Tag Archives: Tottenham Hotspur It's Happened Again

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 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 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 Chelsea Smiles In North London

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4

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.

Tales From Beneath The Whispering Gallery

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Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 19 September 2021.

I have said it before and I suspect that I will say it again and again; to me Tottenham is our biggest away game. It’s certainly the one that I look forward to more than no other. It has history. It has substance. It has animosity. It has hate. With Chelsea flying high, and Tottenham faltering, I couldn’t wait to set off for their new spanking stadium that soars over the more down-at-heel shops and houses on the Tottenham High Road and its associated neighbouring streets.

But first an FA Cup tie.

Yes, dear reader, this was another weekend of football that was to give me the twin gifts of League and Cup.

I assembled at Frome Town’s ground Badgers Hill for the 3pm kick-off on the Saturday for a game against National League South outfit Oxford City, a team that we had recently played in the same step of the football pyramid. Since then, the Hoops have advanced one step, while the Robins have descended one.

What transpired was a stunningly perfect afternoon of FA Cup football, played out under a mottled sky, warming sunshine and with a really gratifying attendance of almost six hundred spectators. Frome soaked up some steady pressure in the first-half and an Oxford goal was called back for offside. Two stunning breakaway goals by James Ollis and Joe O’Loughlin gave the home team a surprise 2-0 lead at the break. Frome then improved further, with more attacks, more efforts on goal. But just at the very moment that my mate Francis uttered the immortal words “they look like scoring” and I replied “you’re right” – they did.

Despite an increasingly nervous last quarter of an hour, manager Danny Greaves’ side held on to win 2-1.

My friend Steve, the newly-crowned club historian, believed this to be Frome’s first win in the Cup against a team two divisions higher than us since a 1984 win against Bath City.

So, into the Third Qualifying Round we go. I remember watching Frome Town play against Team Bath at the same stage around ten years ago; a 2-2 draw at home, a heavy 0-4 loss away, at Bath City’s Twerton Park.

We would await the draw on Monday with keen interest.

I collected PD and Parky at 9.15am on the Sunday morning and pointed my Chelsea Blue Chuckle Wagon eastwards. We tend to break up the journey with a Greggs breakfast – being on a diet ain’t easy with all of the miles we travel for football – just before the A303 meets the M3. The woman serving us at Popham Services – Eddie Large in drag – has got to know our ugly faces the past two seasons and there is usually a little football banter while we order baps, baguettes and slices. She’s a Liverpool fan. Yes, you can only imagine.

Just as I slid the car away, PD announced :

“Jimmy Greaves has died, then.”

Oh no. What sad news. I know that he had been ill for some time.

“Did he pass away today? Bloody strange if he did, what with Tottenham playing Chelsea.”

I ate up the miles, and we were parked up at Barons Court tube at 11.45am; as quick and as easy a journey in as I can remember. We would eventually hope to catch the 3pm over ground service from Liverpool Street up to White Hart Lane, but we didn’t particularly care to be surrounded by coke’d up wannabes in the pubs that cluster around that station for a few hours, drinking out of plastic glasses and under the eye of the OB. I fancied somewhere different. We changed from the Piccadilly to the Central at Holborn, then alighted at St. Paul’s.

We made “The Paternoster” our base for a couple of hours or so. In a break from the light drizzle and then steady showers, I sped outside for twenty minutes to take a few photographs of Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece. I looked up at the huge and impressive dome, and remembered tales of The Whispering Gallery. I had been past St. Paul’s Cathedral once or twice by bus in recent times, but the last time that I had actually stood outside it was on a family trip to London in 1981. While my parents and an aunt toured inside the cathedral, I just walked to Stamford Bridge. It seemed the most logical thing to do in the circumstances.

From one cathedral to another.

I can distinctly remember reading the Jimmy Greaves autobiography “This One’s On Me” around that same time and, thinking back, it was undoubtedly the first footballer’s autobiography that I ever read. I can remember reading how he hated his time in Milan after his forced move from Chelsea. His decline into alcoholism was quite harrowing for a sixteen-year-old to read.

I wasn’t going to have a single beer, but I bought a single “Peroni” to toast his memory.

“Oh, he did die today. How uncanny.”

There was a photograph on the internet of Jimmy Greaves, from around maybe fifteen years ago, being presented pitch side at Stamford Bridge. I must have been there, yet – alas – I have no recollection of it.

Outside, the rain, but only a few spots. At 2.40pm, we whizzed up to Liverpool Street, and then found an empty carriage at Liverpool Street for the last leg of the journey. It was the earliest that we would be arriving in N17 for ages. On the twenty-five-minute journey, PD surprised us all and began chatting to some Tottenham fans. Parky and I kept our silence. To be fair, they were decent lads and we wished each other well, although I am sure none of us fucking meant it.

