In the News: Our new kit is rancid. I think I last saw something that nasty on Byker Grove in the early 90s. Anyone who says they like it and wasn’t off their face on acid during that time period, LIES. Knowing that the club make a point of butting against the Peoples Republic of Nike when it comes to their ludicrous demands I dread to think what the alternatives looked like if THIS is the one that got through. I’m not offended because I wanted to buy it. I didn’t want to wear it. I’m offended because I’ve got to LOOK AT IT for nigh on a year all over Europe. That’s how sh*t it is. Oh yay, Eden is wearing it in the picture. Maybe, but he looks like it is causing him actual, physical and emotional PAIN. After one photoshoot. We might as well have got a cattle prod and zapped him closer to the door.

“Of course I want to stay at Arsenal,” says Ozil. “I have two more years left here.” No sh*t. What he meant to add was, “and I’ve realised that I’m more likely to trip over a purple unicorn outside Finsbury Park station than find anyone else stupid enough to pay me what they do for turning up to work one match in five.” Ferdinand in line for a Sporting Director role at Old Trafford. Whatever gets him off my TV screen. And Casillas has had a heart attack. At 37. Shocking. And yet thankfully looks like he will make a full recovery. Whether he returns to football remains to be seen.

The Others: To Dare is to Do. I suppose its snappier than: To Dare is to Fall Flat on Our Faces to the Amusement of the Rest of the Footballing World. The sound of Jermaine Penis bashing one out at his microphone for ninety minutes made me nauseous. Almost as much as the rampant use of language condemned by the World Jewish Council that nobody, least of all Sp*rs themselves will do anything about. Thankfully Ajax’s well-deserved goal shut the “Y*d Army” up and we didn’t have to listen to Jermaine spaffing himself silly. I never thought I would be so joyous when plonked in front of yet another Farcelona w*nkfest. But when they destroy the Red Scouse it would just be churlish not to enjoy the ride. Obviously, the donkey-faced, racist, cheating little bitey f*cktard celebrated when he scored. Poor them. They defended him when he called Evra a n*****r. They even had t-shirts made. And now he does this and reveals himself to be a c***. Of course, anyone who isn’t one of their special breed of delusional twat realised he was a c*** WHEN HE CALLED EVRA A N*****R IN THE FIRST PLACE. But what can you do? You’ll never change them. And for that reason, we will continue to gag on our sick at their nonsense. Here’s a potential song that arrived via Barkles (special alias) Not as good as the Brendan Rodgers one, but that was special. As soon as City have done their job we can start singing it:

He never wins a trophy
He’s never gonna stop
He is a trophy dodger
And his name is Jurgen Klopp.

Them: Da Costa said they aren’t afraid, but that there is respect for a great team. Er, not that great, but thanks.

Us: Hazard only on the bench, which considering they aren’t easy to score against is retarded. Even if they weren’t, its a European semi-final, and he’s our best player. 17 days, 334 minutes of football. Not that much, in the scheme of things. But Sarri says he’s tired. Urgh. Wants him to change the game from the bench apparently. Would we even need to change the game if we started? At least Higuain is next to him though, in favour of The Beard. The first Chelsea player to reach double figures in European competition in a season. Sarri might have been forced to eat a slice of Walder-Frey-style humble pie at the back had Cahill’s Achilles, not a*sed itself up. Sad times. So a back two pairing of Luiz and Christensen, who are the only two centre backs we have. They needed to do well. Walked out by our “unlikely” leader according to BT Sport. Not as unlikely as Klopp bagging a trophy this season, she dares to suggest. Dickheads. The presenter tonight was so orange that she actually clashed with the set.

4th in the Premier League vs 4th in the Bundesliga. They are having their best season in a quarter of a century. And they break quickly. However, they are a bit like us under Conte in the first season. Doing very well, but with limited personnel. And apparently, they are getting tired. A positive start from both sides, with nothing alarming happening at either end in the first ten minutes. A terrible challenge from Christensen for a yellow card, and shortly afterwards their Captain, Abraham was left by Emerson in the box and had all the time in the world to take the ball down and have a shot, but thankfully it was sh*t and went over the bar. I don’t think he could quite believe it had got to him. We weren’t let off the hook for long. Ball given away by the Beard and they were off. Four in the box, none of them expecting Jovic to get on the end of a sh*t cross and somehow head it in.

