Below are selected exerpts from my 2004-2005 Chelsea diary. To read this season's full diary, click here

2004-2005 SEASON DIARY

V WBA Tuesday 15th March

If we win this one we go 11 points clear. We should win this one easily because we are the best team in the country. But the pessimist and Chelsea fan of old that is me cringes at my confidence and fears the fates are toying with me and we'll lose every game from now on, including this one and the whole season will blow up in our faces. No. This won't be a pushover. But er hang on, it will be. They're fifty points below us. Fifty. I know they've improved under Bryan Robson, but narrr. It'll be a pushover. And it almost is. Except we hadn't factored in the Drogba equation. Tonight he played like a git. No, I'm being unfair to gits. Like a 'buffoon' as Olivia put it. We had chance after chance after chance as WBA gamely attacked us and left gaping holes that Drogba and Gudj and Super Frank all spurned. We should have been four up at least by the time Drogba side footed the ball in from Duffer's cross after Super Frank's marvellous defence splitting ball. But from then on, the words Drogba and Donkey became synonymous.

'He's not worthy of this club' said Olivia with her sanctimonious hat on. 'You're fucking useless Drogba' shouted 'Man in Outsize baseball hat' Angry boy with red face kept standing up and looking around at us all and then held his head as if he was about to tear his hair out. Nigel was ill so couldn't call him a 'wankerrr'. We phoned him at half time. He was watching it on the box. 'Drogba's playing like a complete wankerr' he said, not disappointing us. Even his goal was greeted with bemusement by the throng. Stan said gloomily 'The donkey scores.' A man I'd never seen before got up and shouted 'About fucking time you camel' maintaining the animal imagery. After missing two easy chances, a header and a shot, when it was easier to score, and also a moment when he trapped well, turned his man and then with great deliberation, pushed the ball a yard past the post, the Man of Silence, in a marvellous Eastern European accent whispered 'He is shit Drogba.' Then he shouted 'Drogba you are shit.' Stan was completely taken aback and clapped. Dick said 'Fuck me it speaks.' Dancing Orange Thug wasn't there but had he been so would have threatened Drogba with a knee capping. 'He's probably off somewhere topping up his tan before slipping a knife into someone's ribs who's don the dirty on him' said Olivia. Super Frank didn't have his shooting boots on today and slid several past and boomed several over. The man who hates Him was in his element,' You are fucking useless Lampard' he boomed. 'You leave our Frank alone' Olivia replied. I mean for goodness sake this is the team who won the league Cup the other day and beat Barcelona and is top of te leagues. You'd think we were a relegation team. 'You fickle bastards' Stan whispered under his breath. A small boy in huge national Health specs ignored it all and read his programme for nearly all of the first half. Around him we were singing 'Who the fuck are Barcelona? As the Blues go marching on on on.'

The Baggies fans kept up a sort of Barmy Army drone for a lot of the game as well as a few obvious chants like 'Small town in Fulham' 'Shall we sing a song for you?' which was ridiculous as we were running through our

'Spot / Carefree / thefamousTottenhamHotspurwenttoRometoseethePope etc etc repertoire. We were noisy! We were all over em. At half time Olivia shared my fascination for 'The man who supports everyone but Chelsea' who wasn't there tonight, but sits in the seats below me that belong to a firm and are always populated by oppo supporters. Tonight there was an annoying Baggie fan who just kept saying' Come on Jeff' to Jeff Horsefield, WBA's much travelled journeyman of a centre forward who was having a good scrap with John Terry. This changed to 'Come on Jeffrey' on a couple of occasions when he'd done something good. Then he did the occasional 'Ooh' when his team had a shot. If they'd scored and he'd stood up I'd've had words. But they didn't so I didn't. Olivia sort of solved my 'why does the Man who supports everyone but Chelsea actually come here' conundrum for me. It was sort of as I thought.

'They're all employees of the month you see and he's their greeter and organizer. He's part of the fun. He meets them and brings them here and sticks em in the taxi when they're pissed. He actually doesn't like football much. He's a rugger fan.' Why didn't I talk to her earlier?

The game restarted and on cue a rather attractive girl in glasses, the sort that when she took them off and shook her hair, you could say 'But you're beautiful' flounced up the stairs and fell over the comedy step. 'Comedy step' we screamed and cheered. On the pitch WBA were worse, but Drogba wasn't endearing himself to anyone, failing to control the ball, failing to lob the keeper when it was more difficult to hit him with the ball, and falling over a lot after innocuous challenges. In front of me the Man who hates Lampard is bored and asks his friends to name the Chelsea team of 1988 and deep discussion follows. Droba fires over the bar and Olivia asks 'How much is he paid a week? Dreadful.' Drogba covers his face he is so ashamed.

'Yes. Cover your face. Bring Kezman on….. Oh God I can't believe I said that.' The Handsome Gumchewer in the odd grey coat reads her mind and does so. But not at Drogba's expense, who trolls about and falls over and is a crumpled heap at the final whistle and is soundly jeered by the WBA fans as he is carried off. 'What a waste of Money' they chant. Oh yes. I forgot. We held off a spirited Baggies last ten minutes display, but in truth they never looked like scoring. Under Ranieri they would have scored and it would've finished 1-1 and we'd have been furious. But this is a different wiser more organized team who are going to win the title for only the second time in their history. Despite my belief in our being able to hold out with ease, Olivia knew Nigel would be at the end of his tether. 'He'll be passing out by now' she said.

As an addendum, I would like to comment on Anders Frisk, the ref in the Barcelona first leg, having announced his retirement. Cfc have been accused of hastening the retirement due to the death threats he received after the first leg, and whilst not condoning this appaling behaviour by a moronic minority, I must say that his refereeing at the Nou Camp was atrocious and looked biased towards the Home side. On other occasions that I have seen him in matches not featuring Chelsea I have similarly found him erratic, eccentric, ludicrously flamboyant and frequently incapable of interpreting foul play. How he ever got to be in charge of so many important high profile matches I will never know. When he watched vids of himself reefing, couldn't he see how weird he was? Couldn't he see how inept his decisions were? And worse of all, couldn't UEFA see how bad his decision making was?

V Barcelona Home 4-2

Oh but what an event this was. Possibly the most thrilling marvellous Cfc match of my memory. Or any memory for that matter. Grown men grizzled and dribbled and blubbed at this victory. Even I was choked with emotion and punched the air with a hitherto unknown vigour whilst going 'Goooooooooooallllllllll' and 'For foooooooooook's sake' when Duffer scored our third. It was so superb it eclipsed us beating Tottenham 6-1 at White Hart Lane, and that was one of the great matches. (That was the game where the normally crap 'don't quite know why he's been picked' Nicholls scored. He was the sort of player who gave men over fifty the hope they could still play for Chelsea, he was so below average) It knocked into a cocked hat us beating Barcelona here in the Champions League Quarter Finals 3-1 five years ago when Zola and Tore Andre Flo scored. It made our conquest of Milan in the San Siro (1-1, we went through on the away goals rule, the goal scored commemorated in 'Oh Dennis Wise, scored a fucking great goal, in the San Siro, with five minutes to go') look pedestrian.

This roller coaster match was brilliant and dragged us all through all the extremes of emotion from A to Z and back again in reverse order to B (?) Stewart beside me was jigging up and down like a man with his trousers on fire he was so excited by it all. Orange Dancing Thug kept wandering into the aisle to do his little Madonna Material Girl Dance and at our second goal jumped and twirled and cavorted so much he knocked the cup of coffee the man next to him was drinking, out of his hands, and it went all over them both. He didn't care. 'Fuck it' he said. 'We scored. Fukkkkkk ittttt!'

After the emotional moment had calmed down a bit he was heard to utter 'Ooh shit. I think I've burnt meself. I've certainly fucked these trousers!'

Olivia was watching him mid celebration.

'Oh God!' she whispered. 'He is so scary that man. And so orange. A Tango man he looks like. Why does nobody tell him he looks ridiculous. Is it fake tan or a sunbed? It's looking like fake tan at the moment. Get near him and smell him. That fake tan has a very distinctive odour.' I asked Stewart to give him a whiff. He told me not to be ridiculous and to watch the game.

Dick was weirdly not there being in NY and was replaced by a woman with a nose like a parrott who I never spoke to the whole match. But he was watching it at some bar and kept texting me with 'Oh no, what am I doing not being there?' and 'The best match I have never seen' and 'They are fantastic'. And 'Oh bugger we're going to lose I can't bear it' and 'Fuckkkkkkkk' and 'Yessssssssssss' and 'Nooooooo' and 'I want to have sex with all of them', which was a sentiment at the time I think he really felt. Somebody texted me with 'Steady' when Barca began to claw it back but I've no idea who it was. Malcolm very seriously just put 'Great Desire' but that was a true observation. We wanted it more than them. Stewart spent the better moments of the game texting 'mates' as usual ('It's my fucking Gooners pals. They're always taking the mickey. I can't miss this opportunity.' He showed me one. It said 'Oh look. So much for your prediction. We appear to be 3-0 up. FUCK YOU'.) Nigel below me was completely pissed before the game started, and was ludicrously emotional even before kick off.

'He lunched well' said Olivia through gritted teeth. She was completely sober. On several occasions he grabbed Stewart round the neck and attempted to wrestle him to the floor, shouting 'Come on you Blue Boys.' Stewart laughed it off but was not hugely amused, and almost kneed him in the groin the third time he did it. The action didn't fit Nigel's sentiment in any way. His brain just wasn't connected to his body movements.

The noise was astonishing. It was the loudest I have ever heard a Chelsea crowd. It encouraged us all to bellow. You had to bellow to try to hear yourself. It was a magical atmosphere. Even the Man Who Never Says Anything, the proverbial taciturn man, who sits in front of Stewart on the aisle, shouted out and joined in. Ok it was only once. But it was the first time I've ever heard him say anything. Lone Voice Man was no longer Lone Voice Man. Everything he started got sung. A massive 'Carefree' with the 'Don't give a fuck' bit. A gigantic 'Come on you Blues. ' A bizarre 'We hate Tottenham' . And a torrent of 'Come ons' and 'Rarrs' and Amazing Grace 'Chelseas!' Gudjohnson's goal on eight minutes cranked the volume up even louder. The strange Kezman provided the pinpoint cross for Eidur to side step and blast.

'Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa' I went. Nigel just went 'Blue Boyzzzz' and scragged Stewart again, then tried a solo 'Who are yer? Who are yer?' at the Barcelona fans below us, before massaging Man In Outsize Baseball Hat's shoulders far too aggressively, getting the thumbs right in till he yelped. A gigantic 'Fuck em all. Fuck em all. United, West Ham, Liverpool. Coz we are the Chelsea and we are the best. We are the Chelsea so fuck all the rest' spewed out of us at ear splitting volume. On 16 mins, moments after having volleyed wide. Super Frank tapped in after the goalie saved a deflected shot. 'Up their arses,' screamed Nigel. 'Up their arses!'

'I'm so terribly sorry' whimpered Olivia.

'Boring boring Chelsea' sang the crowd in response to Johann Cruyff's comments in the press about how bad our defensive tactics are for the game. Two minutes later, the strange Kezman, bewilderingly active and competent for the first time this season, flicked on, Super Frank passed to Duffer and he slotted home under the goalie's body and we and Duffer went completely and utterly bonkers. I started sobbing silently, I was so wound up by the occasion. Nigel added the words 'stick' and 'it' to his sentence of joy, as in 'Stick it…. up their arses'. Olivia cowered with embarrassment. She tried to hide under the seat when he attempted to ask every Chelsea supporter within grasping distance whether they 'fucking believed it', especially me, whose face he grabbed in both hands, covering both my cheeks in slobbery kisses. 'Nigel. Stop it. Stop it this instance,' said Olivia as if he was a small dog. The Matthew Harding Stand all sang the appallingly premature 'You might as well go home' to the tune of 'Blue Moon'. Twenty minutes into the game is far too soon to be singing this, especially when one goal would put them right back in it. This always comes back to haunt you. They followed it up with the apposite and amusing Spanish version 'Adios, adios, adios'(and the peculiar 'Are you Tottenham in disguise') but my blood always turns to ice when I hear this because this is hubris to the power of ten. And lo and behold the Gods were sniggering at us, knowing what they had in store. A Ronaldhino header missed by inches and Barca seemed to gain some confidence. At the same time we relaxed a little. The Handsome Gumchewer who had clearly thought we'd score more, didn't shut up shop as he could have done, by bringing on Tiago as defensive midfielder to hold onto the two goal lead (on aggregate). But then it was too early to do that. And soon….. it all went pear shaped. 26 mins: Ferreira jumps up with his hands up in the penalty area. The ball strikes his hand as he's buffeted in a challenge. Collina the ref gives a penalty. 'You bald git' shouts the angry red faced man behind me who is bald himself. Ronaldhino curls the ball into the corner past the mighty Cech. And suddenly it's all Barca and their exquisite skill. They may not be able to defend, but boy can they attack. They flick the ball about with consummate ease, chesting and kneeing and first time passing it in and around the box and it is no surprise at all when the magnificent Ronaldhino toe-pokes their second goal past Cech from the edge of the area when it looked impossible to get a shot in. Nigel is now audibly sobbing. Eto'o then volleyed inches wide and it was squeaky bum time. 'You bastards. You bastards,' Nigel gasps and holds his hands over his face. He misses the effervescent Joe Cole, having his best game ever for Chelsea, hitting the post just before the ref blows for half time. We descend into the bar leaving Nigel slumped in his seat, strangely subdued for a horde of fans who were three nil up twenty five minutes ago, but as things stand, Chelsea would go out on the away goals rule, it now being 3-3 on aggregate.

Michael in the bar has given up. 'Well we had our chance but we've blown it. They're the best team in Europe, probably the world. Ronaldhino is the best player in the World. It's no shame to lose to them. Mourinho's bedding the players down. Next season we'll be in a better position to win the competition. And in his third year he'll have bought who he wants. It's a brave try, but as I suspected we're not good enough.'

Trevor agrees with him. 'Yes absolutely' he says. Michael then wanders off to share his theory of doom with whoever will tolerate it. (On one occasion I hear a distant 'Fuck off!' from someone whose ear Michael is bending).

I tell Trevor 'Actually he's talking bollocks. Let's see what Mourinho comes up with tactically this half. We only need a goal to win it. They can't keep playing at the same pace, can they Barcelona? And they've got a lousy defence. We put three past them, we can score again. This game is far from over.'

'Absolutely, yes. I do agree. Michael's such a pessimist.' Says Trevor. But Barca come out as energetic and as skillful as they were in the first half. But we have Petr Cech, the best goalie in Europe. He makes several world class saves and Barcelona begin to not quite be the force they were.

Orange Dancing Thug senses it, as do we all. 'Come on Chelsea, we've got work to do' he growls. Olivia winces.

Nigel is now in a slumbering stupour and just burbles 'Yeah yeah yeah' at inappropriate undramatic moments. Olivia apologizes again. 'I'm sooo sorry,' she says shaking her head. Stewart is now being textually abused by his Gooner chums. He shows me one: 'Bye Bye Chelsea, Bye bye. CUNT'. Nigel is now going 'Bad bad bad' every ten seconds while watching through his hands and whining 'I can't watch. I can't watch.' The Barcelona fans clearly feel their team has done enough and do their version of 'One nil to the Arsenal ('Go West' by the Pet Shop Boys) and begin to celebrate. But it's their turn for the hubris pills. We've been slowly but surely coming into it more and more. 76 mins. We get a corner. JT rises near post….and 'Yessssssssssss' pandemonium breaks loose again as the ball nestles in the corner of the net. The Barcelona players go mad because they believe a foul has been committed in the penalty area. The angry bald man behind me gets his twopenny worth in. 'Don't believe the whinging bastards you bald git' he shouts at Collina who seems determined to agree do just as he says.

