Dave’s Ramblings – Liverpool (Carabao Cup)

October 29, 2026 Admin

With Chelsea having very thoughtfully arranged a season without European football, I decided there was absolutely no reason for me to suffer through a British autumn as well. So, I’ve done the only sensible thing and buggered off to Tenerife for some much-needed winter sunshine.

Consequently, tonight’s match report comes courtesy of Spanish television, a sun lounger and several bottles of Estrella Galicia, which have kindly agreed to sponsor my increasingly questionable tactical analysis.

My Spanish is limited, my eyesight may deteriorate as the evening progresses, and by half-time I could be convinced that the referee is ordering tapas. But fear not, my commitment to reporting on Chelsea remains as strong as ever. Unlike, unfortunately, some of our defending.

If Chelsea score, I’ll be celebrating in the pool. If we concede, I’ll be drinking another beer then sulking in the pool. If we play as badly as we sometimes do, I may simply swim to La Gomera and claim the television reception has failed.

The sacrifices I make for this football club are, frankly staggering.

There are plenty of things you could say about this game, but unfortunately most of them would breach broadcasting regulations, offend several religious groups and possibly result in a visit from the police.

It was a football match in the loosest possible sense of the word. Two teams apparently united in their determination not to win, producing 90 minutes of entertainment that made watching paint dry seem like a night out in Las Vegas. I’ve seen more attacking intent from a mobility scooter with a flat battery.

Then, against all the odds and possibly several laws of nature, something actually happened. Caicedo was chopped down in the penalty area, and Rogers calmly stepped up to put us 1-0 ahead. Wonderful! We’d somehow taken the lead without anyone having to wake up the spectators.

For approximately three glorious minutes, life was beautiful. Then Fofana intervened.

Quite what was going through his head remains one of the great unsolved mysteries of modern civilisation. With absolutely no need, no danger and seemingly no functioning brain cells, he decided to handle the ball. Why? Nobody knows. Perhaps, he thought he was playing volleyball. Perhaps he’d forgotten which sport he’d turned up for. Or perhaps, and this remains my leading theory, he’s just a monumental bellend.

Penalty. 1-1.

Three minutes of happiness, brutally murdered by a man who apparently believes his arms are an optional extra to the laws of football.

The second half was marginally more exciting, although that’s a bit like saying a trip to the dentist is more enjoyable when they let you choose the music.

Both teams suddenly remembered that the object of football is to put the ball in the opposition’s net, rather than spend 90 minutes passing it around like an unwanted Christmas present.

Mike Penders made a couple of decent saves while their goalkeeper produced an excellent stop to deny Marco Palestra. Actual goalmouth action! I nearly fell off my chair. At one point, I even considered turning the volume up.

As the minutes ticked away, penalties became increasingly inevitable. Frankly, by this stage, a firing squad would have been a more merciful way of ending proceedings. So to the shootout…

For a while, it was anybody’s game. Both sides traded penalties, the tension mounted, and there was still every chance Chelsea might somehow escape with a victory. Then, like the Grim Reaper arriving at a birthday party, up strolled Wesley F-F-F-Fofana.

Having already demonstrated his remarkable ability to confuse football with handball, he apparently decided it was time to try another sport. This time, space exploration.

He approached the ball with all the urgency of a man wandering towards an all-inclusive breakfast buffet, took aim, and launched it into a different postcode. NASA immediately scrambled its telescopes. Air traffic control issued an emergency warning. Somewhere above Tenerife, a pilot reportedly asked whether Chelsea had just taken another penalty.

The ball is currently believed to be passing Jupiter, although scientists remain hopeful it might return to Earth’s atmosphere sometime before Chelsea win another trophy. And that was that. Chelsea out of the competition, courtesy of a man who had managed to give away a penalty at one end and miss one at the other.

Quite an achievement, really. Most players struggle to influence a game at both ends of the pitch. Wesley managed it without doing anything remotely useful at either. If Fofana ever announces he’s taking up golf, I’d strongly advise everyone within a 50-mile radius to wear a crash helmet.

Another cup dream over. Another evening of my life I’ll never get back. And somewhere in the solar system, a football is still travelling.

