My old nan once told me that cheaters never prosper. She lied.
In the News: It’s been about 48 hours since the last blog, so don’t get too excited. For a start, the fact that the FA fiddle the fixtures every year is not news. It’s f*cking obvious. West Brom deserved to go down if they weren’t going to give Moore the job had he saved them. He must be seriously hacked off. This is in a week when Gerrard got the Rangers gig when his only qualification for a job in Scotland is that he’s proved adept at bottling people in the past. Incidentally, they claim he needs one title to make Celtic’s dominance collapse like a pack of cards. No. What he needs is a f*cking miracle. Unless he’s a puppet and someone who knows what they are talking about is going to be doing all of the actual work.
Ferguson no longer needs intensive care. Relief. Apparently, the first thing has asked was how Doncaster did. God love ‘im, I could make a comment about how giving a crap about the Doncaster result is most definitely sign of a traumatic head injury, but let’s just be happy that he’s sitting up, doing well and heading towards the day he can amuse us all by watching Chequebook Pulis in action with a barely veiled look of disdain again. I’m going to miss Wenger. Arsenal are only two or three players away from winning the league next season, he says. Because he’s addled he forgot to add “in each position.” But at least “Hotel-gate” has proved hilariously entertaining. The Marriott at Swansea cancelled 40 rooms right before Southampton arrived for their relegation showdown citing a virus. That seemingly didn’t affect anyone else who was supposed to be staying there. Or anyone else who tried to then book a room. All hail whoever it was at Southampton who left the review on trip advisor. “Fortunately experience didn’t sour our trip. A business meeting was extremely productive!”
Transfer B*llocks: Well I suppose we’re almost there again aren’t we. FML as young people say. Because typing actual words has become too tiresome for humanity. We’re getting rid of Morata and we want Cavani, so say the Red Swarm. Apparently, someone asked Hazard if he is going to rejoin Chequebook Pulis at United.
1 Are they f*cking stupid? They hate each other.
2 He said “No chance.” Good boy. Though I expect them to write about it for another week anyway because they are lazy.
None of this has been endorsed by Blue Squirrel. Because he’s not on crack. One thing he has revealed this week is one of the candidates for manager that has been interviewed by the club. At least I’ve heard of him, and if you are looking for a hint, even my mum has heard of him, and he’s not Italian.
The Others: Stoke say they should have sacked Hughes sooner. No sh*t. West Brom are down too, which left Swansea, Southampton and Huddersfield in trouble as far as the last drop-spot goes. Southampton took a step closer to safety last night despite having to camp in a field with a load of sheep. Huzzah. Because I like Southampton, and because Hughes will probably still be out of a job there come November anyway when everyone on the south coast realises that he’s really sh*t at his job.
Us: Lots of rotation. For no clear reason that I can fathom. Six changes to a side that played out of their skin at the weekend. Totally. Unnecessary. Caballero for Courtois, Morata back in. Zappacosta instead of Moses, Willian comes back into the side, as does Pesto in place of Hazard and Bakayoko. Christensen comes in for Cahill.
Them: Honestly, I couldn’t name any of them off the top of my head of you offered me a night with Charlie Austin. Usually, you’d expect to see some fading star on his way down the leagues or a relegation fodder mercenary like a Barton or a Diouf jogging about trying to stay out of the championship, but nope.
Lots of the ball from kick off. Role reversal after Sunday, we were the ones playing it from side to side and not achieving a lot. First half decent cross on four minutes almost came to something, before Alonso almost hit it through the keeper on five, but it was blocked, Morata couldn’t quite get there on the follow-up. Willian had another from range on nine minutes but it was wide. They didn’t look like they had a lot to offer at all going forward, we were witnessing a real gulf in class, but since when has that ever stopped us shooting ourselves in the foot? Another chance on 10 and another on 11. Their fans were cheering successful tackles and throw-ins, the time wasting was atrocious but they were at least enjoying themselves. Kante amused himself by running past their whole team on twenty minutes, and we looked the better side, but we hadn’t actually looked like scoring. And Refwatch: Lee Mason was trying everything possible to give them a leg up, including letting them kick seven shades of sh*t out of Little Willy. Equally, it might be that he is too fat to be a professional referee. His cousin, the slaphead in front of the west stand with the flag, was equally bad.
This had become one of those cup ties where you play a team from another league and they drag you down to their level. One goal and I thought the floodgates might open. And we nearly had it on 29 when Morata managed to pull the ball around and smack it towards the bottom corner. Damn it.
“Alex,” someone tweeted me. “I know we had our chances, but when you get done with Lee Mason in your match report I don’t want his mother to be able to recognise him.”
Someone hold my f*cking drink.
33. note the time. Mason gives a free kick in Chelsea’s favour. His measurement of ten yards is criminal. He’s so knackered by the eighth step that he looks like a dog dragging its arse across the ground after it’s taken a sh*t.
