Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 29 October 2025.
On an increasingly cold night in Wolverhampton, we watched Chelsea produce a fine first-half performance but to then self-implode in an increasingly bizarre, and at times comedic, second half. We ended up edging the game in a seven-goal thriller, although it was hardly a bona fide thriller. If anything, it was a black comedy.
A Black Country comedy.
After a decent but lengthy trip up to Lincolnshire for our first battle in this season’s League Cup, we could hardly resist a nice little jaunt into the West Midlands for a tie with Wolves.
I worked a 7am to 3pm shift, and the three usual protagonists were joined by my work colleague Simon. For a while, Simon was a bit of a Jonah on these Chelsea trips; he went winless in around seven trips a while ago. If we lost this one, I wondered if I should leave him up in in the wilds of the Black Country.
Heading north and over the M4, the trusty Sat Nav sent us on a wild goose chase through the back roads of the Southern Cotswolds, apparently avoiding roadworks and delays on the usual M4/M5 route. There was a little drama as Parky had difficulty in locating the email containing the elusive ticket for the evening’s game. Eventually, Simon sorted him out.
My ETA at Broad Street Car Park was around 6.15pm. The journey time of just over three hours would be longer than usual. Oh well, rush hour traffic south of Birmingham can’t be – er – rushed,
At least I was rewarded with some cracking views as I descended from The Cotswolds and into the Severn Vale at Coaley Peak. Then, for a while on the M5, while the others slept, clear blue skies to my west contrasted with wild and towering clouds over the hills to my east, the whole of that section of sky coloured with a lavender wash, but with dark grey brooding clouds in the distance, but then the tops of clouds were searing white, given life by the fading sun.
I wished that I could have stopped on the hard shoulder to take a few photographs.
I quick stop at Frankley Services, and then the slow approach into Wolverhampton through Dudley and Coseley.
The Sat Nav was bang on; I was parked up at 6.15pm. Simon sorted out the relevant parking App, and we then walked the ten minutes to Molineux.
All along I doubted that this game would sell out, despite the cheap ticket prices. We paid just £15 in the away section. I presumed that home areas were similarly priced. We stayed a while in the concourse, chatting to a few loyalists. Simon devoured a Balti Pie; PD supped a hot chocolate. After the Sunderland defeat, nobody was clear what performance was coming from Team Maresca.
I headed into the seats at 7.15pm. I was in row K, the tenth of fourteen in that elongated away tier, towards the Wolves’ South Bank.
The squad were running through their stretches, sprints and drills.
The substitutes were stretching with those elasticated resistance bands on their calves. From a distance, it looked like a load of blokes, hungover after a night on the ale, trying to put their underpants on.
The stadium at this stage was barely a third full. Our section took a while to fill too.
It was getting colder, but my new fleece-lined K-Way jacket was doing me proud.
With ten minutes to kick-off, there was a very half-hearted “Hi Ho Wolverhampton” and I wondered if the crowd would grow any further.
Next, “Firestarter” was played as the flames were set loose in front of us, and it temporally warmed us.
Then an homage to their life president Robert Plant, “Whole Lotta Love” and Kashmir” as kick-off approached. There were gaps everywhere, in the top corners of the main stand opposite, the odd “temporary” seats in the far corner to my left were devoid of people, as was the right-hand side of the ugly two-tier stand to my right.
As the teams appeared, a very odd choice of songs.
“Those Were The Days” by Mary Hopkin.
Ah, Mary Hopkin, my first-ever girlfriend, stop laughing at the back. I remember being exited when I heard that she was from Wales and that we were going to Tenby in South Wales for a family holiday in around 1968 and I wondered if I would meet her. I was only three.
I’m still waiting, Mary.
Now, I’m not sure if this song was meant to reference Wolves’ glory years. If it was, it was a decade out. A song by the Beverley Sisters would have been more apt.
Our team?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Acheampong – Tosin – Hato
Lavia – Santos
Estevao – Buonanotte – Gittens
George
It did not come as much of a surprise that Josh was the only player to retain his place from the Sunderland debacle, squad rotation et al.
At 7.45pm, the game kicked off.
Chelsea, in a crisp all-white kit, attacked the South Bank.
Very soon into the game, the locals teased us.
“We can’t say it, you know what you are.”
Oh boy.
“World Champions, you mean?”
We began well, and after just five minutes, Jamie Gittens picked up a loose ball inside the Wolves half and the ball ran on and into the path of Andrey Santos, who calmly slotted the ball home past Jose Sa.
Santos raced over to celebrate to my left.
Get in.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 1.
The home team came at us on the occasional break, and their wide men floated in a couple of testing crosses. It was a lively start.
One of the blokes to my left had already claimed that “Tyrique George ain’t a striker” – I knew what he meant, he’s a wide player, and doesn’t have the physicality to lead the line in a traditional way – so imagine the looks he received when a really fine move flowed through our team, and Gittens set up George to push the ball in from close range.
Only a quarter of an hour had elapsed.
Get in.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 2.
Just after, we went close again. A Gittens shot was blocked by Sa, but George was just unable to control the rebound, and the ball went wide.
Gittens was enjoying tons of space on the left, close to us, and a clipped cross caused havoc again.
It was lovely to be so close to Gittens as he continually exploited space on our left. I lost count of the times that he advanced with confidence, teasing their right back.
The lad hadn’t really enjoyed a great start at Chelsea.
Kev sagely commented that the adage of giving everyone one season to settle in at a new club still rings true, and we both hoped that Gittens will go on to find his true form. This first-half performance from him lit up the cold Wolverhampton night.
“Their right back will be having nightmares later on…”
On forty-one minutes, Wolves attempted to play the ball out, but Chelsea were having none of it. Santos stole the ball, and it ran towards Estevao. One touch to control, one touch to cheekily lob the ball over Sa.
Get in.
Wolves 0 Chelsea 3.
At half-time, the temperature worsened.
As our team took to the pitch at the start of the second period, I experienced a very odd feeling. I quickly glimpsed at them all, in an unfamiliar all white kit, and the players, taken as a whole, suddenly seemed oddly unfamiliar.
This jolted me.
I quickly attributed this to our large squad of mainly young, and relatively new players, and the fact that our team changes so bloody often.
It honestly felt that I hardly knew these players.
A few friends and acquaintances often say they feel no connection to the players in the current squad and here was a similar feeling for me. For a few fleeting moments, it felt that the players were ghosts in my consciousness…
Little did I know then, but for the next forty-five minutes, they played like they were bloody ghosts too.
The home team, with two half-time substitutions, suddenly upped their game, and went close with a cracking volley from Arokodare, who had headed just wide from a Wolves free kick in the closing minutes of the first half.
On forty-seven minutes, Buonanotte gave the ball away cheaply and the ball was worked out to Arokodare – a suspicion of offside? – who swept the ball in from their left.
Wolves 1 Chelsea 3.
Get out.
A succession of petty fouls from us gave Wolves some sort of motivation and they seemed emboldened. We, however, lacked desire and application.
On the hour, Maresca made three substitutions.
Marc Cucurella for Malo Gusto.
Enzo Fernandez for Romeo Lavia.
Liam Delap for Estevao.
As Delap strode onto the pitch, I thought to myself “yeah, we have missed you mate.”
I wondered if we had created a single effort on goal in this half. I thought not.
On seventy-two minutes, George gave away a damn silly foul on a Wolves defender. The defender was about twenty yards away from his own goal line, going nowhere. My message at times like this is always the same.
“Pen him in.”
Those around me were fuming at George too.
One lad said, “if we let in a second, nightmare.”
From the resulting free kick, the ball was knocked forward, and Wolves won a throw on the far side.
Oh great, a long throw.
The ball came in, the ball bobbled off heads and finally dropped for David Moller Wolfe who slammed it low past Joregensen from an angle.
Wolves 2 Chelsea 3.
Get out.
On seventy-six minutes, Pedro Neto replaced George.
Delap received a yellow card for bringing his hands up to push away a marker, and I lambasted him for being so silly.
On eighty-five minutes, Moises Caicedo replaced Buonanotte.
It seemed that the manager had taken too bloody long to realise the paucity of quality in this half and that he chose to bring on our strongest – in every sense of the word – player with just five minutes to go speaks volumes.
A minute later, I watched closely as Delap jumped with his marker, untidily, then elbowed the defender.
A second yellow.
No words.
Ugh.
Down to ten men, again, we were now hanging on in a game that looked done and dusted at the break.
The minutes ticked by.
I admitted to others that “we don’t deserve to win this.”
There was a comment about Halloween coming up soon, and this being a premature horror show.
At that exact moment, Gittens was put through and without a single touch to steady the ball, he lobbed the Wolves ‘keeper with an amazing first-time effort.
Get in, Gittens.
Wolves 2 Chelsea 4.
I looked at Kev and said “that’s just funny” without the merest hint of a celebratory cheer.
As six minutes of extra time was announced on the PA, I was checking my ‘phone and I looked up to see both the ball and Cucurella end up in the net.
They must have scored straight from the kick-off, how I do not know.
Wolves 3 Chelsea 4.
Get out.
What a ramshackle, preposterously bad, comedy-show of a football match.
Fackinell.
As we assembled outside before walking back to the car, it honestly felt like we had lost. I took little pride in this match. It had been, ultimately, a mess of a football game.
It could, of course, have been worse. Also playing during the evening were Frome Town, at home to local rivals Larkhall Athletic. Frome went 1-0 up but eventually lost 1-3. Two losses would have been hard to take.
There were diversions on the way home, too, and it meant that I didn’t reach my house until 1.20am. On that drive back to civilisation, we learned that we had been drawn away again in this competition, at Cardiff City.
There’s nice.
Postscript : when I woke on Thursday morning, it still felt like a loss.
Our second home game of the Champions League campaign was to be against the famous Ajax of Amsterdam, but this match report does not begin in either London or Amsterdam, but in Miami.
A month or so ago, UEFA “reluctantly” – their words, not mine – allowed the first-ever games to take place outside national European boundaries.
There was to be a game between Barcelona and Villareal in Miami, Florida and a game between Milan and Como in Perth, Western Australia.
Thankfully, on the morning of our game, it was announced by La Liga that their game would not be happening, and I – and hopefully most football supporters – was extremely happy. It felt like a glorious rebuff to the shady money-makers that lurk in and around football’s commercial landscape these days.
One down, one to go.
The Italian game might be a harder nut to crack, but let’s hope Serie A refuse to allow it too. The San Siro is being used for the opening ceremony of 2026 Winter Olympics, and I believe that the Milan directors are using this as an excuse to find an alternative venue for their home game with Como two days later. But surely, a venue swap should take place here? Milan are due to play Como at San Siro on 8 February 2026, while Como are at home to Milan on 21 December. Just swap the venues on those dates. Easy.
As an aside, Milan and Como are just fifty miles apart. How mad to expect their fans to travel to Australia.
This important parcel of football news dominated my early morning thoughts as I endeavoured to get some work done during another 6am to 2pm shift that would allow me to get up to London in good time.
However, I was rather tired, and it was all my own doing. The previous evening, I had decided to traipse over to Portishead to watch my local non-league team Frome Town tackle one of the early pace-setters Portishead Town. Rather than rest up and go to bed early on the Tuesday ahead of a very long day – 5am to 1am – I was lured to the game by the thought of Frome winning and us going top of the league for the first time this season.
The game itself wasn’t much to shout about; it was a niggly, physical battle played out on a 3G pitch at a very anaemic venue. Frome withstood some early pressure, but defended resolutely, and created a few chances, and settled for a deserved 0-0 draw. There were some road works on the return journey home, and I didn’t get in until just before 11pm.
I got through my work and collected Pinky and Perky at just after 2pm. I made good time en route to London.
I explained to the lads that I just wasn’t feeling much in the way of excitement for the evening’s game, and PD admitted the same feelings. With eight games in this phase, their just doesn’t seem to be the same degree of tension, drama and excitement in each individual match.
This new process features thirty-two teams. Eight make their way automatically to the first knock-out round in the New Year, while sixteen get a chance to qualify via an extra knock-out round. It honestly seems like it will take forever to unfold and be resolved.
When we won in 2012 and 2021, we played six group games, six knock-out games and the final, a total of thirteen games.
This season, should we win again, we could play up to seventeen games.
More games, more games, more games; it’s the UEFA way.
After my usual dip into “Koka” for some food – a few Dutch lads were eating outside – I joined everyone at “The Eight Bells”
Jimmy had lost his father, Stavros, a few weeks ago, and I toasted his memory.
We also toasted the memory of Matthew Harding, our former director, who perished on this night in 1996.
I have told my story about Matthew Harding before; meeting him in the Gunter Arms before our game with Viktoria Zizkov and then giving him the thumbs up from the East Lower, but Jimmy had a nice story too.
He had travelled up for our FA Cup game at Ayresome Park in January 1993, but only heard late on, when they were on Teesside, that the game had been postponed. They darted inside a local pub for a drink, and Matthew was in the pub too, and bought the Chelsea fans present a drink.
I have always said that Matthew would have loved these European nights, bless him.
RIP Stavros
RIP Matthew
Stamford Bridge was under a deluge of rain as we reached our allotted seats.
The news of the team had trickled through, and it was a mix of experience and youth, and one that surprised me a little. Only Romeo Lavia remained from the first half at Forest.
Jorgensen
Caicedo – Fofana – Tosin – Hato
Lavia – Enzo
Estevao – Buonanotte – Gittens
Guiu
Of course, there had been some recollections of our last meeting with Ajax; the pulsating 4-4 draw in 2019 and our recovery from 1-4 down, plus the agony of the disallowed goal from Dave very late on. There were no Ajax fans allowed at that game, so this would be their supporters’ first view of Stamford Bridge. In that game, I was so pleased to see Ajax in their world famous white and red kit. This time, we were not so lucky. They appeared in an insipid off-white number that was probably named after a frothy coffee variant that didn’t exist thirty years ago.
There was a timely mention of Matthew Harding before kick-off and the large flag bearing his image was floated over the heads of the spectators below us in the MHL.
The game began with us attacking The Shed, and very soon a respectful “One Matthew Harding” rang out from the stand that bears his name.
I must admit that it took me a few moments to realise that Caicedo was indeed an inverted right-back, and it looked a very fluid formation, with Buonanotte and Enzo playing well ahead of the other two in midfield.
Ajax had a little of the ball to begin with, but we soon started to dominate the play.
But we all waited for the first effort on goal from either team.
Ten minutes, eleven minutes, twelve minutes, thirteen minutes…it seemed that the lack of urgency in getting this first phase completed – the last of the knock-out games isn’t until 25 February – had transmitted to the players on the pitch.
“In your own time, lads.”
On the quarter of an hour, the game changed.
A lunging studs-up tackle by Kenneth Taylor on Facundo Buonanotte resulted a very quick VAR review, and then a red card.
Facunell.
Ajax were down to ten men.
Just after, a cross from the right from Buonanotte was ably headed back across the six-yard box by Wesley Fofana for Marc Guiu to stab home.
I turned to the bloke next to me – Alan from Wandsworth – and said “he needed that goal, great.”
In the immediate aftermath of the goal, I experienced the ache of having to endure “Chelsea Dagger” and I turned to the people behind me in the MHU and looked on in disgust.
Their actions were, indeed, a dagger to my heart.
(As an aside, I found no solace in the fact that the link that I posted to the “Stop This Shite” petition in one of my most recent match reports garnered just five clicks…)
However, my spirits were immediately lifted by two lovely text messages :
Alan, Sarf London : “THTCAUN.”
Josh, North America : “THTCAUN.”
I replied “COMLD.”
Game on, let’s go to work.
