Tales From An Evening Out In London

Posted on August 29, 2025 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 22 August 2025.

I always look forward to the first away match each season. I will bump into a ton of mates at the first home game of a new campaign, but way more at the first away fixture. At such games, in pubs or on concourses or in the away section, it’s impossible to go more than a few minutes without seeing someone that I know. It’s all about big numbers in small spaces.

The first away fixture of the new season would be sending us out to the East End of London, and despite the inconvenience of a Friday evening kick-off, that was alright with me.

West Ham United vs. Chelsea at 8pm on a Friday night?

Oh, go on then.

I was parked up outside Barons Court tube station on Margravine Gardens at 5pm, and I fancied a jolt of caffeine before Parky, PD and I headed out east. Our usual café just across the way from this red-bricked station, where Parky and I chatted to Seb Coe after a game at Arsenal in 2012, was closing and so we tried “Gail’s Café” for the first time.

“If we lose tonight, we shan’t be coming here again” I warned my two mates. My football-going routines are full of such superstitions.

After some expensive but bland coffee, we caught a District Line train to Westminster, then a Jubilee train to Canary Wharf. On these two journeys, we were the only Chelsea fans. We saw a just a few West Ham. The ratio on this day would be around 60,000 to 3,000 or 20 to 1, so it was not surprising that we were the lone Chelsea contingent. At Canary Wharf, we ascended into the light at the airy train station and into the London of finance, tall tower blocks and evening commuters heading away to their homes in the suburbs.

We turned a corner and spotted the first Chelsea presence of the evening; Leigh, Darren and a few others, mainly from Basingstoke as far as I could see, were drinking at “The Alchemist” and although we were tempted to stop, the consensus was to head over to the stadium even though it was still two hours to kick-off.

“Nice to see you chaps though evidently not that much”, I exclaimed, smiling, as we left them to walk over to the Docklands Light Railway. Before long, we had boarded the driver-less train (I was hoping that West Ham would be equally devoid of a leader) and we soon found ourselves at Pudding Mill Lane, which not only acts as the destination for away fans going to the London Stadium, but also for those attending the ABBA arena too.

It was a quarter of an hour walk to the away turnstiles, and it’s all so familiar now. This would be my ninth visit. Because we were there so early, and the foot traffic was very quiet, the immediate surroundings seemed even more anaemic than usual. There wasn’t the usual hustle and jostle of a football crowd. There were no street vendors, no hawkers of tat, no grafters, no food outlets, no noise, no nothing. It was a bland approach to the stadium, which itself is as bland as it gets. I was never a fan, even in its Olympic year.

There were quick security checks – no SLR this time either, my Sony pub camera was clasped in my hand and nobody spotted it – and the three of us were soon taking a lift to the area outside the away turnstiles. Sharing the tight space was a lone West Ham supporter.

“Here we go for another nine months of hell” he grumbled.

“That’s the spirit” I thought, remembering how awkward it used to be back in the ‘eighties when home fans talked to you as one of their own, and you tried to say as little as possible. I remember settling down to some pie and mash at “Nathan’s” on the Barking Road in 1986 and the West Ham fan sitting opposite trying to strike up a conversation with me about Tony Cottee or Mark Ward, and me being very taciturn.

More checks, more security, but we were in. I did say to the lads that I had fancied walking around the stadium to see if there are any things worth seeing, but without thinking, I was pulled into the away concourse, like a moth to a flame.

West Ham’s London Stadium might be the worst football stadium in London, in the topflight, maybe in the whole country, but I do like its airy concourses outside the steps to the away seats, which provide plenty of space for fellow fans to assemble, drink, and share a laugh. We soon bumped into “Eight Bells” regulars Jimmy and Ian. The latter bought me the dearest Diet Coke ever apparently.

“Cheers mate.”

And there they all were; many familiar faces, far too many to name, ready for the battle against our London enemy.

Yes, I love away games.

And yet, it has not been a good summer regarding away games in the up-coming season. To cut a long story short, many in our support base have felt let down by the club. Firstly, news about the away season ticket took forever to be communicated by the club. Then came the horrific news that away tickets were non-transferable, with the added piece of news that sporadic ID checks would take place at away games, a repeat of what allegedly happened at Tottenham last December.

This panicked many people. Two friends who have been away season ticket holders for a while have very kindly offered me their away tickets over the past seven or eight years if they could not attend games. They immediately contacted me to say that if they could not transfer tickets, they would opt out of renewing in 2025/26. This was understandable. But it meant that I would not be able to help many close friends to tickets, including Parky and PD on occasion.

If you are reading this and have received away tickets from me in this period, they have more-than-likely come via these two mates.

Then, long after the away season ticket cut-off time, we found out that Chelsea Football Club had reneged on this ruling – in other words, away tickets could be transferred – but without any clear communication in the change to their stance.

Everyone I knew was livid, not least my two mates.

It is rumoured that during this period of uncertainty, around two-hundred supporters left the away scheme.

That hurts.

What hurts even more is the near certainty that many away seats in the Chelsea sections at stadia in 2025/26 will be on sale on third party sites for extortionate and obscene prices. By creating a period of uncertainty in the ranks, perhaps on purpose, it’s likely that the club succeeded in weeding out some of our most loyal fans to gain financially from moving tickets to third party platforms.

It sickens me.

I was inside the upper tier with a good forty minutes to go as I fancied settling myself and clearing my head. I had been awake since 4.45am and was feeling a little jaded. My seat was in a very familiar position; the second row of the tier, right in line with the touchline. I was sat next to John and Gary.

The stadium took forever to fill up. I hated the booming dance music that sucks all the life out of the pre-match. I remember the days when football grounds would be bubbling away before kick-off, with songs being sung, and players being serenaded. Not so in 2025.

At last, bodies appeared. The stadium filled.

We heard, late on, that Cole Palmer had injured himself in the kick-in, so he was replaced by Estevao Willian.

Our team?

Sanchez

Gusto – Adarabioyo – Chalobah – Cucurella

Caicedo – Enzo

Estevao – Joao Pedro – Pedro Neto

Delap

“Bubbles” boomed as the players entered the pitch, the longest walk in football.

Chelsea were in all black.

Although this new kit looks clean and neat from a distance, I am not a fan of its odd white “false collar” but I absolutely loathe the Chelsea Collection badge from 1986. It was hated, really hated, when it came along almost forty years ago and there was a real sense of relief when the “lion rampant” badge was reinstated on our centenary in 2005.

In many circles, it was known as the “Millwall badge” and it is obvious why.

I then thought back to the “World Champions” logo on the rear of the hotel wall at Stamford Bridge and it all made perfect – muddled – sense.

Never mind, the oddballs who collect Chelsea shirts like a mania will love it.

West Ham themselves looked a little odd. There were no light blue sleeves, nor much sign of light blue anywhere on their kit. Their kit reminded me of the one they wore in 1986 when they finished in second place in the old First Division, their highest-ever placing.

At 8pm the evening’s entertainment began, and – as always – we attacked the other end in the first half.

It’s so difficult to get our whole section singing as one at West Hame, since there is that hideous void between the two levels. I have always had seats in the upper section and the view from there is bad enough, so God knows what it is like thirty-five rows behind me. I have had contrasting opinions of the view from the lower tier. Some say it’s OK, some hate it. The away fans tried to get behind the players as the game began.

In the first five minutes, Chelsea edged possession but then came the sixth minute.

The ball was played in to Lucas Paqueta, a long distance out, but allowed to advance. I immediately sensed the danger and yelled out “block the space” but nobody heard me. Chelsea backed off and the West Ham player strode on. To my utter disbelief, he struck a brilliant shot – moving and dipping over the flailing and failing arch of Robert Sanchez – and the ball crashed in. To my horror, I was right in line with the path of the ball.

Gutted.

The scorer shot off to celebrate in the right-hand corner and the home fans were in ecstasy.

Well, bollocks. After our staid draw against Palace, this was a horrible way to start our next game.

Behind me, four fans howled “we hate Sanchez” and I just glared at them.

We huffed and puffed and tried our best to get back to level terms. On fifteen minutes, we were given a corner on our right and Pedro Neto aimed at the near post. I captured the moment that Marc Cucurella lept and headed the ball on – a waning skill these days – and we watched with glee as a Chelsea player, no idea who, headed the ball in as it dropped inside the six-yard box.

GET IN.

Then, a scare. West Ham broke down our left in front of us, and the ball was played square. I immediately thought the recipient was offside, so when the cross was turned in by Niclas Fullkrug, whoever he is, I was adamant that VAR would rule it out. There was a wait, but yes, no penalty. Jean-Clair Todibo, whoever he is, was just offside.

Phew, but fuck VAR right?

Five minutes later, we did well to win the ball in the inside-right channel and Joao Pedro flicked a great cross over to a Chelsea player to sweep the ball in. I was too far away to be sure who scored and was too busy celebrating to watch the scorer run to the corner flag where he was mobbed.

A blue flare was dropped from behind me into the void below and the sulphurous fumes filled my nostrils.

On the pitch, we began to purr. You know we played well when I use that word.

The Chelsea support was loving this. With each move, we grew in confidence. Lovely.

On thirty-four minutes, a nice little moment of interplay between Liam Delap and Estevao enabled the young Brazilian to dance away inside the box – quite beautiful – and send over a teasing cross that a Chelsea player swept into the goal.

We were up 3-1.

You beauty.

Another race to the corner flag, more celebrations, more fist-punching from me, more snaps of the lads in black.

I thought back to New Jersey.

Another first-half with three goals.

I realised that I had sat the entire first half, leaning on the safe-standing rail in front of me, but totally engrossed in everything. It had been a cracking game thus far. As the players left the pitch at the break, there were audible boos from the home section.

We eventually learned that the three scorers were Joao Pedro, Pedro Neto and Enzo Pedro Neto, whoever he is.

What would the second half bring? Hopefully more goals.

To be honest, the second period was just funny.

We continued as we had finished. Enzo, though, shot over with a good chance.

On fifty-four minutes, a corner from Enzo down below us and the West Ham player in orange – their goalkeeper apparently – flapped at the ball. Moises Caicedo was on hand to smack the ball in.

More crazy celebrations.

Beautiful.

I remembered the poor bloke’s horrible debut on that sunny Sunday two years ago at the same stadium. Since then, what a revelation he has been.

Just four minutes later, a Pedro Neto corner from down below us, mayhem in the West Ham box, and the ball fell for Chalobah to smash in from close range.

5-1.

Heaven.

More celebrations in Chelsea-ville.

With half-an-hour to go, we hoped for more goals, but no. It wasn’t to be. But we didn’t care. To be honest, the home team conjured up a few chances, but we never looked like conceding.

The hapless Graham Potter was serenaded by the Chelsea faithful. Has there ever been a more lack-lustre personality linked with Chelsea Football Club? I think not.

Substitutions were made.

62 : Andrey Santos for Delap

69 : Reece James for Gusto.

69 : Wesley Fofana for Chalobah.

69 : Jorrel Hato for Cucurella.

A good chance for Estevao, running freely, but a mis-control and a touch too many and over. Ugh.

We didn’t care.

77 : Jamie Gittens for Estevao.

I spoke to the bloke to my left.

“This must be our biggest ever win at West Ham. Does it even up that 0-4 loss to them in 1986…that year again…no, I guess it doesn’t.”

I had answered my own question.

The last part of the game drifted away, as did a good proportion of the home fans.

My player of the match was Pedro Neto. His efforts up and down the wing were the stuff of legend.

At the end of the game, just happiness and smiles.

“Top of the league, lads.”

However, it has to be said; how poor were West Ham?

I trotted out to the concourse and went to use the gents before the trek back West. One of the idiosyncrasies of the gents at West Ham is that the toilets are like a maze, a never-ending pattern of urinals, going on forever. You’re lucky to get out. I reckon it’s one of the reasons why West Ham have gates of 62,000 every game. There was one bloke in there from the final day of the 2012 Olympics.

I met up with PD and Parky and we re-traced our steps. The first DLR train was an odd mix of West Ham fans and ABBA fans. People were dolled up for their night out and were wearing gaudy make up with bright and lurid fashions from the successful era of the mid-‘seventies to the early-‘eighties. The others were the ABBA fans.

From Pudding Mill Lane to Canary Wharf, the night now dark, and the return journey to Westminster, which always seems to be like something out of a dystopian sci-fi horror, then back to good old Barons Court at 11.30pm.

“Gail’s Café” passed its test.

I reached home at 2.20am and I fell asleep at 2.45am.

This Chelsea day at lasted from 4.45am to 2.45am.

Mamma mia.

Next up, another London Derby awaits.

See you in the pub.

BARONS COURT TO PUDDING MILL LANE

LONDON STADIUM

PUDDING MILL LANE TO BARONS COURT

Tales From A Weak Bridge

Posted on April 16, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Ipswich Town : 13 April 2025.

After the uninspiring 0-0 draw at Brentford, Chelsea’s next match was in Poland against Legia Warsaw. With Chelsea yet to play a competitive match in this country, there was a strong chance that I would have been sorely tempted to go. However, quite some time ago I received a letter asking me to attend Jury Service in Bristol during that week. So, no plans were made. Imagine my annoyance when it transpired that I was not needed in court all of that week.

I watched the game in Warsaw on TV. That first-half was so dire, but we managed to scrape three goals from somewhere in the second period to give us a very good platform to advance into the semi-finals.

My football weekend was again double pronged. On the Saturday, I drove into the northern suburbs of Swindon for Frome Town’s away match at the superbly titled Swindon Supermarine, a team that we beat 3-0 just before Christmas, our first home win of the season. This was another “must-win” game of football for the struggling Robins, and I joined around one hundred away fans in a decent gate of 436. It was the home team’s largest attendance of the season. Alas, despite a strong first-half, Frome wilted in the second period and lost the game 1-0 to a goal from Harry Williams five minutes from time.

With just three league games left, the club are now five points from safety. The marked resurgence in our form from December to March has now withered away with five consecutive 1-0 defeats in a row. The need for a 15-20 goal marksman this season was paramount, but with such players so hard to attain, our survival looks impossible.

Sigh.

As Sunday morning arrived, it was up to Chelsea to give me a little football joy on this particular weekend.

Were we up for the task?

I wasn’t sure.

This was a 2pm kick-off, so I wasted no time in the morning. At 7am I picked up PD in Frome. On the way over to collect Parky at 7.30am, our progress was stopped for five minutes when some escaped dairy cows were herded up on the Frome by-pass. Let’s see if I can include this rather odd escapade into the rest of the narrative.

Am I up to the task?

I am not sure.

The pre-match in various parts of Fulham was typical. There was a tasty breakfast on the North End Road at “The Memory Lane Café”.

You know what is coming, right?

10 April 1985 : Nottingham Forest 2 Chelsea 0.

I was back home in Somerset for Easter when this game was played on a Wednesday evening. I listened along on the radio, and we were 0-0 at half-time. Alas we conceded goals to Johnny Metgod and Garry Birtles in the second period to lose 2-0. The gate was a lowly 14,666.

13 April 1985 : West Ham United 1 Chelsea 1.

I know that my friends Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock went up to London for this game, a much-anticipated return to Upton Park for the first time in over four years. I didn’t go. At this stage of the season, I was planning an Inter-Rail trip around Europe in the summer and so didn’t hit too many away games. There was, if I am honest, the threat of trouble at this game too, and I was probably put off from going for this very reason.

