Tag Archives: Wimborne Town

Tales From The Famous Chelsea

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Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 3 April 2025.

I am always the same. While sitting at my desk at work from 6am to 2pm, I was occasionally worried about the evening’s key Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur match. No other fixture gets to me in quite the same fashion. No other game makes me as agitated.

I guess that it is all because of “The Run”; the run of fixtures at Stamford Bridge since late 1990 that has seen Chelsea only lose once against “that lot” from N17 in thirty-four home league games. Throw in an unbeaten five cup games at home and it comes to one defeat in thirty-nine matches.

It’s an unbelievable show of dominance of one topflight team over another. I have stated before that this must be the most one-sided record between two teams in any main league’s topflight over a thirty-five-year period.

Long may it continue, eh?

It had been eighteen ridiculously long days since our last game, a scratchy 1-0 win at home to Leicester City, and it felt great to be heading back along the M4 once again. It felt especially nice to have PD back alongside me after missing the last two games.

In that gap of eighteen games, my football obsession was satiated by attending five Frome Town matches.

Paulton Rovers vs. Frome Town : 18 March.

First up was a Somerset Premier Cup semi-final at nearby Paulton Rovers. This was a relatively easy 3-1 win in a fast and physical game against a team now two divisions below us after playing at the same level last season.

Basingstoke Town vs. Frome Town : 22 March.

I went with my mate Glenn to the league game at Basingstoke and met up with my Chelsea pal Leigh, from Basingstoke, in a local pub beforehand. On nearing Basingstoke, I admitted to Glenn that “I am glad I am seeing Frome play today and not Chelsea” and it felt like a seminal moment. It wasn’t a great game, but a James Ollis goal gave us a vital three points in our bid for survival.

Frome Town vs. Wimborne Town : 25 March.

Next up, was a run of three home league games. Unfortunately, the first of these was a very poor match in which last season’s bitter rivals Wimborne Town beat us 1-0. The, however, gate was a creditable 531.

Frome Town vs. Hungerford Town : 29 March.

A very decent crowd of 659 saw us lose 1-0 again, against Hungerford Town, in a game that was of slightly better quality than against Wimborne but our lack of firepower in front of the goal was again very telling. We were still mired in a relegation place.

Frome Town vs. Weston-super-Mare : 2 April.

Some respite came in the final of the Somerset Premier Cup, played at Bath City’s Twerton Park, against National League South outfit Weston-super-Mare. Our opponents played a young team, but despite several chances to score, we succumbed to yet another 1-0 loss. Our lack of goals has plagued us all season.

Talking of other games, we return to 1984/85, and the briefest of mentions of the next match in my forty-year retrospective. On Saturday 30 March 1985, Chelsea travelled to Roker Park for a league game against Sunderland. I didn’t travel to this, and I don’t think many Chelsea did. The gate was a miserly 13,489. This came not long after them defeating us in the Milk Cup semi-finals and I don’t think it exactly captured the imagination of the Chelsea support. It also came six days after Sunderland lost 1-0 to Norwich City in the final so I don’t think it captured the imagination of the home support either. However, we came away from the game with a nice 2-0 win with goals from Kerry Dixon and a Micky Thomas penalty.

After grabbing a tasty bite to eat at a café – “222” – on the North End Road, I flew down to “The Eight Bells” where I chatted with PD, Parky, Salisbury Steve, Jimmy the Greek and Ian inside the pub and my fellow Sleepy Hollow companion Clive – a first visit for him to our local – and his mate John on the tables outside.

During the day I had found out that the Fulham team changed in this pub when the team used to play at a local patch of land now occupied by Raneleigh Gardens. This would have been between 1886 and 1888. There’s football history everywhere in SW6 if you know where to look.

From this particular part of Fulham, we caught a tube up to the Broadway, and I was inside the stadium at 7.30pm.

The team?

We were so glad that both Cole Palmer and Nicolas Jackson had returned.

Sanchez

Gusto – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella

Caicedo – Fernandez

Neto – Palmer – Sancho

Jackson

I chuckled as the “Dug Out Club Wankers” were drenched by the pitch sprinklers as they made their ceremonial walk across the centre of the pitch before the game.

It was if George Anstiss was having one last laugh from above.

“Get orf my bleedin’ pitch.”

Nearing kick-off, we were treated to a bizarre song to warm us all up and get us in the mood for football.

“You Shook Me All Night Long” by ACDC.

Answers on a fucking postcard.

That ain’t Chelsea, it ain’t even football.

Thankfully, we were soon back to the much more suitable “London Calling” by The Clash.

Then the dimming of the lights, but thankfully no flames in front of the East Stand. As the teams appeared, The Shed was a riot of colour. In the top tier, many flags were waved, while a large banner was draped from the balcony.

THE FAMOUS CHELSEA

Back in the ‘eighties, The Shed used to bellow “we are the famous, the famous Chelsea” but that seems to have died a death since then. The Geordies, however, still chant something similar to this day.

My mate Rob had appeared next to me just as the huge banner was beginning to be displayed and had sagely commented :

“You watch it unravel.”

I wondered if this might prove to be a worrying metaphor for, perhaps, the game ahead.

Meanwhile, down in the Matthew Harding Lower a huge – new – crowd surfer flag depicted The Rising Sun and Gus Mears.

This was a nice homage at both ends of the stadium for “CFC 120” as the club has termed it.

There was a change from the usual “Liquidator” by the Harry J All Stars with a perfectly timed incision of “Blue Is The Colour” into the pre-match routine leading right up to kick-off. I loved it that the crowd continued singing once the song had been forced into early retirement by the start of the match.

“So cheer us on through the sun and the rain ‘cus Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.”

And what a start.

From the whistle, the noise was deafening, the best of the season by far, and the returning striker Jackson almost caused immediate joy. Put through by Trevoh Chalobah, he raced on and found himself one-on-one with Guglielmo Vicario. There was a prod at goal, saved, but a crazy passage of play saw Micky Van de Ven attempt to clear, but the ball was hacked against Jackson’s shin. Our pulses were racing here, but sadly we saw the ball ricochet back off the right-hand post. There would be no celebrations in front of Parkyville just yet.

On six minutes, Marc Cucurella to Malo Gusto but just wide. That shot is featured here.

In the first quarter of an hour, I was very happy to see a far greater level of intensity and a much better desire to release the ball early, especially compared to the bore-fest at Arsenal.

Simply put, the threat of a pacey Jackson made all the difference since we now had a focus of our attack. On the right, Pedro Neto was also able to concentrate on his wing duties rather than ponce around in the middle and lose his way.

On eighteen minutes, a nice move twixt Jadon Sancho and Palmer on the left and there was a mad scramble in the Tottenham six-yard box, but Vicario was able to block virtually on the line.

