Tag Archives: Wrexham

Tales From South Philly

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Chelsea vs. ES Tunis : 24 June 2025.

Philadelphia has been good to me.

Way back in 1989, though, on my first visit, it struggled to find its way inside my heart. On that first-ever escapade around North America, I dropped in to the city in the November and spent the day walking its streets with my college mate Ian. We had arrived on a very early train from New York, and I remember a small breakfast in a diner in the city centre. We marched off to visit Independence Hall in the Centre City, and it was important to see such a defining location in the nation’s history.

However, I struggle to understand why I never made a big point of staying a few days in the city, since I was well aware of the story of my shipwrecked relatives and then their subsequent stay in Philadelphia in the mid-nineteenth century. I think that I realised that their story would forever float around in family folklore with no real chance of further investigation.

Of course, I was twenty-four in 1989, and undoubtedly more interested in the “now” than the “then.”

After Independence Hall, we were then a little stuck for ideas. Ian came up with a master plan of visiting “The Mummer’s Museum” – my “Let’s Go USA” book has a lot to answer for – and so we trotted a mile to the south to visit this odd salute to the history of this very particular Philadelphian street parade, complete with fanciful costumes and associated camp finery,

For an hour, we traipsed around, the museum’s only visitors, and the poor museum guide must have been saddened by our continual sniggers.

I still rib Ian about this to this day.

Since then, I have ramped up the visits.

In 1993, while in New York for Yankee baseball, I took a train down to the city to watch the Phillies who were on their way to that year’s World Series. They easily defeated Florida Marins and their aged knuckleballer Charlie Hough 7-1 at The Vet. It was at this game that I first fell in love with their mascot the Philly Phanatic. That night, I returned to New York at 2.30am, another typically late night in pursuit of sporting adventures.

In 2008, while in New York for my last-ever visits to old Yankee Stadium, I spent a day in Philly with a couple of friends; Stacey, from 1989 – and Chris who I met at the Chelsea game in DC in 2005. My first-ever cheesesteak was followed by a first visit to the Phillies’ new stadium, the neat Citizens Bank Park. I was happy that the home team defeated Boston Red Sox 8-2.

In 2010, the year that marked my mother’s eightieth birthday, the two of us stayed a week in Philadelphia since my mother had always spoken about wanting to visit it. In fact, my parents had planned to visit the city in 1991, but their trip around North America was curtailed as my dear mother had developed shingles.

That week was one of the very greatest holidays of my life. We watched Philly baseball – a 2-6 loss versus Milwaukee, alas – then drove to see Stacey and her husband Bill that evening, drove over to witness the Amish region near Lancaster, drove to Manhattan and visited the sites including a baseball game at Yankee Stadium – sadly, a loss to Baltimore – and visited the beach town of Cape May in New Jersey. On the last day, we then drove to see Gettysburg Battlefield Site, and that was one of my most memorable ever days in the USA.

One moment will always stay with me though. On the first evening in Philadelphia, we took a walk into the old historic area and saw Elspeth’s Alley before deciding to have some food at an old-style diner at the intersection of Market Street and 2nd Street, “The Continental”. As we sat there, I realised that it was very likely that our blood relatives had walked down Market Street, or even along 2nd Street where we were sat at a pavement table, and I had shivers. It was one of those moments when the past and the present met and possibly waved at each other.

I explained this to my mother, who was suffering with dementia, and it saddened me to realise that her sweet smile illustrated that she didn’t fully understand the real significance of my words.

Two years later, in 2012, thousands of Chelsea supporters descended on Philly for the MLS All-Star game in nearby Chester. A group of us booked a suite at a complex on Benjamin Franklyn Parkway – a prime site – and we had a real blast. There was another Philly game, a dramatic come-from-behind 7-6 win against Milwaukee, more cheesesteaks, a walking tour with Steve the host, a visit to the Rocky Steps for us to parade the Chelsea banners, a lucky moment for us to meet a few of the players outside their hotel, and many beers and many laughs.

It is telling that in the report of that game – “Tales From An American Away Day” – within the 3,943 words, only these detail the actual game.

“Out on the pitch, I will admit to being thrilled to see David Beckham play one last time, way out on the right in a rather withdrawn position. I have a lovely shot of him joking with John Terry.

The MLS team went a goal up through a Wondolowski effort from close in, only for John Terry to rise high and head home from a corner.

A nice tap in from Frank Lampard gave us a 2-1 lead, but – much to our annoyance and disbelief – the MLS team not only equalised through Pontius but scored the winner in the “nth” minute of extra time with a ridiculous looped shot from Eddie Johnson which ricocheted off David Luiz’ leg and into an empty goal with Ross Turnbull beaten.”

However, the game against the MLS All-Stars in Chester, Pennsylvania will be remembered by those Chelsea fans present not for the performance of the players, nor the result, but for the constant singing, chanting and commotion created by the 1,200 fans present.

We stood the entire game and we sung the entire game.

Friends still tell me that, support-wise, Philly 2012 was the best stop in all of the US pre-season tours. I cannot argue.

Back to 2025, and on my sixth visit to the city, we were licking our wounds after the 1-3 loss against Flamengo on the Friday.

On the Saturday, Glenn and I chilled out during the day, and our little town house would be the perfect antidote to the heatwave that would soon engulf the city. In the evening, we strolled around the centre of the city, and I aimed for the intersection of Market and 2nd. Unfortunately, my worst fears were confirmed; “The Continental” was now closed. However, we settled for some burgers on Market Street just a few yards away, again sitting outside at a pavement table. We then walked over to a bar on 2nd Street but I made a point of standing near where I had enjoyed that meal with my mother in 2010 at “The Continental” and tried to envisage that sweet smile.

On the Sunday, there was a hop-on-hop-off-keep-out-of-the-rain bus tour to a couple of locations with our friends Alex and Rob from London, and some food at “Tir Na Nog”. I am lucky in that I had seen most of Philly’s attractions on previous visits, while Glenn was quite happy to go with the flow. In the evening, Steve and his eldest daughter Lynda treated us to a lovely meal in the Fairmount district. Later, we met up with Alex and Rob for drinks at a rooftop bar atop The Cambria Hotel.

On the Monday, Glenn and I met Alex and Rob at a coffee shop right next to where we ate our meal the previous evening before visiting the Eastern State Penitentiary, which many friends had visited in 2012, and which was entirely fascinating. The jail is atop the highest land in the city, at Fairmount, and it did not take me long to envisage my great great grandparents Benjamin and Barbara White looking up at the imposing stone building during their five-year stay. It would be wonderful, one day, to carry out a deep investigation into their story. I was just pleased that there was no mention of Benjamin White in any of the histories contained within those thick walls.

Glenn and I stopped off for more burgers on famous Passyunk Avenue in South Philly, and as we walked back to our rental house, I think we both realised what a perfect locale it was. The rows and rows of town houses – we would call them “terraced houses”, Steve called them “row houses” – were neat and charming, and it felt like paradise to walk into 2025 Pierce Street, a haven of cool tranquillity.

South Philly, equidistant between the Centre City and the three sporting stadia, was a perfect locale for us, a sanctuary against the heat, but full of character too.

It is a standing joke that each time Chelsea score a dramatic goal, Steve texts me “Pandemonium in South Philly.”

And here we were.

That evening we again assembled at “Tir Na Nog” and it was low key, with only a few from the UK present. I dashed off to try to get a photo of the sunset at “The Sky High” bar atop the Four Seasons Hotel. While I was waiting in the foyer, I spotted some Chelsea players walk through, and I trotted over to shake hands with Liam Delap.

 “Welcome to the club.”

