Dave’s Ramblings: Port Vale
Ok, I’m going to say something controversial here. Not controversial for anyone who actually goes to games… but definitely for the “I watch highlights and tweet like a CEO” crowd.
So apparently, the PE teacher and the mysterious powers that be have decided to suspend Enzo Fernández for the Port Vale game and the Man city game next weekend.
Why?… Brace yourself.
Because when he was asked what European city he’d like to play in… he said Madrid. Madrid.
Not I’m leaving.
Not I’ve signed for real
Not even I’ve Googled house prices.
Just… Madrid.
By that logic, if I say I’d like to visit Paris, I’m immediately banned from my local Tesco and deported to Luton.
This club somehow manages to become more of a sitcom with every passing day. At this point, I’m half expecting a statement like, “Player suspended for thinking about Spain when having a bath.”
And what makes it even better (well worse) are some fans agreeing with this nonsense. Not because they listened to what he actually said, but because outrage is apparently a full-time hobby now.
Honestly, if saying you like a city is a bannable offence, half the squad is finished.
Ask them where they fancy a holiday and suddenly we’re fielding the U21s and a bloke from the ticket office. Why? Because apparently we’ve reached the stage where having an opinion is more dangerous than having a bad first touch.
While I’m having a moan which, let’s be honest, is quite an achievement when your team has just won 7–0, I feel obliged to mention some of our “supporters.”
Apparently, this is the worst team we’ve had in over fifty years. Fifty. Years.
Now, I wish I could say I haven’t been going that long… but unfortunately for my knees, I have. And let me tell you… if you genuinely believe this is the worst Chelsea team in half a century, then I can only assume you’ve either:
* Forgotten the past completely.
* Locked it out for emotional survival,
* or… are currently snorting industrial-strength glue.
Because I’ve seen some proper poor Chelsea teams. Teams that could turn a simple throw-in into a 3-act tragedy. Teams where a back pass felt like a cry for help.
A bit of advice for you. Deal with it, supporting Chelsea isn’t a hobby… it’s become a competitive moaning event. And some of you are going for gold.
And today, well we couldn’t even sell all of our tickets. In the quarter finals of the FA Cup! But don’t worry… This is the same fanbase that spends the other 364 days a year saying, they can never get tickets!
Meanwhile, Port Vale turned up in bucket loads, realising it was the biggest day of their lives… and sold out their end. They then made the atmosphere of a waiting room at the dentist look lively.
Honestly, I’ve heard louder crowds at ArseNIL. A silent library. During a mindfulness session.
What has actually happened to football? Does anyone remember when fans used to, you know… support their team? Sing… Shout… Lose their voice. Terrify small children and opposing full-backs.
Now we’ve got Chelsea “fans” sat at home live-tweeting their disappointment of a 7-0 win in 4K.
And Port Vale fans… in their cup final… treating it like a guided museum tour. “On your left, you’ll see the goal. Please do not make any noise.”
At this rate, the loudest thing in English football will be the sound of people typing complaints.
Anyway, long and short of it, we won. By seven goals to none. Seven different goal scorers. Well six and one of theirs. That still makes seven whatever way you dress it up!
I’m not even going to bother going through every goal… mainly because I’d need a whiteboard, a PowerPoint presentation, and possibly a drinks break halfway through.
There were that many.
At one point, I’m pretty sure even the ball got bored of hitting the back of the net.
Anyway… we’re off to Wembley. Again.
Honestly, we go to Wembley Stadium so often we should start paying council tax. Come to think of it, we may as well leave a toothbrush there at this point. Maybe get a season ticket for the car park.
It’s not even a special occasion anymore… it’s basically a commute.
“Big day out at Wembley?”
Nah mate, just popping over. Same as always.
The real standout from this game is that our part-time tactical genius, part-time PE teacher somehow decided that even against Port Vale, yes, the fictional postcode masquerading as a football club, we still needed all eleven players crammed behind the ball for a corner.
Because obviously, nothing says elite strategy like defending for your life against a team that sounds like it was generated by a broken SatNav.
My takeaways…
What conclusions can we draw from today?
Well… none. Absolutely none. Not a single, solitary, usable conclusion.
This game told us less than a politician in an interview.
Because, with all due respect, Port Vale isn’t even a place.
It’s more like a burp. A slightly concerning postcode attached to Stoke-on-Trent… and that’s already setting the bar somewhere near the Earth’s core.
This wasn’t a football match, this was a training exercise with spectators.
And even their most famous fan, Robbie Williams, probably watched that and thought:
“Actually… I’d rather be loving angels instead.”
Which, to be fair, is exactly what Port Vale’s defence were doing… just standing there, watching everything float past them.
In summary:
We learned nothing, confirmed nothing, and answered no questions… other than how many goals is too many before it becomes bullying?
One team we definitely won’t be facing in the semi-final is the quadruple-chasing ArseNil, or should I say Arsenal in their annual springtime cosplay as a serious football club.
Turns out their historic charge for four trophies came to a screeching halt against… Man City and then a team from the south of Hampton.
At this point, I’m genuinely concerned for my health. I’ll need to get myself down to A&E because my sides are absolutely gone. In a season full of pain, misery, and football-induced despair, it’s comforting to know one thing remains constant: Arsenal’s incredible ability to build hype like a Netflix trailer… and finish like a dial-up connection.
Onwards and upwards. UTC 💙
Dave M
