Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 20 April 2024
“Climbing up on Solsbury Hill
I could see the city light.
Wind was blowing, time stood still.
Eagle flew out of the night.”
It was just before 7.45pm on Wednesday 17 April and the PA at Larkhall Athletic’s picturesque Plain Ham ground, high on a hill, surrounded by narrow lanes, played Peter Gabriel’s 1977 debut single. It heralded the appearance of the home team and their visitors Frome Town for the evening’s local derby. This was all very apt since Solsbury Hill is just visible beyond the northern side of the ground now that a line of trees has been cut down since my last visit.
Fresh with memories of Chelsea’s fine 6-0 against an admittedly poor Everton team, I had assembled alongside a healthy turn out of Frome followers to urge the team on towards another three points in the quest for promotion to the Southern League Premier South. But this was a nervy occasion. Frome added to the worry by conceding a cheap goal after just three minutes and did not really get going in a disjointed first-half. Substitutions were made as the second-half progressed and, thankfully, we looked a lot more efficient and purposeful. We threatened with a few pacey attacks. Thankfully, stalwart Matt Smith – out for eighteen months until very recently – smashed home a late leveller. Frome could have edged it in the very last move of the match but James Ollis’ stooping header just missed the target.
The draw was a fair result, but the worry was that with just two regular season games left, Frome were looking leggy and tired. On Saturday 20 April, on the day that Chelsea were to play Manchester City at Wembley in the FA Cup semi-final, Frome would travel to Wimborne in a top-two clash. The fixture had captured the imagination of the Frome faithful and large numbers were to travel.
However, I had the FA Cup on my mind. It would undoubtedly be my focus for the weekend.
Then, on the Thursday, the FA upset the apple cart. News filtered through concerning the atrocious decision of FA Cup replays from the first-round being scrapped from next season, apparently after precious little consultation with clubs in the FA umbrella. This annoyed me and so many others. It seemed to me that the Football Association make so much noise about diversity and inclusiveness, but this announcement suggested that the World’s greatest and most revered national knockout competition is increasingly geared towards the moneyed elite only.
This decision will help to kill the romance of the cup – “if only we can scrape a draw and get them back to our place” – to say nothing of the horrible effect on vanishing revenues. Additionally, the FA in their infinite wisdom announced that the final would not be played on a stand-alone weekend as a season finale. It all reeks of looking after the top clubs at the expense of all others. Another nail in the coffin for the once magnificent FA Cup? It certainly seems like it.
Which brings us to another reason why the FA Cup has been on a downward spiral for a couple of decades now. Our semi against City would be at Wembley, and I hate this. Wembley should be saved for finals alone. I don’t care one iota about the oft-spoken but embarrassingly mumbled words from the FA about getting more fans to see the semi-finals, the move to Wembley is all about money and nothing more.
Chelsea vs. Manchester City? Play it at Old Trafford, capacity 74,300.
Coventry City vs. Manchester United? Play it at Cardiff, capacity 74,500.
Semis at neutral venues used to be fine occasions. Chelsea in the Holte End at Villa Park in 1996 and in the North Bank at Highbury in 1997? Bloody fantastic times.
It’s hard to believe that the same sport, under the auspices of the Football Association, can induce such a difference in emotions, with different feelings of belonging, at the two levels that I actively support it; Chelsea in the Premier League, Frome Town in the Southern League South. It is a modern-day football conundrum and I am not sure that I have the patience to solve it.
However, certainly at the professional level, the FA know Fuck All – sweet FA, sweet Fanny Adams – about what makes football special. I would not trust them to do anything in our interests. But the same could be said of UEFA and FIFA. I dislike them all with a passion.
Despite all of this nonsense, Saturday 20 April was set up to be some sort of footballing day of destiny for me, and it seems that we have had a few of those over the years. I collected PD at 8am, I collected Parky at 8.30am. The plan, though not solidified, was to meet up with some friends as the day got going. However, the day in London was always going to start with a fry-up at “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at around 10.30am. We arrived on the dot. Despite a very tasty breakfast – bacon, egg, baked beans, black pudding, bubble and squeak, two rounds of toast, a mug of strong tea, £8.40 – in the back of my mind was the gnawing realisation that a breakfast in the “Half Moon” equated to a Wembley defeat, dating back a few years now. It’s a tough habit to break, though.
I was parked-up at Barons Court at around 11am and we made our way to Earls Court for 11.15am. Salisbury Steve was further north at Edgware Road and wisely decided not to double back to Earls Court. We strode into “The Blackbird” – not an unfamiliar pub to us – and I got the first round in, but was shocked to see that a single pint of “Peroni” was £7.45, probably the dearest I have ever paid in the UK.