This game kicked-off at 11.30am to try to keep alcohol-induced rowdiness to a minimum. It still shocks me to this day that just 19,003 attended this game. David Speedie put us 1-0 up but Tony Cottee equalised. It ended 1-1.

Unbeknown to anyone at the time, an ITV film crew was at this game and would air some footage from Upton Park, and at Victoria and on the District Line, during an hour-long documentary about hooliganism, and the ICF especially.

Later that night, in a Frome night club I met up with Glenn who went through the day’s events, but the night was spoiled when we both got embroiled in an altercation with someone, team unknown.

Let’s get back to 2025.

I moved on and headed towards the area outside Stamford Bridge. I noted that the old ticket hall at Fulham Broadway Station was undergoing some changes and will be opening in June as a new “Wetherspoon” pub.

There is no punchline.

On the Fulham Road, I spotted a sign that I had not seen before.

“Weak Bridge – 330 Yards Ahead.”

It was referencing the physical bridge – Stamford Bridge – that takes the Fulham Road over the railway line, and before that, the small brook called Counter’s Creek.

Stamford Bridge, the stadium, was named after this very bridge.

I thought this was all too spooky for words. I remember when The Bridge was a strong fortress; now there are bloody road signs saying that the bridge is weak.

I spent a few moments chatting to various friends on the Fulham Road outside the tube station. I then caught a train south from Fulham Broadway. It dawned on me at Parsons Green tube station, as I spotted two young gentlemen wearing pink chinos and pink shorts get off the carriage, that the University Boat Race was taking place in this part of West London on this sunny but occasionally cold day.

I wondered to myself if any of the thousands of attendees would be asked by stewards to show them the contents of their wallets.

I guessed not.

I sat with just Parky and PD in “The Eight Bells” as all the other regulars were absent. I heard that Mike from New York – last seen in Abu Dhabi – was at the game but it looked like our paths would unfortunately not cross.

I was inside the ground with half-an-hour to go.

The sun was out, but it was cold in the shadows. The 3,000 away fans – many wearing the pink away shirt – seemed to be a riot of colour.

The team?

Sanchez

Chalobah – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Madueke – Palmer – Neto

Jackson

I spotted that Liam Delap was only a substitute for Ipswich Town.

After “The Liquidator”, we segued into “Blue Is The Colour” and this again set things up nicely with the Stamford Bridge purring along to the famous lyrics.

In the first attack of the game, Cole Palmer received the ball in a good position but took a while to decide what to do. The chance to take aim and strike the ball at goal came and went, and the move ended with an overhit ball to Enzo Fernandez.

I muttered to myself “a move without menace” and wondered if it would set the tone for rest of the game.

Soon after, shambolic distribution from Sanchez had the home crowd howling. As the away fans watched their team in all pink try to get into the game, they sang a song at us.

“Football in a library…”

To be fair, they had a point.

The first quarter of an hour belonged totally to Chelsea. Nicolas Jackson was set up via a good cross from Enzo but his shot was unfortunately smacked against the near post from close range. Then a flurry of chances soon followed. Enzo thumped a shot over the bar, Noni Madueke’s shot was blocked and Trevoh Chalobah’s drive was saved by the Ipswich ‘keeper Alex Palmer.

From a Madueke cross, Levi Colwill forced a fine save from Palmer in The Shed End goal and Marc Cucurella slashed a follow-up effort over the bar.

At this stage, there were little complaints from the home support, although the stadium was hardly making much noise in support of the team.

However.

On twenty-one minutes, the visitors broke and scored with their very first attack. George Hirst did well to escape being hemmed in and broke centrally. I didn’t like the way that Colwill let him run, and when the ball was pushed out to Ben Johnson, Cucurella had to divert his attention from one player to the other, from Hirst to Johnson. He just missed a blocking tackle, and we watched in horror as a cross was nimbly toe-poked into our goal by Julio Enciso.

I said to the boys “watch us go into our shell.”

However, the immediate response from the home fans was good.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA – CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

The Ipswich fans were full of it, of course.

“Can we play you every week?”

There was, sadly, no immediate Chelsea response on the pitch and the mood in the stands deteriorated.

Into our shell we most definitely went.

A “play it out from the back” move much beloved by…er, not many…broke down and Ipswich went close.

The atmosphere blackened.

Ipswich came again just after and I thought that the ball out wide to Enciso looked offside. His cross found the leap and the head of Ben Johnson and we were 2-0 against Ipswich for the second time of the season.

Not even a VAR review could save us.

It was fractured stuff in the closing fifteen minutes of the first period. I loved a fantastic pass from Palmer, reminiscent of similar jewels before Christmas, that set up Cucurella but the move broke down.

Madueke – one of our better, more positive players – drilled a shot over the bar, the reliable Moises Caicedo shot wide, and after a beautiful dink from Enzo, Jackson’s intuitive lob was well over.

The skies were darkening over Stamford Bridge as the first period came to its conclusion.

At the half-time whistle, boos.

During the break, unsurprising moans.

Enzo Maresca made a substitution, though not one that many would have predicted. On came Malo Gusto, off went Tosin. Chalobah moved alongside Colwill in the centre.

The second half began with my friend Alex appearing next to me and demanding a selfie. I promised her that if we came back to win this one, we’d do “come back selfies” at all other games in which we were losing at half-time.

With that, down on the pitch, Madueke burst forward down the right, made the goal line, passed low, and a lunge at the ball by Cucurella forced Axel Tuanzebe to push the ball into his own net.

I laughed and turned around to see Alex’ reaction.

Smiles all round.

Barely twenty seconds of the second half had elapsed.

The vibe inside the stadium certainly improved and we were attempting to grab, at least, an equaliser.

A Pedro Neto shot was aimed right at the ‘keeper. But then Hirst had two decent chances for Ipswich. He was just wide with a shot, and then from a fantastic cross from their right, his stooping header just went past the post.

It was an open game.

Another Neto shot at the ‘keeper, and then a delicate Neto cross towards the far post that evaded everyone.

A change on sixty-seven minutes.

Jadon Sancho for Madueke.

Neto was moved over to the right and Sancho appeared down below us on the left.

The Chelsea chances continued to pile up; a Palmer effort was deflected wide, a Neto volley just over. Sancho sent in a low cross and it was touched towards goal by Enzo, but Conor Townsend managed to hoof the ball out and away from goal. Then another shot from Enzo, but another save from Palmer.

Fackinell.

On seventy-nine minutes, Palmer played a short corner to Sancho. He sized things up, and shot, and I shot too. The ball flew fast and seemed to dip before it nestled inside the far post.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Phew.

I looked around and caught Alex’ eye again.

I have stopped worrying about us obtaining a Champions League place this season. It won’t happen. I am not sure how far up – or down – the league table we will finish this year, but while there are points to be won, Chelsea have my attention.

Could we grab a winner against lowly Ipswich? This was now my focus, and it did make me squirm to realise that this would be a pretty decent achievement in the circumstances.

On eighty-five minutes, Chalobah came close with a high leap at the far post that I managed to capture on film but the ‘keeper somehow managed to block.

Somehow.

A shot from Palmer was flashed over.

With four minutes to go, the much-maligned Christopher Nkunku replaced Jackson.

There were six minutes of time added on at the ninety-minute mark.

We kept going.

A low curler from Palmer was pushed around the post by his namesake.

The last chance of the game came from Enzo, who smashed a ball at goal but the bastard Ipswich ‘keeper again made another phenomenal stop.

It ended 2-2.

As we made our way out, the away fans were singing “We Support Our Local Team” and their players stood in front of the packed away end, as one.

I thought to myself : “fair play to them.”

Walking up towards “The Wolfpack” with my head down and pacing forlornly, I suddenly looked to my right and spotted Mike from New York. It was lovely to see him once again, an unexpected pleasure at the end of a rather disappointing and disjointed performance from the team.

This is becoming another tough season.

Despite the frustrations of the domestic campaign, there is our increasingly advanced participation in the UEFA Conference League.

However, as I drove home from London, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to attend the game against Legia Warsaw on Thursday.

And I still don’t know who won the boat race.

Tales From The Only Place To Be Every Other Monday Night

Posted on February 8, 2025 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 February 2025.

Chelsea played Wolves on Monday 20 January and here we all were again, assembling at Stamford Bridge a fortnight later for another home game, this time versus our old enemies West Ham United.

I can’t deny it, during the day I was rather non-plussed about the early start for an early shift and the trip up to London for a game on the first day of the working week. I was up at 4.45am and I would not be back until around 1am. We, the fans who use up every spare penny and every spare minute to follow and support our teams, are slaves to TV schedules. And it is really starting to hurt now.

The Dodge In Deepest Dorset.

But for every negative there is a positive. With no Chelsea game at the weekend, I was able to spin down to Poole in Dorset, birthplace of my maternal grandmother, to see Frome Town play on the Saturday afternoon. It was an easy trip, just an hour-and-a-half, and around seventy Frome fans had made the journey. Despite gloomy grey skies, the threat of rain held off. Unfortunately, the first half was a non-event, a real yawn fest, with no team showing much promise. In truth there was just one worthwhile shot in anger, from Frome’s Albie Hopkins, a curler just wide of the far post.

I remember that before our 0-4 defeat at Bournemouth in 2019, Maurizio Sarri had us training in the morning of the game on that very same pitch.

Thankfully, the second half was much livelier, and much more encouraging from a Frome point of view. The away team were immediately on top, and threatening, with a lot more adventure in our play. On sixty-six minutes, the Poole Town ‘keeper showed “Spin The Wheel Sanchez” tendencies and mistimed his manic attempt to rush out and clear, allowing Hopkins to gather just inside the Poole half and lob a shot towards the unguarded goal. Thankfully it was on target. The Frome faithful in the 564 attendance went doo-lally. We held on for a fine away win, and the current run in the league stood at three wins, two draws and just one loss. I drove back home a very contented fan of The Dodge. The Great Escape was continuing.

The Setting Sun.

I dropped PD and LP off at “The Eight Bells” at 4.20pm – just two and a quarter hour since leaving Melksham – and then killed some time driving around the back streets of Fulham, waiting for 5pm to arrive and thus enabling me to park for free. On my slow meander, I spotted that some streets south of Lillee Road were marked as being available after 5pm on weekdays, but not on Saturdays, and I was able to park up right outside “The Elephant & Barrel” – formerly “The Rylston” – and this suited me just fine. There was even time for a super photo of one of the main tower blocks of the Clem Atlee Estate, with the setting sun glinting off its windows, and it was all very similar to the shot I took of the sunset and the Empress State Building two weeks earlier.

Fearing tiredness, I did think about grabbing a little sleep in my car, knowing full well that it would be a long night ahead. There was, after all, still three hours to kick-off. But no, my adrenalin was pumping now, and I set off for Stamford Bridge.

A Little Bit Of America.

I needed some sustenance, so stopped off at a new eatery at the bottom end of the North End Road, almost opposite the “Memory Lane Café Ole”.

“Popeyes” has been open a few months and I dived in for the first time. As a frequent visitor to the US over the past three decades or more, I often spotted “Popeyes” chicken restaurants, usually in the South, but I had never once visited. This was my first time, in the deep south of Fulham. It was pretty decent. I chatted to a couple of match-going Chelsea fans. One lad from just outside Dublin had paid £85 for a ticket. Ouch.

I have noted that in addition to “Five Guys” at Fulham Broadway, two other US fast food places have recently opened in the area; “Taco Bell” next to “The Broadway Bar & Grill” and “Wendy’s”, where “The White Hart” pub used to be. Of course, the long-standing “McDonalds” is situated on the North End Road too.

In addition to the US in the boardroom at Stamford Bridge, we now have a few more US restaurants nearby too.

It got me thinking.

In the days of me posting my match reports on the much-missed Chelsea In America website, the addition of this little bit of info would probably have triggered a riot of comments and activity. It’s hard to believe that back in the heyday of the CIA from around 2009 to 2012, my posts would often get over a thousand views. These days, I am lucky to get a quarter of that volume.

I darted in to see Mr and Mrs B and Mr and Mrs T in “The Vanston Café” and then took a few “mood shots” of the matchday scene outside Stamford Bridge.

Pre-Match Razzle.

I was inside early at 7.05pm – 1905, a great number – and my good mate Alan was already in. We waited for others to arrive and the announcement of the teams. As usual, we directed a little bit of ire at the idiots watching from behind the cordon down below us as the players – year of the snake shirts, my arse – went through their routines. For the first time for a few months, a DJ was up to her tricks again, in residence in a booth behind these corporate guests.

She opened up with “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears For Fears from 1985.

1985, eh? More of that later.

The music boomed away, making conversation quite difficult. I gave up talking to Anna. It got worse. We were entertained – or not – by something called “Fan Cam” which featured fans bedecked in Chelsea colours in the East Lower smiling and gurning at the camera, with the images projected on the giant TV screens. I noted one female fan waving a flag with a pole attached. How was she allowed in with that? Ah, maybe it was staged, a plant from inside.

Fakes at Chowlsea? Surely not.

Anyway, the whole thing just screamed “America” and I bet the West Ham fans, positioned just yards away, had a few choice adjectives to describe the scene to their right.

I tut-tutted, as per.

“The game’s gone.”

At 7.50pm, a little bit of normality with “London Calling.”

But then the lights dimmed, and a light show took over. There was also a segment of a heavy metal rock song that seemed to be totally out of place. It screamed America once again, but WWE or NFL, or some other faux sport.

It wasn’t Chelsea.

Fackinell.

Us.

The team had been announced an hour previously and the big news was “no Sanchez.” In fact, when Filip Jorgensen’s name was announced, there was noticeable applause. It was a shock that our Trev was dropped.

Anyway, this was us –

Jorgensen

James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella

Enzo – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

The geezer with the microphone continued to annoy me.

Shut up mate.

Just shut up.

Thankfully, back to normality, the lights on, and a few blasts of “Liquidator.”

Sadly, Clive was not at this game, but it was lovely to be sat alongside Alan again after he missed a couple of matches over recent weeks.

Back in 1985, it was me who was not always present at Chelsea games.

Wigan Athletic Away.

After drawing 2-2 in the third round of the cup, we travelled to Wigan Athletic’s Springfield Park on Saturday 26 January 1985. I did not attend; I was stuck in Stoke, listening for updates on my radio. We demolished Wigan, winning 5-0 with Kerry Dixon getting four and one from David Speedie. The attendance was 9,708. In the next round we were drawn against Millwall at home, with the game set to be played the following Thursday. This was odd. Chelsea and Millwall rarely played each other, yet this would be the third encounter of the season. I doubted if I would attend the game at such short notice.

Sheffield Wednesday Home.

On the Monday after the Saturday, on 28 January, we played our fierce rivals Sheffield Wednesday in the fifth round of the Milk (League) Cup. I did not attend this one either. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. A massive crowd of 36,608 saw an entertaining 1-1 draw with a goal from David Speedie equalising one from Lawrie Madden. Chelsea’s infamous penalty woes of 1984 and 1985 continued as Wednesday ‘keeper Martin Hodge saved one from Kerry Dixon. If that had gone in, Chelsea would have reached our first semi-final of any type since 1972. I listened to the whole game on Radio 2, a real treat. The replay would be just two days later, thus cancelling out the game with Millwall in the other cup on the Thursday.

Sheffield Wednesday Away.