'Well what have we here?' says the Thug.

Stewart, instantly on the phone, says 'Phil's watching on TV. Carvalho (the immaculate superb Carvalho who has been outstanding) pulled back the goalie on the line. That's what they're complaining about'. Ronaldhino is the most vociferous, attempting to get Collina to speak to the linesman, who they believe saw the foul.

'Fucking shut up Goofy' says the Thug.

Olivia is aghast. 'Well he may have buck teeth but there's no need to say that. That's almost racist.'

Nigel then shouts 'Yes. Fuck off Goofy', and she climbs into the large hole which has opened up beneath her. Eidur goes off. Tiago comes on. Our Handsome Arrogant Charismatic Gumchewer shuts up shop and tries to hit them on the break. They hit the post after a wonderful finger tip save from Cech. Huth (Hoot) comes on for Duffer amidst 'Hooting' noises from the crowd and towers above the Barcelona attackers, whose number has now grown to five with the introduction of Giuly and the long haired Lopez ('Ah the girl's on' says Nigel). With three minutes to go we all rise from our seats and join in a gigantic 'Carefree' and sing the boys home, our hearts in our mouths as a last gasp Deco free kick thuds into the advertising hoardings. The whistle blows, the handsome Gumchewer cavorts onto the pitch, everyone embraces everyone else. Stewart texts his Arsenal pals with the words 'FUCK YOU'. Thug leaves very quickly 'To beat someone up' says Olivia. Dick texts me from NY with simply 'Yes'. Below us Eto'o and Ronaldhino and Barca manager Rijkaard are held back by security after a scuffle breaks out. I go to the bar and see Carvalho manhandling the goalie on TV which slightly takes the gloss off the win.

'But then Drogba should never have been sent off in the first leg' says Stewart. 'That was never a foul.'

'It's one of the best evening's of my life' says Nigel sobbing copious tears into his handkerchief.

'Oh thanks a bunch' says Olivia.

I go to the club shop and buy a League Cup Winners Tee shirt and three posters: one of the team with the Cup, one of Frank Lampard and another of Arjen Robben, none of which I will ever take out of their wrappers.

Saturday 5th March V Norwich away

Went weight training before this one and visited the physio for my damaged calf and dodgy knees which my motorbike accident aggravated. So knackered by the pull ups and side bends and shoulder presses I slept most of the journey to Norwich in the car, having eaten a banana, the skin of which nestled delightfully on my lap all the way, leaving that sort of furry banana residue you get when you leave a banana skin on your lap. It hadn't been a good start . I'd left my ticket pinned to the notice board in the kitchen and after I'd got halfway to Highgate, suddenly remembered amidst a subliminal check list of my day that the ticket was slightly essential. So returned home forthwith and retrieved said essential item. This didn't compare with last year when I managed to take completely the wrong ticket to the Saints away game, much to the amusement of the people I'd gone with! In fact here is the entry for the diary for last year:

SAINTS DAY

Bloody hell. Dreadful useless pissing down day and a feeble way to pass it. It was so wet and dismal I knew that my trip to Southampton to watch the Blue Boys was going to be a tad fraught. Be it in a driving way or a watching way. But how fraught I could never predict. The day started off well, but badly. As it were. 'Well' because England won the rugby and put one over the dastardly crowing Aussies. 'Badly' because it set up the chain of events that was to be the ridiculously fraught day. Anyway, England winning (Swing low sweetest of chariots) somewhat interfered with the being picked up plans. Trevor had arranged to pick me up near Brook Green at 11.30. But, as we all know, the rugger went into 20 mins of extra time and ended at 11.20 approx after Jonny Wilkinson's delightful drop goal (Yes! Yes! Yes!) And I was still naked and hadn't made my flask of coffee or any bagels. I'd been watching the game in the buff (as you do). I presumed Trevor would still be in North London, having watched the last twenty minutes and our famous victory (Yes! Yes! Yes!) , to the death. I phoned him.

'Ah Lord Kitson,' he answered.

'Trevor I presume you're leaving now'

'No . I'm here now. Waiting. At the agreed spot. In the Hammersmith

Road. See you in five minutes'

For fuck's sake! He'd clearly heard the last fifteen minutes on the radio! He'd set off just as the period of extra time started, in order to arrive on time. That's taking punctuality very seriously indeed. I tried to get ready eg dressed and brushed me teeth. And had a poo. But hadn't really got a grip with the whole getting up 'thang'. Hadn't even made the coffee or bagels. So I gave up and phoned my accountant friend Morris who lives in Chiswick and runs the 'predict the Chelsea team sweepstake' on the net. I asked him for a lift and he was very amenable considering it was so last minute and said 'Yes we're leaving at twelve. Couldn't leave until the rugger was concluded. Had to see Martin Johnson with the cup etc etc. Come down to Chiswick.' So I phoned Trevor and told him I couldn't possibly get there for another half hour and had made alternative arrangements and he was somewhat taken aback. 'Kitsers!' is what he said. 'Oh well.' And I beetled off to Morris. It took an eternity. Everyone had left the pub or their home or wherever they'd been watching the rugby, at the same time, and the streets were jam packed. Nevertheless I was only seven minutes late for Morris who, when I arrived at his house, told me somewhat bewilderingly that we were going in two cars. And I had to fill in a strange visitors permit or I'd get a parking ticket. I tried to do this in the rain whilst impatient faces glared at me from their respective automobiles. Desmond the tax expert who drives like a madman was the other traveller in his BMW, but he would be going in his own car coz Morris was going to a party in Poole later on and we would be going in convoy.

'Ok' was all I could say to this news. I mean I thought, eccentric but operable. I was to go with Morris purely so I could phone up this woman Kat who was a client of his who we were picking up at junction 11 on the M3. She hadn't seen a Chelsea game since she was sixteen! It was all a mite confusing but I went along with it. So off we set. Into unmoving traffic. Morris decided the best way to avoid the traffic was to go via the back streets of Acton and then as it got more and more snarled and his escape route more and more intricate and we got further and further away from the M3, he decided rather logically as we were now in Gunnersbury that the M4 and then the M25 was probably the best route and we'd better go that way! I'd forgotten; I hadn't driven with him for a bit. Morris, sweet lovely generous good company though he is, was driving today like a man possessed. He was always an inch away from the person in front and braked swiftly and alarmingly, scattering everything in my lap against the dashboard and wrenching me to the limits of my seatbelt. It was rather un-nerving. He also went for titchy gaps. And surprised me by making them, after I'd completely given up and closed my eyes for the crunch. Meanwhile we had lost Desmond in the BMW as Morris had driven like someone being pursued by the police rather than someone who was trying to ride in convoy. We stopped on several occasions ('Fuck it where's Desmond?' he said as if Desmond was a complete slowcoach. Whereas Desmond was doing well staying alive) and I had to direct Desmond on the phone ('Er Morris. I'm lost.' 'It's JK. I'm answering on Morris's phone. Where are you?') who on several occasions had gone completely in another direction. Finally we got onto the motorway (M4, then M25 then M3) and drove at a sedate 60, a serene seventy, and from time to time a hair raising hundred, all the time checking up on Desmond and his whereabouts. I was given the responsibility of checking up.

'Hi Desmond. It's JK.' '

Who?'

'JK. I'm in Morris's car.'

'Oh yeah.'

'We're passing junction 5. Where are you?'

'Junction 3.'

'Ah well we'll slow down a bit.'

So we'd drive at fifty. For a few seconds.

'Desmond. It's JK.'

'Who?' 'JK. I'm in Morris's car.

'Oh yeah'

' We're passing junction 7. Where are you?'

'Junction 6.'

'Ah well we'll slow down a bit more.' So we'd still drive at fifty. And then possibly ninety. This went on until the bizarre moment when Desmond phoned and told us he'd arrived at junction 11.

'Hi Morris' (he really couldn't grasp that it was me answering Morris's phone)

'It's JK' 'Oh yeah.'

'Yeah'

' Well I'm here. Where are you? Have you been and gone?'

'Where are you?'

'Eleven! Junction eleven!'

'We're not there yet! We're at nine! Just passed nine!'

'Oh I must have overtaken you then!'

Trevor meanwhile phoned me to tell me that he was at the ground already (it was about one o'clock!) and I wouldn't be able to take my bag in coz they weren't letting people in with bags. (Why not?) And there was heavy frisking going on! On arriving at the lay-by off junction 11 (off the slip road, right, then left under the bridge and it's on your left), we saw Desmond in his Beamer, picked up Kat, a petite bubbly short haired forty something blond, and continued our journey in convoy without incident. She knew Southampton well she said, and decided we should park in the BBC, where she worked occasionally as a newsperson as it would be 'easy to park and it was nearish to the ground' . Despite the madness of the last few hours and the constant teeming of the rain, we got to Southampton in very good time and were in the vicinity by 2. As the match started at three, we envisaged a leisurely park and then a not too hectic walk to the game, possibly with a cuppa somewhere en route. However, we disturbingly got into the BBC car park at 2.55! It took us an hour to get down some appalling side road, down which Kat had directed us, which had ludicrously long delay traffic lights (The anorak in me timed them. One minute and ten seconds at red and then ten seconds to get through) and then we had to get into the car park, which was locked, and get someone to let us into the BBC buildings to get out again and then we had to undertake a route march to St Mary's, the Saints ground, which it became obvious, was not quite as near as Kat had informed us. Her idea of 'nearish' is like calling Martin Johnson 'smallish'. And all the time it was absolutely chucking it down. And dohh I'd left my bag, (along with my car keys) in the car coz of Trevor's warning of non entrance to the ground with it. This was to have great significance later on. We arrived about twenty minutes after kick off, drenched . Thank God I was wearing baggy troos coz your legs don't touch the sides so you don't really notice they're soaked. Though my feet had that sort of all round sloshiness in the trainers. Morris was about to have an operation on his Achilles tendon and couldn't really walk…(at all), so we sort of watched him hopping along in and out of the puddles. This didn't help our lateness. On arrival l bought a programme, agreed to meet Morris at the end of the game near the Carlton TV vans and noticed there were huge queues for the Chelsea turnstyle as everyone was being frisked as if we were all members of Al Qaida. And bloody hell. Someone in front of me went in with a large holdall. And the bloke with him went in with a haversack. Oh Trevor. You nit. Then just as I'm about to enter the ground I looked more closely at my ticket…and I couldn't see the entrance number on it. It said 'M' above the sign saying 'Visiting supporters' but I couldn't see an 'M'….and then I noticed it said 'Reading V Chelsea' at the Madjesky Stadium Reading. Which is not Southampton. It's Reading. Yes….And I realised that in my rush this morning after the World Cup Rugby Final I had snatched the white ticket off the board where I pin my tickets. And it was clearly the wrong white ticket because it said 'Southampton' nowhere on it. And indeed as I say, said 'Reading' in large (ish) letters.

'Ah' I say to myself and show it to a girl steward who shows it and me to a male steward in a bright orange fluorescent jacket and he says 'I can't do anything about that, you'll have to go to the Ticket Office' and I realise that going to the ticket office would be fruitless as this is a socceroo sell out match and I shall not be watching the game. I walk away from the ground and see a shaven head sheltering. It calls to me 'Simon!' Which is not my name, but he clearly means me. It's a slightly dubious character called Cliff who is occasionally near me where I sit at Stamford Bridge. He's in security he told me. I never delved into what this entailed. Probably some fisticuffs.

'How are you mate?' he asks in his Sarf London drawl. I tell him my stupid story. 'I'm an arse Cliff. An arse.

'Ah. That's a shame. We 'aven't got another ticket. I'm waiting for Johnny 'Ammond. 'E's got our tickets. 'E's on the motorway somewhere. Did you know I've been in Macedonia in prison for the last few months?'

'No' I gasp feigning surprise, for nothing nefarious surprises me with Cliff. 'How did that 'appen..er..happen?'

'Now's not the time to tell you. I was treated well. They're all Greeks. They're good lads. I 'ad a Chelsea flag in me cell an' that.' I wonder if I'll ever be told.

'How long was your sentence?' I ask him very concerned but somehow not. This is the man who flew to Sofia two years ago to watch the team and spent the whole match drinking in an Irish pub.

'Well I got out after two months. Gave 'em a bung. It's all corrupt over there.'

'Ah'

'Ere 'e is! Allo Johnny! See yer Simon.'

And he was orf. I couldn't be bothered to correct him. I meanwhile strolled meaninglessly, attempting to kill time. I was utterly squelching and meandered towards a petrol station outside the ground, hoping it was one of those with a café attached. No luck there. A broken down coffee machine and a sweet counter and a cold section with about three sandwiches in it. I bought a bag of Minstrels and decided to go back to where we'd steamed in earlier, (or limped if you're Morris) a sort of bric a brac area of slightly shabby shops. There was a pub on the corner of this 'novelty' street with a huge bouncer outside in a damp black mac. By his beady stare and hostile reaction from several regulars I sensed this wasn't the place for me to spend the next hour and a half, so I carried on past the model shop, the old football memorabilia shop, the art gallery where you could have your own picture put up (at a price, it said in the window), and the quaint tea room advertising coffee all day but with unfortunately stained curtains and ancient waitresses peering out of the window in off grey blouses, and dripped past a few rundown pubs with unsnug snugs barely visible from the street and came to a large 'green' across which I could make out a few large department buildings and the words 'Debenhams' on one of them.

I made a beeline for this one. For they would have a restaurant and I could dry off and have a snack and recover from the bizarreness of my day. I duly wandered into the back entrance, plodded through the Men's department and got myself a black coffee and sat, somewhat relieved, in a dank pool of moisture. Ahead of me crouching over a pram, was an exceedingly nubile young lady whose short top had ridden up above her hipsters revealing an enormous winged tattoo emerging from her bum crack. I averted my gaze, but there to my left was another nymphet with similar troos and short basque like top over which had been placed an anorak, but when she walked past me, she too had a marvellous eagle like 'tat' taking off from her arse cheeks. And her friend had the same! Magnificent birds of prey all. And there was another sitting down in front of me revealing various flying fauna to all and sundry. I managed to stop staring at all this ornithological flesh and realized I must have been a somewhat peculiar and possibly pervy sight, as I was wearing my orange biking waterproof and a dripping NY Mets baseball cap and these water stained Gap khaki cargos and sopping trainers. So I studiously phoned a few friends, and Mother, who commiserated beautifully.

