Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 11 May 2025
“I turned into Rylston Road, then drove along Lillee Road to collect Paul and Parky.
I pointed my car towards the North End Road and began the long dive to Tyneside.”
With our place in the final over in Poland confirmed with a victory in Europe on the eightieth anniversary of VE Day, the three of us could now look forward to a four-day stay in Newcastle upon Tyne.
And there hadn’t been two games like this for a while, with the second a virtual continuation of the second.
It was a slow start. I navigated some road closures and traffic congestion as I headed towards the North Circular at Chiswick. From there, up and over the Hanger Lane Gyratory, close to Park Royal tube station, where my first-ever trip into Stamford Bridge gathered pace in 1974. By now, Parky was asleep in the back seat, but PD was keeping me company in the front.
I climbed up on to the M1, stopped at Toddington Services for a comfort break, then headed north and into the night. It was a decent drive, and I only started feeling a little tired as we drove past Durham. I stopped for a second time at Washington Services at 3.45am and enjoyed a ninety-minute power nap. Parky had grabbed lots of sleep, PD a smaller amount.
At 5.30am, refreshed, I drove into Newcastle, over the Tyne Bridge, and was humbled at how excited I was. Within half-an-hour, I was parked up at Whitley Bay, and the three of us trotted over to the promenade to take in the cold and bracing sea air as the rising sun lit the sky and sea and land with its golden rays.
Dear reader, this was a bloody great feeling, over three hundred miles from home, with a head start on the weekend, and perfect weather all around us.
We then headed a few miles south to Tynemouth, recommended to me by a friend who lived locally, and we killed time with a coffee in the main street. We then sauntered over to a pub and gobbled down a full English breakfast.
There was a wait until 2pm to check-in to our apartment, but while we entered another pub for a drink at 10am, I received notification that we could check in early at 11am. I sunk my Diet Coke, the lads sunk their lagers, and I headed west.
We checked in, then decided to have a couple of hours’ sleep since we all knew that we needed it.
Showered and changed, we headed over to Ouseburn at 4pm and the weekend began in earnest. We called in at “The Tyne Bar” then headed the short distance to the “Free Trade Inn” where we spent a lovely time. This small pub is perched on a slight hill overlooking the River Tyne. Just after 6pm, my old college mate Graeme – with his daughter and her boyfriend – walked in and it was a pleasure to see him again. He is a native of Tyneside, lives in Whitley Bay, and was on the same geography course as me in Stoke in the mid-‘eighties. Despite chatting on Facebook for a few years now, this was the first time that we had seen each other since graduation in 1987.
We both remembered back to what we were doing in the autumn of that year. I was just about to set off Inter-Railing, but also selling football badges at stadia in Europe, while Graeme, oddly enough, was embarking on a short career in the quarry industry very close to my home area.
Our evening soon deviated from the plan. My friend Kim, who looks after the band China Crisis, had seen my photos of the city, and had quickly contacted me to see if I fancied going along to their show at The Glasshouse on the opposite bank of the river. I was in, and so was Graeme, and he would be joined by his partner Lynda too.
So, a change of plan. Parky and PD would spend the rest of their evening quaffing ales with some locals at the ‘Spoons on the quayside, while Lynda, Graeme and I spent a very enjoyable two hours in Gateshead reacquainting ourselves with the “Flaunt The Imperfection” album on the fortieth anniversary of its debut in 1985. Every song from the album was played along with some other favourites.
Ah, 1985.
The second-from-last match to be featured in my retrospective of the 1984/85 season features, ironically, a return to the city where Graeme and I spent those college years and the away game at the Victoria Ground on Saturday 8 May 1985.
I always thought that it was perfect that Chelsea’s last away game of the season would be in Stoke, the city where I would be living from September 1984. Throughout the season, I always had it in the back of my mind, a lovely end point to everything. It was, originally, going to be the very last game of the season, but due to Norwich City’s place in the Milk Cup Final, our home game with them was tagged onto the season, on the Tuesday after the match at Stoke. I was never going to attend that one.