There were handshakes with Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall and Levi Colwill too. This was just coincidence. I did not know that Chelsea were staying at this hotel. By this stage, the concierge was nervously pacing around and politely asked me to not approach the players. So, I secretly gave the thumbs up to Tyrique George who looked surprised that I had recognised him. Behdad Eghbali was a few feet away from me at one stage, but ignored my greeting, surprise surprise.

Later, we moved over to “McGillans”, a fantastic bar, and met up with my mate Steve from Belfast and his friend Jason.

Game day against Tunis on Tuesday started with a good old-fashioned American breakfast at a good old-fashioned American diner to the south of the city, and the whole experience was top class. It was just what we needed ahead of the big day and the big game.

By mid-morning, it was already heating up. With this in mind, we retired to the digs to chill out, knowing we had a taxing evening ahead, and then departure on the Wednesday.

At 5pm, we walked into “Tir Na Nog” and, looking back, it was nowhere near as busy as the pre-match in 2012. We met all the usual faces from England, some of whom had been doing some extensive travelling since Friday, but it was great to see some new faces too, especially Pete and his son Calvin from Seattle and David from South London.

I handed out a few signed Ron Harris photos, but it was deeply disappointing to realise he is not so famous in the US.

I approached five Americans.

“Right, spot quiz here. There might be a prize involved. Which player has played more games for Chelsea than any other?”

America was 0 for 5.

Phackinell.

My friend Roma from Tennessee – a friend for almost thirty-six years – had decided, last minute, to drive up with her grandson Keegan and her son Shawn’s girlfriend Nevaeh, and it was amazing to see her again. I last saw Roma in 2016 when she had visited England in 2016 with Shawn and her daughter Vanessa for a Chelsea game.

Time was moving on, and although the drinks were going down well, we needed to move down to the stadium.

I left the bar with Glenn, Pete and Calvin, and met up with David on the subway.

The kick-off for this game was 9pm, but it was still hot as we paced over to the stadium. Unlike on Friday, there was no queue, and we were soon inside. I was desperate for some food so stopped for another cheesesteak. This turned out to be very fortuitous since in the slight delay, we managed to spot Frank and his daughter who had popped into “The Eight Bells” a few months ago with the hope of seeing me and my mates who Frank reads about in these match reports. It was fantastic to see him once more.

We made our way up the ramps to our section in the mezzanine. We had bumped into many Tunis fans throughout our stay in the US, both in Manhattan and in Philadelphia, and we knew that they would outnumber us. It was a disappointment that such a small number of US-based fans had been lured in to this competition, but I almost understand the reluctance; the money-grab, the extra games.

“We all follow the Chelsea, over land and sea…”

Maybe not.

And yet, the Wrexham games lured many in…

I don’t get it.

There was time for photos with friends from back home, plus stragglers not previously seen. If anything, the lower tier below us was more heavily populated than on Friday, which surprised me. It was not even half-full, though.

Oh well.

Alex and Rob were sat close by.

“Tunis look like Partick Thistle.”

Kick-off approached.

Our team?

Jorgensen

Acheampong – Adarabioyo – Badiashile – Gusto

Lavia – Fernandez

Dewsbury-Hall – Nkunku – Madueke

Delap

We needed just a draw, one solitary point, in order to advance to the last sixteen, and there was, therefore, not the heightened sense of worry or concern in our area. The usual lads and lasses from back home were in our section, with only a few from the US.

It was odd that the prices had tumbled over recent days. Us fools had paid top whack, keen as mustard, back at the start of the year, but were now annoyed that prices had fallen.

Chelsea were playing in all white again and attacked the Tunis fans in the northern end of the stadium, who were amassed behind a “Curva Sud” banner. I hoped this discombobulated the team and their fans alike.

With Flip Jorgensen playing in all orange and Tunis in yellow and black shirts, I had to wonder what the late Brian Moore would have made of this colour clash.

“And on the subject of kits, here is a letter from Mr. David Spraggs of 13 Acacia Drive, Merton, who questions why the referee did not ask the Chelsea keeper to change his shirt so that it did not clash with the Tunis shirts. A great point, there.”

The game began. It was still as hot as hell.

Unlike on Friday, when Flamengo often had controlled spells of the ball, we dominated possession in the first half.

A header from Benoit Badiashile from a corner went close, and a shot from Liam Delap from distance forced the Tunis ‘keeper Ben Said to parry. Tunis rarely threatened, and only on the break. Chances continued to mount up and I wondered if we would ever break through.

I liked Malo Gusto in this half, running and probing well.

Enzo went close with a free-kick, and further chances fell to Dewsbury-Hall, Acheampong and Delap.

Throughout, the Tunis fans were singing, massed tightly together. Down below us, I could not hear a whisper.

Chester 2012 was a long way in the past…

I am not sure how many of our fans had disappeared into the concourse for a beverage as the first half drew to its conclusion, but I suspect that it was more than a few. In the third minute of injury time, Josh was fouled just outside the area, and I steadied my camera. I snapped as the cultured boot of Enzo clipped the ball into the danger zone. A leap from Tosin and the header lopped in at the far post, Ben Said stranded.

Snap. And snap again.

GET IN YOU BEAUTY.

Two minutes later, Enzo found Delap with a precise pass and our new striker moved the ball well and calmly slotted in past the hapless Tunis ‘keeper.

We were 2-0 up, and surely safe.

At half-time, there was a light show, the stadia turned various colours, and I didn’t really understand it. I must be getting old.

Correction : I am old.

The second half began, and relaxing in the comfort of a two-goal cushion, a few old songs were aired.

“If I had the wings of a sparrow, if I had the arse of crow, I’d fly over Tottenham tomorrow, and shit on those bastards below, below.”

I turned to Rob.

“You have to say, is the arse of a crow particularly big? Surely there are birds with bigger arses? What do you think?”

Rob replied.

“I think it’s bigger than a sparrow’s and that’s all that matters.”

We continued to dominate, and Enzo went close. He was having a fine, influential game and was pairing well with the more aggressive Dewsbury-Hall.

I wondered what Roma was making of all of this; her little group were down below us and not far from Steve who had visited us in the pub but had then shot off to collect his wife Terry and daughter Lynda.

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

Madueke set up Nkunku but wide.

I heard a horrible “Let’s Go Chelsea, Let’s Go” chant down below us.

On fifty-nine minutes, a double swap.

Dario Essugo for Lavia.

Marc Guiu for Delap.

Next up, a Madueke effort but wide. The chances were piling up. The Tunis fans were quieter but still singing, a very impressive show.

On sixty-seven minutes, more changes.

Andrey Santos for Enzo.

Tyrique George for Madueke.

The song that haunted me in Wroclaw began again.

“Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.

Tyrique George – aha.

Running down the wing – aha.

Hear the Chelsea sing – aha.

We are going to Wroclaw.”

To be fair, it is quite hypnotic.

There was no real reduction in the heat, and I was not surprised that the game slowed. It became something of a training game.

Late on, a shot from Santos appeared to strike a defender’s arm. Nkunku placed the ball on the spot, and we all positioned our cameras as he waited to take the penalty kick. Then, a VAR review, and a ridiculously long wait. It took forever. In the end, no penalty, cameras not needed.

On eighty-three minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced the impressive Gusto and made his debut.

A late chance for Guiu, but his shot did not trouble the ‘keeper, then a chance for George was saved.

In a game of injury-time goals, and in the ninety-seventh minute of the match, Tyrique George was given the ball by Madueke, and from a distance drove the ball towards goal. To our utter amazement, the hapless ‘keeper fumbled, and the ball ended up nestling in the goal.

Chelsea 3 Tunis 0.

Job done.

The gate was given as 32,967 and it was much more than we had expected prior to the match. We were expecting it to be around 20,000.

