Crystal Palace 0 Chelsea 1
Sunday 30th December 2018 12:00 (F*ckers)
In the News: Someone called Eddie has apparently announced to the whole world that Pusilic is on his way to us, in the meantime people in Germany are trying to buy Hudson-Odoi. Hummels to us is doing the rounds, as are tales of departures for Cesc and Morata. And Luiz locked himself out of his hotel room. That’s the best I can do given I’ve been in a chocolate/gin coma and we only played five minutes ago.
The Others: Aboubakar Kamara caused a big stink against Ranieri’s wishes to take a penalty himself then missed. If they hadn’t won by other means he’d be getting kicked up and down the training ground tomorrow morning. As per usual the second anyone credits Sp*rs with the possibility of doing anything exciting, they roll over and stick their legs in the air. Except for Alli. He dives, then he rolls over and sticks his legs in the air. And United shamelessly continue to look like actual footballers after having sat around eating kebabs and slagging off their manager for the last year.
Fuck sake Arsenal. Thanks for nothing.
I think I’ve got a way to stop the unthinkable happening at the end of the season - I’ll put it up on Twitter in the week, but in the meantime it’s up to each and every one of us to do whatever is necessary to stop the Red Scouse winning the league. Take Dennis (Sitcom alias) for example. He submitted a request for them to fail to the Wishing Tree at Kew Gardens yesterday. You can let me know how you intend to do your bit on Twitter. For now they are six points clear, and no, even then Klippity Klopp has not taken five minutes to go and have a shower.
Them: Too bleary eyed and half asleep to care at this time of the morning.
Us: No false nine, yay. But the biggest talking point amongst us was that there was someone who looked suspiciously like Victor Moses was warming up. (I just presumed that he and Drinkwater had eloped to Costa Rica and opened a surf shack) Just for fun, at his old stomping ground, it appears, because he wasn’t even on the bench. Loftus-Cheek wasn’t dropped, he wasn’t fit, and neither was CHO after limping off on Boxing Day.
Palace deserve credit for the effort they put in for the away fans. They put on your favourite tunes, the staff all wear your colours and they serve you burgers that are made of real meat, with actual lettuce leaves and tomato in. But still, you can’t forget you are in the grimmest place in the south: Croydon, where floodlights are needed for a lunchtime kick off to penetrate the all pervading gloom that hangs over the entire borough unless there happens to be a riot going on, with fires.
It was a brighter start on the pitch. Its amazing how it looks like there is actual intent when you play with a striker. Palace were time-wasting already; and it took them six minutes to even venture across the halfway line properly. When they did, Zaha began a home trend of making ludicrous penalty claims. For once, I didn’t have a f*cking post in my face in what rivals Goodison Park as the most tragic old dump of a ground in the league. Still though, you cant see a thing that is going on at the other end.
First thing we could make out was a headed flick on by Rudi on 13 minutes as he met a free kick, but there wasn’t enough on it to beat the keeper. Another loud and whiny penalty claim at the other end, but not even Craig Pawson is that thick. Actually, scratch that, because moments later he stood there and did nothing while they kicked lumps out of Eden Hazard.
Jorginho walked a fine line between f*ckmuppetry and finesse at times today. He gave the ball away on 16 and Palace were off, but he made up for it by tearing the other way and winning it back. Moments later Kante hit one across the face of goal, but there had been no meaningful attempts at either end. The sheer amount of passes we were putting together was making my head hurt. 100% accuracy for Jorginho - I’m not effin’ surprised - they are all about two feet away! Sarri has given them a mandate to pass the ball quickly, one touch and then move it on, but a lot of the time if just seems that we are passing for the sake of it, to hit this target, and not because its actually the best way forward. Because there is no shot at the end of it. For the love of God, if I was a bloke I would have got a boner when Willian dribbled the ball five yards across the middle of the park.
Finally we had a shot on target - right into the net, but The Beard was ruled offside. Was he f*ck. Another 6200 passes - and another shot, but Jorginho was way off the mark. A free kick right in front of goal, surely this has got to go in the right direction? Nope. But close from Willian.
He nearly scored a moment later, his long range effort coming off the post, then Barkley hit the upright. Getting closer. Slowly. Then they were moaning for a penalty again. We were so bored we’d all begun discussing Sooty and Sweep at length, and whether either of the names could be construed as racist. This we couldn’t fathom, but we did have a chuckle at the realisation that Sue liked a fist shoved up her at every opportunity. Net result of the first half? A depressing amount of half-a*sed foreplay with only the faintest promise of actual penetration.
With his one penalty, the hugely entertaining, chubby little blue who scored in the kids challenge at half time established as many shots on target as the team. So did his counterparts, leading to the Chelsea fans singing “Are you Thibaut in disguise?” At a man in a stuffed eagle suit after he let in four in less than five minutes.
The second half was threatening to become as torrid as the first, when suddenly Luiz pinged the ball forward with sublime accuracy and of all people, Kante, surging into the box, bringing it down on his chest, thumped the ball into the net. Came out of nowhere. If anyone moans again about where he should be playing, there is your answer. Up front.
By 66 minutes Palace were on their fifth handball penalty shout. Kepa was called into action, and then a half chance from us took a deflection. It could have gone anywhere, but it went just wide. Typical. If that was the Red Scouse they would have been given a penalty. Two penalties.
Another goal from The Beard and another flag. Didn’t look offside to me, and he took a heavy knock to the foot which forced him off. About twenty minutes to go and on comes Morata. Entertaining this was not. “I’ve realised how we win,” said one wit behind us. “We make the opposition want to die.” One betting app claimed that the home side had had 37% possession. B*llocks. The guy monitoring it had blatantly fallen asleep.
Off Willian came for Emerson and Ross off for Kovacic. All shoring us up to withstand the last ten minutes. That’s right, heart-attack territory. Deeper and deeper we got. Handbags on 88 minutes and Wickham put it way over the bar. Let’s not kid on that it was close like Scouse Sports News, it made poor Kovacic look accurate. Kepa was time-wasting now, and they weren’t happy. Oh well, reap what you sow. The last proper attempt they might have have had was squandered by Zaha in injury time when he gave away a cynical free kick. Didn’t get booked though. I’d have given him a yellow just for the stupid ponytail.
Refwatch: Craig Pawson. In fact the only card he showed today was after less than ten minutes and aimed at Alonso. For punching the ball. If he thinks that is the word transgression he saw then he really is a bellend. And why does Alonso look like he’s been sleeping in a box? Two goals chalked off by the officials. Last week I actually thought: “Oh good, Atkinson. One of the better ones.” That is how bad it has got.
So: Four clear of Arsenal now, two off Sp*rs, four off City. Not bad at the turn of the year. What is bad is who is sitting on top. It’s lucky I got a multitude of gin for Xmas, because I’m going to need it to survive their spell at the top and the transfer window, which is bound to be the usual clusterf*ck of made up bullsh*t and unsubstantiated press nonsense. Cheers.
And thank you, to all those who donated to the fund for the domestic violence shelter. Not only did we shower the kids there with presents this year, but we supplied them all with winter coats, gloves, hats and scarves. We also provided a pile of clothes for a baby in particular need, and have donated enough to the shelter to ensure that all residents will be supplied with fresh meat, fish, fruit and vegetables throughout 2019 to supplement what they receive from the food banks. And Eden Hazard has stepped in with the club to treat one little boy who is a huge fan of him and Chelsea. You’re all stars.
