Tales From A Weary End To The Season

Posted on June 6, 2026 by Chris Axon

Sunderland vs. Chelsea : 24 May 2026.

“World champions but.”

I wonder if this colloquial phrase was used by any natives of the North-East as Chelsea’s visit to the Stadium of Light neared. With both teams seeking a win to finish the season on a high, and a potential Europa League place in 2026/27, I wonder if a Sunderland supporter dismissed our chances of a win against the Black Cats, only to be reprimanded by a friend who, looking at the undoubted talent in our team, and the events of last July, piped-up to remind them that Chelsea are, indeed, World Champions.

“Chelsea are rubbish, man.”

“Hadaway, they are World Champions but.”

This momentous weekend had started early. I just about managed to finish off the Tottenham blog on Thursday evening before grabbing a modicum of sleep. I was up at 3.30am and picked up Salisbury Steve at PD’s house in Frome at 5am. This was to be a bank holiday weekend, and I needed to avoid any traffic hold-ups.

I drove out to Beckington to take the A36 to Bath and then the road north and soon saw some bloody magpies, again, at the bottom of Bonnyleigh Hill. This obsession was getting silly.

Two magpies, though.

Obviously, I looked on this as a token of good luck.

We then had a little in-car discussion about black cats and debated whether it was good or bad luck for black cats to cross your path. I always thought that they were bad luck. I had always presumed that this nickname evolved when Sunderland moved out of Roker Park and needed to discard their “Roker Men” moniker and chose “Black Cats” as a new nickname, since the team would bring bad luck on other teams. However, it all seemed too contrived for my liking.

Anyway, we would be venturing into the land of Newcastle magpies and Sunderland black cats, and it would hopefully be a weekend to relax with mates, and to unwind a little. This has been a struggle of a season.

For the first few hours, The Chuckle Bus was awash with laughs and giggles, stories and tales, but everything then settled down. The passengers occasionally drifted off. I drove on.

Rather than the usual and monotonous drive up the M1 and A1, I fancied a change and hoped PD and Steve would too; I stayed on the M5 and then hit the M6 all the way to Carlisle. This enabled me to stop off at Tebay, my favourite services in the UK, where I indulged in a full breakfast that gloriously included haggis, black pudding and bubble. The scenery was indeed spectacular with the mountains of the Lake District visible to the west.

Then, the A69 east and into Newcastle, where the three of us were staying at a house that was close to St. James’ Park. On the drive in, we stopped at “The Denton” and then “The Fox & Hounds” to soak up the time until the digs’ check-in time of 2pm was reached.

After a quick change and freshen up, we embarked on a six-pub tour of Gateshead, mirroring the smaller crawl that we did just over a year ago.

“The Lock & Quay” on the river with amazing views of the bridges, but also a boorish rugby team from Bristol on tour.

“Axis” in the railway quarter at the top of the hill, and we just about coped with some difficult craft lagers.

“Microbar” close by, a return visit, and a lovely chat with Alan, a Gateshead supporter who had flown down to Bristol to see “The Heed’s” game at Yeovil over the winter.

“Station East”, another return visit, and we spent some time here, where we met two young Sunderland supporters, Kai and Rachel, and listened to a seventy-seven-year-old musician belt out some cracking songs. We were joined at this pub by Dave who is a regular at virtually all Chelsea games and has not missed a home game since 1994.

Kai told us a true shaggy dog story about a friend who raced greyhounds. This dog was a flier and showed great promise. Before its first race, though, the nefarious owner wanted to play tricks. So, he fed the dog Mars bars, which the dog lapped up, to dampen its speed so that the odds would drift for a second race.

This trick didn’t work.

It won.

The owner was confused but obviously pleased that the dog performed so well despite being penalized. So, they let the dog eat normal food, put lots of money on it, but it finished last.

So, they were confused what to do.

In the third race, out came the Mars bars, and the dog won again.

By now, the dog had earned the nickname “The Mars Bar Kid” and although Kai’s story continued, by now we were howling so much that we weren’t paying much attention.

“Another Budvar please, barman.”

Both youngsters were in their mid-twenties and so had not seen Sunderland play in Europe. Kai virtually pleaded with me to let Sunderland win on the Sunday. It’s hard to believe that a club with the magnitude of Sunderland had only previously enjoyed one season in Europe as a reward for their 1-0 FA Cup win in 1973 against Leeds United.

I was digging in though; I have never wanted to see Chelsea lose a game, and I wasn’t going to start here. I was looking for a win on Sunday, no doubts. There was talk of us having a year off from Europe to re-set and refresh, but so many of us love the European away trips.

“The Central” was close by, another return visit, and this time we made it to the rooftop terrace. Alas the view was not of the river and Newcastle, but of the rail tracks and Gateshead.

“The Grey Nag’s Head” was our final call, another return visit from last year, and I cannot deny nor confirm that a rendition of “Rotterdam (Or Anywhere)” by a female pub singer was hijacked by the four of us.

It had been a splendid night.

On the Saturday morning, we rested well.

But there were old friends to meet, and hopefully new places to hit.

At about 2pm, the three of us started off at “The Slug & Lettuce” on the quayside, a favourite for many years, and we had a bite to eat, our first food since Tebay. Here we were joined by Jimmy the Greek, Ian and Ian’s son Bobby.

After a few hours, we made our way to “The Bridge Tavern” which sits right under the span of the Tyne Bridge. We had not visited this one for a few years. It was here that Jimmy spoke about his one game for England schoolboys. We really liked this pub, dark and quiet. However, our peace would not last too long; we were joined at our table by a bevy of local Geordie women on a sixtieth birthday pub crawl.

Then, next door to “Akenside Traders”, a very familiar bar in the epicentre of the quayside, but it was surprisingly quiet for a change. By now our entourage was roaring with laughter virtually every time one of us spoke. Good times.

Next, over the road to “The Crown Posada” at around 7.30pm, the evening racing on. This is a classic Tyneside bar, narrow but with a high ceiling, leather seats and gorgeous stained-glass windows. We were joined here by Karl, originally from London, but now living on Tyneside. His local was the first bar we frequented on the Friday, out in the west of the city.

At around 8pm, we walked a few yards up the hill to “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, a big favourite and packed with locals and visitors alike. Here, the final two friends joined us. Johnny Twelve and Jenny Dozen flew in from California and soon entered the spirit of the night. This was Jenny’s first visit to the Loony Toon. As I posted on Facebook –

‘Seeing my mates sing along to “Dancing Queen” takes my love for them to another level. Howay.’

We decided to hit one last location before calling it a night and caught an Uber up the steep hill to “Stack” on Pilgrim Street. This cavernous bar was a perfect location for us to continue drinking and singing to one dodgy song after the other.