This game took place on Wednesday 30 January. Are you keeping up? This means three games in five days. Again, I was stuck in Stoke. I had a pool game in the local, then came home to listen to the match on the radio. I remember the gut-wrenching feeling of us going 0-3 down in the first half. We quickly scored forty-five seconds into the second half, through Paul Canoville, but for some reason I drifted off to sleep. I was awoken by my room-mate and his girl-friend bursting in to tell me that it was 3-3 with goals from Kerry Dixon and Micky Thomas. I could hardly believe them. With that, Canoville scored a fourth to give us a highly improbable 4-3 lead. As we all know, as the song says, in the dying moments, Doug Rougvie fouled a Sheffield Wednesday player in the box and the home team equalised via a Mel Sterland penalty. An extra thirty minutes were played but it it ended 4-4. It remains one of the games that I really feel bad about missing. The gate was 36,505.

The two clubs were such rivals in 1983/84 and 1984/85. Even our gates were well matched.

“Three-nil down, four-three up, Dougie Rougvie fucked it up.”

What a game.

Leicester City Away.

On Saturday 2 February, back to the normalcy of the league campaign and my only ever visit to Filbert Street. This was now our fourth game in just eight days. I caught an early morning train to Derby where I had a while to wait before getting a train to Leicester, arriving at 10.30am. There was a cheap fry up in a cheap café. I embarked on a little tour of the city centre – for the only time, I have not been back since – and made it down to the ground at 11.30am. I decided to buy a £4.50 seat in the side stand rather than stand on the terrace. I can’t over-emphasise the importance or cachet in going in the seats at away games in this era. For some reason, London clubs made a habit of it.

It was the done thing.

I guess it went hand-in-hand with the casual movement at the time. If you had a bit more money to spend – which I didn’t, I was a student – then you always tried to go in the seats. I had done so at Hillsborough in December and I would do it at Stoke later on that season.

Then there was the thrill of singing “One Man Went To Mow” in those seats, sitting until ten, and then thousands getting up en masse and putting on a show for the locals.

Brilliant times.

I circumnavigated the ground and the inevitable photos. I spotted Leggo, Mark and Simon. My mate Glenn from Frome arrived and I had a chat. There was a lot of fighting in the top tier of the double-decker to my left. A home area, Chelsea had obviously infiltrated it. I noted tons of Aquascutum scarves.

So much for sitting at away games. A bloke was in my seat and unwilling to move, so I was forced to stand in the gangway at the back of the slim section of seats.

After just four minutes, Gary Lineker headed home from a corner to give the home team a 1-0 lead. Thankfully, we were awarded a penalty on half-time. The Chelsea fans chanted for the ‘keeper to take the spot-kick after the misses of the past year or so.

“Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

But not to worry, David Speedie slotted it home. This was an entertaining match. Chelsea bossed the second half, but I also noted that Eddie Niedzwiecki made three stunning saves. It ended 1-1 before a gate of 15,657.

There was a thin police escort, past the rugby ground, back to the station and I saw groups of lads going toe-to-toe in a nearby park. I made it back unscathed, met up with Glenn again, then some other lads, and then a massive Chelsea mob turned up. There was a formidable police presence at the train station. I caught the train back to Derby, arriving just as their special came in from Lincoln. I kept silent.

Next up, two days later, was the Millwall FA Cup tie, but that’s another story.

Let’s return to 2025.

First-Half.

Chelsea attacked the three thousand away fans and Parkyville in the first half.

Soon into the game, fifteen-seconds in fact, there was the first rendition of “Blue Flag – Up Your Arse” from the away support.

Blimey.

That must be a record.

The two sets of fans then traded Lampard chants for a few minutes, and I wondered if I was watching a pantomime.

Oh, by the way…Graham Potter.

Who?

Six minutes in, after a dull start, a little piece of magic from Cole Palmer in the inside-left position, twisting and creating space, but the ball went off for a corner.

On fifteen minutes, a chance for Noni Madueke as he danced in from the right but curled a shot just wide of the magnificently named Alphonse Areola’s far post.

West Ham enjoyed a little spell with Aaron Wan-Bissaka racing past his defender and setting up Jarrod Bowen who forced Jorgensen to block well at the near post. From the corner, Levi Colwill headed out and somebody called Andy Irving shot over. This was a rare attacking phase from the visitors who seemed more than content to sit deep – yeah yeah, low fucking block – and occasionally venture north.

We regained the impetus, but our play was rather slow. On twenty-two minutes, the ball broke for Palmer but he was stretching and the shot was well over. Two minutes later, some nice link-up play and a cross from Reece James but Marc Cucurella headed over.

Just after, a ball out of defence from Tosin towards Nicolas Jackson, but the ball hit him and he fell over.

Shades of classic Dave Mitchell in 1989 when he was put through at The Shed End and the ball hit him on the back of the head.

On the half-hour, a terrible ball from a West Ham player ended up at the feet of Madueke who raced away, deep into the box, and played the ball back to Enzo Fernandez who had supported the attack well. Alas, his rather scuffed shot bobbled past the far post. Enzo often drifted to the right with Cucurella coming in to support the midfield from the left.

But this was far from a great first-half show. My main complaint was the lack of movement from our attacking players. I must have shouted “angles” ten times in that first-half. We also lacked discipline and gave away far too many needless fouls.

On thirty-seven minutes, a Mohammed Kudus shot was saved by Jorgensen, who thankfully was showing none of Sanchez bizarre desire to pass to the opposing team.

On forty minutes, Jadon Sancho leaned back and sent a curler high over the bar. I was tapping away on my phone, recording a few notes to share here, when I looked up to see the end of a West Ham break, a Bowen shot, a West Ham goal.

Fackinell.

Colwill had given the ball away cheaply.

Bollocks.

On a night when a win – or draw – would send us back to fourth place, this now became an uphill battle.

We had high hopes in the closing moments of the half when a perfectly positioned free-kick presented Palmer with a fine opportunity to lift the ball over the wall. Alas, although the kick was superbly taken, Areola matched it with an absolutely superb save. There was some late Chelsea pressure late on, but we went in 0-1 down at the break.

Must do better Chelsea.

A Half-Time Show.

During the break, I was well aware that the DJ was continuing her ear-drum bashing music show – it began with more Tears For Fears, “Shout”, how appropriate – but I did not spot the sight of those around her in the West Lower grooving and dancing, and seemingly having a whale of a time. This was pointed out to me afterwards.

Chelsea fans smiling and laughing.

At half-time.

While losing 0-1 to bitter London rivals.

The game is gone.

Seriously, what on Earth was that all about? Evidence suggests that – again – people were placed in that area to create false jollity.

Do fuck off.

The Second Half.

The ill-discipline of the first half continued into the second, with a silly early foul annoying PD and me alike.

Rather than make some changes at the break, Enzo Maresca chose to wait until the seventh minute of the second period.

Marc Guiu for Jackson.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Throughout the match thus far, we were had been – sadly – totally out sung by the knot of West Ham supporters in the far corner. There were the usual songs about Frank Lampard and Stamford Bridge falling down, and the blue flag being pushed somewhere unsightly, but a few new ones too. I looked on with an uncomfortable expression.

West Ham conjured up a couple of chances too, the buggers.

On the hour, at fucking last, a loud and uplifting roar from the home areas.

“COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA – COME ON CHELSEA.”

More substitutions.

Christopher Nkunku for Madueke

Malo Gusto for James

Neto had started out on the left but was now shifted to the right. To be honest, from this moment on, he changed the game.

First, however, a wild and lazy shot from Tosin, and we all sighed.

Down in the far corner, the away fans were full of mischief.

“Chelsea are Rent Boys, everywhere they go.”

Well, that should result in your club getting hammered with a fine, lads.

Well done.

Then, a fine Chelsea move on sixty-four minutes. The ball was played intelligently, and it found Neto, teasing his marker Emerson on the right. A cross was clipped into the danger area. Guiu rose but did not connect. Instead, Cucurella on the far post played in Enzo. His shot was blocked but it fell rather nicely to Neto. I watched him. I focussed on his body language. He looked supremely confident and happy to be presented with a real chance. He ate it up.

Smack.

The ball made it through a forest of legs.

Goal.

I snapped as Neto raced away in joyful celebration.

I noted Alan wasn’t celebrating. He was waiting for the malodorous stench of VAR.

Oh bloody hell.

VAR.

A long wait.

Maybe two minutes?

Goal.

Neither Alan nor I celebrated. We did not move a muscle.

Fuck VAR.

It has ruined my favourite sport.

Ten minutes later, with the Stamford Bridge crowd thankfully making a little more noise, a move was worked through to Cucurella down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. He played the ball back to Palmer. He attacked Tomas Soucek and then Wan-Bissaka. Level with the six-yard box, he whipped the ball in. To my pleasure, but also astonishment, the ball found the net, and I only really realised after that the ball had been deflected in off Wan-Bassaka.

Palmer’s celebrations were muted.

Everybody else went ballistic.

GET IN.

Soon after, a Tosin header went close, Palmer went just wide. Guiu, full of honest running, was unable to finish after fine play again from Neto.

On eighty-seven minutes, Trevoh Chalobah replaced Palmer.

There were seven minutes of added time and this became a nervy finale, with a mixture of desperate blocks and timely saves assuring us of the three points.

At around 9.55pm, the referee’s whistle pierced the night sky, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a quick getaway. I hot-footed it back to the car, collected PD and LP, and I did not stop once on my return home.

I pulled into my drive at 12.45am.

Such is life, though; after a night at football, I can never go straight to bed. There are things to review, photos to check, photos to edit, photos to share. I suppose I eventually drifted off to sleep at 3am.

4.45am to 3am.

Monday Night Football.

Thanks.

Next up, the FA Cup and a trip to Sussex by the sea. And, unlike in 1985, there will be no replays.

I might see you there.

Outside

Pre-Match

Chelsea vs. West Ham United

Sheffield Wednesday Away

Leicester City Away

Tales From Two Tribes

Posted on September 23, 2024 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 21 September 2024.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ICF…ICF.”

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

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

“Fuck that.”

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

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

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

Us in 1984?

Niedzwiecki

Lee – McLaughlin – Pates – Rougvie

Nevin– Bumstead – Spackman – Thomas

Dixon – Speedie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The ICF did their job, then.”

I glumly nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

My brain short-circuited.

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

This just didn’t compute.

Security Check One : in.

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

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

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

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

I had no words.

Security Check Three : in.

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

“You haven’t got any drugs, sir.”

“No.”

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

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

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

It is, as I suspected, horrific.

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

Us in 2024?

Sanchez

Cucarella – Adarabioyo – Colwill – Fofana

Enzo – Caicedo

Sancho – Palmer – Madueke

Jackson

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

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

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

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

Snigger.

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

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

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

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

Get in.

A jubilant run past a fresh set of home fans.

A slide.

You beauty.

We were 2-0 up early.

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

Were we safe? Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful.

3-0.

Safe now.

I began thinking again of some pie and mash.

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

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

Time for some changes.

Pedro Neto for Sancho.

Axel Disasi for Colwill.

Christopher Nkunku for Jackson.

Joao Felix for Palmer.

Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo.

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

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

Alas, no.

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

Barrow.

Brighton & Hove Albion.

Gent.

Nottingham Forest.

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

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

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

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

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

Gulp.

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

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

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

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

“The Blackfriar.”

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

“The Albion.”

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

“Punch Tavern.”

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

“The Old Bell.”

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

“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.”

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

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

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

I eventually reached home at just after midnight.

September 15 1984.

Chelsea 3 West Ham United 0.

September 21 2024.

West Ham United 0 Chelsea 3.

Fackinell.

See you on Tuesday.

Before The Game : 1984

The Game : 1984

Before The Game : 2024

The Game : 2024

After The Game : 2024

Tales From Archie’s First London Derby

Posted on May 6, 2024 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 5 May 2024.

With my good friend Alan’s absence from the Chelsea vs. West Ham game due to Bromley’s participation in the National League play-off final at Wembley, there was an extra space in The Sleepy Hollow. Clive had originally given his ticket to Glenn, but it was Clive who picked up Alan’s ticket. Confused? Yeah, me too.

So, the upshot of all that is that there were now five heading up to London in my car for the second London derby in four days. I collected PD and then Glenn at 6.45am, Ron at 7am, Lord Parky at 7.20am.

By 9.20am, I had deposited three of the passengers near “The Eight Bells” and one at the gates to Stamford Bridge. I parked up and darted into the “McDonalds” for a bite to eat and a much-needed coffee. There was a quick chat with John and his son.

“Odd feeling today. I said to the chaps in the car that I was really confident today, but they were having none of it.”

I had a quick chat with Marco at the “CFCUK” stall, a few words with Steve at his programme stall, a brief chat and catch-up with a few former players in the hotel, and a drink with Donna, whose daughter Tallulah was one of the match mascots on this warm and sunny day in West London. I didn’t have my Canon SLR with me on this particular day; the baggage checks are getting more and more draconian and for reasons that I will keep to myself, I didn’t want to risk it. I would be making do with my smaller Sony camera and so, sadly, wouldn’t be able to take any close-ups of Tallulah as she made her way onto the pitch.

With the tubes kaput, I was forced to take the 414 bus down to Putney Bridge. I strolled into the pub just before 11.30am. The boys – joined by the Normandy Division of Ollie and Julien – were already getting stuck into some beers. It was Ollie’s birthday the previous day. To celebrate, I bought a round of shots. A few more rounds of shots would follow.

I, of course, was driving so nothing alcoholic for me.

I took a photo of the lads and posted it on “Facebook.”

I titled it : “Fooligans.”

My friends Aroha and Luke were in the pub, in the far corner, and they were with their two-and-a-half-year-old son Archie, who was bedecked in a blue Chelsea top. This was to be his third Chelsea game, and his first London derby. I have known Aroha and Luke for over ten years or more, and it was a joy to see them bringing their little lad to Chelsea.

At just after 1pm, we set off to catch the 22 bus to Stamford Bridge. Archie was hoisted on top of his father’s shoulders and he joined in with the chanting. I loved that.

However, the bus trip didn’t go as planned, and we seemed to take forever to reach the appropriate point on the King’s Road. Eventually we got off. Very soon, the support struts of the roof at Stamford Bridge could be seen, and I looked back at just the right time to see little Archie’s face light up as he pointed at the sight ahead.

Dear reader, it was such a beautiful moment.

The wonderment and excitement on his little face will be etched on my brain for a long time. We said our goodbyes as we opened up on to the Fulham Road and we made our way in. Lo and behold, nobody stopped me at the second, usually more thorough, bag check at the bottom of the steps to the MHU.

Oh well, I was in.

However, such had been the delay on the bus that I was only just in. As I walked up the final few steps to The Sleepy Hollow, “Liquidator” was booming.

I know I work in logistics, but this really was a little too “just in time” for my liking.

We had heard that Thiago Silva was starting, and the defensive line had been shuffled to accomdate him.

Petrovic

Chalobah – Badiashile – Silva – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

The bench looked ridiculously stronger than against Tottenham on Thursday.

As the game began, I promised myself to make a note of the movements of comrade Cucarella, who – unbeknown to me – had been adopting a new position further infield once we were in possession in the past one-and-a-half games. The nerds were going wild about it on social media; plainly I had missed the email. I have to say how impressed I was with Cucarella’s scurrying back to his left-back berth once possession was lost, but I noted that even in the first ten minutes, his man was way clear on the right-hand touchline on one occasion. You would think it would be a high-risk strategy, but the wide man was only noticeably unmarked on one other occasion during the whole game.

