West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 21 September 2024.

It seemed odd to have no Chelsea midweek game after the Bournemouth match, especially since many other teams were embroiled in not only UEFA competitions but the Carabao Cup too. However, the away match at West Ham United’s London Stadium was reward enough for a barren week of football.

Although this stadium is undoubtedly my least favourite away venue – terrible sight-lines in addition to no Chelsea wins in all of my previous six visits – I was pretty positive about the day. As my working week ended on Friday, I was absolutely relishing the trip to East London. The malaise of the previous weekend had disappeared. Whisper it, but I could even sense a win. If that was to be the eventual outcome, the four of us were planning to execute a post-game victory ramble around the East End. That was enough to get me chomping at the bit for the day to start.

By some odd twist of fate, some forty years ago, Chelsea and West Ham United met in a First Division match at Stamford Bridge. I always remember that a chap called Baz who ran the Yeovil Supporters Club used to produce a small bi-monthly magazine, and in the pre-amble to the travel plans for this game, he subtitled it “When Two Tribes Go To War” after the huge Frankie Goes To Hollywood hit from that summer. Well, on Saturday 15 September 1984, the two tribes went to war in a game that is avidly remembered to this day, not least by me.

This would be the first time that I would see West Ham play and, while North London’s two teams had been developing a mutual hatred of each other both on and off the pitch for decades, Chelsea and West Ham had been doing the same, albeit in the Second Division, for a couple of seasons prior to 1984. Those 1979/80 and 1980/81 encounters – two Chelsea wins in the first season and two West Ham wins in the second – must have been lingering in the memories of those who were planning to attend the first match between the two clubs since a 4-0 West Ham win at Upton Park on Valentine’s Day 1981. To say that there were off-the-field scores to be settled would be a massive understatement.

I was up early for this one – some things don’t change – and I caught an early-morning train from Frome train station to Westbury with Glenn, and we then zipped up to Paddington. We made a bee-line for Stamford Bridge, arriving as early as 10am. As I was off to North Staffs Poly in a week’s time, I needed some photos for my NUS card, and so I used the photo booth at Fulham Broadway tube station. We walked down to a café at the bottom of the North End Road and for the first time in my life I sampled some pie, mash and liquor. This seemed ridiculously authentic for a nineteen-year-old lad from deepest Somerset; what a beautiful start to a top flight London derby. On walking up to the main gates at around 11am, we were aware of a large mob of casuals walking past us in the middle of the road; dressed to the nines, no colours on show, full of attitude, full of purpose. Without a doubt, we knew they were West Ham, the ICF. I remember one bloke bumped into me as he brushed past, but with the fear of their notoriety in the forefront of my mind, it was me who apologised.

After they had passed, we looked on as they ran a hundred yards or so towards the tube station and had a set-to with some newly-arrived Chelsea lads.

We waited in the East Stand forecourt as we saw another large mob of around fifty gents line up at a ticket office and attempt to buy tickets. The police had arrived by now and told them that no tickets were on sale and to disperse. The presence of a mob of away fans in the forecourt reminded me of the time in February 1977 when Millwall made an appearance, along with rushes and pushing and punches. As an eleven-year-old, this was all too exciting for words.

At one stage, the police closed the main gates, worried about a further influx of West Ham. Things were bubbling – pardon the pun – along for a while. Glenn and I got in the ground, into the relative safety of The Benches, at 12.30pm. There were some proper bruisers on parade that day, and us two teenagers were in no mood to get walloped, especially after a nasty experience at Bristol City that August.

Our capacity at the time was around 43,000 and I had predicted a gate of 32,000 the day before.

Once inside, it was clear that West Ham had brought the numbers. Our sweeping North Stand held 10,000 at the time and each of the four paddocks were swelling with numbers from an early stage.

At about 1.30pm, we noted that a mob of chaps had arrived en masse in the West Stand seats above us. For what seemed an eternity, they looked at us and we looked at them. At 2pm, they moved towards our right, towards the northern end, and punches were thrown at home fans, although the Chelsea seats were not full at all.

A slow deep song, previously unheard of, boomed out of the West Stand.

“ICF…ICF.”

I can’t deny it. It put the fear of God inside me.

They positioned themselves – maybe a hundred, maybe more – right behind us. I had been sitting in the very back row of The Benches, a few yards away. I looked at their angry faces and became concerned that they might well decide to throw some coins at us.

“Fuck that.”

Leggo, from Bedford, and I moved a few rows down.

On the other side of the pitch, about fifty West Ham showed up in Gate 13 in the East Lower but the police were soon in charge.