At about midnight, we called it a night, and we made our way back to our respective residences.

The last matchday of season 2025/26 soon arrived.

The six of us hurriedly met up at “The Beehive” on the Bigg Market in Newcastle at around 11.30am. Thankfully I was nursing only the slightest of hangovers and was able to slowly drink a pint of “Cruzcampo” but I knew that this would not be a day of excess.

There had been two consecutive days and nights “on the ale” in Gateshead and Newcastle on Friday and Saturday, and with a long drive home for me on the Monday, Sunday was all about seeing out the football season without too much alcohol. In fact, that tasty pint in “The Beehive” would be my only drink that day, save for a couple of “Diet Cokes” that don’t really count.

We took a train from Newcastle Central but we didn’t land in Sunderland until around 1.30pm. As we headed up Fawcett Street, I heard a familiar voice.

“We must stop meeting like this.”

It was Stuart, from Kilmersdon, the village so close to my village of Mells in Somerset. I had bumped into him outside Anfield, and at Fulham Broadway, in the past few weeks. And here he was again. We looked up and saw some other friends at a table outside a cheap and cheerful café. If this was Sunderland’s pavement society, then so be it. We said “hello” to Maureen, Gerry, Paul and Scott, took a quick look at the menus, and decided to head inside for a bite to eat.

On our last visit to Sunderland on a cold midweek night in December 2016, we had found a lovely pub near the city centre called “The Dun Cow” where we spent many hours among friends. The intention always was to visit this lovely Victorian establishment on this trip, the last game of the 2025/26 season, before heading over the new Keel Crossing, a pedestrianised bridge that traverses the River Wear. It was to be a little combination of both old and new.

Sadly, we ran out of time to do either.

“The Dun Cow” would have to wait until next season.

“Wendy’s Place” was our new base camp.

This would be my fifth visit to the Stadium of Light. Sadly, I never made it to Roker Park; a fact that saddens me.

The first match was in December 1999 when a Kevin Phillips hat-trick helped defeat us 1-4. Then, another “last game of the season” match in May 2009 when we won 3-2. This was an important match for me since it represented the first time in my life that I had attended all thirty-eight league games. In May 2016, ironically after the “Battle of Stamford Bridge” game with Tottenham the previous midweek, just like on this occasion, but we lost 2-3. Then, in December 2016, under Antonio Conte, a narrow 1-0 win and when a stupendous save from Thibaut Courtois extended our run of wins.

I wolfed down some brunch at “Wendy’s Place” and we then stepped out into the sunshine. The Stadium of Light was only a fifteen-minute walk away. We spotted the dark blue slither of the North Sea just a short distance to the east. The former site of Roker Park was close by.

A kind local took a team photo.

We strode over the green Wearmouth Bridge, and the Keel Bridge looked impressive to our left.

Both Ian and I spotted the very stylised “Welcome to Sunderland” signage on the south stand. As far as I could remember, this is a new feature, and the font reminded me of the typeface used on the cover of ‘sixties football programmes. I liked it a lot.

I took a few photos, then clasped my pub camera in my palm, hiding it from the steward, and was in at 3.15pm. The flights of stairs almost wiped me out, but I made it to the top tier intact. My seat was in the second row, and I slumped in my seat. For some reason, it felt like the toils of a long season had left me low on energy. I usually stand at away games, but on this occasion, I knew I would be watching from a seated position.

I soon spotted that the Chelsea players were oddly doing their pre-match shuttles at the other end of the stadium. Had they had enough of us? Were they hiding from potential scorn?

For this very last match of the season, Calum McFarlane chose this team, and I again spent the opening minutes attempting to ascertain the formation. The word in the top tier was of three at the back.

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – Caicedo – Fernandez – Cucurella

Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

Before the entrance of the teams, not many seats in the Chelsea section were unused, and this pleased me. Red and white mosaics were held up, and in the single-tiered stand to my left, a couple of cats’ eyes peeked through a sea of black mosaics. A variety of songs were played through the PA that included “I can’t help falling in love with you” by Elvis Presley and the place erupted.

“Wise man say…”

“Dance of the nights” by Sergei Prokofiev also got an airing. It was stirring stuff. The place was rocking. European football was up for grabs, and the locals were infected by a fever.

The game kicked off with us in blue / blue / white attacking the other end. I moved down a row to sit in the front next to Lance and was happy I could sit.

“Must be getting old.”

Lance was impressed with the tumultuous noise.

“Imagine if Stamford Bridge was like this each game”

I was happy that I had correctly identified the formation, although in the first portion of the game, Gusto appeared to move inside to give solidity to the midfield.

There was noise from our section, but I was feeling adrift and found it hard to get motivated to sing too. This annoyed me.

Cole Palmer was set up by Pedro Neto, but his slow drive was easily saved. The home team came at us, and a feature of the first fifteen minutes was a succession of long throw-ins aimed at our six-yard box from the Sunderland left. By hook or by crook, we survived each ball that was launched, despite knock-ons and bobbles, and limbs stretched at awkward angles. A couple of shots flew at the Chelsea goal. Robert Sanchez saved one after a rapid break up our left flank, Enzo blocked the other. On sixteen minutes, there was a Marc Cucurella error near his touchline, but Levi Colwill reacted quickly, covered and booted the ball away for a corner.

Just after, a low ball fizzed around our box but Sunderland were just unable to get a touch.

Phew.

Nilson Angulo, whoever he is, let fly with a rasper from outside the box. The home team were on top, and Chelsea weren’t in it.

On twenty-five minutes, with the Chelsea support quietening, the ball reached Trai Hume after a long punt and a headed knock-on. The Sunderland player calmly despatched a fine strike low into the corner of Sanchez’ goal using the outside of his boot. This goal came as no real surprise. I stared sternly at the floor for ages, not wanting to look up and see the Sunderland players celebrating nor the home fans going doo lally.

There was a VAR check for offside, but the goal stood.

Sunderland still pushed on, and we looked so tired and anaemic in possession. It honestly looked like we were the first professional team in the world to practice walking football in a normal game.

“Move for each other!”

The teams traded a couple of late chances – a Joao Pedro header drifted limply wide – and at the break I barked out “disappointing Chelsea.”

And it had been deeply disappointing.

To make matters worse, we heard that Tottenham were 1-0 up at home to Everton.

Fackinell.

Sunderland started the second half with a frenzy of attacking intent; they were on fire. Brian Brobbey, who had been their main threat, slammed a shot at goal but the outstretched leg of Sanchez came to our rescue as it often has this season. However, in the very next attack the ball was played in from Enzo Le Fee to Brobbey, whose mishit shot across the face of the goal found the unfortunate Gusto, whose wild swipe resulted in the ball crashing unceremoniously into the goal.

