FA Cup Sixth Round: Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0
Monday 13th March 2017 20:00
For lots of people, real life means that their presence at Stamford Bridge ebbs and flows over the years according to work and family commitments. We all have friends who love Chelsea every bit as much as we do, but who for whatever reason can’t get to games as often as they’d like. I dedicate this blog to Patsy (Ab Fab, new alias) who took advantage of the cup to join Boycie, Marlene and I tonight. Patsy and I went to our first ever Chelsea games together, when everyone else at our school was into lacemaking and putting braids in their hair. And talking about their skiing holidays. The first time we went away was to West Ham in the late 90s. We told our mums we were going shopping. Needless to say hilarity ensued. When we scored the guy to our left celebrated by grabbing Patsy’s substantial boobs and clinging on for dear life. As she was being bounced up and down she was shouting “I’m only 14!” (She’d kill for this action right now) Then we got grounded I think. Good times. Anyway, I digress.
In the News: Pep has been given a block of gaudy plastic to commemorate his Manager of the Month triumph. Yes, for beating Swansea, Bournemouth and West Ham is surely a triumph worthy of commemoration. What a pile of sh*t. You can tell by his face in the photograph of him with his future doorstop of a trophy that he’s just embarrassed. Still some silverware for this season! He really was as good as they all said.
Ah. “Wexit” protests. The most hilarious thing to come out of the Emirates since, well since they were stuffed with more force than Bernard Matthews violating a turkey by Bayern last Tuesday night. The more this faction of spoilt twats bleat about their “plight” the more I want to line them up and go one by one along the row slapping them with a large, wet fish. Suggest considering what fans of Wimbledon, Charlton, Blackburn, Hull etc. have had to endure recently and then shutting the f*ck up. Three quarters of the league would kill to make the Champions League once, let alone the knockout stages every year. To them your whining is offensive. Also suggest that perhaps evidence of performance in this and league over last decade implies that your club just isn’t quite as big as you think it is. You’ve won the FA Cup twice. And nothing else. Portsmouth almost did that. Completely justifies my label of the Wenger Out brigade as London equivalent of delusional Scousers living in past. That said, watching you melt down is hilarious from our point of view, so as you were.
The Others: City went through to the cup semi-finals, as did the Goons after an amusing opening half hour that saw Wenger crap his stained, old man y-fronts and send on Ozil. Scary. Sp*rs haven’t had to travel further than Fulham in the competition this year. I didn’t expect a shock in the North London ghetto, but I wanted a ton of broken limbs and Millwall-style carnage and within eight minutes Harry F*cking Kane (Try saying it without an obscenity, it’s impossible) limped off clutching his glass ankle. Shame. (Incidentally, when they then went on and on about him, within fourteen minutes my mum had uttered the words “God I’m sick of hearing that a*sehole’s name already.” Sometimes she makes me so proud) Worryingly, but fittingly, it looks as if their Secret Tossers’ Handshake is here to stay. Looks like something that a group of thirteen-year-old boys who have formed a wanking club might have come up with in between bouts of Call of Duty. I’m also reliably informed that they started practicing this twattery at the beginning of the season and that they’ve had to wait this long for Kane to learn it. He just kept drooling on everyone. There was precious little league action at the top end of the table this weekend. Burnley were attempting to do their first double in a season over the Scouse since the Queen was five and people thought it was a good idea to fill airships with Hydrogen. Right on Gary Neville for his scathing assessment of the whining sh*tc*nt that is Emre Canas Burnley went ahead in the vomit inducing, generally flaccid cauldron that is Anfield. “He bottled that. Just what you want from your holding midfielder. No wonder they concede goals.” He scored a winner, which hopefully means that he’ll survive another week in their side despite being a terrible footballer. Hurrah. But, I think we can now safely say that it is not the Scousers’ year. According to the oracle that is G-Nev (to use his rapper name, which I will do from now on because it amuses me to imagine him in a full tracksuit and wearing a gold medallion) they have only finished in the top four once in the last seven years. They are going to have to do better than they did today to achieve that this season. It was such a slow weekend that I even caught the second half of the Old Firm derby. I didn’t realise that Scott Sinclair had ended up at Celtic. Presumably he was been banished there as punishment for that monstrous hairdo that he has modelled on Ru-fi-oooo in Hook. I lived in Glasgow briefly. A one handed pirate with a curly wig and a giant crocodile that ticks is basically the sanest of what I’d expect to find in the East End at the weekend.
