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)
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:
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
Photo of happy Cahill comes from the shininess of Chelsea's official Instagram page. The other photo of my hideous seat today is mine.
We Won, AND Chelsea Gave Me Cake
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:
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.
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There will be a paperback too!
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Where’s Your Ginger Gone?
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.
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All hail the Chelsea Gingers
At Least We Arnott Arsenal
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:
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:
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Five Fences to Go
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