We were 0-2 down and our hopes of European football were looking so slim.

McFarlane’s response was to replace Hato with Reece James and to move the troops into a more familiar “four at the back” shape.

On fifty-six minutes, bizarrely, we were back in it. Neto shimmied and poked the ball square to Palmer, some twenty-five yards out, and our talisman took aim with a low strike. To my complete surprise, and everyone else’s no doubt, the ball crept in at the near post after the ‘keeper Robin Roefs could only divert the ball in.

My reaction surprised me too. There was no half-hearted cheer here; my guttural roar was full-blooded and – call me silly – I was happy that this was my reaction. I loved that after 1,557 Chelsea games, in a tiring end-of-season match, a simple goal could illicit this response from me.

“CAM ON CHOWLS.”

Was the comeback on? We all hoped so.

Well, Chelsea being Chelsea, sadly the self-destruct button is never too far away. I have to be honest; I did not clearly see the foul by Wesley Fofana on Wilson Isidor on sixty-two minutes. But this was a second yellow on the day, so off he went, to much barracking from the travelling Chelsea support. It is clearly that of all of Chelsea’s current players, Fofana is one of the least liked for footballing and non-footballing reasons.

While McFarlane restructured things by bringing on Trevoh Chalobah for Neto, I immediately thought back to that game at the same venue ten years ago in May 2016 – the last but one away match of that season – and how John Terry was sent off in the second half of that game.

Against a backdrop of negative noise from the Chelsea support – boos, swearing, catcalls, abuse – bizarrely we seemed to play a tad better with just ten men.

But the level of vitriol annoyed me at best and disgusted me at worse. Everyone has been frustrated with our “levels” this season, but I had to wonder if some within our support enjoy abusing players more than they do supporting them.

Within a few yards of where I sat, I heard venomous abuse at individual players from one side of me, while on the other a hyperventilating supporter dished out “you fucking cunt” on many occasions to one player, while standing alongside his daughter who could have been no more than nine.

This stirred up some hideous reactions inside me; sometimes my fellow supporters just make me feel like giving all of this up.

To repeat, for the millionth time :

“Managers manage. Players play. Supporters support.”

Good times and bad.

I am not sure if we picked on individual players in that lacklustre season of 2015/16, but I suspect not. In fairness, we were league champions the previous year and I think reputations of players were respected. But that was a shocking season too. There was certainly a memory of the phrase of players “downing tools” under Jose Mourinho in the depths of that winter, and it seems that phrase is uttered with annoying regularity these days too.

This day at Sunderland came on the back of the altercations I had with fellow fans at Everton and at a recent home game too. It’s been a sobering and sombre period.

Out on the pitch, there was a mesmerizing balletic turn from Palmer, who I thought never stopped trying, and an equally beguiling run deep into the Sunderland box. Alas, a cross was blocked.

On eighty-five minutes, two substitutions were made.

Liam Delap for Moises Caicedo.

Josh Acheampong for Malo Gusto.

Two minutes after, the two substitutes combined as Acheampong set up Delap, but the shot was blocked. Then, deep into extra-time, fine hold-up play from the much-maligned Delap, but after doing the hard part, once he turned to pass back to a teammate, he could only find a Sunderland player.

Ugh.

There was a massive ten minutes of injury time, but despite a few attacks at the goal down below, I was not confident of us obtaining a probably undeserved equaliser.

I had commented to Lance that it felt like the season had finished on Tuesday night against Tottenham.

And perhaps it had.

This was a tired performance from us, and – I hate to say it – a tired performance from me too. There were shouts from me but not with the same regularity as at most away games. Maybe the season had finally taken its toll.

With the final whistle close, I spotted Ian and Bobby heading for the exit. I thought it wise to follow them. I felt guilty about leaving before the end of a game but as I reached the concourse, the final whistle blew.

There would be no UEFA competition for us next season.

We all met up outside, and with the moon visible high in the sky way above the stadium, we caught the train back to Newcastle while the locals – the Wearsiders, the Mackems, the Roker Men, the Black Cats, whatever they call themselves – celebrated the win and a cherished European place.

There was a final pint in “The Mile Castle” near the main train station and it took our total to sixteen pubs in the three days. I have to say that the nights out on Friday and Saturday were too of the funniest, and most joyous, and most relaxing back-to-back nights I can remember.

We met up with a few more faces. On the drive up on Friday, I had mentioned to the lads if a friend of ours – Nick – had the record of seeing Chelsea Football Club more times than anyone else in history. He has been a regular since the early ‘fifties. Luckily, we bumped into him and his son Robbie in this pub, so I was able to ask him his thoughts on this. He wasn’t so sure. He said he missed a fair few in the ‘eighties and mentioned a few others that might well hold the record, the late Ron Hockings being one of them. Our mutual friend Allie was around 90 games shy of Nick’s current total of around 2,500. Of course, Cathy must be in contention too.

On a personal note, I was happy to record my fourth straight season of not missing a single Chelsea league game; 152/152.

My total number of matches attended this season was down on last season, however, when I reached the never to be beaten 100. This season I have seen Chelsea 52 times and Frome Town 23 times; a total of 75.

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

Talking of which, a word of heartfelt thanks to the many friends and acquaintances who continue to dip into this blog and keep the numbers relatively healthy. Although total views are down on 2025, I have already witnessed 13,538 visitors in the first five months of this year compared to 24,129 in the whole of last year.

This of labour love costs me around £300 per year to keep it going, but I see no reason why I can’t keep adding to the current total of over 2.25 million words. It’s only the equivalent of a pint each week.

More numbers.

I often heard that 2025/26 was our worst season in recent memory, but these numbers would suggest not.

CHELSEA 2015/16

Won 12

Drew 14

Lost 12

50 Points.

CHELSEA 2025/26

Won 14

Drew 10

Lost 14

52 Points.

But it has been a mad season, eh? It has tested many of us, but many of us still find it hard to stop going.

I think it could easily be summed up by this simple phrase.

“World champions, but.”

Right, I am off to buy some Mars bars in case Xabi Alonso’s new team needs an added kick.

See you in August.

Tales From The Bigg Market

Posted on December 26, 2025 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 20 December 2025.

With consecutive away trips to Cardiff and now Newcastle within five days, it was if these two fixtures were plucked out of the March 1984 football calendar for me to enjoy once again.

These two matches from over forty-five years ago still resonate.

Saturday 10 March 1984 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 31 March 1984 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

These were consecutive matches for me.

