Manchester City: I stopped counting Chelsea: 0 - What the hell was that!!

Mother of god. This time last week I was watching a lioness chew the middle out of a still bleeding zebra and it was less gruesome than this. Someone’s just lobbed their membership card at Rudiger and I was so jet lagged this morning that I went all the way to the north of England and back without any make up on. Oh and I’ve smashed the screen on my phone. 

I’m going to approach this abomination in Manchester in the style of Sarri. Instead of making sense and producing a coherent narrative of what happened today, I’m just going to chuck random expletives and philosophy at the page with some observations and hope for the best. I’m pretty sure I will have more chance of qualifying for the champions league than Chelsea if you had a look at our odds on bet365 at the end of it...

Manchester City refuse to leave the nineties behind. Bludgeoned half to death by Oasis in the build up, Faithless for the team announcement, Fatboy Slim for the team arrival, advertising Spice Girls concerts. Hundreds of them are sporting Marti Pellow yuppie ponytails. (Well, at least two) This is all without me even getting started on Aguero’s atrocious homage to the Red Scouse pre-millennium obsession with bleaching their hair. He’s having a midlife crisis at 30.

It’s like The Royle Family have won the lottery and built a football stadium with the chavvy abundance of neon lighting, massive tv screens and the biggest badge in the world dwarfing the centre circle. It needed half the population of Mancland to hold the bloody thing up. The whole “centurions” tie in for the 100 point thing has been done to death, buried, dug up, and then flogged some more. From a team that can’t even sell out a Champions League knockout game.

If you turn up at the Etihad to ignore anything that a team with limitless funds and an abdunance of player riches, the reigning champions, intend to do to play “your football,” which didn’t work against BOURNEMOUTH then you are either supremely arrogant or a complete f*cking moron. Of late said football has only worked against Sheffield Wednesday and Huddersfield. You’re going to get beat, and yet this is exactly what Sarri did.

Empty seats all over the away end reflective of everyone’s enthusiasm at the moment. I envy each and every person that decided not to bother today.

Hazard turned two of them after a minute, but Higuain’s feet were all over the place on the edge of the box. With scant exceptions, this was about as close as we came to getting a goal today. Sexpest (special alias) had a better chance of scoring this weekend.

Their first goal was a sh*tstorm of nonsense defending on our part. Phil Jones would have handled this better. A weeks work gone to sh*t in five minutes. Excellent. Yes the manager of flailing but when the players keep cocking it up, they’re not blameless either.

To be fair despite the disaster we looked full of beans and showed intent as we sought to make amends. Having said this we then should have been two down within 7 minutes because of our complete inability to tackle. Luckily Aguero tapped it wide instead of in and looked pretty stupid. This was of course exacerbated by his mid-life crisis hair. Made up for it shortly afterward when the nasty sh*t hit a world class strike into the top corner. Then it was three thanks to a Barkley assist. I can’t tell you how devastating it was to look at the clock and see that not even twenty minutes had passed. Somebody find me a getaway car. I don’t care if Prince Philip is behind the wheel. Just get me out of here.

Pretty sure in the first half hour that Eden was the only Chelsea player that had been in their box. Not that Higuain wasn’t trying, but he was getting less support than a girl with an E Cup wearing a bra made out of cling film

4-0 on 24 minutes. This game is not nearly so entertaining as the services when we were discussing what “love sausage” is. If you’re going to google it, for the love of god add “Marks and Spencer’s” to the search terms.

Things I’d rather be doing than watching this: Attacking my leg with a rusty Masai spear and letting a hyena chew the thing off.

On 26 we held on to possession for almost 30 seconds. This must be what it is like to support Huddersfield. There was still an hour to go. “Why the f*ck are you still here” they were singing. Because the effin’ coach doesn’t leave till full time and the only gin you have downstairs is Gordon’s. Peasants.

29 we won a corner. Huzzah. Now they were onto: “Shall we show you how to score?” Followed, outrageously, by: “Where were you when you were sh*t?” In case you hadn’t noticed, we were sh*t today. Secondly, I don’t recall you drawing 50000 crowds when Mark Hughes was in charge.

We nearly ignited a comeback on 37 but the shot from Higuain was tipped over the bar by the w*nker with an emoji tattooed on his neck. City had to do nothing but sit and wait for the counter after the break. Hence why we ran about with the ball a lot. To no avail. I haven’t seen anything as hapless as Chelsea trying to come from behind under Sarri since Grandad Trotter unscrewed that chandelier. If you don't understand this reference you haven't lived and I can't help you.

Mastermind began his substitutions on 52 minutes. Kovacic on for Barkley. 19 times he’s switched those two over this season so of course none of us, nor Pep saw that coming. Give the man a round of applause as he tries to prevent City from scoring again when we are already 4-0 down

He needn’t have bothered. Ninety seconds later we were even more f*cked. Penalty.

5-0. Bournemouth was our heaviest defeat for decades. Now it’s not even our heaviest defeat in the last fortnight. Midway through the game you could still get 12/1 on Sarri being sacked before Malmo. If I could have got a proper reception I would have put everything I owned on it. Except the cat.

But if I see Fat Sam within a hundred miles of Stamford Bridge I’m going back to Africa. For good.

Kepa then had to punch away a free kick that threatened to make it six. Wait for it. Because then came the highlight of our evening. Hazard hit the side netting. Then Aguero went off. Never seen the slightly porky, evil twat move so fast leaving the pitch. Just when we were praying he’d waste some time so we could keep it in single figures.

Pedro off for Ruben. Poor Ruben. He must have literally shat on Sarri’s plate at breakfast this morning to get sent in to this f*cking mess. This whole game had been like the end of a Tarantino film. It was inglorious bastards. And we were Adolf getting shot in the face 200 times.

Best Sarri insult of the day: “Fraudulent scruff-bag.”

Alonso off for Emerson. Because god forbid this should get embarrassing. More clueless than Napoleon marching in Moscow having kitted his whole army out in budgie smugglers.

So: Catastrophic errors and lack of concentration today. BUT. The way we swing from getting battered to destroying people right now doesn’t fit with players suddenly deciding that they can’t but arsed every other week. This doesn’t happen.

Maurizio did himself all kinds of favours by acting like a massive baby after the game. Took it out on St. Pep by stomping off.

“This is not my football.” Shut-up about your football. For someone earning the money you are you should be able to deviate from your footballing philosophy if necessary to get results. Otherwise you’re Arsene F*cking Wenger, but just fatter, homeless-looking and smelling of fags. He sat there staring at the floor at 5-0 down. And even then rather than pondering what to do I’m pretty sure he was looking for a cigarette butt to suck on. It’s too late anyway, for we have already become Arsenal.

And what have you actually got Zola there for? You barely acknowledge him. And you keep booting him and everyone else out of the dressing room to converse in private with the players when the sh*t hits the fan. What’s that about? No wonder you can’t get our house in order when half the residents are excluded from what’s going on.

He also took a dig at Abramovich. He’d welcome a phone call from him apparently as he “never hears from him.” Surely you don’t want the owner interfering with what you’re trying to do every five minutes? You’ve been left to get on with it with only the expectation of making the top four, which is a f*ckload less than the demands the likes of Ancelotti got put it front of them.

I’ve applied direct to Chelsea on twitter for his job. All I’ve asked for is £500k a year which I’d use to build Bertie his own house and keep it filled with premium cat biscuits. For me I only ask for unlimited Silent Pool gin and a chance to see Hazard in his pants before he runs for the Spanish hills.

I’m going to drink Silent Pool now. Lots of it. Not Gordon’s.

AC - A girl who like balls
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