I wanted to take a few photographs of the stadium, so excused myself. Let’s not waste any time here; the new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium is a stunner, an absolute beauty, surely the finest football stadium in Europe. That it sits cheek by jowl alongside the same fried chicken joints, nail shops, kebab houses and grimy pubs as the old White Hart Lane gives the place a very odd feeling, as uneven a setting as there is ever likely to be. It might be on The High Road, but it overlooks The Low Road.

Simple black and white images of Jimmy Greaves MBE appeared on the outside and inside of the stadium. His presence was everywhere. Again, how odd and yet fitting that he should pass away on the day of the derby between his two main teams. I was reminded of Dixie Dean passing away at Goodison during the Merseyside derby in 1980.

I whirled away, bumped into some Chelsea acquaintances from Bristol and New York on the High Road, then spun around to enter the away turnstiles in the north-eastern corner.

Just as I entered the away concourse, there was an almighty commotion and I couldn’t quite work out what was occurring.

United were winning 2-1 at West Ham, but there was a late penalty for the home team. Noble then missed. Bollocks.

How’s that for a match report?

This was Parky’s first visit to the new place. I looked at the towering South Stand and could hardly believe how high it extended.

The troops arrived.

Alan, Gary, Foxy and Drew from Dundee, Margaret and Pam, Calvin, Becky and Cath. There were a few chats with many of the usual suspects.

Turin dominated.

I had succumbed on Friday to a four-day trip to the home city of Juventus for our game in a couple of weeks’ time.

I chatted with Patrick, then Ali and Nick, then Alan, then Tim. There were differing levels of understanding of what testing and procedures were required. It would, no doubt, be a stressful time over the next week or so. Preparations for Porto proved to be a drain on my brain and I am sure Turin will be too.

“Mendy’s out.”

Bollocks.

The stadium filled. I couldn’t work out if the seats are all muted slate grey or a dull navy. Regardless, virtually all were filled. We were in row four, right down the front, not far from our spot in the 2019/20 season.

It shows how disconnected we were last season that neither Alan nor Gary nor myself could remember how we did at Tottenham last season.

“Draw, wannit?”

One of the former players being interviewed for the in-house TV Channel was Gary Mabbutt, his Bristol twang taking me back to when he used to play for Bristol Rovers, then Tottenham, then England.

Gary : “Good player, Mabbutt.”

Chris : “His father, Ray, used to play for Frome.”

The team was announced. Not only no Mendy, but no Kante either.

Kepa

Rudiger – Silva – Christensen

Dave – Jorginho – Kovacic – Alonso

Mount – Lukaku – Havertz

Just before kick-off, that same image of Jimmy Greaves appeared on the TV screens in the four corners of the stadium, high above the pitch. Both sets of fans roundly and solidly applauded his memory.

He was loved by the fans of both clubs and the whole of the football world.

Jimmy Greaves was the greatest ever goal scorer produced by the English nation.

I remembered that in 2019, Martin Peters – unlike Greaves, a player in the 1966 World Cup Final – was similarly remembered.

Glenn Hoddle appeared out of nowhere and was given a fine reception by the 3,000 Chelsea fans in the corner as he walked around the edge of the pitch.

The game began. Tottenham attacked our northern end. With them playing in navy socks this year, we were allowed to wear our white socks. I approved. I soon found myself being distracted a little by all of the constant messages being blitzed across the various balconies. Supporters clubs from all over the world were featured. One made me double-take.

Baku Spurs.

Baku? Bloody hell. Probably just one bloke with a Tottenham mouse mat.

There is no denying it. Tottenham were quicker out of the traps than us in the first quarter of the game. We plodded along, and struggled to link passes through our midfield, whereas the home team looked sharper and created a little more.

With the home crowd singing “Oh when the Spurs”, Tottenham were given a central free-kick. The singing continued as the build-up seemed to take forever. Harry Kane was to take it. The singing grew louder.

“Fuck, if he scores now, after that song as a pre-curser, this place will bloody explode.”

He hit the wall.

Phew.

A rapid break in the inside right channel involving Mason Mount got us on our toes – the rail seating is excellent at Tottenham, I was able to lean forward on many occasions – but after a messy one-two with Lukaku, the chance was spurned, pardon the pun.

This was a tight game, and the home team were edging it. Havertz looked out of sorts, and on too many occasions Tottenham were able to cut through us. However, the away support was full of all the old favourites which we love to air in this particular part of North London.

“We’re the only team in London…”

“We won 6-1 at The Lane…”

“And the shit from The Lane…”

Alas, the players were not as entertaining. Tottenham managed a few set pieces, but corners were steadfastly headed away by various defenders. It was all a little underwhelming. After Tottenham – players and fans alike – were found to be bellowing at any perceived Chelsea foul or piece of wrong-doing, the noise levels increased. Gary had his usual response.

“Fackinell. More appeals than Blue Peter.”