And so, it would be in 2025, too.

Tuesday 16 December 2025 : Cardiff City vs. Chelsea.

Saturday 20 December 2025 : Newcastle United vs. Chelsea.

Parky was unable to travel up to Tyneside for this one. I was up at about 4.45am, and I arrived outside PD Towers in Frome just as “05:59” changed to “06:00”.

I liked that.

Just in time logistics.

You know how it works by now.

We were blessed with completely clear skies for most of the long trip north, and this of course meant dry roads, a nice plus. There were no real traffic hold-ups. We stopped at Strensham Services in Worcestershire at 7.30am. There was a McDonalds breakfast, heartily wolfed-down by us both, and I filled my petrol tank. The weather outside was sublime.

I made great time. There was a comfort break at Woodall Services in South Yorkshire. I was loving this trip. Up onto the A1(M) and a hint of clouds to the north, and a hint of a rainbow too. One final comfort break at Durham Services, and then the approach to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The Angel of the North was at its brilliant rusty best, catching the sun, to my right. There had only been a few minutes of fine rain in the last few miles.

Jimmy The Greek had travelled up from King’s Cross, arriving at 11.30am, and had rewarded himself with a beer in the magnificent “Centurion Bar” at the train station. The plan was to collect him and then check in at the apartment I had booked to the west of the city centre.

I usually cross the river via the famous Tyne Bridge but on this occasion my Sat Nav took me over Redheugh Bridge which was further inland. For a few hundred yards, I found myself driving along Scotswood Road.

I couldn’t resist singing a couple of lines.

“Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

This took me right back to my first Chelsea game when my father meticulously taught me the words to this famous Newcastle United song before the teams met at Stamford Bridge in March 1974.

I collected a smiling Jimmy at 12.30pm and we were soon checked in at the same apartments that we had used back in May. By 1.15pm, we were in an Uber heading down to the city centre.

Football fanciers often talk about “game management” these days, but for my perspective this weekend was all about “drink management.” I remembered the mess that I managed to get myself into in the small hours of our Sunday game at St. James’ Park last May. The kick-off on that day was at midday, and when PD woke me at 10.30am, I was in no state for football or anything. I was rancid. I promised myself an early finish on this Friday, ahead of another early kick-off on the Saturday, and on the Saturday, ahead of a long drive home on the Sunday.

We know Tyneside well by now. And although I wanted to “take it easy” – with PD’s full backing – I also wanted to visit a few new pubs too. So, I spent a while looking at the possibilities.

The quayside had been very well explored. In fact, we had virtually visited every pub along the stretch from the Wetherspoons in the west to the “Free Trade Inn” in the east.

The Wetherspoons on the quayside, “Off-Shore”, The Quilted Camel”, Bob Trollop”, “The Red House”, “The Crown Posada”, “Colonel Porter’s Emporium”, “Akenside Traders”, “The Bridge Tavern”, “The Slug And Lettuce”, “The Head Of Steam”, “The Broad Chare”, “The Tyne Bar” and “The Free-Trade Inn.”

Fourteen pubs over one mile, all ticked off.

So, for this little session, I zoned in on the Bigg Market and I sorted out a pub-crawl that would not be too taxing.

Jimmy, PD and I started off at “The Beehive Hotel” at around 1.30pm. I had visited here in 2020 but needed to try it again. I had forgotten that this lovely pub has the cheapest drinks in the city. A trio of lads from The Eight Bells in Fulham were at a table and I shot over to say hello. My round of two “Cruzcampo” and one “Guinness” came to just £10.60.

I was falling in love with Newcastle once again.

Ryan from Stoke had seen that we were plotted up in “The Beehive” and joined us and stayed with us all night. The place was getting busy. We were perched on stools near the doorway. Space was at a premium. The last Friday before Christmas – “Black Eye Friday” – was heating up.

I had seen that my mate Foxy from Dundee had attempted to send me a message. About half-an-hour later, I then spotted that an image of a pint of Guinness had appeared on the chat. At that exact moment Foxy appeared right in front of me.

Our group was set.

Jimmy, PD, Ryan, Foxy and myself.

The five of us traipsed around five yards to a very quiet bar called “Pumphrey’s” and I supped another “Cruzcampo. Then, through an entrance between “The Beehive” and “Pumphrey’s” into the cobbled courtyard of “The Old George” and into pub number three. It was absolutely rammed, but thankfully we found a table. This fantastic pub is one of the city’s oldest and dates from the sixteenth century. It’s a rabbit warren of cosy rooms, and the place was heaving. By now, the football chat had veered off along several unexpected tangents, and the alcohol was flowing freely. From here, we edged along High Bridge to “The Duke Of Wellington.”

Then it was time for some food. Someone mentioned “Hooters” and although I rolled my eyes we were soon at a table, with me drinking another “Corona” as I nibbled on some mozzarella sticks. By this time, we had lost Foxy. The last time I saw him prior to this was in Dortmund. He tends to show up at random places and probably disappeared from the Bigg Market into some time-tunnel portal.

We had spent around six hours in the Bigg Market. It had been a blast. The locals? Friendly of course. The pubs? Welcoming. The drinking? We were just about in control, but only just.

“Where next Chris?”

I suggested “The Strawberry.”

“Great shout.”

Not only was it next to where Ryan was staying, but it was en route to our apartment too.

We clambered into an Uber and headed off to the fabled pub right next to the Gallowgate.

I remember that in the classic gangster film of 1971 “Get Carter” which was set in Newcastle’s underworld, Michael Caine’s character says to a rival “you’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape.”

Well, for those six hours we were Bigg men, and in increasingly bad shape.

There was time for a team photo outside “The Strawberry” and in we went. Who should be sat in a quiet corner of this pub but Gabby and Noel, and we sidled up next to them. Ironically, they had left a message on my Cardiff blog the previous morning.

I was aware that I needed to watch my intake, not wanting to over-do it. But I wasn’t sure what to drink.

“Surprise me Jimmy.”

Well, this didn’t go to plan really. He brought me back a rhubarb gin.

“Oh lovely.”

We stayed in “The Strawberry” for around two hours and we returned to our digs at around 10pm.

And that, for Tyneside, was an early finish.

I slept well that night.

I could hear Jimmy and PD at various moments in the morning, but I enjoyed a little lie-in. I was up at around 9.15am. We soon caught an Uber down to the quayside and were soon tucking into a large breakfast apiece at the well-visited Wetherspoons.

I wasn’t 100% but I was certainly in a much better state than in May.

We reviewed the previous night’s activity, and I was reminded that in “The Strawberry” – beneath the girders of the Gallowgate, right behind enemy lines – we apparently were told by one of the female bar staff to “keep the noise down”, such was the volume of our Chelsea songs.