'O you poor thing. Never mind. It'll be a crap game anyway. They always play in fits and starts when they're up against teams like Southampton. They'll probably win by the odd goal. You seem remarkably calm I must say.' And indeed I was. I'd just given in to the inevitability of it all. At 4.30 I decided to return to the ground so I wouldn't miss Morris if he decided to leave early. I waited about twenty minutes undoing all the good drying I'd done previously by becoming soaked and freezing again. Some bloke was attempting to watch the game through a crack in a door. I jealously looked at what he was watching. You could just make out the corner flag of one end. And nothing else. You might just see a player run past if you were lucky. Or a corner. What sad bastards we both were. I saw Trevor leaving early as he always does and thought about greeting him. But it was fruitless. I couldn't go with him. My bag and keys were back at the BBC. I repeat. My bag and keys were at the BBC……….. So I let him run past me with his usual gobbling stride followed in his wake by Keith his agent friend, struggling manfully to keep up. When Morris appeared, ten minutes after the game had finished, (Oh God) I told him and Desmond and some other solicitor called Neil and Kat and an old chap no one bothered to introduce me to, that I hadn't seen the game and they all pissed themselves laughing.. In fact huge guffaws rent the air, especially when I said I'd been in the lingerie department at Debenhams for the game's duration. Desmond thought it was hilarious and told every single person he could, be they Chelsea or Southampton, in the ensuing crush as we crocodiled over the heaving narrow railway bridge by the ground. 'Ere mate listen. Ha ha ha. This bloke ha ha ha here brought his Reading ticket with him instead of his Southampton one ha ha ha. And spent the afternoon in Debenhams!' After a watery eternity we made it back to Morris's car at the Beeb and duly piled in, me in the boot bit of his estate 'Coz you're the only one of us who didn't see the game ha ha ha' but emerged into a traffic jam as bad as the one we'd been in before the game. In that previous jam, Desmond had given up on us and the Beeb and had parked his car and legged it and arrived before us (naturally) just after kick off. So we set off on another route march for Desmond's car, as we were going back with him. Luckily I'd revived myself a bit with coffee and bagels from my bag, in my brief stay in the boot, but was wet again after the march for Desmond's car which was miles away. But once in it with the heater on, I relaxed and dozed and dried off and probably smelt damp and a bit musty and enquired about the game. If Desmond drove like a crazyman I had no idea as I was asleep for most of the journey. I awoke near Twickenham. Approaching Richmond, Desmond informed me he was going to Putney, where he lived, going via Richmond as that was the way he knew, and he would drop me at Richmond tube. I was somewhat taken aback at this turdy behaviour as he knew my car was in Chiswick. And he could drop me at the Chiswick roundabout, just up the way from Richmond on the M3 where we were, and merely nip down the Fulham Palace Road at Hammersmith to get to Putney? Couldn't he? But no. This was the route he knew and I could get the tube to Turnham Green, couldn't I. Which is what I did. And then walked, once again in the pouring rain, to my car in the Chiswick High Road. I arrived home at eight fifteen. I was supposed to be at a dinner party at Mary and Jeff, my old school friend's with the wonky eye at eight. I had to spend at least twenty minutes in the bath to get my circulation going again. I got to the dinner party an hour late. But happily it didn't matter and the evening was fine. Roger from school was also there who is a man who makes a living out of borrowing money from friends to invest in dodgy deals and losing their money for them. I don't like him.

On the net on the Monday, Morris, in his round robin to the team-predicting syndicate, informed all that one of his party had taken the wrong ticket to the match and had spent 90 minutes in Debehhams. He didn't say it was me, but added the words 'I kit you not' just to give a hint. I mailed him back informing him of Desmond's meanness. What a turd he'd been. But then I did change my socks in his pristine BMW. Perhaps that merited being dropped at Richmond. Morris said Desmond had been given a hard time for going to the football by his fiancée who had cooked him dinner and he was somewhat under her thumb. I noted the excuse but rejected it. He could have still gone the other route and dropped me off and got back for supper. The turd.

Anyway, that was the Saints story. Today was Norwich. I met up with Brian the accountant. (As it was on TV at 5.15 Michael and Trevor weren't coming and consequently there was no taramasalata express. They won't go away if it's on the box.)

We picked up Brian the insurance bloke. Two Brians! He is an immensely bright charming right wing bear of a man with an excess of facial hair and I would suspect of body hair as well but he was too wrapped up against the cold to know any more. As were we all! Bloody hell it was parky. I wore the full monty: red combinations (which should really be blue, I know), thermal running vest, tee shirt on top of that, sweat shirt, sleeveless mountaineering 'gilet' and the long Boss coat.. And the thick thermal socks. But just to be groovy I wore my jeans and trainers which made for several slippery moments after we'd parked in the Norwich County Hall car park (three quid) as I nimbly skirted around the frozen slush. I topped it off with the Chelsea ski hat with the red lion on it (made in 1994, revealing my longevity as a Chelsea supporter and not a fly-by-night bloke who'd just 'jumped on the Chelsea band-wagon'.)

I took a flask of hot piping coffee in the rucksack (which was a bit less piping when I drank it. I don't think the flask is up to much) and a spare top and my plastic troos in case the rain/snow blew in under the stand roof, which can happen! I speak from experience. I also took my copy of 'English History by Simon Schama' which is fab. I'm reading all about Harold and William the Conqueror. Also took the latest 'New Scientist' in case we arrived really early. Which we did. The two chaps went off to flog extra tickets they'd come by and I was left to fend for myself in the two hours we had till the game started. I wandered off down by the river and under a white suspension bridge to a sort of upgraded wharfed area of the city which has a UCI cinema, a bowling facility and many bars: a Witherspoons, a 'Norwegian Blue' (thought this was the name for a parrott) an Italian New York restaurant/bar, another one I've forgotten and a Pizza Hut. And a Nandos, which sells Chicken. I felt the Nandos would be more my cuppa tea, wanting a place to thaw out (it's never quite warm enough in Brian's car!) read a bit more about Medieval England, and satisfy my sudden ravenous hunger. This is another side effect of the old weight training. The body occasionally goes 'Fuck me I could do with a huge huge meal right now.' Normally after it's awoken from its deep deep slumber. I felt that Nandos was the place to stuff me face and wandered up to the rather attractive thirty something woman on the till. I explained I was a tad sad as I was on my own and did she have a table? She explained there was a routine to follow, that I would have to get my own cutlery, handed me a blue plastic chicken head on a metal stick and asked me to go and sit at table twelve, (the chicken head had 12 on it) look at the menu, come back, order my food ('oh isn't it waitress service?' 'No it's self service') pay ('oh I pay before I've had it?' 'Yes. It's a self service restaurant' 'Oh like a canteen?' 'Yes') and it'd be delivered to me. I duly ordered chicken. In fact that's what you have there. It's a chicken restaurant. And sat next to the hordes of schoolchildren that seemed to inhabit the place. I thought I was on the set of Peter Pan there were so many. One small boy looked at me stuffing my face with Chicken Pitta and lime sauce and Tomato ketchup and told his friends. They all looked at me as well. I became very self conscious and ate with my mouth firmly closed and took little mouthfuls. The kids still found it very amusing, and then started flashing the vees at me. Until I realised they weren't looking at me but at the boy on the next table who was poking his tongue out at them. But then I realised they were looking at me as well when one of them said 'Mister you eat funny.' I wanted to correct his appalling English but decided it wasn't really the right time to put on the Grammar Nazi uniform. The chicken was really tasty. Mind you I was so hungry I'd've eaten a tyre as long there was ketchup on it.

I phoned Brian the non accountant to ask him about whether he'd like to join me. He works for the Government in a capacity he was unwilling to divulge.

'Oh God no. That's an area for poor people. I won't go there. I've been round there before. Anyway, I'm having a Delia Smith pie and it's excellent.' You know where you are with Brian. There's no statement reactionary enough for him. You can lead him to a target and he won't let you down. 'Nothing wrong with Islington that a pogrom wouldn't cure' he said in the car on the way up when I asked him where he lived. On the subject of women: 'There's nothing worse than having a woman blub at you. It can melt your heart until you realise that crying is a form of bullying. When I've sacked someone and they start blubbing, I remember that and send them sharpishly on their way. I rather relish the tears in fact.' On the subject of Frisk the Ist leg ref v Barcelona: 'Clearly accepted money in the hand for such a dreadful second half performance. The geezer who threw that lighter at him in Roma should be congratulated.' On Kezman: 'Well we're playing marvellously and I think we're going to win it but if I had a high powered velocity rifle there'd be no more Kezman.' Back to the delicious pie he was eating. Norwich are run by Supercook Delia Smith who last week rather embarrassed herself in the Man City game by coming onto the pitch at half time and saying 'This is a message to possibly the best supporters in the world…Where are you?' And then followed this up with the unbelieveably fish wifey: 'Let's be 'avin you' which I saw on Sky News, in all its distorted grotesquerie. The camera was unfortunately right up her nose. She looked as if she'd been at the cooking sherry. The consequence of this is at the game today, Cfc fans, always the ones to look for good copy for chants etc, shout out at regular intervals 'Let's be avin yer' in high girly voices and then collapse in laughter at their own wit. The other chant employed incessantly to much mirth is 'We've got Abramovich, you've got your drunken bitch' which is responded to rather elegantly by the Norwich chanters with, 'Fuck off Chelsea, Fuck off Chelsea' and then a lengthy cry of 'Let's be avin yer! Let's be avin yer! Let's be avin yer.' We then go 'Delia Delia give us a song' and very quickly after that 'There's only one Gordon Ramsay' and then the gems 'You only sing when you're cooking' and the rather good 'You're going down with the souffle' to which the Norwich fans brilliantly came back with 'We've got a supercook, you've got a Russian Crook.' We all applauded that one. Very good stuff. They were very noisy all afternoon. They certainly do go for it do the Canaries as they're called. Their mascots are a cat and a canary, who I think let the side down a bit. You'd think being legendary adversaries there'd be a bit of comedy cat chasing Canary action. But no. They both lollop about the pitch, the hooped blue and yellow cat looking as if he's been at Delia's tasty fare in her restaurant 'Delia's' which is part of the New stand. Mind you he is wearing the plastic comedy boots which do make it tricky. The canary who makes a later appearance is a similar sloth, all fat stomach and well fed beak. But then as some wag pointed out 'That's the sort of costume to be wearin today mate. I'll bet you're as warm as toast in that lot' as indeed it was ludicrously cold. The last time I was as cold as this was in Oslo for a European Cup Winners' Cup game where you daren't sit still or icicles would form on you. We'd all been hugely up for this since the Man U result. Their game had started earlier coz we were 5.15 on Premiership Plus on Sky. They were playing Palace. And when I arrived after my Nandos visit, the game was in its final few minutes and the score was being regularly updated on Gillette Football Saturday on the TVs in the bar and café area under the stands. (Delia's food areas are the best arranged in the Premiership. They look about right considering we're all paying in excess of thirty quid. But as usual the tea was the bag/dried milk all in one tasteless variety. You'd get the same taste boiling an old sock. But it doesn't cost you £1.20.) Anyway, various wags nearer the sets kept going 'Oh no' or cheering for no apparent reason just to make us believe United had scored or Palace had scored. But no. The game ended nil-nil. There was a humungous cheer.

Everyone in the media all week had tried to talk up the fact that United, had they won, at 5.15 would have been only three points behind us. But they weren't mentioning we had a game in hand, because we'd played the League Cup Final last week. As it was, they drew, so that made us five points clear at 5.15. If we won today that'd be 8 points clear. And if we win v WBA the week after next that'll be 11 points clear again. So nerny nerny. They do try to 'big it up' don't they the media. As Fergie wandered back to the changing rooms at Selhurst Park, the cameras picked him out scowling. As one, the Chelsea fans in the bar around me gave him the finger and shouted 'You cunt! Haaaaaaaaa' and spontaneously began chanting 'We are top of the league. We are top of the league!

On the pitch, there's no Gallas. He's being rested for Barcelona I suspect. Joe Cole is right wing where unless he pulls his finger out he will be replaced by Robben the moment he's fit. The not quite good enough Tiago is on, which he wasn't for the Final. Makelele is there as is the occasionally dubious Drogba. JT and Lamps. The Duffer. The slightly crazed Johnson is on. It's a sort of strong team. 'You're only here for the Champers' sing the Norwich fans which none of us understood. I'm not sitting with the two Brians I came with, but we've agreed to meet back at the car. I'm sitting next to a man with a face like a round pencil sharpener who clearly doesn't want to chat. He just wants to shiver because the dick has come only in his Chelsea shirt. I mean bloody hell, it's about minus one and he's wearing shirt and jeans. He is quite fat though so perhaps it takes some time to seep in. Or perhaps he's one of those people who doesn't feel the cold. (ie dead people) Or perhaps he'll be singing and jigging about so much he'll treat the whole thing like a training session. But in actual fact he just sat there and shivered and said 'Bloody hell it's cold' and 'Fuck me I'm gonna get frost bite' and fifteen minutes before half time went slightly blue and staggered downstairs and never returned. On my right was a weasel faced man who rather disconcertingly greeted me with a very cheery 'Hello mate how are you?' to which I equally cheerlily replied with 'Excellent thaks mate. How's yourself?, not having a clue who he was. There were about six empty seats to my left and he draped himself along those. There was the usual 'are we sitiing down or aren't we?' debate as we looked about us to see what was happening. We all decided to sit, except for two completely pissed blokes to my left and one complete Eskimo who decided, covered from head to foot in a sort of large plastic windcheater thingie with laced up hood over his face, that they were too much of an obstacle for him these two 'Carefreeing' and 'Spotting' and 'His name is Tommy Bladwin he's the leader of the team' (a very obscure one that one, dating back to the sixties) chaps and so he's keep standing. The sharp faced man, who must have been about 60, tapped Nanook of the North Pole on the shoulder and rather inelegantly said 'Fucking sit down'. Arctic features didn't like this. 'I can't see mate. And by the way don't use such disgusting language.' This was of course a red rag to a bull.'

'I shall use what fucking language I like you cunt' says weasel face.

'Language and language again' screams North Pole Nelly and they set to, grabbing each other until Nelly's hood flies off to reveal he's about sixty as well. Their scrap, as you can imagine, is crap. They just hold each other for a few moments. The two pissed blokes stand up and cheer. A very thin shivering youth stands up and ironically shouts 'Yeah. Fucking punch his lights out. All this fucking standing up is useless. I paid good money for a seat. I don't want anyone standin up blocking my view.' There is of course no one blocking his view at all. As he is now standing up, some wag shouts out 'Sit down you cunt I can't see' which creates a complete sense of humour failure in the youth who seeks out the man who told him to sit down 'Who said that you cunt? Where are you? Own up. Let's settle this like men.'

'Yeah but you're about twelve mate. I'd win,' continues the wag. Meanwhile the two sixty year olds are still muttering at each other and holding each other as if they're doing a two step. A voice puts a stop to it all.' Sit down please all of you or you'll be thrown out' It's a Norwich be-bibbed steward who is accompanied by six policeman. Weasel face sees them and jams himself next to me and goes all dowy eyed and innocent. Hooded man instantly sits. Thin shivering youth looks astonished. 'But I'm asking everyone to sit down!'

'Yeah but you're the cunt who's standing up' shouts the wag. 'Sit down!' The two pissed blokes are too pissed to understand and try to get everyone to do a 'Spot' until a friend drags them to a seated position. The police lurk for a few minutes and then satisfied no one will be causing a rucus, depart whence they came. The two pissed blokes after several further rousing attempts including an ancient 'Molly Malone' 'In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone. As she wheels her wheel barrow, through streets broad and narrow singing Clap clap. Clapclapclap. Clap clap clap clap. Chelsea!' went off at half time and were swallowed up amongst that strange throng of supporters who don't watch the game at all and just come to meet mates and drink with them, knowing their team is only a few hundred metres away.

On the pitch, we are all over em. Joey Cole is looking outstanding which bodes well for Tuesday, and after winning two tackles, belts home with an unstoppable shot. We dominate and should have scored more. But haven't. There is a brief flurry of activity from Norwich which we cope with by keeping possession, and half time is blown. We ask for Delia to come on the pitch to say a few choice words: 'Delia Delia on the pitch. Delia..on the pitch.' She clearly declines. I descend into the throng for a wee and just for warmth. Sorry to repeat myself, but the weather is so cold even the brass monkey would be indoors with a hot water bottle. But there, just to drive home that I am a wimp, is 'Man in Shorts' who I remember at Leeds one year, in similar sub zero temperatures, taking his top off and standing there rubbing his beer belly. He is naturally, in shorts. With a Chelsea shirt over a sweatshirt. I return to my seat in the Norwich Tundra. The second half starts. We are so bossing the game that in front of me a couple of blokes actually reply to the taunting 'Where were you when you were shit?'

'I was at Rotherham when we got beat 6-0' says one.

'Well I was at Bristol City when we lost 2-1 in the Cup.'

'I was at Orient when we lost and the wall collapsed.' They start competing amongst themselves.