The West Ham three-thousand started to sing about being “Champions of Europe” and we all guffawed with laughter. I am still unsure if their version is due to them being deluded or a nice effort at self-deprecating irony. For the future of mankind, I hoped for the latter but feared the former.

Fackinell.

In some ways, with no SLR, the pressure was off me to try to get a few killer photographs. The smaller camera was, in my eyes, simply not up to the task. I decided not to take as many photos. On this day, I would take just forty-five photos from the ninety minutes. I usually take three times that amount. I relaxed a little. I still made a note of a few key moments on my ‘phone, but this would be a different kind of game for me. I would be less of a photographer, more of a fan. If that is fucking possible.

There was a little light-jousting in the first quarter of an hour, but I was soon being gloriously entertained.

On fifteen minutes, Noni Madueke created just enough space to lift a cross towards the penalty spot. Nicholas Jackson took a swing but his effort was blocked and the ball came out to the waiting Cole Palmer. I think I inwardly relaxed. Did I expect a goal? Truthfully, yes. Our little diamond instinctively swept the ball in with a gentle swipe towards the far post.

The net rustled.

Areola must have felt a tit.

Chelsea 1 West Ham United 0.

Just after, the head of Jarrod Bowen got to the ball from a corner from Emerson – who? he? – down below us. The header flew in, but thankfully cannoned back off the bar.

Phew.

At around this time, I leaned forward and told Albert in the row in front of me about Clive’s teaser from Thursday. To my shock, Albert only took six guesses and about five minutes to guess the five England players, the “G-Men” from the ‘eighties. I slapped him on the back.

“Well done, son. Well impressed.”

With that, Clive managed to lose the grip on a cup of boiling hot chocolate and a large portion of it spilled onto Albert.

“Easy, Clive, no need to be like that.”

Unfortunately, there are no photographs of the incident.

We were all howling.

With twenty-five minutes gone, we were playing some lovely football. Everything seemed to be knitting together nicely. Efforts from several players rained in on the West Ham goal.

We spoke a little about the day in 1984, almost forty years ago, when West Ham, and more importantly the ICF, visited in vast numbers and despite Chelsea winning 3-0 on the day, it felt that we had been embarrassed a little. Clive took a few hits in The Shed that day. Glenn and I admitted that we were in the safest part of the ground that day; the benches. West Ham, at various times, were in all other parts of the ground. Shudder.

Forty years ago, Fackinell.

On the half-hour mark, a long move saw us creep up the pitch. It was begun with a firm first-time side-foot out of defensive from Thiago Silva, and it really pleased me. It was right on the money. The move developed, mainly down our tight, and although the ball was momentarily lost, it was soon regained. Palmer struck a low roller to the feet of Madueke, but when the ball was semi-cleared – a little similar to the first goal – it ran nicely to Coner Gallagher, who smacked it home on the volley.

Blue & Whites 2 Clarets & Blues 0.

A little knot of Essex Blues behind me were loving it.

Six minutes later, a deep corner in front of the away support from Mkhailo Mudryk was headed back into the six-yard box by Thiago Silva – a resounding leap and header, pure poetry – and the ball ended up in the net. I was a little unsighted, but that man Maduke, had got the final touch.

The Richardsons 3 The Krays 0.

I was up and celebrating with the lads behind me. That little walkway behind my seat has seen some exuberant celebrations over the years and here was another one.

I was up and celebrating another chance just after, as Gallagher smacked a shot from a Palmer cross, after more beautiful twists and turns on the right, against the bar. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t really know what had happened.

But – oh boy, we were purring.

Conor was through, one on one, but fell too easily.

Bizarrely, Bowen hit the Chelsea bar again, just before the break.

At half-time, the warm buzz of quality football. Bliss. A few West Ham fans had already left.

Just three minutes into the second-half, a magnificent ball from deep from Trevoh Chalobah – the sort of ball that I have been wanting to be played for so long – evaded everyone, but dropped into the path of Madueke inside the box. Rather than finish himself, he played the ball square to Nicolas Jackson, who coolly pushed the ball home. Jackson had been a constant worry to the West Ham defence and the goal was richly deserved.

Fulham Broadway 4 Pudding Mill Lane 0.

Up came a massively entertaining chant, slightly-altered from Thursday.

“West Ham get battered, everywhere they go.”

I spotted a little show-boating from Palmer in the middle of the pitch, and the match began to resemble a training game. I wanted more goals – “let’s humiliate them” – but I think that the intensity dropped, and that’s not surprising really.

West Ham threatened our goal with a few half-chances. There was a great save from Petrovic from a James Ward-Prowse free-kick.

Bowen gained an unlikely hat-trick by hitting the bar once again; this time via a slight deflection. Not with his right foot though, so not a perfect woodwork hat-trick. Must try better.

Substitutions took place late in the game.

Cesare Casadei for Madueke.

Christopher Nknunku for Mudryk.

On eighty minutes, Moises Caicedo won the ball and pushed the ball into the path of the raiding Jackson. To my eyes, it looked offside, and so when Jackson finished coolly, I was not celebrating with too much enthusiasm. There was a massive wait for VAR to confirm…no offside, goal. Kurt Zouma – who? he? – had played him on.

Joe Cole 5 Carlton Cole 0.

More substitutions.

Axel Disasi for Thiago Silva.

Malo Gusto for Chalobah.

Alfie Gilchrist for Palmer.

This was another lovely Chelsea performance and it was a joy to watch from the stands. In the end, my photos weren’t too bad and I include some here of course.

On the drive home, we eyed our last three games and we dreamed of three more wins, and maybe, Europe.

Next up, a solo trip to Nottingham.

See you there.

PS – Archie loved it!

Tales From West Ham 3, Pie 2, Mash 2, Chelsea 1

Posted on August 23, 2023 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 20 August 2023.

There were several instances during the build-up to our game against West Ham at the London Stadium where I told my match-day companions that I fancied us to win. And I honestly believed it. Despite me venturing to the Stratford wastelands on six previous occasions and not seeing a single Chelsea victory, after the pleasing performance against Liverpool I sensed a few reasons to be cheerful. I couldn’t have been the only one.

My week had been busy from a footballing perspective. There were two Frome Town away games, encompassing two new grounds, on the Tuesday and Saturday, and both were enjoyable.

I drove down to Salisbury on the Tuesday after work and met up with Salisbury Steve for the league game against newly-promoted Bemerton Heath Harlequins. I loved their neat ground with a decent clubhouse behind one goal and tall yew trees on two of the remaining three sides. Despite going ahead, Frome Town contrived to get two players sent off and eventually lost 1-3.

On the Saturday morning, it was an early start for me – to avoid holiday traffic – as I drove the 170 miles down to Falmouth in Cornwall. I set off at 6am and arrived at 10am for the second preliminary round of the FA Cup and a match against Falmouth Town. This was another excellent ground, with a bona fide terrace behind one goal and seats set upon a slope along one side. There was even a noisy home support, including a section called “F Troop” involving banners, flags, a music system and even a bloke in a Pikachu body suit – don’t ask – but despite all this, Frome Town carved out a fine 6-2 win.

I got back from Falmouth at 9.30pm on Saturday night. I was up again at 6.30am to head up to London. Over the weekend, I would end up driving 560 miles for football. It’s my life.

I had picked up PD, Simon and Parky by 8.30am and we were parked at Barons Court by 10.30am.

At last we were able to enjoy a decent pre-match prior to a West Ham away game. All the others had been early kick-offs or evening games. Here was the chance to relax. We headed to London Bridge, just as the women’s World Cup Final was kicking-off. There was a vague plan to catch a bit of the game but none of us were too bothered.

I hadn’t seen a single kick of the men’s World Cup in Qatar, and – thus far – I had not seen a single kick of the women’s World Cup in Australia and New Zealand either. International football isn’t my thing for reasons that I can’t be arsed to list.

As we changed trains at Green Park, Parky realised that he had left his match ticket in my car so he had to back-track.

Simon, PD and I ploughed on regardless. We walked from London Bridge to Tower Bridge Road and made our first stop of our pre-match on both banks of the River Thames. I had visited M. Manze once before, and I had promised the lads a visit on one of our wanders around London on a subsequent match day. This establishment, which dates from 1892, serves up traditional pie and mash, and is much-revered. It reminds me of the very first pie and mash shop that I visited on the North End Road before the famous 5-0 Leeds United game in April 1984. I was with PD then, too.

All three of us opted for double pie and double mash, served with the famous parsley-decorated green liquor, and splashed with copious amounts of white pepper and chilli vinegar. It’s a London staple, not found elsewhere in the UK. The food didn’t touch the sides. We sat at old wooden benches and ate in glorious silence. We heard that Spain were 1-0 up down under. Replenished, we left the green and white tiled interior and caught a bus to Canada Water. From here, an overground train to Wapping, which – er – went under the Thames.

From here, we walked up to a famous old pub, The Prospect Of Whitby, which has been on “the list” for a while. This is a glorious pub, and acted as our base camp. Not long after the first drinks were ordered, Parky joined us. In Sydney, the score had stayed 1-0 to Spain. We had not seen a single kick of the game.

It was time to relax. This boozer abuts onto the River Thames. There are stone floors, wooden beams, terraces, a beer garden, history everywhere. Out in the river, a noose hangs from a gibbet, a memory of the days of yore when pirates were put to their death on this site.

There were drinks and laughs.

Simon told of how his grandson is named Enzo – not because of our Argentinian midfielder – and he had recently bought him an Enzo shirt.

This was such a fine time.

“Do we have to go to the game?”

I could have stayed there all day.

A Chelsea fan who lived locally arrived to give Simon a spare ticket, and we were then able to move on to the next pub. Wapping, once an area of trade and warehouses, was yuppified in the ‘eighties, with conversions taking place everywhere. Nowadays, the place reeks of wealth. On the walk between pubs, we spotted Porsches and Mercs parked on the cobbled streets. There is a distinct air of fine living in the shadows underneath the converted warehouses. I saw a couple of people with West Ham shirts. This wasn’t classic Cockney territory like Mile End, Poplar or Plaistow, but as good as it gets in modern day London.

Fackinell.

We dipped into the second pub, “The Town Of Ramsgate”, and this was another Thames-side pub with a terrace abutting the river and access to the shingled reach below. It was another winner. We made plans to return. There are three other pubs close by.

At about 3.15pm, Simon booked an Uber and we were soon on our way to the game. The London Stadium was less than three miles away. We could relax.

“Been a great pre-match, boys. Was even better when Parky fucked off for ninety minutes.”

“I still fancy us to win today.”

Halfway to our destination, I continued on :

“Tell you what, it makes a nice change to get to an away game early. No rush. Fed up of arriving late. Glad we have grown out of that habit.”

With that, Doctor Uber took a wrong turn and we found ourselves on a road headed for the Blackwall Tunnel.

“Fackinell.”

Helpless, we peered out as the car was swept under the river, unable to deviate. We did a U-turn past the O2, then swung north once again. Thankfully, we arrived at Pudding Mill Lane at just after 4pm. Outside, the heat was suddenly blistering, away from the cool shadows of Wapping. After two bag searches, we were in the away end at 4.15pm.

Parky and I joined up with Alan, Gary and John in the fourth row of the upper section. Simon was twenty rows behind us. PD was adrift in the lower tier.

Prior to the teams entering the pitch, a large mosaic was displayed in the East Stand depicting the Europa Conference trophy that West Ham stumbled upon last season.

West Ham in a virtually all claret kit, Chelsea in blue / blue / white.

Our team?

Alas, we were missing Reece James, so Malo adjusted into the right wing-back berth.

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill

Gusto – Gallagher – Enzo – Chukwuemeka – Chilwell

Jackson – Sterling

Bloody hell, Kurt Zouma was captain of West Ham, alongside Emerson Palmieri, another ex-Chelsea player. There were familiar names in the home side. Simon had warned that Michail Antonio always seemed to perform against us.

At 4.30pm, the game began. It doesn’t always happen at West Ham, but this looked like a virtual full house. I couldn’t spot many empty seats anywhere. Gulp.

As always, we attacked the far end, the Bobby Moore Stand, in the first-half. It’s a little ironic that West Ham have switched from a very tight ground at Upton Park in favour of a wide-open elliptical set-up at London Stadium, whereas we have gone from a sprawling oval of the old Stamford Bridge to the tight stands of the new Stamford Bridge. I wasn’t sure if those Chelsea fans in the lower tier, nearer the action but with poor sightlines, were better positioned than those in the upper tier, with a better overall view but so damned far from the pitch. We were right in the middle, above the claret-coloured void. Perhaps we had the best view of the two, a compromise.

On the pitch, a middling opening, and not a great deal of noise from any section.

The home team attacked and won a corner which Robert Sanchez took care of. Soon after, the former Southampton player James Ward-Prowse, sent in another lofted corner, and as the ball dropped I was unfortunate enough to catch the moment that Nayef Aguerd out-muscled one or two of our players to head home.

Fackinell.

I turned to John : “didn’t even make it difficult for him to jump.”

We dominated the possession but I noted a lack of movement up front. In the stands, all was quiet. How was it possible for over 62,000 to make so little noise?

Gradually, we improved.

Nicolas Jackson’s involvement increased and there were a couple of half-chances. On twenty-seven minutes, Ben Chilwell’s cross was cleared but the ball fell to Carney Chukwuemeka. His sway and shimmy lost his marker and as the ball was worked to his right foot, he curled a shot that Alphonse Areola was unable to reach.

Carney made him look like a proper tit.

The Chelsea crowd celebrated, as did the scorer who reeled away with a jump towards the home fans in the corner.

A rare West Ham attack resulted in a shot from Lucas Paqueta that bounced up off a post down below us.

There had been a shout for a Chelsea penalty after Jackson was sent sprawling but VAR had noted an offside. When Raheem Sterling squirmed into space on the edge of the box, Tomas Soucek hacked at him, and there was no VAR to save the home team.

We watched as Enzo stood and faced off against Areola. It was a weak penalty and the ‘keeper was easily able to save to his right.

Sigh.

In the closing minutes of the first-half, Chukwuemeka was injured and was stretchered off.

With Sterling running at pace against a worried defence, and with able support from Jackson and Chukwuemeka, we had played some decent stuff in that first-half. At the half-time break, everyone around me was positive.

“Sterling excellent.”

“All us really.”

The first song aired by the PA at the break was “Radio Ga Ga” by Queen, probably my most loathed band of all time. I thought to myself “that has no right to be played at a football game” and I fucked off to the gents.

As I descended the stairs down to the airy concourse, I was reminded of how away games these days are populated by a greater number of lads – mainly lads – in their twenties than in previous years. Not that it needs stating every game, but I also noted how the vast majority of our away support eschew club colours of any description. This was brought home to me when a couple in their forties passed me. Both of them were wearing Chelsea shirts and, to be frank, they really stuck out. All around me, behind me by the bar, grouped at the base of the stairs, chatting and laughing, were lads – mainly lads – dressed in anything but Chelsea gear.

Plain T-shirts, polos, shorts, jeans, trainers.

Lyle & Scott, Lacoste, CP, Boss, Barbour, Fila, Fred Perry, Weekend Offender, Pretty Green, Moncler, Baslager, Adidas, Nike, Aquascutum, Puma, Paul & Shark, Armani, Ralph Lauren.

