Well, it's Sunday morning and I'm almost dry from the tears and rainfall yesterday afternoon. Having travelled down in comfort with yet another set of first class tickets on the train, we were bright and early in the capital. All plans of a careful start went up the spout when we found a new watering hole at St Pancras that was open at half ten, so it would have been rude to pass it by. From there we made our way to Earls Court for the real breakfast and met up with a load of SAFC people at the Cauldfield before being badly directed from the tube and having to walk a couple of miles to the Bridge.
 
Then it all went wrong.
 
I'm not sure if I agree with Keane when he spits his dummy out, which he clearly had after the Stoke business. No place for Collins (a bit harsh) so Noz was back, and no place for Cisse and a start for Waghorn. A quick synopsis of the game would read "Started quite poorly and got steadily worse" and that would be quite accurate. Fulop failed to hold onto a cross cum shot from their right, and the ball was there to be knocked in for the opener. Then there looked to be a hint of offside (he said, to the sound of straws being clutched) before the second, and more than a hint of a tug in the build up to the third. We did win the game's first corner, but didn't manage to trouble the fluorescent Cech.
 
So that was the first half over with, and more than a few gave up and went into town. We brought on Diouf and Henderson to shake things up a bit, but it simply didn't work. Chelsea were better in every department, and the contest quickly became a sing-off between the fans. We won that one hands down, but that doesn't put any points on the table. If there were any races, we weren't at them, and Chelsea showed what you get when you spend as much on individuals as we've spent on a team, with Anelka (never the hardest worker in the world) strolling his was to a hat-trick and Lampard notching his 100th Premier League goal. Apparently, my second half text of "bugger" arrived at Juith's phone at an inopportune moment during the matinee performance of Mary Poppins in Edinburgh. Well, shit happens.
 
A brief description of a game we were never in, and just as well, as Keane's tactics smacked of "we're gonna get beat, so I'll try some daft stuff" in the style of McCarthy a few years back.
 
If that wasn't bad enough, we got soaked on the way to the tube, some nutter threw themselves in front of a train somewhere, and several thousand people had to be ushered back up the steps and out into the rain. Following police directions, we walked about three miles, my shoes fell to bits (hence the orange feet you luckily can't see) and we got back to the hotel four stones (all water) heavier. At least the turn at the Blues club in Soho was canny, and the room didn't let in water.
 
Man of the Match? Oh, probably Richardson again, but please feel free to make your own choices.
 
Who put the ball in the Sunderland net? Half of f***ing Chelsea.
 
Keep the faith

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