This is a big deal. Regulars will remember that not only is Sexpest really old. (You might recall the virginity story about the woman born in the reign of Queen Victoria, or the accidental Facebook spamming that made him look like he was trying to groom 214 of his fourteen year old granddaughter’s friends) He’s so old school he went to his first Chelsea game in 1953, but he is currently scrapping with two types of cancer and a dickie heart. So it was damn good to see him today, as his outings have been all too rare of late.

In the News: Literally every move Hazard makes is recorded and scrutinised by the press plebs. Last week he shook his head when someone hollered through his car window at a red light and asked him to stay. Or, in the world of what actually happened he was looking at the road, turned to face them when they shouted and then he was checking to see if the lights had changed. Because that’s what you do when you’re driving.

Ovrebo has given an interview slathered in self pity ten years on from THAT game. “I became the biggest fool in world football.” Well, you earned it. Also bemoaning that that game cost him a place officiating at the World Cup in South Africa. Boo f*cking hoo. Police gave him an escort to the plane. That should remind you just how bad it was. Four penalties and a Barcelona red card. I remember my brother letting out a hulk roar and chucking his free flag on the pitch along with several hundred other people by the time Ballack was chasing the Norwegian up the pitch towards The Shed threatening to rip his balls off and shove them down his throat. Never have I been to a football game, other than that, when you just turn to each other and say: “It doesn’t matter what we do, this guy has decided we are not going to win this game.” One of his remarks was that he struggled to stay calm when Ballack was going off at him. I’m not surprised. I think I’d rather have a Panzer tank run over my foot. He says he got to the dressing room at full time and thought “OK Tom Henning, this has not been your best night.” Astute f*cker wasn’t he? Just not on the pitch. Unless the penny finally dropped when Drogba screamed “it’s a f*cking disgrace” at the TV cameras. Ive got angry again just writing about it. Unsurprisingly, UEFA told him not to talk about it because they just wanted to sweep the whole controversy under the rug. Dicks.

Latest appeal against transfer ban fails. Now we got to the Court of Arbitration for Sport. Apparently we are looking at leaving Stamford Bridge to cut costs. Though this comes from the same “Sports Newspaper of the Year” that claimed we’d been knocked out of the Europa League on penalties this week. We’ve busted our usual over 30s transfer policy to offer Luiz a two year deal. This made me all nostalgic. Do you remember when he first signed and he only knew “Come on Chelsea” and “Geezer” in English? Apparently we are set to bring Zouma back from loan. News indeed. Like we do with 99.9% of loanees at the end of a season. Oh and we’re the only club dumb enough to be trying to buy Coutinho right now. Because nothing gives Chelsea a boner more than a goal scorer who can’t score goals. Granville (sitcom alias) wants us to sell Willian. Says he’d rather spend the money on Cup-a-Soups and Monster Munch than keep him. Morata wishes Gary Cahill a happy retirement. Only for Alonso to have to point out he’s not retiring. Dumba*se. Is it in any wonder Atletico are baulking at the thought of paying for the privilege of having him pout and Instagram his way through life at theirs next season? Tag is £15m. If they’re stropping at that, how do they think we feel?!

I have nothing against Baku, I’d like to visit one day. But urgh. Here we go. UEFA. Here’s some maths for you which illustrates how utterly corrupt the b*stards are. 1,000 is about the minimum number of pounds it will cost you to get to the final. 5,700 is the return distance in miles. LONDON IS CLOSER TO BAGHDAD. But you’ll have to travel further than that, because there are no direct flights. 8 is the number of miles that separate Stamford Bridge and The Emirates, for those who like their ranting with a dose of irony. Even if you wanted to do all of this, there are only 5,800 tickets for each set of fans in a 70,000 seater stadium. UEFA put out a statement about this that basically says “we aren’t giving you any tickets because you can’t get there.” That showed zero remorse for having picked a f*cking stupid venue for a European final. In Asia. 19 is the number of days you have to sort a visa out, because there is no Moscow-style waiver setup. And it’s on a f*cking Wednesday. Added to that, there are security concerns. Oh and Mikhitarian is Armenian, so he can’t play. If a player can’t get there … The Azerbaijan government are wiling to let him in, but realistically it’s going to be the equivalent of a christian walking into the coliseum to find Russell Crowe grinning at him with a whopping great big sword in his hand.

