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ramblings of a girl who talks football
@CFCGWLB
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Nobody Puts Victor Meldrew In A Corner

4/30/2017

2 Comments

 
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Everton 0  Chelsea 3
Sunday 30th April 2017 14:05


Sheer f*cking bloodymindedness and the biggest set of b*llocks in the league. At Goodison, the only ground in the country where it's still acceptable to charge people full price for sitting behind a big screen that couldn't handle the graphics on Pac Man. It's not 1981 anymore. Leaning wooden stands, posts in the way. The whole upper tier is restricted view. To see anything of the pitch you have to stand on the diagonal bunched together like the Nolans. When Willian scored my heel went through the floor and I could see the fans in the lower tier underneath. Horrible place. Strap yourself in, it's a long one. There's gloating to do, and everyone we don't like is getting it with both barrels this week. Also, if you're offended by my swearing, you should probably f*ck off now.

In the News: Chelsea drawn into damning tax probe! Cry the press plebs. Except that when you read the facts, we were just asked for some paperwork. Which HMRC collected and then skipped on their merry way. Click-baiting press whores. The yoot have won their sixth FA Cup in eight years. Are they pleased for us in the land of pleb? Are they buggery. One of them compiled a list of all of those that played in those games and didn't go on to play for the first team. Meanwhile Martine Samuel is still banging on about how we'll all hate JT if he moves elsewhere in England. We called HWWNBN Judas, after all. Well, some drunken ar*seholes did and they were roughly told to f*ck off by everyone else. Tut tut Martine. Oh and lastly Anthony Taylor is apparently the ref for the FA Cup Final. I could cry. Although where this is where I would usually say we're bound to have a punch up, we are playing the Goons, who are pussies. And he appears to hate them. They've started a petition. Huzzah. 

First of all Joey Barton was scummy enough to bet against his own team, but I would have expected that. What I would not have expected is the hilarious revelation that one of his infractions was placing a bet on himself to score first. He's seen himself play football, right? He called his recently released biography "No Nonsense" - suggest addition of chapter to round off the tragedy of early retirement and revision of title to "Bellend for Hire." (Insert own funny reference to him being an unemployed scouser here) His statement is laughable. If the consequence of my actions was ever, potentially, the categorical end of my career and the loss of my livelihood, there's no bet that could make me do it. And I'm a gambler. The argument that he grew up a pikey and that should somehow make me feel sorry for him is tragic. If you come from nothing, are a total incompetent in life except when it comes to football and have somehow made good, then you should have appreciated all the more what you had to lose. At least once out of 1200+ times. Good riddance. 

The Others: Observations from Selhurst Park on Wednesday: As usual, putting up with Fat Sam and his chewing was only made bearable by frequent close ups of Joel Ward. He made two changes, not my predicted eight. Although his managerial genius (assigning Sakho to kick the sh*t out of Harry F*cking Kane) proved flawed when he didn't have a contingency in the event that the big lump just injured himself instead. Wanyama should have been off in the first half. What a surprise Jonathan Moss was lenient. Apparently Townsend went over too easy. Wonder where he learned that? Moss deserves more credit for the victory than Eriksen, who has the saddest widow's peak I've ever seen on a 25 year old. Follicles heard he played for Sp*rs. Ran away in embarrassment. 

Speaking of embarrassing. Thanks for nothing, Arsenal. The Goons, fully dressed as clowns and coming to a big, colourful tent near you over the summer as they seek alternative careers. The power balance on the grotty side of London is ashifting. From one bunch of c*nts to another bunch of c*nts. Apparently, as I type this they are all up at Sh*te Hart lane beating the living daylights out of each other. This coming in the week where Sp*rs fans also caused horrific head injuries to one of their own after their defeat at Wembley. Apparently they thought he was one of us. Right. Doesn't play too well for their new image as the vomit inducing media darlings of the Premier League does it? The same media who reckon Costa is an animal. And here I was being told that we were the enemies of football week in, week out. 

The Manc Derby summed up why neither of them are challenging for anything. It was about as entertaining as game of scrabble with Tony Pulis when he just uses his tiles to build a wall over one half of the board so you can't use it. I can do no better than steal the words of apparently the one press pleb who appears to have a decent sense of humour: 

"What a coup it's been for English football, and for... Manchester, to play host to... two of the most famous managers in the world! There they've sat, all season, underachieving with a face on, while the Premier League title race has passed them by... That's £175m and £150m well spent!"

Other than that, the only thing I noticed before I abandoned that yawnfest for my Mad Men marathon on Netflix was that Herrera reminds me of an ex boyfriend of mine. He was also a rat-faced little tosser who talks all fighty but would get his a*se kicked by octogenarian with arthritis. Hopefully karma will come for him like it did with Rojo. Matthew (sitcom alias, the Ghanaian in Desmond's) was fully livid about their diving antics today. Who was HWWNBN going to blame? He asked. The fans, apparently. It's their turn this week. We'll be back to Luke Shaw on Monday. It just tickles my sides that the most obvious target on his squad (Gadget Hands Foollaini the Human Wrecking Ball - that's his circus act) never gets a pasting. It'll take at least three seasons to turn United back into a team that dominates in Europe. And our old friend won't last that long. 

Our Game: Conte went with his preferred line up for much of the season, with Fabregas dropping to the bench. We almost managed to stuff it up from the start when a sort of dawdling venture forward by the home side somehow hit the post and passed Courtois by. Lucky that Captain, Leader, potential Legend, Cahill saved the day with an instinctive block. While Everton started with a spring in their step, Steklenberg was wasting time before we'd got to the fifth minute. Oh joy, it's going to be one of those afternoons, we thought. And it was, for the rest of the first hour. Gueye came out with a sole intention of going at Hazard with all the subtlety of Donald Trump making a pass at someone (Janice (muppet alias) has just remarked that he has been 100 days in office already. "Where did they go?" She asked. "I don't know," says I, "I've had my head buried purposely in the sand for most of them") Lukaku backed into anything that moved with the vigour of an aggressively randy Jack Russell. Oh and some floppy haired twat with a bob that I haven't seen sported since housewives on early 90s sitcoms rampaged about waving his leg at everyone. He might actually have been the lost Hanson brother. (See video clip for hilarious bit of nostalgia) 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NHozn0YXAeE

Either way, here's a philosophical question for you. If Davies is stuck in the nineties and everything else (stadium, fashion, music over the tannoy) at Goodison is firmly still wedged in the 70s/80s, does that mean he is a cutting edge trend setter in the land of Scouse? 

Anyway. The first half was sh*t. Some tenacious play in midfield by Costa saw Hazard in on goal but the angle was tight and he ran out pitch and hit the side netting. That was about the best of it. If anything we were just too cautious and sloppy in our passing. Matic did his best impression of Eden but his shot went straight to keeper. Lukaku struck wide, and Diego muscled off a centre back (who cares which) to end up with a close range shot and fluffed it over the cross bar. On the half hour mark the game just seemed to be crying out for Fabregas. I spent most of the rest of the half moaning that this was case and fuming at Fortune Cookie W*nker straight out of the Mrs Bucket School (sitcom aliases, remember) behind us with his inane waffle of the obvious:  "just win the game", "pass it." My personal favourite: "You're sh*t Costa, f*ck off to China." He's scored twice this week and ran his arse off today, not to mention was professional in the midst of repeated attempts to antagonise him. So you f*ck off to China. 

Half time it was. I haven't had that much fun since my kitten rolled in his own diarrhoea and I had to take him in the shower with me. Without being potent up front, Everton had managed to completely break up our game in midfield. It can only get better, right? 