I notice one of them is the two earringed bloke from Copenhagen who, in the coach on the way to the European Cup Winners Cup game, got it into his head we were going to miss the kick off to the game he was so pissed, and although there were two hours till kick off and it was a fifteen minute drive, manged to persuade other pissed friends that we would never make it. When the delightful Danish woman who was accompanying us on the bus said into the microphone 'Please to not worry.We have two hours, and the ground is fifteen minutes away and there is no traffic' he replied 'I don't believe you you cunt.' A very large Danish thug/bouncer/helper paid him a visit, escorted him outside, and he returned sobbing and collapsed snoring in the corner where he stayed for the entire match. Anyway, he was there, trying to get fans to sing Carefree. He failed.

Drogba missed an easy chance and the chant of 'What a waste of money was replied to with 'Loads and loads of money' with masses of fingering an invisible wad. Then whoops, what wasn't supposed to happen, did. The bustling indignant Mackenzie scored with a header for the Canaries. Cech beaten for the first time in over 1000 minutes. Handsome Gumchewer responds immediately and stifles our doubts. He takes off the lightweight Tiago and the clumsy Drogba and creates a further attacker by bringing on Eidur and the strange Kezman. 7 mins later, Kezman taps in. Two goals in two games for him. (He still runs about like a beheaded fowl though) Then Carvalho gets his first goal for the club with an unchallenged header. We just went up a gear. 3-1. 8 points clear with a game in hand! 'You're just a small town in Moscow' sing the Norwich fans amusingly. We reply with a huge heart felt 'Fuck em all. Fuck em all. United West ham Liverpool. Coz we are the Chelsea and we are the best, We are the Chelsea so fuck all the rest! ' and then the ancient 'We shall not, we shall not be moved, we shall not, we shall not be moved.coz we're the team who's gonna win the Football League (!) we shall not be moved.' And then a raucous 'Who the fuck are man United?' as we leave the stands. And then the ridiculously ancient 'Come along come along, come along and sing this song..We're the boys in blue in division two and we won't be here too long' I go into the loo for another wee and there's man in Shorts..with his top off..weeing into a wash basin. Ages to get out of the car park but then a quick run back. I'm useless company and kip all the way back exhausted. Home by 12.30.

League Cup Final Cardiff Sunday 27th Feb | 03-04 Season

Well the omens were better for this one. I wasn’t miles up in the air looking down at a flick to kick subbuteo pitch as I had been at Barcelona and Newcastle. I had a rather tasty seat in the front row of the first tier of the stand behind the goal, which although it did give me a somewhat distant view of the opposite goalmouth, at least didn’t give me vertigo; and as the roof was closed there wasn’t an evil wind nipping away at me bits and pieces.

The disadvantage of the closed roof is that it makes you feel you’re watching a floor show in an exhibition hall. Especially since the much re-laid turf didn’t as much resemble grass as a sort of artificial puce carpet. You expected someone to start erecting a marquee or a troupe of sailors attempt to assemble a field gun or a Wild West combo to re-enact Custer’s Last Stand. There is of course no weather, and the light is completely artificial and slightly yellow, thus adding to the unreal quality of it all. The acoustics are also odd.

We heard the Scousers - sort of. But all the sound was in waves. It was just a sort of yelping cacophony until we scored our goal, then it was all Chels. Mainly because the Pool, growing increasingly vocal when they thought they were going to snatch a result, went schtum when Steven Gerrard headed into his own net. They got a bit heated when the Gum Chewing Man in the Grey overcoat ‘shushed’ them and was banished to the stands (what a character he is becoming) but other than that they got quieter and quieter from then on.

Does the roof being on, muddy all the noise? Large numbers of fans had purchased those aerosol horns, (in spite of signs outside forbidding their use) that give out a monotonous drone that I only associated with Eastern European matches or the end of the working day in factories. These were being ‘played’ all match (honestly what does a horn contribute other than meaningless pollution) and this added to the blurred quality of the afternoon. Mind you we hardly sang at all in the first half, what with Rise scoring for them after forty five seconds. It knocked the stuffing out of all of us, especially the team, who took at least twenty five minutes to get over being utterly shell shocked by his rasping volley, which I didn’t even see as I was letting some latecomer make for his seat in front of me just as Rise was rifling Morientes’ cross into the corner of the net with great skill and expertise.

This slow moving man was to plague our row for the next 120 minutes as he went backwards and forwards to the bar and the loo (we presume) causing the very large and opinionated child next to me to comment ‘that’s the eighth time that ugly man has left during an exciting part of the game’. This was well observed by the kid. He was indeed unattractive with an unfortunate choice in beards. He got his come uppance when he missed Drogba’s goal in extra time. ‘That’ll teach you to go to the toilet so much’ trilled the boy with the large head. The bloke was too pissed to notice.

As I said, my state of mind was better than it had been at the last two defeats. And I was in a reasonable mood considering the disaster that had befallen me before the game: I’d failed to get a programme. I mean bloody hell, it’s a major cup Final and they run out of progies? But to be fair to the powers that be at the Millenium stadium (pronounced Milaarnium stadium by one of the announcers – no not the infuriating insensitive self satisfied elongated voweled dick that does the main announcements , some other lighter voiced voice) there were many people with large bundles of progies who’d clearly purchased nine or ten to give to mates/sell to mates/sell to strangers/keep under their pillow/use instead of a pillow. So consequently JK did without.

My mood however in the first half wasn’t great, as you would expect. A bloke behind me seemed incapable of coherent speech other than the irritatingly tedious ‘Give him another option Chelsea’. His pal, in a Cfc v Barcelona souvenir scarf, could only repeat ‘Wake up Chelsea’ at one minute intervals going up a semitone each time as his nerves began to get the better of him. When they spoke one after the other I yearned for a mallet. Happily after about twenty minutes of ‘non options’ and ‘sleepiness’ we began to get it together and Liverpool’s manager Benitez’s plan began to rear its rather dull head: defend and make life difficult and defend a bit more and when in doubt, er..defend. We began to boss it. But would we score? Or would it be like Newcastle all over again? Would another player be sent off? Would we have to play with ten players again? The answer was no. We veritably rose to the occasion and revealed ourselves to be the tight knit efficient team we all know and and have seen all season.

We grew in spirit and confidence. The Cfc fans rewarded this improvement by lobbing celery onto the pitch at regular intervals crooning ‘If she don’t come we’ll tickle her up the bum with a bunch of celery’ with increasing gusto. The own goal was richly deserved and we could/should have won it in normal time.

Gerrard was cruelly applauded to the heavens when he came over to take a corner. As it was the winner was down to a remarkably unlikely source: the strange Kezman, who still has to convince me he isn’t a doppelganger for the real Kezman who scored so many goals in Dutch football. Surely this one is his incompetent twin brother and the real goal scoring Kezman is hidden in a cupboard somewhere. But today I wondered if he’d got away from his evil twin and turned up in Cardiff raring to play.

Our magnificent greycoated gum chewer bit the bullet, took Gallas off and played four up and no left back when he decided that the Pool were there for the taking and Kezman’s headless chicken antics seemed more focused. He actually connected with the ball, ran well into intelligent areas, blocked competently, had several shots almost on target, didn’t wear his black gloves (mind you the micro climate in the stadium was warmer than what he’s been used to recently) and then poked home the winner after Gudjohnson’s curved cross. Naturally being Kezman it didn’t actually hit the back of the net. It dribbled over the line away from Dudek’s flailing grasp before being scooped up and cleared. But the lino was on the spot. Goaaaal. I throatily saluted someone I have written off. Perhaps now he will mutate into the player we need. But I have my doubts. He is one of the players we will have to ‘let go’ if the squad is to truly become the best in Europe.

Tiago, who didn’t play today, is another. Jarosik looked average in the first half and didn’t make the second, but I think he has the class to be a good purchase. Joe Cole still makes the wrong choices too often. Geremi will realise that standing around and looking on is not what Jose is after; and Eidur must be more consistent. Though he was excellent when he came on in the second half. Carvalho was majestic, along with the magnificent JT. Duffer and Super Frank were as poleaxed by the early goal as anyone but reclaimed their crowns as the game progressed. Claude Makelelele was his intrusive brilliant self, though his occasional inability to pass to a Chelsea shirt does make him fallible. Paulo Ferriera was at first nightmarish and then recovered his poise. Drogba tumbled and miscontrolled too often for me. But he has been injured. And he does take a few games to be restored to his best. There is no doubt Robben would unlock defences sooner.

There was a ridiculous rumour on the bus that he was on the subs’ bench. When he clearly wasn’t anywhere near the subs’ bench, the rumour changed to being that he’ll be fit for Barcelona at home on the 8th. I hope so. The medal and cup awarding bit was ludicrously protracted and took place in semi darkness, allowing a large number of fireworks to be let off and a massively loud eighties disco track to deafen us all. Suddenly we were at a rock concert. After we’d been saluted by the team below us, I pathetically left, scouring the seats for a discarded or dropped progie. No luck. Pooh. Back on the coach we watched the DVD of Troy starring Brad Pitt who I think was as embarrassed about speaking the ‘epic’ script as was Joaquin Phoenix in Gladiator. The only Homer who influenced this screenplay was Homer Simpson. We all nodded off. Just as well. It took the coach two hours to get out of the road we used as a car park. You’d think that they’d have it worked out better considering the number of high profile games they have at the stadium. The lack of speed allowed a group of Liverpool fans to wander past and inform us ‘We were going to win fuck all’ and we could ‘stick our millions up our arses’ and once again ‘we weren’t Chelsea anymore’. None of us could be bothered to respond. Back home at half past twelve, exhausted but strangely content. One trophy won. Two to go. Come on Chelsea. Come on Chelsea.

Chelsea Vs Scunthorpe - 8th Jan 04 | 03-04 Season

All a bit farcical. HGC states his intentions by picking the nineteen year old Centre Back Steven Watt. Who has never played for the first team before. No JT. No Gallas. No Carvalho.And he is accompanied in central defence by the midfielder Alexei Smertyn, who is not a central defender. At all. In any shape or form. In the second half, Johnson the full back takes over from Smertin. He is equally dubious in this new position. At left back is some Portuguese geezer called Ninas who failed to impress (tho is possibly a better defender than Babayaro who we said goodbye to this week to Newcastle). Ninas is fairly indistinguishable from Tiago, with same flowing locks and appropriate headband, which is possibly a look favoured by the Potuguese because carvalho has the same hairstyle. I think it's easier to say who was playing from the regulars rather than who wasn't. He made eight changes from Boro. Gudj was there. As was Drogba. Joe Cole started. The weird Kezman started. The odd Geremi started 'Get off Geremi you're useless' a tall youth kept shouting out until he was taken off, to which he said 'There you see! Mourinho listens to me!' Scunthorpe brought 6,000 fans who, like in the West Ham Carling Cup game, (spookily enough Scunthorpe are like West ham called the Irons) occupied all of the Matthew Harding Lower stand and treated the whole game as an opportunity for all out carnival activity. As you would expect really. We didn't help matters much by conceding an early goal when their livewire striker Hayes turned Smertin 180 degrees and toe poked home through a fragile looking Cudicini's legs. Cue mayhem. A Scunthorpe fan near me stood up and did himself a mischief cheering so hard. I mean he cheered harder than he ever would at a normal game. He was cheering because he was saying 'look at me I'm a supporter of a team two divisions below you and we're one up against you, the Premiership leaders. You the snotty playthings of a multi billionaire whereas our whole team and ground and employees and tea lady are all worth what you paid for this new bloke Jarosik you bought from CsK Moscow this week..Fuck you.fuck you.fuck you. haaaaaaa'.

He was advised by a steward to pipe down .But no one objected to his presence because we never really thought we'd lose. Despite what the media will say about 'possible cup shocks' and 'being the first to score against us in 5 matches' , this was not a team to fear even if they bring a huge number of fans and score against us in the first few minutes. The Gumchewing God was merely giving the team a well earned rest after the hectic Christmas period where we'd won all four of our games and United and Arsenal dropped points. My turn to go haaaaaa! I mean for all Scunthorpe's hustle and bustle and brusque brisk tackling, which was frequently very probably illegal (they were trying to put it 'up us' and the ref, shiny pated Dermot Gallacher who clearly believes it's a 'man's game' was having none of our protestations as Drogba was repeatedly impeded or Tiago knocked over off the ball) they gave possession away so often and looked so average defending that for me it was never in doubt and I got a bit bored with our initial ineptitude, and then our inability to score six, and our very bad defending which nearly gifted them two further goals. But then this chap Watt and whichever non centre half he had beside him was just not up to it. Watt might be good in the reserves, but at the moment, half clearances and not getting the ball in the air were always going to guarantee a glimmer of hope for Scunthorpe, even if, as was confirmed by our third goal, I felt all along that all we needed to do was bring on Robben and it would be all over. And indeed once Robben came on with ten minutes to go and weaved his magic, Gudjohnson scored immediately hoofing the ball high into the roof of the net after Robben's and Cole's shots had been parried by the pucky keeper.

Chanting and singing wise, the Irons won hands down. 'Can you hear Chelsea sing I can't hear a fucking thing' was a frequent one, and rightly so. We were all a bit bored and unenthused by our 'B' team. 'Stand up if you love Scunthorpe' and then when they scored 'Stand up if you're 1-0 up' 'Who the fucking hell are you?', the amusing 'Can we play you every week' and the 'What a waste of money' to £23 milion Drogba were all wheeled out as well as a startling amount of white noise every time their heroes got the ball. Remarkable stuff. We really weren't good for the first twenty minutes, but after a solid passage of play where we passed the ball a lot, the slightly unhinged Kezman volleyed in a Joe Cole cross which had been headed to him and we could get down to the business of winning it easily. Though not before the Lone Voice Man shouted 'This is the worst performance I've ever seen Chelsea.' To which Nigel responded 'You can't have been coming very often then.' A fifty second minute own goal by Crosby after Drogba out ran a defender and crossed gave us our second.

Kezman emerged in the second half with a natty pair of gloves on which caused Stewart to comment 'You're never going to endear yourself to an English crowd wearing gloves on a mild day are you? Particularly when you've not worn them in the first half.' Which seemed to be echoed by the man in the Outsize baseball Cap who shouted in his high pitched voice 'You pansy Kezman, get those gloves off. It's as mild as a Spring day!' so clealy there were many who were not pleased by his handy antics. I think also they're not sure of him as a player as well, he is so like a headless chicken, which indeed is what Olivia called him at least twice. Our new signing Jasorik looked ok I suppose. On his appearance he was referred to as Jasarovich by the DJ announcer which summoned up memories of our last great non signing with a similar name , the aquatic, hopeless, loved by oddball manager Ranierei, Jokanovic. Ominously this Czech player looks similar in size and duck like possibilities. I hope not. Olivia said 'He looks like an ostrich'.

'It's Tore Andre Flo' shouted a man in a seat where the Orange Thug should be. But he wasn't there today. (Tore played for Cfc in the late 90s. His nickname was 'Bambi'. A long thin rabbit on ice' a mate of mine called him) 'He looks like some form of pond dweller to me' I ventured to Dick who ignored me.

At the end of the game, the wonderful PR man that is Mourinho waited for the Scunthorpe players to get the applause from their supporters 'We're proud of you, we're proud of you, we're proud of you Scunthorpe' they sang to 'Auld Lang Syne' and then he shook hands with every one of them. He is a very clever man. So. ultimately not a great game. An exercise in getting a result whilst giving the players a rest.