The first reaction from the home support was aimed at the Ajax manager John Heitinga, in lieu of our fine work on the banks of the River Trent a few days previously.
“Sacked in the morning. You’re getting sacked in the morning.”
Shots from Jamie Gittens and Caicedo were aimed at the Shed End goal.
On twenty-seven minutes, with Caicedo again within distance, the crowd yelled “SHOOOOOOT” and shooooot he did.
I was right in line with his effort but didn’t see the deflection that took the ball away from Remko Pasveer in the Ajax goal.
The net rippled, 2-0 to Chelsea, and a nice run down to Parkyville by the scorer.
I hoped for more goals.
Alas, on thirty-three minutes, during a rare Ajax attack, Tosin Adarabioyo tangled with Raul Moro, and the referee signalled a penalty.
Ex-Burnley and Manchester United loanee Wout Weghorst was rather lucky as his shot went under the full-length dive from Jorgensen.
The penalty was their first effort on goal.
The Matthew Harding serenaded the scorer with “you’re just a shit Andy Carrol” and this chant was often repeated during the game; in the second-half, Weghorst was defending a corner, and he gave a smile and a thumbs-up, a nice reaction.
On thirty-six minutes, a fantastic cross from Gittens on the left set up Enzo but he was unable to get a good-enough touch.
On forty-five minutes, Gittens to Enzo again, but our Argentinian was scythed down by Weghorst. His lunge was accompanied by a large splash of rain that could be seen from one-hundred yards away, though not quite as prominent as in the Tom Finney photo from 1956.
Enzo stroked the ball confidently in.
In the sixth minute of injury time, Estevao was tackled twice on the edge of the box, and at least one of these resulted in a penalty. If it was the second tackle, it looked outside the box.
Whatever.
Enzo gave the ball to Estevao, who confidently lifted the ball into the left-hand top corner.
Blimey, 4-1 at half-time, and three penalties.
By this time, I had been chatting to Alan alongside me, and we shared a few Chelsea stories. I told him about this blog, and he mentioned a podcast that he is involved in. I spoke a little about Frome Town and Alan said how he loves the non-league scene too. He referred to a good friend, Adam, who follows Derby County and Mickleover Sports. Well, what a small world. I know a lad from Frome who lives in Derby, follows Derby County and watches Mickleover Sports too. It turned out that my mate, Mark, who visited us in the Eight Bells last season when Derby’s FA Cup game at Leyton Orient was called off, knew of Alan’s friend Adam. They live very close to each oter, a few miles apart maybe.
Here was proof that football, yet again, is a very small world.
At the start of the second half, Enzo Maresca made three changes.
Trevoh Chalobah for Tosin.
Andrey Santos for Enzo.
Tyrique George for Guiu.
With the game surely won in the first half, the second period took on the feel of a friendly, or at least a training match, with Ajax encamped in their half for virtually its entirety.
After only three minutes, Lavia played in Andrey Santos but the ball held up for Tyrique George to score, again via a deflected shot. Alas, I didn’t catch his long slide into our corner, but I did capture the aftermath.
5-1 to Chelsea now, and game over.
The rest of the half involved us warming to the talents of Estevao and sitting back to hope for extra goals.
Estevao did not disappoint. He displayed some great control in tight areas, and almost netted with a goal from an audacious bicycle-kick and another from a powerful drive that was touched over by the Ajax ‘keeper.
Jamie Gittens endeavoured to screw a shot past Pasveer from down below us, but all his continued efforts never paid off.
Reggie Walsh, barely seventeen, came on for Lavia on sixty-five minutes.
Despite the ease at which we took Ajax apart, the noisiest chant of the night, “Carefree”, on eighty minutes, came as a shock and a surprise, out of the blue even.
Stamford Bridge had been quiet on this European night, a shame.
The Ajax fans had made some noise all night long and increased the volume and intensity as the game neared its conclusion. I had no idea what they were singing about though; no doubt that much of it was about the hated Feyenoord.
The game came to its conclusion. There had been plenty of goals in this week of Champions League football and it was nice to be able to join in.
PSG 7
Barcelona 6
PSV 6
Chelsea 5
Liverpool 5
Arsenal 4
Bayern 4
Borussia Dortmund 4
Inter 4
Maybe here is a clue why some supporters don’t mind this elongated phase before we reach the more dramatic style of UEFA football that I grew up with. Is there a tendency for teams to be able to relax, now, knowing that each game is not quite so important? Who knows? Answers on a postcard.
I was absolutely drenched on the walk back to the car but thankfully didn’t feel too tired – a miracle – and eventually made it home at exactly at 1am.
Everyone on social media was seemingly upbeat about the evening’s game with a lot of the focus on the youth in our team, not least the three young scorers.
Whether we are good enough to secure an automatic place into the fabled round of sixteen in March, yes March, remains to be seen.
After the long journey to Old Trafford that took up so much of my weekend, I was now faced with another long trip on the following Tuesday. Chelsea were paired with Lincoln City, and instead of hosting them at Stamford Bridge – as is usually the case, it seems – the Footballing Gods had bequeathed upon us a rare gift.
An away game. And a new ground for many.
There was no way I was going to miss this little beauty. I think many felt the same. With the first phase of this season’s Champions League returning us to Munich, Baku and Naples, I noted that Big John was looking forward to Lincoln more. I tended to agree.
With holidays at a premium, I decided to see if I could do this one without using any holiday at all. My plan was to work 6am to 2pm, zip up to Lincoln after work and then return home straight after, but with the added bonus of working a little later on Wednesday and doing a 10am to 6pm shift.
My three passengers were waiting for me in my work car park at 2pm; P-Diddy, Lord Parky and Sir Les, all using a crutch these days.
For one day only, The Chuckle Bus became The Cripple Bus.
My route was simple enough. I would drive over the M4 and soon take the route of the Fosse Way, the old Roman Road that linked Exeter and Lincoln. Its course runs a few miles to the west of my home village, nestled between the Mendip Hills and Salisbury Plain, and it’s always a great pleasure to drive along it. We always use the Fosse Way for away trips to Nottingham and Leicester.
My Sat Nav suggested that the drive from Melksham to Lincoln would be around four hours, but after a slow start getting up to the M4, that time proceeded to increase slowly but surely.
It was a long old slog. It was not helped by a thirty-minute tail-back on the M69 as we neared a short section of the M1. However, once past here, and after by-passing Leicester, it felt that we were finally making progress.
I last drove, for a limited section, along this A46 on the way to Forest last season, but the only other time that I drove in this area was on the way to Hull City in 2008.
My father, however, drove all of the way from Somerset to Grimsby during half-term in the autumn of 1973 to visit some friends, thus preceding my journey on this day by almost fifty-one years. I can vividly remember visiting Lincoln, spotting Sincil Bank stadium as his car drove very close to it, then seeing the impressive cathedral on the horizon.
After Blackpool’s Bloomfield Road – visiting friends in the ‘sixties – Sincil Bank, I think, was only the second football stadium I had ever seen.
I drove past signs of ugly place names like Ratcliffe on the Wreake, Ragdale, Grimston, Stragglethorpe, South Scarle, North Hykeham, Tithby
It’s no surprise that Scunthorpe is in Lincolnshire. Nor Grimsby.
Between 6pm and 7pm, the sun began to fade as we travelled those flat lands of Lincolnshire. To our right, we spotted the new sculpture of a Lancaster Bomber, hovering over a corn field on a slight rise of land. It’s a very impressive structure and commemorates the area’s role as a centrepiece of Bomber Command in the Second World War. Incidentally, my father was a wireless operator in Wellington Bombers, but served in Coastal Command in North Africa in the latter years of the war. He would have loved to see this new piece of public art.
Our route into the city took us around to the west and then in, and we approached Sincil Bank, now LNER stadium, from the north and not the south as in 1973.
The path took us past a very interesting structure, a Victorian grandstand by the side of the road that looked as though it was once allowed spectators to observe military parades or tattoos. The stadium buff inside me sparked to life.
At 7pm, I had found a secure parking spot on the pavement of the aptly named Scorer Street, just a few minutes’ walk from the ground. It was a perfect place, and I was happy.
The trip to Lincoln had taken five hours, but unlike the drive to Manchester, the weather had been nigh perfect, no rain, clear skies, dry roads, and my fellow passengers had provided me with good chat along the way.
As I gathered the troops for a photo with Lincoln Cathedral in the background, none other than Stuart spotted us. He lives three miles from me, and only a mile or so from the Fosse Way itself.
A little canal runs alongside Sincil Bank and oddly gives it the air of a foreign town or city. I half-expected fishermen with those long sturdy poles to suddenly appear.
I managed to get the money shot of the night; the cathedral to the north, so imposing, but with a grafter hawking half-and-half scarves in the foreground. My mission was accomplished; I could relax.
We were ushered along behind the away stand – the Stacey West Stand, named in memory of two Lincoln City fans who sadly perished in the Bradford Fire of 1985 – and as we stood in the queue to get in, there was a gathering of the clans with many familiar faces striding past.
This game really had caught the imagination of the Chelsea populace. Or to be correct, the stadium, if not the game per se.
I had sorted a ticket out for Cookie from Trowbridge, who luckily found himself within driving distance of Lincoln on one of his nights out as a lorry driver, “tramping” from spot to spot. Eventually, his digital ticket was sorted.
In the line to get in, fans were nervously holding their phones, displaying the red digital ticket, nervously hoping that it would not suddenly disappear.
I entered the packed terrace at about 7.20pm with no hint of a security check or bag check. My SLR was back in the car. How annoying.
I took my place in the stand, exactly behind the middle of the goal, row K, seat 73.
For the first ever time, I was able to select an exact seat from a coherent seating plan for this game, as you would do for a flight, and it made me giggle that the first time wasn’t for a game at Wembley, or Stamford Bridge, nor Old Trafford, but little Lincoln City.
Kick-off soon arrived. There was a vibrant atmosphere in the compact stadium which holds around 10,500. There are single-tiered stands on all four sides, but the one to my left, although the highest, was truncated, a little like the main stand at The Valley in days of yore.
Our team?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Fofana – Chalobah – Hato
Santos – Fernandez
Gittens – Buonanotte – Garnacho
George
I was frankly amazed that Estevao, pulled off so early at Old Trafford, was not starting. And I wasn’t convinced, again, about Tyrique George leading the line. He seems to have very little physicality. He has wiry skills, but no punch.
So here I was. I had just about timed it all to perfection, it had been a decent drive up, but I seemed a little distant. Perhaps I was missing a pre-match of any description. This all seemed a little one-dimensional.
My body was at the LNER Stadium, but my mind wasn’t fully engaged. Need I be worried? Was this the start of the decline? Was I reading too much into it all? I put it down to the pressures of driving. I had no time to decompress. I hadn’t even been able to walk around the stadium, a real sin on a first visit.
The game began, and the intensity and noise from the home fan really surprised me, but enthused and excited me too. This game obviously meant a lot to the locals.
We are, after all, the World Champions.
“You’re only here for the Chelsea.”
And what a bombardment during that opening period of play, with the red and white striped home team getting in our faces from the off. There were a couple of long bombs from both sidelines, the Lincoln players launching massive throw-ins towards our six-yard box. There was a strong shot from an angle that thundered back off our far post, with the home crowd sure of a goal.
We were up against it here.
Next up, the unconvincing Filip Jorgensen came for a high ball but flattened Wesley Fofana in the process.
Fackinell.
During rare moments of attack, Alejandro Garnacho was chopped to pieces, and then roundly booed by the vociferous supporters in the packed stand to our right. Why was Garnacho being singled out for abuse? I wondered if many of the Lincoln City fans were also Manchester United supporters. After all, many fans follow a smaller club too. It just happened that theirs was Manchester United.
Lincoln were excellent in the first part of the game and never let us settle. We looked, most definitely, like the Southern Softies of past times.
There were homophobic shouts at us from the folk to our right.
Yes, very Man United.
Lincoln caused worry with every throw-in, every free kick, every corner, and our attacks, a little more methodical and patient, ended up going nowhere. To his credit Jamie Gittens did show nice pieces of close skill on the right. On eighteen minutes he wriggled clear and met a fine lofted ball from Enzo but shot over down below us.
A header from a corner bounced narrowly wide of Jorgensen’s goal.
Garnacho and Gittens swapped wings.
Despite our middling performance on the pitch, the away support, around 1,800 of us tightly packed together, were making a decent noise, though was there any real need to goad the home fans with “you’ve won fuck all?”.
They’re Lincoln City, for Gawd’s sake.
The home team tested us with an effort close-in when a corner was headed back into the mixer, and Jorgensen punched thin air, but thankfully the ball bounced away.
Another nice set of skills from Gittens, and his run into the box thrilled us, but he only made the side netting ripple.
Soon after, on forty-three minutes, I missed the apparently ludicrous pass across the defence by Enzo, but I saw their player take the ball off Chalobah and set up Rob Street, who calmly slotted home.
Three-quarters of the place erupted.
We fell silent.
Oh boy.
The celebrations from the stand to our right included the Dambusters, and I am sure I also heard the shrill sound of an air raid siren going off.
Fair play.
At the break, I sat to take the weight off my legs and contemplated a tiring trip home, perhaps after penalties if we managed to get a goal from somewhere.
“Town Called Malice” boomed on the PA, and I shouted back to Minnesota Josh.
“A Frome song…”
It had really been a poor show from us. It was typically slow and ponderous, with few plusses. Enzo had produced a litany of misplaced chips and passes, and I was amazed that he started the game too. As many have said, he looks tired, all played out.
The second period began.
After just two minutes of play, a run from Gittens on the left, and after losing possession the ball bobbled back and into the path of George. With virtually no time to think, and with minimal back lift, he swiped at the ball, and we watched as it lasered its way into the goal, maybe clipping the far post on its way.
It was a thunderbolt.
Did it remind anyone else of Jimmy at Old Trafford in 2000?
Previously underwhelmed and a little distanced, I celebrated the goal wildly.
I was back in the game.
GET IN.
Miraculously, just two minutes later, George played in Facundo Buonanotte who danced his way into the box and adeptly placed the ball into the goal. It was a really fine finish, neat and sure.
More celebrations in the Stacey West Stand.
Get in.
“Ole, ole, ole, ole – Chelsea, Chelsea.”
How would the game go now?
The rest of the match was an odd one. Lincoln City never gave up and we had to be dogged in our defending. Many a robust challenge went in on their players. At times it felt like we thought that we were 3-1 or 4-1 up, as we overplayed it and looked for a fancy move rather than playing it safe.
Changes were made.
59 minutes : Estevao for Garnacho.
71 minutes : Marc Cucurella for Enzo
71 minutes : Pedro Neto for Gittens
71 minutes : Shumaira Mheuka for George
There was an unselfish ball from Estevao to Neto, but the shot was just wide.
We were still singing.
“When the samba rhythm starts to play, dance with me, make me sway, Estevao is running down the wing, scores a goal, makes the Chelsea sing.”
Fackinell, it was like being back on the Copacabana.
Neto passed to Buonanotte but his shot was straight at the ‘keeper.
Then, at the death, on a night that he probably would want to forget, Jorgensen came for a cross, absolutely missed it, but the half-chance was squandered as the ball was knocked over the bar.
Oh boy.
We made it.
At the end, my mate Jason texted to say “Buonanotte has had a good night” and I should really close this match report at this point.
Boo!
Via a rather circuitous route out of the city – due to the partial closure of the A46 – we eventually got away. At one stage, several cars – most undoubtedly Chelsea – were following each other through small Lincolnshire hamlets, villages and country lanes, no doubt following their GPS in the hope of hitting the main road again. On several occasions we found ourselves heading north.
