Dave’s Ramblings – Sunderland

November 9, 2026 Admin

A journey that began at silly o’clock, in weather that would have had Noah checking the warranty on his ark, was never going to be much fun. Fog, rain, and what felt like 1,000 miles of motorway misery. By the time I arrived, I’d aged six years, developed a personal hatred of the British road network and started questioning whether supporting Chelsea should come with a free psychiatric assessment.

But apparently, the footballing gods decided I hadn’t suffered nearly enough. Oh no. Having dragged myself halfway across the country, they treated us to 90 minutes of football so catastrophically awful that even the players looked like they wanted to ask for their petrol money back.

I’ve witnessed some truly dreadful Chelsea performances over the years, but this game deserves its own dedicated wing in the Museum of Crimes Against Football.

There have been plenty of occasions in my life when I’ve questioned my decisions. Bad purchases, questionable relationships and the occasional kebab after midnight.

But today? Today I voluntarily got out of a warm bed, drove through the sort of weather usually associated with biblical punishment, and travelled hundreds of miles to watch eleven millionaires apparently attempting to play football for the very first time.

At this point, I’m beginning to think I don’t support Chelsea. I’m simply serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole.

Let me make one thing absolutely clear. I remain a fully paid-up member of the Xabi Alonso Appreciation Society. I still believe his appointment was the right decision, and I genuinely feel that, given time, he’ll turn this collection of pigs’ ears into the proverbial silk purse. Although, looking at some of them, he might need a sewing machine, a miracle, and a direct line to the Vatican.

That said, today Xabi got it spectacularly wrong. Wrong team, wrong formation, wrong tactics. In fact, the only thing he got right was turning up at the correct stadium, although judging by what followed, even that was debatable.

Within minutes, it was painfully obvious that his master plan had all the structural integrity of a chocolate teapot. Everyone could see it. The supporters could see it. The opposition could see it. I’m fairly certain Stevie Wonder could have seen it from the back row.

But did Xabi change anything? Did he attempt to rescue the situation? Did he even look remotely interested in finding a Plan B? Absolutely not.

He stood there watching the unfolding catastrophe with the calm serenity of a man admiring a sunset, rather than witnessing his tactical blueprint being fed through an industrial shredder.

So although I still believe Xabi is the man to take Chelsea forward. I’d just appreciate it if, occasionally, he remembered to take the handbrake off and point us in the right bloody direction.

Today marked the Mackems’ first Premier League victory since August, when they somehow managed to beat Foolham. If only QPHa were still in the Premier League, the Mackems would have nine points guaranteed before a ball was kicked.

As for the match itself, I can confidently say it was one of the worst games ever inflicted upon the Stadium of Shite. Ninety minutes of football so dreadful that Amnesty International should be investigating it as a potential human rights violation. I’ve seen more entertaining spectacles watching a pigeon trying to shag a crisp packet.

Neither side deserved to win. Frankly, neither deserved a point. Both should have been deducted three, fined for bringing football into disrepute and made to write letters of apology to everyone unfortunate enough to witness it.

Ultimately, it was a tale of two penalties. One given, one not. Their penalty was quite clearly an outrageous miscarriage of justice, while ours was the most stonewall penalty since someone invented the penalty. Before anyone accuses me of bias, let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am approaching this with all the neutrality, objectivity and fairness you’d expect from a Chelsea supporter who has just driven halfway across the country to watch that absolute shower of shite.

Somehow, against all known laws of mathematics, logic and common decency, we remain in the Premier League’s top five. Quite how is one of life’s great mysteries, right up there with the Bermuda Triangle, the Loch Ness Monster and why anyone thought Wesley Fofana was a good investment.

This was hardly the ideal way to head into yet another international break, although, after watching that performance, I’d happily support an international break lasting until Easter. Preferably with the entire squad sent somewhere remote to contemplate their crimes against football.

At least the break gives Cole Palmer some time to reflect on his performance. If today’s performance was an audition for England, Cole wouldn’t even have made it through the first round of Britain’s Got Talent. Three red buzzers, a sympathetic look from Amanda Holden and Simon Cowell asking him whether he’d ever considered a career outside football.

Still, we’re fifth. Apparently.

I’ve checked the table three times, and I’m now convinced the Premier League’s computer has developed a drinking problem.

My takeaways…

As I said earlier, I still believe, perhaps with the sort of blind optimism normally associated with people buying lottery tickets, that Xabi Alonso is the right man for the job.

However, my faith is beginning to resemble a cheap deckchair on Brighton beach. It’s still standing, but one more gust of wind and the whole bloody thing could collapse.

I genuinely don’t know how many more afternoons like this I can endure before I’m forced to issue a public apology for my unwavering support. At this rate, I’ll be standing outside Stamford Bridge wearing a sandwich board reading, ‘I WAS WRONG ABOUT XABI,’ while passers-by throw rotten vegetables and remind me that they told me so.

What makes today’s performance particularly depressing is that we weren’t playing Real Madrid, Barcelona or even a half-decent Premier League side. We were playing a team that has spent the last three months treating victories like endangered species. Rarely seen, possibly extinct and requiring photographic evidence when one finally appears. Sunderland… a team that played (and lost) on Thursday while we had a whole week to prepare!

Meanwhile, a thoroughly bang-average Arsenal side look increasingly likely to stroll to the Premier League title without even breaking sweat. It’s not even Christmas and they’re already measuring the curtains for the trophy cabinet. Watching Arsenal win the league would be bad enough. Watching them win it while we stumble around like eleven strangers who’ve met for the first time at Rugby services is almost too much to bear.

Of course, there is a glimmer of hope. The last international break began with a performance so embarrassing it should have come with a parental advisory warning, but we returned looking vaguely like a professional football team and actually won a match.

So perhaps history will repeat itself. Perhaps Alonso will spend the next fortnight discovering formations, substitutions and the revolutionary concept of playing footballers in positions they actually understand. Perhaps, just perhaps, we’ll come back and win five or six matches on the bounce.

Although, given today’s evidence, I’d settle for five or six consecutive passes to someone wearing the same coloured shirt.

Come on, Xabi. Prove me right. Because I’ve defended you more often than our back four have defended our penalty area, and frankly, I’m running out of excuses.

Win or lose, always blue 💙

UTC

Dave M