Or On the Buses with Sexpest. We had the annals (he thought I said anals) of Sexpest back in the 60s as a London bus driver on the way to the game. Egging his own bus so it would have to go for cleaning and he’d not have to drive, stink bombing his passengers and stopping the bus at Clapham and leaving everyone waiting while he picked up his fish and chips. That is until the night he got busted by a plain clothes inspector… I’m seriously thinking of ghostwriting the Memoirs of Sexpest based around his match-going experiences. A hapless, harmless, loveable Chelsea rogue, meandering his way through football life in the last half of the twentieth century. Starting with crawling under the turnstiles in 1953.

In the News: B*stard international break cost us yet more injuries. Kovacic was a worry, Emerson more so. Apparently England are unbeaten now in a decade in qualifying. 43 games. Surely a more impressive feat is that not one of those games remotely threatened to entertain anybody. Shaun Wright-Phillips supports the idea of the players walking off the pitch if they are subjected to racist abuse in Bulgaria next month. So do I. I wouldn’t work anywhere I had to put up with it and neither should they.

Here’s one that will really shock the world of football. Premier League Referees Chief admits VAR is making errors. Make. It. Go. Away. Human error I will tolerate. Computer error is f*cking with the game for no reason and ruining it. Loving the vitriol going from Gary Neville in the direction of Lukaku. Because everything he says is true. He was sh*t, overweight, whiny and didn’t try. And in this travesty of a modern day world where nobody is allowed to say anything for fear of making someone cry, Gary’s championing the art of not giving a f*ck. Romelu says he was made the scapegoat for Chequebook Pulis’s failure. As well as delusions of grandeur, he really has got the IQ of a rusty spanner. So has Sanchez. He says the pair of them just happened to be at United at the wrong time. Yes. During the season. Apparently the only entertaining thing about Arsenal this season is “manager-cam” where you can watch the waxwork vampire/corpse jumping around like a knob. Watford surely taking the piss getting rid of Javi Gracia this early, one feels. After their best season ever. Police launched a load of fraud investigations during the break, surely there must have been one at Old Trafford, where Ole has no away wins since taking the job full time, and one clean sheet in 19 matches.

International break means stupid headlines to fill empty Press Pleb space. Deliveroo sponsor England and they don’t deliver to St George’s Park. Nobody cares. Wayne Rooney says if Pep had managed England’s golden era they’d have won trophies. Ignoring the fact that Wayne himself would have had to turn in a performance that rated higher than 2/10 for that to happen. Fat twat. And apparently the Queen once b*llocked Michael Owen for getting into a lift with her at Ascot. Has nothing to do with etiquette. Her Majesty was just utterly terrified that he might launch into more boring stories of his playing career in that monotone f*cking dopey drawl of his and she’d have no escape.

The Others: Our East Anglian clusterf*ck suddenly not looking so bad. Is it? Norwich fitting back into the Premier League nicely. I wish we were playing City next time. Jammy f*cking Sp*ds. Jammy f*cking Scousers. Jammy f*cking Mancs. But Arsenal. Mwhahahahahahahahhaahaha (Evil Villain laugh) David Luiz played 160 Premier League games for us and conceded three penalties. He has played FOUR league games for L’Arse and is already approaching that record. Hurrah.

Us: Three across the back, to match their formation; including Rudi, yay, and Tomori, which must have had Alonso skipping about the dressing room clicking his heels like Willy Wonka on finding out a Cadbury’s factory had burned down. He got to be a wing-back for the day and other people could do the bulk of the defending while he worried about what he’s better at. Still too soon for CHO, but he obliterated everyone else on the pitch in the under 23 game. Born again Jorginho and Kovacic shielding the defence and Mason Mount, Willian and Tammy leading the charge.  Apparently, there are only three years between Lampard in our dugout and Uncle Albert in theirs. How many wars HAS he fought in?!