Chelsea 0 Leicester City 1
Saturday 22nd December 2018 15:00
In the News: Just the half a dozen articles crowning the filthy Scouse champions at Xmas. United flew to Cardiff - are you serious? Not as serious as Sanchez - who reckons he won a £20k bet when Chequebook Pulis was given his marching orders. Equally as determined as they are to give the title to Klippity Klopp, the Press Plebs have labelled the Mancs world beaters now they are under the wily gaze of… Solskjaer. I appear to have missed the part where he became part of the elite. Sp*rs buried a time capsule under Wait Hart Lane to be opened in 2068. By which time they hope to have moved in. Badoom-tish. And headline of the week? “Married former Arsenal star Arshavin at centre of storm after leaving striptease club on a HORSE and “hugging two women.” Verily, a slow news day it must have been.
The Others: F*cking hell City. You have ONE JOB. And you lose to PALACE. Wait. Haven’t we got them next week?
Us: Should absolutely have been capable of winning this.
Them: Hang on. Where is Danny Drinkwater? Didn’t he play for them? I’d forgotten he existed. Does he still play for us?
Only took a minute for the systematic fouling on Hazard to begin, but joyfully they were very ropey at the back. Kasper needs to lay off the mince pies. He’s twice the size he was. In bright orange. Either that or Easyjet had made an emergency landing in the goal mouth. Anyway, they were defending very deep and all the possession was with us, but this did not make the game exciting. This was like dozing in front of A Wonderful Life after a full Xmas dinner rather than the latter stages of Die Hard. Which absolutely is a Xmas film.
We just couldn’t quite get our sh*t together at the last. First proper shot fell to Kovacic. Inevitable happened. He hit it like Mikel. Outstanding, sneaky little run from Kante, Luiz came agonisingly close from a corner to heading it in, a shot fell to Dave on 26 but it was well over. The ball dropped to Eden on the edge of the box, but he got a bit over excited and cracked the bar. They had the odd chance, forcing Kepa into a save on 41, but there were blocks going in all over the place as we tried to break the deadlock. Jorginho in particular kept a powerful effort driving low and goalward but it was parried by the Boeing 737 sitting in Leicester’s Goal. 76% possession. 10 shots, only two on target. - Must be more productive in the final third, she said in true pundit style, stating the f*cking obvious.
And then proceeded 45 of the most depressing minutes of football I have witnessed this season. Jorginho, Dave and Rudi all undone on their way to a goal for the away side. Utter smash and grab. Would be that horrible little sh*t Vardy as well. Neat, tidy, precise and clinical, none of which we were in front of goal. They cut through us like Sam Allardyce attacking a turkey dinner. With his hands.
At least this might serve as a kick up the a*se, I said.
The Beard. Now.
Loftus Cheek. Now.
To be fair we had flooded forward, and they had everyone except the cheating little rat in their own box, but it doesn't make the slightest bit of difference if you can’t score a goal. The Beard and Loftus Cheek came on for Kovacic and Willian. Now all I need was the gin, and a lot of it.
Half an hour to go. Refwatch: Lee Probert. Winning no friends among the home support on account of not knowing what a foul was. Leicester slowed to a crawl, and yet Jorginho almost gave them a second. They were screaming for a handball from Dave as he slid in at the last to deny Vardy, who screamed the loudest about apparent cheating. That there was irony. It was turning out to be a dire day not only for football but for mankind with Palace three one up in Manchester.
Not a happy home crowd. Some desperate stuff going in at the Shed End to even stay in it.
Finally a corner for us with 20 mins to go. Dizzy heights indeed. Pleading with them to get forward now, but every endeavour seemed to break down with a shoddy, misplaced pass. It’s never a good sign when David Luiz is running about like a headless chicken in midfield. We wanted that one, killer ball forward, and so off jogged Jorginho for Cesc with 15 minutes to go.
Handbags in the box with Eden desperately trying to get it over the line, jubilation from Probert every time he blew the whistle in Leicester’s favour. This was nowhere near Die Hard. This had turned into sitting through Home Alone for the 300th time. What exactly did the dad do that he could afford to take an entire family of nine to Paris for Xmas? I reckon he was using them all as drug mules. There was a pound of crack waiting to be ingested by little Kevin in condoms somewhere in France.
Any collective support had descended into random obscenities being shouted out by frustrated fans who’d lost patience with our ineptitude. Ruben trying to back-heel the ball twenty yards when a Leicester player was in his way was not his finest hour and completely illustrative of how there was less plot on display than in any of the nine sequels to Home Alone that I was forced to sit through as a kid.
Ten minutes to go and we still looked like doing precisely nothing. Then suddenly we were in, it was there, and it hit the f*cking post. This was not our day. We were plunging into obscurity like Hans Gruber taking a swan dive off of Nakatomi Plaza.
So: I couldn’t blog the closing minutes. I was too busy trying to stem the flow of blood pouring from my eyeballs. Then I went and got drunk.
Watford 1 Chelsea 2
Wednesday 26th December 2018 19:30
And now it’s Boxing Day. Hurrah. You go from incessant running about like a c*nt and being exhausted to instant saturation from the world about three things.
1 The need for you to buy more stuff in the sales after you’ve bankrupted yourself buying sh*t for people you mostly don’t like.
2 The reminder that you’re fat and need a diet with all the slimming ads. I can see that looking in the mirror. F*ck off.
3 The reminder that the only thing society considers sadder than a fat person is a fat person with nobody to love them. Cue television suggesting I may need to pay to find men who find me attractive. So begineths the eHarmony free trial inundation, in which they try to convince you that a Chris Hemsworth lookalike is just a few cheaply constructed psychometric questions away from your grasp. As if you could ever have Chris Hemsworth for £19.99 a month. Unless it was the scraped together remains of him that were blown up in the Star Trek remake. Again, f*ck off. C*nts.
In the News: Don’t panic! Batshuayi is coming back to London! But only so we can loan him to Palace apparently. Rooney bitching that even the dinner ladies didn’t like CP. Even the warm ups are fun now, they reckon. He may be a loon, but the pantomime villain proportions now being dealt out to CP in retrospect are a bit f*cking cheeky. He’s not a nasty bloke. And at his worst the dinner ladies at Cobham still loved him. The idea that Fergie has swept in and delivered Solskjaer to them wrapped in tacky festive paper and tied up with a Xmas bow is a ridiculous narrative.
The Others: What a miserable f*cking day for football, nay humanity. The Red Scouse spurred into a romp by diving for a penalty; the atrocious line up on BT Score literally painting the walls with spunk every time they scored. Not to mention the runaway victory for Sp*rs, the only team with any momentum right now to save the planet from the interminable gloating, the sanctimonious f*cking lauding by not only themselves but the entire congregation of Press Plebs, and at least a years worth of having to listen to everyone tell us that it has been a victory for football if those horrible Scouse gits win the league. I would rather undergo having a f*cking colostomy bag fitted whilst fully conscious while the surgeon listens to an ABBA back catalogue than experience this. Because, City have deserted the good fight, it seems. They’ve basically gone awol at present and signed a little pussy peace treaty that has left the rest of civilisation clambering to ensure the future exclusion of smug Red Scouse c*ntery from the world of football. Thanks for nothing. You b*stards. Don’t make me come down there and revamp Bill Pullman”s speech from the original Independence Day.