I likened it to those convoys from village churches to wedding receptions when one car takes the lead and others blithely follow on.
Parky piped up “when you turn into your driveway tonight, you’ll have seven cars behind you.”
Thankfully, the A46 was reached, the rain stayed off and I eventually made it home at 2.10am with no cars crawling behind me.
Way back in 1989, though, on my first visit, it struggled to find its way inside my heart. On that first-ever escapade around North America, I dropped in to the city in the November and spent the day walking its streets with my college mate Ian. We had arrived on a very early train from New York, and I remember a small breakfast in a diner in the city centre. We marched off to visit Independence Hall in the Centre City, and it was important to see such a defining location in the nation’s history.
However, I struggle to understand why I never made a big point of staying a few days in the city, since I was well aware of the story of my shipwrecked relatives and then their subsequent stay in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century. I think that I realised that their story would forever float around in family folklore with no real chance of further investigation.
Of course, I was twenty-four in 1989, and undoubtedly more interested in the “now” than the “then.”
After Independence Hall, we were then a little stuck for ideas. Ian came up with a master plan of visiting “The Mummer’s Museum” – my “Let’s Go USA” book has a lot to answer for – and so we trotted a mile to the south to visit this odd salute to the history of this very particular Philadelphian street parade, complete with fanciful costumes and associated camp finery,
For an hour, we traipsed around, the museum’s only visitors, and the poor museum guide must have been saddened by our continual sniggers.
I still rib Ian about this to this day.
Since then, I have ramped up the visits.
In 1993, while in New York for Yankee baseball, I took a train down to the city to watch the Phillies who were on their way to that year’s World Series. They easily defeated Florida Marins and their aged knuckleballer Charlie Hough 7-1 at The Vet. It was at this game that I first fell in love with their mascot the Philly Phanatic. That night, I returned to New York at 2.30am, another typically late night in pursuit of sporting adventures.
In 2008, while in New York for my last-ever visits to old Yankee Stadium, I spent a day in Philly with a couple of friends; Stacey, from 1989 – and Chris who I met at the Chelsea game in DC in 2005. My first-ever cheesesteak was followed by a first visit to the Phillies’ new stadium, the neat Citizens Bank Park. I was happy that the home team defeated Boston Red Sox 8-2.
In 2010, the year that marked my mother’s eightieth birthday, the two of us stayed a week in Philadelphia since my mother had always spoken about wanting to visit it. In fact, my parents had planned to visit the city in 1991, but their trip around North America was curtailed as my dear mother had developed shingles.
That week was one of the very greatest holidays of my life. We watched Philly baseball – a 2-6 loss versus Milwaukee, alas – then drove to see Stacey and her husband Bill that evening, drove over to witness the Amish region near Lancaster, drove to Manhattan and visited the sites including a baseball game at Yankee Stadium – sadly, a loss to Baltimore – and visited the beach town of Cape May in New Jersey. On the last day, we then drove to see Gettysburg Battlefield Site, and that was one of my most memorable ever days in the USA.
One moment will always stay with me though. On the first evening in Philadelphia, we took a walk into the old historic area and saw Elspeth’s Alley before deciding to have some food at an old-style diner at the intersection of Market Street and 2nd Street, “The Continental”. As we sat there, I realised that it was very likely that our blood relatives had walked down Market Street, or even along 2nd Street where we were sat at a pavement table, and I had shivers. It was one of those moments when the past and the present met and possibly waved at each other.
I explained this to my mother, who was suffering with dementia, and it saddened me to realise that her sweet smile illustrated that she didn’t fully understand the real significance of my words.
Two years later, in 2012, thousands of Chelsea supporters descended on Philly for the MLS All-Star game in nearby Chester. A group of us booked a suite at a complex on Benjamin Franklyn Parkway – a prime site – and we had a real blast. There was another Philly game, a dramatic come-from-behind 7-6 win against Milwaukee, more cheesesteaks, a walking tour with Steve the host, a visit to the Rocky Steps for us to parade the Chelsea banners, a lucky moment for us to meet a few of the players outside their hotel, and many beers and many laughs.
It is telling that in the report of that game – “Tales From An American Away Day” – within the 3,943 words, only these detail the actual game.
“Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.
The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.
A nice tap in from Frank Lampard gave us a 2-1 lead, but – much to our annoyance and disbelief – the MLS team not only equalised through Pontius but scored the winner in the “nth” minute of extra time with a ridiculous looped shot from Eddie Johnson which ricocheted off David Luiz’ leg and into an empty goal with Ross Turnbull beaten.”
However, the game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.
We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.
Friends still tell me that, support-wise, Philly 2012 was the best stop in all of the US pre-season tours. I cannot argue.
Back to 2025, and on my sixth visit to the city, we were licking our wounds after the 1-3 loss against Flamengo on the Friday.
On the Saturday, Glenn and I chilled out during the day, and our little town house would be the perfect antidote to the heatwave that would soon engulf the city. In the evening, we strolled around the centre of the city, and I aimed for the intersection of Market and 2nd. Unfortunately, my worst fears were confirmed; “The Continental” was now closed. However, we settled for some burgers on Market Street just a few yards away, again sitting outside at a pavement table. We then walked over to a bar on 2nd Street but I made a point of standing near where I had enjoyed that meal with my mother in 2010 at “The Continental” and tried to envisage that sweet smile.
On the Sunday, there was a hop-on-hop-off-keep-out-of-the-rain bus tour to a couple of locations with our friends Alex and Rob from London, and some food at “Tir Na Nog”. I am lucky in that I had seen most of Philly’s attractions on previous visits, while Glenn was quite happy to go with the flow. In the evening, Steve and his eldest daughter Lynda treated us to a lovely meal in the Fairmount district. Later, we met up with Alex and Rob for drinks at a rooftop bar atop The Cambria Hotel.
On the Monday, Glenn and I met Alex and Rob at a coffee shop right next to where we ate our meal the previous evening before visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary, which many friends had visited in 2012, and which was entirely fascinating. The jail is atop the highest land in the city, at Fairmount, and it did not take me long to envisage my great great grandparents Benjamin and Barbara White looking up at the imposing stone building during their five-year stay. It would be wonderful, one day, to carry out a deep investigation into their story. I was just pleased that there was no mention of Benjamin White in any of the histories contained within those thick walls.
Glenn and I stopped off for more burgers on famous Passyunk Avenue in South Philly, and as we walked back to our rental house, I think we both realised what a perfect locale it was. The rows and rows of town houses – we would call them “terraced houses”, Steve called them “row houses” – were neat and charming, and it felt like paradise to walk into 2025 Pierce Street, a haven of cool tranquillity.
South Philly, equidistant between the Centre City and the three sporting stadia, was a perfect locale for us, a sanctuary against the heat, but full of character too.
It is a standing joke that each time Chelsea score a dramatic goal, Steve texts me “Pandemonium in South Philly.”
And here we were.
That evening we again assembled at “Tir Na Nog” and it was low key, with only a few from the UK present. I dashed off to try to get a photo of the sunset at “The Sky High” bar atop the Four Seasons Hotel. While I was waiting in the foyer, I spotted some Chelsea players walk through, and I trotted over to shake hands with Liam Delap.
“Welcome to the club.”
There were handshakes with Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall and Levi Colwill too. This was just coincidence. I did not know that Chelsea were staying at this hotel. By this stage, the concierge was nervously pacing around and politely asked me to not approach the players. So, I secretly gave the thumbs up to Tyrique George who looked surprised that I had recognised him. Behdad Eghbali was a few feet away from me at one stage, but ignored my greeting, surprise surprise.
Later, we moved over to “McGillans”, a fantastic bar, and met up with my mate Steve from Belfast and his friend Jason.
Game day against Tunis on Tuesday started with a good old-fashioned American breakfast at a good old-fashioned American diner to the south of the city, and the whole experience was top class. It was just what we needed ahead of the big day and the big game.
By mid-morning, it was already heating up. With this in mind, we retired to the digs to chill out, knowing we had a taxing evening ahead, and then departure on the Wednesday.
At 5pm, we walked into “Tir Na Nog” and, looking back, it was nowhere near as busy as the pre-match in 2012. We met all the usual faces from England, some of whom had been doing some extensive travelling since Friday, but it was great to see some new faces too, especially Pete and his son Calvin from Seattle and David from South London.
I handed out a few signed Ron Harris photos, but it was deeply disappointing to realise he is not so famous in the US.
I approached five Americans.
“Right, spot quiz here. There might be a prize involved. Which player has played more games for Chelsea than any other?”
America was 0 for 5.
Phackinell.
My friend Roma from Tennessee – a friend for almost thirty-six years – had decided, last minute, to drive up with her grandson Keegan and her son Shawn’s girlfriend Nevaeh, and it was amazing to see her again. I last saw Roma in 2016 when she had visited England in 2016 with Shawn and her daughter Vanessa for a Chelsea game.
Time was moving on, and although the drinks were going down well, we needed to move down to the stadium.
I left the bar with Glenn, Pete and Calvin, and met up with David on the subway.
The kick-off for this game was 9pm, but it was still hot as we paced over to the stadium. Unlike on Friday, there was no queue, and we were soon inside. I was desperate for some food so stopped for another cheesesteak. This turned out to be very fortuitous since in the slight delay, we managed to spot Frank and his daughter who had popped into “The Eight Bells” a few months ago with the hope of seeing me and my mates who Frank reads about in these match reports. It was fantastic to see him once more.
We made our way up the ramps to our section in the mezzanine. We had bumped into many Tunis fans throughout our stay in the US, both in Manhattan and in Philadelphia, and we knew that they would outnumber us. It was a disappointment that such a small number of US-based fans had been lured in to this competition, but I almost understand the reluctance; the money-grab, the extra games.
“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea…”
Maybe not.
And yet, the Wrexham games lured many in…
I don’t get it.
There was time for photos with friends from back home, plus stragglers not previously seen. If anything, the lower tier below us was more heavily populated than on Friday, which surprised me. It was not even half-full, though.
Oh well.
Alex and Rob were sat close by.
“Tunis look like Partick Thistle.”
Kick-off approached.
Our team?
Jorgensen
Acheampong – Adarabioyo – Badiashile – Gusto
Lavia – Fernandez
Dewsbury-Hall – Nkunku – Madueke
Delap
We needed just a draw, one solitary point, in order to advance to the last sixteen, and there was, therefore, not the heightened sense of worry or concern in our area. The usual lads and lasses from back home were in our section, with only a few from the US.
It was odd that the prices had tumbled over recent days. Us fools had paid top whack, keen as mustard, back at the start of the year, but were now annoyed that prices had fallen.
Chelsea were playing in all white again and attacked the Tunis fans in the northern end of the stadium, who were amassed behind a “Curva Sud” banner. I hoped this discombobulated the team and their fans alike.
With Flip Jorgensen playing in all orange and Tunis in yellow and black shirts, I had to wonder what the late Brian Moore would have made of this colour clash.
“And on the subject of kits, here is a letter from Mr. David Spraggs of 13 Acacia Drive, Merton, who questions why the referee did not ask the Chelsea keeper to change his shirt so that it did not clash with the Tunis shirts. A great point, there.”
The game began. It was still as hot as hell.
Unlike on Friday, when Flamengo often had controlled spells of the ball, we dominated possession in the first half.
A header from Benoit Badiashile from a corner went close, and a shot from Liam Delap from distance forced the Tunis ‘keeper Ben Said to parry. Tunis rarely threatened, and only on the break. Chances continued to mount up and I wondered if we would ever break through.
I liked Malo Gusto in this half, running and probing well.
Enzo went close with a free-kick, and further chances fell to Dewsbury-Hall, Acheampong and Delap.
Throughout, the Tunis fans were singing, massed tightly together. Down below us, I could not hear a whisper.
Chester 2012 was a long way in the past…
I am not sure how many of our fans had disappeared into the concourse for a beverage as the first half drew to its conclusion, but I suspect that it was more than a few. In the third minute of injury time, Josh was fouled just outside the area, and I steadied my camera. I snapped as the cultured boot of Enzo clipped the ball into the danger zone. A leap from Tosin and the header lopped in at the far post, Ben Said stranded.
Snap. And snap again.
GET IN YOU BEAUTY.
Two minutes later, Enzo found Delap with a precise pass and our new striker moved the ball well and calmly slotted in past the hapless Tunis ‘keeper.
We were 2-0 up, and surely safe.
At half-time, there was a light show, the stadia turned various colours, and I didn’t really understand it. I must be getting old.
Correction : I am old.
The second half began, and relaxing in the comfort of a two-goal cushion, a few old songs were aired.
“If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the arse of crow, I’d fly over Tottenham tomorrow, and shit on those bastards below, below.”
I turned to Rob.
“You have to say, is the arse of a crow particularly big? Surely there are birds with bigger arses? What do you think?”
Rob replied.
“I think it’s bigger than a sparrow’s and that’s all that matters.”
We continued to dominate, and Enzo went close. He was having a fine, influential game and was pairing well with the more aggressive Dewsbury-Hall.
I wondered what Roma was making of all of this; her little group were down below us and not far from Steve who had visited us in the pub but had then shot off to collect his wife Terry and daughter Lynda.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA, CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
Madueke set up Nkunku but wide.
I heard a horrible “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” chant down below us.
On fifty-nine minutes, a double swap.
Dario Essugo for Lavia.
Marc Guiu for Delap.
Next up, a Madueke effort but wide. The chances were piling up. The Tunis fans were quieter but still singing, a very impressive show.
On sixty-seven minutes, more changes.
Andrey Santos for Enzo.
Tyrique George for Madueke.
The song that haunted me in Wroclaw began again.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.
Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
To be fair, it is quite hypnotic.
There was no real reduction in the heat, and I was not surprised that the game slowed. It became something of a training game.
Late on, a shot from Santos appeared to strike a defender’s arm. Nkunku placed the ball on the spot, and we all positioned our cameras as he waited to take the penalty kick. Then, a VAR review, and a ridiculously long wait. It took forever. In the end, no penalty, cameras not needed.
On eighty-three minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced the impressive Gusto and made his debut.
A late chance for Guiu, but his shot did not trouble the ‘keeper, then a chance for George was saved.
In a game of injury-time goals, and in the ninety-seventh minute of the match, Tyrique George was given the ball by Madueke, and from a distance drove the ball towards goal. To our utter amazement, the hapless ‘keeper fumbled, and the ball ended up nestling in the goal.
Chelsea 3 Tunis 0.
Job done.
The gate was given as 32,967 and it was much more than we had expected prior to the match. We were expecting it to be around 20,000.
Glenn and I walked down the ramps, happier than on Friday, and met up with Steve and his family. Steve had a very important presentation at work early on Wednesday morning, so I was pleased, but very surprised, to hear that he was coming back to a very crowded “McGillan’s” for a couple of pints with us.
This was a great end to the evening, a fantastic – er, phantastic – time in an atmospheric and noisy bar. There was a lovely mix of both Chelsea and Tunis fans, and bemused natives, and we took it in turns to sing.
“Come along and sing this song, we’re the boys in blue from division two, but we won’t be there too long.”
Stephen and Jason from Belfast, Andy from Nuneaton, David from London, Nina from New Jersey, Frank and his daughter.
“Thanks for the drinks, Frank.”
“My pleasure. You know what, reading your blog, I somehow feel closer to you and PD and Parky than any of my other friends.”
My bottom lip was going…
What a night.
We stumbled out of there at 2am, happy beyond words.
Chelsea had made it into the last sixteen and whereas some of the expats would be travelling down to Charlotte to see us play Benfica, Glenn and I were now heading home.
However, I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”
Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.
This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.
