Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 16 May 2025
Tonight is all about Albert who sat in this seat in front of me since 1997. Last week, Albert sadly passed away.
He was a lovely man and will be so sadly missed by all who knew him.
Rest In Peace.
The news about Albert’s passing had hit me hard, and during another early shift at work in Melksham, Wiltshire, I was quiet and subdued. I was preparing myself for a tough day ahead.
I had been awake since 4.50am when the alarm rang before a 6am to 2pm shift at work. My usual travel companions PD and Parky had travelled up earlier by train to get stuck into some drinking at “The Eight Bells” in the early afternoon. I had a decent drive up to London and only stopped for a Cornish Pasty at Reading Services. I was parked up just after 5pm and I then walked to West Brompton tube to catch the District Line down to Putney Bridge tube.
I had caught a glimpse of the promotional video of the new 2025/26 Chelsea kit and immediately suspected that the “Carefree Café” in the film was in fact “The River Café” opposite the tube station. It was closed as I crossed the road so could not peer inside to check the décor, nor talk to the owners, but I was pretty sure. This café, a lovely old-fashioned one, has been featured in a few media pieces over the years and so this added to my assumption that this was indeed where Cole Palmer has asked for his usual bacon sandwich in the promo video.
I eventually squeezed through the door and into the familiar pub at about 5.40pm. The usual crowd were assembled. Everyone seemed well-lubricated. We briefly touched on the loss at Newcastle, but more focus was on the evening’s match with the decidedly poor Manchester United, the season finale in Nottingham, and of course another UEFA Final in Wroclaw.
This hasn’t been an overly exciting nor engaging season, has it? Yet here we all were with three games to go and talk of European football, via whatever means, next season, and it seems that this is nearly always the case.
Since 1997/98, we have only experienced two seasons without European adventures.
2016/17 and 2023/24.
We have been lucky buggers.
Back in 1984/85, as the supporters assembled at Stamford Bridge on the evening of Tuesday 14 May, there were thoughts and dreams about Chelsea participating in European football for the first time since 1971, some fourteen years previous. With an up-turn in our fortunes in the closing games of that league season, a win against already-relegated Norwich City would probably ensure that Chelsea would finish in fifth place in the First Division and thus qualify for the following season’s UEFA Cup.
It had been an odd season for our opponents that season. They had won the Milk Cup Final yet were relegated alongside Sunderland and Stoke City.
On a terribly wet night at Stamford Bridge – I was listening to updates on my radio in my student flat in Stoke – we were tied 1-1 at the break via a goal from Mickey Thomas, but in the second-half Asa Hartford grabbed a surprising winner, to add to their first goal scored by Steve Bruce.
Chelsea 1 Norwich City 2.
It dropped us down to sixth place.
The gate was just 22,882.
My memory is that we would therefore need Liverpool, who had finished thirteen points adrift of Champions Everton, to beat Juventus in the up-coming European Cup Final on 29 May to take a second European Cup place and to allow us to slip into the 1985/86 UEFA Cup.
From 14 May 1985 to 16 May 2025, a gap of forty years and two days, European football was dominating our collective thoughts.
I wanted to be inside the ground early, to come to the terms with Albert’s absence, and I solemnly made my way in. There was one final “pat down” and my SLR had made it in once again. I made my way up the stairs to The Sleepy Hollow.
I gave Alan a hug.
We believe that Albert passed away in the days between the Liverpool and Djurgarden home games. Albert and his brother Paul were not in their seats for the latter game; they were used by others. I concluded, then, that Albert’s last Chelsea goal was that penalty from Cole Palmer against Liverpool when the scorer changed tack in the goalmouth and headed over to celebrate down below us.
I am sure that Albert loved those celebrations.
As kick-off against Manchester United approached, overhead there were no clouds. It was a pure, perfect evening in SW6. What a bittersweet feeling.
Albert often appeared late at games, clambering over the seats to reach his place in front of me.
Always there would be a shake of our hands –
“Alright, mate? / alright, Albert? / alright, son?”
