Chelsea vs. Bournemouth : 30 December 2025
subtitled : “chaos theory.”
After the collapse against Aston Villa, we were heading back to Stamford Bridge for the second home league game in four days. This time, the visitors were Bournemouth, or AFC Bournemouth to give them their full, rather pretentious, title.
What version of Chelsea would show up for this game? I am not sure anyone was sure.
Unfortunately, Lord Parsnips – to give him his festive title – was unable to make it, so after picking up PD and Glenn at 11am in Frome, I sped off towards London via our old route which included a short-cut across Salisbury Plain from the A36 to the A303.
Blue skies above, a clear road ahead, a glorious day. We were on the road.
“Jack Kerouac” as I used to say in the first few years of these match reports.
I enjoy coming in on this “southern route” and for those not familiar with this drive to London, it takes me right past Stonehenge – the sun was hitting those stone slabs perfectly as we drove past – and then up towards London’s well-heeled South-Western suburbs and we came in past Twickenham Stadium, a smattering of other rugby stadia, Richmond-upon-Thames, then Barnes – past the Marc Bolan memorial site – and over Putney Bridge.
I know it’s a hackneyed cliché that the days between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day form a weird zone of confusion, but I was a victim of this peculiar time of the year as I drove towards London.
“Wait a minute. It’s a Tuesday. Free parking starts from 5pm on weekdays. Bollocks. I’ll have to pay for a few hours of parking.”
Not to worry. I hoped it wouldn’t be too much.
The “southern route” is considerably quicker than the “northern route” and I dropped Ebeneezer Scrooge and Tiny Tim off outside “The Temperance” in deepest Fulham bang on 1.30pm. They then made the brief walk towards “The Eight Bells” to set up a base camp for the afternoon.
Meanwhile, I – Bob Cratchit – set off through Fulham to find a parking space and ended up just off Rylston Road. The parking was £4 per half-hour…
I then wandered down towards Stamford Bridge and took a few photographs of the area. I probably know this part of Fulham just as well as my hometown, and of course there are many memories from these streets of SW6. I seemed rather obsessed with incorporating the moon in as many photos as possible. The time was only around 4pm. Maybe I was surprised to see it so clear, so early in the evening.
There was a bite to eat on The North End Road, then a quick visit to Stamford Bridge again, and a few photos. As I walked towards the West Stand forecourt, I heard a young lad shout out.
“There’s no Cucurella.”
Had the team news been announced already? It was only three o’clock. The quick thought about our esteemed left-back missing the match saddened me.
I then heard “Bob The T-Shirt” reply.
“Get him out!”
And I realised that this brief conversation concerned scarves on Bob’s matchday stall and not the starting eleven.
At 3.30pm, I walked into “The Eight Bells” and walked up to the chaps.
“Right, where were we?”
It seemed only five minutes ago that we had all been crowded around the same table pre-Villa. Just behind me, and undoubtedly on the same tube train, was Aleksey from Houston – but originally Moscow – and he quickly joined in. Dave from Northampton dropped in for a pint too; a mate from 1983/84. It’s fantastic to think we met as twenty-year-olds and now we are in our ‘sixties but still in contact.
Salisbury Steve was with his son Leigh, two other Steves were in attendance, as was Jimmy The Greek.
Ten of us in total. Bob Cratchit even inched into one of the photos.
Aleksey has been bitten hard with the Chelsea bug over the years but is also one of a growing band of mates from the US who have become interested in the non-league scene in the United Kingdom. Suffice to say, in addition to this Bournemouth game, plus aways at Manchester City and across the park at Craven Cottage, Aleksey is heading down to the West Country for two nights so that he can watch the Frome Town vs. Westbury United match at the weekend.
A feisty local derby on a Saturday at three o’clock, with a few drinks before and after, and a gate of more than one thousand. Fantastic.
It’s the future.
Dear reader : I can’t deny it. I have been looking forward to this Frome game more than any other match over the Christmas period. More so than Villa at home, more so than Bournemouth at home, and certainly more so than City away. I am bloody dreading that last one.