The game, played out in front of a very hostile atmosphere, was a cracker.

Us in 1984?

Niedzwiecki

Lee – McLaughlin – Pates – Rougvie

Nevin– Bumstead – Spackman – Thomas

Dixon – Speedie

West Ham fielded such stalwarts as Billy Bonds, Alvin Martin, Ray Stewart, Paul Allen and Tony Cottee. They played in all white.

It annoys me, forty years after the event that Trevor Brooking didn’t play in this match in; he had been a great player, one that I respected a little. Sadly, he had just retired at the end of the previous season, along with Kevin Keegan. Oh God, here come the memories of that bloody England vs. Spain game in 1982…I digress.

For some reason we attacked the Shed in the first-half. David Speedie was through but he was taken out by the West Ham ‘keeper Tom McAllister. The Hammers’ ‘keeper saved Colin Lee’s penalty kick, only for Lee to smack home the rebound. For some reason, the penalty had to be retaken. Bizarrely, the same thing happened again. Lee shot, McAllister saved, but Lee adeptly prodded home the rebound.

In the second-half, West Ham improved but a further goal, a lashed strike from Speedie on seventy minutes, made the game safe. With five minutes to go, Doug Rougvie was an unlikely provider of a deep cross that found an even unlikelier leap from Pat Nevin to head the ball in at the far post to give us a 3-0 win.

As this third goal went in, the West Ham mob behind us upped and left. Before we knew it, they had reappeared to our right, marching into the Shed at the Bovril Gate. A few punches were thrown at anyone within reach. It looked pretty indiscriminate. My pal Clive – who I sit alongside at Chelsea these days – took a battering after being pushed to the ground, but Chelsea soon re-grouped and chased them out.

Bizarrely, Glenn and I walked across the pitch – as did many – at the end of the game while the police tried to quell further scraps in The Shed, and we would get back on to the Fulham Road via the main gates. We made it back to Paddington intact and made the 6.05pm train to Bath, then to Westbury, then to Frome. On the way home, we chatted to two Bristol Rovers hooligans who had been lured to the bright lights of London for the game and had been part of the huge number in the away section.

The day had been massive. The gate was given as 32,411, yet we suspected that the Chelsea chairman Ken Bates had fiddled the figures; it felt nearer 35,000, maybe 40,000.

This had been a huge win for us. However, on the day, both Glenn and I always felt that West Ham had certainly made a big impression off the pitch – the buggers were certainly organised, their forte, their strong point – though in the ensuing years, Chelsea have always mocked the fact that they showed up way too early when the West Stand was full of normal fans.

That night, around the pubs of Frome, I bumped into a West Ham fan from school who, on hearing of the day’s events, summed it all up.

“The ICF did their job, then.”

I glumly nodded.

On this Saturday, just over forty years later, it was all about the football now. Hooliganism has almost disappeared from the national game, and it’s the actions of those on the pitch that are the focus of our attentions in 2024, though I am always aware of the symbiotic relationship between supporters and players.

Without supporters, we always say, football – and maybe footballers – are nothing.

After getting up early – 5.30am – I collected PD and Glenn at 7am. I drove past Frome train station, where our trip began in 1984 and onto collect Parky at 7.30am. We soon McBreakfasted at Melksham and we were on our way. While Glenn read my Bournemouth blog – that I had only finished the previous night – on his ‘phone, I updated the others on my December travel plans for Kazakhstan; out via Istanbul, home via Baku, and four nights in Almaty. I can’t wait. On the drive to London, the weather was miserable; full of dark clouds and rain. Thankfully, as we approached London it all brightened up considerably.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at 10.15am and, after our usual changes at Westminster and Canary Wharf, we reached Pudding Mill Lane station at 11.20am.

It’s a short walk to the London Stadium from here, and one which we are all familiar with. Unlike last season – just over a year ago – we were at the ground with tons of time to spare. Four foreign West Ham fans, all wearing various West Ham shirts, breezed past me. I detected accents from the southern US states. As they passed me, I spotted that one chap had “Lampard 26” emblazoned on his jersey.

My brain short-circuited.

“Lampard. Not our Frank surely? They hate him here. Maybe a reference to his father. But number 26?”

This just didn’t compute.

Security Check One : in.

Security Check Two : in, albeit after couple of dicey moments as the guy checked my camera.

I looked up and saw that “Lampard” was just ahead of me. I couldn’t resist a little chat.

“Hi mate. I have to ask why you have Lampard on your shirt?”

“He’s a legend, isn’t he? Like his father!”

I had no words.

Security Check Three : in.

