You know, in many respects Rafa the Ranta is right. What’s the point in a football team existing if its own fans are booing it, criticising it and relishing its failings? If the support from your own supporters is so fragile and counter-productive that playing away is preferable to playing at home then why bother turning up at all?

Hasn’t it been long enough? Shouldn’t we just swallow the bitter pill and realise that this is how things are? Besides, surely to win the argument now and get Rafa sacked would be a classic case of cutting off your nose to spite your face? We’re the ones who would really suffer, we’re the ones who’d miss out on Champions League football. We’d be the laughing stock, not him. And also, didn’t we make this mistake once before, with Avram?

But in spite of his lucid comments and accurate assessment of Chelsea’s predicament, Rafa’s rant overlooked one golden fact: football fans are idiots. That’s right, you, me, that bald guy whose head you kissed, we’re all idiots. We turn up every week with eyes filled with delusion and hope. We believe when Nando is one-on-one with keeps that he’s actually going to hit it this time. We foam with rage when an offside goal is given against us, Twattenberg, but then clutch our bellies and chortle when the same injustice is visited on anyone else. We’re inconsistent hypocrites, we’re self-righteous, we’re greedy. At best we’re deluded escapists while at worst we’ll gladly ignore racism for loyalty.

In other words we’re a bunch of children. And if anyone knows anything about children it’s that you don’t let them know when they’re pissing you off. Because if you do, then they’re just going to do it more.

Rafa’s big mistake was not moaning about being an interim manager. Who cares? Everybody’s interim at Chelsea. Roman’s got the attention span of a teenaged girl with twitter on her laptop, facebook on iPhone and a QVC nail varnish special on channel 27. You last more than six months at Chelsea only because Roman hasn’t come out of the loo yet.

But Rafa, come on, getting wound up by a bunch of banners and some booing? Please. That’s like losing your rag because the fat kid at the back of the class keeps snorting and swallowing his phlegm. You even raise an eyebrow and he’s going to start bubbling that shit.

So Rafa’s basically blown it. There’s no helping him now. And yet deep down, I actually think that this might help. I think the lack of equivocation might just release the real Rafa, the one who’s in this for Rafa, and fuck all the rest. I’d like to see him come out, raise two fingers to us at the Bridge and say hey, fuck you Chelsea, I’m getting paid, and I’m staying here. And you know what? In spite of your booing, I’m going to win the FA cup. Why? Just to piss you off, you English pigs.

I’d like to see the fans create ever more creative and xenophobic chants to wind him up, to laugh at his waistline and to provoke him into even greater victories. And above all I’d like to see the rest of the football league grind their teeth in frustration as we bring home a sixth FA cup in thirteen years, sack our manager and sign up for an eleventh consecutive season at the king’s table.

So let’s get the ball rolling:

He’s Fat, he’s Camp, we’re gonna make him rant. Ben-I-Tez! Ben-I-Tez!
He’s In, Terim, he’ll never see the Spring, Ben-I-Tez! Ben-I-Tez!

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