tottenham 2 Chelsea 4.

The home areas were now thinning out although you would not know since – a cunning ploy this – all of the seats at the Tottenham stadium are very dark grey.

It’s as if they knew.

Some late substitutions and Joao Felx, Renato Veiga and Noni Madueke replaced Palmer, Cucarella and Neto.

There was a later consolation from Son Heung-Min, but that was it.

There was no “bastard Imre Varadi” waiting in the shadows in this game.

We had done them again.

Bloody fantastic.

“Nine goals in two away games in five days, not bad at all.”

Those Tottenham away games?

My record is now :

Played : 26

Won : 11

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

We can, I think, start to call it “Three Point Lane” once again.

I made my way out and chatted to Mick for a few minutes. We both agreed how everything has come together over the last few weeks. Enzo Maresca has got inside their heads and has given them belief.

“Football is all between the ears anyway, right?”

God, we are only a few points behind Liverpool.

Our sudden rise has, I can safely say, surprised every one of us.

I dipped in for some food on the High Road, then caught the 7.45pm train back to Liverpool Street.

Schadenfreude as I sat among them for half-an-hour?

Oh yes.

I returned to my car at Barons Court at around 9pm.

And here I am, sat in a hotel at Heathrow, ahead of a flight – from Stansted, don’t ask – at 12.50pm tomorrow that will take me to Istanbul, and from there to Almaty in Kazakhstan for the game against Astana on Thursday.

Onwards, and eastwards.

I might see some of you there.

Tales From Another 5am To 1am Special

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 2 May 2024.

I think it is fair to say that many of us in the Chelsea fraternity had been dreading the home game with Tottenham Hotspur. But then the away game at Aston Villa, and especially the second-half performance, gave us all some hope. I certainly approached the game with a lot more expectation than, for example, I could have possibly predicted after the 0-5 shellacking at Arsenal a week or so before.

I was up at just before 5am to work an early shift. The drive in to our own special part of London SW6 was as easy as it gets.

My pre-match was spent in very unfamiliar surroundings. PD and Parky, for the recent Everton game, had chosen to drink in “McGettigans” opposite the old booking hall of Fulham Broadway tube station. It is a pub that I had only ever visited on one occasion before; in the summer of 1997, with a new trophy to admire in our trophy cabinet (and only the fifth trophy in ninety-two hears I hasten to add), a little band of us did a Stamford Bridge tour. After, we decamped into “Bootsy Brogan’s” – the former “White Swan” – for a reflective pint. Over the years, the pub’s name changed a few times, but I had never returned. It has remained as the strangest of boozers. It is located perfectly for match days, a decent size, yet to this day I know of nobody at Chelsea who use it, nor who ever have. It’s a real enigma, like Chelsea Football Club itself.

I had popped in for a bang average pizza on Lillee Road and then joined up with PD and Parky, plus Salisbury Steve and Luke, at “McGettigan’s” just before 6pm. It was as I had remembered it from 1997, a big rambling pub with multiple floors. I eventually located my friends who were way down in a booth in the lower levels. Typically, there was no familiar, or even semi-familiar, faces on show. We had a good natter. Luke flicked up the Chelsea team on his mobile phone. A lot had been made of the injury list before this game, so – in a way – the team almost picked itself. There was one change from Villa; Alfie Gilchrist – who sounds like a Sarf Landon villain – in for Thiago Silva. With fourteen players out, it looked a decent enough team. On the bench was a host of youngsters, some of whom I was not familiar with.

We spoke about plans for the last four games of the season and the time soon passed. This was a 7.30pm kick-off – an earlier one than usual, good – and so we left the pub at 7pm.

I picked up several copies of the match programme on the way in. There was a photo of Thiago Silva on the cover, and the programme included a feature on a proper dodgey character on pages 22 and 23.

The kick-off soon came around.

Before the game got going, Alan and I brought each other up to speed with our second loves.

Alan has a season ticket at Bromley in the National League. He first started watching his local team in around 1979 when they played at a much lower level. He has enjoyed their resurgence in recent years. On Sunday, Alan is attending the National League play-off at Wembley against Solihull Moors. The prize is a place in the Football League. Alan will therefore be missing the West Ham game. I have spoken to Alan in the past about missing a Chelsea game because of Frome Town. It hasn’t happened yet, but I am sure it will.

Talking of play-offs, the previous day – Wednesday 2 May – I had watched Frome Town play Mousehole at home in the one game semi-final of the divisional play-offs. On a wet night, Frome blazed into a deserved 3-0 first-half lead via two goals from James Ollis and one from Kane Simpson. This was a sturdy, dominant performance with three well-taken goals. It was a different game in the second-half, and despite a sending-off for George Rigg, the home team held on. The gate was a magnificent 1,099. It was the second gate of over one thousand at Badgers Hill in just five days. On Bank Holiday Monday, Frome meet old-foes Bristol Manor Farm, in the play-off final. We are expecting the gate to top 1,500. Revenge is in the air since Manor Farm defeated us in the semi-finals two years ago.

Just before the game began, the two teams did their huddles, but the Tottenham one was down in front of their fans. I had not seen that anywhere before. I remember how Celtic were the first team, to my knowledge, to do the huddle in around 1995/96, and it was their “thing.” Since then it has been adopted by virtually all teams. The first time that I can remember us doing a huddle was when we played Vicenza in the ECWC semi-final in 1998, with us all dressed in yellow, on a rainy night in SW6.

The latest in a long line of Chelsea vs. Tottenham games kicked off. This was my forty-first Chelsea vs. Tottenham game at Stamford Bridge since my first one in October 1974, and I had only seen us lose three times; in 1978, in 1986, in 2018. 

The noise was thankfully buoyant. The “Willian” song was sung loudly by the Matthew Harding, not because of the player but because of the dig at Tottenham. It got the game off to a raucous start.

We attacked the three thousand away fans and the three thousand home fans in The Shed. We almost got the game off to a dream start. Alan and I had spent a few seconds discussing how we don’t always play to Mykhailo Mudryk’s strengths, but he sped clear down the left and passed to the on-rushing Nicolas Jackson. In a flurry of activity, a shot was blocked and a rebound landed at Cole Palmer’s feet, right under the bar from our perspective. To our disbelief, he wasn’t able to correctly adjust and his effort excruciatingly flew over the bar. I was stood and my hands instinctively cupped the back of my head. Why do football fans do that when a shot dramatically misses the target? Is it intuitive or is it developed over time? I was just aware how much of a cliché I looked.

A proper “head in hands” moment.

There was a phenomenal dribble down the left from Mudryk, but he really should have passed outside to a free team-mate, and his effort blazed over. There was a riser from Noni Madueke. Then an effort from Gilchrist, another rising shot, that flew over.

A lovely shimmy inside from Madueke and a left-foot curler that I thought was just going to sneak in, but it narrowly missed the top left corner.

This was good stuff from Chelsea. I need not have been worried.

On twenty-four minutes, I was surprised that Conor Gallagher and not Palmer, dolloped a long ball at a free-kick towards the far post.

My first thoughts : “too far, that.”

But I still clicked. I caught the moment that Trevoh Chalobah rose like a salmon – talking of clichés – and beautifully headed across the Tottenham ‘keeper, whoever he was, and into the net.

The stadium roared as the scorer celebrated right in front of the Tottenham support.

Good work, son.

After the celebrations had died down a little, the mood changed.

VAR. Possible off-side.

Up came my hands to cup my head again.

We waited.

And waited.

Then a VAR check for a foul.

Memories of that VAR mayhem in the first-half at their place this season.

Boos.

One of the reasons why I hate VAR is that referees now have a reason to defer the decision-making process if they – and their linos – are unsure.

“Let VAR decide. Fuck the fans. They can wait.”

The goal stood, but I never cheered, nor did Alan, nor PD.

Who the fuck cheers a VAR decision?

Next, a close one from Mudryk, but just off target.

On the half hour, one song boomed around The Bridge.

“STAND UP IF YOU HATE TOTTENHAM.”

We continued to out-pace, out-think, out-play Tottenham for the rest of the half, but they did have two, late, rare attacks. A header from somebody, and a Chalobah block from another, those Tottenham players without names.

In the closing minutes of a really entertaining game, Clive posed a question to get us thinking.

“Name five England players from the ‘eighties whose surname began with the letter G.”

…mmm, the ‘eighties, my era, when I cared for the national team, let me think.

“One is easy, the other four not, one player played just one time.”

Alan soon got the easy one. Over the half-time break, and then into the second-half (it felt odd being distracted from the football) I managed to get the other four. Admittedly, I guessed around six or seven times incorrectly, but I got them. Clive and I often send ourselves photo teasers on “WhatsApp” to keep our minds fresh; it’s usually players or grounds. It’s our little way to stave off dementia.

Just after half-time, I was happy. I had guessed the last one.

“YES! FUCK DEMENTIA!”

There is no doubt that Tottenham bossed the first part of the second-half and we were limited to the occasional rare break, often including Madueke and Jackson, not so much Mudryk. But we held firm and limited Tottenham to the odd half-chance. There was a rare chance for Palmer but he leaned back as he shot and the ball was well high.