Glenn and I walked down the ramps, happier than on Friday, and met up with Steve and his family. Steve had a very important presentation at work early on Wednesday morning, so I was pleased, but very surprised, to hear that he was coming back to a very crowded “McGillan’s” for a couple of pints with us.

This was a great end to the evening, a fantastic – er, phantastic – time in an atmospheric and noisy bar. There was a lovely mix of both Chelsea and Tunis fans, and bemused natives, and we took it in turns to sing.

“Come along and sing this song, we’re the boys in blue from division two, but we won’t be there too long.”

Stephen and Jason from Belfast, Andy from Nuneaton, David from London, Nina from New Jersey, Frank and his daughter.

“Thanks for the drinks, Frank.”

“My pleasure. You know what, reading your blog, I somehow feel closer to you and PD and Parky than any of my other friends.”

My bottom lip was going…

What a night.

We stumbled out of there at 2am, happy beyond words.

Chelsea had made it into the last sixteen and whereas some of the expats would be travelling down to Charlotte to see us play Benfica, Glenn and I were now heading home.

However, I did say – tongue in cheek – to a few mates “see you at the final.”

Should we beat Benfica, we would return to Philadelphia on Independence Day, and should we win that, who knows.

This rocky road to a possible denouement in New Jersey might well run and run and run.

CHELSEA vs. ESPERANCE SPORTIVE DE TUNIS

POSTCARDS FROM PHILADELPHIA

MEMORIES OF PHILADELPHIA 2012

ON THE CORNER OF MARKET STREET AND 2ND STREET IN 2010 AND 2025

GOODBYE

Tales From The Hollins Suite

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Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 13 August 2023.

Within the final match report of last season, there were a few references to my first ever Chelsea game. Sadly, during the summer, the Chelsea family lost two players from the team that played Newcastle United on that day back in 1974. The then captain John Hollins passed away on 14 June and Chris Garland passed away on 13 July.

I often used to see John Hollins in the Millennium Hotel on match days at Chelsea as he joined up with some his former team mates before commencing their hospitality roles. He was always very pleasant, always smiling, and I easily imagined his enthusiasm in the dressing room of that fabled Chelsea team in the early ‘seventies, and then when he took over the captaincy from Ron Harris a little later. In that Chelsea team of yore, Hollins was an integral part, alongside perhaps more vaunted names such as Osgood, Hudson, Cooke and Bonetti. I remembered him as a busy midfielder who weighed in with a fair share of goals. In the second ever game that I saw, at home to Tottenham later in 1974, it was his penalty that gave us a narrow 1-0 win.

After relegation in 1975, Holly joined QPR and then Arsenal. It was a big surprise when he returned, aged thirty-seven, in 1983 to add experience to a re-vamped Chelsea team seeking improvement after a dicey flirtation with relegation in 1982/83. His professionalism and personality surely helped that team gain promotion. The 1983/84 is still my favourite ever season and it needs no further explanation nor qualification.

If you were there, like me, you’ll know.

Taking over from John Neal as manager in 1985, Hollins was in charge for the next two-and-a-half seasons, but his skills as manager, rather than as a coach to Neal, were exposed. He was unceremoniously sacked in March 1988.

His one solitary England cap seems unfair and ridiculous. He was an engine in our 1970 and 1971 cup-winning teams and he was a bloody nice man to boot. John Hollins had been in poor health for a few years but still occasionally made trips to Chelsea on match days. He is fifth on the all-time list of appearances and he will always be a legend in my eyes.

Chris Garland joined Chelsea in 1971 just after the Real Madrid cup win and he was an integral part of the first Chelsea team that I can remember watching on TV, alongside a few of the newer signings such as Steve Kember and Bill Garner. It would be easy to say that these were lesser players compared to the golden era, but that would be doing them all a disservice. Garland in particular was an honest and hard-working player, mainly deployed as a wide attacker. As a young boy falling in love with my team, they were all heroes to me. He was transferred on to Leicester City in late 1974 so his part of my Chelsea story was relatively fleeting. He would return, latterly, to Bristol City – a local team to me, my closest league team in fact – and he would go down in City folklore as one of the “Ashton Gate Eight” who tore up their contracts to save the club in 1982. He had been suffering from Parkinson’s Disease for such a long time.

Of that team from 16 March 1974, five players have now sadly passed away; John Phillips, John Hollins, Chris Garland, Peter Houseman and Ian Hutchinson.

May God bless them all.

That gap between the last game of 2022/23 against Newcastle United and the first game of 2023/24 against Liverpool was just eleven weeks. It was almost a “football-free” time for me. There was no trip abroad to watch Chelsea in the US this year. I used to enjoy those expeditions a while ago, but they’re not for me anymore. I only really saw a few bits from the first game – the ludicrous match against Wrexham – and that just about turned my stomach; everybody sat, no singing, a flat atmosphere, and what seemed to be thousands of American couples out on some sort of bizarre “date night.”

Strangely, on a birthday flit up to the North-East in early July, I had been out drinking with my Everton mate Chris – a lovely long session of us putting the footballing world to rights – when we were joined at the last minute by Skoot, the singer from Declan Swans, a Wrexham-based band who regularly appeared in the Wrexham TV Show.

The “Wrexham TV Show”? Yeah, I know. It would never have happened in 1983.

For days after I had “It’s Always Sunny In Wrexham” invading my brain.

“Less than a mile from the centre of town a famous old stadium crumbling down.”

There were two Frome Town friendlies – live football is my drug – to pass the time; a keenly-contested 1-1 draw at Dorchester Town, a narrow 0-1 loss at home to Weston-Super-Mare.

My Frome Town mate Fordy, who now works opposite me in the same transport office, reported back on an evening match involving his team Arsenal against AS Monaco at The Emirates. The whole shooting match left him bitterly disappointed and underwhelmed with the whole modern-day football experience.

As the game began, the youth next to him uttered the immortal words : “it’s just like watching FIFA, innit?”

God only knows what I would have said if I had been there.

Fordy was just repulsed by everyone slagging off the Arsenal players and offering virtually no encouragement.

“I know mate. Everyone is a fucking critic these days.”

As the opening game of the new season approached, I found it difficult to keep up with the ins and outs at our beloved club. The “Supermarket Sweep” of the winter transfer window had continued, but with the added fascination of waving goodbye to a host of players who had been – mainly – underperforming for months.

Mason Mount – off you go, you little twerp.

Kai Havertz – thanks for Porto, yeah I know you’re not a false nine, but I grew tired of your lack of effort and your bleak and unsmiling high-cheek boned expression.

N’Golo Kante – I loved you then, I loved you now, safe travels you absolute treasure.

Kalidou Koulibaly – off you go.

Christian Pulisic – Captain America, my arse.

Mateo Kovacic – I liked you until I didn’t, good luck on the City bench.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek – ah, so much potential, but it never worked out after that injury, good luck.

Edouard Mendy – you were like a curate’s egg, my friend, but thanks for Porto and Abu Dhabi. On you go.

Piere-Emerick Aubameyang – who?

Cesar Azpilicueta – Dave, we loved you, and you will always be one of us.

As for the incoming players, time will tell. I have never heard of most of them. But I’ll get to know them over time. I wish them all well.

The overhaul, in fact, reminded me so much of the summer of 1983. I am not so sure that the spending spree of 2023 will be remembered so fondly, but we live in hope.

During the last week of the close-season, my plans for the opener against Liverpool dramatically changed.

Garrett’s Story.

A friend from Tennessee – Garrett – was coming over for his first-ever game at HQ. He had asked me during the summer if I could get him a ticket, but – as it was going to be his first match – I didn’t want to take the risk. I would have felt awful if I couldn’t conjure up a ticket from somewhere. Unfortunately, the US supporter groups’ deadline had come and gone so Garrett was forced to go down the hospitality route.

