Chelsea vs. Brighton And Hove Albion : 3 December 2023
There was a black and white photograph of Terry Venables on the front of the match programme. The news of his sad passing, at the age of eighty, came through while we were sat at a café in Gateshead on the day after the match at Newcastle. He had actually died on the day of the game. Although he had played for three other London teams, and managed them all, he was always fondly remembered at Chelsea, a club that he never really wanted to leave. Later that Sunday, in the pub that had become our local for the weekend, we raised our glasses in memory of one of the brightest lights of that ‘sixties Chelsea team, and one of the most innovative coaches of the past few decades.
I never saw Terry Venables play. In fact, he was the manager of the opposing team in games that I saw a surprisingly few times. But he always seemed to me to be a genuine football man. The tales of him taking on Tommy Docherty with ideas of football tactics are legendary, and undoubtedly the reason why he was eventually moved on from Chelsea. There was only ever going to be one winner there. He joined the hated Tottenham, then QPR, then Crystal Palace. He was cherry-picked by Barcelona and won La Liga in his first season at Camp Nou. Alongside him as his number two was Alan Harris, brother of Ron. I always remember that I did a tour of the towering Barcelona stadium with two college mates in September 1987 on the very day that “El Tel” got the elbow, sacked after just over three seasons at one of the World’s largest clubs. As we left the stadium, I remember a gaggle of folk assembling outside the main stand and, at the time, I did not know why. The next day, we found out.
Later, there was Tottenham and a few famous battles with Chelsea. With England there were the highs – I was at the Holland and Spain games of Euro ’96 – and lows of being national team manager.
Terry Venables was an English football legend who lived life to the full – a singer and novelist too – and touched the lives of many. I often wonder how Chelsea’s story would have panned out if he had stayed in 1966.
Rest In Peace.
I was inside at about 1.30pm ahead of the 2pm kick-off, and I found myself chatting to my mate Daryl. Neither of us were too optimistic about the outcome of the upcoming match with Brighton.
“I’ll be happy with a draw mate.”
After the second-half capitulation at Newcastle, it felt that the twin games against Tottenham and City were a blip and that our state of health was again being questioned.
It had been a decent pre-match and the tight confines of “The Eight Bells” had been livened by the appearance of our friends Linda and Deano, calling in before their three-month adventure in Thailand, and also my Brighton mate Mac and his four pals, plus Chad, Danny and Josh from Minnesota.
Unlike the coldness of the day before, the weather was mild. The Chelsea team was announced and I took a look at it.
In goal, Robert Sanchez. A back four – without the suspended Reece James and Marc Cucarella – of Axel Disasi, Thiago Silva, Benoit Badiashile and Levi Colwill. In midfield, Moises Caicedo, Enzo Fernandez and Conor Gallagher. Out wide were Raheem Sterling and Mykhailo Mudryk. In the middle, Nicolas Jackson.
No Cole Palmer.
Three former Brighton players; Sanchez, Colwill, Caicedo.
I immediately turned to Alan and admitted that I – probably for no logical reason – disliked tall full-backs.
“Only Ivanovic was any good…”
Why is that? I do prefer full-backs to be more compact, nippier, think Ashley Cole, Graeme Le Saux, Cesar Azpilicueta.
Our back four was made up of centre-backs and with Brighton likely to be quick and agile, I feared the worst. At least there was no Kaoru Mitoma in the starting line-up.
There were a few moments of applause in memory of Terry Venables before the game began.
After showing up in a vivid orange away kit for the League Cup game at the end of September, this time the Brighton kit man chose green and black striped shirts. It didn’t look right. If you were playing for your school and an opposing school showed up in green and black stripes, you would fancy your chances.
“Looks like a rugby-playing school this, lads. Who wears green and black? Into them!”
Well, despite all this, Brighton began brighter and I wondered if even a draw might be a tad optimistic. But we dug in, became a little more aggressive and won some battles. Conor Gallagher carried out his usual corner routine of holding the ball up above his head for a moment, before placing it in the quadrant.
“That’s code for another shit corner…”
One or two of these missed their intended targets.
A ball was played through to Nicolas Jackson who ran on but soon ran out of steam. I would soon lament that he had neither the pace, strength nor nous to be effective.
Lo and behold, on seventeen minutes, another Gallagher corner from out on our right beat the first man and Benoit Badiashile did ever so well to keep the ball alive and hook it back into the six-yard box. Enzo Fernandez rose to head home, and then celebrated wildly down in Parkyville.
GET IN.
Jackson then surprised everyone with an excellent dribble into the box and to the by-line before prodding it goal wards but the Brighton ‘keeper Jason Steele saved. The rebound was headed well wide by Enzo.
This was a good little spell for us and a cross from Sterling was hit into the danger area but went off for a corner. Gallagher’s delivery again caused Brighton problems. Jackson headed back for Levi Colwill to head towards goal. In the follow up, a shot from Axel Disasi was thumped against the side netting. We groaned. But within a heartbeat the initial header from Colwill was signalled as having crossed the line. There was only four minutes between the two goals.
2-0, oh my bloody goodness.
The game then meandered for a while. Despite us being 2-0 up, the atmosphere inside Stamford Bridge was truly dreadful. The away fans – any away fans – can usually be relied to stir things up a little, but the Brighton fans were as quiet as us.
Pah.
There was defensive hari-kari in our six-yard box, and – really Mister Pochettino – we need words, I already had a few heart attacks back in 2020. Please stop all that buggering about please.