“I don’t recollect that at all. Bloody hell.”

We then caught another Uber up to the ground. As we waited in traffic, I took a few shots of The Stack that has added more revenue to match-days at their stadium. The driver, bless him, took us right up by the away end. From there, we walked through the concourse to take the lift to the heavens.

I then encountered a problem. I had seen my digital ticket appear in my Google Wallet, but as I neared the ticket check, it had disappeared. Luckily, a fellow supporter suggested that I should delete the ticket from May, which was still in my wallet, so that there would be no confusion. This worked a treat.

We shuffled into the lift after a security check.

Jimmy and I said that we were PD’s carers.

“Does he need two, like?”

“Yes, Jimmy looks after his left leg and I look after his right leg.”

“Oh aye.”

“And he looks after the rest.”

In the bar in the heavens, we met up with Kev, Rich and Matt from Edinburgh; all Hearts supporters, but Chelsea too.

I was inside at around 11.45am and took my seat in around the sixth row from the front.

It was, dear reader, bloody freezing.

And foggy.

Those of us in the away end can usually spot the high land of Gateshead behind the Gallowgate End.

Not on this day.

The light grey seats of the stadium met the light grey steel of the stand roof, and the city down below was shrouded in a clinging grey fog, while the sky above was an impenetrable grey smudge.

The vivid green grass of St. James’ Park was the only colour of note on this bitterly cold day on Tyneside.

Our team was flashed onto the large screen to my left.

Robert Sanchez

Malo Gusto – Wesley Fofana – Trevoh Chalobah – Marc Cucurella

Reece James – Moises Caicedo

Pedro Neto – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho

Joao Pedro

There was a festive slant to the pre-match songs that boomed loudly out of the speakers, with songs by Shakin’ Stevens and Wham, but also “Our House” by Madness, maybe a nod to us visiting supporters. If so, a nice touch.

Then, bizarrely, some shite by Status Quo.

The teams were formally announced over the PA system, and we then were treated to the usual selection of pre-match songs at St. James’ Park.

“Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones.

“Blaydon Races.”

I can’t deny it; I mouthed along to these words.

I just couldn’t help myself.

Aa went to Blaydon Races, ’twas on the ninth of Joon,
Eiteen hundred an’ sixty-two, on a summer’s efternoon;
Aa tyuk the ‘bus frae Balmbra’s, an’ she wis heavy laden,
Away we went ‘lang Collin’wood Street, that’s on the road to Blaydon.

Ah me lads, ye shudda seen us gannin’.
Passing the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’.
Aal the lads an’ lassies there, aal wi’ smiling faces.
Gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

Then, oddly “Hey Jude.”

The entrance of the teams.

“Local Hero” by Mark Knopfler.

I was right in the mood now…but still bloody freezing.

I seemed to be absolutely surrounded by Scottish lads, mainly Rangers but a few Hearts too. There must have been around a dozen beside me and behind me. Foxy was a lone Dundee United fan, but I had not yet spotted him at the stadium.

For the first time that I can remember, I was watching an away game by myself…Alan, Gary and John didn’t travel to this one. And it felt so odd.

The game began at 12.30pm and we attacked the Gallowgate. I was happy with our start, and our first chance came in the first minute as Cole Palmer attempted to lob Aaron Ramsdale from the left-hand corner of the box but although several Chelsea supporters thought it was going to drop in, it always looked like narrowly missing the target. The ball dropped on the roof of the net.

Sadly, in the next move of the game, Newcastle disposed Wesley Fofana just inside our half and moved the ball out to their right. Jacob Murphy sent over a stunning cross that Anthony Gordon met. I was purring at the excellent point blank save from Robert Sanchez, but the rebound sat up nicely for Nick Woltemade to tap in from close range.

Three minutes had elapsed and we were already 0-1 down.

Fackinell.

Two minutes later, we built a fine move down the left and Alejandro Garnacho fancied his chances outside the box, but the ball flew over the bar.

Just after, Malo Gusto was injured inside our box, and our players were irate when the referee Andy Madley let play continue. There was another Murphy cross that found Gordon again, but Sanchez leapt to produce a stunning finger-tipped save.

As the first half settled, we found it so difficult to build moves and seemed prone to collapsing into one almighty mess whenever the home team attacked.

Newcastle United managed to get the ball in the net via former Blue Lewis Hall, but Fabian Schar had impeded Sanchez in the build-up, so it stayed at 1-0.

We were chasing shadows by now and were second-best in all areas.

On twenty minutes, Gordon sent over a cross from their left and Woltemade’s run was perfect and his finish flashed inside the far post.

We were 2-0 down with not even a quarter of the game gone.

Bloody hell.

But wait. VAR was called in to review a potential offside. I wasn’t convinced. We waited for three minutes. The goal stood.

On twenty-seven minutes, a stupendous first-time volley from Schar but Sanchez saved well.

The away end throughout all of this was mainly silent. There had been some very half-hearted chants at the start but as the lacklustre performance on the pitch was played out before us, we just stood, with the cold clawing at our bones.

At last, on thirty-five minutes, a semi-decent chant.

“CAREFREE.”

Just after, we somehow produced a shot on goal. It was deflected and in one of those odd moments, the ball appeared to be going in towards the goal, but in fact was rebounding out of the penalty area. A few of us in the heavens were taken in.

Pedro Neto bundled the ball in, but used his hand, so the goal was immediately disallowed.

On forty-four minutes, a chance for Woltemade went begging as he lunged at a ball at the far post but failed to connect.

What a dire bloody first-half for us.

I chatted to Andy from Nuneaton at the break.

“I’m finding this harder to do, Chris. Maybe one day soon, I’ll give it all up.”

“I know mate.”

“It’s the travelling, really.”

“Andy, I love the aways though. Love them. It’s the homes that I find a bit of a chore.”

“It’s the other way for me. I enjoy the homes. I can get to London by train from Nuneaton in just under an hour. It means I can have a few drinks. I’m not driving. Nice.”

Garnacho had been disappointing in the first half. On several occasions he had the determination to get past the full-back, but often his touch let him down. On two occasions he ran out of pitch. I would later say to Kev that “it’s not like ice hockey and he can run behind the goal…”

There were no changes at half-time. For all our deficiencies, the home team had been very very good.

Within the first few minutes, I sensed that Palmer – who had been desperately quiet in the first half – was in a lot more space, perhaps because he was told to hold back a little. After just three minutes, running at a defender, he was crudely fouled.

OK, a chance. I settled myself. My tiny “pub camera” was at the ready. Both Palmer and Reece were over the ball.