There was a delightful turn / shimmy / dragback from Sancho that set up Palmer but the ball went out for a corner.

Dogged play from Jackson on twenty-eight minutes, hounding his defender, but a shot was blazed over.

By the half-hour mark, we were well on top, with Tottenham only threatening sporadically, mainly through Son Heing-min and Lucas Bergvall. Sancho showed lots of skill in tight areas but there was an infuriating reluctance to shoot. On the visitors’ rare breaks inside our final third, I loved the way that our players flung themselves at the ball to block. This showed spirit and character, and long may it thrive.

A lovely move on forty-four minutes resulted in a deep Neto cross from the right which was nicely met by Sancho. His wicked shot was on target but was incredibly well tipped over by Vicario.

At the other end, Robert Sanchez had been so quiet.

As the first half ended, we were happy, and there was a lovely sound of applause from the home areas.

In the concourse at the break, I spotted a chap with a River Plate shirt and I tapped him on the shoulder and could not resist the word “Boca” and a smile, but I wish, now, that I had stopped and asked if he was an Enzo fan.

Because everything was about to change.

After an early shot on goal from Palmer that tested Vicario again, the ball found its way to the feet of our talisman from Mancunia. I snapped as he eyed up the opportunity to cross.

His ball into the danger area was absolute perfection.

This felt right.

With my camera still poised, I snapped as Enzo – ex-River Plate – rose and planted the ball home.

MY ENZO.

GET IN.

The stadium exploded.

I was boiling over but shot a load of photos as the Argentinian raced towards us.

Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap,snap.

Enzo was hidden, submerged, for a few seconds, and I love the ecstasy on the face of players and supporters alike.

There had been a worry in the pub beforehand that without many local lads in our squad, the importance of this game against this opponent would be lost.

We need not have worried.

I looked at Alan.

We both smiled.

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

Barry Humphries : “Come on my little diamonds.”

Just after, Enzo attempted a very ambitious bicycle kick just past the penalty spot.

“Easy tiger.”

Two minutes after, the ball came out to the excellent Moises Caicedo from an Enzo free-kick, and he lashed it home.

The place erupted again, and I found it difficult to focus my camera on the melee in the far corner as the North Stand was moving so much.

Alas, VAR.

Alas, no goal.

Alas, a hairline offside from Levi Colwill.

Alas, the game we love is being strangled.

On sixty-three minutes, a massively wide effort from Neto, the ball curling out around ten yards from the corner flag in front of the West Stand.

Fackinell.

Tottenham went close on sixty-five minutes.

A substitution : Noni Madueke for Sancho.

Then, on sixty-nine minutes, Pape Matar Sarr broke and smashed a low drive from around thirty-five yards along the ground and seemingly at Sanchez. Our ‘keeper, maybe thinking about his post-match meal, his summer holiday, a long-lost unrequited love from his early years, or how the Matthew Harding roof stays up, wasn’t with it and his despairing dive only resulted in the ball deflecting high and into the roof of the net.

Bollocks.

Thankfully, a foul on Caicedo was spotted.

VAR.

A ridiculously long wait.

And I hate it how players from both teams were allowed to stand so close to referee Craig Pawson as he studied the pitch-side TV screen.

In such circumstances, the players should be corralled within the centre-circle.

Right?

Anyway, no goal.

Alan and I remained still and silent.

I don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour.

Fuck VAR.

However, the noise levels increased.

“This is more like it.”

I loved how Enzo twisted and turned down below me in the box, despite running out of space. His was a really fine performance on this night.

Vicario then saved from that man Enzo.

Another substitution : Reece James for Jackson.

Over on the far touchline, manager Maresca seemed to be getting the crowd in the East Lower pumped up. I noted that he was wearing a tangerine sweatshirt under his jacket, and it immediately brought memories of those orange sweatshirts that the players used to wear during their “kicking in” before games in the ‘seventies.

Twelve minutes of injury time.

Gulp.

Two more substitutions : Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Enzo, Tosin Adarabioyo for Palmer.

I whispered to Alan : “anything could happen here, mate.”

The clock ticked…

I loved it when Dewsbury-Hall made two crunching tackles and after both his teammates raced over to “high-five” him.

Great team spirit.

The noise boomed.

To “Amazing Grace” :

“CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA – CHELSEA.”

In the very last minute, however, our nerves were sorely tested as Tottenham broke rapidly. Dominic Solanke – who? – played the ball to Brennan Johnson who crossed low towards Son at the far post. He slid and poked it goalwards, but Sanchez – I take it all back – made a remarkable recovery to move to his right and block the goal-bound effort.

Phew.

It was an absolutely magnificent save.

Soon after, the final whistle blew.

Thankfully, the famous Chelsea Football Club didn’t unravel.

Not this time.

Tales From A Doubleheader

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Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 27 April 2024.

Ahead of the 8pm game at Villa Park to the north of Birmingham city centre on Saturday 27 April, the pre-match drinking was spent in two pubs in Frome, Somerset.

Let me explain.

After Tuesday’s game at Tavistock. when the home side inflicted a 3-2 defeat to Southern League South league leaders Wimborne Town, all eyes were on Frome Town’s final game of the regular season against Bristol Manor Farm. A win for Frome and anything but a win for Wimborne at nearby Melksham Town would result in my local team returning to the Southern League Premier South for the first time since relegation in 2019.

So, despite Chelsea playing in Birmingham later that day, plans were set in motion to attend the Frome game too. A football double-header? It was simply an offer that I could not refuse.

I had never seen my two teams play on the same day and, if it was to happen, I always presumed that both matches would take place in London. In the days when Frome were playing in the division above, from 2011/12 to 2018/19, there would often be away games in the Home Counties or London itself. I myself saw a game at East Molesey between the Met Police and Frome Town in the autumn of 2018.

But here would be two games one hundred and sixteen miles apart. The distance did not worry me. In fact, I was looking forward to the challenge.

On this heavy day of football, I collected PD in Frome at 11am, then looped up to Holt near Melksham to pick up Parky at 11.30am. Just after midday, we were sat in “The George Hotel” in Frome’s historic Market Place.

On Facebook, I set things up.

“So, it all comes down to this.

This is my thirty-third Frome Town game this season. If it turns out to be my last, we will have made it.

Buzzing. Loads of friends going today. Perfect.

Stop dreaming of the quiet life.

UTFD.”

My good friend Kev – of sound Chelsea heritage, nurtured and honed in Basingstoke and London, and now recently Bristol – was staying in the hotel with his partner Sally and soon joined us. Kev, however, was wearing the colours of the visitors from Shirehampton; the oddly-named Bristol Manor Farm, supported by the Farmy Army, and ironically the team that defeated Frome Town 3-1 in a league play-off at Badgers Hill in 2022.

