Gold King Cole packs the Bridge with merry old souls

In the 83rd minute, the ball rolled to the feet of Cole Palmer in a bubble of space outside Aston Villa's box, and the crowd snapped to attention.

- LAWRENCE OSTLERE

Little conversations stopped. Heads craned forward in unison. Ah, now this is why we came.

Chelsea are a fun watch this season, full of speed and swagger, all nosed by the erratic offerings of Nicolas Jackson, a man who can finish with the accuracy of a sniper and all the delicacy of a caravan in the space of one afternoon. But there is a reason why the walk down Fulham Road carries such a sense of anticipation these days. Palmer virtually guarantees a handful of moments that take your breath away, one or two of which will probably lead to goals, performing touches and feints often so subtle that you'll try and fail to describe exactly what he did in the pub afterwards.

This ground has enjoyed star attractions in the past, like Gianfranco Zola and Eden Hazard, players who could light up the most mundane game with a single dribble. Yet Palmer's allure is more enigmatic. His best moments often come at a standstill, when the threat of what he might do sends defenders in the wrong direction more so than the action he eventually takes. And despite the excellence of Pedro Neto, despite the tenacity of Marc Cucurella, despite the madcap display of Jackson, it was Palmer they had come to see, like an entertainment product in his own right.

In a way, this was the perfect match for Palmer, against a team bold enough to come and play but not quite good enough to control the game. In the first half, Aston Villa played some kamikaze football in their own box, trying shudderingly dangerous passes back to Emi Martinez who was caught out on a couple of occasions.