As the game wore on, the away fans found their voice. Just before the hour, we heard their uber-dirge for the very first time.

“On when the Spurs…”

There was a shimmy, a body-shake, from Palmer that almost defied description. He is so casual, so laid-back, almost indifferent to what else is going on, and he then produces moments of utter charm and delight. He is a real talent. Without him, this season really would have been difficult.

But Tottenham were in the ascendency now. On the hour, we were hanging on.

Alan : “If Tottenham don’t win this, it’ll be a miracle.”

I was reminded of “that” game in 2018, when we scored first yet they came back to score three, with two at The Shed End.

Ugh.

On seventy-two minutes, the industrious Marc Cucarella won a free-kick outside the box. Palmer shaped to take a shot, and I shaped to take a shot with my camera.

He caught it, I caught it.

The ball slammed against the bar, bounced up, but Jackson showed sublime predatory skills and hung in the air to nod the ball into the open corner. This was down below us at our end. We had a perfect view of this.

It dropped in.

I yelled and ascended the steps to my left, punching the air. I then had my wits to capture the run and slide by the scorer into the corner.

Oh boy, what a moment.

In truth, we scored at just the right moment. Tottenham had been on top, but were, now, surely beaten. A few of their fans decided to leave.

The rest of the game?

I have to say that Tottenham’s finishing was absolutely woeful. In another game, they could have tied it up. But this was Tottenham, at Chelsea, and after all these years, after all these games, there must be now, surely, something in the THFC DNA that says “no.”

The place grew noisy, noisy as hell.

“Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Tottenham get battered, everywhere they go.

Everywhere they go.”

Now, this was as noisy as I have heard it all season I think. Teenagers from Ruislip and Rayners Lane, schoolkids from Stoke Poges and Surbiton, battle-hardened former skinheads from Walworth and Wandsworth, grandmothers and grandfathers from Oxford and Cambridge, loyalists from Frome and Trowbridge, Stamford Bridge first-timers from New York and New Delhi, locals from Fulham and Pimlico, all joined together in song.

And one more for luck.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

There were three late substitutions.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

Josh Acheampong for Gilchrist.

Jimi Tauriainen for Jackson.

More profligate finishing for Tottenham in front of The Shed gave the game a comical ending.

This was a very decent Chelsea performance.

Cucarella magnificent, Caicedo rejuvenated, Gallagher relentless, Palmer with understated efficiency, Jackson running and fighting, Chalobah firm and steady, even Badiashile was cool under pressure.

Colour me happy.

All the Tottenham lot had disappeared by the time I collected Ron outside the hotel. We walked up the North End Road among beaming Chelsea fans. Parky and PD were happy. Alas, the M4 was shut at Reading and so my cruise home was delayed. I eventually got in at 1am; another 5am to 1 am special. But I loved it.

Next up, another London derby.

Chelsea vs. West Ham United.

See you there.

Pub

Programme

“I’m from a small village in Somerset and I became a Chelsea fan – like many of my generation – as a direct result of the FA Cup win in 1970. I don’t remember the game, I just remember being around the school play yard immediately afterwards and somebody said Chelsea had won the Cup. I don’t know what, but something stuck – maybe it was the sound of the name. I was coming up to five at the time and my parents weren’t really into football, but with each passing season I became more of a fan. Then, on Christmas Day in 1973, my parents announced that they were taking me to a game, and just thinking of that now reminds me how excited I was to be going to Stamford Bridge. We only had a black-and-white TV set at the time and I don’t think I was prepared for the full colour experience that was going to hit me!

My dad was a shopkeeper in Frome and he wasn’t able to get too much time off work, but he arranged things with his boss so he could drive us up to London on March 16, 1974 – the 50th anniversary of which has recently passed. I was as excited as any eight-year-old possibly could be. I remember the tube ride to Fulham Broadway after we had arrived in London, and finally feeling like a Chelsea fan for the first time. I’d never had the chance to prove that to anybody before. We had tickets on the benches, in the West Enclosure, Row 6, towards the North Stand. At that time, the East Stand was being built and, with the TV cameras being on the West Stand back then, you never really saw what it looked like until you went. We won 1-0. Hutch [Ian Hutchinson] scored after about 10 minutes, from a cross, and I can still picture it – he kind of headed it down into the goal. My dad was only able to get time off work for us to come up twice a year, but I started to go more often once I was in sixth form.

Then I was at college in Stoke-on-Trent for three years in the mid-Eighties, which enabled me to go and see a fair few away games as well. My favourite season was 1983/84 and that was a real rite of passage campaign. I was 18, starting to go to pubs and make friends around the area. Chelsea fans from Wiltshire and Somerset always stick together because there weren’t many of us around at the time, and we still do to this day. Another important year was 1997 – getting silverware again after all those years. I was a Chelsea fan when we won the European Cup Winners’ Cup in 1971, but I don’t remember anything about it because I was only six. I remember nothing of the League Cup loss to Stoke the next year either, but I remember the cup quarter-final against Arsenal in 1973 – Osgood scored the goal of the season in the draw at the Bridge, then we lost the replay at Highbury. I remember all the near misses, the League Cup semi-final losses against Sunderland and Sheffield Wednesday, in 1985 and 1991. That’s why 1996/97 was such a memorable season, because we started to chip away at the top clubs and we had some fantastic players: Wise, Gullit, Vialli, Hughes, Zola. Magnificent. That whole FA Cup weekend we stayed up at my friend’s in south London and they were just magical times.

Growing up, I’d had one of those old pub mirrors in my bedroom – a Chelsea one – and every morning I’d gaze at it and think, “Will we ever win more than the four trophies on that mirror?” It always felt like if we could replicate ’70 and ’71 that would be quite a thing, so winning in Stockholm in 1998 to do the FA Cup and Cup Winners’ Cup back-toback again was a wonderful night. We’ve had so much success since then, and I don’t have space to go over it all here, but I’m still making that journey from Frome now, as a home and away season-ticket holder. I enjoy the good times but I don’t get too down when we don’t do so well. Football is such a fantastic thing and I’ve met so many good friends over the years. It’s all the other stuff that keeps us going – meeting up in the pub, the friendships and the laughter.

Among the friends I’ve made is someone who brings the story full circle. Ron Harris lives near me and he now comes up to games in my car. He was playing in the first game I ever went to, so it’s really quite surreal for me to be driving up to Chelsea, look in my rear-view mirror… and there’s Ron Harris sitting in the back seat.”

The Five England Players

Paul Gascoigne.

Eric Gates.

John Gregory.

Paul Goddard.

Brian Greenhoff.

Tales From 4.45am To 3.00am

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Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 4 April 2024.

Some finish, eh?

But don’t hop straight to that. Every story has a start, then a build-up, and a back-story or two.

Fasten your seat belts though; I don’t want you to fall off at the end of the ride.

On the way home in the car after the Burnley game that ended in a disappointing 2-2 draw, we engendered a pretty intense post mortem about where the club is, where the team is, our strengths and weaknesses, the whole nine yards. It was an exhaustive chat. The closing thought was along the lines of “well, hopefully we will all be healthy enough to keep going to games for a while yet” with a deeply pragmatic “we can only show up and support, the rest is fluff” as a final word on the day’s events. Although we had been dismayed with a draw against a weak, and weakened, team we have all been going to Chelsea for too many seasons to let a draw get us suicidal.

On the Easter Monday, I travelled to my place of work, Melksham, to watch a local derby. In a tough game, Frome Town raced to a 2-0 lead early in the first-half, and withstood a late Melksham Town charge to eventually squeak it 2-1. The crowd was a very decent 1,103 and the win put Frome Town top of our division.

The next Chelsea game, the 8.15pm kick-off against Manchester United at Stamford Bridge on the following Thursday, meant that I had to turn up at work for another 6am to 2pm shift. I was up at 4.45am and I dreaded to think what time I would be returning home. Before I left for work at 5.30am, I had a quick check on all of the previous Chelsea vs. Manchester United games that I had attended; across all venues, it currently stood at eighty-one This game would be number eighty-two.

There are four Manchester United followers in the office, though two were absent on this particular day. I set things up by saying that of the previous eighty-one games, few had excited me less. There was no banter in the office during the day. Oh well.

Only PD was travelling up with me for this game; the other two regulars were not able to attend unfortunately. Our friends from Jacksonville – Jennifer, Cindy, Brian, Tom – met us in “The Elephant And Barrel” on Lillee Road for some pre-match chat. I was reminded of the first time that Jennifer and Brian attended a game at Stamford Bridge; it was the game against West Ham United in April 2018, just a few days after Ray Wilkins sadly passed away. What an emotional game that was. And here we all were, six years later, on the exact anniversary of his passing. That Ray played for both Chelsea and Manchester United was fitting.

We called in at “The Cock Tavern” and I bored the Americans rigid with how I enjoyed my first-ever pint at this popular pub in April 1984, almost forty years ago. The boozer was packed when we arrived at about 7pm and I hoped that as we squeezed out to the beer garden the crowds would thin out. If anything, it got busier. We were packed in like sardines.

