Of course it may not have been so bad if State of Origin wasn't on the night before - which practically ensured that I, and the thousands who gathered at the infamous House of Chov in preparation for the 4.45am UCL kickoff, were FORCED to imbibe vast amounts of Becks to pass the time. And make Origin at least half-entertaining in the process.
Shortly after Anthony Quinn's first try for NSW, rumours quickly swirled around the venue that I had bypassed the meat products and instead sampled the water-melon from one of the catering trays.
Unsubstantiated rubbish. My lawyers will be onto that muck-raking thank you very much, and I refuse to surrender the video on my phone of the last time Ms Zaetta visited. Who Dares Wins, indeed, Ms Zaetta, hmmm? Although it should be noted that watermelon was, indeed, present on the tray. And who brought that tray, hmm? The fruity one himself methinks, and YOU know WHO YOU ARE, although we can all be comforted that maybe the missing piece of your TOE wasn't on the tray somewhere.
The crowd gathered in the cold darkness of 4am, all with less than 3 hours sleep, to hopefully witness United etch themselves onto the Champion's League Roll of Honour. Mainly we wanted to see United avoid repeating the mistakes of Stamford Bridge a few weeks ago, where fielding a weakened XI and playing somewhat negatively produced an embarrassingly lopsided game and result.
Our hopes were repaid with interest as United attacked from the outset, leaving Chelski no time to settle into the rhythm of the game. David Basheer, who has obviously deep-throated Les Murray enough to jag a business trip to Moscow to call the game, made some comments about being surprised Ji-Sung Park wasn't starting for United on the flank, however I think the real surprise may have been that Nani didn't start on the right flank, as he has usually been preferred by Sir Alex when both players are available.
In actuality, it was Owen Hargreaves, who has proven himself to be a real dynamo for United with boundless enthusiasm regardless of position. He also seems to have a cranky edge, which, predictably, endears him to this rage-filled Blog.
The thing I like about Owen is that he is not confined to any one dimension as a footballer. best known as a "holding" midfielder, in fact he has good pace and good technique with the ball at his feet. I remember him against Man City earlier in the season, several times dribbling his way out of trouble deep on our third - no sign of panic and not resorting to panic long balls to clear danger.
When he roams across the middle, or plays centrally (as he has done on occasion) he seems to have less impact in general play due to the fact he is sometimes getting the ball with his back to goal - which of course negates his ability to run square on or to the sides of back-tracking defenders. (Of course the plus side to his roaming brief is his ability to get into goalscoring positions without a man-marker, so fair trade off I suppose).
Michael Essien doesn't. This first half was not his best and made a mockery of suggestions that he is versatile enough to play anywhere. He has a "best' position, which he is great at, and right-back is not it.
Ronaldo rises at the far post to head home an early goal after some outright f*cking brilliant play from Scholesy The Ginger Ninja and Wesley Brown, and we thought - great f*cking start, we are on our way here, Chelski can't live with us at the moment.
Cristiano Ronaldo, who apparently can't play well in big games, scores in the Champion's League Final, watched by millions. In doing so, confirms his position as top scorer for the entire tournament. Still, apparently doesn't play well in big games.
However, Tevez's later sliding header from a couple of yards out ought to have been buried - and Carrick's rushed follow-up was blasted into the keeper when he had time to steady himself on the edge of the area and perhaps sidefoot a placed shot into one of the corners. Really should have been a goal and 2-0.
John Terry is interrupted trying to take a $hit, but Carrick has blasted it straight into the keeper. Somewhere, Chov swears and disturbs the neighbours.
Not to mention a glorious cross which Tevez somehow contrived to miss completely from dead in front, Petr Cech having already been beaten by the cross. 3-0, in virtual Chov World, and really game over.Of course, miserable c*nts that they are, Chelski capitalised with a thoroughly undeserved equaliser before the half, and literally only moments after Tevez's air-finish.
The Chelski Way - defend your ar$eholes inside out, stack 10 men into your own defensive third and jag f*cken ar$ey goals from counters and set-pieces. F*ckers.
Mind you, it reinforces the notion that there is only one statistic that counts in football - the f*cken score.
Yes it was a jammy c*nt of a goal, relying on several slips in the United defence (including, crucially, Van Der Sar) but the goal counts just the same. No style points for quality, alas, or else Warilla Sports circa early 1990s would have been top of the table.
With halftime comes a predictable change of momentum, and the second half was a mixture of two elements that unnerved and unsettled the gathered thousands in Chov's loungeroom (mumbling angrily in an almost unbroken sequence for 45 minutes).
Chelski didn't start slowly this half, and United inexplicably turned into pumpkins after midnight. They seemed almost totally incapable of stringing even 3 passes together to progress from defensive third through to attacking third, which meant fast counters were miserable and everything else was rushed, impatient or just plain incompetent surrendering of possession.
