Tales From A Weary End To The Season

Posted on June 6, 2026 by Chris Axon

Sunderland vs. Chelsea : 24 May 2026.

“World champions but.”

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

“Chelsea are rubbish, man.”

“Hadaway, they are World Champions but.”

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

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

Two magpies, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This trick didn’t work.

It won.

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

So, they were confused what to do.

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

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

“Another Budvar please, barman.”

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

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

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

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

It had been a splendid night.

On the Saturday morning, we rested well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last matchday of season 2025/26 soon arrived.

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

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

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

“We must stop meeting like this.”

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

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

Sadly, we ran out of time to do either.

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

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

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

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

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

A kind local took a team photo.

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

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

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

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

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

Sanchez

Fofana – Colwill – Hato

Gusto – Caicedo – Fernandez – Cucurella

Palmer – Pedro Neto

Joao Pedro

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

“Wise man say…”

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

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

“Must be getting old.”

Lance was impressed with the tumultuous noise.

“Imagine if Stamford Bridge was like this each game”

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

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

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

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

Phew.

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

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

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

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

“Move for each other!”

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

And it had been deeply disappointing.

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

Fackinell.

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

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

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

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

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

“CAM ON CHOWLS.”

Was the comeback on? We all hoped so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To repeat, for the millionth time :

“Managers manage. Players play. Supporters support.”

Good times and bad.

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

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

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

On eighty-five minutes, two substitutions were made.

Liam Delap for Moises Caicedo.

Josh Acheampong for Malo Gusto.

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

Ugh.

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

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

And perhaps it had.

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

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

There would be no UEFA competition for us next season.

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

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

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

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

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

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

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

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

More numbers.

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

CHELSEA 2015/16

Won 12

Drew 14

Lost 12

50 Points.

CHELSEA 2025/26

Won 14

Drew 10

Lost 14

52 Points.

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

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

“World champions, but.”

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

See you in August.

Tales From A Nervous Night

Posted on May 21, 2026 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 19 May 2026.

Chelsea vs. Tottenham. It gets the pulses racing, eh?

It’s always a key fixture every single season against “that lot”, but this one could have been so much bigger, and so much better. If only we could have been able to relegate them on this fourteenth anniversary of “Munich Day.”

If only they hadn’t picked up sufficient points in recent weeks…if only.

If is a big word.

I was up bright and early for another 6am to 2pm shift which would enable me to reach London in good time for the 8.15pm kick-off. After my spate of bad luck occurrences leading up to Saturday’s Cup Final, I wasn’t too happy about seeing seven individual magpies within a three-quarter of a mile stretch of road at the bottom of Bonnyleigh Hill between Frome and Beckington at about 5.30am.

Seven of the buggers!

You could say I was spitting feathers.

But maybe I would have been more worried if I had seen seven cockerels.

As the morning developed, I contemplated the potential enormity of the day. Should Manchester City draw at Bournemouth, Arsenal would become champions for the first time since 2004. If Tottenham were to draw at Stamford Bridge, they would relegate West Ham United, bar a mathematical miracle on the last day of the season.

This could be a day of destiny.

All of this was happening with the backdrop of Chelsea Football Club naming Xabi Alonso as our new manager – not coach, an important difference – on the Sunday after the FA Cup Final. In some ways, it felt that we did not deserve him, what with the way we have ridiculously hired and fired coaches over the last four years. It has been a comedy show, and we have collectively suffered from the constant laughter aimed our way from outside the club.

Alonso is one of Europe’s most respected new coaches. We have done very well to nab him, especially since I am sure that many Liverpool supporters were eying him up as a successor to the unloved Arne Slot.

When I came into work on the Monday, it was noticeable that the several Liverpool supporters in the office, rather than engaging with me about our loss in the Cup Final, were avoiding eye contact.

I think we all know why.

I thought about going up to each one of them and asking them a question :

“So, do I pronounce his name Zavvy, or Zabbi?”

But I resisted the thrill of seeing their teeth grinding and their eyes blubbing.

I worked an early shift, and took PD and Parky along the for the ride as per normal. At Reading Services, after Saturday’s escapade, I was relieved to see that I had used pump #9.

Phew.

I made my way into London and dipped into an Italian for a quick bite on Vanston Place.

The pre-match was spent in the packed and stifling “Tommy Tucker” where we were joined by surprise guests Foxy – and his amazing technicolour haircut – and Drew from Dundee, and George from Czechia. Talk was equally concerned with our stay on Tyneside & Wearside at the weekend as it was with the evening’s game. I was so hot that I only lasted an hour in the pub. I was inside the stadium at 7.15pm, a full hour before kick-off. At that stage in the evening, only a few hundred souls were inside.

Outside at CFCUK stall, I had briefly chatted to CFC writers Marco and Tim; they agreed with me that we were ridiculously lucky to have been able to acquire Alonso.

I chatted with Big John about that beautiful game against Tottenham in 2016 when we came back from trailing 0-2 at the break to draw 2-2 and to deny them their first league title since 1961. How can that be ten years ago?

John said that the game “had it all.”

