Dave’s Ramblings – Liverpool
Let’s start with the obvious: our injury list now looks like a Netflix true crime documentary.
It’s so long that the club doctor has his own season ticket. Wesley Fofana, for instance, has spent approximately 23 years of his 24-year life in plaster, crutches, or rehab. Just as he hobbled back, he promptly managed to injure his head. Honestly, I’m half-convinced he’ll pull a hamstring while reading this report.
But despite all that, we lined up against Liverpool with what was technically a team of eleven human beings in Chelsea shirts. That in itself felt like a victory.
And then—miracle of miracles—we started well. I’ll admit, I double-checked the fixture list to make sure I hadn’t wandered into a parallel universe where Chelsea play like, well… Chelsea of old. We weren’t just defending for dear life. We were attacking.
Enter Moisés Caicedo. In the 14th minute, he unleashed a rocket so unstoppable it would’ve gone in even if Alisson had cloned himself three times. 1–0. If Caicedo makes a habit of that, NASA will be calling.
Cue the worst part of the day: the dreadful goal music. Whoever decided we need tinny stadium DJ tunes to celebrate needs a stern word. This is football, not the Super Bowl halftime show. The Stamford Bridge faithful can make their own noise, thank you very much.
First half verdict: superb. We pressed, we passed, we even looked competent. Benoît Badiashile turned into prime Maldini for 45 minutes—before, naturally, limping off in the 55th. At this point, if you’re a Chelsea centre-back, your shelf life is roughly the same as a mayfly.
Second half: still on top, still organised, still… dare I say it… good. Which, of course, meant only one thing: conceding. Liverpool nabbed a scrappy equaliser after someone reacted quicker than our lot. Classic.
From there, the game descended into what can only be described as a physio’s nightmare. Josh Acheampong, our last functioning centre-back, inevitably joined the walking wounded. I’m starting to think we should just stick Thiago Silva’s statue at the back and hope nobody notices.
Still, we pressed. We had chances. Enzo Fernandez rattled the post like he was auditioning for a drum solo. And then—deep, deep into injury time—Estevão, the wonderkid, slid in front of Robertson to poke home Cucurella’s cross. 2–1. Absolute scenes. Liverpool’s tears could have refilled the Thames.
The only slight dampener? Arsenal are top of the league. But rest assured: their collapse is inevitable, and we’ll happily supply the banana skin.
So we head into the international break with half the squad in traction, but spirits high. For once, Stamford Bridge witnessed Chelsea looking like a proper football team. Long may it last.
And Wesley Fofana, if you’re reading this—wrap yourself in bubble wrap, mate.
Dave M