We began with a rather elaborate flame-thrower show. Which was amusing for the rest of us because we got to watch Fletch (Sitcom Alias) Wickham, with his complexion, which is akin to that of a delicate, unripened peach, slowly getting barbecued before kick off. How discombobulating was playing at three o’clock on a Saturday? It’ll never catch on. Started off by flapping about, but Mason Mount dug the ball out and set us off. Alonso was immediately out to impress after playing second fiddle to Emerson so far this season. Wolves had started well, we’d not been bad either. Ten minutes gone and we were getting into our stride, but manufacturing no clear cut chances. Twenty minutes in and we were still missing that final ball. My mind had drifted onto the subject of Raul being pretty and how Fletch was starting to resemble a soggy baked tomato. Mount continued to put in more effort than anyone else, as usual. Made up for Willian, who thus far had only been prolific at giving the ball away. Kovacic too continuing to work his nuts off and get so much further forward than last season. Even much-maligned Dave was looking far more on the ball today after some shaky performances of late.

Tammy is a useless c*nt apparently, according to the bottom-feeder across the aisle who presumably spends most of the week playing with his minuscule knob in one hand while he fills Twitter with all manner of b*llocks with the other. We’d just had a corner, when the ball spun into the middle of the field along the floor. Jorginho let it run and out of nowhere Tomori decided to have a go because there was absolutely nothing else on. Scored with his first ever shot in the Premier League. And it’s not like it was a tap in. As soon as it left his foot it started to curl and it was like “F*ck me! That’s going in!” He was stunned, the goalkeeper was stunned, we were hysterical and I don’t really remember much of the next thirty seconds. A couple of minutes later he was at it again: Running into the box, squared it into Mount who was fouled in the box, Scott played the advantage and Tammy leapt on the ball to take a second. Chelsea don’t do nothing for youth. Init. Two shots on target. Two goals. My world is askew. But we weren’t done yet. Ball chipped in by Alonso, who was under no pressure at all from anyone in a bumblebee outfit and whoever was supposed to be marking Tammy is a twat. Put up about as much of a fight as Katie Price being dragged down the aisle for the thirtieth time. Headed clinically past a standing keeper who hasn’t seen any of these coming. Tammy again. Closest they came to a shot on target was in injury time. Headed over the bar.

Back out we came for the second half. Let’s not concede two in the first five minutes, OK? Kurt was on for Rudi, who looked none to spritely at half time. Worst part of the day losing him so soon after his return. Hopefully he was just stiff, she says in all seriousness knowing that it was a groin pull. Stop laughing. It’s not funny. The sun had gone behind a cloud, which was a merciful, if temporary, release for Fletch and the fair Beaker, who with his pink cheeks and his strawberry blond hair was starting to resemble a fruit salad sweet. Wolves were much more measured, but they still hadn’t had a proper shot. We survived eight whole minutes without f*cking it up, and then we actually began to attack. In fact, we went and scored again! This time it was all Tammy’s. Made the defender look like a moron with a potato for a brain by stopping, then accelerating again and sending it across the keeper. Hat-trick. All goals different. Proper centre forward display. We had a box belonging to Eastgate Commercial Ltd behind us, and to say that it was like watching a lot of angry wolves attempting to get out of a zoo enclosure is an understatement. Which was obviously hilarious for all of the Chelsea fans baiting them on the other side as they slobbered on the windows.

They had one go across the face of goal, but still hadn’t actually fashioned a shot on target. Chelsea are Back, some were singing. Oooh, too soon. But this was coming from the one that called Tammy a c*nt and whilst singing his name after his three goals managed to get the words wrong. There are three words. Oh. Tammy. And Abraham. Some even went on to We’re Gonna Win the League, I hope with irony. Beaker contented himself with We Are Staying Up. Could we keep a clean sheet? Every centre-back we own who can currently walk was on the pitch, so I suppose out chances were better than usual. Mason Mount almost wiped the floor with their keeper on 65, but it hit the side netting. Just ran out of space. Looked a lot on easier on TV than it did side on from the stands. In fairness, their supporters were all still there in the stands, and were rewarded. Having still not manufactured a single shot on target, Tammy put one in for them out of pity. First player ever to score a hat-trick and an own goal in the same game in the Premier League. With a handball to boot. So our goal difference was in positive numbers for all of 13 Minutes. B*llocks. Kovacic for Barkley. Laughing at the connotations with Sarri there. That sub made me gag last season. Most fans now focused on a rotund Wolves fan with a better pair of boobs than me. Most of them with substantial bellies of their own. You probably read it in the Daily Fail this morning. Chelsea fans in fattist storm. On interview, the victim cried and said he was going home to eat five battered sausages to cope with the pain. 