Chelsea Vs Portsmouth - Sunday 28th Dec 04 | 03-04 Season

There are a whole series of jolly characters at Portsmouth. There’s ‘Jolly Jack Tar’ a striding grinning fellah with a caricature Sailor drawn on a board with ‘Play Up Pompey’ on it. I suspect he’s a tradition. He wears a Sailor’s uniform (he might even be a sailor!) and parades around saluting. There’s a mascot in the shape of a blue Frog called Frogmore who has the full Frog gear including large plastic football boots that are a bugger to walk in. Indeed he shuffles about a bit waving. And accompanying. He waves to us and accompanies a group of kids who’ve been playing five a side and they perambulate around the pitch garnering applause. Then they go round the pitch again. And again. The applause has dwindled by the third time. Though the woman leading the group is still clapping for all she’s worth.

I survey the scene. We have no roof on our part of the ground. And it is total brass monkey weather. Luckily I have brought my plastic troos in case it rains. Ahead of us is the enormous Pompey stand where their leather lunged supporters dwell, encouraged by bell drum and trumpet. I find myself next to the old fella from the Palace game who has no recollection of me at all. Doesn’t stop him from being talkative though. On my right is a rotund merry chortler of a chap with thick glasses who soflty encourages the team at conversational level. Never shouts, just comments. ‘Let’s go!’ is one of his favourite expressions. ‘Let’s go Chelsea….Yes!..Now we’ve got em…Ah perhaps not..no that’s it…oh…yes! Let’s go! Easy! Yes! Easy! Oh bad luck. Oh come on..please…ah…Let’s go. Yes! Yes! Easy!..Oh.’

He kept this up until the cold got to him and we all realised that we weren’t going to win that easily. We stood up for the whole game. I have never done that before since we’ve had all seaters. The reason this happened was because the originally swarming security staff in their yellow bibs were nowhere to be seen. They’d vanished. So there was no one to tell anyone to sit down. It had its advantages though. We all sort of huddled together against the cold. My flask did its job that day. A sweet young chap in front of me asked me if I could see properly and did I want to swap places with him! Ah! Wonder why he did that? Coz I’m such a shortarse I suppose. To the right of me in front were three Russians with a small DV camera interviewing each other and taking shots of the crowd.

The Portsmouth fans are possibly the loudest in the Division. Or is it the fact that the shape of their huge stand amplifies everything. You feel that they’re on top of you. ‘Blue Army’ is their favourite chant and it’s difficult to believe that it’s not a group of fans standing several yards away who aren’t making the din. On and on it goes.’Blue Army….Blue Army…Blue Army..’ and of course the famous ‘Pompey Chimes’: ‘Play up Pompey. Pompey play up!’ That’s over and over again as well. We hardly sang a syllable all afternoon. It was useless. We didn’t feel inclined to, I suppose because of the songs all disappearing into the Solent air coz of our lack of covering. There's nothing to amplify us. ‘Spot’ was started and then just withered away. Some bloke commented on it. ‘Lads. What’s the matter with you all?’ and attempted ‘Carefree’. Nothing. So he tried ‘We will follow the Chelsea.’ Not a sausage. ‘Lads. Please. I’m singing on my own here.’ He tried a ‘Spot’ and just repeated ‘One Man’ for several verses and then gave up. The Pompey fans commented on it. ‘Can you hear Chelsea sing? I can’t hear a fucking thing’ they chorused.

‘Did you go to Charlton?’ asked the old bloke from Palace with the large white sideburns which I hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps he’s just grown them. No it’s me being unobservant. Before I could reply he said:

‘I couldn’t believe it. I was in the front row and some oaf next to me (I love the word ‘oaf,’ don’t hear it much nowadays) stood up for the whole game. And oh, the language. Gudjohnson missed a chance and my God he was critical of him. Unbelievably so. Dear me. We could almost touch the players. Gudjohnson must have heard. Dear dear me the language. He must have upset Gudjohnson with what he called him. Call himself a supporter.’

The Pompey fans hate ex-manager Harry Redknapp even though he got them into the Premiership and kept them up with some judicious signings and good tactics last season. ‘Judas, Judas’ they chant. ‘Who the fuck is Harry Redknapp?’ is another one. ‘Are you Redknapp in disguise?’ they ask the ref when they don’t agree with a decision. Joining Southampton, their great rivals, was a betrayal. It's akin to Campbell going to Arsenalk from Spurs.

Good moment of banter: After an odd decision from Riley the ref had gone against Portsmouth, their fans sang ‘Have you bought the ref as well?’ to which we replied when he gave them a free kick ‘We want our money back.’

The second half heard the convoluted ‘Lampard shags his Uncle’ (his Uncle is Harry Redknapp) and a whole series of interminable ‘Blue Armies’. They never stopped.

As for the match, ah yes the match. We weren’t very good. It was possibly our worst display since Birmingham away. And yet we won, despite being bad. Well, not bad, but contained by the opposition. The sign of a Championship winning side? Win while not being at the top of your form? Drogba who began the game from the start, won first prize in the impersonate a donkey competition. ‘What a waste of money’ sang Pompey, and oh dear on this performance I agree with him. Our Handsome Man....ager played Ferreira at left back and put Johnson in at right back, I presume coz Bridgey has been looking a bit dubious. The rumour is he can’t cope with the ‘bonding’ sessions that our Gumchewer likes the players to instigate being a shy lad. Anyway, his not being there sort of unbalanced it a bit. But we just weren’t firing on all cylinders. To be fair it was also because Pompey were playing to a well devised plan which involved scurrying around like madmen closing down everyone especially Robben and Duff who on occasions had three men on them.

We only really came alive when He who chews took off Drogba and brought on Gudjohnson who holds the ball up for the others, something Drogba doesn’t do. (In fact Drogba didn’t do anything other than two stinging shots) Gudj should’ve scored from a Johnson header from a corner which he manged to kick over the bar from about a yard attempting a bicycle kick. But it all came together when the supposedly out of favour Joe Cole, who according to Trevor was so out of favour that last Sunday at the Norwich game he could be found in a café in Primrose Hill, came on in the last ten minutes and like at Birmingham all those games ago, dinked and ducked and dived and first of all set up Robben to drive the ball past Hislop (with the aid of a deflection) and then scored himself crisply from the edge of the area.’ ‘Jingle Bells’ rang out. Apparently. But I didn’t see this goal or hear this tune because we had aaargh left five minutes early to escape the rush. Which I have to admit we did, making it home in record time.

Chelsea Vs Villa - Sunday 26th Dec 04 | 03-04 Season

Carvalho was missing for us (still injured) so Gallas was at Centre Half and the unconfident Bridgey still at Left Back. In fact it was the same as against Norwich. Parker wasn’t on the subs bench as he’s broken a bone in his foot. So Smertin took his place. Geremi and Cole are the two players Mourinho is ignoring at the moment, but trust me, they’ll have their time, possibly during the next few days when we have five games over the holiday period. Villa have a lot of injury problems with the tenacious Hitzelberger out and also the excellent Gavin McCann who is always good against us and was terrific at Villa Park. Consequently we were looking for another four goals and a bit of an easy passage. Unfortunately it became a bit like a return to the bad old days when we’d hang on to a solitary goal and attempt to defend it. A game we should have won easily becoming a sit on the edge of your seat affair. Though actually they never looked like scoring and I must have more faith in our defence which is admirable. No, the problem is Chelsea teams in the past, especially under the Stork like Professor Yaffle who was Ranierei, did it all the time, deciding that if we were a goal up after 70 mins that was enough for him and we’d defend it, frequently with heart in the mouth results, subbing our best players in the process,so all that happens is that we all become appallingly pessimistic based on previous experience. But this is a different era so, as I say, I must have faith. Considering we haven’t won on Boxing Day since 1999 and we normally play as if we’ve eaten too much pud the day before, we started brightly, Robben performing a superb mazy dribble after 4 mins that deserved better. What a player he is. But the atmosphere was muted.

I suppose the combination of Boxing day and it being a one o’clock start doesn’t help. But the slightly dodgy feeling of inattention continued for the whole ninety minutes. The Man in the Outsize baseball hat called on my knowledge of the offside law on several occasions when Gudjohnson was supposedly offside and he leapt to his feet in high dudgeon.

‘For fuck’s sake ref. That wasn’t offside. Was it. Was it?’ he turns to me.

‘Well. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I presume that he was given off side because when the ball was kicked, although he wasn’t interfering with play, he was offside…’

‘But he was coming back. If you’re coming back you’re not going for the ball’

‘No but the ball went to him so when he got it he was deemed offside although he wasn’t in the first place’ I reply slightly doubting my own knowledge and in danger of disappearing up my own backside. He sits down disgruntled. On two other occasions though I must admit that although I’m at least a hundred yards away, it looked to me as If there was a Villa player keeping Gudjohnson onside. So when questioned I could only say ‘I think we should look at that one on the telly when we get home’

He seems satisfied with that. Phew! But Dancing Thug isn’t happy with the decisions this ref is making. The ref is a Mr Peter Walton.

‘Hello! Hello!’ says the Thug. ‘And repeats it. ‘Hello! Hello!’ when Robben is knocked over and the ref ignores it. He then resorts to ‘Mr Walton! Mr Walton! Hello!' Which makes him sound rather pleasant. But there was in fact a menace there I’m not managing to convey.

‘Oh I wouldn’t want him greeting me at any time of the day’ Olivia noted. Gallas is injured leaping with Angel for the ball. ‘Let him die, Let Him Die let Him Die’ sing the Villa fans. Dick is distraught. ‘How rude’ he says under his breath. He ruminates a lot does our Dick. Our response to this is the ubiquitous ‘Chim chiminery’ number which we always sing with such gusto whenever we play the similarly garbed Hammers. (Chim Chimerny Chim Chimerny Chim Chim Cheroo. We hate those bastards in Claret and blue) The Villa lot tried it incurring Stan’s disdain. ‘Chim Chimereny Chim Chimerny Chim Chim Cheroo, we hate those bastards in blue and white’.

‘Ludicrous. Doesn’t rhyme at all. Or scan. 'Blueoo and white'. Why did they bother? Absurd.’

A confident looking..(’No not confident. Smug.’ Says Olivia.) Ok, a smug man falls over on the comedy step which is on the gangway below us where many a supporter has fallen and grazed their knees. Stan joins in! ‘Comedy Step’ we cry and giggle at our mischievousness. Tee hee.

I am worried about the way I shout out my encouragement. I have mutated from just shouting into a sort of strange costermonger.

‘Carme arnnn yew bluesaaaah’ I protractedly cry. No it’s a sort of boxing referee. ‘In the arr Bluearr cornarrr’. Anyway this is the strange noise I now make. Where it has come from I have no idea.

‘Wakey wakey Chelsea..arrrrr’ I project like a weird Billy Cotton Band Show character from the seventies. Dick asks me what’s wrong. Nigel looks at me as if I’ve broken wind. Olvia titters. Below me we’ve had a few chances and look the better team but we’re now the greedy supporters and we expect at least two goals by thirty minutes. And lo! We get one. And yea it is fab. I must rememeber we have the two best wingers in Europe and they can make something out of nothing. Out of defence, the ball goes to the effervescent Lampard who threads through to the galloping Robben who tears the defence apart, slips to Duffer who side steps and drills home. Magnifique.

I stand and punch the air in my usual way shouting ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ to no one in particular. Dick gives high fives to the man on his right who I have never spoken to. Man of Silence isn’t there so continues to be consistent in saying nothing. The Thug dances. He twirls and twirls. I think I’m wrong to call him bronzed. Sun bedded is more like it.

‘You’re worse than Birmingham’ the Matthew harding Lower cruelly sing. Followed by ‘Are you Birmingham in disguise?’ which is now slightly unintelligible because we’re doing that thing of cramming a long word into the middle of the sentence. When this finishes, Lone Voice Man excels himself by standing up and singing ‘Are you Burnley in disguise?’ which is just weird. Is it a joke? Has he misheard? Is he being subtle because they play in the Championship and also in Claret and Blue? He diligently does it twice and sits down cackling. Stan just can’t believe it.’ That man is ridiculous. What is that all about? He must have taken some hallucigenic drug that’s all I can think.’

Olivia meanwhile has it in for the Duffer. God knows why.

‘Look. Damian’s knuckles touch the ground when he walks. But he does run like a greyhound.’

‘What exactly are you saying?’ I ask.

‘I’m saying only his Mum would call him handsome’.

‘Why?’ I persist.

‘I’m saying there are more attractive players in the Chelsea team. Cudicini for one. And that De Lucas bloke we had two years ago, he was very pretty.’

‘But he couldn’t play at all Olivia’ I reply.’ When his name was read out on the tannoy that he was in the team, men would shout out ‘Oh no Ranierei not that c-u-n-t.' He was useless. He and Jokanovic would get the worst players ever to play for Chelsea award, along with Alan Mayes, David Stride, David Mitchell and Joe Allon.’

‘All before my time I’m afraid’

I forget she’s only been watching since after ‘We were shit’ as the opposition fans cruelly cry out.

She then gives us some info.

‘Duff and Lampard are great friends apparently, though John Terry is quite shy.’

Can’t quite see the connection but I’ve taken it all in.

‘Bloody hell we’ll dine out on that information’ sneers Stan.

Nigel is in magnificent exasperated form today. His ‘Refs!’ are many and his snorts admirable. The first half ends with him having a go at the poor unfortunate injured Villa player who is subbed and walks off very slowly with some sort of injury that causes him to limp. ‘So what you’ve got haemerrhoids. Get a bloody move on. We all want a cup of tea.’

The second half starts without much ‘huff and puff’ as Dick puts it.

‘They’ve had a glass of sherry in the dressing room’ he adds seasonally. Our fans wittily call out to the ref ‘Are you Blunkett in disguise’ as he fails to give what they think is an obvious foul on Ferreira.

The main event of the second half is the ‘assistant referee’ or linesman as they used to call them (or ‘Lino’ as Lone Voice Man calls him as if he’s his pal) colliding with Drogba who is warming up on the touchline and having to seek the magic sponge from a trainer. Lone Voice man excels himself with a mad ‘Oi Lino. You’ll never give anyone offside if you’re lying down, will you mate? Will you? Haaaaaa!’

We don’t appear to be having any problem with Villa who don’t look as if they’ll ever have a shot on goal. But it would be nice to put them out of their misery. Drogba comes on for Gudjohnson. Around me it’s all happening: Lone Voice Man shouts ‘Oi. Drogba looks like Ulrika Johnson.’ Thug goes ‘You what? You what?’ Olivia cringes. Thug goes’ Shoot the fucking ref’ who is decidedly dodgy. Olivia cowers visibly expecting him to reach for a revolver. The strange adenoidal announcer who is not the DJ who announces the teams, the one who always ‘tests the emergency alarm’ in case there’s a bomb alert, announces: ‘Gentlemen. There are delays on the District Line. Please use Earl’s Court Station’ to which Olivia recovers from her Thug fear and pipes up with ‘Gentlemen? Surely Ladies and Gentlemen? Are there no women at this match? Disgraceful. Who does he think he is?’ And to cap all this bizarre flurry of vocal activity, the man who hates Lampard has a go at him when he tries to float one over the top to Drogba. ‘You’re fucking useless Lampard’ and turns on his heel and exits, looking at me for approval as if I’m going to agree with him. As I attempt to avert his Lampard detesting gaze, he falls over the comedy step! ‘Comedy Step’ we all cry. Even Nigel!

‘Oh I’m so pleased he fell over. Frank’s great.’ says Olivia.

‘Serves him right the knobend’ says Dick.

Our enthusiasm is quelled by the sight of Kezman preparing to come on. ‘Oh God no it’s Kezman’ says Olivia.

But the Handsome gumchewer changes his mind and Johnson comes on instead. The game petered out with, as I said, us sort of on the edge of our seats but not really. ‘What a waste of money’ was sung at Drogba as he disappeared down the tunnel. I fear their assessment may be right if he doesn’t extract the digit.