Wrong. The second half started off exactly how we ended the first, though a trickily worked corner was struck just wide by Moses. An hour gone. We haven't strung any decent balls together in midfield all day. And we have Fabregas on the bench. The equation seems pretty simple to me. So I carried on moaning. Everton's key man? Jonathan F*cking Moss. Which brings me to: 

Refwatch: I was going to keep this rant brief, but f*ck it. It's a long drive back to civilisation, and so it's as epic in size as the man himself. When someone as mild-mannered as Matic is chasing you up the pitch doing the universally recognised angry sign language for "where are your f*cking" glasses?" You are having a truly awful day. Let's not forget that this was the incompetent who stuffed Palace in midweek by letting Wanyama stay on the pitch. Apparently he is on a one man crusade to win Sp*rs the title. I lost count of the sheer amount of fouls, shirt pulling, handballs, foul throws (there you go Meldrew) that he missed either because he was puffing along like a winded asthmatic or ignored because he was as bent as 'Arry Redknapp filling out a tax return. I was ready to fling myself at him like a rabid squirrel and claw his eyes out on sixty minutes. At one point Gueye two-arm wrestled Hazard to the ground from behind and Moss, a foot away, signalled it was fine. He then booked Costa for having the audacity to go for the ball in the box, and that minutes after he threatened to book him for dissent when it was his dismissive body language and whatever he said on Costa being fouled that led to him gobbing off in the first place. I'll say it for the fiftieth time this season. They don't have to be perfect, but they have to be consistent. And consistently sh*t does not count. I could happily go on but I'll save the rest for a retrospective evaluation of referees this season for the book version of this blog. 

Anyway. Just as Victor Meldrew had resorted to snarling at everything that transpired on the pitch like one of those yappy handbag dogs because he just ran out of expletives (believe me, this never happens) along comes Pesto (whatever, auto-spell, you win) to save the day with an awesome long range strike. Is he left footed, right footed? Who f*cking cares. Relief. For about a minute. Then more panic. Please get another one. Koeman was going to have a go, and brought on Mirallas and Kone. Lukaku came close once more for the home side with a free kick which went just high and wide, but they'd basically lost their discipline and then it was game over. A Hazard free kick was swinging in on goal only to be parried away by Steklenberg. Unlucky for him that it went straight onto the knee of that renowned goal poacher Gary Cahill. I f*cking love that man. Fabregas (proving that I know nothing) and Ake came on as the clock ticked down by which time my note taking went to sh*t. Five minutes from time Cesc ambled into the box with utter, languid contempt for the defence and played the ball back to Willian for a third. Willy could have had another in injury time, but by this point the away support was mostly too hysterical to notice. R*ttenham H*tspur, we're waiting for you. 

So: A moany old hobo pointed out that when we beat Everton 3-6 Moss was also the referee (a clusterf*ck there as well then) and it was also on the 30th of the month. I haven't checked this, because I have a life. And I've got gin to pour. Instead, I want to say something to all of the nappy sh*tters that appear not to have noticed Gary Cahill's contribution to our side for the last five years when they are slagging him off and saying he's not good enough. (I know I'm going to get a right on from my Fancast smutbuddy and Cahill's mum, at least) He put us ahead on Tuesday, he stopped us going behind in the opening minutes today and there he was determined to f*cking do something in the box again today to get us the points. He has risen to wearing that armband so that he is a worthy successor to JT. Nobody can be John, but this man, even when he is sick, injured, even out of form, leaves everything he has got on the pitch. You can't ask for much more, that is the mark of a pro. For crying out loud, the man limped through 120 minutes on one leg to help deliver us the European Cup. So we didn't raise him. So what? Since the day he signed for Chelsea he has been as Blue as you or I and that will do for me. Also, he looks rather fetching with his top off. So all the whiners, to quote the stewards at The Bridge: Sit Daaaaaahn. 

Everton probably thought they were hard done by that score line. From my perspective, not a f*ck was given. At the final whistle it felt like someone hit release on a safety valve and vented all of the pressure that has been building up in the title run in. In the last week we've gone six points closer to the title, including a never say die victory after a miserable hour in what was the hardest fixture left and we've thumped Sp*rs against the supposed odds at Wembley to leave the double on. I think the whole team believe that if they just carry on doing what they are doing, it's theirs for the taking. We're making a slight f*cking meal of it, because we are Chelsea, but we're getting there. And it's all the more satisfying that with every victory comes Jermaine Jenas on TV "having a massive cry w*nk.” (Thanks JD)

Don't forget you can preorder the ebook of the blog at:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B06XH3Y8XZ

I'm fancasting again on Monday - and will no doubt have more to say about Barton and Moss and how Sp*rs can f*ck off. (If Chidge lets me get a word edgeways) More info no doubt at @ChelseaFancast

AC

Photo of happy Cahill comes from the shininess of Chelsea's official Instagram page. The other photo of my hideous seat today is mine. 







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We Won, AND Chelsea Gave Me Cake

4/25/2017

3 Comments

 
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Chelsea 4 Southampton 2
Tuesday 25th April 2017 19:45

After Saturday's match report, when people moaned, I've been ordered to go on an equal opportunities course entitled "Living With Gingerism: They Have Feelings Too." I'm only going for the free tea and biscuits and because it's a day off proper work. 

In the News: In the most unsurprising news in football, our very own Kante twins have been named PFA Player(s) of the Year, and one of the humble, tireless little chaps was given a trophy bigger than he is to dead lift on Sunday. Guardiola says that Sanchez is just one step below Messi. This is clearly the judgement that has led to him having no real defenders. And Bravo in goal. And dropping Aguero for a length of time. And winning no trophies in a season where he was supposed to blow the Premiership away. As you were, my shiny headed friend - you rock on with your nonsense. I love the Drog. He's put in for a two day loan for May via Twitter so he can come home and do some more damage to Arsenal. And to think Wenger could apparently have had him for 250k. He's probably spent that on therapy over the years to erase the memory of all the times Didier has bent him over and shafted him. 

The Others: We are first out of the traps in this round of midweek catch up fixtures. Let's be honest, there is only one "other" at the moment and when they've finished crying like little b*tch babies over Saturday they've got to go to Palace tomorrow. Don't put it past Fat (Crooked) Sam to throw this one now they've got to 38 points and worry about picking up a couple more that will definitely take them over the line in the fixtures against the likes of Hull or Burnley to follow. Minimum of eight changes, I reckon. Git.

Our Game: I said to Mini-Mowgli (special alias) before kick off. "If we lose this today, I will sh*t my pants. Right there in Corporate. For I had a very kind invitation from the Fancast/Voice artist legend that is Mr Kydd to join him in the East Middle at Ossie's. (Hence the photo of the most unviolated bit of celery you will ever see within reach of Chelsea fans. The people there actually eat it. Yes, eat it. There's not one bit trod into the carpet or flying across the room. It will never catch on)
It was a more recognisable lineup today than Saturday, with Hazard and Costa coming back into the starting eleven. Pesto (I yield auto-spell, I yield) dropped to the bench in favour of Fabregas who pretty much dragged us over the line after his introduction at Wembley. Captain Cahill returned to the side after illness. This was not going to be a walkover, Southampton are an able side with some great players, and praise baby Jesus, and Mary, and Joseph, and even the f*cking donkey, they are a side that will actually want to play football instead of time-wasting the living crap out of a ninety minute slugfest like Stoke. Nevertheless I was determined to be less of a pessimistic nappy sh*tter than before kick off on Saturday. A win to send us seven points clear again, please, for we all know how Sp*rs like to fold like a house of cards made out of wet toilet paper at the first sign of pressure.