Madrid set to freeze Bale out. What, because they’ve been so warm and friendly to him this season? Inter and Juve apparently chasing Sanchez. What the f*ck for? I can only assume that he owes them money, because it certainly can’t be because they want him to play football.

The Others: None of us have to emigrate. Huzzah! 97 points, 89 goals, only one defeat, and no trophy. Glorious. They had a chance for a ten point lead at one stage. Klippity and Co. were gracious in defeat, but it will always be their fans that make it such an overwhelmingly gratifying moment when the hope dissolves and they realise that once again it’s not their year. Not the instant gratification of the Demba Ba moment, I grant you; but a slow motion, gradual face plant in a pungent, toxic, red cloud of delusion and self-aggrandisement that led to fantasy scenes of pubs full of Scousers celebrating one moment and then clocking Aguero’s equaliser, realising that it was slipping out of their grasp and actually being speechless for the first time in the much yapped about history of their gagworthy football club.

Don’t shoot Vinny! No!!! Thank f*ck he did. Because he saved us from global Armageddon last Monday against Leicester. A petition was launched by the Red Scouse to investigate Iheanacho’s miss. Probably. Kompany’s goal deserved to win that game, no matter how nervy they were. “A moment like Barcelona was worth more than silverware,” said Klippity Klopp prior to today. He’s obviously being shot up with whatever delusional anti-truth serum gets pumped into everyone’s veins the second they arrive  they for a medical. Either that or Michael Owen awaits every new arrival with a bloody effective crash course in how to become an instant tedious b*stard. On the coach we were debating whether he has sex with his missus like he presents football. We surmised she counts the cracks in the ceiling while he drones on about his glory days or his racehorses in that monotonous voice until the memory of that goal against Argentina in 1998 makes him spunk a little damp puff of air and then she can get on with the housework.

Though I like the fact that there was a podium at Anfailed just in case. And fake winners medals. I hope they nick them all only to find they’re made of chocolate. Their tedious fans were declaring that they deserved a trophy for finishing second. I can fashion something out of a Bertie dump if they like. From his litter tray to their trophy cabinet. Can’t say it better than Shankly. If you’re first, you’re first. If you’re second you’re nothing. Mwhahahahahhahaha. (Evil panto laugh) 

United are on the scrap heap. They have to qualify for the Europa League. Cardiff’s first goals at Old Trafford since Sp*rs weren’t famous for being Sp*rsy, like, a century ago. Sacked in the morning they were singing. The defending for the second Welsh goal was so bad that it was like watching half a dozen Carry On films rolled into one. Pogba was channelling Diego today, but without being scary. Apart from the awarding of a permanent contract to the Norwegian God of Bullsh*t (new alias) the Mancs turned down De Ligt, one of the Ajax starlets. Because his dad is fat. Their players are so embarrassed by themselves that they didn’t want to go to their own awards dinner. The answer to their defensive woes is Slabhead from Leicester apparently, though they’ve got to fight off clubs who aren’t staring down the barrel of a lit 32lb cannon. Out of the whole world of football. Slabhead. They might as well have just bloody kept Jonny Evans for all the chance they’ve got of pulling that off. Sancho reportedly p*ssed himself laughing when he found out they seriously wanted him to go there. NGoB has already declared that anybody who isn’t fit for pre-season doesn’t get to go on tour. Does that mean he’ll have to be fit to do his job too?

In other teams that finished below us, fancy having to go all the way to a dump like Turf Moor on the last day when nothing you do will make a difference or improve upon your general failure. Shame. Granit Xhaka thinks that all of the top six should get into the Champions League. He does realise that in that case L’Arse would just finish 7th? And Granville pointed out that based on all the nonsense Sp*rs hysteria in January, we were in the title race after all! Who came fourth in a three horse race?