We were joined by friends from Columbus in Ohio; Andrew, Steve, Neil and Adrian. This was a first visit to England for Adrian. I made sure he realised how lucky he was to get a ticket for this game. We trotted around the corner to “The King’s Head” which only I had visited previously. We stayed here – we had the whole place to ourselves for the first half-an-hour – for a couple of hours. We had a lovely chuckle. It’s a great pub.
Originally, this weekend was geared up for a Brighton away game and Steve, who is getting married in September, was using the weekend as his “stag do”; we had been invited along. Due to our progress in the FA Cup, those plans took a hammering. But here we were. I noted what was playing on the jukebox; Paul Weller’s “Wildwood.”
“Raise your glasses boys. Here we are in a London pub. Off to Wembley to see Chelsea, four of you for the first time. Paul Weller on the juke box. Life is good.”
Steve told a great story. He knew that PD and I had heart issues over the past few years and so he spoke of a friend who had had a heart scare and was now looped up to a heart monitor. He was sitting at home one evening, alone. All of a sudden he hears “beep” and he is immediately worried. After a few seconds, another “beep”. He had been told that if he has a heart attack, to brace himself, so – fearing the worst – he gripped a nearby chair. Another “beep” and then another.
“Beep.”
“Beep.”
He then realised that it was his young child’s electronic toy beeping as its battery was low.
Fackinell.
Oh God, we were howling.
We caught a tube up to Marylebone, changing at Paddington, and we made a bee-line for “The Allsop Arms” where we knew some mates were based, with not much of a line at the bar. We stayed here from about 2.30pm to 3.45pm. From 3pm, I was wired into Frome Town and Wimborne Town’s “Twitter” accounts, bracing myself for good – or bad – news.
Beep.
“Matt Smith and George Rigg recalled.”
Beep.
“A cagey opening.”
Beep.
“No goals at half-time.”
We made our way up to Marylebone, catching the 4.15pm train to Wembley Stadium.
While on the ten-minute train journey, my mate Francis texted me.
Beep.
“One mother-fucking-nil to The Dodge.”
Oh you absolute beauty. The lads alongside me were pleased too. On the packed train, there were plenty of Chelsea chants but one song dominated.
“We’re gonna have a party when Arsenal fuck it up.”
I sang different lyrics.
“We’re gonna have a party when Wimborne fuck it up.”
Sadly, as I was walking up towards Wembley Stadium train station, Francis texted again.
Beep.
“They’ve equalised.”
Beep.
“Gate 2,307.”
This stunned me. What an amazing attendance for a level eight game.
As I found my seats in the top tier of the south-west corner at 4.50pm, one last text.
Beep.
“Final score.”
It was time to fully focus on Chelsea now.
The team was announced.
Petrovic
Gusto – Silva – Chalobah – Cucarella
Caicedo – Enzo
Madueke – Palmer – Gallagher
Jackson
So, the cool head and the cool feet of Thiago Silva got the nod over other options – despite Axel Diasi’s masterclass of a defensive performance at Manchester City a few months back – and the manager had chosen to play Conor Gallagher wide left. Raheem Sterling’s absence spoke volumes.
City? Erling Haaland wasn’t playing; not even on the bench. Good.
Kick-off approached. A City song – seemingly stuck in the mid-‘seventies – was aired on the PA and there was no singalong from them. Instead a loud and proud “Carefree” drowned it out. This, of course, pleased me. On every visit to Wembley, I make mental notes about the vocal performance of the two competing teams.
Advantage us.
Our song, “Blue Day”, was cheered.
Two displays took over the two ends of the stadium. Our mosaic looked a bit patchy, their banner looked decent.
In the West End :
“WE ARE THE FAMOUS. THE FAMOUS CHELSEA.”
“OUR BLOOD IS BLUE AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU NEVER.”
In the East End :
“THE BEST TEAM IN THE LAND AND ALL THE WORLD.”
“CITY ARE BACK. CITY ARE BACK.”
I wondered if City were stickering up that end in preparation for the United fans who would be occupying the same seats on the Sunday. There were inflatable bananas, how 1989, bouncing around in City’s lower tier. There were empty seats in both ends but many more in the City end.
At 5.15pm, the game began.
We probably started the strongest with Gallagher breaking past his last man, Kyle Walker, a couple of times and Nicolas Jackson wriggling free with his pace but shooting at Stefan Ortega. There was a long-range effort from Cole Palmer but it was not nearly as well executed as against Everton a few days earlier.