But in the meantime our only salvation looks like coming from a team we want to win the league even less. Mowgli (special alias) just asked me which I would rather see with the trophy. I sh*t you not, at that exact moment I did a little girly half belch with my gob shut and some sick came up into my mouth. There’s your answer.
United coast to a win. You cheeky b*stards. Two goals for Pogba. Shameless. Dinner ladies are supposedly off their tits in the canteen. Thanks to some shambolic defending that looked, well like us at our most inept, at least the Goons dropped points, she wrote before we kicked off, knowing full well that if we didn’t get our sh*t together it didn’t mean a thing.
Our Game: I refused to go to this. On the basis that about now I’d be wandering round south Hertfordshire trying to find my way home with no public transport on a holiday all for the benefit of the Scouse television mafia who wanted to ruin Boxing Day for two teams by showing games all day and night. F*ck and Off.
Them: By no stretch of the imagination should this bunch of jobbers be able to beat us. But that didn’t stop them last season. Deeney appears to have spent the last few months on a desert island because he’s halved in size. Not that I’m at all bitter about his weight loss. He’ll be signing up for eHarmony next.
Us: A false nine. Against Watford. Provoked a distinct lack of f*cking Xmas joy in my world, I can tell you. Cheer me up Chelsea. Or else. If we don’t win this it will be almost as depressing as the counter next to the screen in the pub telling me that it is only 363 days, four and a half hours till Christmas.
Ben Foster - the worst time waster in the English game was at it after two minutes, but our first attempt came straight away with Pedro Pony (he’s been demoted again for now) launching a curling long range effort towards the cheating scumbag’s goal. 70% possession for us in the opening five, not that that has done us many favours of late. F*cking Carragher coating the commentary box with phlegm. More joy.
Nearly shot ourselves in the foot, but got away with it. Kovacic, who has been growing a beard, presumably so he can be distinguished from Hazard and actually get credit for some of his play, combined with Willian and they could have put us ahead straight after but the latter scuffed at it and it only made it as far as the post. Less fortunate was Kabasele, who ended up in considerable pain after a fight with the post. He tried to carry on, but nothing doing. Mariappa came on. He’s got more beard than head.
That knocked all momentum on its a*se, not that there was much anyway. So it was back to square one. No shots on target, not even a corner, and feeling quite smug about me and my throat infection bunking this one. Deeney’s weight loss doesn’t stop him from hitting the deck like a sack of f*cking bricks and pretending to have been hit in his still fat head. Kante was giving it some Xmas welly in the middle of the field, even dropping the odd back heel in, but nothing had actually ignited yet. It was like staring at one of the endless f*cking Xmas repeats of that northern Royle Family muck, while they fart and smoke, and waiting for someone to ay something funny.
The world is still waiting.
Timely block from Jorginho on 26 minutes. Is that all we’ve had? Turgid would be overly polite at this stage. Pedro Pony put it across the face of goal straight after, but there was nobody there to meet it. As in a striker. I was more entertained by the Gooner who had just walked in the Old Bank dressed like an homage to Dick Van Dyke. Complete with mockney accent
Watford had the best opportunity yet to take the lead on 31, but the final shot was pretty diabolical. Think Jonny Wilkinson after a dozen jäger bombs. Hazard was in on goal thirty seconds later, but it got away from him, and then commenced a lot of L’Arse like faffing on the edge of the box which resulted in nothing. By 36 we’d fully broken out into a light jog, punctured by occasional bursts of more exhilarating activity . Sadly we still almost conceded. We’ve got T-1000 Luiz today as opposed to the T-100 version.
Nearly a minute for a throw in from one yellow person on 40. Yawn. Pedro Pony was almost in straight away but the defender put in a crucial tackle after Eden had wound his way up the pitch. The subsequent almost display of arse cheek from the Spaniard was the highlight of the game so far. Then he went off, forcing Sarri to bring on Hudson-Odoi.
Eden you beautiful, sexual little beast. Capoue f*cked up, Kovacic leapt in. Eden only had the keeper and three defenders to deal with. Easy. Peasants. 0-1. Not that that means anything for us. If we survive five minutes I’ll be amazed, said I. Kepa diced with death by throwing himself in front of the lumbering oaf that is Deeney to block one equaliser, but he couldn’t stop some little wanker with short sleeves and gloves seconds later. Back to square one. For the third time. We lasted about two minutes.
Wasn’t sure I’d be able to get to the end of halftime without declaring a war of mockery on Dick Van Dyke and his oversized flat cap, hipster knotted tie, albino attempt at stubble, his size 13-14 boys shirt over his jumper and his newfound habit of cheering for Watford. F*ck off. You just drew with Brighton. Even we beat Brighton. C*nt. It’s either him or the sad f*cker who sat himself uninvited at our table and managed to make two mouthfuls of Stella last 45 minutes. But to be fair he only bought it on the half hour mark after we took the piss out of him for lurking in the doorway like an unwanted ginger stepchild.
One mouthful he managed during the break. Less impetus than us immediately after the restart. This was a blessed brief spell, almost as brief as the respite from the loud pontifications of DVD who was telling the whole pub what is wrong with Chelsea. It was like Trump lecturing Weinstein on gender equality.
Still dominating possession, still not scoring goals. Looking more likely to concede than go ahead again. Delofeu tried to get a penalty. He was raised at Farca, but that’s still no excuse for being a cheating c*nt. Didn’t stop Salah earlier on tho. Home fans relentlessly booing Luiz now. Yawn. Alonso was robbed on the left on 55, but Watford couldn’t make anything of it. Hazard punched in the chest by Foster in the box. So he can shift when he wants to. Penalty. Eden sent Foster the wrong way. Karma. 1-2. Have that you whining yellow gits.
I feel slightly less angry now.
In fact if there are seven more corners and my bet comes in I may consider putting a £19.99 deposit down on Chris Hemsworth. There was still more than half a pint of Stella left by the way. I was half dead and I’d drunk more than him.
Now it was our turn to take our time. Do I feel any guilt? Not even a flicker on my Giveaf*ckometer. CHO was still having a go down the right hand side, Willian was a flea’s cock away from making us comfortable on 72, but Watford hadn’t given up. Luiz baffles me at the moment. Even more so than usual he goes from the sublime to the ridiculous and he just wanders about combing his ever growing bonce behind his ears and looking as exhausted as Sam Allardyce after he’s finished attacking a fridge for Xmas leftovers and collapsed in a heap covered in sausage roll pastry flakes and chunks of turkey. He’s gone from HMS Pinafore Sideshow Bob to depressed convict Sideshow Bob.
Kante went on a rampant expedition up the field to meet a perfectly weighted pass on 78 but his shot was wide, Deeney had a chance to level again less than a minute later but thankfully his impression of Eden Hazard side-footing the ball into the net looked more like Jonny Wilkinson after a dozen jäger bombs and a blow to the head.
Barkley on for Kovacic. I’d bring on Giroud to kill it, says Mowgli. Idiot, says I, Barkley’s supposed to shore up the midfield. He’s a bank manager, what does he know, says Mowgli, I’ve been going Chelsea for years. Yes. Says I, and never once have you been sober.
There wasn’t even a false nine about it now, literally nobody staying up, because Watford have seen how well we capitulate and were still searching for a share of the points. Fans not impressed by CHO being replaced with Emerson, but he wasn’t looking particularly comfortable as he jogged off.