CHELSEA vs. ESPERANCE SPORTIVE DE TUNIS
POSTCARDS FROM PHILADELPHIA
MEMORIES OF PHILADELPHIA 2012
ON THE CORNER OF MARKET STREET AND 2ND STREET IN 2010 AND 2025
Such was the fervour at about 9.45pm on the evening before the game against Spain’s Real Betis, that this song was sung repeatedly again and again, maybe for ten minutes or more. It is probably the reason why my voice was croaking at odd intervals for the next few days, including at work on the Friday.
We had assembled in the picturesque, photogenic and historic city of Wroclaw from all parts of the world – as an example I knew of five friends from Australia, five friends from California, five friends from New York, two friends from Bangkok – and as the old saying goes, the clans were gathering.
We were in Wroclaw.
I often preface a European Tale with the question, “so where does this story start?” and on this occasion there are a few possibilities.
Did the story start the day before, on Monday 26 May when I found myself nearing Bournemouth International Airport at about 7pm, with PD alongside me, and Parky alongside Salisbury Steve in the back seats?
“Honestly, you’d never know that we were approaching an international airport, winding our way through these narrow lanes and roads.”
Parky immediately chimed in.
“Steady on, Chris, you’re on the runway.”
Howls of laughter followed.
Did the story begin around two months ago when we decided to gamble on purchasing return flights from Bournemouth to Wroclaw?
Did the story begin with the draw for the odd group phase, those six games against individual teams with – for the first time for us – no home and away scenarios.
Did the story begin with the draw for the preliminary round of jousting before we got involved when it seemed odd for us to be playing the losing team out of Sporting Braga and Servette?
It might have started when Manchester United beat Manchester City in the 2024 FA Cup Final, thus pushing us into the previously ridiculed UEFA Europa Conference.
Maybe this Chelsea and Real Betis story began on Thursday 5 March 1998.
We were drawn away against Betis in the quarterfinals of the European Cup Winners’ Cup that season, and five of us had booked ourselves on a short three-day trip. I travelled up from Frome with my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn, and we met up with Paul from Brighton, and brothers Daryl and Neil, from near Southend and Guernsey respectively.
Ruud Gullit had been sacked on 12 February and the job of managing an entertaining but, at times, complacent Chelsea team was given to another crowd favourite Gianluca Vialli. This was, we were sure, a tricky proposition. Their star players were Finidi George and Alfonso.
We left early on the Wednesday and enjoyed a fantastic pub-crawl alongside the Guadalquivir River in the late morning and afternoon. We consumed many pints of “Cruzcampo” and one or two pints of “Guinness” in memory of Matthew Harding as we hit an Irish bar near the towering Cathedral. Walking our boozy selves back through the cramped streets of Seville to our hotel is a great memory even after all these years. A quick change of gear in the evening and then yet more bar hopping, interspersed with discussions of our chances against Middlesbrough in the imminent Coca-Cola Cup Final, the ethics of bullfighting, the legacy of Matthew Harding, the relative merits of The Jam and The Smiths, plus so much laughter that my smile-muscles are still hurting now.
On the late walk back to the hotel, we let the good people of Seville know that Tommy Baldwin was, indeed, the leader of the team.
On the Thursday, we bar-hopped again, at an easier pace, and popped over to visit the stadium of Sevilla – Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán – which seemed a far more impressive stadium than Estadio Benito Villamarin, Betis’ home pad. In one bar, I remember Paul pointing out Babs to me, the storied leader of The Shed in the ‘seventies. In a restaurant, I enjoyed my first-ever paella.
I remembered working with a Real Betis fan in Trowbridge. He told me they were the working-class team of the city.
We were deposited in the away end of the rather dusty away end very early ahead of the game that only began at 9.30pm. I hoisted my “VINCI PER NOI” flag and we waited for others to join us. Back in those days, our travelling away support was fearsome, and dominated by geezers in their thirties. We had a big mob in the seats to our left, plus a few thousand in the single-tiered away end. The gate that night was 31,000 and I suspect we had around 3,500 there.
With a nice piece of timing, it was my three-hundredth Chelsea game.
We got out of the starting blocks so well, and two very similar goals from Tore André Flo – right in front of us – gave us a magical 2-0 lead in the first twelve minutes. We were in heaven. Chelsea withstood a Betis onslaught in the second half but despite that man Alfonso scoring, we held on to a 2-1 win.
After the game, we went straight back to the airport and caught a flight home. We had only been in the city for about forty hours, but it seemed much longer.
In the home leg, we easily won 3-1.
We would meet again in the 2005/6 Champions League campaign, winning 4-0 at home but losing 0-1 away. I did not return to Seville that year but saw the home leg.
The game in Wroclaw would, therefore, be my fourth game against them.
Before all this, maybe we have another starting point, for me at least. In late September 1994, our first UEFA game of any description in twenty-three – count’em – years saw Chelsea visit the Bohemian town of Jablonec on the Czech Republic border with Poland. Having beaten the Prague team Viktoria Zizkov 4-2 in a scintillating and exhilarating night in the Stamford Bridge rain, we now faced the return leg in a town seventy miles from Prague. Jablonec was chosen to try to stop crowd disorder. Dimitri Kharin saved a penalty, and we drew 0-0, and it was my first-ever European jaunt with Chelsea Football Club.
Ironically, Jablonec is just one hundred and five miles from Wroclaw.
You could say that in almost thirty-one years, we had travelled just one-hundred and five miles.
Enough of these history lessons.
On the Monday, I spent some time in the morning writing up my match report for the previous day’s game against Nottingham Forest.
Alas, after the euphoria at the City Ground, I was met with more sadness. I happened to read on “Facebook” that another Chelsea friend from our little part of Stamford Bridge had recently passed away.
For the second time in around two weeks, I was heartbroken.
I had known Rousey for years. He sat in the row behind me from 1997, and he was a great character. He habitually came in five minutes late at ever game and we would always give each other a “thumbs up” on his arrival. I remember a night out in Norwich after a 3-1 win in March 2005 when he joined Glenn, Frank and me in a nightclub, and he danced like a loon. He crashed that night on the floor of Glenn’s B&B room. Rousey especially loved his European adventures with Chelsea, and he was booked on this trip to Wroclaw. Alas, his great friend Lee would be travelling with an empty seat next to him.
RIP Stephen Rouse.
The flight to Wroclaw, featuring a few familiar faces from the south and west of England, was delayed by around half-an-hour, and we were further delayed by an aborted landing. We were not far away from touching down when the plane rose steeply. We were to hear from the pilot that another plane had been spotted on, or near, the runway.
Thankfully, we were back on terra firma ten minutes later.
The only other aborted landing I have known was when we were seconds away from landing in Oslo in Norway and were diverted to Gothenburg in Sweden. But that’s another Chelsea story.
Alas, a ridiculous wait at passport control – a full ninety-minutes, thankfully no extra-time and penalties – meant that we did not reach our apartment to the east of the city centre until 3am after dropping Steve off at his apartment en route.
Our late arrival meant that we didn’t rise too early on the Tuesday. We wandered off to drink some ridiculously strong coffee in a local café at 10.30am, and I then booked an Uber to take us into the city. It was a beautiful and sunny day. We had a little walk around and soon found ourselves on the bench seats outside a restaurant called “Chatka” just to the north of the main square. It was 12.30pm.
We ordered some lagers – “Ksiazece” – and some food soon after.
Goulash, dumplings and pickled cucumbers.
When in Rome.
Lo and behold, many friends happened to spot us as they walked past, quite unplanned, and they joined us for beers. One of the lads, Ben, has the honour of coming up with the Tyrique George song.
At about 4pm, we sidled up to the main square and joined around two-hundred Chelsea outside one of the many bars, the Breslauer, that lined the square. There were hugs from many, and smiles and handshakes too. We were in our element. There were many Betis fans camped in the adjacent bar. There was only singing and smiles. No trouble.
At 7pm, we heard that others were off to a place called “The Guinness Bar”, just a short hop away, so we trotted over. Here, we bumped into more good friends. Again, the mood was fine, and there were a gaggle of Real Betis fans drinking, and singing, in a bar opposite.
At 7.30pm, the mood quickly changed. With absolutely no warning, around twenty lads in mainly black, some with their faces covered, appeared from nowhere and quickly aimed beer bottles, glasses and chairs at us. The sound of breaking glass filled the early evening air. A bottle of beer crashed into my camera bag, and I recovered it. Thankfully, nothing was broken. A shard of glass hit my right hand and for a moment I was bloodied. I held my hand up to protect my eyes, but I was still sat at my seat. I think that the surprise of it all had stunned me. By standing up, maybe I thought I might be a bigger target.
Thankfully, it was all over in twenty seconds.
PD had received cuts to his leg, but one lad was severely cut on his forehead.
Within minutes, the shards of broken glass were being swept up by the bar staff and it was back to business, as if nothing had happened. The local police appeared then disappeared.
My immediate thoughts were that this was an attack on us by the locals, the local Slask Wroclaw fans, out to defend their own turf, out to make a name for themselves against the once notorious Chelsea.
I went over to talk to some residual Betis fans, and they confirmed with me that the attackers were not Spanish lads.
I was reminded how I feared meeting Legia Warsaw in the final. I could only imagine how messy that might have been. We would have been run ragged from arsehole to breakfast time. Though, thankfully and rather oddly, the quarter final in Warsaw seemed to pass without incident.
The drinking continued. We were joined by friends from near and far. The Tyrique George song was the star of the night, but there were others too.
We were still drinking at midnight, but I think we headed for home soon after.
It had been, almost, a twelve-hour sesh.
Fackinell.
Again, we rested on Wednesday morning after our escapades on Tuesday, leaving the spacious apartment at 12.30pm. Another cab into the city, and we plotted up at “Chatka” again. Alas, it was raining hard, so we were forced inside. The restaurant was very different on match-day. Yesterday, there were no Betis supporters. Today, it was full of them.
I began with a soft drink, as did Steve, but after ordering some ribs with new potatoes and pickled vegetables, I joined PD and LP with the lagers. Other friends arrived and joined us, including the Kent Boys from “The Eight Bells”, but also Michelle from Huntingdon Beach in California, who I had promised Johnny Dozen I would look after. Michelle had arrived late on the Tuesday and called in at 2.30pm.
The Betis crowd were full of song, and I thought it ironic that we rallied with our own Spanish hit.
“Cucurella. Cucurella. He eats paella, he drinks Estrella, his hair’s fucking massive.”
To say they all looked bemused would be an understatement.
We had heard, through the grapevine, that there had been tear gas used on some Chelsea supporters the previous night, plus water cannons in the main square during the morning.
At about 4pm we walked the short distance to “Doctor’s Bar” – the rain now stopped – to join up with Mike, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, plus mates from Bulgaria and Czechia too. The beers were going down well, and the singing continued.
At around 6.30pm, we gathered the troops and set off to find a tram to take us to the stadium. A cab sped past, and Clive – my mate from The Sleepy Hollow – yelled obscenities at us.
That made me laugh. What a small world.
We waited in vain at the first designated stop, as all the trams were full, so headed off to find another marshalling point.
Michelle led the way, and we followed on.
It was her finest hour.
We alighted near the stadium just before 8pm, and most of us scampered off to a nearby wooded area to water the flowers. Then, the slow walk to the stadium. We were allocated the southern end. Out came the cameras.
I was amazed how many people we recognised. There always were concerns that we would be well-outnumbered by the Spaniards. It was, after all, their very first European Final. By contrast, this was our eighth, not including the Super Cups. And let’s be honest, many in the Chelsea support have been relatively derisory about our participation in this trophy. And I can understand that.
If the Champions League is the UEFA equivalent of the FA Cup and the Europa League is the equivalent of the League Cup, then what on earth is the equivalent of the Europa Conference?
At times it has felt like the Play-Off Final to get into the Football League.
At least the 2025 final has given it some gravitas with Chelsea and Real Betis involved.
Personally, I saw no point in this competition when it arrived in 2021. One of my favourite expressions in life is “less is more” but both UEFA and FIFA quite obviously think “more is more.” The expanded Champions League, the expanded Europa League, and now an unnecessary third UEFA trophy, and forty-eight nations in the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Where will it bloody end? A cup for everybody?
Everyone wins. Everyone wins!
I hate modern football.
But here we all were.
Sophie, Andy and Jonesy from Nuneaton, Jason from Swanage, George from Czechia, Orlin and Alex from Sofia, Youth and Seb from Atherstone, Kimberley and Nick from Fresno, Mike, Frank, Dom, Paul and Steve from New York, Carl and Ryan from Stoke, Alan from Penge, Pauline and Mick from Benidorm, Russ from Melbourne, Rich from Cheltenham, Martin from Gloucester, Martin and Bob from Hersham, Shari, Chris and Skippy from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, Luke, Aroha and Archie from Harrow, Daryl from South Benfleet, Rich from Loughborough, Della and Mick from Borstal, Clive from Bexhill, Les from Melksham, Julie and Burger from Stafford, Donna from Wincanton, Vajananan and Paul from Bangkok, Ben from Baton Rouge, Paul, Ali and Nick from Reading, James from Frankfurt, Andy and Josh from Orange County, Scott from Fylde, Michelle and Dane from Bracknell, John from Ascot, Liz and Pete from Farnborough, Gary from Norbury, Mick from Huddersfield, Even from Norway, Leigh and Darren from Basingstoke, Tommie from Porthmadog, Jason from Dallas, Michelle from Huntingdon Beach, Steve from Salisbury, Parky from Holt, PD from Frome and me from Mells, plus hundreds more from various parts of London.
Why were we here?
To see us win it all. Again.
Our tickets were effectively QR codes, and they had appeared on our phones while we were huddled tightly together in “Chatka” a few hours previously. Thankfully, they had not disappeared. Getting in was easy. Despite warnings about identity checks, there were none. I had planned my camera strategy and decided not to risk my zoom lens. Instead, my SLR just had a wide-angle lens attached. The security guy didn’t like this at first, but after a little persuasion he allowed me, and it, in.
Result.
I managed to coerce some chap to take a photo of the four of us one more time; friends through geography, football and fate…Chris, Paul, Steve, Glenn…before we split up. Parky and I were in the 45-euro section in the third level, the others in the 25-euro section in the first level. I hung back with Parky, and he allowed me to indulge myself in one of my favourite pastimes; photographing the pre-match scene, stadium architecture, logos, colours, some of the small stuff that others might miss. Like in Munich in 2012, the sun was slowly setting in the west.
The exterior of the stadium, like so many these days, is sheathed in plastic panels, thus hiding the guts of the structure to the outside world. I have seen better stadia, I have seen worse. Inside, a very roomy concourse, full of supporters, but not many in blue.
Even at major Cup Finals, we still don’t really do colours.
Many were lining up for food and drinks. Although I was starving, I didn’t fancy queuing. As luck would have it, Clive – from the taxi – appeared out of nowhere and heroically shared his mushroom pizza slice with Parky and I. He saved the day.
The slow ascent to the very top, Section 332.
Once inside, I immediately liked the stadium. Steep terracing, a nice size, all very compact with no wasted space. There were no real quirky features, but it did the job.
Our squad, split into two, the starting eleven and the substitutes, were down below us in our corner, dressed in pink tops, going through their drills.
I was five rows from the very rear, and Parky was close by in the row behind.
I saw that there was a long yellow banner pinned on the fence in front of the Chelsea section.
“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”
It was obviously part of a pre-game tifo display. There was a plain blue plastic flag planted in my seat. Would I be tempted to wave it? I saw no reason why not; I am not that much of a curmudgeon.
The minutes ticked by.
