New year, new entertaining Chelsea, we can dream right? Wrong.
In the News: Pusilic is a Blue, the club wisely sorting that out ASAP and getting his name on the paper before CL qualification is settled. Or not if tonight was anything to go by. We’ve beaten the Scouse for his signature, after he decided he’d rather live somewhere where he wasn’t liable to get robbed when he’s at work. On the other hand Thierry Henry is keen to get his chum Fabregas, his cougar-missus and their 15 kids to join him in Monaco. Ha, remember Dominic Solanke? Who claimed that 15-20k a week for doing the sum total of f*ck all at Chelsea was not enough for his stunning prospects and swanned off up to Klippity Klopp? Desperate to get a loan move now, perhaps to Palace, as he’s forgetting what it feels like to punt a football in front of a paying customer.
Two soft Salah penalties and St Harold of Dribblington (MBE – Jesus wept) being booked for diving has referee pundits talking about a clampdown. Which will never, ever happen, especially to the first of those because he plays in Teflon coated Scouse Red. “Do we need blood for a penalty?” Asks Wurzel Kloppage. “No, you scruffy bellend, but an actual foul would be a start. Stop talking sh*t and go and have a f*cking wash.”
And winter break nonsense – Messi dressing up as an elf, Costa attacking his brother with firecrackers and Cavani riding around topless on a horse with a bottle of baby oil sticking out of his pocket like he’s on his way to a Brokeback Mountain tribute party. (I’m so going to hold one of those, it would be a disco fuelled night of awesomeness) If this is what players get up to when they get given rare free time then it’s a poignant argument for making them all play football over Christmas. To save them from themselves and us from the photographic evidence. And just when you thought you’d witnessed all the narcissistic thunderc*nt that Pogba has to offer he starts practising his goal celebrations in the warm-up. Do f*ck off. And take your chavvy earrings and your dopey hair disasters with you.
The Others: L’arse bashed Fulham, Sp*rs bashed Cardiff. The big one is tomorrow, obviously. Time for Pepalicious to pull his finger out and stop dicking around on Amazon Prime. I’m going to wheel out the Bill Pullman speech from Independence Day. It’s warranted, and I’ve made some amendments:
“Good Evening Manchester City. In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in this history of mankind.
Mankind — that word should have new meaning for all of us today.
We can’t be consumed by our petty differences anymore.
We will be united in our common interests.
To stop the unbearable consequences of the Red Scouse winning the league.
Perhaps its fate that today is the 4th of July, 3rd of January and You will once again be fighting for our freedom, not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution — but from spunk fuelled annihilation by every journalist in the world bashing one out over the end of civilisation as we know it.
We’re fighting for our right to live, to exist in a world free of Scouse smuggery.
And should we win the day, the 3rd January will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day when the world declared in one voice:
“We will not go quietly into the night!
We will not vanish without a fight!
We’re going to live on!
We’re going to survive!”
Today, we celebrate our Independence Day! F*ck the Red Scousers Day!
Us: Giroud left the ground on crutches on Saturday, which adds to our striker woes considerably. No choice but to start with Morata up front, with Pedro Pony absent Barkley retained a place in the starting lineup and other than that it’s what you’d expect. Loftus-Cheek fit enough to take to the bench after a twinge.
Them: Happy Charlie Austin day girls. Only it wasn’t because he was on the bench. Swines.
Angus Gunn called into action whilst we were still debating if his dad played for Norwich or not. (Apparently yes) Southampton began by playing a 5-5 formation. We need to take a team apart to keep up with goal difference and to rouse the place a bit, for there have been a lot of results ground out of late. 75% possession and a smattering of attempts yielded nothing in the opening ten minutes. So I was not confident. Hazard played it in on 12 but Gunn beat him to it. We looked positive but there was no sustained momentum as yet.
In fact as the next ten minutes wore on we descended into more of that interminable dicking around on the edge of the box and sloppy giving the ball away that bored us all to tears against Palace. Downwards we sank into a Pulisesque mire of bland, joy-sucking fare.
In on 24 but Willian’s effort was blocked, chip across the box by Morata on 27 but not a single blue was storming into the box to meet it. Every relegation fodder team in the league’s team talk pre-Chelsea is: “just don’t concede and they’ll a*se it up and give us a chance eventually.” They then spend the rest of the build-up eating all the Milky Way Celebrations and Quality Street toffee pennies that nobody wanted over Xmas. On this note, f*ck eHarmony. Everyone’s suitability should be measured using a box of Celebrations. If you marry someone who’s going to insist on eating all the Malteser ones first then your relationship isn’t going to last. Find someone who likes the Milky Ways, or is at least willing to eat them so you don’t have to. That’ll be true love.
29 Morata scythed down. How we could play advantage when our striker was lying on the floor dying and we were supposed to be attacking, only Jonathon Moss can tell you. Hazard had the skill to get a corner out of it but as usual, we didn’t clear the first man.
Best chance yet on 32. High ball brought down well by Morata but his shot was over. The highlight of the night so far was Boycie’s phone vibrating in his pocket and giving both of us a surprise. Willian was off five minutes later – he didn’t look like he wanted to be out there at all, to be honest. Our only remotely-capable-of-attacking options on the bench tonight were Cesc or Ruben, and we got the latter, who immediately tried to inject some pace into proceedings.