I said to Jennifer “this is when us English types stand around and look awkward.” But Brian had a different take.

“What could be more typically English than this? We are in London, in a pub, before going to the football. It’s raining and the Spice Girls are playing on the pub’s speakers.”

I smiled.

With rain threatening to get worse, we made our way along the Fulham Road.

I was inside Stamford Bridge just before 8pm.

We had heard the team.

Petrovic

Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Mudryk

Jackson

There were the usual three-thousand United fans staring us down in the opposite corner. They came with a few flags draped over the balcony wall, including one I remember from a few years ago.

“Levenshulme Reds : MUFC – No Mither.”

There were flags from up north – St. Helens – and down south – Patchway – and the away crowd were already in good voice. Before the game, the annoying PA chap shouted at us and obliterated any chance we had of building our own atmosphere.

Then came the dimming of the lights, the flames in front of the East Stand and a display of flags being waved in The Shed. Then, vertical “Keep The Blue Flag Flying High” banners draped down into the lower tier.

The fools who had paid £5,000 per seat took their places behind the Chelsea dugout.

The stadium lights brightened and the players strode onto the pitch.

The famous blue, the famous red.

The three visitors from Florida – not Tom, he is originally from Ireland, and not Chelsea, but Cindy’s partner, and watching his own team in a nearby pub – finally made their way into their seats front and centre of the Shed Lower. I easily spotted them.

Clive was alongside me, but sadly Alan was unable to make this one.

The game began.

And how.

After just four minutes of play, with us attacking both sets of fans in The Shed, Enzo played the ball out to Malo Gusto on the right with a fantastic pass. Gusto sent over a low cross, and the ball fell nicely for the onrushing Conor Gallagher. The captain quickly dispatched the ball towards goal in a way that was very reminiscent of Frank Lampard in his prime. To my eyes, the habitually mocked United ‘keeper Andre Onana appeared to dive over the ball. There was an air of disbelief, a slight delay, before everyone realised that the ball had rippled the United net.

Get in.

As the scorer raced down towards the corner flag in the South-West corner, I purred with happiness when I immediately thought back to the absolutely nonsensical abuse suffered by the player since the Burnley match.

Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

I shouted over to PD; “I remember Pedro’s early goal in 2016 against this lot” and wondered if there would be a ridiculous repeat.

Chances were exchanged as the game continued. United looked dangerous at times with Alejandro Garnacho looking particularly mischievous. Rasmus Hojlund looked as though he could cause us some trouble too. But we had decent spells of our own.

On nineteen minutes, Marc Cucarella played a one-two with Mykhailo Mudryk, and was upended in the box by Antony.

It looked a penalty from one-hundred yards away, cough, cough.

Cole Palmer took the ball and cleanly despatched the ball past Onana, and then celebrated with a trot right in front of Cindy, Jennifer and Brian.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Some good ones there I hoped.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 0.

There was a magnificent Zola-esque bamboozle out on the right by the half-way line by Palmer that made us squeal with delight. But at 2-0, I felt we didn’t really push on as much as we should. Our play was a little too slow, a familiar complaint this season, and in others too. But the once buoyant United hordes were quiet. We had them on the ropes. It was such a shame that we didn’t really go for it.

There was a Gallagher free-kick from out on the right and an Axel Disasi header but not much else.

Sadly, on thirty-four minutes, an errant square pass from Moises Caicedo to Benoit Badishile was cut out by the raiding Garnacho. He sped away and tucked the ball home.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 1.

Bollocks.

Caicedo looked devastated.

We looked second-best for a while and on thirty-eight minutes, Cucarella gave Garnacho too much space down below us and he had time to pass back to the unmarked Diogo Dalot. His cross cut out everyone, but was expertly headed home by Bruno Fernandes at the back post, the ball dropping in past Petrovic. I found myself muttering “good goal” to myself and immediately questioned my very existence.

Fackinell.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 2.

Right at the end of the half, a screamer from Gallagher rattled against the near post, right in front of Cindy, Jennifer and Brian.

At half-time, there were comments about how loose the game at been.

“Woeful defending for our two conceded goals.”

“It’ll be 4-4 at the final whistle.”

Soon into the second-half, we were treated to two excellent tackles / interceptions by Disasi, one seemingly while on his arse.

We struck at the United goal via Nicolas Jackson and Enzo.

In the Fernandez versus Fernandes battle, things were tight.

The game was opening up, and Chelsea peppered the United goal with efforts. Onana made several dramatic one-handed saves during the evening.

Sadly, halfway through the second-half, a lightening break down our right allowed Antony to advance and play a spectacularly good ball with the outside of his boot into the penalty area. We were stretched, and the ball bounced up and allowed Garnach to stoop nimbly just before Petrovic could clear. It was an odd goal, quite unique, and it gave the visitors the lead.

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 3.

I imagined the four United fans at work preparing a few barbs for me.

The away fans bellowed “Who the fuck are man United and the reds going marching on, on, on?”

I grimaced.

This self-deprecating song always gets aired when they are on top.

Pochettino changed it around.

Carney Chukwuemeka for Caicedo.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk.

Then Trevoh Chalobah for Disasi.

Onana continued to thwart us. What had happened to the woeful ‘keeper of the first few months of his United career? An angled shot from Palmer blazed over.

The final fifteen minutes was an increasingly odd period. We attempted to find gaps, and Enzo tried to create openings out of nothing. His prods into players helped keep the pressure on.

The United fans were in full voice.

“Red army! Red army!”

This was met with some Chelsea boos, but I soon realised that this was aimed at Mason Mount who was preparing to replace the impressive Garnacho on the far touchline. If I was honest, I was hoping that Mount would not play.

I didn’t boo. Why would I? Although the volume of boos was loud – and it surprised me – I looked around and behind me and I could not see anyone booing in our section. One suspects, if everyone had been booing, the noise would have been stratospheric.

Thanks for Porto, Mason. But you were shite last season, all of it, and that’s it, it’s over. He managed to get into a little spat straight away.

On the eighty-ninth minute, the last throw of the dice and Noni Madueke replaced Gallagher. I struggled to work out the formation, but we kept going.

“Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.”

Ten minutes of extra time were displayed.

We kept plugging away.

I turned to Clive.

“We’ll score.”

Injury time continued. Sterling and Madueke tried their best. The game was being played out in the United defensive third in front of us.

The time ticked by.

With three minutes to go, we seemed to have run out of steam, and both Clive and I agreed that it looked a lost cause.

Clive left, as had Albert, who sits right in front of me, a few minutes earlier.

Then, a late and forceful run by Madueke the substitute. He drove at the United box and we gulped in the night air. It was already way past 10pm. He ran and run, and was clipped by Dalot. We gulped some more.

…thinking : “looked like a penalty.”

The referee pointed at the spot.

Then, surprise surprise, the inevitable VAR interaction.

We waited. The United players stood around the referee. There was a commotion.

We waited some more.

I had walked a few steps to my left, down to the front of the MHU for a better view.

This was so tense.

Penalty.

I did not cheer.

I took a few photos of Palmer as he waited to strike. Alas, the photo of the strike is too blurred to share here.

Palmer struck.

Low to Onana’s left.

Goal.

Bedlam.

Fucking bedlam.

I snapped as the scorer raced away, but the stand was trembling so much that all of the photos are magnificently blurred

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 3.

Fackinell.

I immediately thought of Clive, poor Clive.

I walked back up to my place alongside PD. I patted him on the back and we hugged.

“Bloody hell mate.”

After the re-start, United attacked – so much for killing the game, oh well, they are the great entertainers – and we won the ball back in our half. A flick from Enzo to Sterling, a touch to Madueke, who kept the ball well despite being hounded by three red shirts. He pushed the ball to Jackson who played in Sterling. There was a prod into the box. The low cross was cleared, but only to Cucarella. He passed to Chukwuemeka who shaped his body well. A curling shot, deflected, the ball just missing the frame of the goal. We grimaced.

But a corner.

I had taken ten photos of this move which had taken fifteen seconds to unfold. I was waiting for that one magical moment to capture for eternity.

Was there even time for a corner?

Our hearts were racing.

I flipped my camera up to The Shed to take a photo of the Jacksonville Three. Their cameras were posed too.

A short corner on the far side. Cole Palmer, unexpectedly free, received the ball from Enzo.

He took a touch.

I snapped.

He shot.

The ball deflected off Scott McTominay.

The net rippled once more.

Stamford Bridge erupted.

Chelsea 4 Manchester United 3.

My shot is blurred but I have to share it here.

I had just witnessed pure theatre, pure emotion. It was a moment that I will remember for years and years.

My head exploded.

Such joy.

Such ridiculous joy.

Such raucous joy.

For a few moments we all lost it.

“One Step Beyond” segued into “Freed from Desire” and then into a dancey version of “Three Little Birds.”

We all made arses of ourselves.

It was 10.20pm in SW6.