Them: I met Foxy. Foxy is a dead fox that one of their fans wears on his head. This actually looks much better than it sounds. The stuffed head sits on his cap and then the rest of him flops down the back like a Davy Crockett hat – he wears a little shirt and everything. Very cute. It’s 60 years old so he predates Sp*rs’s last title win, which was a long, long, LONG time ago, when people weren’t so tree huggy. Secondly it’s a fox, and they’re b*stards anyway. Judging by the expression on his face he went out fighting, anyway. And now he’s famous. Like a dead impressionist who nobody heard of when they were breathing.

Us: Caballero, Luiz, Dave, Zappacosta, Alonso, Jorginho, Barkley, Loftus-Cheek, Willian, Pedro Pony, Higuain. Which is my way of saying: lots of changes.

Before they thanked their own fans, we got a lovely reception and congratulations from the club and the home support for making the Europa League final. They weren’t loving us so much on two minutes when Slabhead nodded off, Barkley whipped round the back of the defence and got a shot off. There was a little flurry from them at the start but then we started to get into it. Willian was particularly spritely with a European final on the horizon. It was like watching Malouda when he realised his contract was about to expire. Let’s not be cynical though. There was a chance for a few to make an impression with Baku looming.

Low shot from Little Willy on 13 minutes, but not enough on it and it went straight to the keeper. While they took it back off for another go at us, both ends of the ground were in last day party mode. The away support was having a merry time bantering with the yokels, sorry, locals. Curse We’ve won it all ditty, to which they responded You’ve never won League One. My point exactly. 17 and Jorginho played a neat ball out to Pedro Pony with the outside of his foot, but his attempt at a volley was scuffed and then they whacked the side netting. In truth we were all more interested in what everybody else was doing.

City still 0-0 and the Scouse were ahead. Certain quarters at Anfailed were getting a little ahead of themselves. Edgy moments in the away end back at the King Power. And a fair bit of the home crowd too. Won’t someone come and deliver us from this nightmare before it’s too late? Big cheer for Cardiff winning at Old Trafford, as attentions turned to Loftus-Cheek.

(To Push It, but Salt & Pepa) 
Been Chelsea since youth – but couldn’t get a game
On loan at Palace – it just wasnt the same
In centre-mid now – he’s playing every week
Lewisham Ballack – it’s Ruben Loftus-Cheek
Du du du du du du it’s Ruben Loftus-Cheek
Du du du du du du it’s Ruben Loftus-Cheek

Hang on. Stop everything. BRIGHTON WHAT THE F*CK ARE YOU DOING?!

Bugger our game, now everyone is singing Come on Citeh and We hate Scousers

We only had to wait a few minutes for Pep and his minions to get their sh*t together. In came Aguero to bitchslap Scouse celebrations in the face. It’ was like this script was being written by an Evertonian with a chip on his shoulder big enough to defeat Sam Allardyce’s appetite. Rapturous celebrations from us and plenty of Leicester, followed by much gloating in the shape of the Demba Ba ditty and Have you ever seen Gerrard win the league?

Pretty much zero attention being paid to our game until we celebrated a Vardy effort being headed right at Big Willy. Hard cheese rat face, but really we should have been concentrating, because, after all, the Sp*ds were winning and we wanted to finish third. It was dead even at the moment, but not entertaining. They weren’t matching each other, just cancelling each other out. Just over from Pedro Pony, then quick reactions from Zappacosta in the box on 36 to deny them a close range chance.

At Brighton, Laporte had cannoned out of nowhere and headed the ball downwards into the net. Bet 365 pinged me, so where we were stood, we were already singing when the City goal went up on the screen. Back to the top they went. Get in. Vardy in on 44. Off he sprinted, then he played one of the worst f*cking crosses you’ve ever seen and in the end Big Willy lay dry humping the ball and somehow we still weren’t losing. In the meantime Ruben had come close again, before in injury time, Barkley played the ball through to Higuain for a sitter. Which he missed. As they walked off the pitch there was a rampant chorus of Oh Tammy Tammy, Tammy Tammy Tammy Tammy Abraham. 