I replied : “Yes it did, including three thousand miserable Tottenham pricks.”

Unfortunately, both Alan and Clive could not attend this one, but it was a pleasure to welcome Daryl to The Sleepy Hollow who had picked up Alan’s ticket late on. I can’t remember the last time we had watched a game next to each other; maybe at a New York Mets game in 2015.

The stadium filled, the players did their pre-match runs and stretches down below us, and with about ten minutes to go to kick-off, there was a rumble of “Oh when the Spurs…” in the rear reaches of the lower tier of the away section.

Joao Pedro was presented with his “Player of the Year” award; he would have received my vote for sure.

Calum McFarlane decided upon this eleven, and we found it odd that neither Levi Colwill nor Joao Pedro were featured.

Sanchez

Acheampong – Fofana – Hato – Cucurella

Caicedo – Santos

Neto – Palmer – Fernandez

Delap

The minutes ticked by, and the seats that were unused around me thankfully filled.

The usual fizzbombs, flames and flashes.

Then “The Liquidator” and I joined in with the “We Hate Tot’num” chant which was louder than bombs.

But a slight concern and a slight worry; oddly Tottenham chose to wear their all-yellow away kit, with a navy yoke, and it brought back instant horrific memories of their visit in November 1978.

They had risen to the First Division after one year in the second flight in 1977/78 and shocked the football world with the acquisition of Argentina’s two World Cup Winners Osvaldo Ardiles and Ricardo Villa. Despite seeing Tottenham at home in 1974, I wanted to see them again in only my tenth game at Stamford Bridge. It was a supremely hot ticket; these two signings had captured the imagination of the entire football world, and I couldn’t wait to see Ardiles, especially. Stamford Bridge was stretched to its limit with a gate of 41,594. Chelsea went ahead with an overhead goal from Tommy Langley, but to my sadness the visitors – in an all-yellow kit with navy trim on their chest – came back to win 3-1. The aggro inside Stamford Bridge before the game had been the stuff of legend, and the whole arena was a bowl of animosity. The visitors from N17 packed out the entire northern terrace and their loud chant of “We are Tottenham from the Lane” would haunt me for years.

The game kicked off and thankfully there was no modern-day equivalent of Osvaldo Ardiles nor Glenn Hoddle in this Tottenham team.

Both teams had a few early approaches into each other’s penalty boxes. It was ridiculous how my mind’s eye played ridiculous tricks with my brain; Robert Sanchez was dressed in all orange, with his protective cap, and the Cech vibes were uncanny.

Both Daryl and I were upset with the widespread booing of Conor Gallagher; some of our fans are absolute fools.

Conor did not want to leave Chelsea. His whole family are supporters of the club. When it was clear that the hierarchy wanted to cash in on him – and I suspect that this action acted as a major factor in Pochettino leaving – he must have felt betrayed. He chose Atletico Madrid when Tottenham, allegedly, first came sniffing. I bet my life that he hated signing for them.

I felt for him.

I said to Daryl “he’s no Gordon Durie, after all.”

Indeed, he wasn’t. Durie wanted to head north, closer to his family in Scotland, so imagine our surprise and disgust when he didn’t choose the north, but the North Circular instead. His move to Tottenham in the summer of 1991 is still infamous thirty-five years later. Never has a former Chelsea player been as vilified by us as he was at White Hart Lane in the August of that year.

A cross from Tottenham right was deflected just wide of our goal by Jorrel Hato. Not long after, Mathys Tel – whoever he is – met a cross with a diving header and at first glance it looked like Sanchez had performed a fantastic reflex save at his post. The replay showed that he did not lay a finger on it; we heaved a sigh of relief.

There was a shot from Cole Palmer that curled at the Shed End goal, but the wonderfully named Antonin Kinsky was able to palm away.

It is not known if he was wearing Kinsky boots.

On eighteen minutes, the ball was floated up to Palmer who had drifted to the right. I saw that he needed help, so yelped out

“Go on support him.”

With that Pedro Neto raced forward to carry out my instructions perfectly.

Neto drifted inside and then played the ball to Enzo, who – without hesitation – decided to take aim and shoot at goal. The ball was hit from thirty yards out and flew into the net’ dropping into the corner at the last moment.

How we celebrated.

The place erupted.

I had taken a photo of the shot but it’s way too blurred to share here; the subsequent photos of his euphoric match down to the corner flag are a tad better.

This was fantastic. We were up 1-0 against the old enemy, and life was suddenly good again.

The visitors tried their best to get into promising positions, but our defenders were solid and tenacious when needed. To be honest, I thought we bossed the middle part of the half. Joas Acheampong, who has lots of admirers within our support, made some fine tackles and blocks. The pugnacious Cucurella, on the other flank, too.

I took two photos of a free kick that was awarded to us out on our left. First, Enzo standing over the ball focussing on the task ahead, and my photo in focus too. Second, the ball rebounding in a blur off the crossbar, with Kinsky beaten. Alas, too blurred to share. It again needed a TV replay for us to realise a ‘keeper had not managed to get a hand on the ball and that the goal’s frame saved the defending team.