Aleksey was down in the West Country for our game with Winchester City last season. And I know he is relishing Saturday’s game.
Frome’s “Chelsea” visitors from the US to Badgers Hill now stands at five.
Bob – California.
Josh – Minnesota.
Courtney – Illinois.
Phil – Iowa.
Aleksey – Texas.
Only another forty-five states to go. Who is next?
Aleksey seemed to be on a mission to try every draught beer available – from a dark porter to a crisp light cider – but Bob Cratchit was on the Diet Cokes. Tiny Tim chatted to Aleksey about our trip to New York in the summer, while the others got temporarily sidetracked into talking about the current mess at the club. For a few moments, it all got a bit heavy and depressing.
On Saturday, my mate Clive had to leave early against Villa as he got the call that his dog, Norm, had taken a turn for the worst. He wasn’t at this game. In fact, Tiny Tim had his ticket.
I messaged Clive to find out how Norm was doing.
“Definitely on the mend. He’s back shagging my leg. Are you having a good time?”
I replied.
“Not as good as you.”
There’s always a good soundtrack to our drinking and our chit-chat and laughter in “The Eight Bells” and I liked it that “A Town Called Malice” was played not once but twice. I reminded Aleksey that Frome will come out to this song against Westbury.
We bellowed along.
“A whole street’s belief in Sunday’s roast beef.
Gets dashed against the co-op.
To either cut down on beer or the kids’ new gear.
It’s a big decision in a town called Malice.”
We set off for Stamford Bridge, and there was the usual group selfie from Jimmy, then a group photo of us all, taken by a random stranger, and I include it here.
In a quiet moment, Jimmy said he fancied coming down to see a Frome Town match too.
“You might get a game, mate.”
I was in at 7pm.
I spoke to a few people around me.
“Who knows what we’ll do today. You never know, we might turn it round. Today might be the day that we can…be shite in both halves.”
Oh that gallows humour.
The team?
Well, Bob’s helper was indeed right; no Cucurella.
We lined up as below –
Robert Sanchez
Josh Acheampong – Trevoh Chalobah – Wesley Fofana – Malo Gusto
Moises Caicedo – Enzo Fernandez
Estevao Willian – Cole Palmer – Alejandro Garnacho
Liam Delap
Oh, those constant defensive changes.
I didn’t like it that we attacked the Matthew Harding Stand as the game began. I liked it that we clapped Djordje Petrovic, though.
Inside the first minute, a rampaging run by Liam Delap and he forced a corner, but Estevao’s floater amounted to nothing.
Over in the far corner, the folk from Pokesdown, Christchurch, Poole, Mudeford, Boscombe, Southbourne, Hamworthy, Parkstone and Ferndown rustled up a chant.
“AFCB – Red And Black Army.”
To be fair, three thousand of their fans at an away game is a mighty fine figure when you consider they only have 9,000 home fans each game at the Vitality. Their expansion plans are ongoing. I wonder what figure the Poole and Bournemouth conurbation could reliably support. Maybe 25,000? Perhaps 20,000.
We countered with a half-hearted “CAM ON CHOWLSEA.”
With five minutes gone, the away team had already created a couple of chances. On six minutes, a long throw-in from in front of the West Stand. The ball was flicked on by a Bournemouth player despite three – yes three – Chelsea defenders jumping with him. David Brooks headed the ball at Sanchez, whose reflex save was impressive, but Brooks then slotted home the rebound from close range.
Here we bloody go again.
Wait.
VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…the goal stood.
From the away end.
“How shit must you be? We’re winning away.”
On ten minutes, the ball was pushed out to Estevao who wriggled past the left-back and came inside. He ran on confidently. Inside the box, after a challenge by Antoine Semenyo, he fell.
VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…zzz…oh boy…I didn’t hear what the referee Sam Barrot said, but of course by then we knew it was a penalty.
I still haven’t remotely cheered a VAR decision that has gone our way, since it has vastly helped to rot football’s soul.
Cole Palmer slotted the ball in at the corner.
No celebrations from him, nor his teammates.
Good – I liked that.
