Arsenal vs. Chelsea : 16 March 2025
From Arnos Grove To Arsenal :
My last of four trips to London within an eight-day period was for the derby in North London against Arsenal.
Virtually every Chelsea fan that I spoke with was not looking forward to this one. The memories of our heavy 0-5 defeat last season were still fresh in our collective minds and, no doubt, most would say that the current team under Enzo Maresca was in a worse state of health than under Mauricio Pochettino in the final two months of last season.
We would descend on the Emirates Stadium out of duty, and we carried little hope for much success.
Alas PD was again unable to make this trip. I collected Parky at 7am and we kept ourselves occupied with some typical chit-chat on the quick flit to London. There was a brief mention of Frome Town’s home game against a famous non-league team, Havant & Waterlooville, the previous day. Frome began brightly and scored after eight minutes with a goal from Albie Hopkins, but the visitors began to play some impressive football and equalised on the half-hour. At that stage, there looked like only one winner. Thankfully, Frome responded well and provided a dogged performance in the second period to grab a deserved 1-1 draw. My Chelsea mate Glenn attended, and liked it, and spoke of plans to see an upcoming away game in Basingstoke. The gate was a creditable 512.
Before we knew it, I was in Hammersmith, and we sloped into “The Half-Moon Café” on the Fulham Palace Road at 9.30am for – quite probably – the highlight of the day.
While Parky dined on bubble-and-squeak and a few other choices, I went for a full English.
Toast
Sausages – Bacon – Hash-Browns – Beans
Fried Eggs – Mushrooms
Black Pudding – Brown Sauce
Tea
A fine line-up, I am sure most would agree.
I then drove to Barons Court, and we caught a non-stop Piccadilly Line train straight through the metropolis and alighted at Arnos Grove, in Deep Norf, just before 11am. Here, we had plans to meet Jimmy The Greek and a selection of his mates. Arnos Grove station is an art deco classic. It’s circular booking hall reminded me so much of my first-ever Chelsea tube station – Park Royal in West London, where I caught my first-ever tube to Stamford Bridge fifty-one years ago to the exact day, Saturday 16 March 1974 – but the pub next door, The Arnos Arms, was an Arts and Crafts gem in its own way.
It was 11am and Jimmy was waiting for the landlady to open the front doors. We virtually had the vast pub all to ourselves. The others – Nick, Bobby – joined us and we sank a few drinks of various strengths in sullen contemplation of the day ahead.
We caught the train south and alighted at Arsenal tube just before 1pm. As always, memories of “The Greatest Away Game Ever” – Saturday 25 August 1984 – jumped into my head.
Ah, that season again.
I was in North London exactly forty years ago on Saturday 16 March 1985 but a few miles north visiting a school friend, Richard, who was studying at Middlesex Polytechnic in Tottenham. On that Saturday, Chelsea played at Watford, but I thought it would be rather mean to come down to visit him and yet disappear off for most of the day to see Chelsea play. Instead, we spent some time together by visiting Craven Cottage, a first visit for me, for a Second Division game between Fulham and Charlton Athletic. I can remember exiting at Putney Bridge, no doubt walking very close to The Eight Bells, as it was snowing, and then watching a very dour 0-0 from the home Hammersmith End. The gate was a shockingly low 6,918.
Up in Watford, Chelsea nabbed a fine 3-1 away win with goals from Kerry Dixon, David Speedie and a John McLelland own-goal. Richard is a lifetime Portsmouth supporter – for the past two season he has contributed a page in the club’s home programme as one of their in-house poets – and on that day his team won 3-2 at Grimsby Town.
I always remember that we reconvened after the game in his student flat and we heard that his mate Serge, another North London Greek, had been to watch his team, Arsenal, who had won 2-0 against Leicester City at Highbury. And I always remember immediately contrasting his life as a local Arsenal fan being able to watch his team with relative ease, whereas my expeditions to see Chelsea, from either Somerset or Staffordshire, were a little more difficult.
And I wondered if Serge took all of that for granted. I really should have asked him.
I last saw him at Richard’s wedding in 1994, and I sometimes wonder if I might bump into him at Arsenal on any of my various visits.
I didn’t fancy risking my SLR again, so I just took my smaller “Sony” pub camera inside the stadium. We had a very similar spot to last season’s shellacking, close to the exit by the corner flag.
There wasn’t long to wait for this game to start. Alas, Alan couldn’t make this one either. I was stood next to John and Gary, and my good friend Andy from Nuneaton was right behind me.
I had a look around the stadium. It’s a large structure but is not as visually strong as it could be. There are much steeper stands, now, at Tottenham’s new pad and there will be even steeper stands at Everton’s new place. Although the upper tier, by nature, has a steep rake, the lower tier has a very shallow incline. Watching the game from this lower tier is not fantastic. The tiers seemed slightly lop-sided, disjointed even. There is almost some sort of optical illusion happening here. It seemed to me that the heavy upper tier had somehow squashed the lower tier and forced it to crumple and compress.