I quickly tried to think of a game at Stamford Bridge that had witnessed such a phenomenally quick – one minute and nineteen seconds I think – turnaround.

Not in my eight-hundred-and-sixty-six games anyway.

I certainly remembered the very late Wiliam Gallas screamer against Tottenham in 2006 that probably engineered similar feelings of joy, but there had never been anything like this.

Fackinell.

Game number eighty-two wasn’t so bad after all, eh?

We walked back to the car.

The night did not want to end. We had heard of the M4 being shut, so I diverted down to the M3. Then, that was shut, so we diverted onto the A322 to the M4 but then we were forced down onto the A4, the old Roman road.

I was philosophical.

“Not getting too downhearted about this late night, mate. Millions of Chelsea fans around the world would love to be in this car after what we have just witnessed.”

I reached Melksham just before 1.30am, and I eventually made it home at 1.50am. I would eventually fall asleep, after sharing the usual smattering of late night photos, at 3am.

4.45am to 3.00am, oh Chelsea we love you.

Tales From Tottenham Away, Love It!

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Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 6 November 2023.

Not much happened in this game, eh?

Without further ado, let’s try and cobble together some sort of coherent description of a ridiculous night of football in North London, though I am not sure that I am going to be able to sufficiently contain it all in one piece. Maybe it will need several addendums, many edits, perhaps even a re-write.

Let’s go.

After three home games – a draw, a loss, a win – we were now back on the road. The game at Tottenham – funny how we always call them Tottenham, but Tottenham often call themselves Spurs – was filling me, and I am sure countless others, with dread. Unbeaten in the league thus far, they were carving out a decent start to the season with Ange Postecoglou in charge. Chelsea, in comparison, had been patchy at best. I had commented to several mates that we were in the middle of a phony war thus far; many of our players were out injured, many of the teams that we had been paired against were not of a very high standard. The last few weeks had felt a little phony, a little false.

Tottenham away though. This was a bloody test alright.

With our game with them being moved to a Monday, it allowed me to drive up to the Malvern Hills on the Saturday to follow my local team. On a wet, then misty, then sunny afternoon, Frome Town won 3-1 away at Malvern Town. It was deeply enjoyable. I wasn’t quite so confident about the visit to N17.

I set the alarm for 4.30am to enable me to work a flexi-shift of 6am to 2pm. I was subdued and quiet throughout Monday as I battled a few logistical problems. I tried not to think too much about the upcoming game. The time flew past and at just after 2pm I picked up PD and Parky in the pub car-park opposite my place of work and then shot around to collect Sir Les from his house. I then drove south to collect Salisbury Steve from his gaff a few minutes after 3pm.

We were on our way.

“Take a draw now.”

“Be happy with nil-nil.”

Steve supplied me with Jelly Babies to keep me alert and I ate up the miles. The traffic was light and we were parked up at Barons Court tube just after 5pm. We dipped into a local café for some drinks before heading east and then north.

Barons Court to Holborn to Liverpool Street to White Hart Lane.

Tottenham away – “love it!” – is a familiar journey.

I had worked out that this would be my twenty-fifth away game against Tottenham, though this includes a few at Wembley Stadium too. My overall record was pretty decent.

Won : 9

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

I know that during the long unbeaten stretch, I veered away from going to White Hart Lane, convinced that my appearance would put the glorious run to an end; I didn’t show up from 2001 to 2008 at all.

But I have had some superb times in this part of London and a few of them flitted through my mind. These days we always alight at the White Hart Lane over ground station, though for all of the first half a dozen visits, I always used to get off at Seven Sisters tube and then walk up the High Road to the old stadium.

For some reason, the game in August 1987 – only my second-ever visit – came to mind. I travelled up with Glenn by train from Frome. It seems odd now, but we shot over to Upton Park and had some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” and even had a drink in “The Queens” pub on Green Street. I think Glenn just fancied some authentic East End food before our trip into north London. We had begun the season with two wins and Chelsea descended on White Hart Lane in huge numbers and with high hopes.

I remember walking into a pub with Glenn – halfway up the High Road – and being, obviously, wary, but then relishing the joy of being among many Chelsea fans who were dropping in for pre-match refreshments en route. We had huge numbers there that day; I had bought a seat in the Park Lane after the home opener the previous weekend while Glenn nabbed one from a tout outside. Thousands filled the pens in front. There looked like severe crushing until the police moved the away support into a section under The Shelf. It felt magnificent to be part of such a huge away support. The gate was a massive – for the time – 37,079 and we must have had 8,000. I remember we played in white shorts. We lost 0-1, fucking Nico Claesen with a very late goal at the Paxton Road End. Ten days later, at Old Trafford, I can remember similar scenes; Chelsea travelling in huge numbers and our away support being shuffled along into one of the side pens of the United Road Paddock, with the United fans outraged as they had to move along into another pen.

“What the fook is going on?”

Incredible times. Chelsea away in the ‘eighties. You had to be there.

Our escapade across London had gone well. At Liverpool Street, the tribes were amassing; a few shouts from a Chelsea crowd behind us, a few shouts of “Yid Army” on the platform. We just missed a train but caught the next one. I sat with PD. Les was by himself. I saw Parky talking to a Tottenham chap. I knew he wouldn’t give the game away. Steve was chatting away too, but I wasn’t sure if that bloke was Tottenham or not.

There is always a frisson of tension for this game.

At about 6.30pm we reached White Hart Lane station. Out onto the High Road, the huge stadium loomed large. The atmosphere, unlike a previous visit, wasn’t too prickly. As we sloped north towards the almost hidden approach to the away section, I spotted two away supporters, both with Chelsea tops, both with Chelsea scarves.

I could not help but think one word.

“Tourists.”

We were inside pretty quickly. It was easy too, despite having to go through a metal detector. Knowing this would be the case, I left my SLR at home and instead took along a small pocket camera. I placed this under my phone and wallet to the side of the frame of the detector and the security guard didn’t clock it; we were in.

I knew that my ticket was, as in the previous three league visits this fine stadium, down low in row three and I knew that my pocket camera would not be able to take too many decent photos. To make up for it, I had decided to turn the camera on us, the fans, and as I walked through the away concourse I began to snap away.

There was a surprise reunion with Andy and Steve-O from California and also Chopper from New York. The away support was in good form, singing defiantly. I hoped the singing would continue inside.

Down in our section – 118, nearest the home support, next to the pretentiously named East Atrium – the troops were amassing. I continued to click my camera, the focus on mates not millionaires.

The kick-off approached.

Nerves? Yeah, just a bit.

The lights dimmed in the stadium, and there was an instruction on the TV screens.

“Lights On.”

With that, thousands of mobile ‘phone torches were hoisted above heads in the towering South Stand and elsewhere.

“What’s this? A fucking Barry Manilow concert?”

Good grief.

To continue the cringe-fest, I spotted a flag in the opposite corner.

“We’re Loving Big Ange Instead.”

Barry Manilow. Robbie Williams.

For Fuck Sake.

But then the mood changed.

I very much approved of the way that Tottenham Hotspur marked the upcoming Remembrance Day. As the two teams lined up on the centre circle, two Chelsea Pensioners in bright red (usually so incongruous at a Tottenham versus Chelsea game, but on this occasion just right) placed two poppy wreaths on the turf. Well done Tottenham for inviting the Chelsea Pensioners; top marks. I was sure that the PA announced that there would be a rendition of “The Last Post” and then a minute of silence, but after the last few notes of the haunting tune finished, the crowd roared.

Tottenham in all white – but looking slightly off-white to my eyes – and Chelsea in all blue.

Our team?

Sanchez

James – Silva – Disasi – Colwill

Caicedo – Enzo

Palmer – Gallagher – Sterling

Jackson

Our seats were filled.

Standing behind me was Lee. I had not seen him for such a long time. He was there with his son Kayden. It was his boy’s first-ever away game. It was wonderful to see them both.

At 8pm, the game began.

I had, repeatedly, told others – not surprisingly – that we needed to keep them at bay in the first part of the game. Well, we could not have started more poorly. A Tottenham move down their left was then switched to their right and, horribly, I had a perfect view of what developed. The ball was played out via James Madison and then to Pape Matar Sarr to Dejan Kulusevski.

“Get closer, get closer.”

Sadly, Levi Colwill didn’t get closer and he allowed the Tottenham midfielder time to cut inside and shoot. His effort deflected off the defender and into the net.

Fucksake.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 0.

Only six minutes had gone.

Calvin sneaked into the row in front, standing alongside his father and uncle, and we shared some banter.

Chelsea were chasing shadows and other clichés in the opening part of the game and it wasn’t long before the home team pounced again. A flowing move down their left fed in Son Heung-Min who deftly flicked it low past Robert Sanchez.

Noise.

Oh fuck.

A quarter of an hour gone and we were 0-2 down.

But then, a quick glance to my right and I, and others, spotted the raised yellow flag of the linesman a few yards away.

Please. Please. Please.

I honestly cannot remember if the VAR check was long or short, but the decision was upheld and so the score stayed at 0-1.

