Spare a thought for the few 'non-neutrals' gathering around old wirelesses and arcane industrial Soviet-style valve-driven tellies tonight. Whilst all you unbelievers sit back in the hope that Drogba and Ronaldo become inextricably fused in some mass dive-a-thon in the first five minutes some of us will be biting their quicks down to the bone as their team strives to win Big Cup in front of a rumoured to be less-than-capacity crowd.
Whilst the sight of Frank Lampard kissing his ring (yuck!) or Rio Ferdinand attempting to play fist-pumping leap-frog with his team-mates (oo-err!) might bring bile dangerously close to the surface some of us will be hoping to see one rather than the other tonight.
Whatever happens I'll predict:
Lord Ferg to remain at the helm of Good Ship Rowdie next term.
Avram Grant will be down the job cente.
Drogba's doing one from West Larndarn, as is Pique from the Wetlands.
John Terry will still look like a (nasty) bulldog chewing a wasp.
Wayne Rooney will punch someone (irrespective of the outcome).
Me? I'll be slumped in the arms of a most agreeable Rioja in a coastal bar somewhere north of Lloret de Mar praying that there are no other Brits anywhere near the place.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I'm a terrible big-game watcher. Mrs S was concerned I'd pop a major artery if I suffered the whole thing so we timed an exquisite gormet seafood nosh-up so as to miss the first half. The plan was to waddle down the road to a beachfront taverna to catch the conclusion.
Like all good Fever Pitch-style followers I had my mobile tuned to the BBC website. The updates slowed after Ronaldo scored, so SP's 'Ha ha' text - something that could only signify a Chelski equaliser - came way before the official confirmation of Lampard's finish to a bizarre pinball manoever that's unlikely to have seen action on either training ground.
During the interval I paid the bill, which amply reflected the establishments' pride of their undoubtedly excellent fare, and slid off to the aforementioned bar. Bizarrely the only other person remotely interested in the goings-on from Moscow was a middle-aged lady from . . . Russia. Patently a Chelski fan - she winced horribly as an avalanche of chances for the Blues went a-begging - I avoided eye contact as I shrank in my seat wondering when the all-conquering side from part one - as described by the Beebs' bloggers - would turn up for the second instalment.
Extra time arrived and I duly informed an ashen-faced wife that penalties were sure to follow. Thanks to a combination of dodgy camera work and the rabid Spanish television commentary I couldn't be sure as to why Drogba saw red. There may have been a girlie slap on Vidic (who seemed somewhat riled in the aftermath) but that seems a harsh decision in a game of such magnitude. I guess rules is rules but it only served to make the endgame even more fractious with both sides seeming to want to play out time.
We jumped in the car and set off for the hotel just before full time in extra time. Spanish radio on 1540 megahertz (on the medium waveband!) offered a cacophony of derranged screaming that made the TV presenter sound like Des Lynham on valium. It featuring comical pronounciations of 'Lampaaaard!' 'Carrrrrick!' and 'Harrrrrgreaves!' I knew there'd been no additon to the score as the obligatory 'Goooooooooaaaaaaaal!!!!' was missing.
And so to the hotel bar for the final countdown, the horror that is penalties. As the Boy Wonder stepped up I pulled my T-shirt up over my head and growled to Mrs S (still stoically by my side bemoaning her 'dreadful' record on (watching) penalties involving England/ English teams) that he would showboat and fluff it. Bless his cottons he didn't disappoint. And so it fell to England's Brave John Terry, the Hardest Man Since Vinnie Jones to step up and, by the width of a creaky upright, land in an ugly heap on his backside and keep the stress rising beyond acceptable levels. A hotel security guard who'd slipped into the back of the TV lounge pointed at my hunched, bug-eyed countenance and muttered 'He for Manchester, no?' The wife just smiled at him and kept softly stroking my throbbing temple.