It was a bright, determined start from our FA Cup finalists (who beat Sp*rs, just to say it again) and we could have broken through in the first two minutes. As it was, it only took Eden five to fire us ahead. Costa laid the ball off to him in the box and he made slotting the ball in right at the far corner look stupidly easy. After that we went a bit wayward, resulting in nobody marking Southampton’s striker properly in the box. He brought the ball down and played it to a melee of legs. It was luck more than anything that saw the ball rebound off Romeu’s legs rather than the opposite way off a defender, but still, rage. We sort of attacked, but not really, and in the meantime, as our tempo died off, Southampton felt their way into the game and ended up dominating it. Their passing was quick, fluid, and very precise, whereas ours lacked on all three points. We despaired. But then trust Dave to kick everyone up the a*se with a mammoth run at the most distant of chances to set the example. From our perspective the game was sparked back into life. Some outstanding play by Kante that saw him weaving past half the Southampton team was worth a goal, a furious penalty shout by my Shed Upper brethren came to nothing. After a full minute more of madness, finally Matic got a shot off but it was sadly not quite as spectacular as his effort on Saturday. Hazard could have had another, but he passed when he could have shot and the attack fell apart. Finally, after the world’s worst bicycle kick, Alonso atoned by putting the ball into the box properly second time round. Cahill was that determined to get on the end of that ball that he would have headed it whether he was decapitated in the process. He even wiped Costa out on the way to it. Leave it to the Captain to grab us the lead right on the stroke of half time. Don’t watch his celebration though, watch Luiz swinging off the crossbar a la Munich. Priceless.

At some point during the break somebody clearly connected up the dots and realised that every time we maintained pressure on Southampton and kept the pace of the game high, we scored, because we came out with real intent in the second half. Having set up our first, and been bulldozed out of the way by a giant, rampant Yorkshireman for the second, Diego stood his ground against Bertrand to head the ball to the side of Forster. He scored. Yes, he scored. Afterwards, as Southampton continued to look for a way back into the game, they left themselves open at the back. Alonso struck straight into Forster’s arms, Diego was blocked off in the box but I don’t think even he was convinced that he was actually going to get a penalty. I just wanted another one before the inevitable happened - that is Shane Long coming on and the little sh*t inevitably swanning into our box to score against us. Costa had a great chance to make the result certain but outfoxed himself with fifteen extra touches. Finally, a minute from time he made an absolute mockery of the Saints’ defence and danced into the box like a very scary looking prima ballerina to thump it home. That's what I'm f*cking talking about. Just as even my patience with him was running out, after he seemed to be a yard off giving a sh*t for most of the first half, he’s back. For a few more weeks at least until he moves to China. We were in such a good mood by injury time that even a Bertrand consolation goal couldn’t dampen our spirits. We even sang for him. Fair play to Southampton, they never gave up and they contributed to an entertaining game, but their quality off the ball nowhere near matches when they are on it.

Refwatch: Lee Mason. There were times I wanted to fling my complimentary programme at his big bald dome-head, but ultimately he was pretty anonymous, which we all know by now in my world equals a decent performance by an official. I shouldn't even notice you're there. I can't argue with the cards he gave our players, they deserved them, and he wasn't faffy and didn't interrupt the flow of play too much. My main criticism? His limp wristed hand action with his special spray. He looks like Phil Mitchell, and sprays like Peggy. 

So: Over to you c*nts. I await many choruses of "Chelsea rent boys we're coming for you.”

Not unless you drive for Uber. Because I've never seen you back this up yet. 


Things I learned tonight:

  • Despite the hairy last couple of weeks we have not gone "Sp*rsy"
  • Celery is actually edible
  • The East Middle is full of rather spiffing Chelsea fans who know their stuff and get fed cake at games. This has produced much envy on my part.
  • Conte shouts really, really loud and in a confined space like a dressing room I would take refuge in my locker.
  • At each game Chelsea produce this nifty little booklet called a "programme" with pertinent information and the opposition players listed on the back so you can better direct abuse at them. It costs the same as a gin though so it isn't likely to catch on as far as I am concerned. 
  • Diego Costa has not, in fact, been abducted by aliens to front a mercenary army of little green psychopaths in a galaxy far far away, and been replaced by a sh*t robot clone. 
  • Our last few weeks of JT are going to be ridiculously emotional

Corrections and Clarifications: (Daily Fail style) Jumbo did not end up Cricklewood on Saturday after being thrown off the train at Wembley for being too happy. It was Sudbury Town. Wherever that is, (he still doesn't know) it required 58 chicken wings to power him home. 

Don't forget you can follow the blog @CFCgwlb

The Ebook of the end of season review is available to preorder at:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girl-Who-Likes-Balls-Following-ebook/dp/B06XH3Y8XZ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1493165625&sr=8-1&keywords=girl+who+likes+balls

There will be a paperback too! 

And in November the Blue Trekkers are walking the Jordanian desert from the Dead Sea to Petra for Veterans In Action - please, pretty please drop us a few pennies here: 

http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserProfilePage.action?userUrl=ChelseaTrekkers&isTeam=true

AC

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Where’s Your Ginger Gone?

4/22/2017

1 Comment

 
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Chelsea 4 Sp*rs 2 
FA Cup Semi Final, Saturday 22nd April 2017 17:30

Actual quote from me today at The Green Man: “I’m really sorry I threw that celery in your face, but I got extra points because you are a ginger.”

In the News/The Others: F*ck ‘em. Nothing this week, apart from maybe the humbling of UEFAlona and the cheek of Pique complaining about Real getting help from the officials, is worthy of taking any of my word count away from what happened at Wembley today. 

Our Game: Despite the fact that Sp*rs have not beaten us twice in a season since beehives were fashionable, despite the fact that we have played in EIGHT FA Cup finals since Sp*rs last made it to one, it was with marked trepidation that I set off to the dark side of London with Mowgli (special alias) and Mini-Mowgli today. In the words of my Smutbuddy on the Fancast, I had gone full nappy sh*tter. In my defence, so had everyone else, apart from Mini-Mowgli who was drunk, suffering from concussion and hungover all at the same time. Good fun was had by all at The Green Man. Beaker (Muppet alias) and I cracked open a bag of celery and played hit the ginger whilst a chunky lad with bitch-tits danced topless on a table. Jumbo (sitcom alias) was disgusted by him purely for the fact that having had about twenty plastic pints thrown at him, he didn’t lick himself clean. (This is seemingly what years of living in Australia does to a man ;-)

If any of our players had anything resembling the plague I dragged round Northern France and Belgium last week I truly pity them, but thankfully Moses and Alonso appeared to be fine. (I’m pretty sure I’d let the latter vomit on me anyway) There was a perfectly legitimate reason for the exclusion of Hazard from the starting line up. I firmly believed that Conte had done the right thing in bringing Ake into the side in place of Cahill. We were clearly prioritising Tuesday, but there is no room for sentimentality and JT in a back three against their forwards would not have worked. As for the last change, inclusion has to be based on effort and on commitment, because otherwise all is anarchy. I've defended Costa strongly, but in the last couple of weeks my patience has evaporated faster than Dele Alli going to ground looking for a penalty and could giving Michy a shot be any worse? I didn’t think so. 