Behind me, there was the gravelly and rasping voice of a Chelsea fan who was singing alone and pleading others to do so too. He was irritating all of those around us. I am pretty sure the same bloke in virtually the same seat was doing the same last season too.

“And he fucked off after an hour” said John, and we smiled.

To be honest, the Chelsea choir had begun well and there were outbreaks of support, but the home areas, completely full, were in the ascendency with their, um, three songs.

“Oh when the Spurs…”

“Glory Glory…”

“Yid Army…”

Yawn.

And then, imperceptibly, we slowly got into the game, especially with some progressive play down the wings. There had already been a half-chance for Nico Jackson, but as the half-progressed we had more of the ball.

I am not sure if I had a clear view of it, but the idiotically named Destiny Udogie went in recklessly on Raheem Sterling and VAR was called into action again; no red card, a yellow.

With a player from each side down, Caicedo exploited some space out on our left to find Sterling, who was increasingly involved. He ran through, and despite a couple of bobbles, lifted the ball into the net from an angle.

GET IN.

How we celebrated.

Alas, VAR was involved for the third time and judged that the ball had ricocheted back off a Tottenham defender and hit Sterling’s upper arm.

Bollocks.

However, it was half-way through the half and we had improved.

It is worth noting that I had no idea that Romero had carried out a petulant kick at Colwill during the build-up. I was probably too busy doing one of ninety-seven other things.

We dominated the play with home attacks rare.

The Chelsea support was roused.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

On thirty-five minutes, a Chelsea move deep into their box and the ball was pin-balled around. It fell nicely to Moises Caicedo just outside the penalty area.

I uttered the immortal words :

“Hit it you fucker!”

Hit it, he did, and the ball flew into the bottom left corner of the goal.

Wild, and I mean wild, celebrations.

YES!

And then, and then, the awful realisation that there was a raised flag for offside over on the far side. It then became crazier. As crazy as it has ever been. The goal was cancelled, an offside somewhere, but then as we were getting our head around that, the TV screen signalled VAR for possible violent conduct and we stood bewildered and confused, and I suppose a little elated. I don’t know and I was there for fuck sake. It was mad, it was shite, it was all the things I knew that I would hate about video technology. After what seemed an age…five minutes, six minutes, seven minutes?…Christian Romero was sent off, not sure what for at the time, but a penalty was awarded to us too.

Oh boy.

The ever confident Cole Palmer struck the ball goal wards and it cannoned in off the right upright.

Chelsea 1 Tottenham 1.

GET IN YOU FUCKING BEAUTY.

With Sterling dancing down the left wing, Chelsea continued to dominate the rest of the first-half. We had the ball in the net again, a break down the left, but Sterling had gone too soon, thus negating the eventual goal from Jackson due to an offside decision. Did that go to VAR? Not a clue.

By this stage, the little group of supporters in my immediate area were starting to chat away to each other; it felt like we were starting to initiate a self-help support group. There was chit-chat about our fortunes and misfortunes, smiles at the ludicrous nature of the match thus far, self-deprecating humour, hugs when goals were scored, glum faces when things went against us.

To my right, Parky, Gary, John, to my left a girl – voraciously swearing, I approved – with her boyfriend, in front Calvin and his father and his uncle, behind, Lee and his son, quietly taking it all in, then a smiley chap who I semi-recognised who was enthusiastically revelling in every second of the madness.

A ridiculous twelve extra minutes were added on to that first-half. It finished just before 9pm I guess. I felt exhausted. Phew.

I made my way out to the concourse – with an eye to more fan photos – and spoke to Noel from Brackley.

“I can’t watch that. We’re off.”

Noel is no fool. He is as level-headed as they come. I see him everywhere with his wife. Yet he was so disgusted by the farce of VAR that he had decided that enough was enough.

I was shocked, but maybe not. Just a few minutes before, another mate – Rob – had said that if we hadn’t scored that penalty after all those layered VAR decisions, he would have left too.

I hate VAR. Always have. Football is about passion and momentum. The ebb and flow of the game can be tantalising. It is a game that mustn’t be stopped in its tracks for the slightest misdemeanour. We might have gained something through VAR, but look what we have lost.  VAR is killing football, the spectacle of football, and I fear that it might eventually turn me away from the professional game.

Nerds are taking over the game.

Fuck them.

A substitution at the break :

Marc Cucarella for Colwill.

The game re-started with Chelsea attacking our end. Both John and I commented that Reece James, now in full vision in front of us, seemed to be playing within himself. His fragile body continues to worry us all.

We had much of the ball in the first part of the second-half. On fifty-five minutes, Sterling broke away centrally, Chelsea three on two, but a terrible pass outside to Palmer was hit right at Udogie. The ball became free, but Udogie then hacked Sterling down. Others around me had remembered that Udogie had been booked earlier and it soon became obvious that he would get his marching orders.

Tottenham were down to nine men with over half-an-hour to go. The game then reached a strange stage. It seemed that a win was almost sure to happen, and of course nothing was further from the truth. We relaxed a little bit too much and slowed our tempo. Tottenham’s defensive line was so high that at times they could have been queuing up for tickets at Seven Sisters.

But we did create chances.

From a lofted cross, Jackson, from under the bar, headed at Pierre-Emil Hojbjerg.

A shot from our Reece; wide.

Balls out of midfield into space were lazy.

Jackson, one on one against Guglielmo Vicario, but another good chance missed. The ‘keeper did well. The away end sighed three thousand sighs.

I made a bold statement to John : “Jackson will score, don’t worry.”

Marc Cucarella ran onto a ball over the top of the Tottenham line but spurned the chance to either shoot or pass to Sterling to his right. The Tottenham goalie was turning into our nemesis. Couldn’t he fuck off down to Seven Sisters too?

On the hour, Mykhailo Mudryk replaced Enzo.

On seventy-five minutes, with the Tottenham line still playing silly buggers, the ball was pushed forward for Sterling. I snapped his pass inside to Jackson, who – at last – slipped the ball easily past Vicario.

Now we exploded.

GET IN.

Such wild scenes in row three and throughout the away segment. Hugs with everyone.

YES.

But then. The inevitable VAR check. Was Sterling off?

We waited.

Goal.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 2.

“Told you he would score, John.”

Calvin started to initiate a song.

“Spurs. Spurs are falling apart again.”

…mmm, that didn’t seem right using “Spurs.”

Malo Gusto for James.

Mudryk wasted virtually every chance that he was given…good grief, that boy can frustrate.

The drama continued. A Tottenham free-kick was lumped into the box. There was a knock on and a white-shirted body – Dier – thumped the ball in from beyond the far post.

I spotted another flag.

Offside.

Fackinell.

Then, Son shimmied into the box, and as he advanced I think we all expected the worst. He was forced a little wide but still managed to get a shot on target. The out-stretched dive of Sanchez saved the day.

“Fantastic save!”

I don’t think I noticed Les replace Raheem.

We continued to press on. There was no room for game management on this crazy night in North London. Conor Gallagher was set free and, just at the right moment, played the ball square to Jackson who finished with a fine finish.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 3.

Deep into injury-time / VAR time, we were bouncing. Good old Chelsea had done it again. We serenaded the home fans and how :

“Tottenham get battered. Everywhere they go. Tottenham get battered. Everywhere they go.”

With that, and as we continued to sing this infamous song, another long ball pierced the Tottenham defence, this time releasing two. Jackson was in no mood to pass to Mudryk, who had already flashed one high over the bar, and rounded the ‘keeper to score.

Tottenham 1 Chelsea 4.

Bloody hell.

I was up on my seat now, bouncing, as were others.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

I grasped Lee’s hand.

“So good to see you mate.”

To be fair, credit where credit is due, the home fans stayed until the end and resolutely got behind their team with their songs of support.

At the final whistle, after eight minutes extra, joy unbounded.

Quite bizarrely, only right at the end, did the name Mauricio Pochettino flicker inside my head. What a night for him, eh?

During the day, an occasional thought about us beating Tottenham had entered my head – “just imagine!” – but I soon dismissed it as lunacy. But, against all odds and further clichés, we had done it. Sure, it wasn’t a convincing performance but this is a team that is still evolving. This team needs to be given a little slack. It needs time to grow.

I would later discover on the internet that some fans had been scathing of our performance, which I found a little unnerving, and I wondered if I had got carried away with the emotion of it all. I even read that some fellow couldn’t bring himself to cheering our third and fourth goal as he was so livid with our performance.

Me? Oh, I can forgive Chelsea for winning 4-1 at Tottenham.

Sometimes, football isn’t pretty. Sometimes it frustrates. But sometimes you have to just wonder at the madness of it – and the joy of beating Tottenham. Again.

We were in no rush to leave. We knew that the streets would be mobbed for a while. We enjoyed the moment. This was my fourth visit to their new digs and my record was pretty decent.

Won : 3

Drew : 0

Lost : 1

That meant that my overall record at Tottenham Away – “Love It!” – now stood at :

Won : 10

Drew : 7

Lost : 8

The Tottenham PA played a few songs; I thought initially that it was a cynical ploy to drown us out, but whatever.

