In the News: UEFA are morons. This is arguably not news. They’ve charged Besiktas with insufficient organisation because a ginger cat ran on the pitch during the Bayern game. My kitten Bertie gets everywhere. He defies physics, so how do UEFA propose that Besiktas entirely cat proof their stadium? A 12ft concrete wall with electric barbed wire? Presumably they should have foreseen this invasion and taken these steps and this is why they have been fined? Or they should have at the very least employed a cat catcher to prowl the premises with a pack of f*cking dreamies? Lofty sanctions indeed must be in store then for Farcalona, the biggest frauds in football, for arming their stewards with batons, letting them beat people with said batons, charging crowds, knocking down and trampling women and children, setting dogs on female fans, and building a death trap of a bridge to get supporters in and out of the ground. To name a few of their transgressions from Wednesday night before you even take into account that half their team are scumbags. More than a football club my a*se. “Worse than anything I ever saw at PSG” is the verdict of eyewitnesses that I trust who were in the middle of this unacceptable carnage this week.

I’ve got to go back to Chequebook Pulis. I live for press conferences when he’s like this. Twelve minutes of madness. Described by one of the Red Swarm as: “Self-pitying claptrap that exposed his delusions in all their towering majesty.” Fair. I was just going to go with “Tosser.” Since then he’s declared that Matic is suddenly God, because in his crazy world he’s got to big up one of his big money signings. The psychology of his mind games is so transparent it’s actually sad. Pogba is sh*t, and Sanchez, before yesterday, had already given the ball away about 500 times since he signed for them, more than 30 of them against Newport County. So not even CP is mad enough to give those two bellends and their atrocious hair dos any credit. Instead he’s invented a run of form in his head for Nemanja. “See, guys, I’m not a transfer market failure.” As you were, you lunatic. Also, he’s given up on personal grooming which is always a sure sign that Chequebook Pulis is on one of his downward spirals. He’s starting to resemble Doc Brown, and heaven knows he looked pretty bonkers when he was fleeing around the Twin Pines Mall car park in a boiler suit trying to escape Libyans who wanted their plutonium back.

Sticking with nonsense coming out of managers. Conte takes another dig about the transfer window. Get over yourself already. We like you. The players like you. Nobody wants you sacked. I just want you to act like the top end manager you’re supposed to be. I am sick to the back teeth now of the constant negativity. Didn’t get the players he wanted, doesn’t rate the FA Cup, doesn’t know if we can finish top four. No amount of moaning is going to reverse the transfer window. We all know you weren’t happy with it. We’re not stupid, we can see you’ve got a point. But. It is the job of the man in charge of the dugout to get his players going. Even if you don’t believe it yourself you’ve got to tout positivity, not pave the way for non-culpability every week in the event of a defeat. If you don’t act like you’re convinced none of them will be. I’m afraid after he said that he’d effectively taken 1-0 at City instead of trying to get back into it and losing by more because he didn’t want the players to get upset, he’s got some way to go before he gets back into my good books. Blue Squirrel ran into him before the Palace game and he looked like he’d slept under a bridge.

And Mark Hughes has promised to get to the bottom of what the problem is with all of Southampton’s players. I’m more interested in getting to the bottom of how that jackass has managed to get another job in football when is clearly a terrible manager.

The Others: United are through, not very convincingly, as are Spu*rs who have played basically nobody and Southampton have put Wigan out. Jesus wept, they’re calling it a statement of intent from Hughes. It’s not like they’ve just sunk Real Madrid. Just our game then to settle semi-final line up.

Them: I was largely too cold to care. Wes Morgan, God help our forwards if they couldn’t outrun that donkey. That diving rat Vardy and a few others. I could see a peroxide abomination on the pitch so Mahrez must have been out there.

Us: Very few days off. Good. If I’ve got to stand out in this cold so should everybody else. Bakayoko is back. Took adequate precautions against inevitable nappy sh*t tsunami the second he misplaced a pass.

They still insist on showing the highlights of every match in the title winning season while plagiarising the theme music from the Da Vinci Code. It’s getting tedious now. Fifteen years on.

A sea of blue and white bin-liners tied to flag poles before kick-off in the home end, large away showing for the cup tie that had both teams poised as little as 90 minutes away from Wembley. Typically intricate diamond and triangle pattern on the pitch that they love obsessing over at the King Power. If you look really closely it’s a map for the thick likes of Vardy to show him the way to the goal.