“Oh bloody hell. Please don’t tell me how much you paid for a ticket.”

We made plans on meeting up. I have never met Garrett in person but he was a fan of the blog and was looking forward immensely to meeting up with the lads that he reads about each week.

Then, a horrible twist. Garrett was hit with a nasty medical condition and couldn’t travel. He immediately cancelled his flight and hotel, but decided to give me his ticket. I was dumbfounded. My mate Glenn – previously unable to find himself a ticket – would have mine and I would watch the game from the middle tier of the West Stand.

On the Saturday, I watched the first Frome Town league game of the season, a dour 0-0 with newly promoted side Cribbs from Bristol; it was red versus blue, the Frome Bloods versus the Bristol Cribbs, boom boom.

Later that day, Garrett was re-admitted to hospital and I wished him well.

The new season was now breathtakingly close.

On the day of the game, I picked-up Parky at PD’s house and then Glenn; all three had been to see a ska band at a local venue the night before. The last of the passengers – he played in that first-ever game in 1974 – was collected at 8am and we were on our way. During the close season, there had been an internet campaign to get a flag for Chopper in The Shed, and the game against Liverpool would mark its debut. T-shirts were produced using the same design and Glenn was sporting it.

It was a perfect trip to London.

The pre-match was typical; a few photos of a waiting Stamford Bridge, then a short hop to Putney Bridge tube and a couple of hours with the usual suspects; The Chuckle Brothers, Salisbury Steve, the Kent Lot, and a guest appearance from the Three Amigos.

All was good with the world.

Almost.

Stephen’s Story.

“Stephen had not enjoyed most of his school year. He had struggled in the autumn and then spring term. He did not know why, but he had been the target for a few of the school bullies. His school work suffered. His parents, Dale and Jane, were so worried about him. Stephen was fourteen, and was on the often troublesome journey through the early teenage years. He was a quiet kid, well-behaved at home, but a little bit of a loner at school. Mac was his best friend, and a fellow Chelsea supporter too. They were like brothers.

At Easter, Stephen’s parents sought some independent counselling for their son, and during the summer term, everyone was elated to see Stephen’s schoolwork improve. In the exams in June, Stephen did well, better than expected.

Dale, decided to reward Stephen with something that he knew that his son would appreciate. One evening when Mac was visiting, Dale sat them both down and talked of a nice surprise. Dale knew how much the two boys loved Chelsea Football Club. By an odd twist, both of the boys’ birthdays were in the same week. Dale explained how proud he was of Stephen’s progress over the past few months, and thanked Mac for his support and friendship too. He had looked ahead to check what Chelsea game was being played around the time of the lads’ fifteenth birthdays in October. Dale was going to buy the lads a ticket apiece for the Chelsea vs. Brentford game.

It would be their first games at Stamford Bridge. Dale had quietly observed the two of them over the past few months and had been impressed with their behaviour. They seemed, to his eyes, more grown up than their peers. Living in Croydon, Dale was sure that they could make their own way in to London by train. He remembered how he used to love going in to London to see bands at around the same age in his youth.

Stephen was overjoyed and gave his father a hug. Mac was lost for words.”

Unfortunately, there will be no Chelsea game for Stephen and Mac. The club took the ludicrous decision over the summer to limit those under sixteen to only be allowed inside Stamford Bridge if they are accompanied by adults over the age of eighteen. We chatted about this in the pub. It’s a horrible, cynical decision.

“When you are in your early teens, you are so keen to dip your toe in the adult world, to test yourself, to grow as a person, be independent. Or at least we did. When I was in my early teens, it was all about football, all about trying to get to a game, either with parents or by yourself, or with mates. It’s one of our rights of passage in Britain. That visceral thrill of doing something a little outside your comfort zone. To join in with something. To be part of it all. To feel like you belong.”

Have I ever mentioned before how I hate modern football?

Glenn spoke of his first game that he saw by himself. It was early September 1981. Chelsea versus Watford. He was just fourteen. I think he travelled up by train from Frome. I remember where I was that afternoon; at an aunt’s wedding, and I remember darting out to my Dad’s car at 4.40pm to hear we had lost 1-3.

The first game I attended alone? August 1981, aged sixteen, a 2-0 win versus Bolton Wanderers.

You remember these things.

You – and Chelsea – against the world.

Priceless memories.

At 2pm, I set off from the pub and took the tube back to Fulham Broadway. By 2.30pm, I was sat at table 44 in the Hollins Suite in the West Stand at Stamford Bridge. How utterly appropriate that I should be in the Hollins Suite. It felt just right.

On the same table as me was Jeff, an Australian from Melbourne, with his two young sons, both wearing half-and-half scarves. They were all Liverpool fans. Alongside me were three quietly spoken people who were clearly of far-Eastern descent. I smiled and I tentatively leaned in.

“Hi, I’m Chris. Where are you from?”

“Colchester.”

They were Chelsea fans.

Completing the table was Dave from King’s Langley, a Watford season ticket holder, who had won the match ticket in a raffle at a London train station. I kept them entertained with a few Chelsea stories. Bizarrely, Dave mentioned that John Barnes’ full debut for Watford was at the game Glenn saw in 1981.

The food was proper poncy stuff. It tasted lovely but didn’t fill me up. I include the photos almost ironically.

There were a few nice “never-seen-before” photos of John Hollins, and a section remembering his stewardship of our 1986 Full Members’ Cup win against Manchester City.

[…new fans Googling “Full Members’ Cup…NOW]

It was, I have to admit, all very pleasant, but absolutely not worth the price.

[…everyone Googling “Chelsea Corporate Hospitality”…NOW]

I checked the programme; up from £3.50 to £4 but down from 84 pages to 52.

Righty-oh.

At least my copy was free.

At about 2.10pm, I made my way into the – padded – seats. I was at the very back row, around eight seats from the wall abutting the Matthew Harding. As the crow flies, Glenn, Clive, Alan and PD were around twenty yards away but I could not see them, nor them me.

My view was a little odd, with the overhang of the next tier cutting out the sky. I couldn’t even see the new signage atop the East Stand nor ol’ Gatling Gun himself.

But this was fine. This was a decent experience. I spotted my lunchtime companions a few rows in front. I had been sharing photos with Garrett throughout the day. I wanted to keep him involved.

I needed to focus now. The view was superb. I ran through the team that Mauricio Pochettino – I am not comfortable with “Poch” just yet, in the same way I was never happy with “Mou” – had selected for his first game :

Sanchez

Disasi – Silva – Colwill

James – Gallagher – Enzo – Chilwell

Chukwuemeka

Sterling – Jackson

…or something like that.

I was probably the only person in the ground, or the entire fucking world, who spotted three members of the Scottish “Wembley Wizards” team who defeated England 5-1 in 1928.

Hughie Gallacher / Conor Gallagher

Alex Jackson / Nicolas Jackson

Alex James / Reece James

[…everyone Googling “Wembley Wizards”…nah, maybe not]

At the Derby game in 1983, we had four debutants; Kerry Dixon, Joe McLaughlin, Eddie Niedzwiecki, Nigel Spackman.

On opening day forty years later, we also had four; Robert Sanchez, Axel Disasi, Levi Colwill, Nicolas Jackson.

As the build-up was turned up a notch, a few bars of “A Town Called Malice” were heard. This is the pre-match song at Frome Town. I liked the synchronicity.

“…better stop dreaming of the quiet life.”

Indeed. When were things last quiet at Chelsea? Around 1992 I reckon.

The teams entered the pitch.