I often wonder what goes through the mind of Randy and Brandy from Badgercrack, Nebraska when they show up at a Chelsea away game with full shirt / cap / scarf Holy Trinity and find themselves in a sea of lime, lavender, coral, mint, navy, peach, beige, cerise, black, grey and white.

The West Ham DJ had redeemed themselves. The last song of the break was “Born Slippy” by Underworld, with hints of Hibs Casuals and a working class culture.

Mykhailo Mudryk replaced the unfortunate Chukwuemeka.

Last season, we eked out a 1-1 draw under a grey sky in Stratford. There were white fluffy crowds amid a blue sky on this Sunday in August. The second-half began.

Whereas I stood throughout the first-half, as were those near me, I noted that many were sat as the game recommenced. I sat too, and hated myself for it. I felt that this was a sure sign that we weren’t up for it. There was no noise to speak of.

Bloody modern football.

Soon in to the restart, the ball stood up nicely for Said Benrahma on a break but the effort went wide. Just after, a long ball caught our defence out. We seemed too square, too high, almost as if the menacing Antonio was himself the last man. He raced away past Levi Colwill and shot low past the dive of Sanchez, a hideously perfect finish. Now the home fans roared.

But oh their “Champions Of Europe” chant.

It’s beyond parody really.

And no, they are not even being ironic.

When we twice won the Europa League, we would never have dared sing that.

Fuck me, if West Ham are champions of Europe in 2023, then that means that the Brotherhood Of Man were the best band throughout Europe in 1976.

Sorry Led Zeppelin, sorry Fleetwood Mac, sorry Abba, sorry Rolling Stones, sorry Thin Lizzy, sorry Sex Pistols.

Save all your kisses for me, West Ham.

The second-half really disappointed. In the first-half, there was at least intent and cohesion. The second period just got worse and worse.

I compared notes with John.

“The only time we win here, I had to work.”

“Like me at United. Been there fourteen times. Not seen us win.”

We toiled but it was terrible to watch.

Malo Gusto made an absolutely sublime last ditch tackle when a one-on-one break reached the point of no return.

Sadly, Enzo was a poor shadow of the man who played so formidably against Liverpool.

On the hour, Mauricio Pochettino replaced Chilwell with new signing Moises Caicedo. We switched to four at the back with Caicedo bolstering the midfield.

Goal-scorer Aguerd was then booked for the second time and was sent off on sixty-eight minutes. Our attacking play was disjointed. We were afraid to shoot. Sterling dithered on more than one occasion. Mudryk had pace but no end product. More substitutions.

Noni Madueke for Gallagher.

Mason Burstow for Gusto.

A debut and thus a very proud moment for my mate Andy, who coached Burstow at a club in Kent for a while.

Mudryk was pitiful. One shot of his, after arriving late at the far post, was volleyed so far into the air that it spent ages coming back down to Earth, and when it did, it didn’t even go off for a corner.

This was horrible.

Quite bizarrely, I was aware that a young lad, maybe in his late teens, who was sat to my immediate left did not utter one word the entire game. Not one word; no word of encouragement, no comments, certainly no songs of support.

Can anyone fucking explain that to me?

Madueke showed some intent and was almost rewarded when a shot was deflected on the base of Areola’s post.

With hundreds of Chelsea leaving before the end, a rash challenge by debutant Caicedo resulted in Paqueta scoring from the spot.

Holy Moises.

West Ham United 3 Chelsea 1.

Sigh.

So, seven visits to the London Stadium, and still no wins.

Shall I stay at home next season?

We made our way back to Pudding Mill Lane and caught the first of three trains to take us back to Barons Court. On the second one, a Jubilee Line train, the announcer stated that “this train will terminate at Wembley Park.”

I turned to the boys and said “I don’t think our season will.”

We had crossed the River Thames six times during the day and we were at last on our way out west.

I eventually reached home at 10.30pm.

This, of course, was a disappointing performance bit I genuinely think that I – and many others – immediately found ourselves getting overly upset with a few negatives.

It was, after all, only our second league game of the season.

Next up is a Friday night match at home to Luton Town.

See you there.

Manze’s

The Prospect Of Whitby

The Town Of Ramsgate

The London Stadium

Tales From A Grey Day

Posted on February 12, 2023 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 11 February 2023.

You know what it’s like when the alarm sounds and there is a day of football that lies ahead, but you just don’t feel the love?

That’s what it was like on the morning of our game at West Ham United.

I had set the alarm for 5.30am and it took me a few minutes to summon the energy to get up and at’em. West Ham is probably my least favourite away venue. It’s a terrible stadium to watch football, eh? Additionally, in four previous visits for me there was still no win against my name.

But Chelsea were calling and so I picked up PD at 7am and Parky at 7.30am. As I approached PD’s house, a song by Yazoo from 1983, how appropriate, was airing, the suitably titled “Mr. Blue.”

“I’m Mr. Blue.

I’m here to stay with you.

And no matter what you do.

When you’re lonely, I’ll be lonely too.”

There was talk of Dortmund on the drive to London. The three of us leave early on Monday morning and are travelling over to the Ruhr by train.

A year ago to the day, PD and I were in Abu Dhabi, nervously awaiting our game against Palmeiras on the Saturday.

A year on, Saturday 11 February 2023 would be our last day of being rightfully termed World Champions.

It’s been the maddest of years since.

By 9.45am, we were settled into “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road, enjoying a fine full English and a strong mug of tea. Before the end of our fully enjoyable breakfast, a squadron of the Met’s finest had arrived and were getting into various plates of unequally unhealthy food. We wondered if they were soon to be deployed at Craven Cottage for the visit of Forest or at Loftus Road for the visit of Millwall.

On the drive up to London, I had asked PD about the FA Cup game at Derby County that I had featured in last week’s edition.

“You were there, right?”

“I was.”

“Is that right that some seats ended up on Chelsea fans in the terrace?”

“Yeah. The ones that didn’t reach the pitch.”

Forty years ago, as fate would have it, the very next game in Chelsea’s increasingly troubled season was at home to Derby County. Going into the game on Saturday 5 February, Chelsea were in fourteenth place with a 8-7-10 record. The visitors, however, were experiencing an even more disastrous season than Chelsea and were rock bottom of the twenty-two team division with a 3-11-11 record.

Here was a tussle that we could win surely? The previous game was a surprising 6-0 win against Cambridge United. I was hopeful that we could win this one and put our season back on track. Promotion was looking out of the question but there were still points to be won, and I prayed that subsequent Mondays in the sixth form common room would not follow the recent pattern of me having to take all sorts of flak that had been flying my way.

In the programme for the game, the tone was set by the editorial which had moved on from being called “The Talk Of Stamford Bridge” to “Forward Line.”

The subject was of the hooliganism the previous week.

“Thirty seconds can be a long time in football. With the score 1-1 at Derby last Saturday, with the Osmaston Stand clock reading 4.40pm and the ball safely in the hands of our goalkeeper, we looked certain to force a replay with County. The mood was optimistic as the team had fought back from being a goal behind and the fans had behaved well, out singing the home supporters to the extent that a plea was made at half-time over the public address in an effort to coax more noise from the locals.

Then, barely a minute later, we were out of the Cup, the hooligans we despise were out of their seats and throwing them onto the pitch and onto innocent Chelsea supporters standing below. January 29^th will enter the history books as a Black Day for Chelsea Football Club; we aim to make it one too for those criminals by studying all the evidence available including photographs and video tapes. We are determined to bring to justice the perpetrators of Saturday’s violence.

The thousands of regular, law-abiding Chelsea fans at the Baseball Ground last week no doubt felt disgusted and ashamed at the scenes played out before them by followers of this club as the match drew to a close. For those excellent supporters, many of whom will be present today to watch the football peacefully and enthusiastically, we shall leave the subject of last week’s vandalism and concentrate on today’s match.

Anyone guilty of being involved in the Derby violence can stop reading this page as we are now going to talk about the football.”

Four contributors to the programme continued with the same subject.

John Neal.

“Last week’s result and the events at Derby have left a cloud over the club all week that we must try and remove with a good performance this afternoon.”

Ken Bates.

“Now that the dust has settled, I think we are agreed that last weekend was a disaster, in more ways than one. To be knocked out of the Cup in the last minute, after having more scoring chances than the England cricket team, was a particularly bitter blow but certainly no justification for the behaviour that followed.

We have asked for copies of all press photographs taken last Saturday and we are also seeking to obtain a copy of the video recording of the match, and intend to compare these with our own video recordings which we now take of Stamford Bridge to try and trace the culprits. I am not too hopeful that we will be successful as I have my doubts that the hooligans that caused the trouble are true Chelsea supporters – evidence of this is that I too had obscenities, rude signs and coins directed at me when I went on the pitch to try and calm things down.”

Micky Greenaway.

“The atmosphere prior to the final goal was tremendous and I realise and understand more than most the supreme frustration felt by all when Derby’s final goal was scored, but the actions of some supporters only hurt fellow Chelsea fans and this should not happen. So shape up Blues Fans, cheer on and support forever more, but avoid unsavoury incidents like that wherever possible.”

Seb Coe.

“A friend of mine from Sheffield once wryly commented to me after watching Chelsea in his area, how great it must be to watch your team at home every week. Long may that level of support last. The only sadness is that amongst the thousands of travelling loyalists, there are still a handful of trouble makers that embarrass the club and sicken the well behaved following.”

Forty years ago, looking back with gritted teeth, the events at the Baseball Ground was a perfect storm.

A huge away following. A crushing last-minute defeat. FA Cup dreams extinguished yet again. For many within the six thousand, there was only one response. If hand-to-hand hooliganism was impossible due to the lack of home fans in close proximity, thoughts turned to vandalism.

It was all sadly predictable.

And even though many to this day take pride in our performances off the pitch in games like this, at the time I was becoming just sick of it all despite the warped kudos of supporting a team with a violent hard core that I mentioned in the last edition. I just wanted to support a team in the top flight. And for our support to be loud and boisterous.

In the end, Chelsea succumbed to a woeful 1-3 home defeat against Derby County in front of a miserly 8,661. Colin Pates scored the only goal for us, and we even had the misfortune to score two own goals for our visitors, via ‘keeper Steve Francis and midfielder John Bumstead, in addition to the one Derby goal claimed by old warhorse Archie Gemmill.

These were becoming desperate times at Chelsea.

I’m getting depressed just remembering it all.

I include a piece that was aired on the “Nationwide” programme on the following Monday as the headline story. It mentions just fifty Derby fans on the wide North terrace at the game; a pitifully low number, and no doubt the result of their poor season but also the fear of retribution. Leaving the away end at Stamford Bridge in the early ‘eighties must have been a pretty terrifying experience.

Our breakfast consumed, I zipped over to park up at Barons Court and we then embarked on an hour-long train journey east. Via a couple of train changes, we pulled into Pudding Mill Lane – how Dickensian – bang on 11.30am, bang on plan. I looked over at the steel structure of the London Stadium, under a Tupperware sky, and my heart sunk.

I was back at this grim venue once again.

Just outside the station, we spotted a police van parked nearby, with the officers that had been sat next to us in the Hammersmith café stretching their legs outside.

There were two security checks and we were in, sharing views with many that we would probably struggle on this day in a grey London.

We soon heard that Ruben Loftus-Cheek was starting alongside Enzo Fernandez and it caught us all by surprise.

I could not believe how slowly the stadium filled.

The match day announcer spoke with Bobby Moore’s daughter on the pitch before the game, and there was another presentation involving West Ham “legends” Sir Trevor Brooking and, ahem – wait for it – Carlton Cole.

Our team?

Kepa.

James – Silva – Badiashile – Cucarella

Fernandez – Felix – Loftus-Cheek

Madueke – Havertz – Mudryk

At 12.20pm, with just ten minutes to go, I estimated that just 25% of the crowd were inside. At kick-off, bar a few thousand late arrivals, the place was full.

I had heard about a new screen that had been set up to block the view – and any subsequent “pointing and shouting” – between home and away fans between the away fans in the lower reaches of the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand and the home support in the lower tier of the West Stand.

And there it was; a ridiculous addition, really.

West Ham were wearing their light blue shorts and it still didn’t look right; it was if there was an away game colour clash and they were forced to change. Their kit is a real dog’s dinner this season. We were wearing the thousand island dressing change kit.

“We’ve worn that before this season, right, John?”

“Brighton.”

“Fuck sake.”

But we began ever so brightly.

Despite the home team defending deep – please note how I try to avoid the wanky buzzwords like “low block” – we were able to find spaces with runners being hit via some cute passing from Enzo Fernandez and Joao Felix in particular.

On ten minutes, with Chelsea in the ascendency, a pass from deep from Reece James was played into space for Felix. It seemed to catch the West Ham defence off guard – to be honest there was a hint of offside – but our new loan-signing advanced and saw his shot come back off the far post but he tapped in the rebound.

A quick celebration was quelled by the linesman’s yellow flag on the far side, out near Essex.

“Fair enough. It did look offside, John.”

There was nice movement and intensity in these early stages. On seventeen minutes, the ball was well won with a tough tackle from Mykhailo Mudryk and there was a one-two- between Marc Cucarella and Enzo. I caught the Argentinian’s cross into the box and also, miraculously, the exact moment that Felix tapped the ball in.

The celebrations in front of the West Ham fans were a lot easier to capture.

Alan : “Thay’ll ‘ave ta cam at us na.”

Chris : “Cam on me li’le dimonds.”

Just after, another offside denied Kai Havertz a goal.

There was a lovely wriggle away from defenders from Noni Madueke, breaking in from the right. There were flashes of some decent football. The noise wasn’t great though. The two sections in the away end work against any united front.

It was all Chelsea in the opening twenty-five minutes.

The Chelsea choir summed it all up eloquently.

“How shit must you be? We’re winning away.”

There was a rare West Ham attack featuring the always dangerous Michail Antonio but Kepa blocked well. Sadly, poor defensive marking allowed a cross down below us from Vladimir Coufal and this was flicked on by Jarrod Bowen and we immediately sensed danger.

I whispered “here we go” under my breath.

At the far post, former Chelsea defenders Emerson, Lake & Palmieri scuffed the ball in.

Fackinell.

He did not celebrate.

We didn’t hit earlier peaks during the rest of the half, with Enzo showing less inclination to pass forward. Was he wearing Jorginho’s number five shirt a little too tightly? Was he being unnecessarily passive? We went into our shell a little.

At the other end, the under-fire Cucarella lost Bowen a few times.

However, there were chances. Fabianski saved well from Madueke. A free-kick from Enzo went close.

In the half that we were defending, seven or eight pigeons strutted around with little hindrance. As the first period came to an end, many Chelsea supporters drifted out for half-time drinks and visits to the boys’ and girls’ rooms. We – Parky, John, Gal, Al, Eck and I – were positioned in the very front row of the top section. It allowed me the chance to nod “hellos” to many friends as they walked out to the spacious concourses below. I took some photographs. It’s what I do.

It was especially pleasant to see Shari once again, over from Brisbane, and Ray, back from a year-long placement in Miami.

“Yeah, see you in Dortmund.”

I had to laugh when the highlights of the first-half were shown on the screens at the break but our goal was not shown.

“Righty-o.”

I turned to John and muttered “well, I don’t think many of us will be saying ‘we miss Mount’ will they?”

