Getting picked up and dumped in Scumsville by a tornado might have been less f*cking traumatic than the M6 today. We had everything bar a plague of zombie Munchkins shoved in front of us on the way north. I was pretty sure there were some winged monkeys honing in on us when we got off the coach but that turned out to be the locals squawking at each other.
In the News: Bye Bye Branna – I think I waxed lyrical about his phenomenal arse enough on the Chelsea Fancast, but in all seriousness what a magnificent 
servant he has been to the club for nearly a decade. God speed, you scary but loveable b*stard – you leave weighed down with the winners medals you richly deserve and have given us some blinding football memories.
Part of me wished I was at home to watch Scouse Sports News try and make a big deal out of the wankest transfer window I’ve ever seen. My favourite moment? Payet. What an absolute, magnificent thunderc*nt. And yet it’s West Ham. So it’s hilarious.
The Others: Interesting fact – By the time our game started, Arsenal had kicked off at least twice. *snigger* Wenger Out! Wenger Out! Hold on. Let’s not be hasty. His departure from the land of Goon would take away at least 50% of my amusement at them not winning anything. His explanation for their capitulation at home to Watford was that his players weren’t up for it in the first half. Ah well. Problem solved then! Sure their fans will love that. And let’s spare a moment to reflect upon the fact that several hundred Sp*rs fans went all the way to Sunderland today. To watch the “most impressive looking side in the league,” with more apparent potential for destruction than Gary Lineker eyeballing a grab bag of Walkers, draw 0-0. They should get home just in time to turn around and leave for work. Suckers.
Our Game: I always feel a bit like Princess Diana when I go to the land of Scouse. Like when she used to wander out in fields of land mines like an uber humanitarian, despite what a sh*t day out it must have been. I have seen how some people have to live and when I head south again I’m more appreciative and humble of having been born south of Watford. I did what I usually do, which is leave London going “I’d settle for a point” or in this case “four points this week would be grand.” But then I get here after twelve hours in traffic and I see their stupid faces and hear them waffling on about how they can still win the league and I just want to chew them out and spit them out in the gutter with all the used syringes and spent giros. They’ve got a new stand. Meh. Has anyone checked to see if there is a chunk missing out of Wembley?
This was my game plan:
1 Got to keep it 0-0 first 25
2 Wait for them to run out of ideas
3 Counter attack
4 F*ck them and their sh*t keeper right up.
We barely touched the ball in the opening ten minutes. I said who cares? Let the muppets run around like headless chickens because they haven’t done anything with it. All of their effort amounted to Thibaut palming away one effort. Thankfully that sparked us into life, as in we got out of our half. Our first corner followed and then on 23 minutes Eden suckered one of them into a foul on the edge of the box. Now apparently Conte had asked Luiz whether he wanted to be
on free kick duty and he said no. Which is why, when he saw Mignolet prancing around in dreamland (think Homer Simpson in a world made of candy) and ran up and smacked it in the top left corner such hilarity ensued between Sideshow and the manager. Mignolet reckons he didn’t hear the whistle. Well it certainly wasn’t on account of all those home fans as they didn’t turn up till after half time. I was told when this happened and my game plan came to fruition that I might be Conte‘s sweary half sister. Which was great until I realised in that case ever trying to molest him was out of the question. Let’s go with stepsister. Because that’s a bit wrong but not illegal. No card for Firminho though, not for the petulant foul on the half hour or for chucking the ball away like a girl whose hairdryer has just shorted out on a Friday night. You could hear a pin drop at their end at half time. Outstanding.
After the break they went at it again like a horny Jack Russell. My standout moment of the half was Eden Hazard‘s phenomenal tackle on the edge of the box. That was until four seconds later when it bobbled to Firminho and he smacked it over the bar like a complete twat. Other moments of hilarity included laughing at the home fans shouting for handball every time the ball went above cock height and the Scouse complaining that they had been blocked off mid-way through the half when they were guiltier of this all night that Bill Clinton trying to convince everyone it was spinach. A couple of chances followed for us, but unfortunately Mignolet was actually doing his job for once and the other just ran long when passed into the box.
Cahill was rightly fuming at their goal, which was really hapless and scrappy on our part. Oh dear God. Only then did the gravity of this new stand begin to sink in when I realised just how many more gobby #Kopsuckers from Bournemouth/North London they can now cram into the place.
I think I’ve answered one of football’s most enduring questions. How does Milner get into any side when he is terrible? He is a cheating b*stard, that’s how. He’s also the tin man. Because he moves like he is half rusted to the spot and he has one single facial expression that never changes. Finally booked on the hour but he should have been off. I was 30 yards away with my view blocked by a moron wearing a half and half scarf tied round his head so I know I’m right. I saw it through four phone screens being wielded by plastics filming the Scousers singing. Which brings me to Refwatch: Without a doubt Clattenburg is the cowardly lion. All night long he ignored incessant shoving and throat grabbing at times whilst conversely nitpicking at others. Bottled sending Milner off and at times it was the usual closeup seeking, attention deficit riddled clusterf*ck and pandering to the crowd that he is prone to under the lights in a big game. The only thing he has going for him in life is that he is not Andre Marriner.
At this point my biggest frustration was the fact that we needed to get hold of the second ball. The play was scrappy and we were failing to get simple things right, like not giving the bloody thing to cretins in red with sh*t hair. That said, we put it across the face of goal more than once coming in to the last quarter of the game. Pesto (1-0 autospell, already outscoring Sp*rs) came on for Hazard, who didn’t look right when he went off against Hull and with Arsenal on Saturday it wasn’t worth risking him when another one of the munchkins could come on and object some fresh pace into the game.
That annoying moment when the sh*ttest goalkeeper in the world saves your penalty. B*ll*cks. Although Courtois wasn’t much better with his atrocious kicking tonight. He did claim a couple of balls into the box with conviction though, including a headed shot that went right at him. Just before we went into injury time we failed to make anything of a decently placed free kick (given by the linesman because the Cowardly Lion appears to have been neutered). We looked at least capable of retaining the ball when Fabregas came on as he basically took over proceedings. Shame he didn’t get a bit longer to break them down but they had just enough in their legs after bombing round like the rabid ferrets they are all night to get over the line with a point. We went close again a couple more times as the clock ran down but we’re unable to pinch a winner before the whistle blew.
So: Happy with that. More so than I would have been thanks to the f*ckmuppetry of the North London peasants. Yes we had a penalty (and I do lament that Diego failed to really crap on them right in front of the Kop) but topknot/Nivea w*nker #7 missed an open goal for them. We drew and managed to extend our lead. I take nothing regarding form, skill or anything else constructive from it because it was basically a footballing interpretation of the end of Rocky III. We stood there getting punched and refused to fall over while they danced around like fannies (Clubber Lang) until their legs gave way. Five more minutes and I think we could have knocked the gits out because they were deader on their feet than a dead person in a Quentin Tarantino film who’s been unnecessarily shot in the face 56 times. C’est la vie. Klopp (The Scarecrow) is slowly morphing into Wenger. He says he’d rather have had that draw and played their lovely football than have won ugly. I might be paraphrasing because I don’t give a sh*t but he then definitely said a point keeps them in the race. Presumably for 4th. Quick, book a parade. My man of the match? David Luiz, not only for making Mignolet look like a c*nt (that on its own isn’t hard) but also for his wet-hair homage to Flashdance. I’m sure Pinky will supply him with some bespoke leg warmers and a chair to hump.
I’m off to click my shiny glitter trainers and get out of this sh*thole… Come on Toto.
AC