I need to start with a “Depth Perception Disclaimer” for the first half. We could basically see f*ck all of who was where. That said, obviously, if you disagree with me, I am right. Because I am a girl. And we are never wrong. Nathan Ake put his first crunching tackle in on Harry F*cking Kane ​(say it without swearing, it isn’t right) after two minutes, and it set the tone for his performance. The fact that Alderweireld even had the gall to protest his tackle on Pesto (f*uck off autospell) was hilarious. (Have you seen the Belgian’s hair? He’s got that much wax in his hair his fringe looks like Cameron Diaz in There’s Something About Mary. So it possibly isn't wax) Anyway, Willian proved how much he actually hates T*ttenham by curling his free kick round the whole wall and making a prat out of Lloris by slotting the ball in the bottom right hand corner of the Sp*rs goal. Bring on Mikel! Quick, before it all goes wrong!

“For the first fifteen minutes it felt like although they passed the ball around in midfield, Sp*rs were either void of a coherent plan or baffled by the shuffling of our personnel.” Obviously as soon as I typed that the f*ckers went and scored with the only attempt I remember them having thus far. Harry F*cking Kane had already fallen over his own snail trail of drool twice when he managed to get the better side of the defence to head it in. Another 200 brain cells dead that he can ill afford to lose. Cue a massive amount of galling celebrations coming from the Sp*rs corporate w*nkers above, especially a ginger with a big mouth who was then a marked man in terms of potential future mockery. We'll come back to him.

As the half hour approached, it had all got a bit scrappy. There was a sad little half a*sed attempt for a penalty by Harry F*cking Kane, who presumably just tripped over his own chin, and an even worse dive by Alli who gave it the full dying swan air flick to no avail. They were on top and on 35 minutes Courtois was left standing when Dier headed on out goal but thankfully the ball skimmed past the far post. Then the lily-livered Lilywhites gifted us another lead before halftime when Son (who the f*ck put him defence and expected any better?!) went flying in like a massive bellend on Victor Moses. After what from our rubbish vantage point appeared to be a massive amount of debate about who was going to take it, Conte demanded that Willian was to rub the Sp*ds’ faces in it a bit more and In fact, we could have had another before the break after his conversion thanks to one of Lloris’s frequent and epic brain farts which saw him handle the ball outside the penalty area. When you go into Intermarche in France there is always a wino in a tracksuit walking around smelling of old cheese and loading his trolley with tinned green beans and vodka. If he wasn’t a footballer, this is what Lloris looks like he should be doing for a living. 

Being the massive nappy sh*tter that he is, Granville remarked at halftime: “Just imagine the possibilities of the second half if we play for more than seven minutes.” Things were destined to get a lot worse before they got better though. The first ten after the break consisted of Kante trying to tackle everyone at once, Harry F*cking Kane rolling round on the floor and the referee having an epileptic fit with his whistle in his mouth. Then the b*stards scored again. Apparently the pass was sublime but if you ask me it clearly looked like a fluke. Do you know what I love about it now though? The joy on Alli’s face when you watch the replay. Knowing that it counted for absolutely nothing in the end.

Their penalty shout was ridiculous, as were the two or three more that came after it but we were not even in the game at this stage. They were running about like Charlie Adam let loose behind the counter in McDonald’s and we were always a yard behind. We finally got forward on 57 minutes, but Willian squandered the chance and that was enough for Conte. Hazard and Costa began stripping down. By the time they entered the field of play we were hugely lucky not to be behind. My notes as he went off say that Michy put a sh*t in. I’m pretty sure that that means shift. Because I have no gin-addled recollection of him curling one out on the pitch. 

Sp*rs’s reaction to the introduction of Hazard was to immediately bring Walker on to kick him up and down the pitch. The game was now tortuous, mainly on account of our total inability to win a second ball. Pressed back and back, our only hope now was a counter-attack. This may well have been the plan, giving the personnel we had available and the nature of their play, and the fact that we have another game on Tuesday. But that doesn’t mean that it was not f*cking terrifying to watch, and I was on the verge of cracking out Douglas Haig’s “Backs to the Wall” speech when on came Cesc, and all was right with the world again. With fifteen minutes left to play and the score level, almost immediately after his arrival we had our first corner. There were nine Spuds in the box. Not one of them had noticed Hazard lingering on the 18 yard line. All the time in the world to thread it through the legs of about five of them and make Pochettino go full metal angry ferret with his snivelly face. You can't kick him if you don't even bother marking him. Mugs. First thing we did? Turn around to find the T*ttenham ginger. He hid. Which prompted loud choruses of "Where's your ginger gone?"

For the love of God, I said to Frasier (Dad’s Army nappy sh*tter) next to me. We can’t let a lead go again can we? 
Still they wouldn’t roll over, but with ten minutes to go Matic hit a 25 yard screamer that cannoned down off the crossbar to surely send us into the final. “What a goal” my mum text me instantly. My response? “He hits them every week and usually misses by miles!” Easily, the best thing about the goal is Kurt Zouma’s reaction as the rest of the squad celebrate on the bench. At some point Sp*rs made substitutions. In all cases some c**t in a white shirt replaced some other c*nt in a white shirt but by this time I couldn’t have cared less. I was too busy hugging people I don’t know and looking for the ginger above, who looked like he was dying inside by this point. Possibly they had a tame attempt on goal in injury time but none of it amounted to anything. The ginger sidled off early.

Refwatch: Martin Atkinson. I have it on authority from Mrs. Brown that we have never lost with him in charge. First half I thought he let a couple of things go against us, and there was Lloris’s bumbling clusterf*ck outside the box that he missed, but he also took no interest in their diving so he came out about even to my mind. The second half was baffling. But we survived his half an hour mid life crisis in the middle of the match so I forgive him.

So: They huffed, they puffed and they got nowhere. That is the seventh FA Cup semi final they have lost in a row. Excellent. Better than smashing Sp*rs? Beating them when they possibly deserve to have won. The Chelsea Gingers are happy, the Sp*rs one isn’t. I bonded with one of their mob on the train home from Victoria. (We’ll call him Spuddles - I was being benevolent. It’s easy to be benevolent and regal and gracious when you win. This must be why everyone thinks Roger Federer is a saint) He (Spuddles, not Roger) couldn’t believe they hadn’t won. He did not expect to lose like that today on their run of form and he still couldn’t figure out how it had happened. He has a point. We had five shots on target and we scored four goals. Shame. I’m coining the phrase “hapless ruthless execution.” F*ck knows how we pulled this off, but we did. It was the kind of precision that won us thirteen on the bounce, that we could have done with against Palace and that was completely absent last week at Old Trafford.

Apparently Willian stomped off down the tunnel angry on being substituted. The fact that he was back on the bench watching the game in minutes leads me to believe that the nappy sh*tting has spread to the BBC, because I’d think you’d consider something basic, like his needing a p*ss before you start having a meltdown. “To the Manor Born” was how the commentator described Ake today. I thought he was outstanding. How David Luiz got man of the match over him, I couldn’t say, but I can at least savour the fact that it would have wound their lot up after he annoyed them today by having the cheek to get stamped on, accidentally or otherwise, by Alli. Michy too, although he didn’t score was quite at home considering his lack of game time. His time will come. Probably.

Sp*rs are a better loved London club than us or Arsenal says Pochettino. (Who, it was revealed on the highlights, spent the game drinking from a hilariously tiny, camp little bottle of water in the dugout as his afternoon fell apart and his ferret face got progressively more angry) Let me break it to you gently. Ok, not gently at all, Poch. Chelsea and Arsenal (more Chelsea) have been winning for twenty years. People resent winners. The last time you won anything at all TV hadn't even caught up. Everyone went round to the managers house to watch a shadow puppet highlight show on the living room wall. If that's the case, that you are more popular, it's because you are in a category with all those sad, beaten donkeys on charity appeals on daytime television. People don't "like" you. They pity you. There's a difference. 