Hazard still taking the piss on 85, manipulating a corner. Jorginho of all people was hitting them from range. Sarri devastated to see his love child’s effort just skin the bar. Four minutes to survive our own idiocy, but we did a good job of keeping it in their half. Sting seemed to have gone out of the Hornets’ tail now. Mwhahaha. See what I did there.
Refwatch: Atkinson. Gave us a penalty and not them. What a nice bloke. How rare it is that you can’t think of a reason to call the referee a c*nt.
Corner for Watford with a minute to go. Ben Foster actually broke into a jog to go up. When he did it was laughable, and then he was marooned at the wrong end of the pitch. Kante could have had a go at an empty goal from the halfway line but the poor little chap panicked and started running sideways.
So: Eden has now scored more than 100 goals for Chelsea. More importantly than that, if you follow my Twitter you’ll know that he changed a homeless little boy’s life this week. It’s now only 363 days, two hours and 32 minutes until Xmas. I’m going home to take a lot of drugs. Legal ones, for the benefit of the Daily Mail.
Chelsea 1 AFC Bournemouth 0
Carabao Cup Quarter Final Wednesday 19th December 2019 19:45
Too drunk and then too ill to post the Vidi/Brighton write up before we played Bournemouth. Which is a shame because I think I was pretty hilarious. I’ll stick them in the book at the end of the season.
In the News: And on some cold and bleak day in mid-December, behold, how along with anyone who’s witnessed either tenure at Chelsea, or his time at Madrid, or just about anywhere else, I turned out to be right. Chequebook Pulis has succumbed to his usual third season bonkery and taken a swan dive from the top of the managerial tree, face first yet again into a pile of money he didn’t earn. More fool United for not envisaging that when they signed him up. The 65 words they spent axing him is a lot less extravagant than the reported £22.5m payout. Shots of him riding away from the Lowry Hotel, who were relieved to finally get rid of their illustrious squatter, revealed that as with his departure from Madrid and others, he had immediately taken on the guise of a slightly chubby kebab shop owner as he absconded back into obscurity to do battle with his multiple personalities. Again. Down on his luck, but minted, and back at the right end of the country, he was spotted at Harrods amidst rumours that Real want him back. Surely not!?
His replacement? Solskjaer. Who’s allergic to grass. Good luck with that, though he will reportedly be let loose with the United credit card.
Sound piece of writing from Martin Samuel on the Y Word saga. Points out that the word does not belong to Sp*rs fans, therefore they can’t reclaim it. I stand by my permanent stance that you won’t stop some idiots using it, including our idiots, until you clamp down on ALL of the idiots using it, no matter who they support. And that should be the only aim. But is it in any wonder that Kick it Out is failing in its endeavours when everyone who works there walks out reportedly because of bullying? Not a good example.
In Europe’s secondary competition United have got PSG, Klippity Klopp is on his way back to Germany. In terms of the important contest - the Goons are following in our footsteps out into the Belorussian countryside and Celtic got smacked with Valencia. All of the drama, however, will be in Malmo. Not because of the heavyweight contest we will be embroiled in with them come the new year, but when the European away faithful see the price of a pint.
The Others: Piers Morgan. Highlight of the evening. Partly because wearing a Sp*rs shirt somehow immediately made him look like a sad little wino who spends his days picking up fag ends off the floor outside Lidl. Hurrah for Burton Albion, the trip everyone immediately wanted for the semi-final. But we had to beat Bournemouth first…
Us: No false nine tonight, The Beard, Fabregas, Christensen and Emerson got starts, as did RaR. (I’m still not giving up until people do a little Raaaaaar type tiger thing when they see Ruben and Ross on the team sheet together)
Them: We like Bournemouth. But not tonight. A return for Aké, close up of Callum Wilson, who some people bizarrely think is the answer to all of our striker woes. They sit 11th in the league, but their run of form is deceptive as they’ve had to play 3 of the top 5 in the last couple of weeks.
And so it wasn’t surprising when the game started more evenly than you might expect. A curling shot from Dave on 7 minutes was easily claimed, and Ruben put a fantastic ball through to Willian on which the latter just failed to get his foot. Bournemouth were doing most of the defending, but by no means had they come to sit back and make no attempt to get forward. Their first break, after a quarter of an hour was promising, but the shot well wide. The Beard could have put us ahead. “Morata would have scored that,” said Mowgli (Special Alias) He’d only had a small Peroni. This was going to be a long night. Excellent interplay with Willian moments later, but the keeper parried the close range shot with his nuts. “Morata would have scored that,” said Mowgli, making me feel the need to punch him in the nuts. Ruben was having a good game, much of what was good coming from his efforts at driving us forward. Not all out own way though. Dave had to put in a solid block at our end, before RLC sent another ball out to Little Willy.
Another confident save from Boruc, which was remarkable seeing as he looks rather porky for even for a goalkeeper and still we couldn’t break the deadlock. "Morata would have…” That’s as far as Mowgli got before I snapped: “Morata would have been offside you chump.” This reads like we dominated the game, but in actual fact the 75% possession didn’t leave us with any sense of ease about the fact we were still level. It just didn’t seem that one sided. A diving save was required from Kepa on 35, while I ranted about Christensen wearing long sleeves. Did you ever see Terry, Ivanovic, Alex wear pyjama tops? No. And plus, he’s from Denmark. Man up.
We were destined to go into the break without a goal. Barkley put one into row Z on 41 minutes, then on 42 RLC chased down the wing, but when Dave crossed it in he found The Beard’s head, but not strongly enough, for there was nothing for him to derive any power off the flick and put it in the net. In fact a deflection was all that saved us from being behind at half time.
And so it continued. Almost a lucky break on 49 thanks to a run from Ruben but the keeper beat Willian to it. Still we couldn’t get through, and we were going to need to ratchet this up with a couple of subs in the next ten minutes before people started panicking and slagging off the players. Sarri wasn’t going to wait that long. On 54 Little Willy went off for Pedro Unicorn. Moments later Hazard started taking off clothes too, which always makes me happy. “Here comes the heavy artillery” says Mowgli knowingly. I had to bite, just to see if he’s actually ever read one of my books. “Just out of interest, what constitutes heavy artillery? In the First World War for instance.” His answer? “Cannons and guns and sh*t like that. With big explosions.” So the answer is no. He hasn’t. But he might have flicked through and looked at the pictures.
Barkley made way for Eden, and when Bournemouth began to ring the changes, the game opened up. The only reason it was still goalless on 70 minutes was because both teams continued to squander their half chances. Another deft block from Dave on 73 kept the score level, because still the stats didn’t reveal just how competitive this was and again we had to scramble it clear on 74. Christensen didn’t look too spritely when he went off on 80 for David Luiz, and with our subs done this could have been our lineup for the next forty minutes or so if we didn’t score a goal quick. It shows that it’s your first game of the season if you are sitting there slating Kovacic and telling him to f*ck off back to Madrid, “so we can play our own.” Who were on the pitch anyway. Kovacic was great last night. The difference, though, was the substitutions. Pedro Unicorn was charging about like he was high on magic fairy dust, on a one man mission to win it, and with a little over five minutes to go he combined with Eden Hazard to send us in front. Bournemouth thought that they were fouled in the build up on, but it would have been harsh to disallow it. Good call from the ref. Personally I’ve always thought anything Taylor was pretty much unimpeachable. She says, unable to keep a straight face.