But then a sniffer dog seemed interested in my camera bag. I was asked to accompany a bloke into a small tent where my camera bag, my wallet and my ‘phone were examined. I stood silent, bemused.

“You haven’t got any drugs, sir.”

“No.”

I almost expected them to ask if I’d like some.

We chatted to some pals in the large concourse; about the only thing they got right at this horrible stadium. PD and Parky were in the lower tier, I was towards the front of the upper tier, and Glenn was with Clive further back. For the first time, our tickets were sent via email and had to be repositioned inside an app on our ‘phones. It worked OK for me, but as Glenn was using a mate’s ticket, there was an uncertain period a few days ago when it appeared that the ticket – or rather a QR code – belligerently refused to appear on Glenn’s ‘phone. Eventually it was sorted.

With time to spare, I walked to the very top of the upper tier of the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand just to see for myself how awful the view is from the rear.

It is, as I suspected, horrific.

The sun was out, blue skies overhead, still positive vibes. I was stood alongside John and Gary in the third row of the upper deck.

Us in 2024?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Adarabioyo – Colwill – Fofana

Enzo – Caicedo

Sancho – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I had heard of a few of the opposing players, but not all of them. It’s a sure sign of my waning interest in top level football outside of the love of my life, Chelsea Football Club. After fifty years of going to games, it’s no bloody wonder my brain can’t take much more.

I hear this comment from so many people of my generation : “Teams from my youth roll off my tongue so easily but I really struggle to name many opposing players these days.”

As always at this stadium, we attacked the other end – The Bobby Moore Stand – in the first-half. The home team created the first chance of the game in the opening few minutes, but Roberto Sanchez saved well from Mohammed Kudos, whoever he is.

Then, a lightning break for ourselves. A free-kick was taken early. Chelsea – the cream shirts looking cleaner and whiter in the sun than last week – switched the ball from Jadon Sancho to Nicolas Jackson who sped away in the inside-left channel. He advanced and slotted the ball home, between the keeper Areola’s legs, and we were 1-0 up. He sped away, full of glee, and the home fans looked on despondently.

Snigger.

However, I was reminded of the times that we had gone ahead in this fixture only to concede goals later.

The home team came at us and created a chance for Crysencio Summerville, whoever he is, but we were full of ideas too. A forceful run from Jackson allowed a ball in to Cole Palmer who sadly stroked the ball just past the frame of the goal.

There was much to admire about our play and the home fans were beautifully quiet.

On eighteen minutes, the ball was played by Enzo Fernandez to Moises Caicedo in the middle of the pitch. He immediately saw the breaking Jackson and his pass was weighted to perfection. This was another Jackson versus Areola moment, though central this time, and our young striker clipped the ball past the ‘keeper with the outside of his right foot, thankfully captured on film by yours truly.

Get in.

A jubilant run past a fresh set of home fans.

A slide.

You beauty.

We were 2-0 up early.

As soon as had I picked up PD at 7am, I was confident we would win on this occasion. Should we do so, we were going to combine a post-match visit to a traditional pie and mash shop and then, probably, a first-ever visit to an infamous East End boozer “The Blind Beggar” where Ronnie Kray shot and murdered George Cornell, of the rival Richardson firm, back in 1966.

Were we safe? Maybe.

Chelsea continued to play well – especially strong through the middle – but the home team had a lot more possession during the final twenty minutes of the first period. I noted that Palmer was strangely quiet, often losing possession cheaply, and how deep he appeared to come for the ball. Often it felt like he was alongside Enzo and Caicedo in a three. I remembered Moises’ Chelsea debut at the same stadium last season, and what a shocker it was. He has progressed so well since and is one of our most admired players of late.

The home team weren’t especially good, but carved open a couple of chances. Jarrod Bowen fired over. A cool finish from Kudos was quickly flagged for offside. Our defence looked on top, but there were still a few jarring mistakes to keep us worried.

We eked out chances too. Sancho linked well with Jackson, but a shot was blocked, while Madueke ran and ran but failed deliver an end product. A lively first-half ended with another fine save from Sanchez.

There were plenty of Chelsea smiles at the break in the vast away end.

I was still sat, fiddling with my camera case, when Chelsea broke early into the second-half. The ball was pushed into the path of Palmer by the advancing Jackson. I hastily pulled the camera up to my eyes and shot. Then Palmer shot. The effort flew in off the near post as I rose to my feet.

Beautiful.

3-0.

Safe now.

I began thinking again of some pie and mash.

The goal signalled the end of whatever noise there was from the home areas. Joe Cole, commentating on the game in an open area to our left, was heavily serenaded. The West Ham crowd must hate that he is now revered as Chelsea and not West Ham, just like another person that we know and love.