Finally, we looked like we might score, or at least add a second shot on target on 39, but some bloke called Valery deflected it wide. A corner on 41. We cheered like Gooners. Eden cleared several men, but the final attempt from Alonso was tame and knocked out.
I chose today to ban myself from eating junk, in fact from eating anything after 6pm because a bellend in Chicago who shall remain nameless (let’s call him Budget Robert Downey Jr) convinced me it was a good idea. Wrong night. 1 day there at halftime gnawing miserably on my own fist after that display. Some other moron who shall remain nameless (Mowgli) reckons I should try and be more positive in 2019. Says the bloke who stayed at home with his cat tonight instead of sitting through that. Here goes: Morata was only offside once.
I feel much better now, she lied.
The game had given us nothing to talk about, so we reminisced about sweets gone by, like Marathons, Opal Fruits and marvelled at how long it has been since Boycie last ate a chomp. He and Alf Garnett got onto retro jokes:
- What’s the difference between Joan Collins and Kit-Kat? You only get four fingers in a Kit-Kat.
- What does Joan Collins put behind her ears to attract men? Her ankles.
- What has Joan Collins got in common with a washing mchine? Both drip when they are f*cked.
What did the world have against Joan Collins in the 80s?
We bounced out for the second half, presumably to get away from the cloud of second-hand smoke that hangs over Sarri in the dressing room. Change at the break for them. The little rodent that is Shane Long. Not that I’m bitter that they didn’t bring on Austin.
We put a ball into the box on 50. It went sailing over everybody. But let’s be f*cking positive, eh Mowgli? At least it was a start. We also crossed the halfway line. We played several consecutive balls forward instead of back to Kepa. Let’s all do f*cking jazz hands. This positive mentality stuff is sh*t. I gave it a go, for a whole half an hour, but it’s doing nothing for my emotional well-being. It’s making me f*cking angry that I’m not supposed to be negative. How do people live like this? They’ll be the same happy-clappy b*stards that claim to have inner peace then complain loudly about there being no vegan menu in a restaurant. Do you know where you can find vegan food? In a vegan f*cking restaurant. Why don’t you go there and sit with the other three? Here’s a thought – if being vegan is so cool why does all their food impersonate nice food they can’t eat? Like sausage rolls? Or they’ll be the people who brag that they’re carbon neutral by cycling everywhere and drinking their own p*ss, when the emissions from one Beyoncé concert will ensure that all of them did it for nothing. Or the ones that label their offspring “gender-fluid” as they lop their tit out in the middle of Starbucks to feed little India or Barty without putting something over their shoulder as if nobody is allowed to disapprove of their god given right to sit massaging their boob in your face when you’ve just spent four quid on a coffee. Or the people who eat Kale instead of spitting it out like any sane human being who finds it imbedded in their dinner. Or the ones that moan about their dogs not being welcome in restaurants. I hate dogs, but ironically I’d rather sit on a table next to the f*cking mutt than them to be fair. See what half an hour of being positive does to a person? It makes rage.
This game was worse than watching Michael Owen recite War and Peace. I’d not been so f*cking bored since, well Saturday at Palace, or Budapest. Finally we forced a save on 59 but the next few minutes were all Southampton. If only the team could show the same desperation to get stuck in as the back of the Shed Upper trying to get us singing. 65 and we had a shot on target. Be still my heart. One option left on the bench to try and improve this and that was Cesc. Off went Ross. Just what we need, a bit of pace, quipped Boycie. At least he might try and out the ball in the box, we prayed. Then wait for it, wait for it, we scored. But Morata was offside. Leading offside goal scorer in the world. Probably. Positive your way out of that one. I f*cking dare you.
Bednarek, pointed out Alf Garnett, runs like newborn Bambi. We still couldn’t get past him. The away side was attempting to bleed all semblance of football out of the tie now, fully indulged by (Refwatch:) Jonathan Moss. Happy new year to you too PGMOL, you b*stards. Manages to make everyone in a half mile radius no matter their allegiance want to dig out his spleen with a rusty ice cream scoop. 77 the ball was here from Cesc. Ruben went storming towards goal and played in Morata. Should he have had a go himself? Irrelevant, as was the rest of the evening, as the actual attempt was saved by Gunn.
Shocking time-wasting. I could have negotiated Brexit single f*cking handedly in the time it took Cedric to drag himself off the pitch. Then his instant resurrection was on a f*cking par with Christ himself.
Suddenly we were playing with urgency. Where had this been for the last 85 minutes? Four paltry minutes added on. Cedric p*ssed that away on his own. There were chances to win it. Ruben to Hazard then Alonso with the shot but it was over the bar; a penalty shout that Moss never even considered in injury time. Off the line at the last. The sad Justin Bieber song they stuck on at the final whistle summed up the tragedy of my evening and guaranteed that I will never, ever be f*cking positive about anything, ever again.
So: Two home games without scoring. People are talking about Dry January. You’ll have to give up attending football for the time being. If I couldn’t go and suck down gin after sitting through performances like that I’d end up in a padded cell. To be honest there’s a lot of turgid sh*t throughout the league at the moment after a busy festive season. Unless you’re the Red Scouse and you get given three non-penalties in every game to help you on your way. But heavy legs was no excuse to be dropping points tonight. Southampton were pretty woeful, but we were no better. Right now winning the Europa League looks by far the most likely route into the Champions League next season, because we utterly lack any kind of consistency that will see us finish in the top four. On tonight’s showing I’m not even sure we’ll get past Malmo.