We waited.

To my surprise, Reece approached the ball and struck it towards goal. I snapped. Imagine my – our – elation when it dipped over the wall, evaded Ramsdale’s dive and nestled in the nets.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

This signalled an awakening in the heavens. Whereas there had been moans and silence, now we sensed an unlikely comeback.

On fifty-one minutes, a fine break but the ball looked like it got stuck under Neto’s foot and the chance squirmed away.

Just after, Ramsdale made a fine save from James.

There was a rugged shoulder charge by Trevoh Chalobah on a Newcastle player that might have gone against us. Play was waved on.

On fifty-five minutes, Enzo Maresca replaced Malo Gusto with Enzo Fernandez and James moved to right-back.

We then took the game to the home team, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, with the home support growing nervous and then deathly quiet. James was now revelling in his right-back position, ably supporting the midfield when he could. Enzo just kept things moving. Caicedo looked stronger with each minute.

This was turning into a good old game of football, with attack and counterattack, time after time. There was a natural ebb and flow to it. We were all enthralled.

On sixty-seven minutes, Sanchez released a fantastic bomb of a pass towards Joao Pedro. It was inch perfect. With Malick Thiaw close, he headed the ball behind him, spun, and was away. It was a stunning piece of skill. I had mentioned in a previous blog how I liked his hold up play. Well, here he was holding up the ball for himself to run onto. I had memories of Mark Hughes heading the ball into space for him to run onto against Vicenza in 1998.

We saw him approach Ramsdale. I made the quick decision that I wouldn’t be able to grab my camera and take a snap. Instead, I concentrated on this joyous moment. I sensed a goal. After spinning away so magnificently, I knew our striker’s confidence would be rocketing as he cantered in on goal.

He steadied himself.

I steadied myself.

The shot was rolled close to Ramsdale, but past him.

We just waited, now, for the net to bulge.

PANDEMONIUM.

I punched the air continuously for what seemed like ages.

My elation, actually, surprised me. But it left me so happy.

So happy that a Chelsea goal, after 1,527 games, still means so much.

I turned the camera in on us and snapped a photograph of the screaming, gurning, cheering, shouting, smiling fans up in the heavens.

What a come-back.

And what a second half that continued to entertain us and enthral us. Chances were created at both ends. Garnacho must have had three chances to score but either missed the target or shot tamely at Ramsdale.

Newcastle United changed their attack line; they were going for it too.

On eighty minutes, Andrey Santos replaced Palmer, who had faded a little.

It seemed that we were on top, but the home team created chances of their own. We had to rely on an amazing recovery by James who sped across the Gallowgate penalty area as if his life depended on it to nick the ball just before Harvey Barnes could fully connect.

Shots from Caicedo and another from Garnacho went close but not close enough.

This was truly breathless stuff.

The game ended with a couple of Newcastle chances.

There was also a late VAR review involving a tackle by James on Barnes that I didn’t really see. Thankfully the challenge was said to be fair.

It ended 2-2.

What a second half of football.

I loved it.

And yet again we came away from a Chelsea game talking about “a game of two halves” and how we manage to get ourselves into such ridiculous predicaments.

Not to worry, we descended the steps, I bumped into Foxy – and then lost him again – and we goaded the subdued home fans as they sloped past us at ground level.

“Two-nil and you fcuked it up.”

I bumped into Andy from Nuneaton, his face gleaming.

“See you next week, mate!”

We reassembled and dropped into a huge bar to the north of the Bigg Market. We sat outside and oddly the cold air didn’t seem to bother us as much as it really should have. Later we spent two hours in a comfy bar next to “Pumphrey’s” called “The Market Shaker” and relaxed over a few beers, or “Cokes” in my case.

Saturday night in the Loony Toon was just starting to warm up and this bar, I guess, was typical. Several groups of women appeared, in various stages of undress, as did a massive line of lads in a nativity-themed fancy dress parade, all holding hands, dressed as angels, wise men, Joseph, Mary, a donkey, a star, a bale of hay: bloody impressive.

Then a bloke in his fifties began strutting his stuff on the dance floor and was dancing like a lunatic. He clearly wasn’t dancing, or even moving, or breathing, in tune to the music. I then realised that he had the incredible knack of dancing to the previous song, like some ridiculous musical interpretation of a “Two Ronnies” sketch.

I joked with Jimmy that Foxy would suddenly appear from the cellar.

Of course, Foxy eventually showed up, and he stayed for a drink or two.

The Hearts lads left to catch their train. Jimmy left to catch his train. Foxy left us to head back to his hotel.

PD and I hopped a few doors down to indulge in a magnificent hot and spicey pizza that hit all the right spots.

We were back at our digs at 8pm.

There would be an early alarm call at 6am in the morning…

FRIDAY NIGHT

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Tales From A Weekend Away

Posted on May 19, 2025 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2025.

“I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.

I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long dive to Tyneside.”

With our place in the final over in Poland confirmed with a victory in Europe on the eightieth anniversary of VE Day, the three of us could now look forward to a four-day stay in Newcastle upon Tyne.

And there hadn’t been two games like this for a while, with the second a virtual continuation of the second.

It was a slow start. I navigated some road closures and traffic congestion as I headed towards the North Circular at Chiswick. From there, up and over the Hanger Lane Gyratory, close to Park Royal tube station, where my first-ever trip into Stamford Bridge gathered pace in 1974. By now, Parky was asleep in the back seat, but PD was keeping me company in the front.

I climbed up on to the M1, stopped at Toddington Services for a comfort break, then headed north and into the night. It was a decent drive, and I only started feeling a little tired as we drove past Durham. I stopped for a second time at Washington Services at 3.45am and enjoyed a ninety-minute power nap. Parky had grabbed lots of sleep, PD a smaller amount.

At 5.30am, refreshed, I drove into Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and was humbled at how excited I was. Within half-an-hour, I was parked up at Whitley Bay, and the three of us trotted over to the promenade to take in the cold and bracing sea air as the rising sun lit the sky and sea and land with its golden rays.

Dear reader, this was a bloody great feeling, over three hundred miles from home, with a head start on the weekend, and perfect weather all around us.

We then headed a few miles south to Tynemouth, recommended to me by a friend who lived locally, and we killed time with a coffee in the main street. We then sauntered over to a pub and gobbled down a full English breakfast.

There was a wait until 2pm to check-in to our apartment, but while we entered another pub for a drink at 10am, I received notification that we could check in early at 11am. I sunk my Diet Coke, the lads sunk their lagers, and I headed west.

We checked in, then decided to have a couple of hours’ sleep since we all knew that we needed it.