Kev and I, taking inspiration from the Flamengo vs. Fluminense derby in Rio, have named the games between our two teams as the “Far/Fro Superclassico” over the past few seasons and we have a shared love of the non-league scene. We only met up at a minor cup competition when the two teams met at Frome in 2017 despite being friends on Facebook for years, and having mutual friends all over the Chelsea universe. We settled down to some pre-match banter. Kev was meeting PD and Parky for the first-ever time, but he soon said that he felt that he has known them for years such is the power of social media. At 1pm, I drove us out of the town centre and up the hill towards the next pub, “The Vine Tree”, which is only one hundred yards from the Badgers Hill ground.

Halfway up the hill, Parky made a typically wry comment to a point that I was making and the whole car exploded with laughter. It was almost jolted into oncoming traffic.

“Well, there you go, Kev. That’s the Chuckle Bus for you.”

Once inside “The Vine Tree”, we were joined by my mate Francis, looking rather nervous ahead of the afternoon’s game, and we enjoyed a couple of drinks until it was time to walk up the hill to the stadium.

At about 2.30pm, we were inside, and it already felt like my prediction of a gate of just over 1,000 would be about right. I soon lost PD and Parky and found it hard to meet up with other friends such was the number of fellow supporters in all areas of the stadium. By the main entrance gate, I proffered my hand to the chairman but instead of grabbing hold of it and shaking it, he preferred to give me a big hug. That felt special.

Eventually I met up with the usual match day crew – Francis and I were joined by Steve and Louise, Tom, Rob, Darren, plus Rick from Portsmouth – and we took position on the lower slope of “The Club End” as the game began. An early free-kick to Frome, who were uncharacteristically attacking the home end in this first-half, allowed me to dash over and snap away with my SLR. There are no unyielding bag searches at this level of the game and thankfully no confiscation of cameras. Experienced midfielder George Rigg sent a ball in from out wide and the flight of the ball seemed to bamboozle everyone, not least Seth Locke, the former Frome ‘keeper, now between the sticks for Manor Farm. The ball dolloped in. Pandemonium in East Somerset.

Just after, we heard that Melksham were 1-0 up against Wimborne. At this exact moment, the Dodge were going up.

Alas, this was the highpoint of the game. The away team, dressed in all blue – yes, I was confused a few times – scored through Daniel Dodimead on fifteen minutes after a free-kick was fumbled. The visitors dominated the rest of the first-half, despite few chances for both teams. In Melksham, meanwhile, Wimborne had equalised.

This was a very tense affair.

In the second-half, the gang of us repositioned ourselves under “The Cowshed” at the other end of the stadium, but sadly saw Owen Brain drilled a rising free-kick in at the far post soon into the second period. Frome made some changes and tried to re-assert themselves but the team from Bristol were a tough opponent. We looked tired and leggy. On seventy-one minutes, more calamity. Our ‘keeper Kyle Phillips raced out to clear but lost his footing, leaving Dodimead with an easy lob into an open goal.

At this stage, Wimborne were 2-1 up, and I suddenly knew that I needed to be on my way to Birmingham.

I made my way through a noisy knot of away fans in a fine gate of 1,028 and signalled to PD and Parky, still watching in the “Club End” and with another Chelsea fan Dan – who would be coming to Villa with us – that it was time to make a move.

The guilt of me leaving early at two consecutive games – on 92 minutes at Arsenal, on 75 minutes at Frome Town – was not pleasant, but needs must. The priority now was to get to Villa Park for the 8pm kick-off. At 4.40pm, I pulled out of “The Vine Tree” car park knowing full well that I would be back in Frome for the league play-offs semi-final on Wednesday evening.

I made really good time en route to Birmingham. I even had time to stop off at Strensham, what a luxury. Dan updated us on the results.

“You won’t believe this. Frome ended 3-3.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. 3-3.”

The home team had scored two very late goals via James Ollis on eighty-seven minutes and substitute Reece Rusher on ninety-minutes to tie things up, and to maintain an unbeaten home record in the league for the first time since 1911. A fine achievement.

On Wednesday 1 May, it will line up like this :

Frome Town vs. Mousehole

Cribbs vs. Bristol Manor Farm

The winners will meet each other in the play-off final on Bank Holiday Monday, 6 May. If Frome make it, we will be at home. Within ten days, there could be three gates of over 1,000 at Badgers Hill. Non-league football is on the rise, gates are up at all levels, and who can stop it now?

There were no delays as I headed further up the M5 and then turned past The Hawthorns into the badlands of Birmingham. I dropped the lads off at the roundabout near Witton Station and doubled-back on myself to park up at my allotted “JustPark” spot.

It was 7.15pm.

I had made it.

Just like in 1986/87, I was attending my second of two games at Villa Park in the same season; on Wednesday 7 February we mullered Villa 3-1 in the FA Cup in our most complete performance of the campaign thus far. It didn’t seem five minutes ago since I made the short walk towards the Doug Ellis Stand. The bag-check was minimal.

“What’s that, a camera? OK.”

I had moved our tickets around so that PD could stand next to Parky in the front few rows of the Upper Tier. Meanwhile, I was further back, and alongside a former work colleague who was attending his very first Chelsea game. I have known Terry for the best part of twenty years and in the last couple of years he has very kindly been following my exploits on this website. Last season, as I mentioned the build-up to a game at Villa Park, he spoke to me about the years when he lived very close to the stadium at Perry Bar. If a spare ticket became available for this season’s game at Villa, I promised that he could come along. Recently retired, Terry lives to the south of Birmingham, and I had not seen him for a good six months. It was a joy to see him in the Chelsea section.

Terry had grown up in Erdington in a family of Villa fans, but had never followed them. This was his first-ever game at Villa Park. I explained to Terry how I got to know Ron Harris over the years, and Terry had a nice story for me too. Charlie Aitken, who played more games for Aston Villa – 660 – than anyone else, was Terry’s first landlord when he got married.

795 and 660, what a couple of stalwarts.

As the countdown to the kick-off took place, I was intrigued to see how a Chelsea “newbie” would react to a night of football, but with a Chelsea-esque feel.

After another flurry of flames, then fireworks, then “Crazy Train” by Ozzy – Osbourne, not Osgood –  the teams appeared opposite.

Despite the late kick-off, this was a full house for sure, and the Chelsea section on two levels were pretty buoyant. My mate Rob was attending game number two of the day too; earlier he had seen his team Walton & Hersham beat Poole Town 3-0.

Mauricio Pochettino had selected the following.

Petrovic

Chalobah – Silva – Badiashile – Cucarella

Gallagher – Caicedo

Madueke – Palmer – Mudryk

Jackson

Game number two began.