For me, Stoke was the final game, and I found great comfort in that.
I remember going out on the Friday evening with a small band of college friends, and we ended up atop the hill at Penkhull. I remember meeting up with Pete, a Chelsea lad I knew, and his mate Mac, who was – I think – studying at our sister site in Stafford. It was a decent little pub crawl, and I was rather merry at the end of it. The thought of seeing Chelsea just ten minutes away from where I was living must have been just too much for me.
I was up early on the Saturday. This was another 11.30am kick-off. I needed to look smart for this last game of the season; I went with a pink Lacoste polo shirt and a mint green Robe di Kappa lambswool pullover, plus the obligatory jeans and Nikes. The Victoria Ground was nestled among a grid of terraced streets just south of the Stoke town centre, and in the following two years I would live in the street right outside the away end.
I suppose you could say that this was bound to happen; football bringing me home.
I made my way down to the ground and saw Dave and Simon from “The Benches” by the main gates of the forecourt of the away end. I think I must have bought seat tickets at a previous Chelsea home game, and I took position in the second row right behind the goal. For my season finale, this was more than perfect.
Sadly, we heard that a special from Euston had been derailed at Watford. My mates Glenn from Frome and Swan from Radstock arrived and took their seats next to me. Oddly, the police turfed everyone out of the very front row, so that left us in effectively the front row. This was odd, since there were Chelsea fans on the terrace below. It wasn’t as if anyone would throw anything at other fans in front. My mate Terry from Radstock was spotted in the terrace down below. I also saw my housemate Kev from Barnsley, suddenly appear on the Chelsea terrace. He was a Barnsley fan and must have been enticed in after hearing me wax lyrical about Chelsea all winter long. This pleased me.
A rumour went round that the match would be delayed until midday to allow those on the special to be admitted, but I don’t think they ever made it to Stoke, let alone the match.
I loved it that the three of us all wore Robe di Kappa pullovers. I remember I bought mine at a great little shop in Hanley that winter. Glenn still dotes about his navy one to this day, and he recently explained how he didn’t tell his gran how much it cost on a trip into the East End. Swan wore a pink one. Our mate Dave took a photo which I include.
Sadly, we learned in 2020 that Swan had passed away over the past few years.
After some decent wins of late, Chelsea was vying for a place in Europe, something that I could not have imagined when the season began in August.
The end boomed out a couple of “Ten Men Went To Mows” as the game began with us attacking the home Boothen End in the first half. We had a couple of chances but failed to score. Stoke City were an abysmal team this season and had been relegated weeks previously. The atmosphere seemed to be tense in the away end as we searched an all-important goal. However, the highlight of the first period was an insane save from Eddie Niedwiecki from Keith Bertschin right in front of us.
In the sixty-fifth minute, with Chelsea now attacking us, Pat Nevin was fouled outside the box. He floated a free kick in and who else but David Speedie rose to send a bullet header past the Stoke ‘keeper Peter Fox.
Euphoria.
Our song du jour was a new one, and where it came from I have no idea.
“To Europe, to Europe. Tra la la – la la la la – la la la la la la.”
We held on as the Chelsea end celebrated with song, though in truth it had been a patchy performance. Despite a healthy Chelsea presence in both seats and terrace, the gate was just 8,905.
Before I knew it, I was back in my student flat, and feeling flat, the season now over for me. A few friends joined me in the local for some post-game chat. Elsewhere, Manchester City won promotion back to the topflight by beating Charlton Athletic in front of 47,000 at Maine Road, while Tottenham lost 1-5 at home to Watford.
However, events would turn darker. This was the day of the Bradford City fire at Valley Parade, where fifty-six lives were lost during their game with Lincoln City. This was also the day of riots at Birmingham City vs. Leeds United when a young lad, attending his first-ever game, was killed, crushed by a wall at St. Andrews.