I don’t recall us touching the ball in the first minute. But Morata hadn’t fallen over either. I applaud Eden, Dave, Christensen and Alonso for not wearing gloves. Cesc too when he came on. Real men. For that flurry of possession though, all Leicester got was one sh*t shot off before we started to participate.

A great ball from Alonso set Eden off on our first run, and by the end of a pacy first ten minutes we’d had the better of it, but not fashioned any real chances. A lucky deflection almost cost us at the back, but it was well blocked by Christensen and from the subsequent corner the Leicester header was over.

You should know that I can’t fit all of Craig Pawson’s refereeing transgressions into a couple of lines, so I’m just going to have to keep referring back to the Frank Spencer of the referring world. From now on, “doing a Pawson” is where a referee stands dumbly in the middle of the pitch not knowing what is going on before quite obviously guessing which way to call a decision. And gets it wrong. He is especially bad at masking this, and he started by giving random corners to the home side when they’d knocked the ball out themselves. Not satisfied with this level of ineptitude, he awarded them a free kick for accidentally getting sat on when the Leicester player was already on the floor nowhere near the ball. And by watching three players foul Moses at once and waving play on. I should add that his f*ckwittery didn’t change the result today, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t take the chronic p*ss out of him for stealing a living for my own enjoyment.

Morata, who was much better today made a promising run into the box but it was successfully blocked. Probably by Wes Morgan’s hapless fat a*se. The home side managed a long range shot that looked half threatening but it was saved by Big Willy. There wasn’t exactly a whole lot going on the way if goal scoring opportunities, but my feet were going numb, and I was suppressing the urge to throttle anti-Morata nappy sh*tters nearby by counting down the 17 minutes until I could eat my Cadbury’s Picnic. As much of the play was hashed out in the middle of the field, we had probably too long a conversation about how Zappacosta looks like a cross between Dick Dastardly and the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Don’t get me wrong, this was not a boring game. But alas I am a millennial with a crippled attention span. It was competitive, though not exciting at this stage and there was lots to be positive about. Christensen had played really well, As had Kante, who basically ran around doing a share of everyone else’s work as well as his own as usual. And here’s a stat for you: Morata fell over I think six times, four were definitely fouls, one more might have been. The fact that only two were given is down to Craig Pawson being a bellend. This is a ratio I can live with. We genuinely looked like a football team attempting to create something, and not, as the case was at City, like eleven baffled blokes who only met each other five minutes before kick off. So although it was still goalless as we approached half time, this was not depressing. Just colder than watching Leo DiCaprio freezing in the water while Kate Winslet hogged the whole bit of driftwood to herself.

We survived Big Willy’s daily brain fart on 36 minutes. It was a doozie, him bombing out towards the touch line and trusting Bakayoko to get it clear while he ran back to his goal. I’m not digging him out today. Just like Morata reminds us all of Drogba early on, Bakayoko is to me what Ramires was in his first season. Some players take longer than others. He’s a good player. According to Blue Squirrel Conte battled strong opposition at the club to get him during the process of sealing the deal last summer. Write this term off, get him through a proper preseason, uninjured, and trust that he will get better as Rami did. God knows he came good in the end, and he was excruciating to watch at first. If not then we can make him Roman’s official food taster and I’ll say no more about it.

Anyway, on the pitch it looked like being level at the break until a perfect pass from Little Willy found Morata, who slotted it past Mr Potato Head (Schmeichel) There was a split second when the Spaniard was running on goal and we were behind and directly in line with him and I thought he was going to smack it over the bar, but he placed it like the pro we know he is, but haven’t seen for a while. We were in front at half time. He’d not been amazing, but today’s overall display and a goal was a significant step back in the right direction.

Bakayoko had picked up a booking in the first half, because Pawson is an inconsistent f*ckwit, and he was replaced be Cesc before play restarted. Straight away Willian managed to wriggle forward and pass the ball across the box, but nobody was there to get on the end of it. Shame. Morata followed this up with another strong run, but we failed to double our lead.

This is why Craig Pawson sucks as an official. Willian hacked down. Doesn’t give foul. Looks like he considered it at length. Not a head injury. Stops play anyway. It either is a foul, or it’s not and you play on. You don’t faff around in between the two decisions because you feel bad. This is why he’s a complete disaster in charge of VAR and should never be allowed such technology again. He’s confused enough with the job he’s got now, never mind adding to it. Frankly I’d be amazed if it transpires that he laces his own boots up.