We attacked the Holte End in the first-half, or at least tried to. There was a brief foray into the Villa penalty box but after just four minutes, we were exposed. A Villa attack, virtually their first, broke down our left. Marc Cucarella scurried away to keep the danger at bay, but the ball was neatly transferred to the other side. Lucas Digne was free and in acres of space. Our marking was woeful. He found John McGinn, just inside and in a good position for a shot. His effort was miss-hit but took a big enough deflection of Cucarella and fizzed past a stranded Djordje Petrovic.

Just like at Arsenal on Tuesday evening, a goal from the right-hand side of our defence had left us chasing the game. And on this day of two games, earlier in Somerset, Frome had been 1-0 up after four minutes but here in Birmingham, Chelsea were 1-0 down after four minutes.

The Villa fans down to our right were cheering a second soon after, but we could see from our vantage place that Digne had only hit the side netting. Petrovic saved well from Ollie Watkins. We were struggling to find a foothold.

We were all cheering when Conor Gallagher sent a ball over for Nicolas Jackson to score – “he scored in the Cup game too, didn’t he?” – but our elation was stopped by the intervention of VAR. From my position up the other end of the stadium, it did seem like an offside.

We ploughed on, but our approach play was so laboured. Frustrations grew with each passing minute. Noni Madueke, who had begun brightly, drifted out of the game but Mykhailo Mudryk never ever got going. He received the ball in wide areas often enough, but exhibited no guile nor nous in making any telling contribution. Two identical efforts after cutting in drifted so high and wide of the goal frame as to be hardly worthy of the term.

We managed to conjure up a couple of chances, but a Cole Palmer chance went wide while Moises Caicedo hit straight at Emiliano Martinez.

I lost count of the number of times that Badiashile and Silva received the ball from virtually all of our players. It was as if the coaching team at Cobham had inverted the entire direction of play.

“Don’t worry about hitting Nicolas and Cole as early as you can lads, keep looking for Benoit and Thiago, that’s the spirit.”

This was hard to watch.

Then, a deep cross from the boot of Cucarella at the by-line was headed down by an unmarked Jackson but his effort bounced back off the base of the post.

I wasn’t impressed with the home team though; they seemed to be playing within themselves, seemingly content with a narrow lead.

Sadly, just before the half-time whistle, Villa enjoyed a very rare break. The ball was played simply to Morgan Rogers – “there’s always a spare man that side” – who adeptly struck low into the corner of our net.

Neither team had played well, yet Chelsea went into the break 0-2 down.

This was always going to be a tough game. And here we were, right in the middle of it and right up against it.

To my right, Cliff hoped that Poch’s half-time pep-talk, no pun intended, would inspire the troops, but this was said with his tongue well and truly in his cheek. I knew what he meant exactly.

The second-half began with Chelsea attacking our end.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, we improved immensely. Madueke was full of running and trickery down below us, though was too reliant on his left foot to be truly sensational. A few chances came and went.

Cucarella.

Madueke.

Silva.

On sixty-two minutes, excellent Chelsea pressure in the Villa box from Palmer and Gallagher allowed the ball to run for Madueke. He wasted no time, hitting the ball as it came across his body with his left peg. The ball sped past the substitute Villa ‘keeper Robin Olsen and into the goal. We were back in it. The scorer ran off into the middle distance but seemed to be ranting at the Chelsea crowd at the same time. Answers on a postcard.

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

Chelsea continued to shine, and there was special praise for both Caicedo and Badiashile who grew with each passing moment. At last we saw crunching tackles from Caicedo. The Chelsea support were soon to applaud. We were playing with more bite, more hunger, and we found spaces in tight areas. Jackson never stopped running, a real handful for his markers. This really was much better.

There was a fine low save from Petrovic after a rare Villa break in front of the Holte End.

A few more chances. Everyone, of course, was stood, as we had been for the entire match. We urged the players on.

With eighty-one minutes played, Gallagher found a little space for himself and curled a magnificent shot towards goal with his left foot. The flight of the ball was perfection. The net rippled. We went doo-lally. We were level.

Fackinell.

On eighty-nine minutes, and with not a soul having left, the manager made two very late changes.

Axel Disasi for Silva.

Cesare Casadei for Mudryk.

It had been another cool and calm performance from Silva. It had been the antithesis of cool and calm from Mudryk.

Palmer swept into the box but produced a fine save from Olsen.

A corner down below us. Palmer swung it in. A Villa header and the ball bounced high. Badiashile won a challenge and hooked the ball back in. Disasi the substitute seemed to arrive late but flung himself at the ball.

Snap – GOAL – snap, snap, snap.

To my left, Terry was punching the air like a loon, and I was too. What a comeback, what a game, and I was sure that one or two snaps of the screaming Disasi would make me happy.

Wild celebrations.

But then, the bloke behind me mentioned VAR and a push.

Of course. I remembered it now. The push by Badiashile. Yes. It looked unlawful. No shoulder charge, that.

The inevitable wait, but VAR spoke.

No goal.

Ugh.

So, there was modern football encapsulated within a few seconds.

Joy, pain, euphoria, annoyance, ecstasy, misery.

“You don’t get VAR shite at Frome Town.”

I said my farewells to Terry and the lads around me. I soon met up with PD, Parky and Dan outside. We hobbled back to the car and I began the drive home. We had enjoyed the second-half, not so much the first. We stopped to refuel at Hilton park, and I eventually made it home at about 2am.

It had been another long day, but it threw up a lot of fine memories.

Kev had left me a message that I did not spot until very late on :

“From Parky’s quip in the car onwards, it has been a day of comebacks.”

I smiled.

Next up, we play the old enemy at Stamford Bridge on Thursday.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham.

Makes you shiver with excitement, doesn’t it?

See you there.

Frome Town vs. Bristol Manor Farm

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea

Tales From St. George’s Day

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Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 23 April 2024.

I was up early, around 4.45am, with yet another long day ahead. As I pottered about the house in a semi-conscious state, for some reason I kept thinking of that ridiculously chirpy – certainly for 5am on a week-day morning – Arsenal ditty that goes on about “playing football the Arsenal way.” I wasn’t sure why this was; some nervous reaction, maybe. But I soon adapted this to make it very specific to the particular date of the game.

“Playing football the Arsenal way. Thrashed by Chelsea on St. George’s Day.”

It scanned OK. I put it in my metaphorical back pocket to use on social media, hopefully later in the day. Then, with work started at 6am, the little ditty occasionally floated back into my mind. For some unfathomable reason, I shared it during the day in the office with Matt, the Arsenal supporter, and how he didn’t ridicule me is a miracle.

Oh God. What was I thinking off? Hardly any Chelsea fans had much hope of us winning at the Emirates Stadium later that evening.

Despite a slow but gradual upturn in our league form over the past eight games – four wins and four draws – this was always going to be the toughest of games, and the fixture loomed over us for weeks after the initial date of 16 March was set aside for an FA Cup game.