Refwatch: Think they thought that Graham Scott had it in for them. He empathically waved away a penalty shout, but I thought he had a good game yesterday. Despite the fact that the Lino on our side was a pillock and about as much use to him as a tampon.

We were still trying to get another. Volley way over by Tammy on 73, then he was down in the box at the other end. Getting hit by bottles. You probably read about that in the Daily Fail too. Mean Chelsea fans sneak into the home end and pelt their own striker with bottles. Good headed shot from Zouma on 79. Just over. He’s actually starting to aim them now, instead of head butting the ball like it’s a brick. Another shot, possibly Tammy but I was blinded by the sun at the moment, and Fletch was actually starting to sizzle. Neither one nor the other from Dave on 82 as he got into the box and fluffed his lines, something in between a cross and a shot. Then they had another. Spilled by Kepa and smothered into the back of the net by Cutrone. That goal difference was back down in the minus figures now. How am I scared on 88 when we were 4-0 up? Again, Scott was decisive when they were moaning on 89, before we got six minutes added on. SIX F*CKING MINUTES? Was this all the time that VAR currently owes every team in the league being stuck on one fixture? Morons. By now Batshuayi was on, presumably so Giroud will be fresh for Tuesday. Just as I screamed at him not to try and do anything clever, he hit one well, just wide on 95. Decisive play from Zouma as the time went down, Willian full of running by now. I won’t make any snide comments. Just as we were trying to decide if we were safe to start bragging, Mount put us out of our misery, The defender on him could not have given less of a sh*t if he had tried, but Mason was utterly determined he was going to get on the scoresheet.

So: We are currently two points off of St Pipsqueak and his half a billion pound squad. The world is not ending. In fact the future looks damn rosy from where I’m looking. One in every 200 is the club’s expected academy success rate. That is what they expect to see come through to the first team. So to have perhaps SEVEN in Loftus-Cheek, CHO, James, Mount, Tomori, Abraham AND Christensen in the frame together is outstanding. Every single goal that we have scored so far in the league this season, has been scored by an Englishman aged 21 or under. Tammy is currently the Premier League’s top scorer. Mason Mount’s first touch is filth. Our goal difference is back at zero. Today? Six shots on target, five goals. Useful return. Wolves fans were crowing about our trio on their way out. Even Ian Wright sounded like he had a boner on Match of the Day and he would rather lick a turd than say something nice about us. Everyone putting in a shift on the pitch, Jorginho even being called “George” now instead of “that c*nt,” by some. Banging day out. Entertained all the way home by Donte the human beatbox. For those in the anti-Lampard camp – none of this would have happened if our hand had been forced at some other time, or if someone else had been given the job. Make no mistake, these youth players are special, have worked their arses off, kept their heads and made this happen for themselves too. They believe in him and vice versa. Just don’t be surprised if they can’t all sustain it for the entire season. They’re still terribly young and inexperienced. Personally, I’m happy to enjoy these kind of displays as long as they can keep them up.

Let’s try a tweet of the week, because there are people on Twitter that deserved to be laughed at. Using @CFCgwlb mark up the most ridiculous, piece of sh*t statement made by someone claiming to be a Chelsea fan, and we will have a chuckle at their expense in the blogs. We’ll put them all in the Hall of F*ckwits. That should be a hashtag. We went for my birthday drinks at Frankies when we got back. I showed Sexpest my pants outside Stamford Bridge. Barely a flicker. “I clocked it,” he says, “but I’m on hormone injections and nothing happens.” I’m so writing this book.