Our Game: It turns out HWWNBN lied about the extent of his injury crisis. What a surprise. At least Rojostarted, which meant that we had the tingly, warm and fuzzy possibility that some of our players had watched Chopper‘s bit on the cup coverage yesterday and fancied trying out of a few horrific tackles and possibly decapitating the vicious, filthy little turd at some point tonight, 1970s style. I find irony in being called a rent-boy by United fans when he looks like he could be earning a living dancing in a cage wearing nothing but a pair of spandex hot pants and a unicorn horn. I have gay friends that would place this in the category of awesome. For his part, Conte opted to put Matic back in the starting lineup over Fabregas. Pesto (eff off, iPhone auto spell) dropped down to the bench in favour of Willan minus his afro, which just doesn’t look right. (Not to mention he is going to get asked for ID everywhere he goes) One game away from Wembley there was no room for any of the squad players, it was a full strength side. (Insert generic whine from HWWNBN about how we can do this because we have had so few fixtures this season when he is largely the reason for this)
Anyway, we’ll come back to him later. We all went on a jaunt to the Matthew Harding Upper tonight. Did you know they have gin there? OK, sh*t gin, but gin all the same. Football is educational. Fact. As Rafawould say if he wasn’t still trying to figure out how his team got ripped apart by Fulham at home. Patsy did her back in. Patsy can’t exercise. Patsy is suffering unwanted weight gain. Patsy has discovered that she can still be a size 12 if she wears… wait for it… maternity leggings. She calls them her food pants. Because instead of a baby, she can stuff her face and fill the big elasticated waistband by eating more, and not have to be a size 14. There is a dark, evil genius about her, I know.
A lot of the early play was with United, and the first shot of the game was an off target one from Mkhitaryan (whose name I have cut and pasted from Wikipedia) after eleven minutes. After this, we started to play our way into the game, but unsurprisingly, it wasn’t easy to get going in the face of such a cynical setup from our ex-manager. There was a flurry of chances after a quarter of an hour, one of which required a good save from De Gea, but it was frustrating. Hazard looked up for this, and it felt like he might have one of those days when he winds the length of the pitch and does something amazing. If only Plan A for the opposition wasn’t to take it in turns to foul him. Let’s just get Refwatch over with. Michael Oliverbottled it tonight. Here is what should have happened: He should have cracked down on this cynical b*ll*cks straight away and by half time United probably would have had at least four players on a yellow as a result of persistently hacking him down; namely Herrera, Pogba, Jones and someone else whose name escapes me because I’m trying to stop a kitten from ripping open a rubbish bag. What actually happened, though, was that Oliver only booked one, Herrera. Then he let an embarrassing amount of incidents go, culminating in not booking Jones (I think) after what was clearly a yellow card offence. With the next ball, Herrera acts like a bellend and brings down Eden, again. He has to be booked, because it was the equivalent of listening to the ref’s warning and then pulling your pants down and mooning him. So instead of keeping control of the game and being consistent, Oliver has ended up sending someone off who probably wouldn’t have gone if the referee had have done his job properly up to that point and was in a position to use his discretion. He could actually just change his job title to “Pogba’s Bitch,” because how he had the audacity NOT to book him tonight for any of his dirty tackles defies belief. Still, sh*t happens and United were down to ten and ultimately they had nobody to blame but themselves for going down this yobbish route in the first place. It all kicked off and Conte gave as good as he got. I was willing HWWNBNto get sent to the stands at the Bridge. But let me get one thing straight. Laughing at his misfortune, his antics and his general misery gives me no end of entertainment. Some of this things he says want me to go for him like a rabid gerbil. But the man took us to our first title in half a century. He gave us two more. He deserved better than some of the stuff that was sung at him tonight. Especially when you consider we turned him out. Twice.
On our tour of the MHU we found ourselves right below the commentary box. Let me tell you something. The BBC analysis at half time was a farce. Know why? Because the only person watching the game was our Frank. Alan Shearer spent the whole half on his phone and Gary Lineker was stuffing his face (with Walkers, obviously) Also, Shearer was having his head powdered before they went back on air. I swear on Harry F*cking Kane’s ankle. After the break we’d fashioned two half chances in the first five minutes, one for Diego and one for Dave, but it was our little magician, Kante who broke the deadlock with an outstanding long range strike. One does not put those past De Gea easily. Patsy spent most of the second half leering over Eden Hazard like Homer Simpson salivating over a doughnut. “I hate children, but I’d have his babies,” she said. My response? “Well you’ve got the trousers for it.” Some shocking defending on the hour mark almost let the visitors in it. Luiz was undone, leaving Captain Cahill in a foot race with Rashford, but luckily Courtois blocked the shot after the United man’s rampage up the pitch. A minute later Diego headed wide, and Willian put another over the bar shortly afterwards. There was a naff penalty claim just afterwards, but screw that. In the run up to it, Costa literally took the ball off Pogba’s foot and walked away from him with it on the edge of the box. This is precisely the reason why he is not worth half of what they paid for him. Paying for potential is moronic. For nearly £100m you want a player to turn up and be outstanding barring a short period to settle in. He is categorically not.
So: United did their best to take the game to extra time, but in truth either with eleven men or ten they never looked like scoring tonight. On we go to Wembley. Kante is fast becoming the shiniest player in the country. Another stunning display from him tonight, one up against Pogba that made his criminally expensive countryman look very ordinary. Sp*rs up next for us at Wembley. Everyone else has roasted them there this season, I was starting to think we were going to be denied the chance. The double is still on, but there is some stiff opposition in our way. And Arsenal. Word of the day: Gangry. Hangry is when you are so hungry you are angry. Gangry is when you want gin desperately but there are 20,000 people in front of you in the queue for the tube.
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