“We have a job to do.”
A quarter of an hour had passed.
Soon after, a mistake by young Josh Acheampong let in the away team who passed around our defenders and played in Brooks. I admired a fantastic “strong wrists” parry from Robert Sanchez. He is becoming a noticeably excellent shot-stopper, especially from close-in.
Then, Delap forced his way past his marker, but his low cross was just not close enough to Alejandro Garnacho’s lunge.
Garnacho, soon after, then took a heavy touch and a good chance went begging.
On twenty-three minutes, I loved the way Young Josh won the ball on our right. Moises Caicedo to Enzo to Garnacho. He played the ball back to Enzo, who feinted a touch to create space, then shot high into the net.
YES!
What a bloody fantastic strike.
A slide from the scorer.
Snap, snap, snap.
I hoped that my pub camera was up to the task.
The Matthew Harding decided to sing.
“How shit must you be? We’re winning at home.”
I am all for gallows humour, but I was not a fan of this. I turned around to see if Lee – we share basic Chelsea fundamentals – was as annoyed as me.
He was.
PD chirped “this game could be 4-4 or 5-5.”
Well, the goals continued. On twenty-seven minutes, a throw-in from Semenyo in front of the East Lower was aimed at the near post. Trevoh Chalobah rose but got the angles and his timing wrong and only helped the Bournemouth cause by heading the ball fortuitously on for Justin Kluivert to stab the ball home.
If only we had deployed a player to stand on the rear post.
Basics.
It was 2-2 with not half-an-hour played; so, was this a fine game played with players on form or a low-quality match with defensive lapses and the inevitable goals to boot?
I think we all know.
On thirty minutes, Malo Gusto booted wildly over. Just after, a good cross from them but Sanchez got something on it at the near post. On thirty-five minutes, a high Garnacho cross to Estevao, of all people, on the far post but the headed effort bounced wide.
Seven minutes of injury / VAR time, but that was that.
What a chaotic half of football.
As for the second-half, God only knew.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Enzo Maresca tweaked things.
Reece James for Acheampong.
Pedro Neto for Garnacho.
Soon into the half, James headed a pass – for that’s what it was – towards Cole who set up Estevao but his shot was blocked.
We witnessed a finely timed and finely executed tackle by Wesley Fofana. Such is our lack of defensive prowess these days that this simple act now seems like it needs to be heralded.
Gusto headed a cross out for a corner, but…
VAR…zzz…a wait…zzz…ho hum…no handball.
On fifty-four minutes, Delap headed over at the end of a decent break.
The noise in the stadium was – of course – poor, but Stamford Bridge reverberated with boos when Palmer was replaced by Joao Pedro. Cole began a long walk around the pitch to the bench, while on the pitch there was a low shot from Estevao that Petrovic tipped around the post for a corner.
It made me chuckle when the subbed Palmer rescued the match ball and placed it on the corner spot and motioned to look for a player.
For all the substitutions, it wasn’t working and we struggled to create too much. Pedro Neto was frustrating me with his need to take an extra touch, while I would have preferred for Delap to be a central target rather than making runs to the near post.
On seventy minutes, Estevao snaked into the box with an excellent dribble, but his effort only resulted in a corner. Our corners were predictably poor, and I expected more quality from Reece on the left and Neto on the right.
Sigh.
On seventy-six minutes, Enzo lashed over.
On eighty-two minutes, Joao Pedro tried an optimistic (ie: bloody stupid) lob from inside his own half.
Oh boy.
His deflected shot then went off for a corner.
Amazingly, Bournemouth should have won it in the first minute of the four that were added on for injuries / VAR. A cross from the left down below us from Adrien Truffert, a first-time touch at the far post by Armine Adli and the ball was played back to Enes Unal. Thankfully his first-time volley from eighteen yards flew over the bar.
Phew.
Just after, with just two minutes remaining, Jamie Gittens replaced Estevao and we all wondered why, oh why?
This was another meek performance from us, and it’s obvious that many of the rank-and-file are losing patience with this current regime.
At least the hot dog with onions at Fulham Broadway was bang on.