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.