Sadly, the second-half was a very poor show and I won’t dwell too much on those second, woeful, forty-five minutes.

Twice in quick succession, we were all seething that Madueke stood next to Felix at corners, but the ball was not played to him, he just stood vacantly alongside. On both occasions, the ball was played way back by Cucarella to Kepa.

“Fuck sake. What is the bloody point of that? Get Madueke in the box, an extra body, an extra head, or get him to wait outside the box for a second ball.”

We were raging.

Nothing happened until half-way through the half when Graham Potter made three substitutions.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella.

Hakim Ziyech for Mudryk.

Mason Mount for Madueke.

Ziyech then stood next to Felx as another corner was swung in, and we all wondered about the collective IQ of our first team squad.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe we just possess thick footballers at this moment in time. They can seem to negotiate their way into a “TikTok” video but sadly come up short on the football pitch.

Fackinell.

Conor Gallagher for Loftus-Cheek.

I thought Ruben was perhaps our only half-decent player during the game thus far, but only by the thinnest of margins.

The atmosphere was horrific. So quiet. Absolutely abysmal. It went well with the football on show.

I turned to John.

“God, we could get walloped in Dortmund on Wednesday. They’ll have the Yellow Wall. We’ll have the Wailing Wall.”

A header for Havertz, wide.

Late on, I was pondering why the top balcony on their West Stand mentions “1964 FA Cup Winners”, “1975 FA Cup Winners” and “1980 FA Cup Winners”, but just “1965 European Cup Winners Cup” and if they ran out of letters for “winners.”

“Just no demand for it down these parts these days, governor.”

With that, my eyes returned to the pitch to see a West Ham leg prod the ball in.

Another late goal at this bloody place? Oh God.

Thankfully, after a delay – as always – it went to VAR.

John : “as long as it goes on, the more likely it is to go in our favour.”

Me, willing it to take forever : “keep going, keep going, keep going.”

No goal.

The game continued half-heartedly, but a flashpoint was just around the corner.

In the last few minutes, I snapped as Gallagher hit a low drive at goal. My photo shows Tomas Soucek going to ground. I did not see the handball, for that is what it was, but the five or six Chelsea players nearest the ball certainly did and raced towards the referee.

No penalty. No VAR.

I must not let myself believe that dark forces are at hand amid the Premier League’s power brokers but at times it seems that a narrative is at work.

Was it just an appalling – APPALLING! – decision?

Maybe.

If not, football is dead.

I will see some of you in Dortmund.

Pre-Match

First-Half

Half-Time

Second-Half

1982/83

Tales From September 1982 And Forty Years Later

Posted on September 6, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 3 September 2022.

September 1982.

Due to the timings of games and thus match reports this season, my personal recollection of 1982/83 in this edition encompasses two consecutive home games at Stamford Bridge.

On the evening of Tuesday 31 August 1982, Chelsea played Wolverhampton Wanderers at Stamford Bridge. After winning the Football League Cup in 1980 against the then European Champions Nottingham Forest, Wolves suffered relegation just two years later. They dropped down into the Second Division alongside Leeds United and Middlesbrough. I suppose that they must have been one of the favourites for promotion that season. Our team was the same one that had played at Cambridge United on the Saturday. The game finished 0-0. The gate of 14,192 was a pretty decent one considering our predicament at the time. In the previous season we had averaged 13,133.

Next up was a match with Leicester City on Saturday 4 September. I was seventeen and just back at school. I was now in the Upper Sixth, with a worrying year ahead with A Levels in Geography, Mathematics and Technical Drawing on some hideous distant horizon. It was a horrible time. At Frome College, everywhere I looked I saw Julie’s face but she was now living in a little village to the east of Reading. At the time, Reading seemed like being a thousand miles away. A few years ago, I had a little sigh to myself when I heard that a mate’s schoolgirl daughter was seeing a boy in Reading. Distances seem to be squashed these days. It didn’t really help matters that the Westbury to London Paddington line took me to within half a mile of Julie’s house on that trip up to see Chelsea play Leicester. As the train whizzed past Charvil, I peered out of the window with a lump in my throat and a pain in my heart.

In those days, my school mates rarely went to football, proper football. My pal Steve often used to go to see his Bristol City play on their nosedive through the divisions. He also watched many Frome Town games. Steve would have been with me at the Wellington game the previous Saturday, just as he is alongside me at Frome games forty years later. He is currently the club’s official historian. Another mate, Francis, saw his Liverpool team at Ashton Gate in 1980. Another mate, Kev, went to see his Tottenham team around 1980 too, but that was it. I was one of a very few who used to go to league football. The Leicester City game would be my twenty-fourth Chelsea match. I didn’t have a part-time job in those distant days. I just saved my pennies to watch my team. Chelsea was my life.

Living over a hundred miles away, I could only afford a few games each season. From 1981/82, I started going up alone by train. The independence that I gained on those trips to London put me in good stead for further travelling adventures in the future. But in 1981/82 and 1982/83, I became closer to the club by subscribing to the club programme. I loved the small programmes of that era, nicely designed, they had a stylish look about them I thought. I used to love the arrival of the postman in those days. I have no idea why I stopped in 1983/84 when the programme became larger but lost a little of its style in my opinion.

My father would have dropped me at Westbury train station to catch an 8am train to The Smoke. It would arrive in Paddington at about 9.45am from memory. In those days, with no spare money and plenty of time to kill I usually walked over to Hyde Park and sat beside The Serpentine on a park bench – it became a superstition in 1981/82 – and I probably did the same on this occasion. Then a walk to Lancaster Gate tube and the journey down to Stamford Bridge. In those days, I knew nobody at Stamford Bridge, not a soul. Before the game, I bought the newly published “The Chelsea Story” by John Moynihan with money that my mother had given me. The book cost £5.95, a costly sum in those days. I watched the game in The Shed, my usual place towards the tea bar, but under the roof.

I am not honestly sure if I bought a programme on the day of the game. It cost 50p. I have a feeling I would have waited until I received one through the post.

Times were hard.

On viewing that same programme forty years later, I am reminded of the perilous financial predicament that we were in. Although Ken Bates had bought the club for “only a pound” in the Spring of 1982, we were still struggling to balance the books. On the rear cover of the programme, in a space reserved for sponsors, there is a stark message against a black, and blank, page :

“We’re known by the company we keep, we’d welcome your company on this full colour back page. For full details please contact the Club’s Marketing Department.”

It’s hard to believe I support the same club in 2022 where every square inch of the club’s body and soul is sold for profit.

The team was almost unchanged again, but with debutante Tony McAndrew replacing Clive Walker, although not by position. The game ended 1-1 with Micky Droy scoring for us in the fiftieth minute and then Gary Lineker equalising in the last five minutes. The gate was another respectable one of 14,127.

The old joke about the crowd changes being announced to the players at Stamford Bridge did appear in this case to be spot on.

I have one distinct memory from the game. I looked over to the Whitewall and the Middle and thought this :

“We may be in the Second Division with a slim chance of getting promotion, and this ground might look a third full but still around 15,000 supporters have gone out of their way to come and support the team today. There is something rather noble about that. It feels right that I am there.”

On the way back, I devoured the new book. I loved the introduction by athlete Seb Coe.

“Following the club could be as frustrating as chasing spilt mercury across a laboratory table.”

I was a quiet and world-shy teenager, but I remember a smile from within and me nodding in agreement, as if I was a footballing sage.

My diary for the day reports “probably one of the most boring games I have seen – a shame really after spending all that money.” There was talk of a party when I returned to Somerset although I am not sure where this was. My diary continues “enjoyed it, only slightly drunk, but soon sobered up.” It is probable that my father would have picked me up at the end of the night.

So there we have it. My twenty-fourth Chelsea game. My twenty-fourth Chelsea day. My Dad at the start of it. My Dad at the end of it. How I miss those times.

Forty Years Later.

The build-up to this game was way different. There was a drive to London with friends, a quick visit to Stamford Bridge to take some early scene-setting photographs, a spot of breakfast in the café and then my usual seat in the pub.

Outside Fulham Broadway, DJ had thrust a copy of “CFCUK” into my hands and I read a little of it in the café. While I waited for my food, I couldn’t help but notice the characters already sitting at tables. There was one loud voice, an American with the voice of a woman, sharing his thoughts a few tables away. Two English chaps close to me were deep in conversation and one appeared to be re-writing a script or manuscript of some description in between bites of a bacon sandwich. A group of younger folk were behind me, gregarious and chatty. The café owner, foreign by birth, my guess was Italian, bellowed orders and chivied his staff as if he was the conductor in an orchestra.

I devoured a piece in “CFCUK” by Walter Otton who wrote about his experiences of the Tottenham game which he watched in a pub after a tortuous day spent walking for miles and miles in the hinterlands of suburbia with friends. He detailed the people he observed while waiting for a train at Worcester Park, a station that I know well after parking at a mate’s near there for football between 1991 and 1993. I loved these words :

“To my right, I study a haunted young man with high cheekbones as he stares directly at his feet. He’s got the regretful face of man who last night had a vacancy sign up, but then he went and let the wrong person in.”

I messaged Walts to say how much I loved this. I had seen him briefly after the debacle at St. Mary’s on Tuesday.

I spent two-and-a-half hours in the cosy “Eight Bells” and I was surprised how quiet it all was at 11.30am. It took an hour to fully reach respectable figures. The Norwegians called in again, this time with an extra fan from Bergen, the wonderfully nicknamed Einstein. The Kent lads were close by, as were three young lads from Ilminster in Somerset who we had not seen before, but were dead chatty about the current malaise in the team. Steve from Salisbury appeared alongside Simon from Andover, another new face.

Andy and Sophie arrived and I spent some quality time at their table.

Andy and I raised a glass to “Ginger Terry.”

With a great deal of sadness, I learned on Thursday that Terry O’Callaghan had passed away that day. He was a lovely man, softly spoken, a true gent and was well-loved by those at Chelsea who knew him. I would bump into him at all sorts of odd, and far-flung, locations. He always stopped to say hello. Ironically, I first met Terry on a coach from Gothenberg in Sweden to Oslo in Norway alongside Andy for our match against Valerenga in 1999.

During the summer, I was shocked to hear of the passing of another of life’s good guys. I first met Henry Hughes Davies out in New York on a trip to see the New York Mets play a baseball game alongside around ten other Chelsea supporters. Unfortunately the game was rained-off but I remember how pleasant he was on that occasion and during the two or three other times I met him in “The Goose” with other US-based Chelsea fans. From London, Henry was killed in a road accident out in South-East Asia and it hit me hard.

RIP Terry.

RIP Henry.

I also, sadly, need to mention the passing of Depeche Mode member and life-long Chelsea supporter Andy Fletcher. During the summer, I attended a lecture by Chelsea Communications Director Steve Atkins at his former school in Warminster – he came across well – but the night was soured when, immediately after, I heard that “Fletch” had suffered a heart-attack and had passed away at the age of just sixty.

The music of Depeche Mode first thrilled me in 1982 – that year again – and has been a constant companion to me over the years. I have seen the band in 1993, 2001, 2006 and 2017.

RIP Fletch.

Andy, Sophie and I had a very enlightening “state of the nation” chat about Chelsea Football Club and other clubs.

How sometimes it can be a bit hard to get “up” for some games for example.

“I woke with the alarm at 5.45am this morning. I know exactly what you mean.”

How we have 22 million followers on Twitter yet we were outnumbered by Arsenal in Baku in 2019.

“They, Arsenal, are still the biggest club in London.”

How we only sold six-hundred for Dinamo Zagreb.

“Too early for me, for sure.”

How we might struggle to pack in 60,000 at a refurbished Stamford Bridge in light of Tottenham playing to capacity crowds at their new stadium.

“Saw some Tottenham at Fleet Services and also some at Putney Bridge tube, no doubt on their way to the Fulham game. Admittedly, there is the “wow” factor of a superb new stadium but their crowds have been constantly full-houses. They have a huge support in the home counties.”

How the pricing structure at West Ham is paying dividends.

“After a dodgy first season, they seem to have got it right. Full houses now, eh?”

How some Chelsea fans want Thomas Tuchel gone.

“But come on. We have only played five bloody games.”

How Sophie was looking for a spare for Crystal Palace in a few weeks.

“Might have one. Will let you know.”

We marched off to the tube station together and I spotted ex-England cricketer Alex Stewart chatting at Fulham Broadway.

I was inside with around fifteen minutes to go.

It was time to focus on the team.

Alas, a fleeting look at Billy Gilmour pre-match at Southampton on Tuesday would be the last that I would see of him in Chelsea colours. His permanent move to Brighton disappointed me. But at least this sad news was tempered by the fact that Armando Broja had signed a new multi-year deal. But, to our annoyance, Thomas Tuchel still went with the “after you Claude” false nine with Broja on the bench. A debut for Wesley Fofana in defence. We had all tried to remember if he had played against us in the 2021 FA Cup Final. I hoped for a more successful career for Wesley Fofana than Tony McAndrew. Mason Mount and Kai Havertz were both dropped and I was OK with that. It was generally accepted that in Southampton they were sinners, no saints.

No Jorginho, either.

A brave Tuchel?

Maybe.

Here we were :

Mendy

Fofana – Silva – Koulibaly

James – Loftus-Cheek – Kovacic – Gallagher – Cucarella

Sterling – Pulisic

I had to laugh when Clive appeared in a claret-colured Stone Roses T-Shirt. Both PD and I were wearing light blue T-Shirts; Paul, Lambretta, me, Paul & Shark.

“Bloody West Ham.”

“Jesus.”

I thought back to a photo that I had taken in the hotel bar looking out onto the forecourt earlier in the day. The plastic flowers on show there were shades of purple in light blue vases.

Good job, I’m not superstitious, cough, cough.

West Ham kicked off and a high ball was pumped forward. After four seconds, the new boy Fofana had his first touch as a Chelsea player, a strong header putting the ball back whence it came.

Alan : “I hope Fofana is more Kante than Drinkwater.”

Clive : “Drinkwater had one good season for Leicester.”

Chris : “I had one good season. Summer 1982.”

It wasn’t much of a first-half. And the atmosphere was very poor for a London derby.

The highlights?

How about the lowlight first?

Marc Cucarella failed to beat the first man on two early corners down in Parkyville.

“Bloody shite, should be fined for that. No excuses.”

Despite our almost total domination of possession – it was absolutely all us in the first fifteen minutes – West Ham packed their defence solid and we soon seemed to look flat.

There was a shimmying run from Raheem Sterling into the box but the resulting corner was a Cucarella special.

Reece James out on the right fizzed a low ball into the danger area, pinball ensued, but Christian Pulisic’ effort was blocked for another corner.

Finally, we were treated to a flowing move with passes hitting runners into space.

Then, a low shot from Mateo Kovacic but he drove the ball just wide.

It wasn’t as bad as Southampton, but it was all pretty dire stuff.

I suspect that the first-half against Leicester City in 1982 was no better.

At the half-time break, the three of us posed in our claret and blue shirts, the shame.

For the record, during the first-half Kurt Zouma was neither clapped nor booed. It was if he had never played for us.

The second-half begun with a still woeful atmosphere in the stadium. I was surprised how quiet the three thousand West Ham fans were. I wasn’t surprised how quiet we were.

There was a clash between James and Michail Antonio; both booked. This stirred some emotions within the stadium.

