Don't go with the Flo...

It's been a long time since we had a more depressing week than the one we've just suffered; two home defeats by clubs we hate more than most, one dumping us out of the FA Cup and the other putting a nasty crimp in our Championship ambitions, but now is the time to rise above all the crap you will no doubt be putting up with from various colleagues and ne'er-do-wells.

It's amazing how quickly things can turn round in football, isn't it ? Only five days ago we were in line for the treble; now the vultures are saying we'll be lucky to get third place in the Premiership. What I don't understand is how people suddenly think we've got no chance of the title after losing one match ! Are you telling me that M** U** and Bumnal aren't going to drop any points between now and the end of the season ? Poppycock. We've still got every chance, but we need to score some goals. Tore Andre's sudden loss of form notwithstanding, there's easily enough talent in our squad to climb out of this trough and move on up like before.

Anyhow, the match. Things started off with a bang when Fintan O'Bollocks turned up at my house bearing gifts in the form of a full bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label, perhaps stung by my criticism of his behaviour at the Liverpool game. Fintan: is it too late to take back those hurtful things I said ?

We took our seats in the West Stand, and settled down to watch Chelsea beat the crap out of helpless victims West Ham. It all started off well, but there were ominous portents of things to come when we saw that West Ham were playing ten men behind the ball at all times, with just Kitson up front. It looked for all the world like they'd settle for a draw, and they went about killing the game in a very efficient manner. Hairy Redminge had obviously done his homework, and his defenders did a good job, none more so than the giant Marc Vivien Foe, who lumbered around getting in Zola and Flo's way all afternoon. What he failed to stop, his mate Ferdinand was quick to mop up. For Chelsea, the only truly effective players were Goldbaek, Desailly and Babayaro, the rest failing dismally, in the main, to shake off their markers. Flo looked good on the ball, but his first touch wasn't really good enough on occasion, and he spent too much time teeing himself up for my liking.

Don't get me wrong; Chelsea were playing some great football, with sweet one-touch passing and imaginative running, and it seemed only a matter of time before we broke down the Hammers' defence, but the closest we came was after half an hour, when the ball came to Zola unmarked in the box, but he blasted his shot against Ferdinand, who looked like he was trying to get out of the way. Baba looked like he'd scored a few minutes later, but Ferdinand cleared off the line. Goldbaek also came close with a 20 yard shot, but Shaka Hislop saved well. The point is that, like in the Man U game, although we were creating plenty of chances, nobody really looked like scoring from them. That's the only difference between us now and two weeks ago, but it's a crucial one.

Half time came and went, and we were still plugging away, but the longer it went on without Chelsea scoring, the more adventurous West Ham became, sensing that they could get something out of it. Eventually, of course, they did, winning a dubious free kick some thirty five yards out with fifteen minutes to go, and as the ball whipped in it glanced off the head of the aforementioned Foe and dropped into the melee in the goalmouth. Kitson stabbed at it, De Goey got a hand to it and pushed it onto the post, from where it trickled agonisingly over the line. The West Ham fans, who'd been amusing themselves by baiting Graeme Le Saux with homosexualist taunts like the morons they are, went absolutely mental, with the loudest cheering I've heard at the Bridge from opposing fans in some while, INCLUDING Man U, who had the entire West Stand. It just goes to show that a little success can go a hell of a long way.

Needless to say, we were gutted, but we tried hard to get behind the boys with some spirited chanting, but most of the people round us were more interested in craning their heads around to watch the moronic halfwits kicking fuck out of the odd unfortunate West Ham fans who'd bought tickets in the Chelsea end. You just don't need it, especially when your team is losing and need all the support they can get. The really depressing part of it is that, in the recessess of their bovine minds, these people see themselves as heroes for beating up opposing fans..

What with that and the steady stream of surrender-monkeys leaving just because we were losing, things looked pretty grim. As usual, though, in my fevered imagination I could see us scoring three goals in the last 15 minutes, but I was soon to be cruelly disabused of this notion as West Ham came at us again, obviously believing that they could score another. They put together some adventurous football for a while, until Hairy Redminge reminded them in no uncertain terms that they were supposed to be defending their lead.

Chelsea came back at them, with Forssell coming close with a header, but to no avail. At least Luca tried to win the game, bravely bringing on a striker for a defender, but his gamble didn't pay off. At the final whistle we left in very low spirits, but soon cheered up when we realised that this was one loss, not the end of our season. Now it's up to the fans to get behind the team for the next few games - they're going to need it.

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