Kepa saved well at the feet of the raiding Son, and was injured. Thankfully he recovered. Then an errant back-pass by Rudiger had only just been despatched in time by Kepa. Only a couple of shots from distance – wide and blocked – were forthcoming from the Chelsea attack the entire half. Their ‘keeper Hugo Loris had hardly had a shot to save.

That would soon change.

I turned to Gary : “Well, they can’t play as well as that in the second-half.”

I returned a little late at the break and missed the restart.

“Kante on? Who’s off? Mount?”

As much as we all love Mason, he had not enjoyed a great half at all. In came our tigerish tackler to replace him. I couldn’t quite work out how the new addition would fit in alongside Jorginho and Kovacic, but soon into the second-half I didn’t care.

There soon followed a sublime piece of football that had me purring. Thiago Silva pinged a wonderful ball into space for the on-rushing Marcos Alonso. It cut out everyone. A trademark volley at an angle from the left wing-back was superbly saved by the cat-like reflexes of Loris.

“That’s more like it Chels. Come on!”

The Chelsea pressure mounted. A few corners were whipped in just in front of us by that man Alonso. One more corner was then aimed centrally, from the other side of the pitch, and the silver hair of Silva was seen to rise above all those around him and the ball flashed past Loris into the Tottenham goal.

FUCKINGGETIN.

The goal on film, I remained steady to capture his exuberant run towards the Chelsea fans who had now been let loose into a wild orgasmic frenzy of arms and legs, or “limbs” as the kids say. Such joy. Such happiness.

This is why we go to football.

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

Chris : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Donna and Rachael suddenly appeared in front of us after having disappeared a few minutes before the break for some bevvies. They had missed the first goal. But they did not miss the second one. Just after Dier blocked a shot from Alonso on the goal-line, a shot from distance from N’Golo – it could only be termed, at its most optimistic, as “speculative” – took a wicked deflection off Dier. The ball spun goal wards, hit the base of the post nearest us, and we watched – eyes on stalks, balancing on toes – as the ball skewed itself over the line and into the goal.

Laugh? I almost bought a round of drinks.

Oh that was beautiful.

“Tottenham Hotspur, it’s happened again.”

Kante looked, of course, so bashful. Bless him.

Just twelve minutes into the second-half, and we were now well on top. The home fans were now completely muted.

The whispering gallery had been moved from inside the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral to the top tier at Tottenham.

One of the many messages flashed all over the LED displays on the balconies at Tottenham mentions the Spurs Skywalk. This takes the unfortunate supporter out onto the roof, where – if they look well – they can just make out the East Stand at Stamford Bridge, the home of the only club in London with not one, but two, European Cups.

I thought to myself :

“Those Tottenham players had best book themselves onto that skywalk. It’ll be the highest they will ever fucking get.”

Kante was everywhere and I mean everywhere. The whole team had been revitalised by his appearance at the start of the second period. Elsewhere, we suddenly had runners, and our attacking performance reached lovely levels.

A lone shot from the hidden, or hiding, Kane was well saved by Kepa. Silva, our man of the match, was foiled by Loris, who was easily the Tottenham man of the match. Yet more saves followed from Alonso – again! – and Timo Werner, a late substitute for Havertz. Lukaku enjoyed a late surge, running centrally on a few occasions at the disillusioned Tottenham defence, twisting and turning, turning defenders’ legs into jelly, Dier and Romeiro pleading for salvation, but Loris foiled both him and Kovacic. The Croatian was one of the stars of that second period. We were on fire.

If it had been the Bernabeu, white handkerchiefs would have been waved.

There was even time for a “Bouncy Bouncy” : how 2013.

Right at the end, with many of the home fans having decided that “enough was enough”, the ball was picked up and Timo Werner did ever so well to pull the ball back for Rudi to pick a corner and drill the ball in.

Tottenham 0 Chelsea 3.

The crowd erupted once more.

There was another ridiculously jubilant run by the scorer to our corner, and with Jorginho absolutely pissing himself, the photos were a joy to snap.

I turned to Gary again.

“We top?”

“Yeah.”

Parky and I met up with PD, who had enjoyed a great view in the back row of our section, and we slowly walked away from the ground. I overheard someone say “three league wins out of three here” – oh, it wasn’t a draw last season? – and maybe it is time to well-and-truly rename the new gaff Three Point Lane.

The Stadium.

The Game.

Us.

Our exit strategy was the same as at Christmas 2019; find a fast-food place for a chicken burger and wait for the crowds to disperse. We caught the 7.48pm train from White Hart Lane back into town, and the carriage was full of moaning Tottenham fans. A heavily made up woman with lips that looked like they had been filled with air was the main noisemaker :

“Right. I’ll say it. Don’t care. We are shit. We just gotta acclimatise ourselves into realising we ain’t that good.”

I looked at PD. Parky looked at me.

I whispered : “She’s got a point.”

Unlike Tottenham.

On we go, Villa next, see you there.

The End.