At last, the atmosphere improved and it felt like a proper game of football rather than some computer-generated monstrosity.

There was a very loud and piercing “Amazing Grace” :

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea.”

Exactly on the hour, Tuchel changed it around.

Armando Broja for Gallagher.

Mason Mount for Pulisic.

At the Shed End, a corner to West Ham.

Chris : “You know what’s coming.”

It was hoofed away by Reece James.

A second corner was fisted high and away by Mendy. The ball was then volleyed back at goal by Jarrod Bowen. This effort from distance was nervously palmed away by Mendy again. This was the first real scare for us, but also the only meaningful shot on target for either side. However, from the corner that followed, there was an almighty scramble with Mendy not exactly covering himself in glory. His jump and save from under the bar only kept the ball alive. The ball landed at the feet of a West Ham player who prodded the ball back into the six-yard box. That man Antonio slammed it in from close range.

Fackinell.

Thomas Tuchel’s doubters were sharpening their pencils.

The new man Broja was soon sniffing inside the box, and I was purring with his intent. We now had a natural striker up front, a physical presence, a predator. Whereas Sterling was like an eel, slithering into space, Broja was shark-like, ready to snap at anything.

On seventy-two minutes, another double-switch.

Kai Havertz for Kovacic.

Chilwell for Cucarella.

The noise levels were ever-increasing now. We prayed for an equaliser.

“CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA. CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”

Havertz almost had an immediate impact, trying to reach a through-ball but Lucasz Fabianski foiled him with a brave challenge on the edge of the six-yard box.

Just after, a lofted chip from the cultured boot of Thiago Silva from deep found the on-rushing Chilwell down below us in The Sleepy Hollow. His head beat the rather stunted leap of two defenders and the ball dropped nicely for him to run onto. In the blink of an eye, he had touched the ball through the legs of a star-jumping Fabianski and I could hardly believe my eyes as the ball continued over the line.

GET IN YOU BASTARD.

Chilwell’s leap was perfect for me.

Snap, snap, snap.

He celebrated with Broja but I was impressed that nobody else joined in. There was business to be done. Top marks.

This was a real game now and the Chelsea hordes had now found their voices.

With four minutes to go, a huge scare and a massive “get out of jail card.”

Alan and I were actually mired in the middle of a pun fest.

Alan : “Surprised Cornet ain’t wearing number 99.”

Chris : “That’s a flaky comment.”

Alan : “Saucy.”

Chris : “You got hundreds and thousands of these, mate?”

With that, a cross from the West Ham left found the leap of that man Cornet but his free header hit the post.

Fackinell.

The game continued.

Broja was up against Vladimir Coufal down below us. He teased and cajoled the West Ham defender before finding some space with some fine control. His pass to Chilwell on the overlap was perfect. The ball was drilled into a packed box. Havertz was waiting to pounce.

BOSH.

Chelsea 2 West Ham 1.

GET IN.

I caught the celebrations on film too. Havertz brought his finger up to his mouth, no doubt a reaction to some doubters among the Chelsea support. I found it a little odd, a little disrespectful.

Was he right to do so?

Answers on a postcard.

But, directly after, West Ham broke and I watched aghast. This all happened so quickly. Mendy rushed out, went down, the ball ran to Cornet. He lashed it home.

Fackinell.

West Ham screamed :

“You’re not singing anymore.”

Back to 2-2, bloody hell.

But then, a delay, and it slowly became apparent that VAR was being summonsed. Yet again, the spectators in the stadium – no commentary for us of course, as if it needs to be stated – seemed to be the last to know what on Earth was happening.

Yep, VAR.

The referee Andrew Madley eventually walked over to the pitch-side monitor. I didn’t like the way that he was being hounded by players of both teams.

After an age – but with each passing second, I felt more positive – he signalled “no goal.”

I was relieved but honestly did not feel like celebrating.

Bollocks to VAR.

Elsewhere, the Chelsea support was howling :

“YOU’RE NOT SINGING ANYMORE.”

We hung on.

This wasn’t a great game of football, but we kept going which is all you can ask for. The stupor of the first-half gave way to a far more entertaining spectacle in the second-half as we loosened the shackles and played, what I am going to term, a more emotional type of football.

There were relieved smiles at the end, but only at the end.

I am not going to Zagreb, but Alan is going. He is one of the six-hundred. As he wriggled past me, I said.

“Have a great time in Croatia. You’d best split.”

He groaned.

Immediately after the game, we received texts from others…

It looked like we got away with murder.

Next up for me, our home away from home.

Little old Fulham.

See you there.

Tales From The Ticket Man

Posted on April 27, 2022 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. West Ham United : 24 April 2022.

After our third consecutive home loss against Arsenal on the Wednesday, the phrase “our worst-ever home run” was heard a few times. With eleven goals conceded in just those three games, it certainly felt like it. Alas, there was no confirmation from anywhere if this was true, but I thought I’d take a look at the games that I, at least, had seen in the flesh. I brought up my “games attended spreadsheet” and ran a couple of filters.

Yes, there it was in all its damning glory.

I found it hard to believe, but I it became apparent that I had never before witnessed three consecutive home defeats at Stamford Bridge. And to be doubly clear, on this occasion the three losses against Brentford, Real Madrid and Arsenal were not only the sole three consecutive losses I had ever seen, but the only three consecutive losses that I had ever seen regardless of if the actual games were consecutive in “real time” too, not just games I had seen. A double whammy, if you will.

Bloody hell. It amazed me that I had never seen three in a row before. That I had been so lucky.

I didn’t attend many games in the truly abysmal seasons of 1978/79 and 1982/83 – two and four respectfully – but it truly shocked me that I had never personally witnessed three home defeats on the spin.

A grand total of eight-hundred and fourteen games at Stamford Bridge and only one run of three consecutive home losses.

Altogether now :

“Fackinell.”

Next up was another home game, this time against another London rival; West Ham United. This would be no easy fixture, nor any semblance of one. A defeat at the hands of David Moyes’ Irons in the autumn still smarts.

But before all that on the Sunday, I had a bonus game on the Saturday. Frome Town’s regular league season was to end with an away game at Lymington Town. I drove down to Hampshire and the last segment took me through the ethereal beauty of the New Forest – it’s unique scenery of yellow gorse, mossy shrub land and gnarled and ancient trees, and of course the wandering and unattended sheep and ponies – and then enjoyed a very entertaining 5-0 win for the visiting team. It was a glorious day out.

Early on the Sunday, I set off for London and the District Line Derby.

Very soon into the trip, with Mr. Daniels and Mr. Harris already on board, non-league football entered my head again. Our route took us past the current home of Trowbridge Town Football Club, now toiling in the Wiltshire League, a few levels below Frome Town who are at level eight in the football pyramid. Yet in 1981, Trowbridge Town played at level five – in the old conference – and were light years ahead of Frome who were entrenched in the Western League. In those days, Trowbridge were managed by former Chelsea player Alan Birchenall – “good lad, Birch, quite a character” chirped Mr. Harris – but since then the fortunes of the two teams have taken different trajectories. Such is life in our amazing football pyramid.

The football pyramid had recently witnessed a shocking fall from grace. Oldham Athletic – Chelsea’s first opponents in the newly-carved Premier League in August 1992, they did the double over us in 1993/94 – had just been relegated from the Football League. The Latics had thus fallen from level one to level five in just under thirty years. There have been quicker descents – Bristol City in four years from one to four, Northampton Town rising those levels in five seasons and then falling those levels in five seasons too – but this one seemed particularly grotesque.

But we must cherish the fluidity of the pyramid. It is what makes English football.

With Mr. Parkins joining us soon after a drive through the town of Trowbridge, we were on our way.

The weather looked half-decent and the day lay stretched out in front of us.

The back-story to this game concerns a quest to get hold of five match tickets. I found out a while back that some good friends from Jacksonville in Florida were on their way over for the West Ham game. However, as their trip drew closer, things took a nosedive. Even though they had paid the club for tickets, the club were not releasing them.

No, I don’t understand it either.

So, from about two weeks out, I began searching some channels. Luckily, just in time, I was able to get hold of all five. Thanks to Gary, Ian, Calvin and Dan, the job was done.

For our personal merriment, Jennifer, Cindy, Brian, Anel and Eugene would be called The Axon Five for the duration of this trip.

In truth, it was as frantic a pre-match as I have had for a while. The plan was to meet up at Stamford Bridge at ten o’clock. Jennifer and Brian were able to meet a few of the players who take care of the corporate work at Chelsea on a match day. We met up just as Sir Bobby Tambling arrived. This was a lovely moment for the two visitors since they had first met Bobby in Charlotte for our friendly with PSG in 2015 and had subsequently bumped into him on a previous visit to SW6 too. In North Carolina, Bobby was persuaded to partake in what the Americans call “jello shots”, much to the amusement of the two Floridians.

With a Chelsea tour to the US – sanctions permitting – being spoken about, it was a good time for me to host a few Chelsea fans from across the pond. Of course, Jennifer and Brian will be attending the friendly against Arsenal in Orlando, but I am not tempted. The other two rumoured cities are Las Vegas and Charlotte, again, ironically. As it stands, I shan’t be bothering to travel over for this tour. After experiencing Buenos Aires in 2020, my sights are focussed on slightly more exotic climes.

Well, South America and where ever Frome Town are playing to be precise.

While Jennifer and Brian set off to meet up with PD and Parky in “The Eight Bells”, I set off for “The Blackbird” at Earl’s Court to collect a ticket. I walked past “The Courtfield” – the one away pub at Chelsea these days, a good mile away from the ground, how we like it – but there didn’t seem to be too many West Ham inside. It was around 11.15am. As luck would have it, I bumped into another little knot of Chelsea supporters from the US; this time, the left coast, California. I had met Tom and Brad a few times before. This time they were with their wives and two friends too. It seemed that another couple of mates – Steve and Ian – were hosting some Chelsea tourists too. It was great to catch up with them once again.

I then set off for the bottom end of Fulham. At around 12.15pm, I eventually made it to “The Eight Bells” where another ticket was collected. Things were dropping into place nicely.

Yet Cindy, Anel and Eugene were yet to appear.

Tick tock.

We stayed about an hour or so. At last all of the five Floridians were together and we could relax. Brian spoke about how their local Chelsea pub on Jacksonville Beach – I must have cycled past it on my Virginia to Florida cycle trip in 1989 – was at last bursting to the seams for our Champions League Final in Porto. Such is life, eh? Everyone shows up for the big ones. We sat outside “Eight Bells” as it was heaving inside. I think the girls got a kick out of the “Home Fans Only” signs in the boozer’s windows.

After lots of laughs, we – reluctantly? – set off for the game. Outside the Peter Osgood statue, at about 1.40pm, the last ticket was gathered.

Cindy – her first Chelsea game – and Jennifer joined me in the MHU while the three lads took position in the MHL.

Phew.

The kick-off at 2pm soon arrived.

I had hardly had time to think about the game itself.

We heard that Andreas Christensen was injured pre-match and so Dave took a new position, in the left of a back three. Trevoh Chalobah returned.

Mendy

Chalobah – Silva – Azpilicueta

Loftus-Cheek – Kante – Jorginho – Alonso

Mount

Werner – Havertz

There were, of course, the same spaces as for the Arsenal game and this elicited the same song from the away fans.

“Just like the old days, there’s nobody here.”

At least Chelsea conjured up a quick response this time.

“Just like the old days, you’re still fucking shit.”

That made me chuckle.

Three FA Cups and one European trophy.

Is that it West Ham?

There was a Ukranian flag on The Shed balcony wall; maybe a nod to their player Andriy Yarmolenko.

“Glory To Ukraine.”

Let’s hope so.

Further along, a much more light-hearted flag.

“East End Girls. Forever Blowing Bubbles.”

Ooh, matron.

The game began and I wish it hadn’t. What a shocking first-half, eh? It had to be one of the worst forty-five minutes I have endured for a while.

Alan nailed it.

“They have a big game Thursday. They don’t want to risk anything.”

Indeed. Declan Rice, Michael Antonio and Jarrod Bowen were all rested ahead of their Europa League semi-final against Eintracht Frankfurt, shades of us in 2019.

The visitors in claret and light blue sat behind the ball, closed space, and rarely threatened our goal. We looked half-paced and still tired from Wednesday. Our play was turgid, lethargic and without flair and imagination. We looked unable to think outside the box, nor to play inside the penalty box.

It was all so fucking dull.

And it was as if Wednesday hadn’t happened. There seemed no desire to win back our approval after the shocking defending against Arsenal.

Chalobah made an error in our half, allowing a rare West Ham attack, but soon recovered and enjoyed a good first period. Kante was full of running, but there was nobody moving to create anything. I lost count of the number of times we were in good positions to shoot but didn’t. The frustration in the stands was overpowering.

The game was so dull that I resorted to wondering why the floodlights were turned on during an early afternoon game in April.

The first forty-five minutes ended with neither side having a single shot on target. Surprisingly, knowing our support these days, there were no boos at all at half-time. Does that mean that season ticket holders tend not to boo?

Answers on a postcard.

I wondered what Cindy was making of it all, just a few yards away in row two of the MHU alongside Jennifer.

The pour souls.

Sigh.

The second-half got going and there seemed to be an immediate improvement. At long last, there were shots on goal. One from Timo Werner, a volley, was blocked but the actual sight of a player willing to take a chance – “buy a raffle ticket” – was ridiculously applauded. A blooter from Kante was similarly blocked. This was better, much better. The crowd responded. I looked over to see the two girls joining in with a very loud “Carefree.”

A fine strike from Chalobah – such great body shape – caused Lukasz Fabianski to make a fine save to his left.

The game had definitely improved. On seventy minutes, Ruben Loftus-Cheek set up Mason Mount but Fabianski was saved by another defensive block.

With fifteen minutes to go, wholesale changes from Thomas Tuchel.

Romelu Lukaku for a quiet Havertz.

Christian Pulisic for the energetic Werner.

Hakim Ziyech for the steady Loftus-Cheek.

We looked livelier. Lukaku looked eager to impress, but – for fuck’s sake – his sprints – sprints I tell ya! – into space were not spotted by those with the ball. That was about to change, thankfully. With about five minutes to go, a move found that man Lukaku breaking into the box. An arm from a West Ham defender seemed to pull him back. The referee Michael Oliver quickly pointed to the spot.

Then…blah blah blah…VAR…blah blah blah…a delay…the referee went to the TV screen…the yellow card became red.

There seemed to be a long delay.

Jorginho.

Alan : “skip?”

Chris : “yes, skip.”

He skipped.

The shot was tamely hit too close to Fabianski.

Groans, groans, groans.

I can’t really explain it, but I still had a strong notion – a sixth sense – that we would still grab a late winner.

Ziyech let fly from his usual inside-left position but the shot flew over.

“COME ON CHELSEA.”

On eighty-nine minutes, the ball was played beautifully out to Marcos Alonso on the left. He played the ball perfectly in to the box, right towards Pulisic and the substitute sweep it in to a corner.

GETINYOUBASTARD.

Absolute pandemonium in the North-West corner.

I looked over to Cindy and Jennifer.

The American had scored in front of the Americans.

Superb. Magic. Fantastic. Magnificent. Stupendous.

Alan : “They’ll have ta cam at us nah.”

Chris : “Cam on moi li’ul doimuns.”

The final whistle blew.