After the narrow defeat at Wembley on Saturday, the three of us were philosophical as we made a record-breaking exit from the national stadium, the quickest-ever escape from our seat at full-time to Marylebone and then to my car at Barons Court.

“I’m not losing any sleep about losing 1-0 to City today. We did OK. We should have won it.”

The Arsenal away game quickly followed on the Tuesday night. It was the first of seven remaining league games.

Arsenal – away.

Aston Villa – away.

Tottenham Hotspur – home.

West Ham United – home.

Nottingham Forest – away.

Brighton & Hove Albion – away.

Bournemouth – home.

Despite our upturn in form, and expectations, this was a tough run-in, and if I was honest, I didn’t fancy us to win more than a couple. West Ham at home, and then? I struggled to name a second game. Bournemouth at home? Maybe.

Only PD and I travelled up from Somerset for this game. We were parked at Barons Court again, bang on 5pm, and our pre-match pre-amble took in a coffee at a café outside the station, before hopping on to the Piccadilly Line to Piccadilly Circus, where we dropped off for a drink at “The Queens Head” before returning to the tube network and alighting at Arsenal. The tube carriage was full of Arsenal on the last stretch. I saw a young kid with a Chelsea shirt peeking out from underneath a jacket and nodded.

The usual slow walk up the claustrophobic slope at Arsenal tube and then out into the early evening sun, blinking at the brightness. Here, I wanted to time travel.

I turned left, and I visited the past.

I walked along Gillespie Road, with its brown-bricked terraced houses, with neatly-painted doors and window frames, that have stood since before the days of Woolwich Arsenal’s abandonment of its south-side beginnings and its sudden arrival at Highbury in 1913. I like the fact that this little stretch of terra firma is still utilised on Arsenal match days. There are food huts and merchandise stalls, many utilising the concreted front gardens along Gillespie Road and it is a hive of activity. The place is a riot of colour, albeit the wrong colour. I was undoubtedly reminded of my first-ever visit to Highbury in August 1984, almost forty years ago. I trudged past the void that used to lead to the old North Bank, and then turned up the slight incline of Avenell Road. My camera went into overdrive as I photographed the splendour of the art deco façade of the imposing East Stand. It is such an impressive sight. Memories of 1984, and paying at the turnstile to get into the Clock End with around 16,000 other Chelsea supporters on that blisteringly hot day in the greatest of our collective summers.

In 1984, Chelsea were back. And how.

There were memories of sitting in the sauna-like conditions of the top tier of the Clock End for the Wimbledon game in 1997 too. Believe it or not, that was my only Chelsea win at Highbury. There were eight visits with Chelsea against Arsenal, but only four draws and four losses. I used to hate them singing to us about winning the league in black and white. Sadly, I did not get a ticket for the Champions League game in 2004.

1984 and 2004, forty years ago and twenty years ago, time travel indeed.

I walked past the Arsenal tube station once again.

I was back in the present, like a modern day Mr. Benn. We slid past the site of the entrance to the old West Stand on Highbury Hill – shoe-horned between houses – and then a left-turn and onto Drayton Park. More merchandise stalls, more red. A few boisterous shouts from supporters of both teams. The modern buildings of an Arsenal ticket office to my right, then the slow walk up to the wide open approach to the new stadium.

My mind had allowed me to wallow in the past, and it was now to check out the present.

To the left, brick terraced houses, 1930’s architecture, Alex James in baggy shorts and Herbert Chapman busts in the marble halls.

To the right, glass and steel, the new stadium, towering stands, nearby high-rise apartments, but also a nod to the past too, a statue of Herbert Chapman in quiet admiration of the new home.

Outside, I handed over tickets to Ray, and one of his mates took a photo of us.

PD, Chris and Ray with Herbert in the background.

There was a gaggle of worried Chelsea fans nearby; JD with Jayne and Liz, plus Neil Barnett.

“Have you seen the team?”

I had, and the concern was the defence.

Petrovic

Gilchrist – Disasi – Badiashile – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Gallagher – Mudryk

Jackson

The focus was on the central-pairing of Axel Disasi and Benoit Badiashile. Yes, I was worried. I quickly glimpsed at reactions to the team on social media. There was concern that Thiago Silva, who had performed admirably at Wembley on Saturday, had been dropped. I had a wry grin to myself as I remembered how the social media experts had decided a month or so ago that Silva should be dropped from the Chelsea team and told to gracefully retire.

Maybe the old guy was carrying a knock, maybe he wasn’t at a 100%. The dropping of Trevoh Chalobah was a little more mystifying.

But no Malo Gusto and no Cole Palmer. Gulp.

I made my way in past the security checks – I didn’t fancy risking the SLR again, my small Sony “pub camera” would have to suffice – and hoped for the best with the Disasi and Badiashile pairing. It’s probable that our first-choice at the back in a flat-four, should they ever be fit at the same time, would have been Levi Colwill and Wesley Fofana this season. Fofana doesn’t even feel like a Chelsea player at the moment, such has been his enforced absence. Will we ever see him again?

I was inside at 7.30pm, a bitter wind suddenly providing surprising gusts of cold. My seat was right next to the wide exit adjacent to the corner flag. It provided me with an interrupted view of the Clock End goal, which I quickly decided may not be for the best.

Five of us in a row : Alan, John, Gary, PD, me.

I spotted some faces around and about.

The PA warned about consistent standing, and reminded us to be aware of who we might be standing next to and that some spectators are not able to stand.

“And I can’t stand Arsenal.”

Just before the teams came onto the pitch, Joe Cole and Rio Ferdinand, on “Sky TV” duty, walked behind the goal from a previous position and headed right past me and into the guts of the Clock End using the exit tunnel. Joe Cole was serenaded by us all and he reciprocated by hugging a couple of Chelsea supporters. The Arsenal match mascot – Gunnersaurus –  appeared fleetingly too, disappearing into the same void as the former players.

Long neck, small head, a gormless expression, big feet, clumsy, probably a very small brain.

But that’s enough about Rio Ferdinand.

A little music; “Hells Bells” by AC/DC and “London Calling” by The Clash.

Piped music, music for the fans, not songs by the fans, then flags on the pitch and flames alongside it. The modern football package. I bet Herbert Chapman would have hated it.

I noted that Kai Havertz, keeping his number 29 shirt, was starting for the home team.

All along, in the car, in the pub, all of the pre-match, I had mentioned that I wanted us to keep them out for twenty minutes.

They attacked us in the Clock End in the first-half. And they attacked us early. Firstly, Havertz went sprawling in the box after the most negligible of challenges from Badiashile. He was offside anyway.