Spare a thought for Jumbo. He got kicked off the train for singing too loud and he’s probably bus w*nkering his way round Cricklewood without a clue even now.

Don’t forget you can follow the blog @CFCgwlb

I think (but I am quite drunk now) I am on the Fancast on Monday, but no doubt @ChelseaFancast will keep you better informed. 

And the ebook version of the blog is available to preorder on Amazon. There will be a paperback too when it is released after the FA Cup final!

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girl-Who-Likes-Balls-Following-ebook/dp/B06XH3Y8XZ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1492902112&sr=8-1&keywords=girl+who+likes+balls

AC

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​All hail the Chelsea Gingers
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At Least We Arnott Arsenal

4/17/2017

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Manchester United 2 Chelsea 0 
Sunday 16th April 2017 16:00


I go away for five days and everything goes to sh*t. There is a collective wail coming from West London, enough noise coming from the ghetto off the Seven Sisters Road to make you think they’ve started burning their own town again, and you can hear of concerto of press plebs beating one out in quicktime across the nation.

Here beginneth the shortest write-up I will do this season. All fashioned from the middle of a muddy field on the Western Front using only alerts on my phone and little snippets of Five Live that popped in and out of range as we paid our respects to half a million odd casualties of WW1 in four days.

Antonio presumably spent all week working very hard on preparing for this game. 

Then Courtois got injured.

Then Alonso started puking his guts up.

So basically, HWWNBN had got a leg up already. Because we’ve had to shuffle everything around at the last minute.

Looking at the team sheet, it doesn’t appear that he really gave a crap either way. This smacked of the Europa League being their best chance of Champions League football next season. Put a half decent side out, with one eye on Thursday, hope that you go 1-0 up and then cling on to your self respect with the last vestige of your fingernails. (Like Jeremy Corbyn)

Refwatch: Yay. Says I before kick off as we motored over the old German front line from 1918. Bobby Madley has been the only half decent ref around for weeks. Scratch that, because now the bellend might have actually interfered with the outcome of the title race by failing to spot a handball that was as obvious as Thierry Henry slapping Ireland out of contention for the World Cup finals in 2009.

As I was attempting to help a five year old spot shrapnel balls, (this weekend has seen me dubbed “Sweary Poppins,” which I might have put on a t-shirt) I was simultaneously ranting at an iPhone with no signal because why, oh why, would you not be finding space for Nathan Aké yesterday if one of your wing-backs is flagging with a virus? *Sigh*

Right about the time that they went two up, I found the end of a Lee Enfield rifle sticking out of the ground. If it had been the complete thing, I may have brought it back to London and clubbed Diego with it in an effort to revive him. Just once, as I can’t bring myself even to watch the highlights and I acknowledge that the multitude of social media posts imploring him to f*ck off to China might just be hysterical nappy sh*tting of the highest order. Still, if as a striker he could start scoring some goals right about now to help contain everyone’s blood pressure, I would be grateful. Failing that I will settle for him snapping Alli’s leg in half next weekend.

So: All hail Uncle Albert for keeping me in the loop yesterday.

We need to fortify our squad profusely in terms of the wingback roles, or in seeing who we have might be able to play there, people like Aké, because the second that one of Alonso or Moses drops out, we are not the same side. I heard on the radio as we doffed our caps to the Thiepval Memorial on the way home that HWWNBN was a genius yesterday. B*llocks. He made a play. Quite a negative one. Thanks to last minute events out of our control and a sh*t ref the chips fell his way. After we’ve slapped him about twice already this season. Let him have his little moment of glory raiding the overpriced mini bar in the hotel room he is forced to call home. I can’t say I agree with everything that Conte did, or didn’t do, but that is all that happened. Luck went his way and we did not do ourselves any favours. But then that doesn’t fit with the media rhetoric does it, the story they all want in press plebdom? Which is Sp*rs to overhaul us. Which frankly would less welcome than yet another instalment of the Fast and Furious franchise in my world.

Despite the fact that for many, the end appears to be nigh, I bet I can make you laugh instantly:

Arsenal. 

Frankly, I’m more concerned about the fact that they might have killed off DS Arnott in Line of Duty last night when I was out of the country. I’m off to find it on I-Player and provided that I am not too traumatised, to write a tribute to JT for the book version of this blog, which you can pre-order at:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girl-Who-Likes-Balls-Following-ebook/dp/B06XH3Y8XZ

Don’t forget you can also follow the blog on Twitter:

@CFCgwlb







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Five Fences to Go 

4/8/2017

3 Comments

 
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AFC Bournemouth 1 Chelsea 3 
Saturday 8th April 2017 17:30

Why is there a photo of two Scousers I hear you ask? This one was too good to pass up the opportunity of a caption competition. Have at it in the comments by all means if the idea tickles your fancy. 

In the News: Harry F*cking Kane is the Sp*rs equivalent of Messi, according to their manager. There are so many things wrong with this ridiculous statement that it could be a blog in itself. So I'll just settle for this response: Shut up. You fool. Speaking of managerial verbal diarrhoea: "Ten draws is better than five wins and five losses in the long run" says HWWNBN. He's obviously been sniffing whatever Pochettino has, because I failed GCSE maths three times and even I know that 5x3=15. Which is more than ten. What running has to do with it, God only knows. I'm putting him at Defcon 4 on the eponymous scale used to calculate a manager's wellbeing. In blogland, Defcon 1 is fine and dandy. 5 means the Russians are coming. I cannot wait to see how he reacts to another season of Ropey League (thanks Janice!) Thursday night action.

Which brings me to the supposed ruck in the tunnel after Wednesday's game. City's staff were apparently crowded outside the Chelsea dressing room looking  like something rather camp from West Side Story and waiting for a punch up. (Or a dance off) I have it on very good authority that Pep kitted himself out in full matador regalia complete with mini-cape and a moustache drawn on in guy-liner. He says "City are so polite in defeat." Well they've had a lot of practice this season. But polite isn't the way I'd describe the shenanigans that lead to an all out brawl when we beat them at theirs and David Luiz ended up having his leg strapped for several months. Chelsea are the only side ever to do a double over El Sobrevalorado in a season (This is Spanish for "the overrated" according to infallible word of Google translate. This is my new name for him, because in my head, Pep is a name for a spaniel, not a man old enough to have lost all of his hair who wants to be taken seriously in life. At least in blogland he now sounds like a pantomime villain in said matador costume. Which is far more amusing.) Having mugged him off at every opportunity for the last eight months, I did have to have a chuckle on HWWNBN's behalf over some whiny press pleb saying that journalists deserved courtesy/respect from him because "they are just trying to do their jobs." That may be so, but when members of your profession earn a living out of harassing, stalking, and writing derogatory stories about HWWNBN and his peers, surely you don't expect a f*cking cuddle off them. Bellends.

The Others: The R*ttenham w*nkfest on the radio as we made for Bournemouth was more nauseating than the notion of Harry F*cking Kane embarking on a dribble porn career (I'm sure such a thing must exist somewhere dodgy in Scandinavia) You'd have thought that they were seven points clear, not us, the way they lauded over Sp*rs's demolition (at home) of Watford (who were missing twelve players) This was hardly the Alamo. The gap was down to four points, but still, do our job and who gives a cr*p what they get up to at what's left of their ground.