My takeaways…

I’ve never been a particularly enthusiastic supporter of this competition. It’s hardly the Champions League, is it? But a trophy is a trophy, and when you look at the teams still left in it, there was a genuine opportunity to win something. Frankly, the competition was there for the taking, gift-wrapped, with a big blue ribbon and a card saying, ‘Go on Chelsea, even you lot can’t mess this up.’ Naturally, we messed it up.

What a monumental waste of an opportunity. We’ve managed to snatch elimination from the jaws of possible success which, to be fair, is becoming something of a club speciality.

But now, ladies and gentlemen, we must address the elephant in the room. Although, in this particular case, the elephant would probably have better positional awareness and be considerably more useful at defending corners.

Wesley F-F-F-Fofana.

Those who know me will be aware that Wesley occupies a very special place in my heart. It’s the same place reserved for parking fines, root canal treatment and people who stop dead at the top of escalators.

He is, without question, my least favourite Chelsea player of all time. Believe me, over the decades, there has been some extremely fierce competition for that particular honour.

Why on earth did we sign him? I’ve spent more time trying to work that out than scientists have spent searching for intelligent life beyond Earth. Ironically, both searches have produced roughly the same results.

In my opinion, he combines the confidence of Paolo Maldini with the defensive instincts of a garden gnome. All the swagger of a world-class defender, without the inconvenience of having to play like one. Some will say we should sell him. Excellent idea. Just one tiny problem.

WHO ON EARTH WOULD BUY HIM?

You couldn’t give him away with a free set of steak knives, a year’s supply of petrol and a complimentary holiday in the Maldives.

To be fair, he has made one significant contribution to Chelsea Football Club. Thanks to his seemingly endless collection of injuries, he’s probably single-handedly kept half the physiotherapy department in full-time employment. There are medical professionals at Cobham who probably have mortgages, swimming pools and second homes entirely dependent on Wesley’s hamstrings.

Personally, I’d be delighted if he never pulled on a Chelsea shirt again. Although, knowing how football works, with Lacroix injured, Alonso will probably not only select him on Saturday but make him captain, give him the keys to Stamford Bridge and announce plans to build a statue of him outside the ground. Presumably with one arm raised for handball and the other pointing towards the International Space Station, where his penalty is currently approaching docking procedures.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no expert on football. In fact, there are days when I struggle to understand the instructions on a microwave meal. But even with my limited tactical knowledge, I’m finding Alonso’s continuing reluctance to use Estêvão absolutely baffling.

Yes, the lad needs to bulk up a bit. The Premier League is considerably more physical than what he’s been used to, and at the moment a particularly aggressive gust of wind could probably send him halfway down the King’s Road. But he’s a footballer, not a contestant in World’s Strongest Man. We need him to beat defenders, not carry a Ford Transit across the Stamford Bridge car park.

The boy has talent, flair, imagination and the ability to make something happen. In other words, precisely the qualities that appeared to have been declared illegal during last night’s performance.

It was crying out for someone like Estêvão to come on and change the game. Someone with a bit of magic in his boots. Someone capable of producing something unexpected. So naturally, Alonso brought on Emegha. I can only assume Estêvão has done something absolutely unforgivable in training. Perhaps, he’s parked in Alonso’s space, eaten his sandwiches or suggested that the manager’s tactical masterplan might benefit from occasionally trying to score a goal.

What’s even more ridiculous is that virtually all of Estêvão’s minutes have come in this competition. Now that we’ve been unceremoniously dumped out of it, when exactly is he supposed to play? Christmas? Easter? The opening ceremony of the 2030 World Cup? At this rate, by the time Alonso decides he’s physically ready for Premier League football, Estêvão will be 35, have three children, a mortgage and be considering early retirement.

I don’t expect to understand every tactical decision a professional manager makes. But I do expect that when you’ve got a wonderfully talented young footballer sitting on the bench while the team produces attacking football with all the excitement of a council planning meeting, you might occasionally consider ACTUALLY PLAYING HIM!

But what do I know? I’m just a bloke watching Chelsea from Tenerife, drinking Estrella Galicia and wondering whether our manager has accidentally confused the substitutes’ bench with a witness protection programme.

Still, at least we’ve got Saturday to look forward to. What could possibly go wrong?

Actually, don’t answer that.

💙⚽ ¡Vamos Chelsea! 🍻

Dave