A couple of penalty shouts from us in the remaining time, but neither were convincing. Bournemouth still hadn’t given up. We very nearly had a second after a blinding run from Hazard and Kovacic in injury time, they look so alike at speed don’t ask me which was which, but the keeper threw himself in its way. They’d resorted to Defoe by now. Luiz lost the ball, but once in the box their Wilson thankfully back-heeled it straight to Ruben. We hit the post, and Luiz had to employ his most cunning sh*thousery to dump Joshua King face first into the chalk at the last. Still, with almost the last kick we were under threat, but thanks to The Beard putting his rather notable behind in the way of a final attempt on goal from the visitors, we secured the win. Thank f*ck for that.
So: Utterly predictable that City would get a little jaunt to Burton, wherever that is, whilst we got sent back to Wembley. We better put in more effort than last time. In the meantime, on to Leicester on Saturday.
We did the drop for the kids Christmas presents today, and there were not a few tears when we turned up with endless presents, equipment for the house and the possibility of funding deliveries of fresh meat, fish, fruit and vegetables throughout 2019. Without it the residents have to rely on the food bank, which is of course all dry goods and tinned. We’re nearly at the magic £1700 mark, but not quite, so any donations are still massively appreciated. You can join in by using PayPal: firstname.lastname@example.org by cash at the Leicester or Palace games or contact me for transfer details.
Chelsea 2 Manchester City 0
Saturday 8th December 2018 17:30
In the News: Elseid Hysaj’s agent says that talks with Chelsea over the Napoli defender may resume in January. The Albanian is a right back. One defensive position where our coverage hasn’t made me want to scratch at my eyes with steak knives. He’s touted to supersede Zappacosta, so don’t expect this one to solve our problems if there is any factual ground for the speculation at all. Sarri says you need a season to get to grips with Premier League. I don’t disagree with him. Even St.Pep did, but until he demonstrates some flexibility on his approach and that there is actually a learning curve happening Chelsea fans are going to continue to moan. We excel at it. And Morata will never click at Chelsea says Carragher. Do you know what, I don’t wish the guy ill, I don’t want to sit here slagging him off week in week out, but he has given me cause to agree with a scouser, which never happens.
Lukaku is p*ssed off that he’s on the bench. Frustrated with life with Chequebook Pulis. Probably about as frustrated as CP is by life with him considering how sh*t he’s been of late. CP has stated that he has no idea when United may challenge for the title again, whilst City and the Scouse spend money. As if United haven’t spent a billion odd quid on him since he went there. £52m on a bloke called Fred, who CP says he can’t trust to play. On the flip side. Benitez can’t muster any more enthusiasm about his side, claiming they are a top six team. Somebody has started the Christmas alcohol binge early. Swansea, hilariously, have given Flappyhandski an improved contract after his agent emailed them about him pretending to be Bayer Leverkusen’s sporting director. And after that stinking trip to Wolverhampton, as ever we could cling to the fact that we aren’t Arsenal. Amidst their hippy crack storm. Inevitably Ozil will claim it was medicinal for his imaginary back spasms. But tell me that they didn’t look at Guendouzi before they signed him and think: “there’s a bloke that likes a spliff every now and again.”
The Others: The red Scouse started a rout of lovely Bournemouth with an offside goal. There’s a surprise. Never apt to under-dramatise anything, the Press Plebs were convinced that Chequebook Pulis was fighting for his job today. Ignoring that they were at home to Fulham. Obviously they didn’t lose. And Leicester failed to do the world a favour.
Us: It’s going to take more than a buzz cut to make defenders fear Alvaro Morata. Or to impress Sarri, who didn’t even put him on the bench. False nine, goodie. I don’t think Alonso even looks properly fit so that was disappointing too. No surprise Christensen is gone gone after Wolves, or that overall Sarri has resorted pretty much to his preferred eleven.
Them: No Aguero, no De Bruyne. Raheem Sterling runs like a girl.
No pressure for Sarri, who has variously been referred to this week as another Scolari, a Pound Shop Pep and a w*nker. Personally I wanted to go twenty minutes without conceding. If we didn’t start properly it might not even be ten. And then this could have been uglier than waking up next to Wayne Rooney.
93% possession they had in the first four mins - Kepa kicking it once was our 7%. We were up to 21% somehow by the time that Eden won a free kick within range of goal. Shame that up against a line of six city defenders not one Chelsea body attacked it in the box. It wasn’t exactly an onslaught, yet. They were building up momentum, but their first real effort on goal was pounced on by Kepa after 8 minutes, and although we couldn’t get near it, we had not been smashed out of the blocks and we were just about daring to dream that it might not be as bad as we were anticipating. That said, we’d been feeding off scraps. We were going to get precious few chances and were going to have to try and make them count. The experience of the last couple of weeks has taught us that this is not a simple equation in the world of Chelsea.
Happily they were still failing to turn any of their massed possession into meaningful attempts on goal, When City did make inroads too, the spectre of David Luiz appeared like a rhino on ketamine and stopped them in their tracks. Rudiger was like a deranged wildebeest charging them down. But aside from that, and the irrepressible Kante, we looked f*cking terrified. I was endlessly frustrated that nothing we managed to occasionally create going forward got anywhere. If you’re going to play a false nine, you put an absolute pest, in the words of Tyler (sitcom alias) like Pedro Pony in there. You don’t waste your star man. You could have started with The Beard and at the very least because he could bring it down and lay it off to the likes of Hazard.
However, I had what I wanted. We were still level after twenty minutes, we had not been blown away. Let’s go for being in the game at half time now. As we discussed this we realised that this is what it must be like to support someone like Palace week in, week out. To get massively excited when you get a throw in or cross the halfway line. Tyler actually leapt to his feet at one stage, but then just before the half hour we were actually pressing. Sadly, every time we got somewhere the gap where there should have been a centre forward, or even someone over 5’7 to try and accost the City defence, cost us. And then we’re fraying. I was going mental. Forgetting completely that I’d said I’d be happy if we didn’t get slaughtered any more than 0-3 I was ranting about a display of tactical cowardice. We didn’t deserve to be making any more impact than we were. By this time Fernandinho has usually fouled us 45 times already. He’s usually on his last last last warning. He hadn’t even got him booked so far, we were so far away from them he didn’t need to put a nasty foot it. On 31 we survived handbags in the box, frantic and their best chance at scoring so far. Then we broke but gave the ball away yet again. Through Alonso, again. Dave’s turn to block straight afterwards. The home crowd was getting more and more frustrated that nothing at all was coming from any of our meagre possession, which didn’t touch 40% all night. Half the Shed nearly had a heart attack when it looked like we might have a corner. Criticism was growing against Michael Oliver, who not only ludicrously gave them a goal kick instead, but who appeared to be hyperventilating into his whistle every time we had the ball. Luiz being maimed wasn’t even enough to win a free kick, and yet every time one of them fell over, namely Sterling (did I mention he runs like a girl) play was stopped. We weren’t even leaving Hazard back for their corners. Every time it was punted clear it went straight back in again. Rage!
We were still in it, I typed. “But we won’t be come 90 mins unless Sarri actually changes something to try and take a result from this game.” Thus far, as far as I was concerned we were lucky not to be behind, and it had been an appalling, meek, tragic approach to the game. Maintaining a steady 1/4 of possession and doing f*ck all with it. Take the lion off the badge and replace it with a a sad little three-legged puppy.