Our Game: Bournemouth were going for a third home win in a row, but the last time they beat us on their own ground was in 1988, at a time when Jack Wilshere's hopes and dreams had yet to die. Having been sick in my mouth listening to the Sp*rs game on route, and knowing they were singing such nonsense as "Chelsea rent boys we're coming for you" the BBC did not diffuse the angst among the blue contingent at Dean Court by pointing out that only once has a team with as many points as we have at this stage failed to go on and win the league. So no pressure then.  Fabregas was out for Matic - and Victor Meldrew and I wondered if Conte would have done the same if the timing of the fixtures had been different and Sp*rs hadn't won at lunchtime. More importantly, Moses had recovered from his international toe injury (it makes it sound less wimpy) and returned to the starting lineup. Whoop whoop. 

Like most of the crowd I was more interested in the Grand National as the game kicked off in front of a slightly depleted crowd, but the seats soon filled up as and when people's horses fell over or turned out to be the equivalent of Charlie Adam on four legs. Two minutes in and Thibaut (so many potential jokes about the nose and horses but I can't bring myself to do it) made his first save from Luiz, resplendent with his luxurious mane tied back in a ponytail, who managed to turn a clearance into a shot on target. The excitement of my having picked the winner in the National subsided and in its wake was bonafide fear. Because fail to win and the press will be unbearable, not to mention Sp*rs, and more importantly the Blues Beachy Head Cliff Dive 2017 might start to become a realistic possibility. Either that or there will be an exodus from West London this summer the likes of which the world hasn't seen since all those b*stard Nazis tried to make for South America. 

I like and respect Bournemouth because you know that Eddie Howe will not put out a team that doesn't intend to play football. They had had a fair amount of possession, including a promising run on goal before we went ahead. Complete mis-kick by Diego (Faltering Finisher would be his Grand National/ racehorse name - or Fighty McFightface) that deflected in off the opposition. Soon we were two ahead. The Kante Twins (a little horse, but a hardworking favourite) put the ball sublimely through to Hazard who galloped through, past the Keeper and slotted the ball in.

From now until we hopefully sew up the title I will not be content with anything less than a three goal cushion. I have forsaken my own advice (stop being a dick) thrown at the pessimists such as Grocer Jack and have become a full on, glass half empty, the end is nigh (albeit temporary) "nappy sh*tter". Until we lift a trophy, I will be fearing the worst. A slip by Cahill almost let them back in it, and Pesto scooped it clear (f*ck off auto spell, besides, today he shall be known by his racehorse name of Tenacious P) 

But Bournemouth were growing in confidence. Another effort was cleared off the line by Thibaut (Though someone needs to explain to Pugh what goal-line technology means as braying at the referee won't get you anywhere) We had our chances too. Pesto hit one on the outside of the box, but the contact was wrong and it was always on the rise. Another ball was brilliantly won by the Kante twins in midfield and ended up with  Costa but a defender just got in the way. Victor Moses (Racehorse name - Wandering Prophet) headed wide just after the half hour, showing no signs of his injury.

Unfortunately we were then guilty of exactly what cost us a goal against Palace. In the words of Victor (Meldrew, not Moses) “w*nking about with the ball.” 1-2 thanks to a pretty special strike from King just before half time. But there may have been a foul in the build up, and this brings me to Refwatch: Marriner - Could it really be our turn again for this punishment? This game did nothing to change my opinion that he is the most rampant f*cktard of an official in the Premier League. Which horse would he be riding today I wondered? Sir Nag the Incompetent? Stevie Wonder’s Sidekick? Negligent Nobby? A combination of all three, apparently. Meldrew was so angry with him in the second half that he was just making up words. Pricknob was Father Ted’s favourite. I always feel we have won in spite of him. 

The beginning of the second half ebbed and flowed. First the ball was doggedly held up Alonso, but the cross just found the keeper instead of an incoming Costa. A minute later they shot just wide at the other end and so began a spell of Bournemouth passing the ball around neatly. Then it was our turn. The ball was dug out in the corner by Pesto and deftly crossed in by Hazard, but Diego’s head was inches away from making contact. His luck was not in. On 55 minutes another cross flew at him, but was at a slightly awkward height and his instinct was a sort of jump, back heel that didn’t come off. The Press Plebs want a contest, I understand. They want the league to be as entertaining as possible, I get it, but I don't give a rats arse how pretty the sp*ds' goals were today. Frankly, I’d be jumping up and down just the same if Costa pulled his pants down and tea-bagged it over the line, but as it turned out, anything that bolshy little diving sh*tbag Dele Alli can do, Marcus Alonso (Rocket Man, if he was on four legs today) can sh*t all over. I think I remember him taking four free kicks like that now. One was saved, one hit the bar and two have been goals. Not bad for someone that we all doubted was of the calibre we were looking for when we signed him.  

“Don’t forget they were 1-3 down against the Scouse,” said Meldrew. 
“Yes,” says I, “but they had Ake. And we took him back.”

In fact Moses almost made it four but for a fantastic dave by the goalkeeper. Diego hit one straight at the keeper on 84 minutes, as Conte took the time to freshen up the personnel and run the clock down with his substitutions. It seemed like, valiant as they were today, Bournemouth had run out of ideas. Though it almost dropped for them in the box on 90 minutes, the ball was booted clear by Cahill and the result was done and dusted.

So: The stats about Victor Moses - how our win ratio plummets when he is not in the side, continue. He's been sensational this season, a better player than we ever thought possible. But it's not that he is the most incredible player on the pitch - it's that we have nobody else who can play that position right now. If he isn’t there, there is no right wingback. And then there is the Costa Conundrum. Don’t get me wrong, there were times today when he infuriated me. There seemed to be a lack of intent on running down the ball, and no, he is not on the scoresheet and some people view his role as a striker in black and white. He’s not scoring. But you cannot dispute but that he was inches away on two attempts today, or that he won the free kick that Alonso smashed home. Also, but for an awkward ball that didn’t quite fall to him, he could have had another. The fact remains though that it doesn’t look like he puts in 50% of the effort that we see from the tireless likes of Pesto, Dave, Alonso or the Kante twins. 

Five fences left to jump, I’m reliably informed. (For reasons why I can’t be trusted with anything numerical please see above) We go again at Old Trafford next week, where of course the most likely result is a draw. It's what they do best. Adequate, but terrifying all the same if Sp*rs gain on us. Shout out to Sybil (Fawlty) for saving the day with her multitude of phone chargers. You rock. And lastly, I feel the need to clarify something. It may have been the beer, the sun, or the sheer excitement of being at the seaside. But we are waiting for R*ottenham. We’re not coming for them, because we don’t need to move. We’re top of the league.

Don't forget you can preorder the e-version of the blog book for £1.99 via the link below (a paperback will be available too)

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girl-Who-Likes-Balls-Following-ebook/dp/B06XH3Y8XZ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1491697288&sr=8-1&keywords=girl+who+likes+balls


​
AC 

 

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I'm In A Glass Case of Emotion

4/5/2017

2 Comments

 
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Chelsea 2 Manchester City 1
Wednesday 5th April 2017 20:00

In the News: Apart from the bit in Anchorman where Jack Black kicks Will Ferrell's dog off the bridge, I can't think of anything funnier in the world than Arsenal fans punching each other in the face. Well, not so much punching as girly slapping each other. It was a close run thing between them and David Moyes though, who was surprised to find a woman had escaped her kitchen and was brandishing a microphone in his face. In his defence, his accent makes everything sound like a threat. Even if he had said "Come 'ere wee lassie and give us a cuddle" he might as well have been waving a meat cleaver in her face. 