The first one up was the Postecoglou- remix of “Angels.”

The residual Chelsea support gave it a special ending :

“We’re loving Chelsea instead.”

The five of us met up outside and drifted away into the night. We ate up some junk food on the High Road, then turned left onto White Hart Lane to join the residual queue at the train station. We caught the 11.18pm train to Liverpool Street and then made our way across London. We reached Barons Court at 12.30am. Last week against Blackburn, I got home at 12.45am. At that time on this night I was still in London.

We continued on. I dropped Steve off in Salisbury at 2.30am, I dropped the lads off in Melksham at just after 3am and I eventually got home at 3.40am.

It had been a great night.

GAME

FACES

Tales From The Two Old Enemies

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Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 25 February 2023.

In 2023, there aren’t many bigger away games for us Chelsea supporters than Tottenham Hotspur. In my book, it’s a toss-up between a trip to their stadium and to Old Trafford. There’s not much in it.

In 1983, the biggest away game in our fixture list was undoubtedly Leeds United.

I continue my look at the current season of 2022/23 with a backwards look at one from forty-years ago, 1982/83, with some memories of our trip to Elland Road on Saturday 19 February 1983. The previous Chelsea four matches, detailed here recently, were horrific; four defeats.

Outside of Chelsea, I was in the process of applying for degree courses at various polytechnics, at Sheffield, at Kingston, at Middlesex and at North London.  I had already attended an interview at Sheffield on a blisteringly cold day after my father took a day off work to drive me up to South Yorkshire. It was my first-ever interview for anything, anywhere, and it went reasonably well. In the week leading up to the game at Leeds United, Sheffield Poly offered me a place on their Geography course for the autumn of 1983 if I could achieve a C and a D grade in two of my three “A Levels” in June. On the day before the Leeds United game, I received a similar offer from Middlesex Poly. However, my spirits were not high and these grades were looking beyond me. Both Chelsea Football Club and little old me were experiencing a tough winter. Additionally, the “mock” A-Levels were approaching fast, another reason to become depressed about my immediate future.

Going in to the game at Elland Road, Chelsea were lodged in fifteenth position, well away from Wolves, QPR and Fulham who appeared to be romping their way to the three automatic places. Fulham, in third place were a huge twelve points ahead of the team in fourth position, Grimsby Town. Chelsea, my beloved Chelsea, however were just three points ahead of a relegation place, on thirty-one points, ahead of Cambridge United on twenty-eight.

Between me and my “A Levels” and Chelsea in the Second Division, it was a bloody toss-up to see who would fare the better.

My diary entry on the Friday mentions “hope no trouble at the Leeds v Chelsea match”. I spent the day at home in Somerset, no doubt eagerly awaiting updates from Elland Road on “Radio Two” on the BBC. My radio was always tuned to 909 kHz on the Medium Wave on Saturday afternoons.

The teams lined up as below :

Leeds United.

  1. John Lukic.
  2. Neil Aspin.
  3. Eddie Gray.
  4. John Sheridan.
  5. Paul Hart.
  6. Martin Dickinson.
  7. Gwynn Thomas (Kevin Hird).
  8. Terry Connor.
  9. Aiden Butterworth.
  10. Frank Gray.
  11. Arthur Graham.

Chelsea.

  1. Steve Francis.
  2. Colin Lee.
  3. Joey Jones.
  4. Phil Driver (Gary Chivers).
  5. Chris Hutchings.
  6. Colin Pates.
  7. Mike Fillery.
  8. Clive Walker.
  9. David Speedie.
  10. Alan Mayes.
  11. Peter Rhoades-Brown.

I can remember all of those Leeds United players from forty years ago with the exception of Martin Dickenson. A remnant from the 1970 FA Cup Final, Eddie Gray, was the Leeds player-manager who started down the left flank behind his younger brother Frank. I had first seen Paul Hart playing for Blackpool against us at Stamford Bridge in 1975, and I remember reaching out by the player’s tunnel before the game to obtain his autograph.

Just writing these words takes me right back to my childhood. After my first game in the West Stand benches, we always watched in the East Lower in the ensuing games from 1974 to 1980 and I specifically asked my parents to try to get match tickets as near to the tunnel as possible. I used to boil over with excitement when I called over to various Chelsea players, and a few opponents, to get them to sign my little autograph book. To be so close, touching distance, so close that I could smell their Hai Karate, was utterly amazing for me as a youngster.

Leeds had three internationals in that team – the two Grays plus Arthur Graham, all for Scotland – while our only international player was Joey Jones of Wales. With former striker Colin Lee deployed at right-back, our forward three of Walker, Speedie and Mayes is pretty diminutive, especially for the ‘eighties.

The goals rattled in at Elland Road that afternoon. It was 1-1 at half-time with us going ahead via a Mike Fillery penalty before Aiden Butterworth equalised. In the second-half, goals from Clive Walker and a Frank Gray penalty were traded before Arthur Graham gave the home team a 3-2 lead. In the closing moments, an Alan Mayes shot was deflected in by the player-manager Eddie Gray.

Leeds United 3 Chelsea 3.

Fackinell.

My diary on the evening of the game guessed at a gate of 21,000. I wasn’t far off. In fact, the attendance was a still healthy 19,365, just narrowly behind the division’s highest gate of 20,689 that saw Newcastle United play Oldham Athletic. Despite a promotion place, our neighbours Queens Park Rangers drew just 10,271 for their home game with Barnsley that day.

There is no doubt that around 6,000 Chelsea fans made the trip to West Yorkshire, all positioned along the side of the ground in the Lowfields.

Once the third goal went in, I no doubt wished that I was among the away support. However, apart from five very local away games in Bristol – Rovers four times, City once – from 1976 to 1981, my visits to other away venues with my beloved Chelsea were still over a year away.

These days, thankfully, they are a very regular occurrence.

It was a stunning Sunday morning for my drive to London for the away game at Tottenham. There were no clouds to be seen, just a pristine blue sky. There were just three of us this week, Parky, PD and little old me. None of us were relishing the game.

“Damage limitation, innit?”

It certainly seemed like it.

On all of my three previous visits to the new spanking Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, I had witnessed three Chelsea wins with no goals conceded. This time, I surmised, might be a little different.

On the Saturday, we received some sad news. We had known that Sam George – aka “Lovejoy” – had been ill for a while, and we were to learn that he had indeed passed away the previous weekend. I first got to know Lovejoy, named after the Ian McShane TV character, back in the late 1990’s and he became a part of my extended Chelsea family for quite a few years. He was such a character, and played a large role in the first few of these match reports in the 2008/9 season. I can well remember Lovejoy sorting out a ticket alongside him in the East Lower for Farmer John from Ohio, the Stoke City game in 2009, the last-minute Lampard screamer. However, weary with red wine, Lovejoy soon managed to fall asleep, thus missing the entire game.

The perma-tan, the hair, the dazzling white teeth, the chewing gum, the leather trousers, the ladies on tow in various European cities.

What a character.

RIP Lovejoy.

There was another beautiful breakfast at the “Half-Moon Café” in Hammersmith – more Old Bill this week, but this time they were off to the League Cup Final – before I parked up at Barons Court to catch the tube to Liverpool Street. From there, we caught the midday overland train up to White Hart Lane. We were all subdued. I was trying my best to rationalise where we were in terms of team development but it was such a difficult position in which we found ourselves. The remnants of Frank Lampard’s team had been joined by a mixture of signings by Tuchel in the summer, and were now augmented by our “Supermarket Sweep” of players from January. It almost felt that the past few weeks had been an extra “pre-season” and now the league campaign was to begin again.

During the week, I had flitted around the internet to check out a potted history of our man Graham. Was he really as big a nonentity as it seemed? I was aware of his managerial history, or lack of it, but what about before then? Well, I discovered one thing.

He was playing for Stoke City when they won 1-0 at Stamford Bridge in the League Cup in the autumn of 1995. I was there, I remember it well. A lone Paul Peschisolido goal gave the visitors the win, the goal being scored in front of their “Delilah” singing hordes in the temporary Shed end.  

Due to my Stoke past – I lived there for three years – I was well aware of a Potter playing for the Potters at the time, but the penny never dropped until the past week.

Yep, Graham bloody Potter. It was him.

Fackinell.

The train pulled into the swish new White Hart lane station and, unlike PD and Parky, I went south and not north. I had not yet walked down to the southern part of the redeveloped area so, camera in hand, I walked down the High Road to soak it all in and to take some photos. Over the course of time, I always like to walk 360 degrees around every away stadium. I stood opposite the “Corner Pin” pub. This still stands on the corner of the High Road and Park Lane, and of course the area is all-changed now. Before, at the old stadium, coins used to be thrown at us as aggressive home fans tried to get close. I don’t miss all that.

Unlike at the northern end, where there is a tightness by the away steps, they have really opened up the area outside their huge home end. This towering stand sits on the site of the old White Hart Lane pitch. I walked on, past a couple on their ‘seventies, perched on a low wall, bedecked in their navy blue and white Tottenham bar scarves, eating sandwiches.