Showered and changed, we headed over to Ouseburn at 4pm and the weekend began in earnest. We called in at “The Tyne Bar” then headed the short distance to the “Free Trade Inn” where we spent a lovely time. This small pub is perched on a slight hill overlooking the River Tyne. Just after 6pm, my old college mate Graeme – with his daughter and her boyfriend – walked in and it was a pleasure to see him again. He is a native of Tyneside, lives in Whitley Bay, and was on the same geography course as me in Stoke in the mid-‘eighties. Despite chatting on Facebook for a few years now, this was the first time that we had seen each other since graduation in 1987.

We both remembered back to what we were doing in the autumn of that year. I was just about to set off Inter-Railing, but also selling football badges at stadia in Europe, while Graeme, oddly enough, was embarking on a short career in the quarry industry very close to my home area.

Our evening soon deviated from the plan. My friend Kim, who looks after the band China Crisis, had seen my photos of the city, and had quickly contacted me to see if I fancied going along to their show at The Glasshouse on the opposite bank of the river. I was in, and so was Graeme, and he would be joined by his partner Lynda too.

So, a change of plan. Parky and PD would spend the rest of their evening quaffing ales with some locals at the ‘Spoons on the quayside, while Lynda, Graeme and I spent a very enjoyable two hours in Gateshead reacquainting ourselves with the “Flaunt The Imperfection” album on the fortieth anniversary of its debut in 1985. Every song from the album was played along with some other favourites.

Ah, 1985.

The second-from-last match to be featured in my retrospective of the 1984/85 season features, ironically, a return to the city where Graeme and I spent those college years and the away game at the Victoria Ground on Saturday 8 May 1985.

I always thought that it was perfect that Chelsea’s last away game of the season would be in Stoke, the city where I would be living from September 1984. Throughout the season, I always had it in the back of my mind, a lovely end point to everything. It was, originally, going to be the very last game of the season, but due to Norwich City’s place in the Milk Cup Final, our home game with them was tagged onto the season, on the Tuesday after the match at Stoke. I was never going to attend that one.

For me, Stoke was the final game, and I found great comfort in that.

I remember going out on the Friday evening with a small band of college friends, and we ended up atop the hill at Penkhull. I remember meeting up with Pete, a Chelsea lad I knew, and his mate Mac, who was – I think – studying at our sister site in Stafford. It was a decent little pub crawl, and I was rather merry at the end of it. The thought of seeing Chelsea just ten minutes away from where I was living must have been just too much for me.

I was up early on the Saturday. This was another 11.30am kick-off. I needed to look smart for this last game of the season; I went with a pink Lacoste polo shirt and a mint green Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover, plus the obligatory jeans and Nikes. The Victoria Ground was nestled among a grid of terraced streets just south of the Stoke town centre, and in the following two years I would live in the street right outside the away end.

I suppose you could say that this was bound to happen; football bringing me home.

I made my way down to the ground and saw Dave and Simon from “The Benches” by the main gates of the forecourt of the away end. I think I must have bought seat tickets at a previous Chelsea home game, and I took position in the second row right behind the goal. For my season finale, this was more than perfect.

Sadly, we heard that a special from Euston had been derailed at Watford. My mates Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock arrived and took their seats next to me. Oddly, the police turfed everyone out of the very front row, so that left us in effectively the front row. This was odd, since there were Chelsea fans on the terrace below. It wasn’t as if anyone would throw anything at other fans in front. My mate Terry from Radstock was spotted in the terrace down below. I also saw my housemate Kev from Barnsley, suddenly appear on the Chelsea terrace. He was a Barnsley fan and must have been enticed in after hearing me wax lyrical about Chelsea all winter long. This pleased me.

A rumour went round that the match would be delayed until midday to allow those on the special to be admitted, but I don’t think they ever made it to Stoke, let alone the match.

I loved it that the three of us all wore Robe di Kappa pullovers. I remember I bought mine at a great little shop in Hanley that winter. Glenn still dotes about his navy one to this day, and he recently explained how he didn’t tell his gran how much it cost on a trip into the East End. Swan wore a pink one. Our mate Dave took a photo which I include.

Sadly, we learned in 2020 that Swan had passed away over the past few years.

After some decent wins of late, Chelsea was vying for a place in Europe, something that I could not have imagined when the season began in August.

The end boomed out a couple of “Ten Men Went To Mows” as the game began with us attacking the home Boothen End in the first half. We had a couple of chances but failed to score. Stoke City were an abysmal team this season and had been relegated weeks previously. The atmosphere seemed to be tense in the away end as we searched an all-important goal. However, the highlight of the first period was an insane save from Eddie Niedwiecki from Keith Bertschin right in front of us.

In the sixty-fifth minute, with Chelsea now attacking us, Pat Nevin was fouled outside the box. He floated a free kick in and who else but David Speedie rose to send a bullet header past the Stoke ‘keeper Peter Fox.

Euphoria.

Our song du jour was a new one, and where it came from I have no idea.

“To Europe, to Europe. Tra la la – la la la la – la la la la la la.”

We held on as the Chelsea end celebrated with song, though in truth it had been a patchy performance. Despite a healthy Chelsea presence in both seats and terrace, the gate was just 8,905.

Before I knew it, I was back in my student flat, and feeling flat, the season now over for me. A few friends joined me in the local for some post-game chat. Elsewhere, Manchester City won promotion back to the topflight by beating Charlton Athletic in front of 47,000 at Maine Road, while Tottenham lost 1-5 at home to Watford.

However, events would turn darker. This was the day of the Bradford City fire at Valley Parade, where fifty-six lives were lost during their game with Lincoln City. This was also the day of riots at Birmingham City vs. Leeds United when a young lad, attending his first-ever game, was killed, crushed by a wall at St. Andrews.

This were vivid, visceral, vibrant days, but also terrible days too.

Let’s get back to 2025.

The three of us, in our apartment on the long Westgate Road, slept in on the Saturday and eventually headed over the water to Gateshead at around 12.30pm. This was another hot and sunny day, and there were pubs to be visited. We began with a drink in “The Central Bar”, and followed this with a couple in “Station East” and one in “Microbus”, all very different, but all very welcoming and pleasant. Later, we strode up the hill for a couple in “The Tynesider” and we then ended our grand tour of Gateshead by spending a few hours in “The Grey Nag’s Head”.

A half-empty boozer, drinkers drinking, songs going, the sun creating patterns as the light dances off windows and mirrors, the chatter and laughter of the locals, the clink of glasses, and the whispers of a distant past.

At about 9.30pm – yes, we had been on it for around nine hours – I got the call from my mate Chris, an Everton fan who had just returned, ironically, from an away game at Fulham. I took a cab to meet up with him and his daughter in “The Newcastle Tap” opposite the train station. I stayed chatting with him for a good hour and a half.