What compounded the problem, as we saw it, was United's hesitation in defending during transition. Scholes and Carrick dropped, but very deep - too deep to harry the Chelski players bringing the ball forward. And time after time, Chelski players found themselves in space on the fringes of United's area without being closed down.
What saved United during this time was the fact that Chelski couldn't hit the f*cken side of a small moon with their shooting, having bucketloads of "shots" but basically donating a few new Adidas balls to the kids living in suburbs nearest the Luzhniki Stadium. Drogba managed to whack the outside of the post but as stated previously, the only statistic that counts is the score and Chelski f*cked their chance when they didn't convert their possession in the second half into a goal.
No, Frank Lumplard, football is not a "cruel" game that "cruelly" denied you victory, you were just too f*cken $hit to score. Simple.
Extra time was reasonably even, Lumplard hit the post and Giggs absolutely f*cked a sitter he could have scored with his c0ck by trying to f*cken loop it or something with the outside of his left peg. Why the f*ck he did that only he knows, but he managed to find the only bit of goal that was obscured by John "I'll Take the Glory Pen, Me" Terry's massive f*cken head.
But let's focus for a moment on one of the true highlights of the game - nay, the entire f*cken competition.
Didier Drogba, a true c*nt who embodies everything we all love to f*cken hate about the c*nts from Chelski. A f*cking whiner, a f*cking low-class, unsportsmanlike c*nt who dives, moans, complains and jostles referees at every f*cken opportunity. This is the Grade AAA c*nt who we could see jostling with Sir Alex on their way out of the tunnel for the second half, for no other reason than he felt like it.
Volumes of Poetry have been written on less. Shakespeare wrote a hundred f*cken sonnets that didn't come close to expressing my joy at that moment, watching the ape-faced c*nt trudge off - and of course the c*nt was INDIGNANT at this turn of events.
My joy knew no bounds, and still does not. Of course my man-love for Carlos Tevez has grown in direct proportion as a result, because it was his actions that stirred up the c*nts from the Bridge until their red frilly panties were suitably knotted.
Of course, what will escape the limited intellectual capacity of all Chelski supporters is that all he did was precisely what Chelski themselves had done only minutes before. Not "something similar", or "something akin to" or "something that reminds me of"....the exact, f*cken, SAME, thing.
Namely, booted the f*cken ball out in coffin corner rather than return it to the feet of a Chelski c*nt.
No, two wrongs don't make a right, but f*ck it, it's Chelski and these c*nts have made an art-form out of surrounding the referee en masse this season to contest EVERY F*CKEN DECISION these lamby-pamby odious C*NTS feel is not in their favour. And yeah, United in the Roy Keane-era, and since, have also done it. But not like these c*nts. Really.
To surround the ref and players and start pimp-slapping and moaning about something YOU JUST F*CKEN DID YOURSELF is breathtaking hubris. Or just c*nt like behaviour, take your pick.
Like Joe Cole, the Crown Prince of Pretentious Little F*cks, going apopleptic because he didn't get a f*cken THROW-IN decision go his way. And diving for a free-kick on the edge of our area, then petulantly laying on the ground for 3 minutes pretending to be injured but really just throwing a f*cken SOOK. You little c*nt, f*ck it warms my heart to remind myself you f*cken lost to us NO LESS THAN TWO TROPHIES in the space a few weeks.
And I read accounts today that John "Six Points Is A Hell Of A Gap" Terry actually performed a 'bushman's blow' on Tevez during the melee. That is, pressed a finger to close one nostril and blew the other out onto Tevez's neck.
Read that, and then try and tell me that the pictures of the c*nt crying after losing aren't the f*cken most BEAUTIFUL IMAGES EVER CAUGHT ON FILM.
Mind you, I think Carlos Tevez is some strange love-child of Anthony Kiedis and Freddy Krueger. Truly. Go have a look at him. Did I mention I man-love him? Because I do, and I'm not ashamed. Especially when he was telling Terry and Drogba to "f*ck off" and pointing to the far side of the field to indicate exactly where Chelski had performed their own indiscretion without a second thought. I love you, you little Argie, I f*cken do.
Pens in the shootout had the expectant crowd at House of Chov now scattered to all corners, fingernails chewed to the stump, some unable to watch, some sitting calmly. Rusty Man, as a result of some of the typical, truly f*cken pi$$-poor planning for which he has become famous, had to leave for a 7am business meeting and was relying on SMS to get the result. You're a peanut Rustmeister, and if they had fluffed it i would have blamed you for upsetting the f*cken cosmic karma.
I loved that the ref tossed a coin to choose ends for the penalty shootout. From my vague recollections of doing my referee certification (my club at the time insisted all players do it) it was simply up to the ref to choose ends. But obviously, with all the Chelski fans behind one goal, and all the United fans behind the other, this was a fraught decision. Coin toss, fair enough. And we got "our" end, which meant all the whistles of HATE at the Chelski c*nts would be up close and personal.