I turned left and headed towards the away turnstiles. I noted a line of newly planted trees at the base of all of the steel and glass. There were now grey skies overhead. The wind chilled me. It was time to go in.

Again, for the third visit in four, I was down low along the side. There was a subdued atmosphere throughout the concourse and in the Chelsea section. We were a crowd full of long faces. It seemed to take forever to fill. With a quarter of an hour to go, the whole stadium wasn’t even half-full.

I miss the old days. In the ‘eighties, a London Derby would be full with half-an-hour to kick-off, with terrace chants bubbling away for ages.

Our team?

Kepa

James – Silva – Koulibaly – Chilwell

Loftus-Cheek – Enzo – Felix

Ziyech – Havertz – Sterling

We were subjected to flashing graphics and a booming voice blathering on about glory and history that gave the impression that the home club were the epitome of success and greatness, rather than a club that has won just one piece of silverware in twenty-four years.

I still don’t like to see us in Tottenham navy socks.

Why? Just why?

I detected the Tottenham shirts looking quite grubby, far from lilywhite, as if the colour had run in the wash.

Pre-match, I had heard not a single shout, chant or song from the home support.

The game began and we had just as much of it as they did. There were a few forays, especially down our left where Sterling seemed to be gifted extra space. There had already been a piece of sublime defending from Thiago Silva, but after a strong tackle on Harry Kane, our vaunted Brazilian went down in pain. He tried to run it off but, alas, was replaced by Wesley Fofana. Until then, we had definitely had the upper hand. There was a shot from Joao Felix. And another.

It was at around this time that Gary realised that Hakim Ziyech was on the pitch.

It was lovely to hear more “Vialli” chants. These became, as the game continued, our stock response to their tiresome “Y*d Army!” chants.

There was a lovely lofted pass out to Ben Chilwell from Enzo Fernandez and I quipped “it would appear that we have a playmaker in our midst.”

The bloke behind me was irritating me. I couldn’t criticise his support, but his voice sounded like he had been gargling with gravel. It got rather tiresome when he kept moaning about our lack of support for the boys.

Sigh.

“Turn it in mate” I muttered to myself.

Tottenham were nothing special, but Pierre-Emile Hojberg thumped a shot against the base of a post before being whacked away for a corner.

Before half-time, a sizzling effort from Sterling forced a low save from Fraser Forster, who used to be a goalkeeper.

In the stands, all was quiet.

In the closing moments of the first period, a VAR farce. Being so low down, I couldn’t really see what had happened but one minute Ziyech was sent off after a VAR review, but then after a second review, he was allowed to continue.

Pathetic. I hate modern football.

The mood in the away quadrant was “we haven’t been great but neither have they.”

Pre-match, I would have taken a 0-0.

“Halfway to paradise, lads.”

The second-half began preposterously. Within a few seconds of the re-start, Kepa was able to make a low save at the near post from Emerson Royal and Enzo hacked the ball out. Sadly, Skipp robbed Felix and unleashed a powerful shot on goal.

My mind was calm though.

“That’s a long way out. It is at Kepa. He should save that easily.”

How wrong I was.

The ball seemed to go through his arms as he back-peddled slightly.

Bollocks.

The mood in the away end worsened and our support dwindled further. With their team now in front, the home support decided to sing up.

I heard four songs and four songs only, three of which were all about being Jewish.

Our game fell apart despite the promptings of Enzo, who at least tried to knit things together. But everything was so slow and predictable, and most fifty-fifty challenges didn’t go our way.

Changes.

Mason Mount for Ziyech.

Denis Zakaria for Loftus-Cheek.

I was surprised how deep Kane was playing for that lot. He was their main playmaker on many occasions.

Our play didn’t improve. There was a half-chance for Kai Havertz.

Next up was the disappearance of the referee Stuart Atwell. I suspected a problem with his technical gizmos but the home end had either ideas. He came back on after a minute or so away.

This was a shocking game of football.

Sadly, poor marking at a corner gifted Kane with a tap in on eighty-two minutes.

Sigh.

Body after body vacated the away end, including Mister Gravel and his mate behind me.

There was no way back from this, despite Potter making two late substitutions.

Mykhailo Mudryk for Joao Felix.

Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang for Sterling.

Mudryk showed a bit of endeavour at the death, but by now the home fans were heaping it on us.

“Chelsea get battered, everywhere they go…”

The only surprise was that Son didn’t score when he came on as a late substitute.

This was a truly horrible game of football, a truly horrible experience. There were no positives to come from this match. And taken as a whole, the atmosphere was decidedly muted for a London Derby.

61,000 and we still don’t sing?

So, what of the future? I don’t know. Relegation? No, surely not. But yet we are in a truly awful run of form. Two wins out of fourteen in all competitions. Our remaining away games make me shudder.

However, there really can’t be many Chelsea fans left who think that Graham Potter is the man to lead us on…

Next up, Leeds United at home, 1983 and all that.

See you there.

RIP Lovejoy

Tales From Chelsea Smiles In North London

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Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 12 January 2022.

It had just turned three o’clock in the afternoon and I pulled up in my car alongside PD’s motor in the pub car park opposite where I work. I clambered out.

“I’ve got to work on lads. You’ll have to drive up and I’ll go solo. Can you give me my ticket?”

Work had been going swimmingly well, but I had just been hit with two problems – in The Netherlands and Ireland – that needed my immediate attention. I sped back to the office and tried to get my head around what needed to be done. Of course, typical, a few other problems arose too. But, thankfully, at around 3.45pm I was able to eventually head off to London.

The race had begun.

I had been awake since 5.45am and, ironically, at around 2pm, when I started to feel a little tired I thought to myself :

“Not to worry, I’ll get a little shut-eye on the drive to London in PD’s car.”

So much for that, eh?

I sped off east towards Salisbury Plain but soon stopped for refreshments and an all-important coffee at a petrol station in Tilshead. A woman at the till who was buying lottery tickets – slowly – wound me up – quickly.

Thinking to myself, again :

“Come on, this is Tottenham away.”

Luckily, the traffic was light, the weather was fine, the roads were dry. I made good time but there was always that risk of getting caught in a London rush-hour in reverse. It’s always a lottery. I reached the M3 at about 5pm and was able to speed on. Thankfully the tiredness that I had feared never enveloped me. I tried to compute my projected arrival time in London and my chances of reaching the all-important main line station at Liverpool Street.

It seemed like ages since I had driven alone to London for a game.

As I passed Twickenham, PD called me and asked for advice on how to get to Liverpool Street. The two Chuckle Brothers were on the loose in London and it brought a wry smile to my face.

“Change at Holborn I think.”

At exactly 6pm, I was parked outside Barons Court tube station, a few car lengths down from PD’s car. There was a slick change of trains at Holborn and I was soon on the short journey to Liverpool Street. I arrived there at 6.35pm.

“Hour and ten minutes to go. Should be OK, but it all depends on the frequency of trains to White Hart Lane.”

As I came out of the underground tunnels and walkways and was almost up at ground level, there was a sound that brought another smile to my now masked face.

“We love Tuchel, we love bugle, Chelsea’s won the Champions league.”

This meant that Chelsea were in the vicinity and – presumably – there was a train to take me to the game in good time.

I quickly glanced at the train timetable.

“Platform 1 : Cheshunt – 1845, stopping at White Hart Lane.”

I had exited the underground station right next to platform one.

Perfect.

I walked all of the way to the front of the train since the rear carriages were full, but also full of Chelsea too. This was going well. The train stopped at around ten stations and the time flew. At Seven Sisters, there was an extended stop of five minutes or more. There was an announcement.

“For those going to the football, please get off here. People on the platform need to get on to use the service.”

I didn’t see one single person alight.

Fuck that.

Eventually, at just gone 7.15pm, we reached White Hart Lane station and everyone shuffled along the platform like penguins. Downstairs, the two sets of fans were forced left and right unlike at any of the previous two games that I had attended at Tottenham’s spanking new stadium.

“Chelsea left please, Chelsea left.”

Once split, the singing began. But beers were thrown at us by the Tottenham fans descending some stairs. The police waded in on a few Chelsea fans who retaliated. I walked on. Outside the station, much-modernised these days, was a row of potted plants, with up lighting, all very modern. Around fifteen Chelsea fans in a strict line, their bladders unable to cope, were watering the plants as if it was part of a military operation.

In the London night there was noise, anticipation, a palpable sense of danger.

Opposite there was a shop that caught my eye.

“Tottenham Hot Spuds.”

That made me chuckle.

“Hate to think what is on sale at Arsenal.”

Down on the High Road, there was more noise, but with scurrying crowds, a few engaged in fisticuffs, a swarm of police and I saw that the road was blocked off. The police had no desire for the two tribes to mix. Things were definitely feisty. As I took a few photos with my camera phone, a police horse reared up close to me and I had to adjust my footing to avoid getting struck.

I raced on towards the away turnstiles, the clock ticking. Outside were more police, and more noise. The bright illuminated cladding of the stadium contrasted with the shadows of the Chelsea supporters clambering to get in to the game in time for the start.

