06/07: Preview: Chelsea
Our Last Meeting
"The biggest disappointment about this evening was that, in contrast to the first game, Chelsea did have things rather their own way. The Watford side never laid down exactly, but nor was there the inspiring and chest-beating inyerfaceness of the Vicarage Road game.
With one exception. Stand up Jamie Hand. But only if you want to. And no, I'm not looking at you. The third goal was a prelude to a five minute Jamie rampage which saw him chase the ball around the midfield, beating the ball from opponent to opponent with increasing disregard for the stature of his victims. 'Choose your booking carefully, Jamie...' murmured Loz. An accurate statement, but not particularly insightful as the next development was visible from some distance.
Most Relevant Aspect of Babycare
Clothing (esp for girls). Rahelle's wardrobe was more extensive than mine within two weeks of her birth. It continues to swell and grow, everyone likes buying pretty little dresses. Really, as far as our budget is concerned, as long as Rahelle continues to receive such lavish gifts on a regular basis we're laughing. Of course, if the flow of gifts ever stops, Rachie ain't gonna stop growing, and we're kinda screwed...
Going down instead of us because:
After failing to agree personal terms with Marlon King, the entire staff will be so demoralised at the thought of Drogba still being in their first team that relegation will become inevitable.
This is a toughie. Actually, the Abramovich thing has made me dislike Chelsea rather less than I did before… much as the magnitude of his investment means that Mourinho can generally get away with his very occasional bad buys and still kill off any semblance of competition for the top prize whatever Sky's bluster might suggest. This was always the grand plan… football was always going to eat itself at some point. It's just that it was supposed to be the G14 and the Champions' (sic) League that delivered national dominance, rather than a Russian oligarch. I'd still like to shove Peter Kenyon through a cheese grater, mind. Champions, obviously.