Tevez, freshly fired up after his altercation with the Chelski Justice Brigade, was suitably pleased after scoring his. Gold. But we knew that Ballack The Kraut wouldn't miss. We wished, but he didn't. I used to like Ballack, being half Dirty Kraut myself, but since joining Chelski for filthy luchre he as been infected with that same self-absorbed c*ntaciousness as his team-mates. Fond of going down easier than one of those trannies Fatty Ronaldo picks up, he doesn't hesitate to f*cken jab his finger into chests and antagonise anyone he believes has milked a free-kick. Which he f*cken ought to know about.
F*ck you Mr Pot, meet Mr Kettle.
When Carrick stepped up I was not confident. He don't score many, but then that's probably because he from ooop nor', a Newcastle lad. But he delivered. Belletti for the scum - brought on as a sub just for the penalty he would inevitably take....spot-on, alas.
I just f*cken knew Ronny would miss. But boy even I was surprised at just how royally he f*cked it up. If I was to miss, and I would believe me, I would miss like a bitch, it would be a limp-wristed wimp-tap that would dribble to the keeper. But Ronny decided to do his stupid f*cken stutter step, Cech brilliantly didn't commit and left Ronny holding his dick in his hand - obviously not having picked a side. His Plan B didn't exist. As a result he fluffed it and I just knew the many Ronaldo-haters would have been creaming.
But payback's a bitch, especially for the Ronny haters who blew their loads too early.
Up stepped Lumplard, who defines the Arrogant C*nt perfectly. A f*cken invisible man for 89 minutes, will always step up to jag a jammy goal and then run off celebrating like he's Billy Big Balls the Hero of the Day. Enjoy watching Euro from home, Billy.
I briefly thought that cosmic karma would even out if Lumplard, Chelski hero and all-round c*ntface, missed after Ronaldo.
Owen took a beauty, the only player I recall hitting it high into the net rather than low. Balls. Impressive.
Then Cashley Hole stepped up, and I thought - well THIS is why Lumplard scored his pen - because cosmic karma will make Cashley miss instead. Oh what poetry that would be!
I mean, you know when Arse-anal fans and Man Utd fans can come together across our broad abyss to singularly HATE THE F*CK OUT OF ONE PLAYER he must be a special c*nt. And Cashley Hole is it.
He scored. And the thousands gathered at House of Chov started to think that was it, the cosmic karma is going to let the Evil Empire win this and f*ck us over.
I have ragged on Nani after his dire display at Stamford Bridge - including promising never to rate him again until he had scored a hat-trick in front of the Kop - but I thought he had balls to step up at age 21 and take a pen of that f*cken magnitude. He netted and I forgave - a sunshine moment.
And then up stepped the personification of Chelski's odiousness, their c*ntosity made human, John "I Thought Bionic Men Don't Cry?" Terry.
Somewhere deep in the Universe, something stirred. Something powerful. Something primal.
Something realised that this malignant human filth, this c*nt of all c*nts, this thoroughly festering pi$$=stain on the underpants of humankind, was about to win his team a trophy they coveted like catholic priests covet altar boys without peach-fuzz and stain the silverware with his sheer c*ntness.
No, that could not be allowed to happen, surely, we cried.
This would even out the cosmic karma of Ronny missing, alright. It would not only eclipse it, it would not only put that fire out, it would do so by erecting a seven thousand foot ladder and pissing on the meek flames from a height.
And thus it was:
Not only did the King of All C*nts miss, he f*cked-up trying to plant his left foot and fell on his f*cking fat ar$e. And then he dropped his head and cried.
Even were I, in fact, a God I wouldn't have thought of that.
It was like ten million orgasms cried out in ecstasy, then fell silent.
This c*nt, who parks his Bentley in a disabled car space for a few hours whilst having lunch in London, fell on his fat ar$e missing the glory penalty in the shootout. Hopefully he'll find this sign in his car-space at Chelsk's training ground next season (tears not included):
House of Chov was in such pandemonium at this point we coudln't properly appreciate the next few pens, and next thing we knew Giggs had stepped up and slotted his home and Anelka was trudging up to the spot.
I looked at him and I f*cken knew it. And I'm no genius, any twit could read his body language. Anelka is a striker, and one who takes penalties in games on occasion, and yet he hadn't been in the first 5 penalty takers - that was a clue right there and I said so. He just didn't look like he wanted to be taking one at all. I'm no keeper, but I'm sure keepers look for $hit like that in shootouts.
Pure, solid, rolled GOLD.
And what made it better is watching Captain C*nt cry enough tears to fill Hoover Dam.
Cry me a f*cken river, you f*cken miserable c*nt.
Like Sir Alex says - "Football. Bloody hell."
Like Chov says - "F*ck you Chelski. F*ck you indeed."