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Girl Who Likes Balls – Crystal Palace

Chelsea 1 Crystal Palace 2 – Saturday 1st April 2017 15:00

(I know, don’t faint – it ain’t happening again)

That much gin has been consumed that I will be amazed if this makes sense. This is going be a post-modernist blog where I throw a lot of random ranty sh*t at a canvas that makes almost no sense to anyone but me or Pork Pie, who is just as w*nkered as I am, but that hopefully everyone will claim they understand and agree with completely. Kind of like when the Tate Modern spend eighty grand on a plastic bag on a stick and then then urge you to look at it and feel fulfilled. 

In the News: The Times came up with a funny, funny 1st April story – the Chelsea/West Ham London Stadium Ground Share. I’d rather eat my own faeces. Followed by Pork Pie’s (sitcom alias) faeces. Followed by self and Pork Pie making smoothies out of my kitten’s faeces. I know it was 1st April, but honestly, Wenger claiming that his side were the best in London was almost as hilarious as Jumbo claiming that he was going to stay alcohol free on match day. Arsenal fans will hope that he was also stinging them with a funny. He aims to sign for another two years. Honestly Arsene, it’s not my birthday until September – you shouldn’t have. A little bit of football will die when Jeff Stelling retires. No doubt Scouse Sports News will find some tedious, biased, semi-literate ex-red whose had an enema to void him of all insightful opinion to replace him. (On this list Slippy G would appear to be an ideal candidate – apparently his restaurant got a zero rating by the food standards place this week. Even our local kebab shop has got a three. So I dread to think what the place looked like) I vote for sticking Kammy in the chair, giving him unlimited power and an electric cattle prod and watching anarchy reign. Have that BT. 

The Others: Ain’t nothing to cheer you up after a loss like a senseless, existential rant by HWWNBN that tries to put the blame on anything but his own failings after his side’s 0-0 draw with Pulis’s boremongers. He needs to take a leaf out of the Cantona Impressionist Nonsensical Wit Anthology. He said this week that John Stones was that expensive because you have to pay for the big-arse trailer he drags behind him. 

Our Game: Boycie was most disturbed to see three Palace fans whip it out and p*ss on the Fulham Road before kick off. I was not convinced that this would be any more distasteful than watching a side brought to us by England’s five minute manager. I don’t think there is any new way for me to articulate my dislike for this man. But I will give it a go. Capability plus integrity, times talent does not equal where Allardyce is in life. By everything that is holy he should be hogging a table at his local Wetherspoon’s, drinking White Lightning and chewing on other people’s used gum and picking their fag ends off the floor in the beer garden. Not earning x millions a year for ripping the soul out of football. And so I for one was not only mortified to know that that corrupt beached whale was scoffing gum in the Palace dugout (I couldn’t see him but it is a pretty safe assumption) I was devastated that Pardew had not survived long enough to come and see us; as I consider him to be potential DILF. Not on an Antonio Conte level, but still. I’m not convinced that if he walked into the Cock right now I would have the willpower to say no. They have Sipsmith and elderflower tonic. It is quite possible that I may never leave this place.  

Just one enforced change, with Moses coming back from international duty crocked. Pesto (fuck off autospell) came in, seemingly to cover the right wingback role. At least when we kicked off, he and Alonso were diligently hugging the touch lines like Charlie Adam embracing a doner kebab after skipping breakfast. 

We scored. (Cesc) Hurrah – an early goal, maybe this won’t be as dire as I had feared with Fat Sam in town. It was a sharp start. That is until it all fell apart. In something like two minutes we conceded two careless scrappy goals. Have Conte and Klopp done a job swap? Because we appear to have turned into the Scouse in the last 90 seconds.

The rest of the first half was a catalogue of squandered chances and complete domination. 
Here are some of the random outpourings that I have found on my phone:

Just f*cking hit it. 
Auto-spell just changed “Diego” to “Frigid.” How presumptuous.
How many one-handed saves can a bloke who looks like a giant bogie make? 
Why is Dave suddenly wearing a Michael Jackson tribute glove?

Pawson is another tw*t who appears to have been educated at the f*cking Wenger School of Observation. Jason Puncheon is a fat useless c**t

And then the strangely lucid: 

We need to make this dominance pay by the break. Though there isn’t much chance of that when it takes over a minute for their goalkeeper to put the ball back into play.