Flames on the pitch. OK, stop that now. It’s getting tedious.

The floodlights were on. In August. Why?

There has been a change in the positioning of the Chelsea bench since the back end of the last season, and one that I absolutely endorse.

Way back in January 2021 – the Luton Town cup tie, Frank Lampard’s last game – I posted this on Facebook :

“Often thought it odd that the away bench has the best view of the pitch at Stamford Bridge…nearer the half-way line, better sightlines. Also with the home dressing room being on the north side of the tunnel. And what with the northern end being the home end now. Makes no sense to me.”

I was pleased to hear that the new manager spotted this flaw too and switched things over. Top marks.

However, I am not quite so sure about the twenty or so ultra-expensive seats – from £480 – in the new “dugout club” that allows some fans – presumably those with more money than sense – to watch the game from just behind both dugouts. It reeks of baseball and the need for spectators in the US to boast about “great seats” ad nauseam. Twats.

I remember watching one game – only one – from behind a dugout. Back in 1994, our first European game since 1971…I left getting tickets to the last minute, I know not why. Glenn and I watched right behind the Chelsea bench…it was a shocking view. I always remember that the God-fearing Glenn Hoddle saw a Chelsea near-miss, swung around towards the bench and said “Jesus wept.”

Tut tut.

At the centre circle, a minute of applause for John Hollins MBE.

Bless him. And bless Chris Garland too.

Game 1 – 1974.

Game 1,401 – 2023.

Let’s go to work.

Liverpool undoubtedly had the best of the opening spell, of the first twenty and then thirty minutes perhaps. Shots from Jota and Szoboszlai – who? – were pinged towards Robert Sanchez, newly obtained from Brighton, who must now be truly trained in the Chelsea negotiation process, and an effort from Salah smashed against the bar. These were worrying times and I thought Levi Colwill struggled in the first part of the match.

The atmosphere wasn’t great.

“Fields Of Anfield Road” could be heard from the away section opposite me.

The new kit looked decent. I was initially worried when I saw the release on social media; the blue looked too light, too washed out, anaemic. But this looked fine. I really wished that the white stripe under the arms was replicated on the shorts though. That would have completed the look in my mind. I don’t like the bizarre panel on the rear beneath the collar though.

One last gripe. If this shirt was meant to celebrate the silver anniversary of the ECWC triumph of 1997/98, it’s surely a season too late.

Should we not have worn this kit in 2022/23?

I think so.

On eighteen minutes, Salah pushed a ball through our back line and Luis Diaz finished from close in.

Bollocks.

A female Liverpool in front of me shrieked and stood up. Her bloke soon told her to sit down. To be honest, I was pleasantly surprised how involved the “corporate lot” were in our section. There was plenty of clapping and cheering throughout.

Chelsea began to grow into the game. Nicolas Jackson started to get involved, often emerging with the ball from deep, and after good work by Levi Colwill, he fired a “sighter” wide.

Not sure how he wears his shorts, though; like a “Reeves & Mortimer” character maybe.

A “Carefree” sounded in our section.

Things looked over for us when Terence Trent-Alexander-Arnold-D’arby slipped a ball in to that man Salah.

Pre-match, with so many new signings, I secretly thought we might lose heavily.

I texted some mates in the US : “knew we’d get humped.”

Thankfully, VAR came to our rescue; no goal.

I still don’t cheer VAR decisions in our favour though. Why would I? I loathe it.

On thirty-two minutes, applause in memory of Josh Hillier, a very distant Chelsea acquaintance, but who was well-loved at Chelsea. He sadly lost his lengthy and hugely brave fight with leukaemia over the summer.

RIP Josh.

Raheem Sterling was – sadly – involved a lot, but usually unable to add to the game. He shot from close in but the effort was thumped away.

After a corner, the ball was eventually crossed in by Colwill and new boy Axel Disasi prodded it in past Alisson Becker.

We were level.

Get in.

The West Stand celebrated wildly.

Axel – great name, great first two letters especially – ran and jumped right in front of Parky and Ludo and Steve in the Shed Lower.

A mere few seconds later, a ball was pushed through to Ben Chilwell who steered himself and the ball around the ‘keeper to score…throughout the move though, I wondered if the scorer was offside. Sadly, after the usual ridiculous wait, the goal as cancelled. A photo that I took of the premature celebrations contained the words “goal and no” – oh the irony.

In the closing minutes, shots were traded. A fine move that slid effortlessly through the red ranks ended with a shot from Nicolas Jackson that just cleared the bar.

I had enjoyed it. Back inside for the smallest meat pie ever. Jeff commented that the momentum had changed in the last part of the first period.

We were, of course, attacking our end in the second-half.

The second period surprised me. Liverpool seemed content to sit back as Chelsea grew and grew. It became a deeply pleasurable experience, watching this new team – the latest in a long line of new teams at Chelsea – push the ball around and work for each other. I was especially pleased to see Enzo Fernandez, in the totemic number eight shirt, skipping past challenges, clipping balls to runners, controlling our forward momentum.

It was a joy.

The Argentinian tandem of Pochettino and Enzo will hopefully evolve further.

Chilwell was having a super game, and the visitors were gifting him so much space down below me. A superb ball from Enzo set Chilwell up but Alisson blocked well at the near stick.

A shot from the strong and surging Jackson. Another save from Alisson.

Some substitutions.

75 minutes : Malo Gusto for James.

Malo Gusto.

Malo Gusto.

My mind deviated. I could not stop thinking of the Morrissey song “Maladjusted” – and as per the introduction to this blog, I can’t resist this…

“I want to start from
Before the beginning
Loot wine, “Be mine, and
Then let’s stay out for the night”
Ride via Parkside
Semi-perilous lives
Jeer the lights in the windows
Of all safe and stable homes
(But wondering then, well what
Could peace of mind be like?)
Anyway do you want to hear
Our story, or not?
As the Fulham Road lights
Stretch and invite into the night.”

80 minutes : Ian Maatsen for Chukwuemeka.

80 minutes : Mykhailo Mudryk for Sterling.

Mudryk wearing number ten, but a winger. Memories of Clive Walker dancing away. I liked the look of Mudryk when he came on. Personally I would play him over Sterling. Mind you, I’d play Parky over Sterling, stick and all.

89 minutes : Ugo Ugochukwu for Chilwell.

I long for the day when Carney and Ugo are on the pitch at the same time.

The Chukle Brothers?

Oh yes. I wonder if Morrissey has a song for them.

I feared the absolute worst when Darwin Nunez shot from distance and a wicked deflection saw the ball spinning towards the goal, scene of many a late winner over the years. Thankfully it dropped just wide of the far post. No Iniesta moment this time.

A chance for Mudryk but he dallied. A last chance for Maatsen but no real contact.

It ended 1-1.

I think everyone was really warmed by this rounded performance by Chelsea against a formidable opponent. This was our seventh draw in a row against Liverpool.

Before the season began, I conservatively predicted a top eight finish.

Maybe we can aim a little higher.

Next up, three away games.

Bemerton Heath Harlequins in Salisbury on Tuesday, Falmouth in the FA Cup on Saturday and West Ham on Sunday.

Oh – and Johnny Fucking Marr in Frome on Wednesday.

2023/24 – let’s have you.

Tales From A Winning Team

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Chelsea vs. Leeds United : 4 March 2023.

Chelsea versus Leeds United. It sets off something in the brain doesn’t it? It triggers, for me anyway, a deep link to my childhood and beyond. It’s a classic football rivalry, forged almost sixty years ago.