This were vivid, visceral, vibrant days, but also terrible days too.
Let’s get back to 2025.
The three of us, in our apartment on the long Westgate Road, slept in on the Saturday and eventually headed over the water to Gateshead at around 12.30pm. This was another hot and sunny day, and there were pubs to be visited. We began with a drink in “The Central Bar”, and followed this with a couple in “Station East” and one in “Microbus”, all very different, but all very welcoming and pleasant. Later, we strode up the hill for a couple in “The Tynesider” and we then ended our grand tour of Gateshead by spending a few hours in “The Grey Nag’s Head”.
A half-empty boozer, drinkers drinking, songs going, the sun creating patterns as the light dances off windows and mirrors, the chatter and laughter of the locals, the clink of glasses, and the whispers of a distant past.
At about 9.30pm – yes, we had been on it for around nine hours – I got the call from my mate Chris, an Everton fan who had just returned, ironically, from an away game at Fulham. I took a cab to meet up with him and his daughter in “The Newcastle Tap” opposite the train station. I stayed chatting with him for a good hour and a half.
Then, the fool that I am, I ended up with a few Chelsea mates in “Popworld” on the infamous Bigg Market. There was a late-night pizza with “Walton & Hersham Bob” before I apparently jumped a taxi queue and ordered a cabbie to take me home.
I eventually crawled in at around 2am.
I think.
On the Sunday morning, Parky woke me.
“It’s ten thirty mate.”
“Fackinell.”
My immediate thoughts?
“Noon. What a ridiculous time for a game of football.”
“Shit, that’s only ninety minutes away.”
“After the game, I am going straight back to bed.”
“Never again.”
We caught a cab at 11am and were soon walking towards the familiar steel and glass of St. James’ Park.
The three of us caught a lift, as always, up to the away section in The Gods.
There was time for a little joke. We were told to press the button for Tier Seven. We wondered what was in Tier Eight.
“The trophy room” I replied.
“But there is no Tier Eight.”
“Exactly, I replied.”
*Admittedly this would work better had they not won the League Cup Final on 16 March, but in the circumstances, it made us laugh.
I met up with a few friendly faces in the concourse, which looks out and over the greenery of Leazes Park, where there are plans to, maybe, build a new stadium for the team.
I spotted Alan in conversation with PD and Parky.
Sadly, Alan had some awful news for me, but needed to tell me face to face rather than via text or ‘phone. Albert, the lad who has sat in front of me in the Matthew Harding Upper since 1997, sadly passed away in the days after the Liverpool home match.
I was so sad. We hugged. Albert, a postman, had apparently been taken ill at work and, we think, soon passed away. We do not know the details.
I raised a glass of “Diet Coke” to his memory and it just seemed so pathetic.
With my head spinning with that news, and a general light-headedness from the drinking the previous night, I lethargically took my spot alongside Gary, John and Alan. I reached my place just as the mosaics were reaching their peak down below me, but I was in no mood to appreciate the scene.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Albert.
Before I knew it, the game had began below me.
Quick, the team.
Sanchez
Caicedo – Chalobah – Colwill – Cucurella
Lavia – Fernandez
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
Jackson
I noted the “C-Section” defence and tried to think of a punchline. And then I thought of Robert Sanchez.
I couldn’t believe that Gary alongside me was wearing a shirt, a pullover, a jacket and a hat. He must have been roasting. As it was, he was soon roasting Anthony Gordon, likening him to Clare Balding. He had a point.
There was an early attack up at the Gallowgate End and Pedro Neto won a corner, but it was all to no avail. Soon after, we found ourselves scurrying around after a Newcastle break. Moises Caicedo tackled Gordon well, but the ball was picked up and sent out to Jacob Murphy. His low ball across the six-yard box was prodded in by Sandro Tonali.
Fuck it.