There seemed to be way more Betis fans in the arena, easily marked by their green shirts and scarves and hats. They seemed to especially enjoy tying flags around their waist, like latter day Bay City Rollers fans, or something.
The Chelsea section was dotted with latter day casuals with the usual labels on display, mixed in with occasional replica shirts.
Me? I was a mixture of Boss and Lacoste – lucky brands from previous UEFA finals – but wore a pair of new blue and yellow Nike Cortez trainers for the first time.
I needed the light rain jacket that I was wearing. It was getting colder.
“Blue Is The Colour” rang out and boy did we all join in.
Fantastic.
The plastic flags were waved with gusto. The “London’s First London’s Finest” crowd- surfer appeared down below. At least it was the right way round and not back to front like in Amsterdam in 2013.
It just felt that we were mightily outnumbered. I spotted a block of fifty empty seats in the side stand to my right. Immediately around me were a few empty ones.
It saddened me that we – a huge club now – could not sell our 12,000 seats.
It looked like Betis had sold their 12,000 but had gone the extra mile and hoovered up most of the spare neutral or corporate seats, just like United did at Wembley in 1994 and we did at Wembley in 1997.
The desire was seemingly with them, not us.
Sigh.
Time moved on and we were getting close to the kick-off now.
The Betis fans had been far noisier than us up to this point and as their club anthem rang out, they unveiled a huge tifo to go with their banner at the base of their tier.
“NO BUSCO GLORIA PERECEDERA, SINO LA DE TU NOMBRE.”
“I SEEK NOT PERISHABLE GLORY, BUT THAT OF YOUR NAME.”
On the pitch, images of players of both teams moved around on giant displays, and music boomed around the stadium.
At last, the two teams appeared from my stand to the left. The Betis end turned green once more, with virtually everyone holding their scarves horizontally above their heads. This always used to impress me as a child, but as it just isn’t a Chelsea thing, it hasn’t the same effect these days. The sun turned the sky bronze, just visible twixt stand and roof.
Time to check the team again.
Jorgensen
Gusto – Chalobah – Badiashile – Cucurella
Caicedo – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
Immediate questions from me to Enzo Maresca.
Why Malo Gusto and not Reece James?
Why Benoit Badiashile and not Levi Colwill?
Also, Robert Sanchez is our number one ‘keeper. Now, even though Jorgensen has started virtually all these Conference League games and the manager clearly wanted to stay loyal to him, this is a final after all.
I wasn’t convinced this was our strongest team. But I had no issues with Nicolas Jackson up top. He does offer a presence and allows Neto to do his thing on the right.
At 9pm in Lower Silesia, the 2025 Europa Conference Final began.
I really liked the thin stripes of the Real Betis jerseys. Within a few minutes, with that huge bank of green facing me, I experienced flashbacks to Abu Dhabi when we faced Palmeiras. We were outnumbered there but were victorious. It felt so strange to be standing by myself even though Parky was a few yards away.
On the touchline, the wily old fox Manuel Pelligrini, in a deep green top.
Enzo Maresca, in black not so far away from him.
They were together at West Ham United.
The place was noisy all right, and most of it came from the northern end. The Spaniards began strongly, attacking with pace at our back line. A cross from Antony, booed by many of us during the introductions for his Manchester United past, sent over a cross that thankfully didn’t trouble Jorgensen. At the other end, Palmer forced a save from Adrian, who seemed to be spared much booing despite his West Ham United and Liverpool past.
Alas, on just nine minutes, Malo Gusto’s pass was chased down. The ball was played to Isco, and his square pass found Ezzalzouli. From an angle, he steered the ball past Jorgensen and the ball nestled inside the nearest corner to me to Jorgensen’s left.
The green sections – maybe two-thirds of those inside – erupted with a blast of noise that chilled me to the bone.
Four minutes later, Joregensen saved well, but had to readjust his feet to do so; a long-range effort from Marc Bartra was tipped over, our ‘keeper arching himself back to save dramatically.
Just after, our first loud and united chant of the night punctured the Wroclaw night.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
We gained a foothold and dominated possession, but without managing to really force an effort on Adrian’s goal. We were slow and pedestrian, and the Betis fans were still making most of the noise.
We looked poor.
There had been plenty of hype about us completing an expanded set of European trophies on this night. In fact, from the very start of the campaign, it was expected that we would win this competition. Yet, as the first half continued, the Spanish team were looking far more likely to be victorious.
Throughout this Europa Conference campaign, I kept commenting how the colour green kept cropping up. Whereas the Champions League brand colour is blue and the Europa League is orange, the Europa Conference is green. We played Panathinaikos and Shamrock Rovers in the group phase, we played Legia in the quarters, who have a predominantly green badge, we were playing Real Betis in the final in a stadium whose home team play in green, and whose seats were all green.
But maybe it was us who were green in this match. It certainly felt like it.
Betis created a couple of chances, and we could only wish for the same. One shot from them thankfully flashed high over the bar.
Our “Amazing Grace” chant tried to lift our players.
On thirty-four minutes, Neto cut in but shot over. Was this only our second shot of the game? I thought so.
The two wingers Madueke and Neto swapped flanks for the final few minutes of a very lacklustre first half. On forty-three minutes, Enzo was sent through, but Adrian reached the ball first. One minute of injury time was signalled and an Enzo shot went off for a corner. We had really dominated the possession but had created so very little.
Did I really detect boos from some in the Chelsea section at the end of the first half?
Oh boy.
At half-time, I went for a small wander into the concourse underneath us in the third level. Everyone was so miserable. I moaned to a couple of friends about the team selection. Night had fallen, and the stadium shell was lit up with blue lights, or at least at our end. I suspected the northern end to be green.
It was an almost cathartic experience to be exposed to so much blue. It was as if my soul needed it.
On returning to my seat, I saw that Parky had disappeared, but I wanted him to come and sit next to me in the spare seat to my right.
Thank heavens, Reece James replaced the poor Gusto at half-time. All at once, it seemed we had regained our purpose. Our Reece soon thumped in a cross into the mixer, but it evaded everyone.
On fifty-four minutes, the improving Madueke sent over a cross towards Jackson, but he was clattered by Adrian.
From the corner, James shot at goal was deflected wide. Soon after, Jackson shot but did not threaten Adrian.
We were back in this now and our noise levels, at last, rose.
On sixty-one minutes, two more changes.
Levi Colwill for Badiashile.
Jadon Sancho for Neto.
No complaints from me.
We pushed on.
On sixty-five minutes, Palmer took hold of the game. He had been relatively quiet, but from a deep position he turned and ran at the Betis defence. He stopped, gained a yard of space, and with his exquisite wand of a left foot, curled a ball in to meet the little leap from Enzo. Our Argentinian did not have to rise too highly, but his header down was just perfection. We saw the net ripple and I yelled out in joy.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as our Argentinian raced away in front of the Chelsea hordes. He ran over to the corner, and how I wished I was over there too.
We were level.
GET IN.
Not long after, a shot from Palmer but a save.
Chelsea were roaring now while Betis were quiet.
On seventy minutes, with Palmer in possession in the corner down below me, I yelled out –
“Go on Cole. Bit of magic.”
He didn’t let me down.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His marker seemed mesmerized. Palmer spun away and curled a ball into the box with his right foot, and the cross was met by Jackson who simply could not miss.
We erupted again.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as Jackson ran away to my left and collapsed on the floor by the corner flag. The substitutes celebrated with the players, what a glorious sight.
We were ahead.
Fackinell.
Our end boomed now.
“And it’s super Chelsea.
Super Chelsea FC.
We’re by far the greatest team.
The World has ever seen.”
Out of nowhere, Parky appeared and stood next to me for the rest of the match.
Next up, the ball was pushed forward, and we realised that Jackson was free, with almost half of the pitch ahead of him, and just Adrian to beat. One touch fine, two touches, disaster. Adrian gathered and Jackson, rather pathetically, stayed motionless on the floor.
“Get up, you fool.”
On eighty minutes, he was replaced by Kiernan Dewsbury-Hall.
Three minutes later, the ball was played to him, and he bounced the ball out to Sancho. Our little winger shimmied, dropped a shoulder, and struck a fine curler past Adrian and into the Betis goal.
Snap, snap, snap, snap as the substitutes raced across the pitch to join in the celebrations.
In the battle of the Manchester United loanees, it was Sancho 1 Antony 0.
And we were 3-1 up.
More beautiful noise.
The game was won now. However, rather than make arses of ourselves like West Ham United did two years ago, declaring themselves “Champions of Europe”, we seized the moment to declare once again that…roll on drums :
“WE’VE WON IT ALL.”
Marc Guiu replaced Palmer, and our little gem was given a hero’s salute.
With still a minute to play, the Chelsea end chirped along to the tune of “One Step Beyond” and there was much bouncing.
Lovely.
There was still more to come.
With Betis tiring everywhere, Enzo brought the ball forward. He chose to ignore the rampaging run outside from Dewsbury-Hall and slipped the ball inside to Moises Caicedo. He took a swipe, went into orbit on the follow-through, I snapped, and the ball was whipped into the corner.
Chelsea 4 Real Betis 1.
What a feeling.
Phew.
We were simply unstoppable in that second-half.
At the final whistle, I pointed to the sky above Wroclaw.
“That’s for you Albert. That’s for you Rousey.”
The post-match celebrations seemed to take forever to orchestrate, and in the middle of the preparations, I took a few moments to sit in my seat. I had been virtually stood up since lunchtime at “Chatka” and I was exhausted.
At last, Reece James hoisted the trophy aloft and we roared. I attempted to capture the mood with my camera, a hopeless task. It seemed like millions of gold stars fell from the skies. Songs were played, some good, some bad.
I didn’t see the need for “We Are The Champions” because, well, we weren’t. But it was an odd reminder of early 1978 when it became the first single that I ever bought, and I haven’t lived it down since. I bloody hate Queen.
Real Betis quickly vacated the arena, and after what seemed an age, Parky and I slowly left too.
I took one video of “Our House” and called it a night.
And what a night.
We walked away with another UEFA trophy to our name.
If you discount the three losses in the Super Cup, we have won seven out of our eight major European finals. That is a fantastic hit rate.
Europe really is our playground.
And I have been lucky enough to be present at all of them apart from Athens in 1971.
We soon caught the cab back into town, alongside Shari and Chris from Brisbane, Julie and Tim from South Gloucestershire, and Neil Barnett. Both Neil and I will be in Philadelphia for two of the FIFA World Club Cup games in June.
PD, Parky and I queued up for a kebab in a late-night eatery opposite the main train station. There was no chance for extra celebrations, as we had to be up at 6am in the morning to catch our flight home at 10.05am. A can back to the apartment, and we hit the sack at around 2am.
In bed, I found it hard to sleep. My feet ached. And I couldn’t get that bloody song out of my head.
“Tyrique George – aha.
Running down the wing – aha.
Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
We are going to Wroclaw.”
The return trip home on the Thursday went well, and we all agreed that the short spell in Wroclaw had been absolutely first class.
And, despite the dark days, it had been another decent season supporting The Great Unpredictables.
Top four, Conference League winners, Champions League next season, a team coming together…
I will see some of you in Philadelphia.
Phackinell.
REAL BETIS VS. CHELSEA 1998
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : TUESDAY
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : WEDNESDAY PRE-MATCH.
CHELSEA VS. REAL BETIS 2025 : THE EUROPA CONFERENCE FINAL
We were amid a solid run of games in London. Our local derby at Craven Cottage against Fulham was our seventh league game of nine consecutive matches in the capital. So, there was something very familiar as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky early on the morning of Easter Sunday.
The mood in the car, however, was not particularly positive. I certainly thought that we would lose against our quiet neighbours. We have struggled of late, and Fulham would be no pushovers.
My Easter weekend had started poorly. On Good Friday, I watched as Frome Town played Dorchester Town, and the Dorset promotion-challengers had brought around three-hundred supporters to boost the crowd to a fine 708 at Badgers Hill. This was a fine pulsating football match, and it went 0-1 (a penalty), 1-1 (Albie Hopkins), 1-2 (a penalty) and 2-2 (Sam Teale) until former Portsmouth, Ipswich Town and Bournemouth striker Brett Pitman pounced in the eighty- ninth minute. At 2-2, our safety was still possible, but at 2-3 we feared the worst. When I snapped the second equaliser, close-in, we had all hoped that our complete comeback was on, and a remarkable survival mission was back on track.
Sadly, the following day, the results went against us and Frome Town were relegated to the Southern League South.
It was expected, but still painful.
However, one moment stuck with me as I slowly wandered back to my car after the match on Friday. Around two hundred of the away supporters had been massed in the small covered seated stand at the eastern end of the ground and so when Pitman slotted home that last minute winner, their support roared and made one incredible racket. It brought it home to me how passionate the supporters at Step 3 can be. It was, admittedly, a horrible moment but also a life-affirming moment too.
On the Monday, I dropped the lads off close to the Eight Bells and drove off to park up. Walking to the pub took ten minutes from my spot on Ringmer Avenue, I took a photo of the neat and well-maintained town houses of Fulham and posted the view onto Facebook with the title :
“Fulham. This hotbed of football.”
This was a sideswipe at Fulham, that most benign of clubs, but also a tongue-in-cheek comment about us too, since we are also based in Fulham, and are seen by outsiders as being soft Southerners with no edge, no passion and no gravitas.
Chelsea Football Club, though undoubtedly a global phenomenon now, are centered on the twin boroughs of Hammersmith and Fulham, but also Kensington and Chelsea.
It’s perhaps odd for outsiders – of the club, of London, of the United Kingdom – when they realise that our club is in Fulham. I suppose we take it for granted. I differentiate it all out of necessity.
I go to Chelsea, but I drink around Fulham.
Most of the drinking spots at Chelsea are in Fulham.
We very rarely drink in Chelsea.
We sometimes drink in Hammersmith.
We very rarely drink in Kensington.
We alight at Fulham Broadway tube station.
Stamford Bridge is in Fulham.
Chelsea are policed by Fulham Police.
“You’re going home in a Fulham ambulance.”
Chelsea is a Fulham club.
To add to this state of confusion, “The Eight Bells” is deep in Fulham but is never a Fulham pub. When Chelsea plays at home, it is steadfastly a home pub, when Fulham plays at home it is an away pub.
On the last few yards of my walk to this cozy pub, the bells of All Saints Fulham could be heard, an unlikely backdrop to a few hours of drinking and banter, laughter and smiles.
Unlike at Chelsea home matches, most of the chairs were stacked away to provide more standing room for punters, since Chelsea would undoubtedly flood the three away pubs in this area close to Putney Bridge tube station.
The pre-game was excellent. The four of us were joined by two long-standing US friends, Johnny Dozen and Cesar from California, and I also met up with Joe, from Virginia, for the first time. Joe lives right next door to my big friend Jaro, and he loves the intimate atmosphere of our home pub which he had visited once before. To complete a quintet of US supporters, Frank from Philadelphia was in attendance with his daughter, a follower of this blog, and a chap that I think I conversed with before on one social media platform or another.
This was nice.
My two friends Rob and, er, Rob, were in attendance too, and so there will be eight of us meeting up in the US again in two months: Joe, Frank and his daughter, Johnny Dozen, Rob, Rob, Glenn and I.
From Phulham to Philly.
Phackinell.
While others were quaffing copious amounts of ales and lagers, I was knocking back God-knows how many pints of “Diet Coke”.
At just after 1pm, we set off for the short walk over to Fulham Palace and Bishops Park and onwards towards Craven Cottage. However, firstly I commandeered the troops for a nice photo outside the boozer.
We split up a little outside the away turnstiles and I enjoyed a few moments to myself.
Along with the closeness of the main stand on Goodison Road, this is probably my favourite piece of terra firma on our away trips.