Chelsea 4 Vs 0 Norwich - Sunday 18th Dec 04 | 03-04 Season

In the second half, this was the Arjen Robben show. Still haven't worked out how you pronounce his first name. I thought it was 'Areean' and the J was like an I. But then the bloke on the Tannoy called him 'Argen' as it's spelt. But he might be crap. But then you'd think he would know. Anyway, the ability he has to bring the ball down and beat his man at the same time is truly awesome. The third goal we scored today that he was involved in the build up, and which he scored, was breathtaking. He rifled home powerfully from the edge of the box after a fabulous move involving five Cfc players and an outrageous flick from Tiago. Brilliant. The Norwich players were utterly bewildered by it all and looked shellshocked as they sought someone to blame. They couldn't. It was a goal of sheer genius.

The game didn't start off this way though. Norwich clearly had a plan: attack Bridgey (in for Carvalho who has a broken toe) on our left and don't be overawed, just pass and pass and pass. And this worked well. We weren't settled, Bridge was looking the average defender we know him to be and they looked the more threatening of the two teams. Bentley, the on-loan Arsenal boy with a point to prove, looked very precocious with neat skills and a good turn of pace. He has the same ability Pires and the others have got of gaining fouls by running swiftly and the slightest touch then has them tumbling theatrically to the floor.

They dominated but on ten minutes, Danish international Thomas Helveg ludicrously passed to Damien Duff on the edge of his own penalty area. The Duffer is in top form and duly drilled home. The Cfc second goal, a monster of a drive from Frank Lampard from about twenty two yards that nestled beautifully in the top corner, was a similar gift from ex Spur Doherty. And then the third just before half time was sheer magic. But we hadn't played well at all. The Norwich fans weren't giving up and had been in good voice all of the first half. Though they do have a tendency to be totally unintelligible by trying to cram in far too many words into one sentence. So it's 'Oh when the Canaries, go marching in, so when the Canaries go marching in' which is tricky. You try saying it. But the worst is 'Nigel Worthington's Yellow and Green army…..Nigel Worthington's Yellow and Green army.' Commendable to give all that information out, but incomprehensible. 'Come on you yellows' works well and we can hear that one. We responded with a variety of 'Spots', a 'Stand up if you love Chelsea' which we all ignored I'm afraid, and they responded with a 'Where were you when you were shit?' which is very unfair because I think the last time we were truly shit was in the 80s. And before that we'd been quite good, especially in the 60s, and early 70s so I don't think there's ever been a time when we were truly shit.

I have to admit there were times in the early eighties when I would never ever go away to watch. But there were mitigating circumstances. I didn't have any money for a start. And I must admit we were struggling in what was then the second division which is now Division one of the Championship. But even then I dutifully made it to the home games. I might miss the odd one if the previous experience had been totally dire. I remember leaving twenty minutes early when we were being stuffed by Crewe I think it was and I couldn't quite take it. But no, Norwich lot. I don't think we've ever been truly shit. 'Wakey wakey' shouts David as we don't really play well at all. But er….we're three up! 'We're gonna win 4-3' the Canaries fans sang gamely and clearly.

We responded with 'You might as well go home' cruely but correctly. Coz we got even better in the second half with huge sweeping moves. The Norwich team's crest had fallen so far it had dropped off. Drogba came on for us. He looks a bit off the pace. 'What a waste of money' the Norwich fans sang and immediately rued, as he climbed above everyone to nut home Duff's corner. 4-0. 'We only win 4-0' everyone sang. We should really have scored three more we were so much in command. The normally reliable Lampard missed a good chance when the ball seemed to hold up on the newly lain surface. This aroused the ire of a small podgy man in a sheepskin who clearly hates our Frank. 'Look at that. Fucking useless. He's fucking useless. Can't control the ball to save his life. I don't know what you lot see in him. He's the most over-rated player in the Premiership. Get rid of him and buy a proper player. Useless. You're useless Lampard you cunt.' Happily Frank heard none of this. At the end of the game Frank exchanged shirts with a Norwich player and strutted back to the tunnel, his taut tight torso gleaming with sweat showing off his six pack and pecs and I'm sure he did that so anyone who'd called him fat at the Arse and at Fulham would see how wrong they were. Just to confirm my suspicions that there's a conspiracy going on, the bloke in the sheepskin shouts out 'You should go on a bloody diet Lampard you fat bastard.'

What on earth is going on?

Arsenal V Cfc Sunday 12th Dec 04 | 03-04 Season

I am a shadow of my former self after this. I was five foot seven and I am now five foot two and three quarters. Bloody hell the tension. This was a top game by two top teams, who cancelled each other out. As the gnome like Arsenal fan with the ski hat and huge golden earring who was standing far too close to me on the Piccadilly Line said 'We was much better than we had been recently but I fort a draw was the fair result.' The very dapper Irishman crushed into me on my right hand side, who was obviously a neutral, asked: 'Who was playing who?' 'It was Arsenal versus Chelsea and yes 2-2 was probably the correct score.' I didn't tell either of them what I really felt. As far as I'm concerned, we wuz as usual fucked over by fate.

As always at Highbury there was a crappy Arsenal goal against us. This particular one involved a free kick that wasn't, (Pires fell over and gained the foul when neither Makelele nor Lampard had touched him) and a contentious piece of refereeing by Graham Poll to give the foul. And then Poll allowed Henry to take the kick before anyone was ready, all the while showing Gudjohnson the whistle. But apparently he was also giving Henry permission to take the kick! And Henry, being the great opportunist, did so. Petr Cech the Cfc Goalie, was standing on the post still directing the defensive wall ...and it deflected off Tiago's shoulder, into the far corner. Which is what always happens at Highbury. There's always something flukey or annoying in one of the Arsenal goals which happens against the run of play. Coz we were bossing it at the time. Last year it was Cudicini letting the ball between his legs after their first goal was in off Gallas's leg. The year before it was the ball deflecting off Desailly's heel. It doesn't matter how well the Arse are playing, something hugely fortuitous (for them) happens.

Just before the game started, a small plump waddling man festooned in enamel Chelsea badges with shiny swept back hair who was standing in the gangway by my seat, informed us all and anyone who would listen, that we'd be handed the game on a plate today as he knew someone in the game who knew someone who'd told him that the ref, the same Graham Poll who allowed Henry to take the free kick whenever he felt like it, was in fact a Chelsea fan and we would benefit from it. Well how did we benefit from this o enamelled man with slicked back hair of about seventy years? In fact o be-badged bloke, it went the other way. Poll bent over backwards not to be biased and gave the Arse the advantage you nit! I admit I'm keen on free kicks being taken as quickly as the players want. But bloody hell poor old Cech wasn't even in the goal. Harrumph haraugh nerny nerny dohh. Narrr. On reflection it was quick thinking and we were bad. I suspect however if we'd scored like that I'd be crowing like the Arsenal fans crowed. And this was what pissed me off thoroughly about the game. The crowing. Especially until we scored our first (JT header from a corner after Frank's brilliant first time shot had been acrobatically turned over the bar by the supposedly dodgy keeper Almunia) They'd been crowing since Henry's brilliant second minute volley gave them the lead.

It had all started off nicely with us shouting 'We are top of the league, we are top of the league' and them responding with 'Champions! Champions!' which is only fair really, coz they are. We then did the 'Top of the league, we're having a laugh' tune to which the Arse very wittily responded with a version of our very own 'Carefree' but with different words. You've got to hand it to them. The Highbury Library you see. Clever fuckers. This version went along the lines of: 'Carefree, wherever you may be, you ain't got no history. You ain't won the league in 49 years, you ain't got no history.' This goes with the 'O when the Saints go marching in' song they've adapted. 'You won the league, in black and white, you won the league in black in white, you won the league in the fifties, you won the league in black and white.' Clever stuff. It was they who originated the now oft used bit of Tosca (?) with 'Here comes Kanu again. Here comes Kanu again' when he played for them and always scored against us. They're bright chaps. But bloody hell the abuse from them when they scored.

I was getting the full brunt of it as I was seated right next to the white metal barrier that segregates the Cfc fans from the Arse in the middle of which sit the orange coated stewards. It's two strips of pockmarked metal fencing that creates a small corridor with little seats for said staff. Lamps fouled someone and the Gooners all screamed 'You fat bastard' (what is this about slim love God Frank who hasn't an ounce of fat on him?).

Then, we're 'Just a Tottenham with money'. Then 'You can stick your fucking rubles up yer arse' then the new 'Carefree' song sung at ear splitting volume. To which we feebly replied with a strangled 'Spot' which petered out after only just a couple of men had been out scything on the sward. Some few gamely tried 'One nil and we're top of the league' but it felt hollow. 'Can you hear Chelsea sing, I can't hear a fucking thing?' came next and rightly so. We were shell shocked by the goal and the onslaught. Slowly but surely we played better and better and then.... the John Terry goal. Now it was the turn of the Gooner fans to become subdued whilst we found our voice.

'We are top of the League' resurfaced. Followed by a proper 'Spot' and then a forceful 'Zigger Zagger'. The Arse fans went quiet. A 'Your support is fucking shit' and some 'Sssshes' to give the impression the ground was quiet belied the hubbub from the crowd though. You could cut the tension with a knife. I weedily began to feel a bit sick, though I'm pretty sure it was the strange scummy coffee I'd had at the Internet café just before the match, or the concussion I've been suffering from since my bike accident. A version of the Dennis Wise song, this time in praise of Wayne Bridge's goal against the Arse last year in the Champions' League was tried:

'Oh Way-ay-ne Bridge, scored a fucking great goal, at the Gooner shit ole, with two minutes to go' which sounded better when it was 'O Dennis Wise, scored a fucking great goal, at the San Siro, with ten minutes to go (Speedy Gonzales, The 'Graham Poll is a fucking Arseole' tune, which surprisingly wasn't sung). And then 'No noise from the Library' (Go West) with reference to the Highbury Library again. But it was all turned on its head by the Arse free kick that wasn't. Again the Gooner fans became a baying pack of hounds and again my heart was in my mouth. Though even they were a bit muted, coz I think they weren't sure whether the goal was really fair or not.

In the interval at half time I rather took my mind off the whole thing and texted a variety of chums inviting them to a Christmas drinks party. Eddie, who was sitting at the end of the row behind me, thought we'd done ok before their second goal and someone who'd phoned home and consulted a pal watching Sky said we'd had most of the possession. Arsenal fan and well known Mr Chumley-Warner Jon Glover phoned me and said we'd begun to take over when they got their second which was just Henry being opportunistic. It'll be the major talking point. I shared my observation with him that whenever Henry gets the ball, all the Arsenal supporters behave as though they're all on hinges, arising as one out of their seats in the expectation of instant gratification. It's a rather satisfying sight. To see every Gooner behaving like an automaton. But to be fair he is one of the best players in the world and if he were playing for us I'd be springing to attention looking for greatness.

Two subs for the second half: Drogba on for Tiago, who'd looked off the pace, and Bridgey for Carvalho, who I'd heard wasn't 100% fit. Bridgey was the attacking option at full back, whereas Gallas had been defending. Gallas went to Centre Half. And lo and behold we scored immediately from another set-piece. Frank L took a free kick from the left, Terry's run took Campbell away, Gallas headed on and Gudj, tho fouled, delicately scoop headed it into the top left hand corner. Ooh the quiet now! 'Sing when you're winning. You only sing when you're winning' we belted out. Someone started singing the ancient 'Blue is the Colour' which everyone joined in with! The Gooners resorted to the old Top Ten Hit 'Good Old Arsenal, we're proud to say that name, while we sing this song we'll win the game' which didn't work coz they didn't.

It finished 2-2 with Frank missing a header it was easier to score, and Henry blazing over from six yards. Honours even. Singing honours even. We reverted to 4-3-3 by the end with Parker on for Gudjohnson. We have the ability to switch in the middle of games and make it work. Ranierei tried this last year and everyone ended up in everyone else's position. Mourinho does it and it takes place seamlessly. Marvellous. 'We are top of the league' we sang. 'Champions. Champions,' sang the Arse. As we both did at the beginning. Because Arsenal only got one point Everton have overtaken them.

'You're third and you know you are' we sang on the way out.

V Fulham Carling Cup 2-1 30th Nov 04 | 03-04 Season

I wore no Chelsea colours for this game as I was sitting amongst the Fulham fans with my good friend Jonathan and his son Jo who follow the Cottagers. Though I did have a rather unattractive bright blue Cfc 'beanie' hat in my pocket for a possible wearing moment away from the ground if I so wanted. I did wear a hat, a sort of 'youf''s thing as worn by youngsters in the heat of summer. What Helen calls a 'c*%t's hat' as worn by c*%ts. It served a purpose as it got progressively colder as the evening pushed on, and it's stretchiness allowed me to shove it further and further down my neck.

The two Js weren't too optimistic about their chances after their last two performances: against us (the 4-1), and Blackburn at the weekend where they were shite. (lost 1-0) 'A low in my experience of watching them over the last few years. Several of them just didn't want to know', said Jonathan. Jo just gritted his teeth and pounded his fist into his hands. Then kicked the seat. And grimaced peculiarly. Then made a series of small noises. Like a sort of Hamster. The other Fulham fans clearly had the same expectations as the Fulham stands were sparsely populated.

The Putney end which housed the Chelsea fans (other than me) was packed to the rafters and they treated us to their usual array of hymns to the football god. 'Celery', 'Carefree', 'Spot', 'Who's that team we call the Chelsea' etc etc. The bloke to my left in a bottle green anorak didn't like that. 'Tossers!' he screamed, the veins on his neck standing out very alarmingly. 'One team in Fulham. There's only one team in Fulham' he shouted very unhealthily proffering V signs. I wanted to say 'Yes. And at the moment the one team is decidedly Chelsea'. But wisdom got the better of me.

We were in the Riverside stand with its picturesque view of the Thames. There was a group of Irish Fulham fans behind us who constantly praised Cfc and then damned them in the same sentence. 'He's good that Lampard........bastard.' And: 'Would you look at thet Robben.........fuck 'im.' And 'Duff. Look at that skill. We don't have that skill....the turd!' It was rather negative listening to the Fulham fans. They sadly don't cheer their own team very much. They abused us though. A lot of their energies went into the abuse. Too much in fact. They should've been getting behind their own. Ridiculously, even a positive song has Chelsea abuse written into it: 'We are Fulham, Super Fulham, we are Fulham, FFC. (It's the tune of 'Sailing') We are Fulham, Super Fulham, we are Fulham, Fuck Chelsea.' I mean we don't hate Fulham at all. We hate Leeds (as the 'We all hate Leeds and Leeds and we all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds, we all fucking hate Leeds – and Leeds' song reveals. It's the 'Dambusters' by the way.) We also hate Tottenham. The shouting of 'We hate Tottenham' over and over again, proves this point) But Fulham. Nope. They're like QPR. We have no problem with them. But they don't like us.

There's also the obligatory 'Stick the blue flag up yer arse' which is wheeled out with tedious monotony; the ancient 'shit' shouted out whenever 'Chelsea, Chelsea' wafted across from the stands to our right; and of course the ubiquitous if slightly hackneyed 'Stand up if you hate Chelsea' which some people responded to, happily very few near our stand so I was spared having to stand up and therefore be seen to hate the team I love. Lampard was a bizarre target for personal abuse. 'You fat bastard' everyone shouted when he came over to take a corner. Frank is of course not fat at all. He is a honed fighting fit athlete with the physique of a sex–god.

Frank got his own back by scoring with a long range shot which Van der Sar the goalie was rather crap at stopping. Frank ran towards the Hammersmith End Fulham fans, his finger to his lips, and then kissed the Cfc badge on his shirt. The crowd went berserk. A man near me created an imaginary three foot penis for himself and wanked it into oblivion. A youth with a Burberry baseball cap went purple in the face shouting 'You're fat. You're fucking fat. Fatty Lampard. You are. Yes.' A pipe cleaner of a man gesticulated and jerked like a wind sock. I suppose all this bile was because Fulham had played quite well –much better than the other day, and had looked as if they might actually win it.