The locals roared, and I looked over to them to my right. They were going ballistic.
“E-I-E-I-E-I-O, UP THE PREMIER LEAGUE WE GO.”
I felt crushed so soon into the game.
And I thought of Albert.
To be honest, despite the importance of this game, I found it hard to concentrate. But this was such an important game. I mentioned to a few friends before the match that I had not known a league game at St. James’ Park with so much on it for both teams since that classic in 1984.
We looked lack-lustre and tired, and our away support were quiet and subdued. In fact, as the first half meandered on, I hardly heard a single shout from us. It was all too tame.
Cole Palmer, our great hope, misfired on a few occasions. A Caicedo shot bobbled wide.
This was horrible.
And I thought of Albert.
On thirty-five minutes, a high ball and an aerial challenge between Nicolas Jackson and Sven Botman. A yellow card for Jackson.
Then, a VAR review. And a red card for Jackson. It was all too far away for me to really see what had happened. Jackson seemed to take ages to eventually walk off the pitch.
Sigh.
We were really up against it now. In fact, did we have a chance at all? It didn’t seem like it. Everything seemed so flat. Bizarrely, the home team hardly showed much desire to go at us.
This was a really odd game.
I sat at half-time, quiet, in a reflective mood.
I remembered how Albert – for a while – used to time his toilet breaks with Chelsea goals so we would often urge him, if we were needing a goal, to pay a visit.
I remembered how I would often touch my telephoto lens against the back of his head.
“Sorry mate.”
He loved his trips to New Zealand every winter.
Bless him.
At the break, Reece James replaced Noni Madueke. Our formation looked pretty fluid, like a Saturday night out in Gateshead, and as the second half started, somehow, we improved.
And us, the fans, realised the severity of the situation and, maybe feeling rather guilty for our first half no show, royally got behind the team.
Soon into the second period, two things impressed me and maybe galvanised a new spirit in the team. First, there was that ridiculously sturdy but fair tackle by Our Reece. Then, not long after, that robust shoulder challenge by Our Moises.
On the hour, a beautiful pass found Cucurella on an angle but his studied drive was tipped around by Nick Pope.
“It’s all us now.”
The noise levels rose as the second half progressed and I was so proud of the volume of our support. Maybe the first half silence was a direct result of too many bevvies in the Bigg Market, too many gins in Gateshead, too many daiquiris on the Quayside and too many ouzos in Ouseburn.
“It’s Salomon!”
A fantastic tackle by Levi Colwill thwarted Newcastle at the Gallowgate End.
On seventy-five minutes, two changes.
Malo Gusto for Romeo Lavia
Jadon Sancho for Trevoh Chalobah
God know who was playing where.
The hometown fans aired a song from days of old :
“Sing yer hearts out for the lads.”
Enzo tested Pope but the shot was tipped over.
The home fans roared again :
“New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul, New-cas-ul.”
On eighty-seven minutes, the ball was worked from the left flank to the right flank and Gusto sent over a teasing cross. However, despite a free leap, James got under the ball, and it looped over.
FACKINELL.
That was our chance.
There was still time for one final twist of the knife. On ninety minutes, Bruno Guimaraes advanced and aimed. His shot took a deflection – weird how it could be seen from over one hundred yards away – and the ball looped in.
Bollocks.
At the end of the game, with the Geordies bouncing, the buggers then played “Parklife” and then “Chelsea Dagger” and I bet they thought that was funny.
So, it was not to be. Our poor recent record at St. James’ Park continues, and the home team strengthened their Champions League claims for next season.
I met up with the troops at the bottom of the fourteen flights of steps and we – Parky, PD, Rich, Matt, Rich’s nephew and me – sloped down to a bar for a few post-game drinks and a bite to eat. It would be a relatively early night this one. I think I was tucked up by nine o’clock, ready for the long haul down south on the Monday.
Next up, a Friday night date with Manchester United.