The Others: HWWNBN is running out of players to blame for United's endless draws. I'd hate to be the player in charge of the collection for his birthday. You'd get a better yield out of investing all of your money in the Greek economy. Has any team looked so dull going twenty games unbeaten in the history of football? I'd rather sit through a three hour lecture by Michael Owen on his cheese label collection than even watch the MOTD's Stasi-like propaganda highlights of one of their games. Half the ground had one eye on Swansea tonight. So near, and yet so far. Talksport are waffling about the Sp*ds like they are about to make a charge for the title like Andy Carroll lolloping towards a nosebag. Because they scraped past Swansea.

Our Game: Providence (I'm not giving Fat Sam any credit) robbed us of three points on Saturday, I maintained that if we created that many chances against a Guardiola defence, we would come good. Also, in their last 19 visits to us, City had won twice. That said, last season they beat us by a long way (along with half the league) Brave selection from Conte. Fabregas over Matic and Zouma got a start so that Dave could push out to fill the void left by Moses, who is still nursing a toe injury. 

In faithful midweek fixture fashion, dinner consisted of three shots of gin and a mango health bar as I rushed to the Bridge. So I may have been slightly hallucinating about how bad it was, but I'd be doing tonight a disservice if I didn't mock that God awful kit. Gonzo (muppet alias) and I decided that it looked like those horrific hyper-colour t-shirts that changed with your body heat that we were all guilty of owning in the nineties. Patsy (sitcom alias) went one better. "Bruised oompah loompahs." Either way, just when you thought it couldn't get any more obscene, Sterling comes on having accessorised it with yellow boots. He looked like a fruit salad chew. 

The blinding kit and the dual glare coming off the luminous scalps of both Pep and Caballero might have been a plausible explanation as to why City were all over the place as soon as we got into their box. Their defending for the opening goal was atrocious. I think I counted seven men in the box, and not one of them marking the best player in the league. I hereby dub this faffing cluelessly in the box as "Pep-ing about." We could have had another shortly afterwards, but it was David Silva (I always forget how much I dislike that little rat until I see him the flesh) of all people who came back to make the tackle. City then came into the game. It wasn't exactly backs to the wall stuff, but frustrating. Not as frustrating and the flight of f*ckwit fancy that overcame our goalkeeper to let them back into the game. I typed that it was a clanger. Autocorrect changed in to flanger. I'm claiming this as a word of my own invention, when a clanger is such that it becomes a "f*cking clanger" but you are too angry to separate out the words. Which brings me to Refwatch: Just like the phrase "oh no, Victor Moses is injured" is something that you never envisaged saying, so too is the sentiment: Thank God it's Mike Dean. I was all ready at half time to be positive about a referee. I thought he was balanced, but in some cases it let players from both sides off the hook. As the game went on though, there were a few frustrating decisions that made me question whether Dean had left his cards at home. Or understood the rules of football. Nonetheless that was probably the least incompetent showing we have seen in a while. Needless to say my impression of him was helped not only by letting Cesc get away with a rotten tackle on Silva (probably because he deserved it) but by the awarding of our penalty just after the half hour. Bruised oompah loompah completely suckered into making the foul. Eden's spot kit was horrific, but happily for us so was Caballero's attempt at saving it, which left the Belgian with a sitter that he duly tucked away.

Zouma didn't return for the second half. We were pretty sure it had to be forced, but if you think about it, Silva was rampant and bossing the midfield. That couldn't go on, but you don't want to lose the creativity of Fabregas or Pesto (blah blah auto-spell, whatever) either, so, as solid as he was on his return, and because likewise you just don't remove Dave unless you a gibbering lunatic, it's not that surprising that Kurt made way. The only down side? Pesto is back out on the right where the positioning just baffled him against Palace. The third quarter of the game was trying. We couldn't get Eden into the game, in retaining the ball we were frequently inept, which meant that we could get no momentum going. We were into the 67th minute before we mustered another shot. An effort agonisingly went over the bar, but although they failed to create any stunning chances, City were in control of the game. Boycie Jr. was already in full meltdown mode long before the news came in via Bet365 that Sp*rs had started scoring. Remember everything I said about Palace wasting time on Saturday? F*ck it. Get in on that action. People were pouring out of the ground as we reached three minutes of injury time with our lead intact. When your time comes may you suffer death at the hands of a thousand paper cuts. 

Man of the Match? Gonzo. His berating of Pep was worth three points alone, though let it be noted that he was only that gobby because his mum wasn't there. Luiz needs little motivation to up his game whenever he catches a whiff of Aguero. After a couple of lacklustre performances he looked much more like himself. I thought Cahill was excellent, a few last ditch interventions timed to perfection and at one point he was dribbling upfield like Sheffield's answer to Messi. Diego is clearly not at his best, but I will point out that though his he did not take his chances, he spent most of the game drawing off the two, even three men on him and making space for his teammates. And another selfless outing for Pesto. The effort is there, so is the creativity, but he's not a happy, basil-scented little bunny in the right wingback role. 

Listening to a City fan complaining about not buying enough players on the radio. And moaning about Pep's coaching pedigree. Glorious. El Sobrevalorado has now lost more games in a season than in any other in his career. Only one team has ever done the double over him in a season. Chelsea. And we're not done yet. My blood pressure resembles a thirty stone man trying to chase down Hazard after tonight, but we remain seven points clear and in the words of a very wise chap on Monday's Fancast, I refuse to be afraid of a Sp*rs side half made up of mediocre England players. That said, there are an increasing number of Blues planning a swan dive at Beachy Head if the unthinkable happens. ABS. 

Don’t forget you can follow this blog at @CFCgwlb

and the end of season review (expanded version of all that’s been online) is available for pre-order. As discussed on the Fancast - get on there and order it because by some massive cockup, Bog-Eyes Ozil currently tops the Chelsea chart! Follow the link below: (There will be a paperback version available too)

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girl-Who-Likes-Balls-Following-ebook/dp/B06XH3Y8XZ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1491496335&sr=8-1&keywords=girl+who+likes+balls

AC

Picture of our players rubbing City’s faces in it comes from the official Chelsea website
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April Fool

4/2/2017

1 Comment

 
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Chelsea 1 Crystal Palace 2
Saturday 1st April 2017 15:00
(I know, don't faint - it ain't happening again)


That much gin has been consumed that I will be amazed if this makes sense. This is going be a post-modernist blog where I throw a lot of random ranty sh*t at a canvas that makes almost no sense to anyone but me or Pork Pie, who is just as w*nkered as I am, but that hopefully everyone will claim they understand and agree with completely. Kind of like when the Tate Modern spend eighty grand on a plastic bag on a stick and then then urge you to look at it and feel fulfilled. 

In the News: The Times came up with a funny, funny 1st April story - the Chelsea/West Ham London Stadium Ground Share. I'd rather eat my own faeces. Followed by Pork Pie's (sitcom alias) faeces. Followed by self and Pork Pie making smoothies out of my kitten's faeces. I know it was 1st April, but honestly, Wenger claiming that his side were the best in London was almost as hilarious as Jumbo claiming that he was going to stay alcohol free on match day. Arsenal fans will hope that he was also stinging them with a funny. He aims to sign for another two years. Honestly Arsene, it's not my birthday until September - you shouldn't have. A little bit of football will die when Jeff Stelling retires. No doubt Scouse Sports News will find some tedious, biased, semi-literate ex-red whose had an enema to void him of all insightful opinion to replace him. (On this list Slippy G would appear to be an ideal candidate - apparently his restaurant got a zero rating by the food standards place this week. Even our local kebab shop has got a three. So I dread to think what the place looked like) I vote for sticking Kammy in the chair, giving him unlimited power and an electric cattle prod and watching anarchy reign. Have that BT. 