The Tottenham support was gloriously quiet.

Tel was playing with one thigh ridiculously exposed, and it looked like he had tucked one leg of his shorts into his Y-fronts. I wondered if this was his thing, his superstition; maybe a little like how Wayne Grettzky used to tuck his NHL jersey in on one side.

The visitors enjoyed a fair proportion of the ball in the first half but didn’t look composed in possession. They rarely troubled us.

Daryl told me how he changed trains on his way in from Essex at Tower Hill, and that there were no eastbound trains on the District Line for a while. Apparently, a voice on the Tannoy announced that there was a points failure at West Ham.

I still don’t know if he was serious or not.

Late on in the half, a lone strike from Palmer whistled wide of the far post.

At the break, the consensus was that we had played well enough and that Tottenham were poor. Gallagher had not really been too involved. Out of interest, we had heard early in the evening that Bournemouth were beating City 1-0, and although this news did not go down too well, just imagine what the N17 contingent made of it; not only was their game going against them, but Arsenal were close to gaining their first league title for over two decades.

The second half began with Chelsea attacking us in the Matthew Harding.

Tottenham had more of the ball, and their supporters reacted with a sustained period of noise. Their small selection of songs was aired; you know the ones.

Their infamous “Yid Army” chant was loud, and I still feel uneasy hearing it.

Richarlison was involved in two half-chances and for a while, we had seemed to shrink into ourselves a little. However, as the noise from the away section grew, I was really pleased and proud with the way that the home crowd responded so loudly.

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

I made my own special little contribution.

“Get in the game Chels.”

Someone must have heard me; we dug in and reacted nicely.

We were on the back foot no longer.

On sixty-seven minutes, we gathered possession from an errant Tottenham pass and Palmer was able to roam forward into lots of space; I picked up my camera, sixth-sensing a special moment. I caught his run on film. The ball was played out to Neto on the right, and he spotted two Chelsea bodies at the back post. Perhaps the cross was aimed at Delap, but Enzo was able to knock the ball back towards Santos as it fell short.

He swiped at the ball, I clicked my camera, Kinsky was beaten and the net rippled.

The place roared and so did I. I jumped up to the platform to my left and punched the air with both fists. I then realised that the scorer was running towards Enzo, down below us, and my camera clicked into action.

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

Our goal arrived at just the right time.

For a few moments, Stamford Bridge resembled the Stamford Bridge of old, and I buzzed at the greatness of it all.

If only all atmospheres could be like the one enveloping our famous old ground.

Just after, Tottenham made a triple substitution that included James Maddison and his COVID hair.

Sadly, on seventy-three minutes, a ball came in from the Tottenham right and there was a smart back-heel – from afar, it wasn’t unlike that of Semenyo at Wembley – that played in Richarlison. Both Daryl and I were hoping that an off-side flag would be raised, but no. The former Everton man slotted it home.

The lead was now slender; 2-1. It meant that if Tottenham scored one more, they would be safe from relegation.

A substitution was made on seventy-four minutes; Trevoh Chalobah for Acheampong.

What followed was a super-nervy period of over twenty minutes, taking in the seven minutes of injury time. Rarely have I felt so consumed by nerves and anxiety.

Elsewhere, Manchester City scored a ridiculously late equaliser, but the damage was done; Arsenal were Champions.

Yawn.

This was the match that counted.

On eighty-one minutes, Mamadou Sarr replaced Fofana.

In an almost comedic moment, Delap was put through on goal in a race with a defender, but he too easily brought his hands up and blatantly pushed his combatant. What a bloody fool. He was booked.

This is a familiar Delap ploy. I remembered similar actions at Wrexham and Wembley; coming on as a late substitute, his first actions in both games were to manhandle an opponent with a shove in the back.

Pathetic.

A friend in the US soon sent me a WhatsApp message:

“Chris. Serious question. Have you ever seen a lower IQ player at Chelsea than Delap?”

I didn’t reply immediately but soon told him; “nerves in tatters.”

Three more substitutions took place on eighty-nine minutes, and I seriously doubted if this was wise.

Alejandro Garnacho for Neto.

Dario Essugo for Palmer.

Shim Mheuka for Delap.

We were now Delapidated, but hopefully not dilapidated.

The game continued, and there seemed to be attack after attack on our goal. Thankfully all the Tottenham moves came to nothing, but we had to rely on a strong Hato block on Maddison near the goal to preserve our lead.

The final whistle was met with relief by everyone, and I soon posted on “Facebook.”

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

And nothing illustrates this more than our almost inhuman dominance over Tottenham Hotspur, especially in SW6, over the past thirty-six years.

I walked out past the Osgood statue, I remembered the #9 pump at the services, and I over-heard a fellow fan utter that it was a “good-ish game” and I knew exactly what he meant.

It wasn’t always top quality, and it was contested between two average teams.

Well, one average team.

But it seriously didn’t matter. We had beaten Tottenham. Their one point for safety had evaporated in the evening air. Our mighty home record against them continued unabashed.

But, oh my nerves.

See you on Sunday on Wearside.