I was convinced we were heading for extra time and penalties until Lamp's 87th minute goal, and was dreading the fact as hypothermia was creeping in, despite a couple of Bovrils at half time. The game over, a man announced inaudibly to the team, but for our benefit, that 'that was much much better Fulham. Much better. Much much better.'

As we walked past the river back to Jonathan's, I noticed a veil of mist over the Thames, and pointed it out to J and J. A huge man holding a drum in his right hand was attracted to my enthusiasm for the drifting vapours. 'Marvellous isn't it. I was here for the Tottenham game and was in a hospitality suite having lunch with George Cohen (ex Fulham and England right back and World Cup Winner) -and his charmin' wife as it happens. And we were all remarkin' that this ground is the best in the division for views. The best. And that's on a par with Glasgow Celtic!' 'Oh really?' I threw back thinking why has he included Celtic? 'Yes' 'That's marvellous!' I suggested not sure how to comment, and then came up with the caring 'How is George?' 'A gent. He's a gent. And says what he feels about the game. He don't hold back!' 'Good for him!' 'Yes! He calls a spade a spade does George.' 'Oh good' There was a pause. 'I heard you banging the drum,' I added awkwardly (What else would he do with it?) feeling a bit of a charlatan not being a Fulham fan. 'Yes. Didn't get much response though. Not up for it today. A bit more after McBride's goal.' 'Where do you normally bang it?' (I was being a dick) He mentioned an area of the ground I wasn't familiar with. 'Ah yes. Of course that's where you are!' I lied. Happily we came to a junction and he forked off, probably keen to escape my inane questioning. I said my goodbyes to the two Js, strode purposefully up the Fulham Palace Road and replaced the black c$%t's hat with my garish blue beanie with the white Cfc Lion on it. Phew. No more masquerading!

We've now drawn Man U in the semis.

Chelsea 4 Fulham 1 Nov 13th 04 | 03-04 Season

I was crammed in the corner to watch this at Fulham's ground Craven Cottage. Below me was part of the ground, where when it was terracing, I used to stand to watch George Best play for Fulham and we came and watched him because he was the great George Best and even if we supported Chelsea we still came to watch a genius (when Chelsea were playing away) I don't remember much about him, other than his flowing locks and the odd darting run, but I do I remember a policeman coming over to me and threaten to throw me out because he thought I'd called the goalie a wanker. It wasn't me at all. I didn't even know the word. It was a spotty youth in a balaclava. This was an innocent age where you could wear a balaclava and not be immediately arrested on suspicion of being a terrorist. Ah how times have changed.

So all we Cfc fans are in this new stand at the Putney end since the Fulham ground has been refurbished. And the stand's a bit of a prefab. It doesn't feel quite all there. It possibly wobbles. I think this is just my imagination, but it certainly resonates whenever anyone stamps on the floor and the fans all notice it too, stamping with increasing coldness and also joy as we demolish the poor old 'Cottagers' as Fulham are known. There is one particular moment when an old Chelsea chant resurfaces. The rather meaningless elongated 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah' with massive stamping followed by 'Chelsea, Chelsea Chelsea' which I haven't heard since my father took me into the old North Stand at Stamford Bridge which was a peculiar shed like structure on stilts that would have failed all known modern safety standards. To stamp on the floor of this stand was to get it shaking. Needless to say everyone tried to get it to shake. Oh hang on. It was also evident at the Cfc v Shrewsbury FA cup game two seasons ago in their wooden stand.

Anyway. I'm at the very end of the row at Craven Cottage. We are up and down like yo yos every time Chelsea attack. And it is total brass monkey weather. The red combinations have made their first appearance of the season and they're not doing a very good job. I am fucking freezing. I have not brought the coffee flask and rucksack because it is a local derby and is in fact just up the road from where I live. So for some reason I perversely thought I could cope without the flask. Dickbrain. Today would have been perfect for any hot liquid. Brrrrr.

The Chels fans are in marvellous voice, perhaps stung by gumchewing handsome Mourinho's comments after the Everton game that he thought we weren't making enough noise. Well as far as I'm concerned, mea culpa. As already stated I don't make any noise at all other than 'For goodness sake ref' and 'What was that?' etc. But also I think our gchewhndsome manager tends to stand right next to the opposition fans coz that is where the Chelsea dug out is, so I would suspect he only hears them! But other than me we're in good voice. 'Celery,' 'Spot' (there's always one bloke who shouts out 'Mow' and 'Meadow' on his own in a huge throaty rasp after the 'One Man went to mow' and 'Went to mow a meadow' lines. Who is he? Has he been given this specific task? Why does no one else do this? Who appointed him? Why has he lungs of leather etc etc) and the ancient 'Nar nar nar nar. Nar nar nar nar. Hey hey hey hey Chelsea'. Which is the Beatles 'Hey Jude'.

All very very loud. Well done! Then some 'Ahhhhhhhhs' and stamping. This is replied to by Fulham fans with the old 'You can stick the blue flag up yer arse' staple. And er not much else from the Fulham fans who become somewhat subdued by their team's non performance and Cfc's superiority. We in fact point out their lack of singing with' Your support is fucking shit' which is a bit tough as it is a full house, but it doesn't stir them into vocal action. A small pocket tries out a few chants and is jeered to the rafters. Soon after Lampard has been tripped in the box and booked for diving (he doesn't dive does our Frank, despite what Uriah Rennie the ref thinks) Frank lashes in a free kick from the edge of the area. 'Super super super Frank, super Frankie Lampard' echoes around the ground, followed by 'Knees up Mother Brown' which combines stamping to keep warm and wobbling the stand. The half time whistle blows with us one up having bossed it and I flee to the downstairs loo for some warmth, and return to see a group of scantily clad Fulham lovelies in ludicrous Lycra boogying on down to 'Car Wash'. Congrats to them for not being slowed down by the sub zero temperatures whipping in off the Thames.

The second half sees Fulham score with a great against the run of play volley from Diouf who runs right up to manager Chris Coleman on the touchline and suffocates him with joy. But within two mins the superb wonderful Robben who has been darting hither and thither all match, beats several and biffs in. He is a master. A Dutch master (never heard that one before) I am in love with him. It is not a sexual love you understand. Just adoration of his superb skills. I go 'Aaaaaaaah' and stamp my feet in celebration.

Gallas then scores his second goal in nineteen months. Cue huge renditions of 'We are top of the league. We are top of the league', 'One team in London, there's only one team in London', 'One team in Fulham' and a huge 'Carefree'. The gum chewer can't complain now. A very long 'Chelsea, Chelsea Chelsea, Chelsea' to the tune of 'Amazing Grace' carries on for about five minutes and then Tiago (He comes from Portugal. He hates the Arsenal) rifles one in after a delightful back heel from Robben. Further songs ring out. 'You're just a small shop in Knightsbridge' referring to Fulham's owner El Fayed who owns Harrods (which is clever coz the song is normally 'You're just a small team in Chelsea') 'We can see you sneaking out' 'Jingle Bells jingle bells jingle all the way, oh what fun it is to see Chelsea win away' 'You'll never get a passport' directed at El Fayed, 'Jose Mourinho', 'Roman Abramovic' and some good hoots at Robert Huth coming on as a sub 'Hoot, Hoot, Hoot' and some more 'Tiagos'. Fantastic. 'Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh' Stamp.

V Palace Away Aug 24th 04 | 03-04 Season

I like us playing at Palace. I used to enjoy coming here when Wimbledon played here and had a decent team. Rustic long ball football perhaps, but always a dfficult team to beat. Profiting from all those half clearances in the box. And it would never take me very long to get here and I could park outside the ground on my scooter, which is a 125 Gilera not a moped as my mate Geoff, the engineer at Sparce Studios keeps calling it. Tee hee Geoff very funy. I parked said beast of a vehicle rather precariously on a hill just above the ground but it only took 35 mins from Hammersmith so I'm not complaining. I was however still limping. No sign of Michael and Trevor. Massive queue to get in. Managed to find the only programme seller and got one after queing for some time. I can honestly say this was one of the loudest most peculiarly attended games I have ever been to. And I heard a new song actually be created by a small bunch of Cfc fans, a song that by the end of the game was being belted out by every Cfc fan there. I also heard an old song reapplied to another Chelsea player who looks as if he's made a case for permanent inclusion. Both teams came on to the rather stirring 60's song 'Glad all over' by the Dave Clark Five' which some Cfc fans raucously joined in with, especially the drum bit after 'and I'm feeling...barpity barpity...'Glad all over'. It's loudness was a good indication of what was to come. There was a bizarre feeling of celebration amongst the ultimately utterly packed-out away supporters area. Nigel texted me to say he was sitting in a hospitality box behind the goal and if I stood up and waved he'd try and see me. But this proved impossible. Everyone was already standing up. He texted me again suggesting I give him more of a clue to where I was. I thought this was an utterly futile exercise. I mean who ultimately gives a fuck. I tried to say I was approximately half way up about twenty yards to the left off the halfway line next to a very old bloke in a cap. But we sort of gave up. He then phoned me to say he thought he could see me next to a tall man in a Chelsea scarf but it clearly wasn't me but by then I couldn't be arsed and said it was. I forgot to tell him I was on the ned of a row whichwould have perhaps helped him; but once again, why was this so important? Around me of course there were many many people doing exactly the same thing and texting and waving at mates. But in many instances these are mates amongst the same block of fans, not mates on the other side of the ground in a box. Palace have a couple of chicken mascots who have the uncomfortable plastic feet boot thingies that are difficult to walk in. I sympathised. I'm afraid I arrived too late to see them strut their stuff. And there were some cheerleaders doing a kind of groove thing with some pompoms. They don't quite achieve the horniness (or competence) of their American counterparts. 'As sexy as my cock' said a bloke a bit further up the row, and you can imagine what his cock must look like. We were playing in black again and kicked off to a humungous ear bursting 'Carefree'. Cudicini was in for Cech who hadn't looked too sure of himself at Birmingham, Babyaro in for Bridge. Kezman playing from the start. Drogba in and Gallas for Carvalho. Still no Duff or Robben who are injured, Duff still with his dislocated shoulder problem that he got when playing against Fulham last year. I do hope he recovers quickly coz he's a wonderful player wh , had he been fitter, might have won us the Champions League in spite of the efforts of our barmy ex-manager. A huge 'Spot' rends the air. The old bloke next to me hates having to get up and down. 'My knees can't take it. We're either up or down, not constantly dividing our time between the two,' But he's in for a yo-yoing time because hundreds of people are arriving late and coolly wandering down the gangways and so we're having to get up to let people in the rows or get up to see past someone slowly wandering to their seat, or getting up just to see above the people getting up because there's something to do with football happening in the corner, or just happening generally. A group of rather worse for wear in the drink department blokes to our right don't ever sit down and actually stand on their seats to see. Despite the attentions of a rather cheerful rhythmic steward who stands in the gangway and motions to them to sit as if he's in a club having a dance, (and everyone shouts at him to sit down because he's standing up all the time!) and whose gestures are actuallty copied by the bloke standing on the chair and he manages to get all his chums to copy him as if he's also doing a sort of dance, they never sit down for most of the match and are eventually dramatically ejected by a steward flying squad who of course obscure everyone's vision while ejecting them. I can honestly say no one ever settled down. People streamed in for about twenty minutes, there was a brief calm of five minutes, and then everyone started leaving to either go for a piss or go for some beer and a pie. And this carried on into the second half, all amidst an unbelieveable din. They all go mad for 'Spot'. I have never heard 'Spot' sung so much. And of course we're up and down again. Some bloke behind me starts 'One man went to mow, went to mow a meadow, one man and his dog....' And the old bloke next to me shouts 'Oh for fuck's ssake, not another Spot. My knees are going to snap. How many more renditions of the bloody song are we going to have tonight?' Ignoring his protestations, everyone joins in with the mowing and one manning and standing and clapping. Joe Cole, on from the beginning after his terrific display against Brum, is excellent again, and awarded the old Frank Leboeuf song for his endeavours; 'He's here, he's there, he's every fucking where, Joey Cole. Joey Cole'. There's then a massive 'We hate Tottenham, We hate Tottenham.' Drogba failed to control the ball in front of us and the old timer, by now just giving up and standing like the rest of us, remarked just like the bloke at Birmingham, 'he reminds me of a player from the 60's. Tony Hateley. You'd be too young to remember him. Couldn't control the ball. Good header though'; Oh I do hope he's not proven right. Just to confirm our old friend's observation, Drogba climbs high and heads home effortlessly after good work from Baba on the left. 1-0 after 30 mins. We've looked completely in control. Palace are hardly in it. 'Oh when the Blues, go steaming in, oh when the Blues go steaming in, I want to be in that number' is blasted out. Around me there appears to be an enormous amount of hugging and self congratulation going on, though I think it's because so many people are pissed. We cruelly sing' Only here for the season, here for the season' suggesting that Palace will be returning to the lower division instantly (which is now rather confusingly called the 'Championship') Cole meanwhile is being what the old chap next to me calls 'a livewire' , For no apparent reason everyone decides to sing the Gian Franco Zola song.' It's Andy Williams'You're just to good to be true Can't take my eyes off (of) you' song', the bit where it goes 'I love you baby, and if it's quite all right I need you baby' It's 'Gian Franco Zola...La la la la la la...Gian Franco Zola...la la la la la' And then with 35 mins gone, they're all off to the bar. Bloody hell the activity. And then there's another 'Spot'. 'Bloody hell. I don't believe it' sighs the old chap next to me. 'Another bloody 'Spot' dear God no.' Then someone starts the ancient 'Molly Malone!' For fuck's sake! 'In Dublin's Fair City..where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone...where she wheels her wheel barrow, through streets broad and narrow...crying... clap clap, clap clap clap...clap clap clap clap Chelsea. Chelsea..Chelsea...' Unheard for years that one...it's clearly carnival time!!! A bloke holds his mobile phone up forhis mates to listen to as if he's at a rock concert revelling in the vocal barrage. It is weird! It rolls on and on...'Chelsea fans are gonna get you'...'Can you hear Palace sing, I can't hear a fucking thing' (neither can we!) 'We are the famous, the famous Chelsea' 'Shall we sing a song for you', 'Sssh' to denote no one's singing, 'Super Frankie Lampard'. It's noise bedlam till half time. Then would you believe it it starts all over again! 'Chelsea Chelsea' is sung over over and over again to the Amazing Grace tune, and then I am present at the creation of a new song.....the bloke standing on the seat who has hardly watched the game just taunted the Palace fans and giggled with his mates and who is eventually evicted in a flurry of activity, shows his bare stomach to the Palace fans, flashes them the vees and then along with a shaven headed pal, sees Tiago come on as a sub and sings to the tune of 'Volare' and taking the piss out of the Viera song 'Tiago...oh Tiago oh oh. He comes form Portugal. He hates the Arsenal.' And the song catches on like wildfire. Soon everyone is inging the little ditty. There's a wait for an injury during which the song is sung ad infinitum. And when Tiago scores, a neat drive from the edge of the penalty area after beating Palace's ex Cfc player Granville, the song is sung over and over and over and over and over again. There's a lull for 'Your season's over la la la la' (The Andy Williams song again) and when Adrian Mutu comes on 'Chim chimmerny chin chimmerny chim chim cheroo, who needs Wayne Rooney when we've got Mutu' is then followed by 'We are top of the league' and 'You're going down'. Then a veritable trawl through the end of the game song-book: 'You might as well go home' 'Your support is fucking shit,' 'Are you Tottenham in disguise?' 'John Terry John Terry John Terry''Jingle Bells' followed by the new Tiago song...over and over again and accompanying us all as we made our way out of the stadium. The grey haired old bloke next to me can't believe it. 'Noisiest match I've ever been to. Never heard so many songs. You'd think we'd won the league. I've got up and down about six hundred times. Good performance though. Not sure about Kezman'. No indeed. Very active. Chases back. But can he control the ball? Does he remind me of a duck looking for his pond? Yes he does. Jury's out on him. When Geremi came on the bloke behind moaned 'Oh no not that cunt.' And he didn't perform in a way to dissuade any of us of this assessment. But we played well. We won. And I think it's early days for Mourinho who is finding out what his best eleven is. Baba played well but , like Bridge, is better going forwards. Will there be a place for Duff? What's Robben like? Is Drogba worth the 24 million? Ferreira looked a bit better but then Palace weren't very good and look doomed if they play like this. But Ferreira was £13 million and surely Mourinho, winner of the Champions League last year with him in his team, knows what he's like? Doesn't he? Cole certainly stated his case. He was fab. Quickly home. Ah the joys of the scooter!