The Others: Ain’t nothing to cheer you up after a loss like a senseless, existential rant by HWWNBN that tries to put the blame on anything but his own failings after his side’s 0-0 draw with Pulis’s boremongers. He needs to take a leaf out of the Cantona Impressionist Nonsensical Wit Anthology. He said this week that John Stones was that expensive because you have to pay for the big-arse trailer he drags behind him. 

Our Game: Boycie was most disturbed to see three Palace fans whip it out and p*ss on the Fulham Road before kick off. I was not convinced that this would be any more distasteful than watching a side brought to us by England's five minute manager. I don't think there is any new way for me to articulate my dislike for this man. But I will give it a go. Capability plus integrity, times talent does not equal where Allardyce is in life. By everything that is holy he should be hogging a table at his local Wetherspoon's, drinking White Lightning and chewing on other people's used gum and picking their fag ends off the floor in the beer garden. Not earning x millions a year for ripping the soul out of football. And so I for one was not only mortified to know that that corrupt beached whale was scoffing gum in the Palace dugout (I couldn't see him but it is a pretty safe assumption) I was devastated that Pardew had not survived long enough to come and see us; as I consider him to be potential DILF. Not on an Antonio Conte level, but still. I'm not convinced that if he walked into the Cock right now I would have the willpower to say no. They have Sipsmith and elderflower tonic. It is quite possible that I may never leave this place.  

Just one enforced change, with Moses coming back from international duty crocked. Pesto (fuck off autospell) came in, seemingly to cover the right wingback role. At least when we kicked off, he and Alonso were diligently hugging the touch lines like Charlie Adam embracing a doner kebab after skipping breakfast. That was as much as I understood. By the end of the game I don't think any of us had a f*cking clue what formation we were playing.  I know poor Pesto ​didn't.

We scored. (Cesc) Hurrah - an early goal, maybe this won't be as dire as I had feared with Fat Sam in town. It was a sharp start. That is until it all fell apart. In something like two minutes we conceded two careless scrappy goals. Have Conte and Klopp done a job swap? Because we appear to have turned into the Scouse in the last 90 seconds.

The rest of the first half was a catalogue of squandered chances and complete domination. 
Here are some of the random outpourings that I have found on my phone:

Just f*cking hit it. 
Auto-spell just changed “Diego” to “Frigid.” How presumptuous.
How many one-handed saves can a bloke who looks like a giant bogie make? 
Why is Dave suddenly wearing a Michael Jackson tribute glove?

Pawson is another tw*t who appears to have been educated at the f*cking Wenger School of Observation. Jason Puncheon is a fat useless c**t 

And then the strangely lucid: 

We need to make this dominance pay by the break. Though there isn't much chance of that when it takes over a minute for their goalkeeper to put the ball back into play.

And:

I'm starting my own charity. The RSPCH. The (not so) Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Hazard. Perhaps with all the money we collect we can purchase a bung for a referee and buy Eden a f*cking free kick every once in a while. 

The Bitch Baby Brigade was downstairs before the half was out and there were mingled shrieks of “IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!” Along with mutters of “Costa doesn’t give a sh*t,” “Hazard isn’t the player he was” and “What has Pesto ever done for us?” As they cried over their overpriced watery Chinese beer. Do us all a favour. Apart from the two counter attacks where they had undone us, they had been nowhere near us. Nearly 70% possession and the only two shots they have had have gone in. The least that we deserved at half time was a bit of Babarayo somersaulting. In spite of the urging of our section of the Shed, we didn’t get one. So he’s now dead to us. 

Palace seized the momentum for the first minute or so after the break, then it was as you were. Which brings me to Refwatch. Craig Pawson today. He was, in the words of my dear departed old nan, a drip. All mouth and no trousers. I spent much of the second half ranting about the time-wasting. I made it my (sad) mission to count how many warnings he gave Hennessy for it without taking any action. Five. With three warnings to other players. Not one card. Book their keeper in the 47th minute (because he started before half time), when you gave the first one and you’d have put a stop to it. By the 55th minute we’d fluffed at least five chances to score. Palace had genuinely defended really well until that point, but shortly after that, the predictable barrage of Allardyce defensive substitutions started as he shut up shop and reverted to his general brand of sh*t-on-a-stick-football with ten men in the box. Commence now one long-ar*e period of head-butting a brick wall. Trying to find one pass to get through all the yellow legs in the box (God that away kit is horrible) or thumping it into the six yard box and hoping for a deflection off someone’s nutsack. As the minutes ticked down so did our will to live. Batshuayi came on, and didn’t really change anything. But what else can you do except throw the kitchen sink against ten men camped in your box? I personally think I would have made it Loftus-Cheek at that stage after his positive impact on the game at whatever recent match it was that my currently gin-fuddled brain can’t recall. When Andre Marriner makes you look amateur. It's time to contemplate life on the dole. Thank. God. For the fourth official. Said I. Because for the first time since, well, for the first time in the HISTORY of football we got back most of the time squandered by the away side, which further encouraged Poorson (See what I did there?) to add on everything that they tried to eke out in those seven minutes. Then, I looked at Alf Garnett’s programme and saw that the fourth official was Martinet (My autospell does that to Marriner, and for once it’s right) and quickly changed by stance to: “Well, it’s about time the git got SOMETHING right in life.”

Yes, the referee was a cock, but we could still be playing now and I am not convinced we would have found a way through the ten dogged and/or lump-like bananas that Allardyce the Crooked (who would be working in Lidl if there was any justice in the world) had stuffed in the box in front of their time-wasting goalkeeper by the end of it. In the words of Pork Pie (Desmond's was awesome) all those people that thought we were going to win everything and not drop points. Are you mad? This is Chelsea, that is not what we signed up for. Between us we drunkenly decided that anyone who wanted a life of mediocrity and no drama should have f*cked off to Arsenal long ago. Spaguin (Special Alias) blames all of you who sang "We're Gonna Win the League" at Stoke for our misfortune. "We Shall Not Be Moved" is apparently acceptable. I'm not sure her opinion matters - because she sat there giving herself heatstroke wearing her lucky bobble hat in the second half. And it didn't f*cking work. 

Those of us that get to go to the Bridge week in, week out, can get quite whingy and ungrateful about the odd football fart like this. We were due at least one before the end of the season and although we lost, we were by no means sh*t, we merely failed (for once) to meet the impeccable (and let’s face it, the wholly surprising) standards we have set for ourselves this season. I was introduced to a stack of fans that had come from all over the USA just for the privilege of seeing us play Palace today and for whom the result hardly mattered up against the camaraderie and the joy of catching up with their fellow Blues and being in the middle of it all for once. It helped to put this result into perspective. As did the gin. With luck it will spur us on in the City game. Create 20+ chances against a Guardiola defence and surely you can't help but score. We'll be fine (she says) Keep calm and drink some gin. Enough of that and even Harry F*cking Kane starts to look... OK no. There isn't that much gin in the world. But with luck this was just a bump in the road and we'll be back on track on Wednesday 

​Don't forget you can follow the blog on Twitter: @CFCgwlb

And you can pre-order the ebook of the blog (a season review) at: 
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girl-Who-Likes-Balls-Following-ebook/dp/B06XH3Y8XZ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1491136057&sr=8-1&keywords=girl+who+likes+balls

There will be a paperback version too :)

Lastly - I have a feeling I am waffling on the Fancast tomorrow night. Catch up with it live on mixlr.com

AC 

Picture of Antonio doing Saturday Night Fever comes from the official Chelsea website.

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