The memories of the 1967 FA Cup semi-final, the epic FA Cup final and replay in 1970, the battles on the grass and mud of that era, the idolised hard men in both teams, but then the hostilities off the pitch in 1982/83 and 1983/84 when both firms rejuvenated the rivalry along different lines, and then the new era of rivalry in the mid to late ‘nineties when games still engendered deep feelings of dislike between the clubs’ hoolifans and supporters alike.

It seems ridiculous that in light of the stature of Leeds United and with a nod to this ancient rivalry that still exists between us and our foes from West Yorkshire that this would only be our third league game against them at Stamford Bridge since 2004.

“Where have you been?”

Yet this fixture caught all of us at Chelsea Football Club at a low ebb. We were undoubtedly struggling on the pitch – shape, desire, creativity, leadership, confidence – and many of us in the stands, the pubs, the bars, the cars and many social media and internet chat sites were struggling too.

In the parlance of modern day living, I declared myself “Potter Neutral” and I explained this to a few friends around Fulham on the day of the game.

“I want what’s best for Chelsea. No doubt. Deep down I want him to succeed, of course, but as for the bloke himself, I am neither for nor against.”

If the truth be known, I cared a lot less about him than I ought to. The manager simply doesn’t inspire me. I don’t feel engaged by him. I am not stirred when I hear him speak. To be truthful, the sad fact is that I have rarely heard him speak. Our form has been so poor that I rarely watch our highlights on “MOTD” these days, and if I do, I usually avoid his post-game utterings.

The new owners – I am still finding it hard to figure them out too – seem to want to keep Graham Potter in charge for the foreseeable future, however, so I do feel duty bound to support him – or at least his team in the wider context – at matches as best as I can.

We are supporters after all, right?

I have never really understood the booing, or the planned absences from games, but that’s just me. Hundreds of other teams throughout this nation have endured greater disasters than us and many clubs’ supporters still show up week in week out.

Besides. It’s the weekend. What else are you going to fucking do?

Shopping? Get excited about a new kitchen? Wash the car? TV gaze?

Nah.

The new owners? There are undoubted reservations. My main worry is – to my eyes – this desire to colour a European football club with shades of red, white and blue, to somehow take the methodology of running a US sporting franchise – no promotion, no relegation, time to build over many years, farm teams, a different sports model completely – and jam it into the modus operandi and ultimately the psyche of our club.

Baseball, Clearlake’s forte, is a sport that I used to love with a passion, but as I have devoted more and more hours to football, my interest and working knowledge has dwindled. But baseball is a sport much loved by statisticians, nerds and geeks – God knows, I have met enough of them – and it makes me chuckle to think that a stat-based process of defining talent can work for football.

“This right-handed knuckleball pitcher has an awesome record in night games in the month of August against right-handed batters when the count is in his favour in late innings when there is a runner in scoring positions when he has had eggs over easy, bacon and hash browns – with grits on the side – for breakfast and when the batter has a Sagittarius birth sign and who is chewing Juicy Fruit flavoured gum.”

We’ll see.

Additionally, after the euphoria in many parts of our Chelsea-supporting community about the new owner’s brash spend-up in January, I can’t be the only one, surely, who now looks back on it with a little embarrassment?

All that money, so little cutting edge.

Again, we’ll see.

Ultimately, we all want a winning team on and off the pitch.

It had been a fine pre-match spent with friends from my home area, plus some from further afield. I have known Ollie for a few years and he had travelled over on Friday from his home in Normandy. I last saw him at an away game at Watford a few years ago. Ollie works on a toll-bridge and I love the story of him spotting Frank Leboeuf approaching his little booth. He quickly showed Frank his Chelsea tattoo. He comes over once or twice a season. I would imagine that COVID hit him so hard.

I also spent time with Jason and Gina from Dallas. I last saw Jason in 2016/17, the Manchester City home game, but this was to be Gina’s first game at Chelsea. There were photos with the captains Ron Harris and Colin Pates. We flitted between Stamford Bridge and “The Eight Bells” in deepest Fulham. Tickets were sorted, plans for upcoming games were made, the others got some drinking in.

Andy and his daughter Sophie arrived and I joined them in “Chit Chat Corner” for a lovely walk down memory lane.

Jablonec 1994.

Stockholm 1998.

Rome 1999.

Baku 2019.

I shared something that I had recently seen on “Facebook.”

It would appear that Chelsea, and none other than Manchester United, are in talks about setting up friendlies against Wrexham in the US in the summer, though these are just rumours at this stage. When I read this a few days ago, I was gobsmacked.

Wrexham? It would appear that Chelsea are no longer just a football club, but are now contemplating being a bit-part player in a reality TV series. Fackinell. What next? Chelsea versus the Kardashians?

Modern football, eh?

I had shared all this in a WhatsApp group and my pal Steve in South Philly commented: “Hollywood, baby.”

I remember tipping off Andy and Sophie about venues for a potential US tour back in 2020 – they were both very enthused about Nashville being heavily touted as a venue – but obviously COVID put a kibosh on those plans. With a season without a UEFA campaign looking quite likely in 2023/24, there is a part of me that has been quietly contemplating a trip to the US should our summer tour plans send us west once more.

“When the three of us are sat in a roadside diner in North Carolina this summer surrounded by families wearing Wrexham shirts and scarves, yelling “way to go” every ten seconds, we’ll look back and laugh about this moment.”

The mood in “The Eight Bells” was mixed. Everyone seemed to be full of laughs, but I have rarely witnessed a pre-match where there was such little optimism. Everyone was joking about where the next goal, let alone a win, would come from.

“If you gave me £1,000 and asked me to pick the score today, I’d definitely go for 0-0.”

At 2pm, we set off for the quick journey from Putney Bridge to Fulham Broadway. There was a little band of Leeds lads exiting onto the Fulham Road – all the gear, Aquascutum scarves, CP and SI, dark jackets – and chants were exchanged, but on this occasion there was no hint of physical “afters”. This was clearly post-modern football hooliganism.

During the past week, a holiday for me, I had spent time on a magical mystery tour of the North of England and Scotland – Newcastle, Edinburgh, Liverpool – and my last port of call was at The Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool, just off Lime Street. “The Art Of The Terraces” was an excellent graphic review of the times of our collective lives when the wedge haircut, rare clothing imports, rain jackets, trainers and all associated finery took over our working class lives and football terraces to such a huge extent that the mainstream media chose to completely overlook it. I laughed when I saw the exact same edition of “The Face” from the summer of 1983 that I still possess to this day on display in a cabinet.

Talking of 1983…

After the surprisingly fine 3-3 draw against Leeds United – who? – the next opponents were Blackburn Rovers on Saturday 26 February. We found ourselves in fifteenth place on thirty-two points, just four points above a relegation place. The visitors were in eighth place on thirty-nine points, but a full twelve points off a promotion berth. To my surprise, we won 2-0 with goals from Clive Walker and Peter Rhoades-Brown. In my diary on the Friday – my week had been crammed full of the agony of mock A-Levels – I guessed that the gate would be around 7,000. I wasn’t far off. It was 6,982. I wished that “guessing football attendances” was an A-Level subject. I might have done OK at that.

Incidentally, Colin Pates was featured in the Blackburn programme – “the first priority is to steer clear of relegation” – and I love it that his team mates John Bumstead and Paul Canoville, from 1982/83, all work for the club on match days to this day.

I was inside Stamford Bridge early. I spoke to Oxford Frank behind me. Neither of us were enthralled nor optimistic. There was a dull, grey vibe pre-match, certainly not befitting a tussle between such two fine rivals. I was tasked with taking a few photographs of the match mascots as my dear friend Gill’s grandson Elliott was one of the eleven taking part. There had been a nine-year wait. I found that staggering. We had a mascot in 1983 and I am sure there wasn’t a nine year wait in those troubled times.