However, in what seemed the next worthwhile attack, Declan Rice ran deep into our box. Alfie Gilchrist was exposed, and had two Arsenal players to occupy his mind. Rice passed it to his left to Leandro Trossard, who seemed within touching distance of us in the front few rows. I expected a cross. Maybe Djordje Petrovic did too. Trossard whipped the ball towards the goal and I, and no doubt Petrovic, grimaced when the net rippled.

Oh, for fuck sake.

Arsenal 1 Chelsea 0.

Just four minutes had elapsed.

The home team absolutely dominated the opening quarter of the game, and we were run ragged. Bukayo Saka impressed me. A fine save down low from Petrovic foiled Havertz. It was only a miraculous selection of last-minute blocks, lucky deflections, wayward Arsenal efforts, and great reaction saves from Petrovic that stopped Arsenal from going further ahead. There appeared to be hardly a seat not being used on this cold night in N5 and the home crowd, still believing that the title race was on, were baying for blood.

Then, almost inextricably, we began to improve. We won loose balls – “turnovers” in modern parlance, is this a fucking baking competition? – and hinted that we might be able to get behind Arsenal. Madueke, hardly flavour of the month at Chelsea these days, received lots of the ball but struggled to produce an end product. Half-way through the first-half, a scintillating run by the similarly chastised Nicolas Jackson up the left touchline had me gasping. I could hardly believe my eyes. His pace was spellbinding. I remembered a similar run at Villa in the FA Cup replay by Madueke on the other flank. In the end, his cross from the goal-line struck the post after deflecting off Gabriel.

The place was noisy. There were the usual Arsenal dirges, but Chelsea tried to quell their racket.

“We won 4-1 in Baku.”

Arsenal came again, a fine save down low from Petrovic foiled Havertz. Then, a deflected shot off a Chelsea defender happened to hit Petrovic who was well-placed.

I loved the way that Alfie Gilchrist took out an Arsenal player on the touchline. It brought back memories of how Doug Rougvie marked his debut by taking out Viv Anderson at Highbury in 1984.

We managed to put together a few attacks, with Enzo Fernandez occasionally playing the ball intelligently forward. Crosses came into the Arsenal box but oh for a target man. And how we missed the intelligence of Palmer, tucked in behind. When we reached the final third, we just seemed to run out of ideas.

We closed the first-half reasonably well. A shot on target from Marc Cucarella came out to Enzo who drilled a shot just wide.

At the break, I tried to be as up-beat as I could. I think I knew, deep down, that it could have been more than 0-1.

Elsewhere, down in deepest Devon, Frome Town’s promotion rivals Wimborne Town were at AFC Tavistock in a match that they had to win to guarantee the league title and automatic promotion. If that was achieved, Frome Town would be forced into the play-offs. It was 1-1 at half-time.

The match began again with Chelsea attacking us in the Clock End. The initial action was at the other end, though. Petrovic was called into action early, and saved well from a Havertz poke, but on fifty-two minutes, the ball stayed alive from an Arsenal corner and Ben White smashed a loose ball in.

Arsenal 2 Chelsea 0.

Worse was to follow. Five minutes later and a rapid Arsenal break. The impressive Martin Odergaard slotted a perfect ball for Havertz to run onto, with Cucarella and Badiashile chasing his shadow. The former Chelsea player smashed the ball high over Petrovic and into the goal.

Arsenal 3 Chelsea 0.

Lots of Chelsea left.

Madueke set up Jackson inside the box, but chose to go for the near post than the far. The side netting rippled and we spat out some vitriol.

On sixty-four minutes, Saka passed inside the box to Havertz, who took the briefest of touches before drilling the ball in off the post. I saw the number “29” on his shirt as he ran towards the North Bank and glowered.

Arsenal 4 Chelsea 0.

I had visions of a huge defeat. I wanted us to stop the bleeding.

Time for two substitutions.

Raheem Sterling for Mudryk, as yet un-mentioned in this match report.

Trevoh Chalobah for Enzo.

On seventy minutes, a hideous moment. One touch football; Saka to Odergaard, a chip to White, and a ridiculous lob over Petrovic into the goal. It reminded me of that blooter that Tony Adams scored at the Highbury Clock End in 1998, the git. I hope that it won’t coincide with another Arsenal league title.

Arsenal 5 Chelsea 0.

Oh God, no more. Please.

Thinking : “we beat them 6-0 in 2014, ten years ago, please not six.”

This was horrible. The stadium was as noisy as I have ever heard it.

“We’re the North Bank, we’re the North Bank, we’re the North Bank Highbury.”

“We’re the Clock End, we’re the Clock End, we’re the Clock End Highbury.”

More substitutions.

Thiago Silva for Gilchrist.

Cesare Casadei for Madueke.

It was around this time, around 9.30pm, with more and more Chelsea vacating the away end, that I solidly stood against the wall to my left, not really paying too much attention to the game, and started to search for updates from Devon.

Tavistock were 2-1 up. Get in.

But then, bollocks, Wimborne had equalised with about six minutes to go.

The action on the pitch drifted on. Thank God Havertz had been substituted, but on came Jorginho. Stop twisting that knife, Arsenal.

I summoned up the courage to squint at the Wimborne Town Twitter feed, and there it was.

94 minutes : Tavistock 3 Wimborne Town 2.

My heart jumped. It soon became the final score.

What a mixture of emotions, though. I was hating the events at Arsenal in that horrible second-half. We just disappeared and wilted. Arsenal were well worth their win. I was just relieved that the home team didn’t go for the jugular.

The final nail in the coffin was Arsenal cheering every one of our passes in a late, late move that we put together.

Ugh.

With seven minutes of extra-time signalled, I asked PD if we should leave. We were the only ones left in our immediate area. From memory, I had only left early at a very small number of games in my Chelsea history. This was game 1,445.

The others?

Chelsea vs. Bolton, 1981 – to catch a coach at Earls Court at 5pm, we were 2-0 up.

Sunderland vs. Chelsea, 1999 – to beat the traffic, we were 1-4 down.

Manchester United vs. Chelsea, 2008 – to beat the traffic, we were 0-2 down, we lost 0-3.

West Ham vs. Chelsea, 2012 – I had had enough, post Di Matteo sacking, we were 1-2 down, we lost 1-3.

We trudged slowly up the steps. I must have looked pitiful.

I mouthed to a few good friends “I don’t like doing this.”

To be fair, PD has been suffering with his hip recently, and an elongated wait at Highbury & Islington tube would have been horrible. We walked down the Holloway Road as fast as we could. We reached there at 10.15pm. The Victoria Line to Green Park, then back onto the Piccadilly Line to Barons Court, getting back at just before 11pm. I would eventually get home at 1.30am.

I can’t deny it, the result in Devon had cheered me up no end. As I drove along the M4 and the A4, through those old towns, I could not help but to babble away to PD like a fool. To sum up, if Frome Town claim a win at home to Bristol Manor Farm on Saturday and Wimborne Town fail to win at Melksham Town, just sixteen miles away, Frome Town will be promoted.