Leicester were by no means out of it, and the tie wasn’t over yet. The game got feisty quickly, which is what happens when you’ve got a lunatic in charge. Leicester were bombing forward in search of an equaliser. A relatively comfortable save from Big Willy on 55 minutes and then we almost hit the jackpot twice in one hit, Morata narrowly missed smashing it in and getting Mr Potato Head, nasty sh*t that is, in the chops at the same time. Leicester made their first change just after the hour mark, and it paid off, just about, on 76 minutes. Three times the ball was blocked, and saved once, and still Big Willy nearly kept it out. It would be that little cheating rat Vardy there to steal a goal. This is entirely Gary’s fault. Not Cahill. Gary in front of us. Fifteen seconds before it happened he said: “You just know they’re going to get an equaliser and then we’ll have to stand here in this freezing cold for another half an hour.” Damn you Gary. Damn you. We had the ball hit the woodwork five minutes later, thanks to Morata again, but he was judged offside by Dobby the House Elf, who seems to been moonlighting as a bad official who has about as much grip on the offside rule generally as my mum.

We now had a proper cup tie, open play with both sides looking for a winner for the last ten minutes. Pawson almost managed to orchestrate a punch up. He also did nothing when Maguire attempt to sever one of our players’ legs, then redeemed himself when he bizarrely plucked some common sense from the ether to bring a free kick back, and then he booked Moses for a minor transgression. Sigh. Morata nearly saved us from extra time, but Mr Potato Head saved it and after a stellar amount of time-wasting a paltry three minutes were added on before we were forced into extra time.

Half an hour more in -7. No more chocolate for sustenance.
Couldn’t bend knees now. Did our best to get rid of nearby nappy sh*tters.

“Well that’s it then, replay!” They said.
We all nodded non committal way and prayed for 30 minutes of football without Morata getting mugged off in our ears.

It nearly worked. And I apologise to the guy that took the flak when they figured it out and came back and we all abandoned him to his fate.

Little Willy soon made way for Pesto. (I’m too cold to battle autospell) Pretty much the whole first half of extra time consisted of trying to resume circulation in our legs and me trying to take notes with frozen fingers. Starting to get jealous of DiCaprio’s body temperature at the end of the film now. Cahill for Christensen and pampers throughout the stand started filling. You knew that whatever happened, it was going to be Gary’s fault.

Arsenalification was resumed (Passing ball around edge of box and not doing anything with it) until out of nowhere the smallest bloke on the pitch scored with a header.
They must have thought we were morons when Kante put another high ball in towards a player who only comes up to Morata’s armpit. But Pesto out-foxed (get it?) Albrighton, who had survived what he made out to be brush with death when he ran the clock down earlier, Chilwell (I know, who?) and Mr Potato Head. Have that. Suckers.

We got Giroud, wearing f*cking leggings, for Morata to see the game out and we clung on despite some Keystone Cops defending (thanks Gary) and Leicester throwing the kitchen sink at us as extra time ran out. Ironic when they booed about the lack of injury time (didn’t care previously when they were wasting it) and the referee (who was generally awful but somehow managed not to impact what was always the right result).

So: The cold weather has produced a massive spot on my forehead. I’m going to name it Jose, because like him it’s full of sh*t. But my knees bend again. Gary & Co have missed their train. Puel reckons they deserved a different result. I reckon he’s an idiot, and that he looks like a dodgy second hand car dealer. Leicester were by no means awful, they put up a good fight, and we never looked like running away with it, but the one goal they did score was luckily bundled over and other than that they looked pretty toothless. Vardy wasn’t even ever really in a position to do his usual run and dive scam on the ref. He makes Alvaro look like a tower of strength when he leaves a leg dangly and flings himself giant chin-first to the ground.

A semi-final awaits us against Southampton. So you’d have to say a fair chance for some of our players to get to another final and atone for not turning up to the last one. Also, Sp*rs fans are moaning that the draw was a fix. Good. It makes me happy when they’re unhappy. But nobody that has the Diving Little Sh*tbag on their team is allowed to make judgments re cheating about anything. Ever.

International Break Time! Which means I’d rather pluck out my eyelashes one by one than watch the football on offer. I’m going to fulfil my nine year old self’s Free Willy inspired dream of going Orca watching. Later, peasants.

See more of Alexandra’s match reports on her excellent blog.