I spotted that, at last, attendance figures had found their way into the current season’s programme, though not against each match as detailed in the fixture list but in a separate panel. Very odd.

The team? Still no out-and-out striker.

Kepa

Koulibaly – Badiashile – Fofana

Loftus-Cheek – Enzo – Kovacic – Chilwell

Sterling – Havertz – Felix

“Blimey. Ruben at wing back. He’s got the turning circle of the QE2. Any winger just needs to dink it past him and beat him for speed.”

“Potter must really hate Aubameyang.”

“Despite our January madness, Enzo and Felix definitely look good additions, decent players.”

Chelsea in blue, blue, white and Leeds in white, white, navy.

The game began.

It certainly seemed that there had been a collective decision among our support to put any personal grievances against the under-fire manager to one side and to wholeheartedly get behind the team. Within the first five minutes, a few of the old standards were aired, primarily by the MHL.

“Come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea, come on Chelsea.”

“Carefree, wherever you may be.”

“And its super Chelsea, super Chelsea FC.”

There was a brightness to our start, with plenty of diagonals out to Ben Chilwell from various players. We were undoubtedly fired up and we soon tested Ilian Meslier down at the Shed End. There was a high-flying leap from Wesley Fofana but his header was high and wide. Our best chance came on fourteen minutes with a break from Kai Havertz, played in by Raheem Sterling, and we watched expectantly. Sadly, his attempted dink over the ‘keeper was clawed away.

Cue the usual moans.

Just after, a reassuringly loud “Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea” to the tune of “Amazing Grace” boomed around Stamford Bridge. Lovely stuff.

It was virtually all Chelsea with very few Leeds forays into our half.

On twenty-one minutes, the best move of the match thus far. We won the ball inside our half and Joao Felix pushed ahead before playing in Sterling on our right. The ball was then played back and into the path of Felix, who had supported the move well. His first-time effort from twenty-five yards crashed against the bar. The crowd were purring with appreciation, but in the back of all of our minds we began to wonder if we were in for another of “those” days.

On twenty-four minutes, a clean shot from Enzo, but straight at Meslier.

“He can strike a good ball can Enzo.”

On the half-hour mark, we had enjoyed virtually total domination. The away support seemed subdued, probably with reason, and were only able to be heard a few times.

“We are Leeds, we are Leeds, we are Leeds.”

Next up, a great chipped ball from Havertz found Chilwell out on the left-hand side of the box but his effort on goal was hit first time and went well wide of the far post.

On thirty-four minutes, a terrible tackle by Fofana, with limbs everywhere, was punished with a yellow card.

In the final portion of the first-half, a couple of dicey moments took place down below us as the visitors finally found confidence to attack in greater numbers. The ball was loose inside the box but Ruben Loftus-Cheek was on hand to thump the ball away in the six-yard box. Just after, a low cross into our box was also hacked away.

At half-time, there seemed to be a familiar story being played out on the pitch; tons of possession, but the lack of a finish.

The second period began. There was an immediate attack but after some neat passing, Sterling was unable to keep the ball down after a pull-back from Loftus-Cheek.

On fifty-three minutes, a corner was swung in – but out, away from the ‘keeper – by Chilwell down below us. Fofana met the ball with a perfect leap and the net rippled.

Get in you bastard.

I roared my approval but was still able to capture the scorer’s wild celebrations as he raced away; shame his leap is too fuzzy to share though.

The stadium was alive now.

Soon after, a song of self-deprecation.

“We scored a goal. We scored a goal. We scored a goal, we scored a goal, we scored a goal.”

Altogether now…phew.

A loud and proud “Carefree.”

I liked the way that all three defenders were playing, Kalidou Koulibaly especially, not always everyone’s favourite. There was a fine show, too from Mateo Kovacic, who chased and ran all afternoon.

However, the visitors showed some life. A shot from Tyler Adams flew over the bar. Then, a stab at the ball was luckily picked up by Kepa. For us, Sterling went close.

On sixty-eight minutes, Potter replaced Felix with Denis Zakaria and Sterling with Conor Gallagher.

On seventy-five minutes, Kovacic was replaced by Carney Chukwuemeka.

Not long after, just after a Leeds United move broke down, Chelsea had spare players in midfield but chose to move the ball slowly, almost at walking pace, rather than counter with pace and the Stamford Bridge faithful vented their displeasure. There were boos.

With the clock ticking away, the game became rather tense, and it really was no surprise.

On eighty-four minutes, Nino Madueke replaced Enzo.

With two minutes to go, Gallagher showed magnificent energy and desire to keep an attack live on the goal line in the far corner and send over a cross.

Late on, very nervy now, a cross flashed right across the face of the goal but thankfully there was nobody on hand to finish. Just after, Kepa dropped to save an effort from Mateo Joseph. In the very last minute, Meslier deserted his posts and came up for a corner. His header, thank the high heavens, was easily caught by Kepa.

At the final whistle, relief, huge relief.

At last a goal, at last a win.

On the last few steps of my descent of the stairs in the Matthew Harding, I overheard a fellow fan say “I can watch ‘Match Of the Day’ again” and I turned around to reply.

“And I can hear what Graham Potter sounds like.”

Next up, a potentially epic encounter with Borussia Dortmund on Tuesday evening.

I’ll see you in the bar.

Colin Pates : 1983 & 2023.

Tales From Dynamo In 1945 And Dinamo In 2022

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Chelsea vs. Dinamo Zagreb : 2 November 2022.

We were in November now. And after the glorious sun, if not the glorious result, at Brighton, it now felt like the winter had hit with a vengeance. The temperature had dropped and heavy coats and rain jackets were the order of the day. My new Barbour jacket was getting an airing for the first time. I hoped that it would pass the test.

It was about 4.40pm and I was walking along the Fulham Road with one of my fellow passengers. Just a few steps ahead, I am sure I saw Scott Minto edge onto the pavement. I walked ahead, got up alongside and – yes – it was him.

“Scott?”

“Hi mate.”

“Walking just behind us is another chap who played left-back for this club.”

Scott looked back and hands were shaken between the two former Chelsea defenders. As we continued towards the West Stand entrance, I thanked him for the 1997 FA Cup Final.

“That was one of the best days of my life,” I said, “and great celebrations too.”

Scott replied “you have to say we were the first team to rip the arse out of Cup Final celebrations, eh?”

I agreed. No doubt.

Scott continued.

“And the club’s first trophy since Ron’s time.”

“Absolutely.”

I liked Scotty when he played for us and it was quite a surprise when he left for Benfica in the summer after us winning our first trophy in twenty-six years. He was replaced by the returning Graeme Le Saux.

Meeting me outside “Frankie’s” were two friends from the US, a familiar theme in these reports, eh? Alex, from Houston as featured in the last report, was first in my view, but just behind him was David from Nashville. I was reminded that I last bumped into David at the PSG friendly in Charlotte in 2015. I introduced both of them to each other, and also to Chopper. We disappeared upstairs to the Millennium Hotel bar where further photo opportunities took place. New to the match day team is David Lee and I had a quick chat as a current workmate is a mutual friend. Our former defender – “Rodders” – is from Bristol and lives, now, between Bristol and Bath. I think we were all surprised to see Bobby Tambling there again. He spent an engaging five minutes talking to me with great enthusiasm and humour about a recent charity match in Cork, his adopted home city, to raise funds and awareness for those suffering from dementia. Bless him. It was a joy to see him so well.

PD and Parky, the others in the car from Wiltshire to London, were in “The Goose” but Alex and I decamped to “Simmons” after a quick chat with DJ at the “CFCUK” stall. The bar was ridiculously quiet on our arrival. A pint of “Estrella” apiece, we sat at one of the high tables and waited for further friends to join us.