Then like a true football fan I changed my mind in 0.4 seconds about all of this when Pedro Pony, nay, f*cking Pedro UNICORN today, played a sublime ball across the box to Little Willy, and the net result was Kante steaming in and smashing it into the back of the net. What. The. F*cking. Hell. Just. Happened? Cue hysteria - nobody knows how or why, nobody cares, somehow, we are winning. I’ve just hugged three blokes I don’t know. If anyone mentions Kante not being in the right place on the pitch again this week I will take off my boot and stab them with my heel. Get. In.
So this was wholly unexpected at the break. Are we going to do that annoying sitting back now? Surely we’ll get punished - do we actually think we can win this? My brain was scrambled. All City possession again from the restart. When we did get it back, we employed time-wasting that Ben Foster would be stunned by. As we are the victims of this turgid sh*thousery for 35 games a season, I say, huzzah.
We did break on 47 minutes. Willian made the absolute most of a little foul to win a free kick on the edge of the box. After a serious debate between Alonso, Willy and Luiz, the latter forced a diving save. Dare I say we don’t look quite so humble and contrite as the opening of the first half? The horrid, feeble approach of the first half was but a memory, though we were persisting with the false nine. Another long range effort from Willy on 51 but it was just a bit to tamely hit across the floor. Pepalicious wasn’t having this. He made an early change and hooked Sane for Jesus, going with the revolutionary concept of having a striker on the pitch. You all know I think he’s massively overrated, and that he’d be just run of the mill without infinite funding, but if this was to come down to a tactical play between our manager and theirs, I feared Sarri was getting ground into the floor like one of his own fag butts. Oh me of little faith.
The game had swung back in City’s favour, helped by Michael Oliver having descended into the realm of the cockwomble. He really started to p*ss me off when he began awarding non existent corners. His crowning glory was Walker causing a fight for which we were inevitably punished while the former sp*d got a light talking too. Oliver is like a gremlin - remember they used to batsh*t crazy when they got wet? As soon as it started raining he lost the plot. Also, for a joke with the King of El Salvador Chelsea I put a bet on for 2-0 Chelsea and Fernandinho to be sent off. And he didn’t show him a red. As far as I am concerned the ref owes me £1400.
A brilliant save from Kepa on 58, then yet another meaty clearance from Luiz, before it was dug out by Pedro Unicorn, before the loudest cheer of the match erupted for Oliver actually awarding a free kick our way. Eden Hazard was fully on it now, racing about the pitch as they tired and forcing his way into the game. Our breaks looked far more potent - till the last ball anyway. Gonzo’s birthday this week. You could see by his haggard expression that this uncertainty was taking its toll after four days without sleep. We were approaching that point when despite thinking we might get smashed, we’d been ahead long enough to consider it a failure if we didn’t take three points. One thing you thought we would have done is sit off then and ask for trouble and we absolutely hadn’t. City were starting to get frustrated, especially Mahrez with all his whining. But he was wearing that heinous combination of short sleeves and gloves so nobody took him seriously.
Kovacic collapsed about twenty minutes out - he was a beast today too - I know I have a laugh at the shocking inaccuracy of his shooting, but he is like Mikel in other ways too. In that what he does goes under the radar. Also, because he has Hazard’s old number and runs exactly like him I’m convinced half the time we give Eden the credit when he does something awesome.
Barkley on - and three odd minutes wiped off the clock after this and Walkergate. Excellent.
However we were under a lot of pressure by now. The reason we stood firm? Largely down to Luiz and Rudiger and how sharp they still were nearing the end of the game, but also because unfathomably after that horrific sh*tshow at Wolves, across the pitch our concentration seemed impenetrable. Gundogan on for Silva, still no joy for them. Oliver was having more effect by disregarding the offside rule.
73 minutes and we got Ruben for Willian too. This is what I think ultimately beat Pep today. As Sarri was bringing on Ruben and Ross, and later The Beard too, we had replaced tired bodies with mobile beefcakes full of energy. Pep? Brought on Ben Foden. The substitution of finer creativity for muscle blocked the way for them.
Half a chance from Barkley and we had our first corner of the game, which took Eden longer to take than it took Kovacic to hobble off. Excellent. We only needed the one. David Luiz. He knew as well as we did that he was a pile of dog turd at Wembley but he led by fighty, consummate example tonight. A warrior and he deserved the adulation he got for sending us two clear. Rudiger was nearly as good too. Poor Christensen must have been weeping on the bench because he will have no impact on displacing either of them when they turn performances like that in and he continues to make errors.
Oliver booked Pedro Unicorn for the audacity of being good, not Stones for repeatedly shoving him. The referee was dismal today by his standards. By 80 minutes City had resorted to trying to chip Kepa from out near the halfway line. Foden had no impact. On the other hand I can’t think of a Chelsea player who had a bad game - even Alonso played his way in in the second half after a shaky start. Still not his best but much better. It could have been three after 85 when a flying header went across the face of goal. The changes hadn’t been like for like as such either, for as the end approached Ruben had switched sides with Pedro Unicorn to account for City’s changes, so there was a thinking process on display from Sarri to which I don’t believe was there at Wolves or Wembley.
The clock was now moving at the speed of Phil Jagielka. A smashed shot from Fernandinho went wide after it looked to have got the better of Kepa. A low four minutes added on. It took Kovacic that to leave the pitch. Chorus of “You’ve had your day out now f*ck of home” at the City fans now. I tried to get someone to take up “Sacked in the Morning” at Pep, but had to settle for chuckling at the deeply philosophical “You’re f*cking sh*t.” Most of the remaining minutes we spent in the corner, or passing it through their legs. Ruben and Ross (RAR - I like this, especially if you actually do it in the style of a roar) made a break for it in injury time, and they really should have scored but for a sublime diving save from Kepa, but we were done. Cue a lot of bouncing around to One Step Beyond.
So: Somehow, none of us can fathom exactly, Sarri’s football beat Pep’s. I can kind of see it. The root of it was a disciplined display by the centre backs, which held us steady; but, and I never would have thought it possible, Pep’s changes were second best to our manager’s. We constructed a third less attempts on goal, and yet we had more shots on target. We were more productive, and they were noticeably limp when it came to the final effort on our goal. I could be p*ssed about Sp*rs and Wolves, but this is us isn’t it? Our best eleven on any given day could beat pretty much anyone put in front of them. The issue is how to keep that going with squad rotation and competing on multiple fronts at the moment. But today I got everything I asked or - with the exception of my £1400 winnings thanks to Michael Oliver. There was evidence of a learning curve, adaptation as the game played out from Sarri, commitment and passion from the players and a backbone on display. An outstanding day.
As for the w*nker that appears to have tainted our club, if he’s guilty I hope he never sets foot inside the club again. Yes, Sterling deserves all the mockery in the world for the fact that he’s a diving cheat who runs like a girl (have I mentioned that?) But what nobody deserves when they turn up for work is to be racially abused by Neanderthals. I do, however, chuckle every time Match of the Day or Scouse Sports News leaps on one of these disgraceful displays like they’re telling you something abhorrent that we all believed has been eradicated from the game. I have been racially abused at Old Trafford, Wolves, City and multiple times at Anfield. It hasn’t been eradicated at all, every club still has a contingent of foul individuals comfortable with spouting this sh*t. I experience this on average about three or four times a season. Just because you caught it on camera when it was aimed at a player and pointed it out on TV doesn’t mean you’ve isolated the only offenders and the twice season shock and horror is insulting to anyone who experiences this with regularity. Either fight it, with every bit of power you can muster with your broadcasting capability, or spare us the occasional faux outrage and sad shake of the head from Gary Lineker.