Despite some half chances for the home side, the game really was over.

Time for some changes.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Axel Disasi for Colwill.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo.

There was a fantastic crunching tackle from Marc Cucarella on some West Ham player or another that – although resulting in a booking – resulted in a big cheer from the away contingent. It showed, in one moment, the desire in the team. I also loved all of the blocks – players putting their bodies on the line and other clichés – that again showed a desire and commitment that is not always visible.

At last, after six previous visits to the London Stadium, I had at last seen a Chelsea victory on a lucky seventh visit. Our home games often seem nervy affairs at the moment, don’t they? Can we play all our games away from home please? Three out of three in the league now.

Alas, no.

We now play four home games in a row in three competitions.

Barrow.

Brighton & Hove Albion.

Gent.

Nottingham Forest.

Our next away game – Liverpool on Sunday 20 October – seems ages away.

With many of the home fans leaving early, there was virtually no wait at Pudding Mill Lane station after the game. We caught the Docklands Light Railway train to All Saints and soon located “Maureen’s Pie & Mash”, tucked away in a small ‘sixties shopping precinct in Poplar.

Last season, before the corresponding fixture, we called in at the more famous “Manze’s” on London Bridge Road, but I think the pies on offer at “Maureen’s” were even better. Last season, I decided to call the West Ham blog “Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1” but on this day it was a case of “West Ham 0, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 3.”

Who should walk in as we were sitting down to our plates of pie, mash and liquor but our friend Dane who sits just in front of me at Chelsea. He often visits this haven of traditional London fare. What a small world.

None of us were keen to head home, so we caught another train from Poplar to Shadwell, then another one to Whitechapel. The sun was still shining high in the sky and we walked through the bustling street market – all of human life was there – until we reached “The Blind Beggar” pub on a wide pavement at a junction. We were able to relax, despite being the football supporter equivalents of the South London-based Richardsons visiting the heartland of West Ham’s East End support. Glenn had visited this infamous pub years ago – which was once owned by Bobby Moore of all people – and knew where to show me the bullet hole in a picture frame on the wall that was, allegedly, the one that killed Cornell after passing straight through him.

Gulp.

I had to smirk when “Smooth Operator” by Sade – featured in the first blog of this season, Rio de Janeiro, 1984 and all that – was played while we supped on ales. I also laughed at the chalkboard advertising “shots” for sale.

We crossed the road for a pint in a second pub, “The White Hart”, in Bethnal Green now, and we enjoyed a few moments as we reviewed the day’s game, while admiring the considerable scenery, cough, cough.

With no rush to return home, we then decided to head into the city. Alas, we heard that there had been a “jumper” on the line near Earls Court so we would have to return to Barons Court by other means.

We visited five more pubs during a lovey evening ramble around Blackfriars and Fleet Street. The only downer was hearing that Frome Town had been walloped 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville.

“The Blackfriar.”

This narrow pub was packed so we stood outside with the sun reflecting off the towering superstructures on the other side of the River Thames.

“The Albion.”

We saw bits of an entertaining 0-0 game on the big screen between Crystal Palace and Manchester United. Then, outside, the astonishing sight of St. Paul’s Cathedral, floodlit and magnificent.

“Punch Tavern.”

The first of three pubs on historic Fleet Street and the realisation that this was quickly turning into one of our greatest London away days

“The Old Bell.”

A cramped pub, full of character, a cosy room and recollections of school days, football days and hopes for a reasonable season ahead.

“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”

This pub was rebuilt after the Great Fire Of London in 1666 and I knew that it is one of London’s most famous pubs. I had known of its existence for years but it was a dream to stumble across it on this most magical of pub crawls. The place was swarming with tourists, full of beer, full of wine, full of chat, but thankfully none of them were wearing a Frank Lampard West Ham shirt.

At around 9.15pm, we caught an Uber to take us back to Barons Court and our waiting car. This in itself was a magical trip for us out-of-towners. We drove past The Strand Palace Hotel, where my parents honeymooned in 1957, past Trafalgar Square – a blurred photo of Nelson’s Column – and along Piccadilly, past Hyde Park Corner, into Knightsbridge, past the Natural History Museum, past Harrods, past The Famous Three Kings on the North End Road.

We stopped at Heston for a light snack, then I drove west to Wiltshire and Somerset.

I eventually reached home at just after midnight.

September 15 1984.

Chelsea 3 West Ham United 0.

September 21 2024.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Fackinell.

See you on Tuesday.

Before The Game : 1984

The Game : 1984

Before The Game : 2024

The Game : 2024

After The Game : 2024