Oddly, I seemed to think that against Liverpool I clasped his hand with both of my hands, in the way that blokes sometimes do…
Down below us, the Dug-Out Club muppets were grouped behind the rope cordon to watch the players up close during their pre-match routines.
I’d want to be bloody playing for £12,000 a pop.
There was a photo of some very good friends that I have accumulated over the years.
Clive 2003.
Alan 1984.
PD 1984.
Ed 1995.
Daryl 1991.
Rob 2010.
My team.
I had no doubts that despite United’s very lowly position in the league, their supporters in the far corner, the red corner, would be making some noise all night. I had recently read a comment from a Brentford supporter who had praised the wall of noise provided by the away fans at the recent away game in West London. Manchester United have constantly been one of the noisiest sets of supporters at Chelsea for years now.
The clock-ticked away.
I sadly passed on the news about Albert to the two chaps who sat to his left. They had not heard. Eyes were moist.
The teams were announced.
Sanchez
James – Tosin – Colwill – Cucurella
Caicedo – Enzo
Neto – Palmer – Madueke
George
So, Reece James back at right-back, and the youngster Tyrique George asked to lead the line.
Oh, Mason Mount was in the vaunted number seven shirt for United.
The twerp.
Before the game, the We Are The Shed gang had plastered bar scarves over the back of a thousand seats in The Shed, but as the teams entered the pitch, although the many Shed flags were waved, not many fans joined in by waving the scarves.
I am not too surprised.
Despite the probable protestations of our tourist section, we have never really been a scarf-waving crowd, not in the same way that – say – Liverpool and Arsenal are.
At 8.15pm, the game kicked-off. With Mount’s first touch, a barrage of boos. Not from me, but there you go.
This wasn’t “Durie, 1991” levels of desertion…
The first chance of the game was perhaps unsurprisingly created by Cole Palmer, up against his boy-hood team, who steered a cross for Noni Madueke at the far post. The ball was bounced high and he found it hard to get his attempt on target. His shot was high, and my shot of his shot was too blurred to share. Let’s move on.
On eight minutes, a rather agricultural tackle by Enzo Fernandez on Bruno Fernandes went unpunished by the referee Chris Kavanagh, and I licked my lips at the thought of a no-holds-barred game of old-fashioned football. One can hope, right? In fact, I thought that the referee let quite a few rugged tackles from both sides go in the first part of the game.
United then enjoyed a decent spell and on fifteen minutes, Harry Maguire volleyed a cross from Fernandes in and reeled away as the United support roared. It was, thankfully, ruled out via VAR.
No celebrations from Alan nor me, though.
“Nah.”
We continued to be rather sloppy both in and out of possession. Patrick Dorgu, down below us, created a chance for Mount, but his effort was wide, and how we laughed.
Thankfully, these two chances having passed, United then defended deeper, and they lost their interest in attacking us. It was odd how the game tilted back in our favour. Perhaps the visitors were more concerned with a UEFA final of their own. They just seemed to drift away.
Chelsea, with Moises Caicedo in top form, slowly took control, though goal-scoring chances were rare.
On twenty-four minutes, a cross came out to Our Reece, who slammed a delightful shot goalwards – I was right behind its flight-path – but sadly struck the far post.
“Beautiful effort, that.”
James had been a little patchy, like many, in that opening period, but from that moment he seemed to improve.
By the half-hour mark, we were in the ascendency but were not really playing brilliantly. While others in my company were rudely chastising our players, I was a little more pragmatic. It’s not always about the quality at this stage of the season, but it’s all about the points.
My attention was caught by the LED adverts sliding their way around the perimeter of the pitch, backing up the 2025/26 kit launch.
“London. It’s Our House.”
Good ol’Suggs in the video, as the cab driver, and that classic song from 1982.
“Our house, it has a crowd. There’s always something happening and it’s usually quite loud.”
I wish. On this particular night, we were quiet. Compared to other seasons, United were relatively quiet too, but they were singing the whole time, unlike us.
The game continued on, but with not much quality on show.