We didn’t roll over. Chelsea taking sh*t corners. Who’d have thought? At least we were getting up there though, I suppose. The Beard down in the box with ten to go, but he had shoved the defender over first. P*ssed off he’s not getting the ball. Christensen really was skating on thin ice on 40. One more and he’s gone. Loftus-Cheek powered one at the goal at the other end, but it was deflected out for a corner. About as good as its been for us in this half. Yet another failed corner followed, but back came RLC, skipping along the edge of the box like Eden, totally unmolested. His shot was just wide. We were plodding away at it, and then finally, on the stroke of half time, there was Ruben yet again, slicing his way around the box and digging the ball out from another corner, laying it off to Pedro Unicorn who sliced it past the keeper. Thank f*ck for that.

We have an away goal, and a world class player sitting on the bench getting off on looking at burger menus on UberEats when he could be helping us put this to bed. If we don’t fully wrap this up in this leg, without him, to justify this nonsense about not wanting to make him tired, then I will have a smoke detector (like the ones in aeroplane toilets) that also delivers an electric shock, sewn surgically into Sarri’s ball sack so that he can never have a moment of peace. Ever. Again.

Frankfurt looked leggy at the restart. They’ve not actually won that many games of late. Fingers crossed our own unpredictable ineptitude doesn’t f*ck us out of a favourable result. Pause while Jorginho gets a headband. Presumably to protect everyone else from those bloody ears, bless him. 53 minutes and Ruben was off again, broke from midfield and left three for dust, got it back for the shot but it bounced off his shin and went over. Balls. Willian was next with a go, straight at the keeper and not enough power. Frankfurt were looking ropey and had delivered nothing going forward.

Hazard was stripped. This concept is thrilling on many levels if you are of a sausage persuasion. Meanwhile, Luiz had taken his sweeta*se time on a free kick. But it was so, so close to putting us ahead. They were picking up cards now, for trying to kill Ruben, among other things. Eden on for Willian. Our shiniest toy versus very tired looking opposition. Yet another corner thanks to The Beard on 62. He looked chirpier now that Hazard was on. To be honest he had really put a shift in thus far, with not a lot of personal reward to be had for his effort. They were still potentially dangerous if they could break, but passes were wayward and long, thankfully. It was like watching us in the mirror. Slightly flailing, not looking like scoring, giving the ball away and getting rapidly closer to disaster as the game went on. Excellent header by Luiz from an Eden free kick on 76, but dammit it went straight at the keeper. They were screaming for a penalty a minute later, but it appeared to come off The Beard’s chest. I’m just going to pause for a moment to visualise his chest …

The referee had had a reasonably good game. If we didn’t score again it would be a travesty as we had mashed them into a pulp in this half. They were hanging out of their a*ses. They came close on 80 but were wrongly flagged offside. No, Chelsea. No. Then Frankfurt started to stir again, as if they had got through the very worst of it. Once again Abraham’s complete lack of a sense of direction saved us on 84. Then they were coming at us again, however, no matter what their intentions were, they were dead on their feet, dogged by exhaustion and cramp and tortured with an extra five minutes.

So: I need a pair of nail scissors, some crocodile clips (just because I’m a sadist), a needle and thread, a smoke detector and some chloroform. That I’m pretty sure I can just convince him to smoke without any forceful application. Frankfurt will be muchly satisfied that they somehow managed to cling on by their fingernails to this tie. Well done Ruben Loftus-Cheek, who completely rose to the occasion in the biggest game of his career so far. We have broken a record, going 15 games unbeaten in this competition, but it doesn’t feel like much of an achievement given that this tie was there for the taking. Will be a nervy affair next week given that there were seven goals when Prague came to visit. Watford now. Deep joy. Deeney, who has eaten so many kebabs that his face has morphed into one. I’ll be bringing a small person with me who could do with a proper spoiling if you see me.