The collection is still ongoing for the children who will spend this Christmas in a domestic violence shelter - you are running out of time now if you want to donate though. You can join more than thirty other epic CFC fans by contributing through PayPal (email@example.com) or you can contact me via Facebook or Twitter (@CFCgwlb) for bank transfer details.
Wolves 2 Chelsea Pathetic
Wednesday 5th December 2018 19:45
In the News: Sarri is apparently making a play for overturning the one year contract rule so far as keeping people who are over thirty, City could be looking at a Champions League ban after claims they have cheated FFP. No sh*t. Chequebook Pulis’s lust for blaming other people for his shortcomings is not longer satiated by moaning about his players. MUTV are his victims this week. Lots of room for wise cracks at the revelation that United have 58 scouts. And still Phil Jones has a job would be my pick. Eleven days after assuring all that there would be no concerns over him taking his side into the top four by the end of the year, CP now says it will be a miracle.
Getting rid of Hughes has cost Southampton six million. It never looks good when you managed a draw with United and they already had your replacement lined up. Worth every penny. Unlike Pellegrini’s valuation of Jack Wilshere. £100m he reckons. VAR to be used in Champions League and Europa League knockout stages this season. Can’t see it will concern us much the way we are playing. And wonder of wonders, Klippity Klopp has been fined for being a dick during the Scouse derby.
The Others: I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than relive any of this. Apart from the hilarious revelation that Faillaini is a hair-puller.
Them: I defy any of you to name even half of them. I couldn’t even after they wiped the floor with us.
Us: Five changes. Sarri says he only made these because we have 11 matches in 35 days, so some have to rest, and that it’s not just with City in mind. Even though they are essentially the same thing, if he has got half a brain. Fabregas for Jorginho, Loftus Cheek in, Morata over The Beard, Christensen for Luiz. Not all of which I agreed with.
A fast start - I know, I said it, and it’s not the jet lag talking. Wolves, however, were not about to be whipping boys. It was an open first ten minutes. They’ve got form for raising their game against sides at the top of the league. On 6 minutes we saw a cheeky ball from Kante after he was played in by Dave. Across the face of goal and out to Hazard it went - he seemed to have all the time in the world but his attempt to bend the ball round the keeper didn’t quite come off. Conversely, none of Wolves’s efforts so far had found the right man in the box. It was the most entertaining spell of football that we’ve had for a while - and then who should pop up but Loftus Cheek to give us the lead. His shot from the outside of the box was probably covered by the keeper, but the Wolves Captain chucked himself in the way and it deflected the other side of him. It was on target - so Ruben may get to keep it by the letter of the law.
Unfortunate for Wolves, not that I cared. An outstanding effort with a weaving free kick headed for the goal from Willian on 22, but the keeper was equally as outstanding in touching it over. 36 minutes and Wolves had their best chance yet, but lucky for us the home side were just stretching into the path of a stunning block from Fabregas to deny Gibbs-White a proper shot. Willian was on the other end moments later when he was in on goal until Ryan Bennett stormed across the face of him and dumped him on his arse. The 70% possession we’d had did not tell the story at all, for Wolves had not capitulated despite their misfortune.
And then the sh*t hit the fan. The second half was about as enjoyable as gargling acid, it made about as much sense from a Chelsea perspective as the last two f*cking Harry Potter films. We could have scored almost immediately when Hazard, Loftus-Cheek and Morata combined, but the defender just got to the ball on the final cross before the Spaniard, who, thanks to his having spent the first half sitting down and moaning was inevitably now the butt of everything the home support could throw at him. He’s lucky that Jonathan Moss is the dope of the refereeing world, possibly the only man left in England who can still be suckered in by an Alvaro Morata rollabout on the floor. On the flip side, he also thinks an advantage is Willian and Morata alone in the box with five Wolves defenders, so all the way to December and he’s somehow kept his job. But then he wasn’t alone in getting paid to do f*ck all at Molyneux. Great ball forward from Cesc for Willian, but the finish was like watching a drunk, blindfolded Mikel take one on the wrong foot.
Speaking of feet, we then shot ourselves in all 22 of them. F*cking hell Chelsea. Fabregas robbed in midfield, Gibbs-White runs away with it and slides it out to Jimenez to slot underneath Kepa. What a cockwombling amateur way to concede an equaliser, but concede we thoroughly deserved to by this point. Buoyant home support now. On 62 they were away again and three of our players couldn’t get it back of them to stop them fashioning another chance. All. Over. The. Place. And 2-1 down. At this point I could inhaled four shots of Elderflower gin just to dull the burning pain in my eyes from watching such a pathetic display.
Cesc booked for screaming about a block on Willian, as was Little Willy himself, which was a valid use of everybody’s time. Willian straight off, Pedro Pony on, good, at least he will try. The Beard on for Morata, should have gone with this in the first place against this side. If we have to have a non-scoring striker out there I’d rather it was one who plays as part of a team, doesn’t spend the whole game sulking and at least looks like he gives a f*ck. Added to our woeful ineptitude and collective inability to pass a f*cking football, the usual Jon Moss downward spiral of c*ntwittery continued, leaving the match teetering on the edge of mayhem because he can’t consistently official a game of football. It didn’t help that at least one of the linesmen was a complete bellend too. Kante coming off for Kovacic. I’m sure, Sarri, using your last substitution on this like for like mediocrity of tactical implementation put the fear of god into Wolves.
Fifteen to go, roughly, and no inkling yet that our three mind-numbing changes were going to have a miraculous attack on the game when all the home side had to do is sit and wait for us to f*ck it up and then have a go at a break. They all backed away from Hazard and let him run at goal on 77, but his shot was just over. They looked absolutely wasted, but not dead enough for us it seems. Fabregas had perhaps the best chance to send it in for an equaliser on 87, but it went over. You can’t for one second say that they parked the bus either, until the inevitable time wasting began when they were ahead Wolves were every bit as in this game as we were.
So: We've gone from glitch to steady decline, in my ranty opinion, and it needs fixing. It needs a demonstration too that the manager isn't going to continue to do the same thing over and over again despite bad results. Because thats the definition of insanity, and we only just got rid of another loon in the summer. Calling for his head, I think is premature, but he needs to show his fangs now. “I really am very worried” says Sarri. What an understated way to describe an epic display of cumulative f*ckmuppetry on our behalf. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to bath my eyes in bleach so badly, but, then I’d be stuck with the notion that the last thing I ever saw was that sh*t. Chelsea, you sucked. And you sucked because you just didn’t appear to have a clue what you were doing. Do you remember JT getting knocked out and playing on? Scoring up at Burnley in the week that *those* allegations came out, Lampard shining in the Champions League for his mum the day he lost her, Ivanovic playing with a f*cking hole in his foot. The monster up front that was Drogba raising his game to destroy Arsenal any time he went near them? Jesus Christ, BOSINGWA and his eyebrow taking over the dressing room in Munich. Those were men. Occasionally whiny and ill-behaved men we wanted to pimp slap, but grown ups. There is undoubtedly a wealth of talent in our squad but all I saw by the final whistle last night was boys. Sad-faced little boys. And with that I’m going to get sh*tfaced. By Saturday I would have opened 8 doors on my gin advent calendar. I intend to mix all eight minis in a bottle and down it before kick off, because this could be uglier than the sight of Sarri seductively licking tobacco off of Pep’s bald head live on Sky. That said, like mugs we will all be hoping that we can pull something off. We need it now.