I’m starting my own charity. The RSPCHThe (not so) Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Hazard. Perhaps with all the money we collect we can purchase a bung for a referee and buy Eden a f*cking free kick every once in a while. 

The Bitch Baby Brigade was downstairs before the half was out and there were mingled shrieks of “IT’S HAPPENING AGAIN!” Along with mutters of “Costa doesn’t give a sh*t,” “Hazard isn’t the player he was” and “What has Pesto ever done for us?” As they cried over their overpriced watery Chinese beer. Do us all a favour. Apart from the two counter attacks where they had undone us, they had been nowhere near us. Nearly 70% possession and the only two shots they have had have gone in. The least that we deserved at half time was a bit of  Babarayo somersaulting. In spite of the urging of our section of the Shed, we didn’t get one. So he’s now dead to us. 

Palace seized the momentum for the first minute or so after the break, then it was as you were. Which brings me to RefwatchCraig Pawson today. He was, in the words of my dear departed old nan, a drip. All mouth and no trousers. I spent much of the second half ranting about the time-wasting. I made it my (sad) mission to count how many warnings he gave Hennessy for it without taking any action. Five. With three warnings to other players. Not one card. Book their keeper in the 47th minute (because he started before half time), when you gave the first one and you’d have put a stop to it. By the 55th minute we’d fluffed at least five chances to score. Palace had genuinely defended really well until that point, but shortly after that, the predictable barrage of Allardyce defensive substitutions started as he shut up shop and reverted to his general brand of sh*t-on-a-stick-football with ten men in the box. Commence now one long-ar*e period of head-butting a brick wall. Trying to find one pass to get through all the yellow legs in the box (God that away kit is horrible) or thumping it into the six yard box and hoping for a deflection off someone’s nutsack. As the minutes ticked down so did our will to live. Batshuayi came on, and didn’t really change anything. But what else can you do except throw the kitchen sink against ten men camped in your box? I personally think I would have made it Loftus-Cheek at that stage after his positive impact on the game at whatever recent match it was that my currently gin-fuddled brain can’t recall. When Andre Marrinermakes you look amateur. It’s time to contemplate life on the dole. Thank. God. For the fourth official. Said I. Because for the first time since, well, for the first time in the HISTORY of football we got back most of the time squandered by the away side, which further encouraged Poorson (See what I did there?) to add on everything that they tried to eke out in those seven minutes. Then, I looked at Alf Garnett’s programme and saw that the fourth official was Martinet (My autospell does that to Marriner, and for once it’s right) and quickly changed by stance to: “Well, it’s about time the git got SOMETHING right in life.”

Yes, the referee was a cock, but we could still be playing now and I am not convinced we would have found a way through the ten dogged and/or lump-like bananas that Allardyce the Crooked (who would be working in Lidl if there was any justice in the world) had stuffed in the box in front of their time-wasting goalkeeper by the end of it. In the words of Pork Pie (Desmond’s was awesome) all those people that thought we were going to win everything and not drop points. Are you mad? This is Chelsea, that is not what we signed up for. Between us we drunkenly decided that anyone who wanted a life of mediocrity and no drama should have f*cked off to Arsenal long ago. Spaguin (Special Alias) blames all of you who sang “We’re Gonna Win the League” at Stoke for our misfortune. “We Shall Not Be Moved” is apparently acceptable. I’m not sure her opinion matters – because she sat there giving herself heatstroke wearing her lucky bobble hat in the second half. And it didn’t f*cking work. 

Those of us that get to go to the Bridge week in, week out, can get quite whingy and ungrateful about the odd football fart like this. We were due at least one before the end of the season and although we lost, we were by no means sh*t, we merely failed (for once) to meet the impeccable (and let’s face it, the wholly surprising) standards we have set for ourselves this season. I was introduced to a stack of fans that had come from all over the USA just for the privilege of seeing us play Palace today and for whom the result hardly mattered up against the camaraderie and the joy of catching up with their fellow Blues and being in the middle of it all for once. It helped to put this result into perspective. As did the gin. With luck it will spur us on in the City game. Create 20+ chances against a Guardiola defence and surely you can’t help but score. We’ll be fine (she says) Keep calm and drink some gin. Enough of that and even Harry F*cking Kane starts to look… OK no. There isn’t that much gin in the world. But with luck this was just a bump in the road and we’ll be back on track on Wednesday 

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