Simon Adingra seemed to be giving Axel Disasi a bit of a runaround.
Mykhailo Mudryk spun on a sixpence and accelerated away but his shot just missed the target. His effort was warmly applauded. Bit of an enigma, that kid, eh? We all wish him well though.
It wasn’t great, despite the 2-0 score line.
PD blurted out “poor” just as I was thinking it.
It was deathly quiet.
Sadly, just before half-time, Facundo Buonanotte was on the end of an uncontested move and sent a fine curling shot between defenders and past Robert Sanchez to narrow the margin.
Bollocks.
Raheem Sterling danced into the Brighton box but then fell over himself.
Another rapid break from Mydruk down the left showed him at his best; electric pace, a dangerous cross. Sadly, this resulted in a quite brilliant reflex save from Steele as a Brighton defender deflected the cross goal wards.
The away fans had found their voices.
“Albion, Albion…Albion, Albion.”
Then, a very clumsy – and silly – challenge by the previously-booked Gallagher on our former player Billy Gilmour resulted in a second yellow and marching orders.
The Brighton lot were happy.
“Cheerio, Palace scum.”
This was the second red for a captain in consecutive games.
Fackinell.
It had been a Curate’s Egg of a first-half. There had been periods of good play but areas of concern too. I spoke with Oxford Frank about our failings during the first period. Despite the two goals, much of it was pedestrian. I recounted the game I attended on Saturday, a come-from-behind win by Frome Town at home to lowly Exmouth Town, and soon realised that I was far more excited as I found myself describing that game than dwelling on the match taking place below us. A special mention for my mate Josh – one of the Minnesota triplets – who travelled down to Somerset specially to see Frome play. The win, in front of a decent 376, left Frome in third place but with plenty of games in hand.
As I returned to my seat, Clive and Alan were in discussion about our second teams; Clive with Hereford, Alan with Bromley, me with Frome Town.
“If your two teams played each other, who would you want to win?”
And it is a great question.
I was asked this same question years ago, maybe before my love for Frome Town reached its full blossoming, and I replied “Chelsea, of course…”
Now, it’s a little more blurred.
But it’s still Chelsea.
Say, though, Frome Town defeat Torquay United in the FA Trophy next Saturday and are then drawn away to Oldham Athletic on the same day that Chelsea at home to Fulham on Saturday 13 January. What to do? What to do? Thinking about that could ruin my Christmas.
The second-half began.
After five minutes of play, the Stamford Bridge crowd eventually took the bull by the horns and got involved with the usual strains of “Amazing Grace” being used :
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”
You know how it goes.
I joined in. But I then – gulp – realised that this was my first vocal involvement of the entire bloody game. Oh Christ. Is this what I have become? My 1993 self would have been distraught to see this. Bloody good time travel is not yet with us.
We were down to ten men, of course, but it didn’t really show.
Roberto De Zerbi made four substitutions on the hour, including James Milner, a player I have loathed for ages now.
Alan had just been talking to Clive about playing Mudryk down the middle – not always, just on occasion, to mix things a little – when we broke at pace.
A Brighton corner was claimed by Sanchez. A roll out to Sterling. To Jackson. To Mudryk. In on goal. Milner racing back.
I took a photograph.
Mudryk’s legs crumpled.
Did I immediately think it was a penalty? I hoped so.
Play continued. The crowd was roaring. I studied the image I had taken. I had my own little review. It looked like he had been caught.
VAR was called into action.
The nerds at Stockley Park were not sure.
Back it went to the referee Craif Pawson.
Penalty.
I did not cheer.
Enzo.
Goal.
A roar from me.
A roar from everyone.
A slide into the corner down below us.
Snap.
GET IN YOU BEAUTY.
Objectively speaking, my thoughts are that if the team of VAR “experts” can’t decide, then it doesn’t go back to the referee on the side of the pitch. The initial decision stands. I know that it would have meant that we would not have won that penalty, but VAR is killing our game.
The chants in support of the team grew louder.
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”
We played well in the remainder. Pochettino made further substitutions.
Cole Palmer for Sterling.
Ian Maatsen for Jackson.
An extra man at the back now? I thought so,
Armando Broja for Mudryk.
We were treated to a punt up field from Sanchez for Broja and I approved. A little variation in our attacking play always makes the opponents uneasy.
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea – Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.”
That man Mitoma looked lively. Sanchez stretched low to turn away a long shot from Pascal Gross.
Ten minutes of extra time were signalled.
A corner from their left, in front of their fans, was whipped in and Joao Pedro lept well to glance the ball in; near post to far post.
Oh God.
The rain was lashing down now.
The minutes ticked by.
I kept glancing at Alan’s ‘phone; he always puts the timer on at ninety minutes.
6 minutes.
8 minutes.
Another save down low from Sanchez.
10 minutes.
A cross from Adingra was slashed in.
I saw nothing, nothing odd, nothing untoward. Imagine my shock when it became apparent that a penalty had been awarded.
What? Why? Who? Where? How?
Those of us in the ground were baffled, but obviously crestfallen. There was a big old kerfuffle in the penalty box. Confusion reigned.
VAR.
Another delay.
The referee went back to the TV screen.
Another delay.
I was fearing the worst.
The referee drew a rectangle with his hands like some stupid game of charades.
I thought it was a penalty that he had signalled.
So did the Brighton fans who roared.
My heart sank.
But then a roar from the home fans.
What?
No penalty.
What the fuck has happened to our game?