Oh, and if you haven’t lost all faith in humanity after that, the collection is still open for the kids who will spend this Christmas in a shelter owing to domestic violence. They will appreciate your support more than the team did last night. You can PayPal alexandra.Churchill@hotmail.com or message me for transfer details. After presents we will be taking care of some winter clothing for all of them and musical equipment for the shelter.
Chelsea 2 Fulham 0
Sunday 2nd December 2018 12:00
In the News: Dave has followed Kante and Alonso is signing a new long term deal. Hurrah. Ozil, who is apparently being courted by Inter Milan, was missing today from the north London Derby because he’s having “back spasms” which have already lasted longer than the spasm of him giving a sh*t at the beginning of the season. Chequebook Pulis says it’s not easy to the win the league when you can no longer raid Sp*rs for players. Was never really route one in the premier league, was it? Besides, he could raid the Bank of England and every football club in Europe and he’d still be on course for having his standard third year meltdown. Perisic has been waxing lyrical about how relieved he is that he didn’t go to Manchester, and you have to wonder who’d sign up for that madness mid-season that’s worth anything. Elsewhere AC Milan allegedly want Cesc and The Zlatan, of course Ashley Cole is said to be looking for a Championship club too after being let go by LA Galaxy. Yes, the transfer twattery is about to begin. My prediction? That 99.9% of what you are about to read in the newspapers over the next month and a half is complete b*llocks.
The Others: Bournemouth gave us all a bit of false hope at one stage, Ver-wrong’un got his just desserts. Horrible little sh*t. Nothing better than Sp*s losing, after going ahead having been behind and getting all gobby, and that little rat being sent off. It could only have been better if he’d tripped over the fourth official and broken his ankle on the way out. One of their fans has been arrested for throwing a banana skin at Aubameyang. I really hope he’s not a racist at all, and that he’s actually been arrested for being a gluten denying, vegan hipster who was supplementing his charcoal activated croissant breakfast and had nothing else to hand save for some chia seeds. Next time eat a pie you sad b*stard.
F*cking Scouse, f*cking jammy b*stards.
Us: Don’t know how Luiz kept his place, but he continues his record of playing every minute of every game in the league so far. And didn’t we feel every one of them at Wembley. The Beard rightly got a start. Not particularly fair on Barkley or Loftus Cheek that neither of their performances was good enough to get in over Kovacic, but then life’s a bitch I suppose.
Them: Claudio returned for a visit, yay! Along with the finely chiselled, comic-book-hero jawline that makes Scott Parker visible a mile off.
You thought noon was a sh*t kick off time? Try being five hours behind. And dragging your half-asleep a*se 21 blocks in the pouring rain to get to the bar for kick off. Despite this there were actually tourists out in Times Square before 6:30 taking selfies. Mad b*stards. On arrival I was soggier, limper than Jordi Alba rolling around on the floor clutching his face when no-one’s touched him. Not even any gin to reward me at the other end, for in NY you are allowed to get sh*tfaced on beer as early as you like, but you can’t have gin till lunchtime. Boo.
Kepa was forced into a save after just 20 seconds. In fact Fulham were very spritely, but it didn’t do them any favours. After all that dross about Kante in the last week, he was at his best after three minutes, playing in his much publicised, wrong position when he poached the ball and hit it out to Pedro Pony, who kept his composure to go around the keeper and slot it in at the far post. Welcome progress after the last month when we’ve still been half asleep after half an hour, I hear you say. Sort of. We were in full flow soon afterwards, but Fulham by no means looked like peasants, and Alonso’s range on crosses into the box was so off that he kept putting them out for throw ins on the other side. We’d had no other chances to speak of by the time twenty minutes ticked by. Hazard was almost at his magical best to cut a cheeky ball out to The Beard on 23, but the angle was too narrow. Other than that our talisman was quiet in the opening spell. Fulham’s only joy approaching the half hour was a free header in the box, but nothing came of that either. They gave the ball away in almost the exact same spot that had caught them out again, ten minutes before the break, but The Beard was smothered on the near post and couldn’t fashion a proper shot out of it. “Morata would have buried that” said Mowgli. He was on his second pint. Before 8am.
Suddenly Eden was on fire. An outstanding little run from Dave put the ball into the box The Beard on 42, the keeper, who looks like a drunker, poor man’s version of Hugo Lloris, was all over it. “Morata would have buried that,” said Mowgli. If I’d had a brick to hand I would have contemplated hitting him with it.
Off they went at half time. I can’t think of anything witty to put here, because I’m still 100% sober and New York won’t give me gin for another four hours. Half time punditry came courtesy of Robbie Earle dressed up as a used car salesman. From 1976. He looked like he’d dropped out of the battle of the news crews in Anchorman.
Fake Lloris was forced to make a save on 48 from Pedro, as we came out swinging, but so were Fulham with Toni Rudiger forced to put a block in just afterwards. Other than that not much doing, and the result is never certain at 1-0. When you are watching Chelsea, at any rate. On
64 Kepa was forced to make a save after Alonso gave the ball up on the touch line. Callum Chambers of all people. I was about to say we were making him look good then he went to have a shot and ended up giving us a throw in near the halfway line. Bellend.
Subs were up. Loftus Cheek for Kovacic on 66, then Morata with his new hard-looking hairdo. It should finally have been two when Hazard nicked the ball in the box and teed it up for him. Fake Lloris saved from Eden and Alvaro came storming in for the rebound. Row Z. Morata is the footballing equivalent of a gluten-free, vegan hipster wearing ultra skinny jeans and riding a penny farthing round Horton. “Morata would have buried that” says Mowgli. I didn’t have the energy to point it out to him. Zappacosta for Alonso rounded things off, if he was not feeling right it might have explained a bit of an off showing from him today.
We pottered on for five minutes more and then finally finished them off. 81 and along comes Eden to play in Ruben. Shocking from the keeper to let it go round the outside of you like that, but not a f*ck was given by the blue half of West London. Good outing for Loftus Cheek today, two appearances this week and couldn’t really have done more to justify his time on the pitch. In the meantime a petulant yellow for Morata. Must be a day that ends in a Y. That about rounded off anything of note, apart from when the TVs cut out and the regular NY blues started chanting “Scousers on the roof.”
Refwatch: Craig Poorson. Wetter than we were. But not as dismal as he normally is. I’m imbued with Christmas spirit at the bar in the Bank or America’s winter village in Bryant Park, so I don’t care that much about him today. Well, imbued with gin at least
So: Far more entertaining than the game was the fact that we hung about with the El Salvador Chelsea massive to eat breakfast and witness the carnage that made up the first half of the north London Derby. Nothing funnier than Mike Dean giving a penalty against the Goons when Son fell over his own feet and started crying. That’ll be another year of moaning that he’s got it in for them. To add to the twenty so far. For us? Three points banked, which we desperately needed before the visit of City next week. At which point I’m getting smashed before kick off and hoping they don’t score more than three based on our showing against Sp*rs.
I'm still desperately collecting for the benefit of a group of children who will be homeless this Christmas and staying in a shelter as a result of domestic violence. Money will go towards presents, winter clothing and equipment needed for the home in SW London. Any donations can be sent via PayPal to Alexandra.firstname.lastname@example.org or you can contact me for details for transfers. Anything you can spare this holiday season is greatly appreciated.