Do you know what we don’t get any credit from the Daily Fail and other sh*trags of its ilk for as Chelsea fans? The complete ease and open mindedness with which we have embraced the idea of gender fluid toilets. Every game I go to a game there are random chaps wandering round the ladies, and it’s just become as accepted by all involved. Nobody even bats an eyelid anymore.

The second half began with a long range effort leathered by Tielemans, but it was a choppy start to the second half, and the crowd needed to get going again. Lots of niggly fouls from them.  Barkley shanked one just wide on 52, while we got big love from most of our end for Hazard as he came out to warm up. If they loved him that much they might have collectively noticed that it was in fact Kovacic running up and down. Yeah, we’d know that a*se anywhere, and that was not it. Nonetheless there were the needy chants of We want you to stay, they came back with He’s off to Madrid, to which they got back Eden Hazard, he won you the league and so on. That got a round of applause. Then the real Eden actually did come out to warm up. Another one off the line from Zappacosta. That’s two in a week. We could have maybe had a chance on 59 if our striker had you know, tried to strike the ball in the box instead of watching it rolling out of play until the fans screamed at him. At which point he began a derogatory jog.

You know the song, Love Will Tear Us Apart? Joy Division?
Sp*rs, Sp*rs are falling apart again. 
They were winning. Then not winning. Then losing. Then not losing. Either way, if Everton hung on to a draw, we would finish above the jobbers even if we didn’t score. And frankly, by this point Sexpest had a better chance of scoring than any player out there on either side.

We were still having a go, but it was very shoddy in the final third and we’d lost interest in the stands. Well, I had. Clearance by Slabhead on 81. Lame penalty shout by us on 82. Then it was Operation Sexpest. He’s on wheels at the moment, and I had to go and find him as the clock ticked down in order to deliver him back to his coach. There he was basking in the sunshine in his chair, close enough to the pitch that Higuain would have heard his brutal opinion when he let the ball roll out. He’d made a friend too. She’s been going to Chelsea since 1959 and thus reserves the right to tell any player she likes that he is being a dickhead. She exercised this right on half the team in the last five minutes. This was after the stewards at Leicester (who were very nice to our disabled fans today by the way) tried to inform her that we were out of wheelchair spaces, that she’d have to sit with the home fans and not cheer if we scored. She told them to f*ck off. The fact that she was kitted head to toe in Chelsea gear, as was her mobility thingy, probably made the argument ever so slightly redundant. Anyway, they had a fab time together, and with the stewards. On the final whistle I decided to wheel Sexpest as close to the pitch as possible, in the hope that a player would pay attention to him. Thank you David Luiz and Marcos Alonso, for making him feel special and ensuring that he got a shirt from the former. Being the weirdo perv that he is, the first thing he did was sniff it. Then he made me sniff it. Our number 30 smells remarkably un-offensive at the end of a game of football.

So: I’ll dissect our season properly in the book of the blog, after Baku, but suffice to say on the plus side, we were never going to beat the top two after what they spent, with a new manager when theirs have had a few years to acclimatise to the Premier League. They were the only two that finished ahead of us. And we made two finals, might possibly take a European trophy. Glass half full, though Smutbuddy on the Fancast is going to literally soil himself out of rage when he sees that I’ve written that. In miserable bugger mode, Sarri hinted that catching the Scouse or City is basically impossible. We could discuss everything bad there is about him now, and what’s been wrong with us this season, but I’m too busy p*ssing myself laughing at the Scouse and it’s a buzz kill. Soon my pretties, soon.

On to Baku we go. Well, half a dozen or so fans might make it. This is a conversation with my one Gooner friend:
“I don’t want Hazard having a good leaving party!!”
“Don’t worry, we’re going to have to try and keep him off the burgers for seventeen days.”
“I’m on Deliveroo sorting him out now!”

As for Sexpest, we delivered him home safe and sound. Actually thrilled and chirping away like an excited kid about his day out. He even ended up with two of us briefly in his bedroom, so he was happy. He’s determined that he’s going to be walking in and out of games next season, so channel your best wishes, pray for him, send him dirty pictures or some Scouse bashing memes; whatever, anything you can to keep his spirits up and restore him to full filthy git mode. Because he’s adamant that he’s not going to be beaten. And we love him and we want him back.