Then, the fool that I am, I ended up with a few Chelsea mates in “Popworld” on the infamous Bigg Market. There was a late-night pizza with “Walton & Hersham Bob” before I apparently jumped a taxi queue and ordered a cabbie to take me home.

I eventually crawled in at around 2am.

I think.

On the Sunday morning, Parky woke me.

“It’s ten thirty mate.”

“Fackinell.”

My immediate thoughts?

“Noon. What a ridiculous time for a game of football.”

“Shit, that’s only ninety minutes away.”

“After the game, I am going straight back to bed.”

“Never again.”

We caught a cab at 11am and were soon walking towards the familiar steel and glass of St. James’ Park.

The three of us caught a lift, as always, up to the away section in The Gods.

There was time for a little joke. We were told to press the button for Tier Seven. We wondered what was in Tier Eight.

“The trophy room” I replied.

“But there is no Tier Eight.”

“Exactly, I replied.”

*Admittedly this would work better had they not won the League Cup Final on 16 March, but in the circumstances, it made us laugh.

I met up with a few friendly faces in the concourse, which looks out and over the greenery of Leazes Park, where there are plans to, maybe, build a new stadium for the team.

I spotted Alan in conversation with PD and Parky.

Sadly, Alan had some awful news for me, but needed to tell me face to face rather than via text or ‘phone. Albert, the lad who has sat in front of me in the Matthew Harding Upper since 1997, sadly passed away in the days after the Liverpool home match.

I was so sad. We hugged. Albert, a postman, had apparently been taken ill at work and, we think, soon passed away. We do not know the details.

I raised a glass of “Diet Coke” to his memory and it just seemed so pathetic.

With my head spinning with that news, and a general light-headedness from the drinking the previous night, I lethargically took my spot alongside Gary, John and Alan. I reached my place just as the mosaics were reaching their peak down below me, but I was in no mood to appreciate the scene.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Albert.

Before I knew it, the game had began below me.

Quick, the team.

Sanchez

Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Lavia – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

I noted the “C-Section” defence and tried to think of a punchline. And then I thought of Robert Sanchez.

I couldn’t believe that Gary alongside me was wearing a shirt, a pullover, a jacket and a hat. He must have been roasting. As it was, he was soon roasting Anthony Gordon, likening him to Clare Balding. He had a point.

There was an early attack up at the Gallowgate End and Pedro Neto won a corner, but it was all to no avail. Soon after, we found ourselves scurrying around after a Newcastle break. Moises Caicedo tackled Gordon well, but the ball was picked up and sent out to Jacob Murphy. His low ball across the six-yard box was prodded in by Sandro Tonali.

Fuck it.

The locals roared, and I looked over to them to my right. They were going ballistic.

“E-I-E-I-E-I-O, UP THE PREMIER LEAGUE WE GO.”

I felt crushed so soon into the game.

And I thought of Albert.

To be honest, despite the importance of this game, I found it hard to concentrate. But this was such an important game. I mentioned to a few friends before the match that I had not known a league game at St. James’ Park with so much on it for both teams since that classic in 1984.

We looked lack-lustre and tired, and our away support were quiet and subdued. In fact, as the first half meandered on, I hardly heard a single shout from us. It was all too tame.

Cole Palmer, our great hope, misfired on a few occasions. A Caicedo shot bobbled wide.

This was horrible.

And I thought of Albert.

On thirty-five minutes, a high ball and an aerial challenge between Nicolas Jackson and Sven Botman. A yellow card for Jackson.

Then, a VAR review. And a red card for Jackson. It was all too far away for me to really see what had happened. Jackson seemed to take ages to eventually walk off the pitch.

Sigh.

We were really up against it now. In fact, did we have a chance at all? It didn’t seem like it. Everything seemed so flat. Bizarrely, the home team hardly showed much desire to go at us.

This was a really odd game.

I sat at half-time, quiet, in a reflective mood.

I remembered how Albert – for a while – used to time his toilet breaks with Chelsea goals so we would often urge him, if we were needing a goal, to pay a visit.

I remembered how I would often touch my telephoto lens against the back of his head.

“Sorry mate.”

He loved his trips to New Zealand every winter.

Bless him.

At the break, Reece James replaced Noni Madueke. Our formation looked pretty fluid, like a Saturday night out in Gateshead, and as the second half started, somehow, we improved.

And us, the fans, realised the severity of the situation and, maybe feeling rather guilty for our first half no show, royally got behind the team.

Soon into the second period, two things impressed me and maybe galvanised a new spirit in the team. First, there was that ridiculously sturdy but fair tackle by Our Reece. Then, not long after, that robust shoulder challenge by Our Moises.

On the hour, a beautiful pass found Cucurella on an angle but his studied drive was tipped around by Nick Pope.

“It’s all us now.”

The noise levels rose as the second half progressed and I was so proud of the volume of our support. Maybe the first half silence was a direct result of too many bevvies in the Bigg Market, too many gins in Gateshead, too many daiquiris on the Quayside and too many ouzos in Ouseburn.

“It’s Salomon!”

A fantastic tackle by Levi Colwill thwarted Newcastle at the Gallowgate End.

On seventy-five minutes, two changes.

Malo Gusto for Romeo Lavia

Jadon Sancho for Trevoh Chalobah

God know who was playing where.

The hometown fans aired a song from days of old :

“Sing yer hearts out for the lads.”

Enzo tested Pope but the shot was tipped over.

The home fans roared again :

“New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul.”

On eighty-seven minutes, the ball was worked from the left flank to the right flank and Gusto sent over a teasing cross. However, despite a free leap, James got under the ball, and it looped over.

FACKINELL.

That was our chance.

There was still time for one final twist of the knife. On ninety minutes, Bruno Guimaraes advanced and aimed. His shot took a deflection – weird how it could be seen from over one hundred yards away – and the ball looped in.

Bollocks.

At the end of the game, with the Geordies bouncing, the buggers then played “Parklife” and then “Chelsea Dagger” and I bet they thought that was funny.

So, it was not to be. Our poor recent record at St. James’ Park continues, and the home team strengthened their Champions League claims for next season.

I met up with the troops at the bottom of the fourteen flights of steps and we – Parky, PD, Rich, Matt, Rich’s nephew and me – sloped down to a bar for a few post-game drinks and a bite to eat. It would be a relatively early night this one. I think I was tucked up by nine o’clock, ready for the long haul down south on the Monday.

Next up, a Friday night date with Manchester United.

STOKE ON TRENT : 11 MAY 1985