The ornate, red-bricked façade of the main stand, the Johnny Haynes statue, the black and white paintwork depicting “Fulham Football Club” on the cottage which dates from 1780, the neat, terraced houses leading away from the stadium, the quintessential Englishness of it all.
It was all very Fulhamish.
DJ was spotted hawking “CFCUK” on Stevenage Road.
“Only a pound.”
There was wisteria on the walls of an immaculate house on the corner of Finlay Street. I took a photo of this against a backdrop of the Johnny Haynes Stand and the cottage.
I mentally dubbed Fulham “Wisteria FC.”
And wondered if we should be called “Hysteria FC.”
There always seems to be panic and drama and commotion and noise at our club. In contrast, Fulham just keep floating on.
Smuggling my SLR into Craven Cottage is my easiest away challenge, and this was no exception. On this occasion, I took my place with my Sleepy Hollow companion Clive while Glenn watched alongside Alan and Gary. We worked out that this was my first trip to Craven Cottage with Glenn since a trip in November 2004 when we thrashed the home team 4-1.
Where does the time go, eh?
I looked around. At last, the Riverside Stand is complete, bringing the total capacity up to around 28,000. It’s a decent looking stand, though I miss the view of the river. Fulham must be the only stadium where one of the stands, The Riverside, has a better logo than the club itself. After Legia’s over-simplistic “L”, I was reminded of the awful “FFC” of Fulham.
I had spoken to many before this game and virtually everyone expected a poor performance from us, and many expected a loss. I reminded a few mates of the infamous walk that Rafa Benitez was forced to do at the Brentford away game in 2013, loudly berated by our fans on four separate occasions, when the dugouts were on the opposite side of the pitch much like at Craven Cottage. I wondered, should we lose, if a toxic atmosphere would again engulf the away end and Enzo Maresca would be haunted forever by Craven Cottage.
The kick-off at 2pm came close. The teams appeared from the corner, and there were the usual flames in front of the Riverside Stand. I yawned a hundred yawns. I saw that the home fans to my left were already flapping their carboard “noise-makers” in the air.
Modern football eh?
The teams lined up.
Fulham in white / black / white.
Chelsea in blue / blue / blue.
Us?
Sanchez
James – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Neto
Jackson
Chelsea attacked us in the Putney End and this isn’t usually the case in the first-half. It’s a bit of a misnomer this, since Putney is on the other side of the Thames. I am not sure why “the Fulham End” couldn’t suffice.
In the first ten minutes of the game, our end was full of noise, and I strained to make out the words of a new song.
Eventually, I worked it out.
“Tyrique George – aha.
“Running down the wing – aha.
“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”
Tune : “Voulez-Vous” by Abba.
Early on, there was a hearty “One Man Went To Mow” that got everyone involved, a battle song from the early to mid-‘eighties that always seemed better when we all used to sit until ten, but I guess things evolve and change.
Ah, the mid-eighties. Here we go.
Exactly forty years ago to this very day, Chelsea were playing at another away venue, but this time in the West Midlands and not West London. On Saturday 20 April, Chelsea visited The Hawthorns and beat West Bromwich Albion 1-0 with a goal from Kerry Dixon in front of just 11,196. I didn’t go to this one, but I remember Glenn went with Swan. It was another win in our recent resurgence.
In deepest Fulham, up the other end – the Hammersmith End – Fulham had a goal from Ryan Sessegnon quickly chalked off for offside.
There’s no doubt that we enjoyed most of the ball in this first quarter of the match, but good heavens it was tough to watch. Again, we found it hard to get behind the home defence. Nicolas Jackson reached the six-yard box and stumbled at a ball that was an easy grab for Bernd Leno. Crosses missed intended targets. Cole Palmer’s shot was saved. A Reece James free kick caused no problems.
In the stands, much to my annoyance, past heroes were serenaded, when the players currently on the pitch should have been prioritised.
“It’s Salomon!”
On twenty minutes, Reece James was put under pressure by two Fulham players and I immediately sensed danger. Sessegnon passed to Alex Iwobi. As he set the ball up for a shot, I spoke.
“Here we go, goal.”
And I watched the ball find the far corner.
Sometimes that sixth sense unerringly works, and it often works when other teams score. It must be a Chelsea thing. Fackinell.
The home fans made a bit of noise but nothing special. However, after their last-minute win at Stamford Bridge on Boxing Day, they were now chasing their first-ever league double over us.
Encouraged by their goal, Fulham came more into the game, but Robert Sanchez was not threatened too severely.
Our play was marked by the usual slow and ponderous style of the second part of this season. Tensions rose in the away end. I didn’t see much to be happy about. Palmer looked a little lost. Not as lost as James, however, who once appeared to be positioned in left midfield. On the half-hour mark, I was screaming my displeasure at Levi Colwill who took a stupid swipe at a Fulham player from behind on the half-way line and received a booking.
“Stupidity!”
We hardly created any chances in that tepid and turgid first half. It brings me no pleasure to report that the word “turgid” is being used increasingly by Chelsea supporters this season.
Yes, Maresca was given a rough reception as he strode quickly over the pitch on the way back to the away dressing room in the corner. I was surprised that it was not more venomous.
On this first-half showing, I rated no players more than a 5/10. Reece was, quite literally, all over the place. I commented that it was, unfortunately, playing out just like I had glumly expected.
Clive and I stood, shell-shocked by it all, and we acknowledged the Fulham DJ cheeringly playing a song by Ian Dury.
“Summer, Buddy Holly, the working folly.
Good golly, Miss Molly and boats.
Hammersmith Palais, the Bolshoi Ballet.
Jump back in the alley and nanny goats.
Eighteen-wheeler Scammels, Domenica camels.
All other mammals, plus equal votes.
Seeing Piccadilly, Fanny Smith and Willie.
Being rather silly and porridge oats.”
Oh boy.
“Reasons to be cheerful?”
I should have got back in to bed.
At half-time, Maresca made two changes.
Malo Gusto for James.
Jadon Sancho for Madueke.
As we attacked the Hammersmith End, the Hammersmith Palais, the Hammersmith Odeon and the Hammersmith flyover, our play improved slightly. However, I soon commented to Scott that “our players look as bored as we do.”
There was a shot from Palmer straight at Leno.
In front of us, a rare Fulham attack but Gusto did ever so well to stretch out and block a shot on goal. Gusto has suffered this season, and I wonder where on earth his form from the last campaign has gone. On his day, he is a cracking player.
Neto, getting more involved on the right, saw his shot stopped by Leno, who was becoming the busier ‘keeper by far.
As the second half continued, a wide variety of songs rang out from the Putney End. Initially, the “Frankie Lampard scored two hundred” annoyed me as it was a typical example of a song being sung at the wrong time. I always say this is fine when we are winning easily and we can relax and serenade older players, but not when we are losing and playing poorly. It just seems odd to me.
Songs involving Dennis Wise, John Terry, Willian and, inevitably, Salomon Kalou were aired too.
After a while, I became less irritated and just appreciated the effort that the Chelsea fans were putting in to supporting the club, if not the current team.
The past has been bottled and labelled with love, but let’s support the players on the pitch.
Our chances increased. A shot from Sancho, a save from Leno after a Cucurella shot, plus another shot from Palmer that missed the target.
On seventy-eight minutes, Tyrique George replaced the disappointing Jackson.
His song was aired again.
“Tyrique George – aha.
“Running down the wing – aha.
“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”
Five minutes later, we worked the ball in from the right and it reached George just outside the box. His shot was hugely instinctive, and we watched, disbelieving, as the ball was swept into the left-hand corner. It was such a sweet finish.
Strangely, I hardly celebrated, as my first reaction was “about bloody time” but immediately after I lifted my camera and tried to snap the young scorer’s celebrations. The one photo I took was blurred, and is not worth sharing, but I soon realised that Tyrique’s celebrations matched mine.
There weren’t any.
He was just keen to get back to his own half and get going in search of the winner.
What a fantastic attitude.
All around me, arms were being pumped into the air and the Putney End was bouncing.
“Tyrique George – aha.
“Running down the wing – aha.
“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”
Neto, really involved now, forced another save from Leno.
Six minutes of extra time were signalled, and it seemed to be all Chelsea, in all blue, now. Gusto, a great addition in the second half, seemed to pull up with a hamstring problem on the far side and was replaced by Tosin, who was booed by his former fans.
In the third minute of injury time, a fantastic flowing move with quick passing worked the ball down our right flank.
Enzo to Caicedo to Enzo to Palmer to Enzo.
A square pass to Neto, free inside the box. He touched the ball and used its spin to set himself up. He turned on a sixpence and slashed the ball goalwards – just as I snapped – and the venom and velocity were just too much for Leno to cope with.
The net rippled.
The Chelsea end erupted again.
I punched the air.
I remember thinking “I LOVE THIS FUCKING CLUB” and then pushed my camera in between some bodies to capture the scorer’s wide smile as he ran back towards us in the Putney End.
What a terrible game, but what a magnificent final fifteen minutes.
One song dominated now.
“ONE TEAM IN FULHAM.”
Over the Easter weekend, there had been two very late goals. At Frome Town on Good Friday, it had gone against me. At Fulham on Easter Day, it had gone in my favour.
I wonder what the ecstatic mass of Chelsea supporters celebrating wildly as the Neto shot hit the back of the net looked like to the Fulham support in the Hammersmith End.
At the final whistle, there was an old school vibe to the Putney End as the team acknowledged our support, and – of course – the focus was on Tyrique, who looked so very happy.
Bless him. This was his moment, and I simply cannot begin to imagine what was going through his mind as he stood, at times a little bashful, in front of us all.
“Tyrique George – aha.
“Running down the wing – aha.
“Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.
“We’re all going to Wroclaw.”
Lastly, my final photo of Frome Town this season. Chasing an equaliser, I captured this glancing header from the Town captain Sam Teale that bounced into the goal against Dorchester Town on Good Friday. Alas, it wasn’t enough to save us. I hope that Chelsea fans from all parts of the football world have enjoyed my tales of Frome’s first season back at it’s highest ever level as much as I have writing them. In a way, the sense of adventure has mirrored my recollections of Chelsea in 1984/85, when we again found ourselves back in the top division after, like Frome, a five year break.
I love the fact that Frome’s support continues to grow around the world.
Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 20 January 2025.
I said it. You said it. Even educated fleas said it.
“This is a must-win” game.
And it was. With just three points out of fifteen in our previous five league games, things were starting to slip for Chelsea Football Club. Back in August, at our first away game of the season, we walloped Wolverhampton Wanderers 6-2, and they were currently mired in the bottom reaches of the table, having shown little spirit nor substance in the following twenty games since then. So, a home game with Wolves? We had to win this one.
This was a Monday night match, an 8pm kick-off, and thus was a familiar drive up to HQ. I collected PD and LP at 2pm. I dropped them off in deepest Fulham at 4.30pm. On the way to London, I was able, at last, to talk to them both about a Frome Town game.
My hometown team’s first match in three weeks had taken place on the previous Saturday at Winchester City and this was my first Frome game since an evening in Bath in the middle of December. Despite going one goal down at Winchester, Frome immediately countered with a fine strike from Rex Mannings. Not long after, Zak Drew touched home a flick-on from Archie Ferris at a corner to give the away team a 2-1 lead. Despite coming under severe pressure during the second half, another neat strike from Joe O’Laughlin gave Frome our fourth win out of five games in the league. Despite still being stuck in the relegation zone, the improvements over the past five weeks have been sensational. At last, there is hope in the Frome ranks.
On the way up to my usual parking spot on Charleville Road, the sky was tinted with a pink glow, and I noted that several friends were posting shots of the sunset on “Facebook” from around London. On this day, Blue Monday – the most depressing day of the year apparently, not a good sign ahead of the game – at least Mother Nature was trying to keep our spirits up. I caught the tube at West Kensington, and there was a stop for some food at Earl’s Court and a first visit to “Zizzi.”
I checked to see if there were many away fans at “The Courtfield” outside the tube station at Earl’s Court, but I saw few. It is likely that the vicinity might well have been crawling with away fans just over forty years ago.
On Saturday 19 January 1985, Chelsea were to host Arsenal in a repeat of the season’s opener in August. I was to attend from my home in Stoke. However, there had been a mighty cold snap leading up to this game, and so on the day before I ‘phoned Chelsea to gauge the likelihood of the game taking place. The message from HQ was unless there was “adverse weather” overnight, the game would take place on the Saturday but at the earlier time of 2pm.
On the Saturday morning, I ‘phoned Chelsea again – at 8.30am – from a public call box outside Stoke City’s Victoria Ground and the game was on.
I caught the 9.20am train down from Stoke. My diary tells me that the fare had increased to £9.10. I quickly made my way over to Fulham Broadway and I bought a “Benches” ticket for £4. I had quite forgotten that tickets were needed for a few games in the “Benches” in 1984/85. I was in the ground early and was eventually joined by the usual crew.
From the left : me, Alan, Richard, Dave, Paul, Glenn, Glenn’s mate (who he had met on the train from Frome – possibly Swan from Radstock), Leggo and Mark.
My diary mentions “no fighting at all.”
This game gave me my first sighting of Charlie Nicholas, who had missed the game at Highbury. The pitch was terrible; mud everywhere, the pitch heavily sanded, strands of straw all over the surface. As was often the case in that era, the match was shown live on Scandinavian TV, and there were dozens of odd-sounding advertisement boards in evidence everywhere.
It wasn’t a great match. Arsenal’s Tony Woodcock missed a couple of good chances in the first half, and David Speedie fluffed a one-on-one in the second period. The visitors went ahead in the seventy-fifth minute when Kenny Sansom sent over a cross for Paul Mariner to head home in front of the Arsenal hordes on the north terrace. Chelsea went to pieces for a while. Bizarrely, the rest of the lads left early, leaving just Glenn and me watching the last remaining minutes. However, I have a distinct feeling that they all left early to queue up for FA Cup replay tickets – the away tie at Wigan Athletic – after the game. In the last minute of the match, a deep free kick from Colin Lee was headed on by Joe McLaughlin, Kerry Dixon played the ball on to Speedie and with a deft flick, the ball was lobbed over John Lukic.
Well, the place erupted. Glenn and I danced around like fools in the wide gangway behind the back row of the wooden benches – the wildest celebration for ages – and loa-and-behold Alan and Paul sprinted back to join us. Great times.
The gate that day in 1985 was 34,752 and Arsenal had, of course, the whole end with maybe 7,000 fans, around the same as West Ham in September. I remember how bitterly cold it was, but I remember the joyous victory jig with Glenn, Alan and Paul to this day.
On the walk back to West Kensington, I bumped into Andy from Trowbridge who was looking at some designer gear in a shop window on the North End Road. Throughout that season, as Andy had in fact predicted on the train to Highbury back in August, there had been a seismic shift in terrace fashions, less and less lurid sportswear, more and more expensive pullovers in neutral colours, less pale blue jeans, more mid-blue and dark blue jeans – Hard Core jeans specifically – and more black leather jackets. Less Fila, Tacchini and Ellese, more Burberry, Aquascutum and Armani.
Forty years later, in 2025, it has all gone mainstream, and the thrill has largely disappeared. Occasionally, though – very occasionally – I find myself checking out the attire of a football fancier and I think to myself :
“Yep. Fair play. He’s got that right.”
I caught the tube from Earl’s Court down to Putney Bridge and had the briefest of stays – thirty minutes – with PD, LP and Salisbury Steve at “The Eight Bells.” We started to discuss plans for the upcoming trip to Manchester City at the weekend just as The Smiths appeared on the pub jukebox. How 1985.