Saturday 27 April promises to be a heavy day of football.

From Frome Town to Aston Villa.

I can’t bloody wait.

Tales From The Sweet FA

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5

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 April 2024.

“Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light.
Wind was blowing, time stood still.
Eagle flew out of the night.”

It was just before 7.45pm on Wednesday 17 April and the PA at Larkhall Athletic’s picturesque Plain Ham ground, high on a hill, surrounded by narrow lanes, played Peter Gabriel’s 1977 debut single. It heralded the appearance of the home team and their visitors Frome Town for the evening’s local derby. This was all very apt since Solsbury Hill is just visible beyond the northern side of the ground now that a line of trees has been cut down since my last visit.

Fresh with memories of Chelsea’s fine 6-0 against an admittedly poor Everton team, I had assembled alongside a healthy turn out of Frome followers to urge the team on towards another three points in the quest for promotion to the Southern League Premier South. But this was a nervy occasion. Frome added to the worry by conceding a cheap goal after just three minutes and did not really get going in a disjointed first-half. Substitutions were made as the second-half progressed and, thankfully, we looked a lot more efficient and purposeful. We threatened with a few pacey attacks. Thankfully, stalwart Matt Smith – out for eighteen months until very recently – smashed home a late leveller. Frome could have edged it in the very last move of the match but James Ollis’ stooping header just missed the target.

The draw was a fair result, but the worry was that with just two regular season games left, Frome were looking leggy and tired. On Saturday 20 April, on the day that Chelsea were to play Manchester City at Wembley in the FA Cup semi-final, Frome would travel to Wimborne in a top-two clash. The fixture had captured the imagination of the Frome faithful and large numbers were to travel.

However, I had the FA Cup on my mind. It would undoubtedly be my focus for the weekend.

Then, on the Thursday, the FA upset the apple cart. News filtered through concerning the atrocious decision of FA Cup replays from the first-round being scrapped from next season, apparently after precious little consultation with clubs in the FA umbrella. This annoyed me and so many others. It seemed to me that the Football Association make so much noise about diversity and inclusiveness, but this announcement suggested that the World’s greatest and most revered national knockout competition is increasingly geared towards the moneyed elite only.

This decision will help to kill the romance of the cup – “if only we can scrape a draw and get them back to our place” – to say nothing of the horrible effect on vanishing revenues. Additionally, the FA in their infinite wisdom announced that the final would not be played on a stand-alone weekend as a season finale. It all reeks of looking after the top clubs at the expense of all others. Another nail in the coffin for the once magnificent FA Cup? It certainly seems like it.

Which brings us to another reason why the FA Cup has been on a downward spiral for a couple of decades now. Our semi against City would be at Wembley, and I hate this. Wembley should be saved for finals alone. I don’t care one iota about the oft-spoken but embarrassingly mumbled words from the FA about getting more fans to see the semi-finals, the move to Wembley is all about money and nothing more.

Chelsea vs. Manchester City? Play it at Old Trafford, capacity 74,300.

Coventry City vs. Manchester United? Play it at Cardiff, capacity 74,500.

Semis at neutral venues used to be fine occasions. Chelsea in the Holte End at Villa Park in 1996 and in the North Bank at Highbury in 1997? Bloody fantastic times.

It’s hard to believe that the same sport, under the auspices of the Football Association, can induce such a difference in emotions, with different feelings of belonging, at the two levels that I actively support it; Chelsea in the Premier League, Frome Town in the Southern League South. It is a modern-day football conundrum and I am not sure that I have the patience to solve it.

However, certainly at the professional level, the FA know Fuck All – sweet FA, sweet Fanny Adams – about what makes football special. I would not trust them to do anything in our interests. But the same could be said of UEFA and FIFA. I dislike them all with a passion.

Despite all of this nonsense, Saturday 20 April was set up to be some sort of footballing day of destiny for me, and it seems that we have had a few of those over the years. I collected PD at 8am, I collected Parky at 8.30am. The plan, though not solidified, was to meet up with some friends as the day got going. However, the day in London was always going to start with a fry-up at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at around 10.30am. We arrived on the dot. Despite a very tasty breakfast – bacon, egg, baked beans, black pudding, bubble and squeak, two rounds of toast, a mug of strong tea, £8.40 – in the back of my mind was the gnawing realisation that a breakfast in the “Half Moon” equated to a Wembley defeat, dating back a few years now. It’s a tough habit to break, though.

I was parked-up at Barons Court at around 11am and we made our way to Earls Court for 11.15am. Salisbury Steve was further north at Edgware Road and wisely decided not to double back to Earls Court. We strode into “The Blackbird” – not an unfamiliar pub to us – and I got the first round in, but was shocked to see that a single pint of “Peroni” was £7.45, probably the dearest I have ever paid in the UK.

We were joined by friends from Columbus in Ohio; Andrew, Steve, Neil and Adrian. This was a first visit to England for Adrian. I made sure he realised how lucky he was to get a ticket for this game. We trotted around the corner to “The King’s Head” which only I had visited previously. We stayed here – we had the whole place to ourselves for the first half-an-hour – for a couple of hours. We had a lovely chuckle. It’s a great pub.

Originally, this weekend was geared up for a Brighton away game and Steve, who is getting married in September, was using the weekend as his “stag do”; we had been invited along. Due to our progress in the FA Cup, those plans took a hammering. But here we were. I noted what was playing on the jukebox; Paul Weller’s “Wildwood.”

“Raise your glasses boys. Here we are in a London pub. Off to Wembley to see Chelsea, four of you for the first time. Paul Weller on the juke box. Life is good.”

Steve told a great story. He knew that PD and I had heart issues over the past few years and so he spoke of a friend who had had a heart scare and was now looped up to a heart monitor. He was sitting at home one evening, alone. All of a sudden he hears “beep” and he is immediately worried. After a few seconds, another “beep”. He had been told that if he has a heart attack, to brace himself, so – fearing the worst – he gripped a nearby chair. Another “beep” and then another.

“Beep.”

“Beep.”

He then realised that it was his young child’s electronic toy beeping as its battery was low.

Fackinell.

Oh God, we were howling.

We caught a tube up to Marylebone, changing at Paddington, and we made a bee-line for “The Allsop Arms” where we knew some mates were based, with not much of a line at the bar. We stayed here from about 2.30pm to 3.45pm. From 3pm, I was wired into Frome Town and Wimborne Town’s “Twitter” accounts, bracing myself for good – or bad – news.

Beep.

“Matt Smith and George Rigg recalled.”

Beep.

“A cagey opening.”

Beep.

“No goals at half-time.”

We made our way up to Marylebone, catching the 4.15pm train to Wembley Stadium.

