Things started badly when I collected my brother Ruprecht from Heathrow, which is 15 minutes down the A4 from my house. Having found him wandering around the airport bothering lone women, I managed to hustle him into my car before the Police came, whereupon he decided that he was going to "navigate us home the short way, Bruv". He forced me to turn on to the M4 heading west from Heathrow (the wrong way), then onto the M25 going north (completely the wrong way), and finally onto the M40 back towards London, me having told the stupid little prat that if he wanted to live one second longer he'd better shut it and let me find the way back. Fifty-five endless minutes of whining later we arrived back at my flat. There was only one thing to do, and that was to fill the little swine up with alcohol as soon as possible.

Having anaesthetised Ruprecht, my next job was to do the same for myself, a task I engaged with worrying enthusiasm. During the course of the morning, various ne'er-do-wells and misfits turned up at my flat with bottles and cans of varying sizes. By 3 O'Clock we were absolutely roaring, having consumed liquids as diverse as Champagne (cheers, Dicko), Tequila (thanks a bloody lot, Dogman), Vodka and many different types of beer. But not one of us, as it turned out, was as drunk as Ruprecht. This was to have nerve-racking consequences later, but for the moment we were blissfully unaware, and happy with our lot.

We staggered down North End Road, and were gratified to see plenty of other people in the same shit state as us, but the atmosphere was fantastic. Every pub on the way down was seething with singing Chelsea fans, spilling colourfully out onto the pavement. I couldn't understand why everyone seemed to be cheering us, until I noticed Ruprecht standing in the gutter outside a pub with a can of beer in one hand, singing "Carefree" at the top of his voice, while narrowly missing being run over by a bus.. We grabbed him and pinioned his arms to his sides for his own good.

I lost touch with the main group until we took our seats at the match, and even then Ruprecht was missing. I was told that he'd last been seen yelling "Give us a cheeseburger, then" in a Kentucky Fried Chicken store. A few minutes later there was a huge commotion at the end of our row, as Ruprecht tripped and somersaulted his way through to his seat. Luckily the players came out a few seconds later, distracting the people who'd been trampled, or there'd have been hell to pay. The match duly kicked off, with an atmosphere round the ground that was reminiscent of a huge, good natured party. Everyone was infused with the spirit of it, including the Derby fans, who all stood up in solidarity when the old "stand up if you hate Man U" chant started up.

I say everybody, but I mean everybody except one bloke in front of us, who had obviously decided that he wasn't going to let his day be ruined by being in a good mood. This became clear when the moron found cause to take offence at just about every comment made by the people in our group, who were good-naturedly ribbing the players and each other, clearly just having fun. He turned round and tried to outstare each of us in turn, but we were in such a good mood that we just ignored him.

Just as I was congratulating myself on my own and the others' restraint, the whole thing was blown wide open again by, yes, you've guessed it, Ruprecht. He decided he had to go for a piss: a small disaster in itself, made infinitely worse by him collapsing on top of Mr Grumpy as he stood up. I just put my head in my hands. A couple of seconds later both my insteps lit up with agony as Ruprecht trod on them on his way past. My imprecations were drowned out by him yelling "fuck off, Priesty, you cunt" as he disappeared bog-wards, trampling everyone else in the row. It was like a sort of crazed Mexican Wave as people leapt out of his way. You just can't buy that sort of entertainment, can you ?

Worse, however, was to come. After about fifteen minutes of the second half, Ruprecht reappeared, the Mexican Wave this time coming worryingly towards us. He jabbed me in the bollocks and twisted my nipples as he went past, which he found very amusing, as drunks invariably do. I noticed that his mouth was covered in grease, so I naturally enquired as to the whereabouts of our pies. Ruprecht first denied that he'd had anything, but seeing the disbelieving expressions on our faces, he then tried another tack with an equal lack of success. This involved him calling us every name under the sun and a few others besides, in a futile attempt to distract us from the subject. Having failed, he subsided into a grumbling, farting, swearing heap on his seat, not to be heard of again until the end (thank God).

At this point I must congratulate Dogman, who not only got himself a pie while completely failing to buy any of us one, but had the unbelievable audacity to eat it in front of us. Talk about barefaced..

Meanwhile, the match rolled on, with Baba banging one in, followed by Luca finally getting on the scoresheet, to great acclaim. Derby tried to spoil the plot by scoring a great goal from a free kick ten minutes from the end, but Chelsea hung on until the finish without conceeding another goal. One moment of sadness was what will probably be the last appearance for Chelsea of Eddie Newton, one of my personal favourite players. On his day he could run rings round anyone, and has been a good servant to the Club. I salute you, Eddie, and wish you all the luck in the world at your new club. Some moron behind me started sing "who the fucking hell are you ?" when Eddie came on, so I was forced to remind him that the person he was slagging was the one who scored the winning goal in the 1997 FA Cup Final. How quickly you forget, mate.

Dimitri Kharine also got a start, and played an absolute blinder, saving us from defeat towards the end of the second half, when Derby had what looked like two or three certain goals miraculously saved by him. There's a good chance he won't be there either next season, and I wish him luck as well. The rest played well enough without doing anything too energetic, and you can't really blame them. They came out for a lap of honour at the end, and got a superb ovation from everyone. What they've done this season is nothing short of miraculous, whatever some people would have us think. Well done, and let's keep it going next season. I've always been proud to follow Chelsea, and now is a good time to be a Chelsea fan.

Thanks are due to my long-suffering mates Fintan "Semtex" O'Bollocks, Stewart "Dicko" Dickson, of the legendary Glasgow Death Grip, Steve "Dogman" Cater, Tony "Nobby" Clark, and Neil "Nialli" Sykes, who have provided me with excellent material for slander, without the right of reply. Some of the highlights of my season were Fintan's legendary changes of mind, coming round my house before almost every match saying that he'd "given up the drink", shortly before consuming the best part of a bottle of vodka, washed down with some beers. I have maligned him about it previously, but I neglected to mention that he turned up on several occasions brandishing his own bottle of vodka..

Dogman has tried hard, and has mainly succeded, to live up to his name, while Nobby amused us all by falling asleep at various times, enlivening the proceedings with his snoring. Thanks to Nialli for emotional and other support (he knows what I mean). Thanks also to Dicko, whose uncompromising presence has been of great support, apart from his penchant for spiking his mates with strong drink, of course. I experienced the worst hangover of my life after one visit to his cave, but that's another story.

In case you're wondering about Ruprecht: after a riotous evening in the Legless Ladder, the highlight of which was when he paid for a pint of lager with a credit card, he was put, unconscious, into the back of an unwilling minicab driver's motor, and sent round to my Sister's. Cheers, Sis.

Finally, I'd like to say thanks to all of you who've read, and been kind enough to send positive feedback about my reports, and I've certainly enjoyed doing it. See you next season.

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