A deflected shot from Palmer, a blocked shot from Enzo, another shot from Enzo, but offside anyway.
It seemed that neither team had the will to finish the other off.
Enzo was surprisingly poor.
At the break, I shared the opinion that if there was another St. James’ Park style improvement in the second-half, we would win.
At the break, Alan offered me a “Whispa” which I quickly devoured. After, I spotted that I had let the wrapper slip beneath my seat.
“That was careless.”
Alan groaned.
At the break, “Our House” was played in the stadium.
“Our house, in the middle of our street.
Our house, in the middle of our street,
Our house, in the middle of our street.
Our house, in the middle of our street.”
It was now around 9.15pm, and the second-half began.
Annoyingly, United began on the front foot. On fifty-one minutes, Mount screwed a good chance wide. Amad Diallo, who had almost impressed me, set up Fernandes but his shot sped past the far post.
Not long after, down below us, Tyrique George – not really in the game, bless him – ran after a ball, and Andre Onana ran to cover. The result was a penalty, but then not a penalty, and I yawned my way through the whole sorry tale.
The game continued, but with only hints at quality.
I turned to Alan and mentioned that Sanchez had not really had too much to do, and Alan gave me a withering look.
On sixty-nine minutes, off went Mount and Casemiro, whose face always looks like it has been injected with something catastrophic.
Two minutes later, at the end of a massive spell of possession, as the ball reached Pedro Neto – who had been increasingly involved during this half – I picked my trusty SLR up and focussed on the winger. He danced one way and then the other and I snapped. Next, the ball was played inside to Our Reece. I had my camera focussed on him, and was aware that he had lost the substitute Alejandro Garnacho was an exquisite “see you later” spin, but then snapped as he released a cross that would drop into the danger zone in the six-yard box, or just outside it. As the ball hung in the air, I readjusted and snapped as the leap of the continually impressive Marc Cucurella flashed before me. I was able to witness the beautiful moment as the ball rippled the net, Onana somehow beaten.
Stamford Bridge reacted with a guttural roar, and so did I.
I then tried to flip immediately back to that of ice-cold photographer and snapped away as the scorer raced away over towards the far corner, the noise booming.
I quickly took a photo with my phone of the Cucurella header from my SLR – typically blurred – and shared it on “Facebook.”
For Albert.
Right after, probably as I was fiddling with camera and ‘phone, Madueke was released by Palmer and found himself one-on-one with Onana. He slammed it past the near post. Had that one gone in I am in no doubt that Stamford Bridge would have been launched into the atmosphere and would have landed in another time / space portal.
There is nothing like the adrenalin rush of two goals scored in quick succession.
Chances were exchanged as the game, at last, came to life, with Neto forcing a fine save from Onana, while Sanchez saved from Amad.
Some late substitutions were made by Enzo Maresca.
Romeo Lavia for George.
Palmer moved forward.
Malo Gusto for Neto.
Gusto went sprawling, pictured, but no penalty.
We held on.
A poor game, mainly, but one that was lit up by that magnificent winner. United were the worst United team that I have ever seen live.
In the pub it felt odd to be saying “see you next season” to those I would not be seeing in neither Nottingham nor Wroclaw, and as I walked back towards my car off Rylston Road, the sign at Fulham Broadway saying “Have A Safe Journey Home” seemed ridiculously final.
However, this had, indeed, been our final home game of the season, but where has the time gone?
Regardless, our home record in the Premier League this season has been remarkably good.
P 19
W 12
D 5
L 2
The two losses were against Manchester City and Fulham. Maybe our house is regaining its status of a decade or so ago.
“Our house, was our castle and our keep.
Our house, in the middle of our street.
Our house, that was where we used to sleep.
Our house, in the middle of our street.
Our house…”
After some typical delays underneath the M4, I didn’t get home until 2.15am and I eventually get to sleep until 3am. I had been awake for twenty-two hours and ten minutes, but it was all worth it for that spin, that cross, that header.
I will see you in Nottingham and I will see you in Wroclaw.
Let’s go to Europe.