Back at Stamford Bridge, I was inside at 7.30pm with half-an-hour to spare. Unfortunately, Clive and Alan were out injured and so it was just PD and me in “The Sleepy.”
Unlike Bournemouth, Wolves brought the full three thousand.
I again noted that an area down below us, adjacent to the pitch, was cordoned off by rope and around twenty or so corporate guests (I can’t call them supporters, sorry) were watching the Chelsea players carry out their shuttle runs. They were then walked across the pitch, past the centre-circle (what utter sacrilege) and into their expensive seats behind the Chelsea bench.
JD and I looked on disapprovingly.
“I guess that is what you get when you sit in ‘The Dug Out Club’ these days.”
“The game’s gone.”
I returned to my seat, which afforded me a view ten times better than those low down in the East Lower.
Our team?
The big news was the return of Trevoh Chalobah from his load at Selhurst Park and Captain Reece was starting too. Enzo Fernandez was out injured, but Cole Palmer was thought fit enough to start.
Sanchez
James – Chalobah – Adarabioyo – Cucurella
Caicedo – Dewsbury-Hall
Madueke – Palmer – Neto
Jackson
There was the usual light show, but thankfully no fireworks on this occasion.
I must admit that I liked the look of the Wolves all-gold kit.
I guessed that the Wolves skipper won the toss because Chelsea attacked the Northern end in the first half, the same as against Arsenal in 1985.
It was all go in the first thirty seconds of the game.
Cole Palmer kicked-off straight back to Robert Sanchez and the ball was quickly played out to Pedro Neto who crossed inside. There was a defensive header behind and a Reece James corner on the far side. A Trevoh Chalobah header moved the ball on with Noni Madueki lurking behind the Wolves defenders Wilson, Keppel and Betty, but a volley went wide of the far post.
After five minutes, there was widespread applause as a superbly executed sliding tackle from Chalobah halted a Wolves break, one on one.
There seemed to be a lot more boisterousness from the crowd from the off and I really wondered if the extra thirty minutes in the pub on this evening of football was the reason why the volume was up on the Bournemouth game.
Chelsea had begun strongly and were creating a fair few chances in the first quarter of an hour. Noni Madueke set up Cole Palmer, but a shot went wide. Madueke, Dewsbury-Hall, Palmer again, and James all had efforts on goal.
It was a really decent start.
On sixteen minutes, the ball was played to Palmer, twenty-five yards out and he calmly caressed the ball as he weighed up options, touching the ball forward. We have been so used to Palmer stroking the ball nonchalantly into the corners of the goal – if he was a baseball pitcher, commentators would say he was “painting the corners of the strike zone” – that I was quite shocked when his eventual shot was turned past the post by Sa in the Wolves’ goal.
On eighteen minutes, Sa received treatment on the pitch for a knock, and the rest of the players received a drinks break in front of “The Dug Out Club” in the East Lower.
With it being a cold night, I wondered if it was a soup break.
“Right lads, I’ve got tomato, oxtail, cream of mushroom, Mulligatawny, leek and potato.”
“Any croutons.”
“You and your croutons, Trevoh. No. I keep telling you, choking hazard.”
The game continued.
There was a typical example of awful distribution from Robert Sanchez, and how we howled.
There was a typical example of a fine forceful run followed by a heavy touch from Nicolas Jackson, and how we howled.
Then, an errant Wolves header from Matt Doherty but the Wolves ‘keeper just about recovered before Pedro Neto could pounce, and how we howled with laughter.
From the resulting corner, the ball fell nicely to James who took a swipe at goal despite the presence of virtually the entire Wolves team blocking his sight of goal. There was a typical deflection, and the ball ran on to a Chelsea player, who smacked the ball home.
However, I did not celebrate as I thought the scorer, plus maybe two more Chelsea attackers, were in an offside position. Indeed, the linesman’s flag went up.
Not many around us in “The Sleepy” expected a goal.
“Offside by a mile.”
But there was a VAR call, and a long wait, a very long wait.
Goal.
I could hardly believe it.
Tosin ran towards the Matthew Harding Lower.
I snapped.
But I could not believe it.
In Alan’s absence, I loved the fact that two Chelsea mates in Texas, of all places, texted me the rallying-call.
Robin, in Houston : “THTCAUN.”
Charles, in Dallas : “THTCAUN.”
Chris in Fulham : “COMLD.”
Lovely stuff.
Sadly, we then drifted quite considerably. Wolves, for the first real time, came into the game.
PD was more succinct : “since the goal we been shit.”
Sanchez looked shaky again. I came up with a phrase that just about sums him up.
“Spin the wheel, Sanchez”.
Spin that wheel, mate, we never know what you are going to do next.
There were defensive blocks at timely interventions, but Wolves had the best of the closing period of the half. In almost the last of the six minutes of injury-time, it all went pear-shaped. A corner from in front of the away fans, a jump from Sanchez at the near post, but a fumble and the ball was dropped.
Doherty pushed it home.
Ugh.
“Spin that wheel, Sanchez.”
There were boos at half-time, which I never like to hear.
It was time for some gallows humour. I joked with a few folk nearby that we got a head start on having a crap second-half by starting it in the first.
We attacked The Shed in the second-half of course; it never seems right these days.
Of course our “ends” have since flipped but I can’t often remember us often attacking The Shed in the first-half in pre-1995 days.
Sanchez was soon annoying me again. A simple throw out to Marc Cucurella went behind him, and I howled once more.
As the game got going again, I spotted how much space Madueke was enjoying out on our right and on three occasions in what seemed like a few seconds, Palmer reached him with expansive passes. Noni then flattered to deceive – that phrase only used for football – and went to pieces, with heavy control, poor passing, weak finishing.
However, spotting the team needed support, parts of the Matthew Harding raised their game.
“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
There was yet another incisive Palmer to Madueke pass, but it was again wasted.
Thankfully, on the hour, cometh the hour, cometh the man, and that man was Cucurella. A cute cross from Madueke, at last, was flicked on by the improving and unmarked Dewsbury-Hall, and it fell at the feet of an also unmarked Cucurella. There was time for a softening touch in his, er, midriff, before he smashed the ball into the corner of the goal.
A scream from me, a slide from him.
GET IN.
Just after, the poor Neto was replaced by Jadon Sancho.
Five minutes after our second goal, Jackson won a free kick down by the Wolves support. Palmer floated the ball over towards the far post where Chalobah rose well to head the ball goalwards. Through a crowd of bodies, I semi-saw the ball headed in by another Chelsea player. The much-maligned Madueke raced away, slid to his knees, while I snapped away.
Chelsea had faltered but had dug in and improved. Fair play to the team on this occasion.
There were some positives. Both Chalobah and James were excelling; fine performances from them. In fact, in addition to the returning Trevoh taking Conor Gallagher’s shirt number, he had also inherited his specific chant too.
Welcome back, Trev.
Moises Caicedo was steady and solid.
Thankfully, Wolves faded as we improved.
Palmer – who had been fouled and was looking slightly off-colour – played Jackson through, and it looked offside to me, but he took the chance well. Alas, I was right for once. No goal.
Some substitutions.
77 minutes :
Axel Disasi for James, a warm ovation.
Malo Gusto for Dewsbury-Hall.
84 minutes :
Joao Felix for Palmer.
Tyrique George for Madueke, a league debut.
Wolves kept going and tested us with a couple of late efforts, but we easily withstood them. There was even a fine save and a fine block by Sanchez from Matheus Cunha and Jorgen Strand Larsen.
At last, we had eked out our first league win in six games, and we rose again to fourth in the table.
Next up, a visit to the team that are – for once, the first time in a blue moon – one place below us.
Before we hit a spate of home games at ridiculous times on ridiculous days, here was a traditional 3pm kick-off on a Saturday.
For the second time in five seasons, we were to play Morecambe in the Third Round of the FA Cup. Back in 2020/21, on Saturday 10 January, we beat The Shrimpers 4-0 at a closed Stamford Bridge. Four years and one day later, we were to meet again.
Our FA Cup run that season ended in defeat at Wembley, but the start of it seemed to be themed around the comic Eric Morecambe. We played a home game against his hometown team in the third round and then the side, Luton Town, that he developed a deep love for, eventually becoming the club president, in round four. We defeated Luton Town 3-1, but Frank Lampard was sacked the very next day.
Us against Morecambe in 2021?
Kepa
Azpilicueta – Zouma – Rudiger – Emerson
Gilmour – Mount
Hudson-Odoi – Havertz – Ziyech
Werner
So much has happened since, eh?
There are none left in 2025.
On the drive up to London in the morning, I said to my fellow passengers that there would be no players from the afternoon’s game who would still be playing in four years’ time.
Controversial? I am not so sure. Let’s hope I am wrong. We need some sort of continuity, or modern football becomes even more difficult to appreciate and respect.
Over to you, Chelsea.
While PD and Parky were re-acquainted with “The Eight Bells” and Ron – more FA Cup games, 64, than any other Chelsea player – and Glenn headed off to Stamford Bridge nice and early, I had some time to kill.
I had set off from Frome at 6.45am and three hours later I had arrived at my new parking spot on Charleville Road. I fancied a new routine on this cold but pristine morning in West London. I wolfed down a tasty breakfast at a new spot – “Hazel Café” – on the North End Road and then took a tube from West Kensington to Earl’s Court.
For a leisurely hour I walked south from Earls Court to Stamford Bridge, and my path took me through Brompton Cemetery, where I was keen to locate the final resting place of our club’s founder Henry Augustus “Gus” Mears, and to hopefully capture a few wintry photographs of the gravestones with the bulk of the East Stand behind. I have only walked through Brompton Cemetery once or twice before while en route to a game at Chelsea, and I remember being struck by its gothic undertones.
I fired up my ‘phone to find the exact location of the final resting place of our founder, and luckily it was just off the main walkway. Just before, I spotted the ornate art-deco tombstone of Emmeline Pankhurst, the leading light in the suffragette movement.
I made my way south.
Looming to the west, the steel roof supports of the East Stand at Stamford Bridge were almost lost in the glare from the winter sun.
The gravestone of Gus Mears is unpretentious and did not strike me as being particularly ornate or over-fussy. There are simple words to describe, in our eyes, his most formidable achievement in his thirty-eight years.
HENRY AUGUSTUS MEARS
FOUNDER OF THE CHELSEA FOOTBALL CLUB
He is buried with his son, Henry Frank Mears, who died in the First World War aged just nineteen.
The tombstone might be plain and understated, but the edifice which it faces more than makes up for it.
Stamford Bridge has been our home since 1905.
What memories lie within.
As I edged closer to the East Stand, I walked over to the railway-line and tried my best to take some photographs of our stadium from a never-previously photographed viewpoint. It was lovely to do so. It reinforced my love for this little piece of real estate in London SW6.
I popped into the hotel, very briefly, to chat with Ron and Glenn, but then zipped down to southern Fulham, arriving in the pub at 12.15pm. The day, thus far, had been magnificent. A cold fresh Saturday morning skirting Stamford Bridge. What could possibly be any better?
There were laughs with the usual suspects in “The Eight Bells” but the pub was a lot quieter than usual. I had spotted many Morecambe fans, in town early, and bedecked in red scarves, looking for watering holes around Stamford Bridge, and a couple had made it to our local, although with any club colours clearly hidden.
PD, Parky and I were joined by Dave, Salisbury Steve, Salisbury Leigh, Jimmy the Greek, Ian, Nick the Greek, and Nick the Greek’s good lady.
Ours, of course, was not the only FA Cup tie in London on this day. Brentford were at home to Plymouth Argyle, also at 3pm, and there was to be the Leyton Orient vs. Derby County game at 6pm.
Mark – a guy from Frome, but now living in Derby, and a Derby County fan – was off to the latter game and wanted to call in to have a chat with PD and myself before they moved over to East London. I met up with him at a Gloucester City vs. Frome Town game in October, the first time that our paths had crossed since school days. However, on his way into London in a mini-bus with friends they heard that the game at Leyton Orient was called-off. However, Mark and his two Derby mates spent a nice while with us, and we chatted about all things football.
I had to laugh a while back when Mark told me that the Ram logo from the old main stand roof at the now dismantled Baseball Ground is currently in his shed. As far as stadia memorabilia goes, that must win some sort of award.
We left the three Derby lads to it and set off for the game. I was inside at 2.30pm.
During the afternoon, I chatted with Rob and Scott – friends in The Sleepy Hollow – about our plans for attending the FIFA World Club Cup in June. Rob, along with his wife Alex and his mate Rob, will be alongside Glenn and little old me in Philadelphia. I had to laugh when Scott explained how he had an even bigger nightmare buying tickets than me. The procedure via the FIFA website wasn’t too clear, nor easy. Each applicant had to set up their own account. It didn’t help my cause when I realised that I had inadvertently used Glenn’s access code for my two tickets, and so I had to gamble that my code would work for him. After a nervous ten minutes, he was in.
We were in.
See you in Philly.
The minutes ticked down and I looked at the team that Enzo Maresca had chosen.
Us against Morecambe in 2025?
Jorgensen
James – Tosin – Disasi – Veiga
Lavia
Neto – Nkunku – Felix – George
Guiu
Or something like that.
Pedro Neto was the only player retained from the game at Crystal Palace, and it surprised nobody.
I prefaced the day’s activity with a photo and a nod to Eric Morecambe on “Facebook.”
“We’re playing all the right passes, but not necessarily in the right order.”
The game began.
Well, I was tempted to call this “Tales From The Cemetery And The Morgue”.
I know it was “only” Morecambe, who were second-from-bottom of League Two, but the atmosphere at the game, throughout virtually every second of it, was bloody terrible. I felt sorry for any long-distance Chelsea supporter who was attending this as their first-ever game at Stamford Bridge.
There. I have got that out of my system.
All eyes were keenly focussed on the returning Reece James, and it was from his free-kick that Axel Disasi headed over the bar in the first two minutes. Despite the likelihood of Morecambe defending deep (1996), Parking the Bus (2004), using a low-block (2021), they surprised us with a quick counter-attack down their right that Filip Jorgensen did well to parry. There was another Morecambe attack and shot soon after.
The away fans could be heard in the far corner.
“Football in a library.”
I guess “morgue” didn’t scan.
The Chelsea chances kept materialising in a packed penalty area in front of The Shed. A shot from Joao Felix, off for a corner, then over from the resulting corner from the same player.
Another header from another corner.
A Tosin header crashed against the bar from a Pedro Neto corner.
Disasi over the bar too.
Alan and PD alongside me were getting frustrated with a lack of drive, and a lackadaisical approach, but in the defence of the players it is sometimes difficult to raise a tempo when there is simply no space to move.
It wasn’t brilliant stuff, but chances were being created.
On twenty-eight minutes, Neto attempted to turn back the ball from the goal-line, but a defender jumped up and the ball hit his arm. The referee had no choice but to point to the spot. Sadly, Christopher Nkunku’s penalty save was at an easy height for the Morecambe ‘keeper Harry Burgoyne to save. The ball ran out to Nkunku, but the ‘keeper blocked again. Burgoyne had been the star of the show thus far. For Chelsea, Felix was often involved and was piling up scoring chances. On the wings Tyrique George and Pedro Neto were industrious but without end product. Marc Guiu and Nkunku were yet to get involved.
Just after, Disasi clouted a ball from his own half towards a totally non-existent run from a non-existent Chelsea player. It had my vote for the worst pass of the season thus far.
An effort from Guiu went close. Yet another effort from Felix, but Burgoyne met it with a very fine save. There was a tidy spin from George out on the left, but Nkunku’s header flew over the bar.