A huge roar, smiles all around, absolutely bloody lovely. That was a hugely enjoyable end to a mainly mediocre game of football.

Altogether now : “phew.”

And the song remained the same :

“Just like the old days, you’re still fucking shit.”

Outside, I was the ticket man again, sorting tickets for Manchester United away, gathering tickets for Everton away…

It had been a good day.

…see you at Old Trafford.

Pre-Game Blue

A Late Late Show

From Jacksonville To Axonville

Tales From The London Stadium

Posted on December 8, 2021 by Chris Axon

West Ham United vs. Chelsea : 4 December 2021.

This was another early start. At 7am I called for PD and at 7.30am we collected LP. Another cold day was on the cards as I pointed my car eastwards. As with any other Chelsea trip, there was the usual early-morning sequence of chit-chat, laughs and piss-takes. Outwardly, my main conversation point to my two travelling companions was this :

“Never bloody seen us win at their new place.”

For it was true.

26/10/16 : League Cup – lost 1-2

6/10/17 : League – won 2-1 (I did not attend – work)

9/12/17 : League – lost 0-1

23/9/18 : League – drew 0-0

1/7/20 : League – lost 2-3 (I did not attend – behind closed doors)

24/4/21 : League – won 1-0 (I did not attend – behind closed doors)

Inwardly, I was humming a tune to myself, but I was not convinced that I would be able to remember the exact words later in the day if required.

The key word was “zangalewa.”

“Tsamina mina, eh, eh.

Edouard Edouard Mendy.

Tsamina mina zangalewa.

He comes from Senegal.”

After the really lucky win at Watford on Wednesday, everyone seemed to be of the same opinion ahead of our game with West Ham who were surprisingly flying high, albeit not from Stamford Bridge to Upton Park.

“Tough game coming up.”

Despite the undoubted strength of our overall squad, despite the fine managerial nous of Thomas Tuchel, despite our fine showing in several recent games, there were of course questions everywhere. But this is to be expected. We are still a learning team, a growing team, a team in embryo.

Despite our real worries about our fate in East London, we were on our way.

One of these days, the Premier League fixtures will be kinder to us for an away game at the former Olympic Stadium in Stratford. Of my three – soon to be four – visits, one has been a night game and three have been early kick-offs. We have a traditional East-End pre-match lined up to take place at some point in the future; a pint at “The Blind Beggar” and some pie and mash somewhere local. Time was against us on this visit, but one day we’ll do it.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at bang on 10am. Our race out east involved three railway lines and changes at Green Park and Canary Wharf. We arrived at Pudding Mill Lane at bang on 11am. The walk to the away turnstiles took just ten minutes.

Just over four hours from PDs’s door to an Iron door.

Ideally, I wanted to circumnavigate the stadium for the first time to take some photos but we were soon funnelled into the away turnstiles. I had taken a photo of the ArcelorMital Orbit on the walk to the stadium, but it was a terribly flat photo. I had been hoping to take other photos of not only it but of the stadium too. Again, some other time maybe.

It was all rather ironic that I chose to wear a classic navy New York Yankee cap on this cold day in London. Back in June 2019, the Yankees played two “away” games against the Boston Red Sox at West Ham’s stadium and it was natural that many of my friends expected me to attend as I have been a long-distance admirer of the Bronx Bombers since 1990. But I wasn’t having any of it. As a vehement opponent of the “thirty-ninth game” or any variant of it, it would have been pretty hypocritical of me to watch the Yanks outside of North America.

We were inside with a long wait until kick-off and I was able to chat to many good people in the large concourse area outside the seating bowl.

It was fantastic to chat to Tommie and Kevin for the first time in a while. Both follow Wales over land and sea. They feel ill at ease contemplating a possible place in the finals of the Qatar World Cup. They feel conflicted should Wales win their two play-off games. Both dislike the idea of that nation hosting the tournament; the ridiculous heat, the lack of a local football culture, the obvious back-handers involved in the process of choosing that country, the deaths of migrant workers in the construction of the shiny new stadia, the human rights violations.

I feel for them.

Personally, I have decided to boycott watching the FIFA 2022 World Cup. It’s a personal choice. I recently decided not to watch any qualifiers either.

Talking of the Arabian Peninsula, I heard that a few fellow fans had already booked their passage to Abu Dhabi for the long awaited World Club Championships. This is now finalised for the first few days in February. I want to go. Under normal circumstances, my flight and accommodation would be booked. There are of course other outside influences to consider. A couple of The Chuckle Brothers are interested too. Let’s see how COVID behaves over the next few weeks.

I sense an incoming barrage of “whataboutery” questions heading my way.

Is it hypocritical of me to boycott Qatar but to embrace Abu Dhabi?

Possibly. I’ll do some research. I’ll get some answers. It might prove to be a difficult decision. It might be an easy one. This is what Tommie thinks about Qatar too.

…a voice from the gallery : “you OK on that soap-box, mate? You finished pontificating?”

Well. If you insist.

I saw that the Chelsea U-21 team again took part in the autumn group phase of the “EFL” Cup, which was originally known as the Associate Members Cup when it was originally floated back in the mid–eighties. For years and years, this was the sole preserve of teams in the third and fourth tiers of the professional pyramid and gave the competing teams the chance to reach Wembley Stadium. For a while this was known as the Johnstone Paints Trophy, and allowed Southampton to have a self-deprecating dig at us in recent years.

“Johnstone Paints Trophy – you’ll never win that.”

Premier League teams have been allowed to enter their U-21 teams since 2016 and I – and many others – are dead against this. I see no merit in it. It could potentially rob a smaller club of their day out at Wembley. In 1988, for example, Wolves beat Burnley 2-0 in the Sherpa Van Trophy in front of 80,000 supporters at a time when both clubs were floundering. As recently as 2019, over 85,000 saw Portsmouth beat Sunderland.

Seeing Chelsea U-21 at Wembley in a final would not thrill me; far from it. Despite us playing at nearby Bristol Rovers and Forest Green Rovers in the past month, I boycotted those two games. No interest, no point and just wrong in my book.

The two Robs appeared.

“Have you got the Mendy song sorted?”

I replied I wasn’t sure but I thought there was mention of the word “satsuma” somewhere within it.

I made my way up the steps to the upper level of the seating bowl. This was my first time back in over three years and I had forgotten how ridiculous a stadium it really is. I was in row thirty-six, so heaven knows what the view was like in row seventy at the rear. That vast amount of wasted space between the two end tiers is such an eyesore. For a one-time Olympic stadium, I am always struck with how undeniably bland it all is. The only unique feature about it is the upturned triangular pattern of the floodlights. The “running” track area is now claret-coloured, the one change since 2018.

On the balcony of the main stand, or at least the one with the posh boxes, which is the only one not named after a former player, a potted history of West Ham’s successes is listed.

The list does not extend too far.

FA Cup 1964

ECWC 1965

FA Cup 1975

FA Cup 1980

Not much of a list, really.

I said to Gary : “I am surprised they haven’t added ‘East 17 Xmas Number One 1994’ to it…”

To be honest, silverware-wise, Chelsea and West Ham were scarily similar for decades; only four major trophies apiece up until 1997. Since then, well…our two trajectories have differed.

We knew that Thomas Tuchel was still battling injuries but we had also heard that Reece James and Jorginho were to return.

Mendy

Rudiger – Silva – Christensen

Alonso – Jorginho – Loftus-Cheek – James

Mount – Havertz – Ziyech

Still no sight of Romelu Lukaku in the starting eleven; we guessed he wasn’t 100% and was being eased back in.

Ex-Chelsea favourite Kurt Zouma was in the West Ham team.

Chelsea, in yellow and black, attacked the home end in the first-half and quickly dominated possession.

In the opening few minutes, the two sets of fans went with some tried and tested chants :

“From Stamford Bridge to Upton Park, stick your blue flag up your arse.”

“You sold your soul for this shit hole.

On six minutes, the mood in the stadium dramatically changed as an image of the murdered young boy Arthur Labinjo-Hughes was shown on the two giant TV screens. It seemed that everyone stopped to clap. What a terrible waste of a beautiful young life. I have rarely felt such sickening sadness and anger as when I saw, and heard, his sweet voice on the TV.

Bless you Arthur. Rest in peace.

Despite our dominance, West Ham were actually ahead on chances created in the first quarter of an hour, with one shot from Jarrod Bowen going wide and a free header from another who I thought was Mark Noble but then realised he wasn’t even playing. It is, after all, a long way from the pitch in the away end.

All of the noise seemed to be coming from us.

A well struck shot from Reece James was easy for Fabianski to hold.

“One shot on goal in fifteen minutes, Al. That equates to just six in the whole match.” My eyesight might have been shite, but my maths was up to scratch.

Another chance to the home team, but Mendy saved from Craig Dawson.

In the wide open space between the two tiers of Chelsea support, around twenty police were positioned.

“Most Old Bill I’ve seen inside an away ground for ages, Al.”

It had made me chuckle just before the match had started to see Goggles, the football-liaison officer at Fulham Police Station, chatting away to a known Chelsea hooligan, admittedly of yesteryear. It also made me laugh to see, at various stages of the match, all twenty police officers avidly watching the game, seated in a separate section, rather than eyeballing the crowd.

I called it The Goggle Box.

At last, another effort on the West Ham goal; on twenty-five minutes a very fine cross from James picked out the unmarked leap of Kai Havertz. Sadly, this was saved.

A corner followed, and then another. Mount crossed to meet the unhindered leap of Thiago Silva inside the box. His header forced the ball downwards and it bounced up and into the goal. The net rippled and the three-thousand Chelsea fans roared. The goal immediately reminded me of the first Chelsea goal that I ever saw in person, another “up and down” header from Ian Hutchinson in 1974.

Twenty-eight minutes had elapsed and all was well in the world.

“Maybe I will see us win here after all.”

We spotted Joe Cole and Gianfranco Zola, and Rio Ferdinand, out in the open, in front of the BT studio no more than thirty yards away.

Hakim Ziyech was involved in some nice flourishes, and the fleet-footed trio up front were causing West Ham more problems than they would have wished. There was still a reluctance for any of our team to take a pop at goal though. It was infuriating the hell out of Alan and myself. At last, an effort from distance from Mason Mount – nothing special to be honest – cheered us.

“Need to do more of that. Get players following up, it might squirm away from the ‘keeper, let’s keep firing shots in, deflections, touches, make the ’keeper work.”

Two more shots at the West Ham goal followed.

West Ham were still offering an occasional threat, though. Sadly, on forty minutes, an under-hit back pass from Jorginho put Edouard Mendy under all sorts of pressure. Knowing that our fine shot stopper is not gifted with even average distribution, we always wonder Why The Fuck do we seem obsessed in playing the ball back to him, especially when opposing teams are putting us under pressure in our third. It is fucking unfathomable. Well, surprise surprise, a heavy touch from Mendy followed, and as he saw himself lose control, he took a low swipe at that man Bowen.

It was a clear penalty.

Fucksake.

Lanzini smashed in the equaliser from the spot.

Only four minutes later, a fine move involving Ruben Loftus-Cheek pushing the ball out to Ziyech resulted in a long cross-field pass to Mount, unmarked, in the inside-right channel. His first time effort was incredible; a potent mixture of placement and power, the shot being cushioned with the side of his foot, but with so much venom that Fabianski did not get a sniff. It crept in low at the near post.

It was a fucking sublime goal.

There were generally upbeat comments at the break. The noise hadn’t been too loud throughout the half, but it is so difficult to get the away support – in two distinct areas – together to sing as one. I hardly heard the Mendy song, but on its rare appearance, the young bloke behind me was making a spirited effort to mangle every syllable in the entire song.

I kept quiet. I knew I would hardly be any better, satsuma or not.

At half-time, Lukaku replaced Havertz.

“Is it me, Al, or has he put on some weight? He was pretty trim when he returned from Italy.”

He must love Greggs’ steak bakes and sausage rolls. And their doughnuts and yum yums.

There was a little nip-and-tuck as the second-half began. Ten minutes in, Gal chirped “the next goal is massive.” Within a minute, West Ham broke with ease down our left and just before Bowen struck, I feared the worst and sighed “goal”; it was therefore no surprise to me to see the net ripple again, this time at the far post.

Bollocks.

Our Callum came on in place of Ziyech; a tad unlucky I thought, but maybe he was tiring. Callum began up front in a three and had a few nibbles. But ten minutes later, Alonso was replaced by Christian Pulisic, so Callum reverted to a left wing back. We enjoyed a little spell of around ten minutes when we looked to be knocking on the Irons’ door, but I have to say that the integration of a returning Lukaku – either unable or unwilling to shake off markers – was a problem. We enjoyed reasonable approach play but floundered in and around the box.

“Hit the fackin’ thing.”

Our efforts on goal hardly caused Fabianski to break sweat.

“Fackinell Chels.”

Callum’s reluctance to drift past his man was frustrating. On the rare occasions that he was in a good position to shoot, he declined.

Sigh.

With three minutes to go, and with a few Chelsea fans already trickling out of the away end, a relatively rare West Ham move found itself wide on our right.

Out of nowhere, Arthur Masuaku took a swipe at the ball, no doubt intending to send a cross into our box for the impressive Michail Antonio – much more agile than Lukaku – or anyone else who was nearby to attack. To our horror, the ball appeared to be sliced. It made a bee-line for the goal, and Mendy – expecting the cross – was caught out. His back-peddling and side-shifting was a terrible sight to see. Again that same net rippled.

The home fans, I have to say, made an absolute din.

Ugh.

With that, hundreds of Chelsea fans poured out of both tiers.

Alan, Gary, Parky and I stayed to the end, but I had packed away my camera long before the final whistle.

“Still not seen us win here.”

The Chelsea crowd shuffled out. Jason – another Chelsea fan from Wales – cheered me with a positive spin on things.

“Tough one but we move on mate” and a smile.

On the walk away from the stadium, there was honest annoyance but also a little pragmatism too.

“Should have won that. Fluke goal, the winner. A mate reckoned it deflected off Ruben’s leg. But we didn’t create enough clear chances. God, we miss Kante.”

As we walked on, the mood shifted further. Let’s not get too silly about this. Nobody likes losing but on this day, a day of two Arthurs, maybe a little perspective is needed.

Arthur Labinjo-Hughes.

Arthur Masuaku.

Do I have to spell it out?

The return trip out west went well. Pudding Mill Lane station was soon reached. It must be one of London’s hidden secrets; we never wait too long there. In the short line for the lift to take us up to the platform, a West Ham fan, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Bernie Winters, soon sussed that we were Chelsea but when he heard that we went to all the games could not have been friendlier.”

“Good lads.”

I finally took my photo of the ArcelorMital Orbit from the platform as we waited for a train to whip us back to Canary Wharf.

We were back at Barons Court for around 4pm. Our trip back to Wiltshire and Somerset was quick and uneventful, but one moment disrupted us.

“Liverpool just scored. Ninety-fourth minute.”

With Manchester City winning too, we suddenly found ourselves in third place. There will be no dishonour if this fledgling Chelsea team, still learning about itself and its manager – and vice versa – finishes third this season.

Personally, I’ve got my beady eyes on the World Club Championships. If we win that, the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy really won’t matter at all.

There is no midweek flit to Russia for me, so next up it’s the old enemy on Saturday.

Chelsea vs. Leeds United.

Salivate away everyone.

I’ll see you there.