Alex, as I mentioned previously, is originally from Moscow. Don’t worry, he is no fan of Putin, I have checked. He told me that his childhood team in his home city was Dynamo, and this suited me well. I told the story of when I went to the 2008 Champions League Final in Moscow I purposefully bought myself a Dynamo Moscow scarf – beautiful blue and white – in honour of the 1945 game at Stamford Bridge. Alex was working in Moscow at the time of the game at the Luzhniki Stadium, and although he had purchased a normal ticket, he bumped into an old friend who invited him into his private suite. After huge amounts of vodka, Alex remembers little of the game. It is probably for the best.

Ah 1945, I have mentioned it before. Of all of our previous matches, it is the one that I wish I had attended, the 1970 and 1971 finals excepted. I flashed up some images of the game on my ‘phone to show Alex; specifically, the team line-ups with Chelsea, in red, clutching the bouquets given to them by the touring Russians. Alas, celery was not a Chelsea “thing” in 1945. I also showed him the photos of spectators perched on the old East Stand roof and surrounding the pitch.

Over 100,000 were at Chelsea that day.

“Small club with money” they say.

Righty-o.

Johnny Twelve and his son John – his first visit to England – settled alongside us. Our friend Rob, who sits a few rows behind me, called in. Next to arrive was Chopper from New York, who I have known since around 2006. We had a lovely little mix at our table.

Greenwich Village, Long Beach, Hersham, Houston and Frome.

The bar was still quiet. I joked with the others when I saw a gaggle of around eight girls – teenagers, I reckon – come in and sit opposite under a sign that said “GIRLS GIRLS.”

“Shouldn’t there be a neon sign behind us that says ‘OLD CNUTS’ lads?”

We weren’t exactly sure how Graham Potter would play this game. He had to play those in the named CL squad. The manager couldn’t flood the team with an influx of young’uns. After the Brighton debacle, I half-expected a decent team to salvage some pride. We, after all, would only have four games left until the dreaded break for the competition that deserves no further comment.

Luckily, the predicted rain held off on the short walk to Stamford Bridge. We were in early, and one section was already fully occupied. I always knew that the Dinamo Zagreb fans would have travelled well. And there they all were, just a few shy of three thousand of them in the two tiers opposite us in The Sleepy Hollow. And virtually all dressed in black.

“Probably just come from Selhurst Park” quipped Alan.

The team was announced.

With Kepa still injured, Mendy came in. We kept a back-four after changing things around at Brighton. Graham Potter handed Juventus loanee Denis Zakaria a Chelsea debut. Upfront, it was all pretty fluid stuff with Pierre-Emerick Aubamayang tending to drift left.

Mendy

Azpilicueta – Chalobah – Koulibaly – Chilwell

Zakaria – Jorginho – Mount

Sterling – Havertz – Aubameyang

I always like it when away teams come to Stamford Bridge and play in a mirror image of our kit. Dinamo were nicely decked out in white / white / blue but I didn’t approve of the “reverse bird shit” effect all over the shirts.

The away fans were making an almighty din, no surprises there, and an early chant sounded awfully like “All Leeds Aren’t We?” Their first chance got them all singing louder and louder still. A cross from the attackers’ right hung in the air and Cesar Azpilicueta’s header did not go where it was intended. The ball came back across the six-yard box for Petkovic to easily head home past Edouard Mendy.

The away fans erupted. Flares were let off in the away end and white smoke drifted around like old-style London fog. Soon after, a fair few showed Leeds-like tendencies by taking off their predominantly black tops.

We reacted well in the Matthew Harding with a loud riposte.

“Carefree” soon boomed around Stamford Bridge.

On seventeen minutes, a fine slide-rule pass from Jorginho hit the forward run from Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang, and the striker was just able to back-heal the ball towards Raheem Sterling after a defender initially cut the ball out. He then adjusted himself, took a touch, then another, and calmly slotted the ball low past the Dinamo ‘keeper. We were level.

Shortly after we made a patient advance down the right and Kai Havertz slipped a fine ball in towards Sterling but his first-time effort was high and wasteful.

By now, Alan and I were fully involved in a chat about the upcoming away game on Tyneside; our arrival times, our accommodation, our loose plans, talk of The Toon, everything. The game continued down below us almost as an afterthought.

On the half hour mark, a move developed down the right again, this time Mason Mount racing through to pick out a striker, Havertz. A defender reached the ball before the German, but the ball was played towards the waiting Denis Zakaria in a central position. He looked a little hesitant but he slotted it home, the ball just making it over the line before Dinamo players could intervene.

We were 2-1 up.

But still the Dinamo supporters sung and sung and sung.

It was time for another quip from Alan.

Livakovic, Peric, Misic, Ljubicic, Ivanusec and Petkovic were on the pitch.

“That’s a lot of itches out there. They should be able to get cream for that though.”

We reached half-time. It hadn’t been a festival of football, but it was pretty decent stuff.

In the match day programme, there was an interesting article by club historian Rick Glanvill concerning a friendly that we played against Dinamo in Zagreb on 27 May 1937, although the club was called Gradjanski at that time. Chelsea enjoyed a 1-0 win.

Continuing a look at our history, a quick mention of the latest Chelsea game from forty years ago. On Saturday 30 October 1982, Chelsea travelled way north to Carlisle United for a league game. We lost 2-1 in front of 7,171, with Colin Lee our scorer. We had just signed the former Liverpool full-back Joey Jones from Wrexham for £34,000 and I, for one, was not too impressed. Although he was only twenty-seven at the time, I felt that he was well past his sell-by date. Joey had played under our manager John Neal in his first of his two – eventually to be three – spells at Wrexham. I was certainly not impressed when our new signing was sent off on his debut. It summed up, in my mind, the worrying state of the club at that time.

At the start of the second-half, the Dinamo fans were still singing. They didn’t let up. It was magnificent to behold.

Our chances continued to pile up. Aubameyang cut in from the inside-left position and his whipped shot skimmed the top of the bar. We were treated to some tricky interplay between Aubameyang and Ben Chiwell down below us but a cross was blocked.

Dinamo were not particularly gifted but they did try their best to attack when they could. It was difficult to think that they had inflicted an opening-game defeat in Croatia at the start of this particular Champions League crusade. However, even a point against us in this game would almost certainly not be enough to prolong their campaign in the Europa League.

Or the “George Roper” as Alan called it.

In the away end, more smoke, and many a fire-cracker. The noise did not abate all night long. They were, probably, the loudest and most impressive away fans that we had seen at Chelsea. Ever? For their number, yes.

Our efforts continued from Havertz, Chilwell and Mount.

Potter made some substitutions.

Conor Gallagher for Havertz.

Armando Broja for Aubameyang.

Thiago Silva for Koulibaly.

The debutant Zakaria impressed as the game continued. He looked strong and neat, leggy, with a decent pass distribution.

He was then replaced by Ruben Loftus-Cheek.

The rain came on stronger now, but it seemed to invigorate us, with Broja looking like he was enjoying the battle with his marker as he twisted and turned out wide and in the channels.

The crowd loudly serenaded Thiago Silva and he is surely our most loved player at the moment. The Chelsea chances continued and in another game it could easily have been 4-1 or 5-1.

In the last of five substitutions, Christian Pulisic replaced Sterling.

Sadly, in virtually the last few seconds of the game, Chilwell pulled up on the touch-line, and it looked like a pulled hamstring. The prognosis looked worrying.

On the walk back to the car, we all got drenched by the incessant rain.

Fackinell.

I caught some much-needed sleep in the back of PD’s car as he battled the wind and the rain.

Next up would be a London derby against Arsenal, the first of three difficult matches, and our last home game until after Christmas.