The teams appeared.
Us?
Worryingly, no Cole Palmer.
Sanchez
Fofana – Colwill – Badiashile – Cucurella
James – Caicedo
Sancho – Enzo – Nkunku
Neto
Another dose of round pegs and square holes, alas.
At 1.30pm, the game began and for the first time that I can remember, Chelsea attacked us in the Clock End in the first half.
Early on, Leandro Trossard was presented with a chance inside our box but shot wide of the target. On eight minutes, yet another “Sanchez In Poor Distribution Shocker” but he was able to recover admirably to save from Gabriel Martinelli.
On twelve minutes, Marc Cucurella lost possession and ought to have cleared, and it seemed that they had multiple chances to push the ball home but eventually shot over via Declan Rice.
“They’re getting past us too easily.”
Shots from Rice, again, and Trossard, again.
On twenty minutes, a corner down on the Arsenal right by Martin Odegaard was met with an unhindered leap by Mikel Merino at the near post, and we watched in horror as the ball dropped in at the far post.
Bloody hell. Arsenal scoring from a corner. Shocker.
There was immediate noise from the home areas, but this soon dissipated.
On twenty-four minutes, a shock to the system. Enzo raced forward and smacked a rogue shot that bounced wide.
This was soporific stuff.
On thirty-six minutes, the Chelsea contingent did their best to inspire the team who were struggling with virtually all aspects of the game.
ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK!
Just after, Cucurella went just wide with a volley that squirmed just past the post.
The game dwindled on, only punctuated occasionally by an outburst from the watching thousands.
Then, a little spell of Chelsea pressure in the final moments of the first half.
However, this wasn’t much of a game at all. If Arsenal had punished us with some of those first-half chances, we would have been well out of it at half-time.
I turned around to Andy.
“Think of some of the great derbies around the World. Rio, Buenos Aires, Rome, Milan, great rivalries in those cities, great clubs. Then you see this, and it’s so quiet.”
It indeed was a tepid atmosphere.
At the break, no changes.
Well, the second half was worse than the first half. It turned into a “non-match”, so lacking in spirit and fight that it made me wonder why on Earth I had bothered.
The body language was just disgraceful. It pained me to watch it. No urgency, no talking, no “gee-ing up” of teammates. For some reason, a vision of Frank Lampard came into my head. An image of him, when things weren’t going our way, leaning forward, pointing, talking, encouraging, on edge, urging his fellow players to give extra.
This current team has none of this passion.
And this half of football had so few memories.
On sixty minutes, a brilliant save from Sanchez from Merino.
Just after, Arsenal manufactured some noise albeit by using the borrowed Liverpool chant.
“Allez Allez.”
Chelsea countered.
“Fuck all again, ole ole.”
Maresca made some – very late – changes and you had to wonder why.
Tyrique George for Sancho, his first mention.
Keirnan Dewsbury-Hall for Nkunku, his first mention.
Romeo Lavia for James, his first mention.
Tosin for Badiashile, his first mention.
With ten minutes ago, with the game on the line still, Chelsea did not change it up at all, instead relying on the sleepwalking of the previous eighty minutes.
Pass, pass, pass.
It was fucking disgraceful.
Out of the blue, George looped a high ball towards the back stick but Cucurella, as good as any, could not quite reach the ball.
The game fizzled out and no more goals ensuded.
Unbelievably, we were still fourth.
Good God.
We made it back to Barons Court at 4.45pm. On the drive home we were diverted off the M4, while we were listening to the League Cup Final from Wembley. While slowly navigating the narrow streets around Eton College, via intermittent and patchy Radio Five Live coverage, we heard of Dan Burn scoring for Newcastle United against Liverpool. As we eventually headed off the M4 towards Hungerford, half-an-hour later, we were quite happy that the Geordies had won their first silverware of any nature since 1969 and their first domestic trophy since 1955.
In season 1992/93, I attended three Newcastle United away games with my good mate Pete – Brentford, Bristol City, Swindon Town – and I was so pleased for him, and a few other good friends who follow the team. I have a small soft spot for them.
Pete watched the match in a Weston-Super-Mare care home with is father Bill, who was just eighteen when the Geordies won the 1955 FA Cup Final.
Well done them.
I reached home at 8.15pm.
I could not help but note how many fellow Chelsea supporters were using the adjective “tepid” to describe the game at Arsenal. It is a term I have used, and on many occasions of late.
We can’t all be wrong.
Next, a very long break for Chelsea Football Club.
We have no game for eighteen long days.
Perhaps it is for the best.