Dave’s Ramblings – Barcelona

Fun fact: The Eiffel Tower was supposed to be in Barcelona. Gustave Eiffel pitched his tower for the 1888 World Exposition, but the city rejected it, worried it would be an eyesore. Anyone who has walked down Las Ramblas knows Barcelona has never been afraid of a little visual chaos.

 

And here’s another gem: those famous Barcelona beaches? Completely fake. The sand was imported from Egypt for the 1992 Olympics to spruce up the place—courtesy of the legendary coastal visionary, Mr. R. T. Ficial. Truly, his work was… groundbreaking. Literally.

 

The truth is, every football match that we play is important. But right now, they feel they matter even more. We’re talking ‘Did I leave the oven on?’ or ‘Is that a spider or a raisin?’ levels of importance.  

 

I’m writing this just after the Burnley match. One down, two to go. This week could very well help shape our entire season. It could be glorious. It could be catastrophic. It could be both at the same time, which is the most Chelsea thing imaginable.

 

Ok… question for you. How many words are there to describe what we witnessed tonight? Off the top of my head I can think of six. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. From start to finish we bossed them. I could be a grump and say why don’t we see this Chelsea every week? But I’m too busy floating, though slightly disappointed because it wasn’t more!!

 

On the way to the game, I heard an announcement at Embankment that said, “Please don’t urinate on the platform.” I mean… I’ve heard some wild things in my life, but that one really made me stop. I mean who exactly needs that kind of reminder? Was there a queue forming somewhere?

 

Tonight was supposedly all about the two best teenagers in world football. Lamine Yamal and our very own Estêvão. I think we all know the answer to which of them is the best. One is a generational talent….. and the other one doesn’t play for us. Mind you, wasn’t Yamal the lead singer of that dodgy 80s band Kajagoogoo? I remember Too Shy topping the charts. Well, Yamal was definitely “too shy” tonight!!

 

From the very first whistle it was obvious we were watching two teams who showed up fully prepared to cause chaos. Barca should’ve taken the lead early on, but instead they missed a sitter so high and wide it may still be orbiting the stadium. Meanwhile, Enzo had already celebrated, and un-celebrated, two set-piece goals that were promptly ruled out for offside. Enzo was left looking like a man repeatedly told his food delivery is on the way when it absolutely isn’t! 

 

Just short of the half hour we broke the deadlock. A short corner routine featuring Estevão, Garnacho and Cucu somehow worked. Neto’s flick bounced off Kounde in a way that defied physics, logic, and possibly FIFA regulations, and dribbled into the net for 1–0.

 

44 minute on the clock and Barca captain Araujo came sliding into Cucu like a man who’d just remembered his car was double-parked. He arrived a full day late to the challenge, honestly, Evri delivers faster, and very nearly took Cucu’s leg home as a souvenir. It was the most obvious second yellow you’ll ever see. Even Araujo didn’t argue. He just nodded, accepted his fate, and began the long, lonely walk of shame like someone leaving a nightclub after the lights come on.

 

A goal up and they’re down to ten men. Our half-time chats were bursting with hope, optimism, and dangerously high expectations. Would Chelsea let us down? The simple answer: not a bloody chance!

 

Into the second half where we somehow managed to have a third goal disallowed for offside. At this point the linesman was basically their best line of defence! Meanwhile, Maresca picked up yet another booking, which is becoming so routine he might as well have his own loyalty card. One more and he earns a free latte. 

 

Then, on 55 minutes, Estêvão decided now was the moment to show the world just how good he is. He dribbled down the wing, twisted a couple of their players inside-out, outside-in, and possibly left them facing the wrong postcode. Then he absolutely leathered a shot into the top-right corner from an angle so tight it needed WD-40. Fortunately for their keeper, he got his hands out of the way just in time, because if he hadn’t, they might’ve detached and flown into the stands.

 

What. A. Goal.

 

We looked like we were going to score again pretty much every time we breathed, and on 73 minutes we finally put everyone out of their misery. Neto strolled through the middle like a man who’d forgotten he was supposed to be marked, and slid Enzo through with the elegance of someone handing over the TV remote. Enzo, having had a fantastic game, decided not to shoot. Instead he rolled the ball across to Delap, who side-footed it into the bottom-right corner with all the effort of someone posting a letter. So, so easy. Honestly, it looked like a training ground drill.

 

And of course the offside flag had to ruin the party again. At this point we’d had so many goals disallowed you’d think we were personally offending the linesman’s family. Four chalked-off goals?! That’s not a match, that’s a hostile relationship. But not this time. Oh no. Even the VAR team were so embarrassed by the sheer volume of disallowed goals that they finally let this one stand. Possibly out of pity. Or guilt. Or because they’d run out of excuses.

 

Either way, the goal counted… and Barcelona were officially, unequivocally, scientifically battered.

 

From there the game slowly fizzled out and honestly, who could blame it? Even the match looked exhausted from all the drama, as if it needed a sit down, a cup of tea, and maybe a therapist.

 

What a night. Our best ever result against Barca, and the first time they’d failed to score in more than 50 games. Fifty! 

 

Somewhere in Catalonia, a statistician quietly closed his laptop and walked into the sea….

 

My takeaways?

 

This was our best performance in ages. Honestly, I’ve seen solar eclipses more frequently. Maresca absolutely nailed the team selection and tactics, so much so that I’m half-expecting Pep to phone him for tips. We’ve now marched into the top eight of the Champions League, though with two trips to Italy coming up and we all know how those can go: pasta, panic, and praying for a clean sheet.

 

The players went for the throat tonight in a way we’ve been begging for. Proper hunger. Proper intent. None of that politely knocking on the door and hoping someone answers nonsense. Sure, this wasn’t the vintage Barcelona of the Xavi-Iniesta-Messi era… but they’re still a decent side. And we absolutely folded them like fresh laundry.

 

Did the red card make a difference? Of course it did. Losing a player always helps, it’s not exactly a minor detail like forgetting your keys. But honestly? I’m not convinced it would’ve mattered even if Barcelona had played with 12 men, a couple of substitutes, and the physio. We were that determined to win.

 

They could’ve dragged a fan out of the stands, thrown a bib on him, and we still would’ve steamrolled them. Our players were playing like they’d been promised a week off, a bonus, and a lifetime supply of Nando’s if they won.

 

The atmosphere was fantastic, though let’s be honest, it’s easy to make noise when the team plays like they’ve discovered football’s cheat codes. And as for who’s next… well, you definitely don’t need me to tell you. You already know. We all do. If we can put in another performance of this quality, we might find ourselves genuinely challenging for the title. If that happens, I’ll need to buy some salt and pepper to season the hat I’ll inevitably have to eat.

 

And I’ll eat it happily.