Chelsea 0-1 Leicester City - They cut through us like Sam Allardyce attacking a turkey dinner

In the News: Just the half a dozen articles crowning the filthy Scouse champions at Xmas. United flew to Cardiff - are you serious? Not as serious as Sanchez - who reckons he won a £20k bet when Chequebook Pulis was given his marching orders. Equally as determined as they are to give the title to Klippity Klopp, the Press Plebs have labelled the Mancs world beaters now they are under the wily gaze of… Solskjaer. I appear to have missed the part where he became part of the elite. Sp*rs buried a time capsule under Wait Hart Lane to be opened in 2068. By which time they hope to have moved in. Badoom-tish. And headline of the week? “Married former Arsenal star Arshavin at centre of storm after leaving striptease club on a HORSE and “hugging two women.” Verily, a slow news day it must have been.

The Others: F*cking hell City. You have ONE JOB. And you lose to PALACE. Wait. Haven’t we got them next week?

Us: Should absolutely have been capable of winning this.

Them: Hang on. Where is Danny Drinkwater? Didn’t he play for them? I’d forgotten he existed. Does he still play for us?

Only took a minute for the systematic fouling on Hazard to begin, but joyfully they were very ropey at the back. Kasper needs to lay off the mince pies. He’s twice the size he was. In bright orange. Either that or Easyjet had made an emergency landing in the goal mouth. Anyway, they were defending very deep and all the possession was with us, but this did not make the game exciting. This was like dozing in front of A Wonderful Life after a full Xmas dinner rather than the latter stages of Die Hard. Which absolutely is a Xmas film.

We just couldn’t quite get our sh*t together at the last. First proper shot fell to Kovacic. Inevitable happened. He hit it like Mikel. Outstanding, sneaky little run from Kante, Luiz came agonisingly close from a corner to heading it in, a shot fell to Dave on 26 but it was well over. The ball dropped to Eden on the edge of the box, but he got a bit over excited and cracked the bar. They had the odd chance, forcing Kepa into a save on 41, but there were blocks going in all over the place as we tried to break the deadlock. Jorginho in particular kept a powerful effort driving low and goalward but it was parried by the Boeing 737 sitting in Leicester’s Goal. 76% possession. 10 shots, only two on target. - Must be more productive in the final third, she said in true pundit style, stating the f*cking obvious.

And then proceeded 45 of the most depressing minutes of football I have witnessed this season. Jorginho, Dave and Rudi all undone on their way to a goal for the away side. Utter smash and grab. Would be that horrible little sh*t Vardy as well. Neat, tidy, precise and clinical, none of which we were in front of goal. They cut through us like Sam Allardyce attacking a turkey dinner. With his hands.

At least this might serve as a kick up the a*se, I said.

The Beard. Now.

Loftus Cheek. Now.

Gin. Now.

To be fair we had flooded forward, and they had everyone except the cheating little rat in their own box, but it doesn't make the slightest bit of difference if you can’t score a goal. The Beard and Loftus Cheek came on for Kovacic and Willian. Now all I need was the gin, and a lot of it.

Half an hour to go. Refwatch: Lee Probert. Winning no friends among the home support on account of not knowing what a foul was. Leicester slowed to a crawl, and yet Jorginho almost gave them a second. They were screaming for a handball from Dave as he slid in at the last to deny Vardy, who screamed the loudest about apparent cheating. That there was irony. It was turning out to be a dire day not only for football but for mankind with Palace three one up in Manchester.

Not a happy home crowd. Some desperate stuff going in at the Shed End to even stay in it.
Finally a corner for us with 20 mins to go. Dizzy heights indeed. Pleading with them to get forward now, but every endeavour seemed to break down with a shoddy, misplaced pass. It’s never a good sign when David Luiz is running about like a headless chicken in midfield. We wanted that one, killer ball forward, and so off jogged Jorginho for Cesc with 15 minutes to go.

Handbags in the box with Eden desperately trying to get it over the line, jubilation from Probert every time he blew the whistle in Leicester’s favour. This was nowhere near Die Hard. This had turned into sitting through Home Alone for the 300th time. What exactly did the dad do that he could afford to take an entire family of nine to Paris for Xmas? I reckon he was using them all as drug mules. There was a pound of crack waiting to be ingested by little Kevin in condoms somewhere in France.

Any collective support had descended into random obscenities being shouted out by frustrated fans who’d lost patience with our ineptitude. Ruben trying to back-heel the ball twenty yards when a Leicester player was in his way was not his finest hour and completely illustrative of how there was less plot on display than in any of the nine sequels to Home Alone that I was forced to sit through as a kid.

Ten minutes to go and we still looked like doing precisely nothing. Then suddenly we were in, it was there, and it hit the f*cking post. This was not our day. We were plunging into obscurity like Hans Gruber taking a swan dive off of Nakatomi Plaza.

So: I couldn’t blog the closing minutes. I was too busy trying to stem the flow of blood pouring from my eyeballs. Then I went and got drunk.

AC - A Girl Who likes Balls.



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UTC!