Barrow. Chelsea. There couldn’t be more of a gap, could there? The Blues were imperious in their win at our place back in autumn, and, despite their losing the likes of Mikkel, Drogba, etc, etc, to the Cup of Nations, and thus having to rely on rubbish like Anelka, they could still manage to put a decent (!) side out. We’d arrived nicely at Park Lane in time to find a gem in the Carpenters Arms, just behind Marble Arch, where I was threatened with legal action (honestly) by an aged Geordie exile. He’d mistaken the cricket commentary team for Alan Hansen, rattled on to the bemused barmaid about the merits of McKeag, Shepherd, and Westwood, and took exception to my comments that they were a bunch of thieves.

You get the daft buggers everywhere.

Rain, rain, and I’m not going to moan about that because we’ve had enough of the snow, which has now gone, leaving carrots and scarves all over the place, but I will moan about the stewarding outside the ground. I don’t mind having my ticket checked, I don’t really mind having it checked again ten feet later, because it’s still in my hand. No matter how much they smile and how pleasant they are, the third check is a wee bit irritating, and my comments (ludicrous though they may be) of “this is a bit over the top” were met with a body search – fair enough, I don’t like it, but I’ll put up with it – and a load of grief along the lines of “if you don’t like it, I might change my mind and not let you in. Look at me when I’m talking to you, geezer.” Needless to say, when I got to the automatic turnstile and asked where to put the ticket, the two yellowcoats there just looked their feet and said nothing. I’ll be on the phone tomorrow to ask what the ferk they think they’re trying to achieve. I wonder how rigorously they checked Bob Murray, who was just behind?

If I thought that was bad, there was ninety minutes of rhubarb-quality shite to follow.

Fulop
Bardsley Cana Da Silva McCartney
Steed Meyler Henderson Murphy
Jones Bent

If you’re totally honest, and look at that line up, the only two you’d be 100%happy with in their positions are Jones and Bent. And so it proved, as, after the first few minutes when it was end to end, we simply weren’t at the races. They’d done the usual body-check on Jones, broken upfield, and Anelka waltzed around Fulop for the first. Well, still eighty-odd minutes to go, there was a chance….was there my arse. The defence stood like Doggarts dummies soon after to allow the second, with Fulop hopelessly stuck to his line, then Ashley Cole twazzled into the box and scored one that will probably get onto Goal of the Month, but was more to do with our ineptitude than his undoubted ability. We did manage a decent break down the right which ended with George shooting over when it came to the left, and Bardo also fired high, but we were chasing shadows really. Chelsea quite rightly took their foot off the gas and relaxed, trying backheels, flicks, and anything else that came to mind. Cana is a decent fill-in at centre half, but he simply isn’t up to the job of first-choice defender against a proper attack. A central midfield with a combined age of less than forty and with under twenty appearances between them just isn’t good enough against the likes of Chelsea. They waved their pathetic club-manufactured and carefully placed club banners, we parodied Phil Brown and sang “I wanna go home, I wanna go home, this is the worst trip I’ve ever been on.” Those of us of a more mature status compared the game with the infamous West Ham 8-0.

Half time came and went, and the steward inside the ground showed commendable humour when I repeatedly asked if Chelsea had scored again – see, it can be done – before Zenden was on for Steed, and he was quickly in the thick of things as Jones headed down Bent’s pass and he controlled and volleyed home. Whoo-hoo! We’re gonna win six five. Oh no we’re not. As soon as we did anything good, they did something better. Bardsley shot over, Ron and I swapped glasses to see what it looked like from a different perspective, but it looked no better – if a bit blurred. When Bent put in our second, I was stopped from clashing the empty seat next to me (its occupant, who’d driven down from Bradford and “treated” his son to a ticket) as it might irritate other supporters, apparently. Perhaps he could have had a word with Bruce about how irritating our performance was? Why wasn’t Steed played in the centre, where his experience could have been put to better use? Fulop had produced a howler of McDonagh proportions for their sixth, and Lampard had time to polish his boots and pick his nose before scoring the seventh. Young Darren from our bus is a centre half, has the bent nose to prove it, and could have put in an acceptable shift amongst that lot. Campbell replaced Murphy as we threw caution to the winds – hahahahahahahahah. Give over man.

OK, Chelsea have had loads more money to spend than us, but they can cope with having a defender of such limited ability as Alex, a second half sub, but we have a load of central defenders on our books but could find none up to the job. Da Silva might be as cool as you like, but alongside Cana (see above) and against the likes of Anelka, he was hopelessly lost. No blame can be levelled against Bent and Jones, but of the rest there wasn’t really a performance to be anything other than sorry about. Murphy doesn’t do much wrong, he just doesn’t do much. Steed was isolated because of an ineffective central midfield, and I’ve mentioned the central defence already. Both fullbacks were tortured by Chelsea’s patient and precise play, and Joe Cole should really be locked up for the way he made us look like amateurs.

All of this made for a very, very long journey home. The home fans I bumped into in the offy while buying crisps were gracious almost to the point of being apologetic, but it did little to cheer me up. Neither did Jason Statham in his shitty shoot-em-up film on the bus, but he could probably have put in a performance for us.

Man of the Match? Zenden, who should have been on from the start. Bad, bad day at the office for Mr Bruce, who should be able to organise his team better than that.

Keep the faith

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