Funny old game, Saint. When Terry missed I knew 'we' had it. Up 'till then I was convinced United neither deserved to nor were likely to win. Giggs was a giant, as had been Scholes for much of the game; I was pleased for those two above the rest. Carrick seemed (to me) to be outstanding throughout, calming team-mates before the shoot-out and taking a man's penalty, thumping his spot kick with fierce determination. Fate was at her most fickle, causing my well-stocked stomach to perform a worrying series of flips and twists. Still, it was great theatre. When Lampard offered his second salute of the night to the heavens I fervantly wished we could somehow be linked to events via a Nintendo Wii and bring about an instant and calamatous end to the the man, preferably featuring bloody decapitation. Is it me or is that just getting horribly old already Frank? Please go back to kissing your ring (ahem).
Final word goes to one man, a man who on a night when dignity and respect were in woefully short supply showed a great deal of one and commanded much of the other; Avram Grant. He's had a rubbish ride this season yet he's taken a disfunctional, disjointed bunch of self-important mega-stars to the edge of greatness in the league and a lick of paint away from the European Cup. I wish him all good things, whatever the future holds.
Football; bloody hell.
[SIZE="1"] "He is one of those unique players where I can one day tell my grandkids that I once played in the same team as Ryan Giggs."
Dean Saunders, Welsh International [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I just heard Lampard's interview. He states 'there can be no doubt that the better team lost.'
Evidence if such were needed that taking soundbites from sportsmen in the exhausted desperation of defeat is not always a good idea. Remember the FA Cup Final last year Frank? That's how many of us felt.
A little later 200 Chelski fans 'took on' a collection of West Lardarn's Finest Rozzers outside Stamford Bridge.
Apparently they were 'upset' over the 'unfair' result. The hooligans that is, not the Rozzers.
Sorry about your dosh EG.
Hopefully QPR's magnificent ascent next season will make up for it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I hate to sound ungrateful but after that nonsense dancing around the spot-kick and his outrageous skirt-twitching at the Spanish media I think the Boy Wonder should do one. Yes, 41 goals, yes all the accolades and gongs (with more to come no doubt - European Golden Boot, Ballon D'Or, FIFA World Player of the Year) but unlike Maggie the boy's head appears set for turning.
Cash in Fergie, send him packing. You know you want to
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
My Bro sent me a picture of John Terry Vodka 'bottled in Moscow'.
The following appeared in today's Fiver Letters:
"With EBJT so obviously distraught at slipping during a crucial move,
perhaps he'll think twice about urinating on a nightclub floor in
future so that others can avoid the same fate?" - Andy Dryden.
"Like many an Englishman last night, who didn't care which team won,
my adult response to Chelsea being on the verge of victory was to
look forward to Cristiano Ronaldo crying. Imagine the emotional
turmoil then, as EBJT missed, Man Utd won and Cristiano blubbed anyway -
a rollercoaster!" - Tom Wells.
As Lord Ferg has decreed that we must 'look our players in the eye and see who still has the hunger' in preparation for next season there's a big fat 'For Sale' sign to be made and replicated for a number of Rowdie wannabes and hangers-on. Best cut the japery and look forward to doing a proper job on the Blue Meanies next term. Four More Years, Four More Years . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I hate to sound ungrateful but after that nonsense dancing around the spot-kick and his outrageous skirt-twitching at the Spanish media I think the Boy Wonder should do one. Yes, 41 goals, yes all the accolades and gongs (with more to come no doubt - European Golden Boot, Ballon D'Or, FIFA World Player of the Year) but unlike Maggie the boy's head appears set for turning.
Cash in Fergie, send him packing. You know you want to
As the 'debate' gathers a-pace I wonder at the myopia of the world's media;
surely there's some cricket or - heaven forfend, tennis - to report on?
Sell him Fergie; gowan, gowan gowan - yer will, yer will, yer will.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:As the 'debate' gathers a-pace I wonder at the myopia of the world's media;
surely there's some cricket or - heaven forfend, tennis - to report on?
Sell him Fergie; gowan, gowan gowan - yer will, yer will, yer will.
oh please don't Fergie, since the Special One left we have been very short of a little eye candy in the prem league - I don't count Shrek :-0