Up the steps, a COVID check, a check of my ticket and then a bag check.

“Camera?”

“Yes.”

“Need to check.”

He called over his supervisor. I was one step ahead. I lifted up the camera with the small wide-angle lens attached. I didn’t open up the bag to show the larger zoom lens.

“Nah, that’s alright. In you go.”

Time for a last minute visit to the gents. “Hellos” to a few mates. I bumped into the bloke who I was stood next to at the Chesterfield game. It was his first visit to the new stadium.

“Brilliant, innit?”

I agreed.

I eventually located block 113, then row 10, then Parky.

“Made it.”

It was 7.42pm.

Fackinell.

Just in time.

Have I mentioned that I work in logistics?

We were right behind the goal and only a few yards from the Tottenham fans.

Oh lovely.

Unfortunately, a few stewards were close by too. I knew it would be a case of cat and mouse with my camera all night long.

The stadium took my breath away again. On the previous two visits I was tucked away in the corner. This time, the view was even more spectacular. Way above the metallic cockerel at the top of the huge South Stand, way up in the clear night sky was the crescent of the moon, as clear as you like. It was certainly a dramatic setting.

The game kicked off and it took me a while to put players to positions. Back to a 4-4-2?

Kepa

Azpilicueta – Rudiger – Christensen – Sarr

Mount – Kovacic – Jorginho – Hudson-Odoi

Werner – Lukaku

Things were pretty even at the start. I tried my best to take it all in. I tried to catch up with Parky. They had arrived at Barons Court at 5.15pm. PD had taken two and a quarter hours just like me. All was good. I was just so relieved to have made it. Another fifteen minutes of work would have killed my timings and connections. I spotted tons of familiar faces dotted around.

As the game developed, we looked at ease and confident. But the home team were not without threat. A shot from Kane at a free-kick was blocked. A forest of “wanking hands” greeted his miss-fire. There was an effort from Moura that went well-wide.

I sang a song from the ‘eighties to myself :

“How wide do you want the goals?”

Timo Werner was full of running in the first part of the game and his lob over the Tottenham ‘keeper from the angle of the penalty box dropped just over the bar. Next up, his striking partner Romelu Lukaku was released with an early ball and he did well to fight off a challenge, bring the ball down and shoot. Sadly, the ‘keeper was able to save. It was a bright start, this.

On eighteen minutes, we won a corner. I hadn’t used my camera too much thus far. But on this occasion, I asked Parky to lean forward to block the view of the nearest steward. Mount swung the ball in. A leap from Rudiger. I snapped. The ball – in slow-motion – dropped into the goal.

Scenes.

Get in you beauty.

There were the wildest of celebrations in the away segment which encompassed two tiers for this match. We had around 5,500 fans and every single one was going doo-lally.

“There’s that third goal.”

The one we couldn’t quite score last week.

“Safe now surely.”

A few minutes later, a steward spotted my camera and I was asked to pack it up. I wasn’t too worried. I knew I’d be able to use it again if I chose the right moment. At least I had nabbed the goal.

The home team threatened with a flurry of misdirected efforts and shots that were blocked. I never really felt that we were in danger.

Of course, the away choir was on fire.

“Tottenham get battered everywhere they go.”

“Champions of Europe. You’ll never sing that.”

“We’ve got super Tommy Tuchel.”

I watched as a fine sliding tackle by Antonio Rudiger robbed Hojbjerg outside the box. The Tottenham player then seemed to dive once the ball had gone, but this dive was inside the box. I had a great view. I was adamant that everything was fine. To my horror, the referee pointed at the spot. Well, that seemed ridiculous. Somebody in the crowd reckoned that VAR wasn’t being used for this game. I wasn’t sure.

After a while, it flashed up on the TV screen that VAR was being used.

We waited. And waited. And waited.

No penalty.

Whoop.

As the Chelsea players lined-up in a wall for the resulting free-kick, we spotted Dave squatting behind the wall and peeking through his team mates’ legs. At the last minute he fell to the floor. It was such a bizarre thing to see and I wished that my camera had been able to capture it.

I turned to the couple behind me.

“Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dave.”

Anyway, the free-kick was headed over by a covering defender. The Chelsea support roared. We had quelled a little bubble of resurgence.

Apart from some noise at the very start when, naturally, the home support might have thought that a comeback was possible, the noise from the home stands was pretty minimal. Only on the half-hour did the place shake when a loud “Come on you Spurs” rattled around.

It dawned on me recently that only Tottenham fans call their team Spurs. Chelsea fans tend to say Tottenham.

Interesting fact #547.

The first-half ended. Time for a chat with a few folks. I spoke with the Bristol lot. Since the last game I have taken the plunge and booked up Abu Dhabi. I am going with PD. I am sure there will be a plethora of WCC worries along the way but I had to gamble and go. Let’s hope that the COVID thing doesn’t ruin all that. I chatted to Tim, Kev and Bryan briefly about it the trip. By pure luck, we are all in the same hotel.

At the break, I remembered the comments from a visibly crestfallen Antonio Conte after his new team lost 0-2 at Chelsea last week. He spoke solemnly of how far Tottenham are from Chelsea right now. I still like the bloke, even with his miss-guided decision to join forces with the numpties from N17. I would imagine that his straight-talking must have irritated the Tottenham support, but – lusciously – must have struck a chord too.

They have slid since a few years back. They were a decent team under Pochettino.

No more.

Fuck’em.

I loved the way that we dominated possession in the opening moments of the second-half, killing the game further. We never ever looked in trouble.

A Lukaku header from a corner flew just over.

Just before the hour mark, the away fans were at it.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

Now, my immediate reaction was this :

“I know we are 3-0 up on aggregate, but that is a bit premature.”

A ball was immediately pumped forward and Kepa appeared to time his run to perfection to rob Moura with a sliding tackle. To our sadness, the referee pointed at the spot once more. It was as if the footballing Gods had unanimously agreed with me about singing that song. The Tottenham fans roared again. However, much to our joy, VAR was called into play.

The same decision. No penalty.

Now it was time for that chant.

“Tottenham Hotspur. It’s happened again.”

Oh my aching sides.

On the hour, a magnificent save from Kepa from the head of Emerson Royal kept us ahead on the night. The ‘keeper was enjoying a very fine game. It was the save of the night thus far.

But the home team had built a little momentum and we needed to be at our best.

Kepa appeared to go walkabouts as a ball was played into Kane well inside the box. With only a covering Rudiger to beat, he blasted the ball low into the far corner.

The home fans properly roared this time.

It was a horrible feeling, despite our 3-1 lead.

But wait.

Oh my God.

Ha.

VAR again.

And again it went our way.

Chelsea smiles in North London.

I posted on Facebook :

“This is just three easy.”

I always thought that the funniest Chelsea win over Tottenham happened in 2000 when George Weah hopped off a plane at Heathrow and came on as a substitute to score the winning goal in a slender 1-0 win.

But this just might edge it.

Three disallowed goals.

Spur3y.

Tuchel strengthened things with a flurry of substitutions.

Thiago Silva for Christensen.

Marcos Alonso for Werner.

Hakim Ziyech for Mount.

And then N’Golo Kante for Kovacic.

Tottenham fans, all forty-thousand of them :

“Of for fuck sake, Kante. I’m going home.”

And then Ruben Loftus-Cheek for Jorginho.

The shape had changed to three at the back. Thiago Silva was warmly applauded and his song was sung with gusto. Likewise, N’Golo Kante.

“He’s indestructible. Always believing.”

These were great moments as the home support dwindled away. Everyone was so happy. Smiles everywhere. There were gaps appearing all over the stadium too.

“You’ve had your day out, now fuck off home.”

I love that we seem to be the only club to sing that. Is that correct?

I was able to take a few photographs as the game wore on. The stewards, like Tottenham, had given up by now. The fresh legs had re-energised us. We seemed to have more of the ball once again. We finished the game strongly and never ever looked in danger.

Towards the end of the game, a recognisable chant from a few years back quickly spread in the away end. It pleased me.

“Antonio. Antonio. Antonio, Antonio, Antonio.”

I loved that we were at last able to honour Antonio Conte. I loved him to bits. One supposes that if, miracle of miracles, Tottenham had turned it around on the night – no 2002 here – we would obviously have resisted. But there it was. A nod to our former manager who won the league in 2017 and the cup in 2018. It’s just a shame that he now manages that lot.

And I suspect that he thinks exactly the same.

The game over, we waited for crowds to move on. The plan had been to escort all 5,500 Chelsea to Tottenham Hale, a good half-an-hour walk. We were having none of it. We met up with PD and waited. In the shadows, we edged past police near the away end and slowly walked back to an almost deserted White Hart Lane station. It absolutely worked in our favour that so many home fans had left early.

As we reached the platform, a train arrived. We were on our way home.

By 11.30pm, we were in our separate cars, at Barons Court.

At Chiswick roundabout, I turned left towards the M3 and PD drove straight on towards the M4.

Job done.

On Saturday, it’s back to one car for Man City away.

All aboard.