On thirty-nine minutes, with the place still silent, a move broke down and the ball spun out to Tosin. There was a semi-audible whisper of “shoot” and the centre-back moved the ball on and did so. After so many misses from players further up the field, there was almost laughter in the air as his shot was deflected past the hapless Burgoyne to give us a 1-0 lead.
I looked towards Alan. I saw him pause. At the same moment, we had the exact same thought. I took off my glasses and was just about to offer them to him. Instead, he donned his own glasses.
Eric : “They’ll have to come at us now.”
Ernie : “Come on my little fat hairy legs.”
We laughed.
“God, we have been together too long.”
Just after, the same scenario. Tosin on the ball, shouts to “shoot” but the long shot whizzed just past the post.
From the Morecambe fans :
“1-0 up, you still don’t sing.”
Half-time arrived and everyone was rather non-plussed. I wondered what the mood was like at half-time at our FA Cup game against Wigan Athletic, at Stamford Bridge, on Saturday 5 January 1985. During that game, which I did not attend, we had somehow contrived to let in two first-half goals to the away team – Paul Jewell, Mike Newell – but thankfully we managed to even up the score in the second half via goals from Pat Nevin and David Speedie.
Us against Wigan Athletic in 1985?
Niedzwiecki
Wood – Pates – McLaughlin – Rougvie
Nevin – Spackman – Thomas
Davies – Dixon – Speedie
There would be a replay later.
The gate was just 16,220. It had been a mixed day for FA Cup crowds; 36,000 at Liverpool vs. Aston Villa, 32,000 at Manchester United vs. Bournemouth, 29,000 at Tottenham vs. Charlton Athletic, but just 11,000 at West Ham vs. Port Vale.
My 1984/85 retrospective over, we return to 2025.
At the break, the manager made three changes.
Malo Gusto for Reece James.
Marc Cucarella for Lavia.
Jadon Sancho for Neto.
The introduction of Cucarella seemed to be the catalyst in a much-improved second forty-five minutes. It was his burst down below us that set up a shot for Renato Veiga after the Spaniard’s cross was cleared. Veiga’s shot was parried by Burgoyne but Nkunku was on hand to smash in the rebound.
No balloon. I guess he some respect for the opposition. Fair play. In fact, the celebration was very muted indeed. Nkunku doesn’t look the happiest camper at the moment.
The chances stacked up again. Yet another Felix effort flew over. Cucarella came inside and saw his right-footed shot hit the side netting. A Disasi header at a corner came close.
The away team had given up attacking in any form at all by now.
On seventy minutes, the ball was played inside by the improving George, and Sancho must have heard a shout from Tosin as he let the ball run through his legs.
Another “shoot!” and this time Tosin’s effort was quite magnificent, the ball curling and crashing into the net from twenty-five yards.
His run towards my waiting camera was euphoric.
Five minutes later, George played a ball square down below us and Felix took a touch and delicately aimed a slow but precise roller into the Morecambe net at the near post. His goal was well-deserved. Another muted celebration.
Two minutes later, The Sleepy Hollow was treated to more excellent build-up play below us. That man Cucarella – his energy had revitalised us – passed to Felix who danced and weaved ahead of his marker and then unleashed a curler past Burgoyne at the far post.
Beautiful.
There was a late rally from the away team with two shots on goal – one a tired roller at Jorgensen, one wildly over – but Chelsea were good value for the 5-0.
The referee, perhaps wisely, played only two seconds of injury-time.
Game over.
Into Round Four we go.
Our next smattering of league games at Stamford Bridge were finalised using a random date generator, copious amounts of acid and a British Rail train timetable from 1974.
Tuesday 15 January : Bournemouth.
Monday 20 January : Wolverhampton Wanderers.
Monday 3 February : West Ham United.
Wednesday 26 February : Southampton.
Have I ever mentioned what I think of modern football?
The game against Barrow in the League Cup was the first of four home matches at Stamford Bridge in just thirteen days. Not wishing to denigrate this competition, but it is probably the last of our priorities this season. I know that the Europa Conference is – well – the Europa Conference, but it offers European, and Central Asian, travel, and it is a UEFA competition after all. The League Cup – or whatever name it gives itself these days – is familiar to us, whereas the Europa Conference is something different. Should we win it this season – our UEFA coefficient alone suggests we might – then maybe it would go back down the pecking order until UEFA invents yet another competition for also-rans across Europe.
There is a competition, though, that is well down my list of priorities this season for Chelsea Football Club. The English Football League Trophy is a cup that began life as the Associate Members Cup in 1983/84, and it had a number of sponsors over the years. It was the Freight Rover, it was the Leyland DAF, it was the Auto Windscreens, it was all sorts. It was once the Johnstone Paint Trophy, the one that Southampton sang about us not winning.
The English Football League Trophy is a competition for clubs in the two divisions of the English Football League. The name rather gives this away, right? But, it’s not. Since 2016/17, sixteen U21 teams from the Premiership and the Championship have been invited to take part too. There was an initial backlash against this, since it could stop smaller clubs from enjoying a day out at Wembley, and I agreed wholeheartedly with this statement. I decided to boycott the tournament even if it meant not seeing a Chelsea team at local stadia such as Forest Green Rovers, Exeter City and Bristol Rovers. Would I go to the final at Wembley if Chelsea U21s were to reach it? No.
I am just dead against the notion of U21 teams being in this competition.
That said, I did find it ridiculous that Chelsea were playing Barrow in the League Cup on the very same evening that Chelsea U21s were at Bromley in the English Football League Trophy. I knew of many Chelsea mates who were going to Bromley – “new ground” – rather than attend the first team match at Stamford Bridge, yet how easy could it have been to plan these two games on different nights? Surely, Chelsea could have played Barrow last week. It’s not as if the team from the Cumbrian coast were playing European football.
Sometimes modern football does not make any sense at all.
I was up at 4.45am and worked a 6am to 2pm shift. I set off for London with just PD and Parky. When I drove past Junction 14 of the M4 and saw the signs for the nearby town of Hungerford, another football competition flitted into my mind. Later that evening, my local team Frome Town would visit Hungerford Town in a league game. It was a match that I would have attended had it not been for the game at Stamford Bridge. At the weekend, Hungerford beat Plymouth Parkway 9-3 at home, while Frome Town lost 0-5 at Havant & Waterlooville. I would be girding my loins for score updates as the evening wore on. In a nutshell, I was far from hopeful.
We landed in London at 5pm, and I shot off to get some food down my neck. The “Efes” restaurant – Turkish – on the corner of Lillee Road and the North End Road has been garnering some decent reviews of late so I gave it a shot. While I leisurely ate a lamb shish kebab plus the usual garnishes, I spotted plenty of Chelsea fans in the restaurant and three sets of parents with children.
PD soon called.
“McGettigans is closed. We’re at ‘Simmons’ and it’s £4 a pint.”
I slowly walked down the North End Road, but despite a couple of coffees on the drive to London, I was feeling so tired, so groggy. I decided to dip into “Café Ole”- close to the pie and mash shop in 1984 – and downed a cappuccino with a double-shot. I was soon buzzing. Phew.
This place has served as the “Memory Lane Café” in past match reports, so let’s use it again. Forty years ago, my mind was focussed on beginning a new life in Stoke-on-Trent as a human geography undergraduate at North Staffs Poly. I had buggered up my “A Levels” in June 1983, re-took them in November 1983, and managed to get a place at Stoke. When Chelsea played at Luton Town in a Division One fixture on Saturday 22 September 1984, I was at home in Somerset, recuperating after a heavy session in Frome the night before when I gathered together a few friends as they gave me a boozy send-off. My parents would drive me up to Staffordshire on the Sunday.
My diary reiterates my memories of that night. I was being bought drinks right, left and centre and when I reached home, I fell out of the car. Oh, I had bumped into Glenn – now sporting a perm – who told me that he was off to Luton on the Saturday. My diary tells me that I got up late on the Saturday, much the worse for wear, and that although I listened to Radio 2 all afternoon, there was no score update from Kenilworth Road until the end of the game.
It ended 0-0, as did I if my memory is correct.
I crossed the road and joined PD and Parky at the high tables in “Simmons” which has been given a bit of a makeover since our last visit. There is more space, more neon, a better feel. I said a quick hello to “Mr. Pink” – Chris always wears a lucky pink polo at away games – but the place was generally quiet, nothing like it used to be on midweek games a few years back. I like it though. It’s convenient. For some reason, blue and white balloons were dotted around the bar. Were the owners secret Nkunku fans?
Outside, the weather was dry but muggy. At the end of Fulham Broadway, an electronic sign helpfully stated “Please Keep To Your Left Our Right” and I thought “thanks for that, big help, I was going to tunnel beneath it.”
I was inside at about 7.15pm for the 7.45pm kick-off.
Barrow, eh?
It takes me right back, way back to around 1970 or 1971, just as I was starting to watch football on TV and learn more and more about the game, the players, the teams, the league tables. I can distinctly remember poring over the league tables of my grandfather’s Sunday Express and examining all of the various football teams that plied their trade in the four divisions of the Football League. Some of the names used to fill me with wonder and a desire to learn about them, especially all those that were unfamiliar to me as a Chelsea fan, used to hearing only about the bigger teams in the First Division. I found some of the names beguiling.
Crewe Alexandra.
Sheffield Wednesday.
Aston Villa.
Port Vale.
Halifax Town.
Workington.
Southport.
Stockport County.
Barrow.
Chester.
Chesterfield.
Rochdale.
Bury.
I wondered where all these places were. Were they all up north? These were all new to me. Ironically, Barrow were relegated out of the Football League – or rather voted out – at the end of the 1971/72 season and I can distinctly remember this taking place. They would not return to the Football League again until 2021.
PD and I were sat together in The Sleepy Hollow. Being both a Bromley and a Chelsea season ticket holder, there was no surprises as to where Alan was.
It looked a pretty healthy crowd for hardly a game with much of a “pull”. Stamford Bridge wasn’t full but it wasn’t far off. Around 2,500 away fans had travelled down from Barrow-in-Furness. Ironically, we know a loyal Chelsea fan – hello Gary – who lives in Barrow yet still travels down to Chelsea as a season ticket holder. It’s a solid six-hour drive.
Us?
Jorgensen
Gusto – Disasi – Badiashile – Veiga
Casadei – Dewsbury-Hall
Neto – Felix – Mudryk
Nkunku
It was Cesare Casadei’s first start.
Barrow were in waspish yellow and black hoops, though I immediately felt it strange that the referee was in all black, since – from the rear – the Barrow players were in all black too. Very odd.
To their credit, the away team began the livelier.
With our attacking options though, it did not surprise anyone when we went ahead on just eight minutes. Renato Veiga slammed a ball towards Joao Felix who adroitly flicked the ball over some dawdling defenders for Christopher Nkunku to drill the ball home.
Chelsea 1 Barrow 0.
The players celebrated in front of Parkyville.
There was an attack from Barrow, and a shot was slammed over, but Chelsea continued to dominate. On fifteen minutes, a neat flick from Pedro Neto set up Malo Gusto. I shouted out some advice to him – keep it high – but he chose to ignore me and he drilled a low ball towards Nkunku at the near post. It was too far away for me to truly admire the finish, but the ball ended up in the back of the net.
Chelsea 2 Barrow 0.
“Nice to see Gusto took my advice, PD.”
PD laughed.
It was the equivalent of me falling out of my father’s car forty years ago.
Chelsea continued in the ascendency and Barrow’s focus now seemed to involve sitting back and trying to limit further damage. There was one blistering run from Mykhailo Mudryk down the left, but he again promised much, but delivered little.
On the half-hour mark, Gusto was upended centrally. My immediate reaction was that the free-kick was too central. PD agreed.
“We need Zola here.”
I need not have worried. Felix waited until the wall was set – much buggering about from both sets of players and the referee – and then dipped a floater over and around the western edges of Barrow’s wall and we watched as the ball cannoned in off the post, but off the Barrow ‘keeper too.
I lept to my feet, but many stayed sat. How odd.
Chelsea 3 Barrow 0.
The rest of the first half didn’t result in anyone rising to their feet, apart from those going off to the loos. Caicedei looked solid, though was reticent to turn, and always seemed to choose the soft option of a backward pass. No doubt the stats men loved it. All of this backward passing makes for a hideously dull form of football though.
There was a shot from the much-derided Benoit Badiashile, but that was about it.
At the break, my focus was away from Stamford Bridge. In other games, Bromley were losing 1-2 and it was 0-0 at Hungerford.
Enzo Maresca replaced Gusto with Ben Chilwell – welcome back, Chilly – with the defence shifting around to accommodate him. A header from Dewsbury-Hall did not threaten the Barrow goal.
On forty-eight minutes, Nkunku played in a raiding Mudryk and we all wondered what would happen. Thankfully he didn’t trip, nor sky a shot over the bar, but he played the ball intelligently square to Neto who steadily turned the ball in.
Chelsea 4 Barrow 0.
I am sure that more people stood for that one.
We often had a spare man down below us, and that man was usually Mudryk. He sprinted ahead and set up Dewsbury-Hall, but his shot was saved well by the Barrow ‘keeper.
It annoyed me to hear the MHL, presumably full of a vastly different set of fans than usual for this game, to take the piss out of the Barrow ‘keeper as he took goal kicks in this second-half. In fact, the “Ooooooooooooooooh! You’re shit! Aaaaaarrrrrgggggh!” has not been heard at Chelsea since, probably, the late ‘eighties. Come on, we were playing Barrow, not a London rival.
I said to Anna “I’m surprised the idiots in the MHL aren’t taking the piss out of Barrow for not winning the Champions League.”
For the purists, I always remembered it as a plain “Ooooooooh, you’re shit!” at Chelsea. Other teams’ supporters extended it. There, that’s told you.
Down at the other end, a dipping free-kick was well saved by the scrambling Filip Jorgensen at the near post.
The away fans were making lots of noise, as expected. This was their biggest away game for a while.
“You’ve seen the Barrow, now fuck off home” was the only chant I could decipher, though.
Just after the hour, a double substitution.
Josh Acheampong for Disasi.
Tyrique George for Neto.
This was my first sighting of the young winger. After a little Barrow spell, George was presented with a golden chance to mark his Stamford Bridge debut with a goal, but he rolled a shot well wide of the far post.
With a quarter of an hour to go, the Barrow ‘keeper dawdled and was pick-pocketed by Nkunku and steered the ball into an empty net. The French striker, who offers a different skill-set to Nicolas Jackson, thus gained a well-deserved hat-trick. Alas, no money shot this week; I couldn’t focus my camera in time for his blue balloon celebration.
Just after, more changes.
Carney Chukwuemeka for the excellent Joao Felix.
Marc Guiu for the clinical Nkunku.
There were a couple of late chances, including a good strike from Carney, but as the final whistle beckoned, my football focus soon switched from London SW6 to Berkshire.
In Hungerford, it was still 0-0.
Come on Frome!
Meanwhile, over in Bromley, the Chelsea U21s narrowly squeaked it 3-2 with Harvey Vale getting two.
At the end of the match, I made a quick getaway and strode purposefully down the Fulham Road. I kept checking the Frome score on my ‘phone which had dramatically dwindled down to 2% and then 1% charge.
85 minutes : 0-0.
90 minutes : 0-0.
96 minutes : 0-0.
98 minutes : 0-0
With that, the final score of 0-0 flashed up and my ‘phone died.
I smiled.
“GET IN.”
It wrapped-up a decent night out. We ran through the options of a preferred opponent in the next round. With a nod to 1984, I fancied Stoke City away.
I didn’t stop on the way home; I left Normand Road at 10.02pm and I pulled up at my house at 12.06am. Two hours and four minutes. A record surely?
CHELSEA/esque 