V Birmingham Away Aug 21st 04 | 03-04 Season

Second game of the season. What has the gumchewer in store for us? The hatred the 1-0 win created was astonishing. Everyone was perplexed by the style of win, the tedious quality of the 1-0. Ex Southampton manager and pundit Gordon Strachan went ballistic about the negativity of it all. The bloke in Tesco's with the growth even crowed, 'Bloody hell. Your lot gonna play like that all season? Boring boring Chelsea. Boring boring Chelsea.' 'Yes but at least we beat you!' 'Boring boring Chelsea! Boring boring Chelsea. We had all those players out and we still nearly won. Ha ha ha.' I still left him with my tail between my legs! But bloody hell. It was the first day of the season! Judge us on the 30 something games not just on the one. And we did win after all. Didn't we! Got there early and parked in one of those five quid car parks which are probably just some bloke standing by a forecourt and illegally charging everyone money to park there. He just dons a yellow bib and takes a fiver and then disappears as soon as the game's started. On the other hand this is probably doing a disservice to legitimate temporary car park entrepreneurs who are earning an extra bit of dosh at the weekend and during the week work in IT. Sat in front of an unbelieveably annoying couple of geeky looking twins in matching Chelsea scarves and anoraks who insisted on shouting out 'Away' in telepathic unison every time the ball was floated into the Chelsea penalty area. I mean every single time. It began to get utterly tedious. Particularly since we were 'under the cosh' for a lot of the game. Ferreira for one, who clearly hasn't got used to the hustle and bustle of the Premiership as opposed to the rather sedate atmos of the Portuguese league, was completely shell shocked. Bridge, a stalwart last season, and scorer of the great Champions League quarter final goal against the Arse last year, looked bizarrely out of his depth, and panicked whenever Brum's Robbie Savage came anywhere near him. Savage was excellent. Non stop terrier like closing down and some intelligent passing. He's a real trier. He over tried and was booked for elbowing the strange Kezman late on in the game. I call Kezman strange because he doesn't appear to be all there. He sort of arrives just after the ball and tackles back ferociously and frequently illegally, and plays as if he's a small dog chasing after the ball and never quite getting it. Weird. Anyway. These two blokes behind me: Imagine the ball is lofted into the Chelsea area. Just before John Terry heads it 'away', the two boys scream 'away' as if JT needed guidance. The ball comes back in for Carvalho to head. 'Away' they both scream. There must have been about two hundred and fifty 'aways'. Can they not themselves appreciate the awfulness of all this? Are they not sufficiently self aware to realise that this is the behaviour of the demented? Clearly not. Fuck me it was irritating. What a disappointment. The bulldog Beau Brummel no longer comes loping on to the pitch which he used to do. Having been Stamford the Lion at the Bridge when this mascot thing first started, and Fat Puffin at the Puffin Books exhibitions, I've got a bit of an interest in them. It's a bloke in football kit with a Bulldog head, which means essentially there's not a lot of encasement going on, like in the Chelsea costume. The Chelsea costume requires a sort of zip up routine as you get into the whole plasticity of the thing. But this is much more flexible. As a result the bloke in it can leapabout like a mad thing, encouraging the fans and saluting the players like he's supposed to do. But the electrifying moment when the bloke being the dog used to bound the length of the pitch to a loop of Michael Jackson's 'Can you feel it?' has gorn. Instead there was a pleasant airing of ELO's 'Mr BlueSky' which is appropriate, Birmingham being 'The Blues' (as we are, which is occasionally disconcerting when their fans sing 'Come on You Blues') but doesn't have the same effect. And of course the dog can't bound to it. I think also that the big bulldog moment has been scuppered by the fact that all Premiership teams now have to line up and shake hands before the start accompanied by a 'Premiership' tune, and it's taken his focus away. Which is a shame. Though the bloke in the dog head does do the business on the touchline, shaking hands and striking poses like a good'un. He's excellent! The Derby County 'Ram' was great as well. Every single player read out on the team list over the Tannoy had a specific gesture. A lot of work went into that. But I haven't seen him for a bit since Derby were relegated. Lovely ground Pride Park too; with amusing fans who would rather disconcertingly call themselves the 'Sheep shagger army' as if it was something they should be proud of. Sheffield Wednesday, last time I went there, the year we could have won the title under Vialli but played like twits and drew 0-0, they had two Owls in full Owl gear (no 'just heads' outfits for them), who made rather unfortunate peculiar pelvic thrusts at each other and stood about a bit too much. The West Bromwich Throstle has a sort of half and half outfit. Half normal socks and boots half cosie. Lat time I was there he did a very attractive dance to the old reggae tune 'The Liquidator'. Anyway enough about mascots. And onto plastic dolls. There was a Brum fan to our right with a plastic doll in the seat next to him. Not a nice doll but one of those sex dolls with open mouth and plastic minge. He ignored it for a bit and just sat next to it and no one would have noticed except he then picked it up and started waving it around like a flag. We were obviously powerless to enquire of the significance of said sex aid, but you've got to hand it to the man for originality. Towards the end of the game he left early with it tucked under his arm. No one paid him any attention and I wondered if I was hallucinating, until a bright spark shouted 'If she goes down on you you'll have to give her a blow job' which was quite clever really. We were playing in the new black away outfits which meant the ref wore green. The two ex Cfc players Mario Melchiot and Jesper Gronkjaer were playing for Birmingham. Mario never quite got it together for us, never really fulfilled his potential. He had the ability to completely lose concentration. His ridiculous kick in Israel on the Tel Aviv striker which cost us a penalty and the game lives long in the memory. When the peculiar inconsistent frequently filthy Mario Stanic played, the crowd used to sing 'We've got Two Marios, we've got two Marios' and many were driven to add 'And both of them are cunts'. The Gronk could also render grown men tearful. His song was 'Ooh ah, Jesper Gronkyer, Ooh ah, Jesper Gronkyer' which is the over used 'Go West' tune. He had the speed of a greyhound and unfortunately the crossing ability of one too. He never looked up and just blazed the ball up and over or across and out. Then he'd confuse you by doing a wonderful bit of skill and beat two men and hare towards the goal...and hit the ball twenty feet over the bar. Anyway they were both playing for Brum today and they played well! Emile Heskey was playing, newly bought from Liverpool. Muzzy Izzet from Leicester was also there. Seems like a good team to me. We tried a 'Fuck em all' which is 'Fuck em all. Fuck em all. United West Ham Liverpool. Coz we are the Chelsea and we are the best. We are the Chelsea so fuck all the rest..' which as you'd expect is 'Bless em all the long and the short and the tall...' The Brummies replied with something to do with our arses that I couldn't quite make out. In fact no one else could. 'Speak fucking English. Why don't you speak fucking English' we chorused (to the tune of Quantanamera) followed by 'You all talk funny over there' (She'll be coming round the Mountain) We did a few 'Chelsea, Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelseas' to the Amazing Grace tune, which they sang back to us in high pitched voices as if we were all girls. They liked that because they burst out laughing. They then resorted to having a go at their arch rivals Aston Villa with the 'Shit on the Villa, Shit on the Villa tonight' song which is 'Roll out the Barrel'. Meanwhile the football was all a bit tentative with them looking better than us. 'We've got no Marios' with reference to Mario Melchiot nor Stanic playing for us any more, was sung as disconcertingly the Brummie Blues sang 'Come on you Blues' and 'Ooh ah Jesper Gronkjaeer.' No. We weren't playing well at all. No one was.The bloke next to me phoned someone and gave his verdict. 'We're shocking' he screamed above the din standing up and blocking the view of someone who shouted 'Fucking sit down!' 'Hope it improves in the second half' he continued still standing. But then everyone else stood up so it didn't matter. Gray for them then missed an open goal. Meanwhile we just huffed and puffed, like the Brummie in the stand to our right who'd brought a horn along but it didn't make much of a noise when he blew it so he gave up. At half time, we watched a marvellous ball juggler who advertises mobile phones on the box juggling the ball brilliantly. 'Sign him up quick' shouted a wag. Michael found me and said it was the worst display he'd seen for six years. 'Utterly pisspoor' he added. 'Ferreira is rubbish. Drogba reminds me of Tony Hateley (a Cfc player of the past who could only head the ball. That was it. Great header, no skill. Bought by Tommy Docherty in the 60s and quickly sold again. Did take part in the 67 Cup Final which we lost to a not very good Spurs 2-1) We're going to have a very bad season I know we will.' Trevor was more forgiving. 'It's early days yet. Give them a chance to bed down. I can see the potential. Lots of teams will come here and find it difficult. He's good is their manager Steve Bruce. No no no. A draw will be a good result here. Considering they've hardly played together I think it's good. Drogba looks good!'

'But they were shite' I interjected. 'That was a terrible first half performance. It's a team worth more than the National Debt. If it wasn't for dickhead finishing we'd be two down! And Drogba looks as if he's wearing waders!'

'Let's see what happens in the second half shall we'. In the second half the 'away' boys continued their stupidity I'm glad to say incurring the wrath of a jowly bespectacled man to my right who shouted 'For fuck's sake' every time they bleated, which put them off a bit. When another burly bloke shouted 'Shut the fuck up' in a rather posh voice their enthusiasm waned. Back on the pitch, Smertin, no longer the great player of last week, (no one calling him Alice either) was taken off, along with the sluggish Gudjohnson. 'Looks as if he spent all of last night on the nest' said the bloke next to me. Tiago and Kezman came on. Didn't make much difference. In fact we got worse. 'Get up Makelele you wanker' screamed the bloke next to me as Claude fell over and gave possession away (again) There was a feeling of immense irritation amongst us all. We had no rhythm. No real sense we were a team. Lamps wasn't his usual self. None of them were. Cole came on for Geremi. Everyone was relieved.' Thank fuck for that' said the bloke in front of me. 'He's a fucking waste of space that Geremi. How did he convince Mourinho to keep him I'll never know. He was shit last year and he's shit now. Come on Joe. Show us what you can do!' The Brummies didn't like Joe because the last time he'd played here for West Ham he'd been sent off. 'Oh Joey Cole, is a fucking arseole' they sang. But he made a difference. We started getting the ball in the box. And would you believe it..he scored! Ha ha ha ha ha ha. With a deflection. Ha ha ha! A huge 'Spot' rent the air. Heskey fell over and we exulted with several choruses of 'If Heskey plays for England so could I.' to the tune of 'She'll be coming round the mountain' again. Bizarre coda just after the final whistlewas to hear a Brummie fan in the overhanging part of the stand to our right asking a Cfc fan below to my right 'Do you want some of my cock?. Yes you...Do you want some of my cock? Oi you! Do you want some of my cock?' A bald headed man with tattoos shouted in a very camp voice 'Excuse me Mister. You can have mine for a fiver!' We held out...utterly undeservedly. Chelsea 1 Man U 0 Aug 15th 04 | 03-04 Season

I feel a tad deflated by today.

I mean United were a shell of a team. No Saha, no Van Nistelrooy. Keane forced to play in the back four. Miller and Richardson, ('Who are yer? Who are yer?' Shouted the Cfc crowd and rightly so. Who were they?) I'd predicted 4-0 from the Chelsea All Stars. I mean, Robben and Duff would run em ragged. Cole would jink and dart, Drogba would fulfill the £24 million price tag. Ferreira would tie Giggs up. Kezman would bag a couple and we'd go home sure of our position as the only legitimate challengers to the Arse. But it wasn't like that at all. United bossed it and passed the ball really well. Lampard was a shadow of his former self. Geremi was unfortunately er Geremi, all huff and puff and not quite with it. He wasn't very good last season and played like he did under old manager Ranieri. Sort of right wing come right midfield. I soon became intrigued with whom I would by irritated by this season. Geremi was making a good case. Makelele also. He gave the ball away far too much last season and lo and behold, he gave the ball away too much again today. On one occasion everyone was running with him and the easy ball was on, and his bizarre dink nowhere near anyone and straight to a United player resulted in 5 minutes of pressure that we did well to survive. The hero of the first half was Smertin who is as demented as the legendary Mickey Thomas was. The crowd took him to their hearts because he never stopped trying. Carrie behind me has nicknamed him Alice because his hairband kept falling off. Somehow I don't think this will catch on. In the second half he faded a bit, but I think Mourinho the new manager had given specific defensive orders to them all as they defended the one goal in bulk and were so deep it gave us all severe palpitations. I won't enjoy watching the team if they hang on to a one goal lead in this fashion, no matter how resolute the defending. A better team than United will take us to the cleaners. (This is worrying me. I said all this about Ranieri's side. But come to think of it, this was nearly his team. There were seven Ranieri regulars. Cech in goal, Drogba, Ferreira (who was slightly out of his depth) and Smertin were the changes. In the programme I discovered that the Duffer and Robben were both injured so that's why there was no width. Afterwards on Sky the smooth charming effortlessly fluent slightly calculatedly dishevelled Mourinho (tie undone, touch of sweat) suggested that the tactics were the way they were because United had played much better than he thought they would. And he had had to change his tactics accordingly. It wouldn't be like this every game, he continued. I bloody hope not. Crowd-wise the atmosphere was superb if a bit frenetic. Huge amounts of rival shouting all around which obscured the lyrics of the Man U fans. Though in the odd lull you could make out their strange desire to call all Chelsea fans rent boys 'Does your boyfriend know you're here?' and 'Rent boys rent boys give us a wave' being a couple of their forays. At least the Cfc fans don't question their sexuality, just their ability to cop off. 'Wankers, wankers give us a wave' being the reply. There was the regular 'Premiership, you're having a laugh' which everyone shouted at us last year. But I always thought that only the bad teams had supporters who shouted that. It smacks of jealousy to me. The ubiquitous 'What a waste of money' when Drogba was subbed was another chant I never expected to hear from the United fans. I thought they were classier than that. Poll the ref was given a day off from the usual abuse ('Oh Graham Poll is a fucking arsehole' to the tune of Speedy Gonzales being his usual anthem. But despite his tightly fitting ref's outfit (has he put on a few pounds? 'He's got a very fat arse this year' said Carrie) with dreadful red 'Fly Emirates' advertising badges on his arms, he was rather good. He wagged a stern finger at Mourinho who danced out of the manager's box to offer advice to Drogba, but in a very good natured fashion, and booked no-one all game. Keane slapped Bridge after an over zealous challenge and he merely 'had a word in his ear' like refs used to do in the Golden age of reffing. ('Now look if you break his leg again I'm going to have to book you!')

In the dugout Mourinho was consistently frenetic with his hand signals and as incomprehensible as Ranieri ever was. Though at least you feel the players are paying attention to him. I shall miss the heron like qualities and ridiculous grammatical ullulations of our ex manager when interviewed. But not his awful substitutions. At least all of Jose's substitutions today made sense.

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