Dave’s Ramblings – Crystal Palace

Crystal Palace sounds regal. Grand. Posh, even. You picture chandeliers and people applauding politely.

 

Much nicer than Greenhouse FC, where the badge is a tomato and the away kit smells faintly of compost. 

 

With all the troubles we’ve had of late, well ever since Roman was banished by a government that definitely assured us it was all very normal and not crooked at all. We should probably count our blessings.

 

Because at least we’re not Crystal Palace.

 

Formed in 1861 by a cricket club, they spent the next 164 years patiently waiting to win something. When they finally did in 2025, they immediately panicked, sold all their best players, shoved the manager towards the door, and spectacularly torched the only genuinely happy moment they’ve ever experienced. And we thought we had it bad!

 

How to start? Well, their ground can best be described as a landfill with turnstiles. You enter full of hope, only to be immediately funnelled into a giant human tumble dryer that might spit you out at the toilets, the bar or, if fate is feeling generous your seat. Mind you, when (or if) you finally arrive, the view is obstructed by strategically placed posts, ensuring that almost no one is burdened with the inconvenience of having an unobstructed view of the game you paid to watch.

 

I’m not going to comment on the first 30 minutes. Partly because it’s my pen and the ink is expensive, but mostly because doing so would constitute a crime against literature. It was a soul-draining, borefest where minutes passed like hours and nothing of note happened at all.

 

Then, just after the half-hour mark, the universe abruptly corrected itself. Out of nowhere, Estêvão reminded us that this was a sporting event, activated his afterburners, left his marker for dead, and absolutely leathered the ball past their keeper. A superb individual goal, wildly out of place in the previous half hour, and the first moment that caused anyone to sit up, spill their drink, and confirm that yes, this was, in fact, a football match! He had an opportunity to pinch a second before half time, this time he didn’t quite connect as well.

 

The second half was basically Estêvão standing up and reminding everyone, “Yes, I am that guy.” He played a slick one-two with João Pedro that pulled their defence apart like a cheap Tesco tracksuit, then casually clipped a ball in behind for Pedro to make it two.

 

Not content with that, Estêvão then took on a defender, before firing in another shot on target just for fun. If that wasn’t enough, his cross to Pedro eventually led to the penalty, converted excellently by Enzo, that made it 3-0. At which point we stopped playing football and started cruising.

 

There was still time, of course, for Adam Wharton to be sent off for two yellow cards (gathered within about five minutes of each other) the second of which appeared to be awarded for existing too enthusiastically. Palace, now reduced to ten men, then slightly spoiled the afternoon by scoring anyway, which felt both rude and unnecessary.

 

Unfazed, we simply gathered our belongings, waved politely, and took our leave of the rubbish dump, sorry, Selhurst Park, as is tradition. We smiled contentedly, secure in the knowledge that, for a brief and glorious moment we are back in the top 4.

 

My takeaways this week…

 

Apart from the war crime against football that was the game against Pafos, the main story this week has been the latest steaming pile of fiction produced by the internet’s loudest keyboard warriors.

 

Apparently, Cole Palmer is desperate to join Manchester United because he supported them as a child. He also allegedly misses chippy chips. That’s it. That’s the journalism. Transfer analysis by Fisher-Price.

 

By this logic, I should be starting for Real Madrid as I once read a book about Zidane and love tapas.

 

If you’re one of the people who believes every word you read online, please identify yourself immediately. I’ve got several bridges to sell you, a pet dragon, a unicorn breeding scheme, and a timeshare on the moon. All absolute bargains for someone with your level of intelligence.

 

I am still deeply confused about the penalty we were eventually awarded.

 

I, along with pretty much everyone in South East London, thought it was a fairly straightforward decision. Clearly not for the referee, who waved play on with the confidence of a man who had seen absolutely nothing wrong.

 

Eventually VAR got involved and summoned him to the screen. We waited. Then we waited some more. Then we began to question whether the referee was actually watching an episode of the Simpsons. Finally, after what felt like a full rewatch of the director’s cut, the referee decided he had no option but to give the penalty.

 

His announcement was essentially: “After careful review, I’ve realised this is obviously a penalty. I won’t give their player a red card, even though I should, because that would require consistency, and I’d like to maintain the illusion that I know what I’m doing.”

 

Yes, we did finally get the right decision, but I remain puzzled by how many errors match officials make, ultimately with little or no consequence for their own role. In any normal job you’d potentially be suspended or removed from your role if you made such major errors.

 

It is, of course, wildly too early to pass any kind of judgement on Liam Rosenior. I will not be talking about green shoots or clear progress or any of that dangerously stupid nonsense. That way madness lies.

 

And yet… something happened in the second half. What exactly? No idea. I can’t identify it, measure it, or prove it exists in a court of law. It may have been a collective hallucination brought on by years of Chelsea related trauma. But I walked back to the station feeling… positive. Genuinely positive. For the first time in weeks. Which frankly made me more uncomfortable than the football itself.

 

Now then, what next? Oh yes, a flight on Tuesday to the lovely city of Naples. I do wonder if anything at all might be taking place on Wednesday evening. Probably nothing important. Just a quiet stroll. Perhaps a light kickabout. Who can say?

 

UTC 💙