Their keeper was really getting on my tits now. The entire crowd was on his back about how long it was taking to put the ball into play. It was like watching Sam Allardyce after a midnight orgy in a pie factory as he slothed his way up to the ball to do anything. The only oblivious person in the ground? Mason. Dumbly staring at events like Harry Kane trying to work out how to open an automatic door. No, I lie. He warned him. On about twenty minutes and then let him carry on doing it for another hour. Note also the pre-halftime stoppage for someone in red rubbing their thigh after he’d waved off three fouls on Chelsea players. The reason? The honed specimen that was the referee, yes him that wasn’t within twenty yards of the action if the ball was moving, wanted to stop for a f*cking drink and a kebab. Then followed it up with a beer and a fag. It has been a while since we’ve witnessed such an artless performance from an official at the bridge, and this was just the beginning.
40 minutes and we almost stung them, when Morata just ran out of a viable angle and cut it across the face of the goal. There then ensued another pretend injury from the away side.
Someone pointing at his toe and crying. Chris Lowe, whoever the f*ck that is. Alf Garnett (sitcom alias) swears that he won a place in the side in the Huddersfield Lottery. Runner-up gets a cabbage. Two minutes of extra time. P*ss take. As a Terrorist Steve (special alias) pointed out. Each goal kick has taken two minutes.
But, we said, at least the twat let it run to cover our free kick and corner too. Well, at least he pretended to. When Willian finally received the ball from the away crowd, he waited for him to get to the corner and then blew the f*cking whistle. Where the f*ck is Jon Moss when you want him Jesus, I’d take Bobby Madley right now. This could only be worse if someone fished out Overbo at halftime.
If we play the second half to 50% of our ability, said I, then we should annihilate these halfwits. They didn’t want to play football, they wanted to just not concede and flail to the end. If we score first they’ve had it. The teams emerged. So did Lee Mason with the remnants of a pint of Stella and some chilli sauce dribbling down his chin.
Then they were ahead, and Caballero was lying dead on the floor, having been fouled. Mason, I should point out, was still in their half. He had missed one on Willian too. PGMOL would literally be better off if they piled up his £80,000 salary and set fire to it. They wouldn’t have to faff about working out the dickhead’s national insurance contribution. After a five minute lapse in which Mason consumed two cheesecakes and a jäger bomb to keep himself going, the time-wasting, feigning injury and general cheating got worse. When the referee is awarding fouls on the basis of whether he needs a breather or not, you’re f*cked.
Within a couple of minutes of their goal Conte had brought on The Beard to partner with Morata at the expense of a right wing back. I’m not giving him any credit for this, because for me he went full bunny boiler tonight. Joking about Mason aside, had our manager actually just played the f*cking team that caned Liverpool instead of unnecessarily changing half of them just for sh*ts and giggles for people that have barely played, then we probably wouldn’t have been in this situation. We could have been 3-0 up by halftime. Judging by the rage coming off of everyone on the train to Wimbledon, this was a strong consensus, and people have had enough of him.
For his change to have any impact we were going to have to actually rediscover the art of passing a football. And stop giving the ball back to a side that just want to lie on the floor holding it till they can go home. I’m usually pretty pleased to see Hazard stripping off. Even more so today just before the hour mark. Pesto made way.
We were now playing with two defenders. Full assault on their goal. There wasn’t a Huddersfield player within twenty yards of the halfway line. 1-1 Alonso, who’d spent most of the match playing as a striker because there was no need for him to defend. He knew as little about it as we did. Who f*cking cares.
It’s amazing what you can do with half the team playing up front.
64:39 we got a free kick. Probably because Mason needed another fag. If we were Sp*rs we’d make a DVD about it. At this point, Huddersfield were already pretending to have cramp and trying to employ every last ditch time-wasting method known to football. Point of reference for their manager, this isn’t “passion” or “spirit.” It’s embarrassing. If Lee Mason had once shown a card, or waved this nonsense on this need not have been the case. But Lee Mason is a c*nt. He was still giving their keeper friendly warnings about time-wasting on 70 minutes. He didn’t book him until 87.
Boycie was taking out his rage on my bag of jelly babies by biting the heads off them. 82 was the moment for the winner if it was going to happen. The ball did everything but cross the line. If we were Harry Kane or the Red Scouse, they probably would have given us a goal.
So: If Lee Mason were a racehorse, you’d shoot him. Brace yourself for a spate of whippets being named in his honour up north. Had Conte picked a side properly, instead of treating this must-win match like a contempt ridden league cup tie in September then tonight would have been very different. Huddersfield employed every dirty trick in the book to manipulate a result out of this game and it worked, just, in large part because the game was shat all over by an appalling referee. The Red Swarm are going to write this up like they were f*cking gladiators and that this is what football is all about it. Don’t believe a word. It was a travesty for the Premier League because a long-standing representative that actually comes to play football is going to go down this weekend to make room for more of this dross next year.
We’ll all be supporting Brighton come the weekend. In the hope that Conte doesn’t do the same again. I’d hate to think it was a parting shot, I think he’s a better person than that. I am however quite looking forward to seeing the back of him now. Ten months of his tantrums, whining and sulking has taken its toll.
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