Phil Foden was set up by Kevin de Bruyne with a fine through-ball but the City urchin was thankfully forced wide and the covering Marc Cucarella, enjoying a really fine first twenty minutes, headed the ball away.
Before the game I had been quietly confident of us doing well and as the first-half developed I was more than happy with our play.
Just before the half-hour, the loudest chant of the evening thus far :
“And its Super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”
Good stuff.
At around that time, in a quiet moment, I heard the City lot sing “Blue Moon” but that was honestly the only time I can remember hearing from them until very late in the game.
Enzo Fernandez had begun so quietly that I had forgotten that he was on the pitch. However, another quick break ensued when he played in Jackson. His touch took him too far to the left and he could not get a shot in. In the end, the promising move fizzled out when his cross across the box was hacked away.
Groans.
However, our support remained at decent levels. On thirty-seven minutes, the whole end got together in a bone crushing “Amazing Grace.”
“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”
Stirring stuff.
We were surely winning the fight between the two sets of fans.
The mercurial Palmer had been linking up well with Noni Madueke and also the dependable Malo Gusto. Our right flank was looking strong. A shot from Madueke was blocked by John Stones.
Then, Palmer found himself in a little space inside the box after a fine move involving Trevoh Chalobah but his shot at goal was weak and at the ‘keeper.
Bar a few defensive errors, and a couple of Manchester City efforts, we had played well. City, after their Champions League exit on Wednesday, were looking tired. We just needed to be a little more confident and to run at spaces a little more. I chatted a little to the bloke behind me. We both admitted that although Nicolas Jackson is far – very far – from the finished article, he is a handful and has shown glimpses.
Glimpses. That word again.
A couple of old-school football tunes were aired at the start of the half-time break.
“Blue Monday” from 1983 – Manchester City?
“A Town Called Malice” from 1982 – Chelsea? Certainly Frome Town.
But then this normality came to a crushing standstill when a constantly smiling DJ played a set down to my left in front of the Chelsea supporters. Dance music boomed out – I recognised Rozalla and “Everybody’s Free (To Feel Good) from 1991 and the inevitable “Insomnia” by Faithless from 1995 – but this just seemed to be a ridiculous addition to a football match.
Oh well, at least she seemed to be enjoying herself.
The second-half began with our team attacking us.
Very soon into the restart, Jackson was presented with two excellent chances to score. Gallagher stayed strong and played him in. He ran in centrally and I am sure we all felt that a goal was possible. Alas, his low shot was too near the City ‘keeper and the chance passed. However, from the same move, Palmer chipped the ball into the six-yard box and the stooping Jackson headed the ball down but straight at Ortega.
Fackinell.
On the hour, a super-loud version of “Super Chelsea.”
Music to my lug-holes.
A free-kick to Chelsea about thirty yards out made me wonder if Palmer would go for goal. Indeed, he decided to shoot. The ball struck the wall and flew off for a corner. But wait, there was a VAR check for a handball, which surprised me.
No penalty, but – baffling – no corner either.
Jack Grealish danced inside the box and rolled the ball to Foden. A low shot was nicely kept out by Petrovic, who had not really been tested too much until then.
Doku, on for Grealish, was given far too much time as he advanced. He shot at an angle but Petrovic hacked it away.
I was stood, many were stood. I had been stood the whole match in fact. The game got older, nerves tightened.
Some substitutions.
Axel Disasi for the injured Gusto.
Mykhailo Mudryk for the tiring Madueke.
De Bruyne blazed a shot wide. He had had a stinker.
On eighty-four minutes, Doku was again given far too much space – “get closer!” – and he found De Bruyne. His cross was pushed out by Petrovic at the near post but the ball fell agonisingly for Bernardo Silva to smash home.
Bollocks.
Immediate thoughts of Virgil Van Dyke scoring one just two minutes from time at the same goal in late February.
Sigh.
Now the City fans could be heard.
Ben Chilwell for Cucarella, probably my player of the match.
Raheem Sterling for Enzo, another disappointing performance from him.
We chased the game, eight minutes of extra time were to be played, and I absolutely loved the fact that virtually no Chelsea supporters left before the final whistle. There were a few raids on the City defence, but our attempts ran out of fizz.
To sum up our lack-lustre end to the game, and with just seconds remaining but with virtually everybody bar Petrovic up, Mudryk floated a free kick from down below us over everybody and the ball embarrassingly went off for a goal-kick.
Bollocks.