While on the ten-minute train journey, my mate Francis texted me.

Beep.

“One mother-fucking-nil to The Dodge.”

Oh you absolute beauty. The lads alongside me were pleased too. On the packed train, there were plenty of Chelsea chants but one song dominated.

“We’re gonna have a party when Arsenal fuck it up.”

I sang different lyrics.

“We’re gonna have a party when Wimborne fuck it up.”

Sadly, as I was walking up towards Wembley Stadium train station, Francis texted again.

Beep.

“They’ve equalised.”

Beep.

“Gate 2,307.”

This stunned me. What an amazing attendance for a level eight game.

As I found my seats in the top tier of the south-west corner at 4.50pm, one last text.

Beep.

“Final score.”

It was time to fully focus on Chelsea now.

The team was announced.

Petrovic

Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella

Caicedo – Enzo

Madueke – Palmer – Gallagher

Jackson

So, the cool head and the cool feet of Thiago Silva got the nod over other options – despite Axel Diasi’s masterclass of a defensive performance at Manchester City a few months back – and the manager had chosen to play Conor Gallagher wide left. Raheem Sterling’s absence spoke volumes.

City? Erling Haaland wasn’t playing; not even on the bench. Good.

Kick-off approached. A City song – seemingly stuck in the mid-‘seventies – was aired on the PA and there was no singalong from them. Instead a loud and proud “Carefree” drowned it out. This, of course, pleased me. On every visit to Wembley, I make mental notes about the vocal performance of the two competing teams.

Advantage us.

Our song, “Blue Day”, was cheered.

Two displays took over the two ends of the stadium. Our mosaic looked a bit patchy, their banner looked decent.

In the West End :

“WE ARE THE FAMOUS. THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”

“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”

In the East End :

“THE BEST TEAM IN THE LAND AND ALL THE WORLD.”

“CITY ARE BACK. CITY ARE BACK.”

I wondered if City were stickering up that end in preparation for the United fans who would be occupying the same seats on the Sunday. There were inflatable bananas, how 1989, bouncing around in City’s lower tier. There were empty seats in both ends but many more in the City end.

At 5.15pm, the game began.

We probably started the strongest with Gallagher breaking past his last man, Kyle Walker, a couple of times and Nicolas Jackson wriggling free with his pace but shooting at Stefan Ortega. There was a long-range effort from Cole Palmer but it was not nearly as well executed as against Everton a few days earlier.

Phil Foden was set up by Kevin de Bruyne with a fine through-ball but the City urchin was thankfully forced wide and the covering Marc Cucarella, enjoying a really fine first twenty minutes, headed the ball away.

Before the game I had been quietly confident of us doing well and as the first-half developed I was more than happy with our play.

Just before the half-hour, the loudest chant of the evening thus far :

“And its Super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”

Good stuff.

At around that time, in a quiet moment, I heard the City lot sing “Blue Moon” but that was honestly the only time I can remember hearing from them until very late in the game.

Enzo Fernandez had begun so quietly that I had forgotten that he was on the pitch. However, another quick break ensued when he played in Jackson. His touch took him too far to the left and he could not get a shot in. In the end, the promising move fizzled out when his cross across the box was hacked away.

Groans.

However, our support remained at decent levels. On thirty-seven minutes, the whole end got together in a bone crushing “Amazing Grace.”

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

Stirring stuff.

We were surely winning the fight between the two sets of fans.

The mercurial Palmer had been linking up well with Noni Madueke and also the dependable Malo Gusto. Our right flank was looking strong. A shot from Madueke was blocked by John Stones.

Then, Palmer found himself in a little space inside the box after a fine move involving Trevoh Chalobah but his shot at goal was weak and at the ‘keeper.

Bar a few defensive errors, and a couple of Manchester City efforts, we had played well. City, after their Champions League exit on Wednesday, were looking tired. We just needed to be a little more confident and to run at spaces a little more. I chatted a little to the bloke behind me. We both admitted that although Nicolas Jackson is far – very far – from the finished article, he is a handful and has shown glimpses.

Glimpses. That word again.

A couple of old-school football tunes were aired at the start of the half-time break.

“Blue Monday” from 1983 – Manchester City?

“A Town Called Malice” from 1982 – Chelsea? Certainly Frome Town.

But then this normality came to a crushing standstill when a constantly smiling DJ played a set down to my left in front of the Chelsea supporters. Dance music boomed out – I recognised Rozalla and “Everybody’s Free (To Feel Good) from 1991 and the inevitable “Insomnia” by Faithless from 1995 – but this just seemed to be a ridiculous addition to a football match.

Oh well, at least she seemed to be enjoying herself.

The second-half began with our team attacking us.

Very soon into the restart, Jackson was presented with two excellent chances to score. Gallagher stayed strong and played him in. He ran in centrally and I am sure we all felt that a goal was possible. Alas, his low shot was too near the City ‘keeper and the chance passed. However, from the same move, Palmer chipped the ball into the six-yard box and the stooping Jackson headed the ball down but straight at Ortega.

Fackinell.

On the hour, a super-loud version of “Super Chelsea.”

Music to my lug-holes.

A free-kick to Chelsea about thirty yards out made me wonder if Palmer would go for goal. Indeed, he decided to shoot. The ball struck the wall and flew off for a corner. But wait, there was a VAR check for a handball, which surprised me.

No penalty, but – baffling – no corner either.

Jack Grealish danced inside the box and rolled the ball to Foden. A low shot was nicely kept out by Petrovic, who had not really been tested too much until then.

Doku, on for Grealish, was given far too much time as he advanced. He shot at an angle but Petrovic hacked it away.

I was stood, many were stood. I had been stood the whole match in fact. The game got older, nerves tightened.

Some substitutions.

Axel Disasi for the injured Gusto.

Mykhailo Mudryk for the tiring Madueke.

De Bruyne blazed a shot wide. He had had a stinker.

On eighty-four minutes, Doku was again given far too much space – “get closer!” – and he found De Bruyne. His cross was pushed out by Petrovic at the near post but the ball fell agonisingly for Bernardo Silva to smash home.

Bollocks.

Immediate thoughts of Virgil Van Dyke scoring one just two minutes from time at the same goal in late February.

Sigh.

Now the City fans could be heard.

Ben Chilwell for Cucarella, probably my player of the match.

Raheem Sterling for Enzo, another disappointing performance from him.

We chased the game, eight minutes of extra time were to be played, and I absolutely loved the fact that virtually no Chelsea supporters left before the final whistle. There were a few raids on the City defence, but our attempts ran out of fizz.

To sum up our lack-lustre end to the game, and with just seconds remaining but with virtually everybody bar Petrovic up, Mudryk floated a free kick from down below us over everybody and the ball embarrassingly went off for a goal-kick.

Bollocks.