One of those days?

It’s just turned 09:30.

I’m in work.

It’s one of those days that would have been best served by pulling up the duvet cover and staying put. You know the type I mean. The type of day I’ve alluded to here before, whereby you are just a little out of sync with the world around you. Everything seems a bit ……..separated from you, and hence everything you touch seems to become alien and cumbersome.

Event 1:

In the shower this morning I opened the shower gel bottle. Unknown to me it had been squeezed until virtually no air was left in it. It was upside down and in my pre-shower semi conscious state I opened it with the cap facing downwards. Yep, as the cap was released the bottle breathed in deeply whilst simultaneously expelling the remaining gel on the shower cubicle floor. I had to leave the shower, still soaking but un-soaped in order to find a contingency bottle. This left the bathroom floor soaking wet. The shower drain is slightly blocked so that on my return the bottom of the cubicle was now looking like a communal bubble bath for the local leprechaun community. That should have served as the first warning that things weren’t quite right.

Event 2:

Breakfast, relatively simple you might think. Pick up muesli box and pour into bowl. Top off with some milk and grapes and eat. Simple - unless you’re me of course. Pick up muesli box, pour into bowl. Try to combine with putting kettle on, drop box, spill muesli over floor. Bollocks, some early morning clearing up to do. Muesli being odd stuff of course spreads into areas that defy the laws of physics and so 5 minutes is lost on picking out bits of oatmeal from under the toaster and other areas seemingly nowhere near the muesli box geographically.

Event 3:

Get dressed. All my shirts are ironed and ready to wear. Hanging neatly on one of those space saver hangers that Betterware sell. But today is Friday, things aren’t going well thus far so why would this early morning challenge be any different? I try on a black Nike polo shirt and decide that as it’s a meeting free Friday I’ll wear jeans. I put the jeans on and then think it doesn’t look quite right. I’ve lost around 21lbs in the last month due to my new “lifestyle choice” as branded by GMD. Clothes that hugged my former fuller figure now look like they’ve been stolen from the Clothes Bank. If I was a woman that might make me proud, but I’m a bloke and that means discarding some favourite bits of old clobber. Anyway I resort to my work trousers, but decide they don’t look right with the shirt. I look like Charlie fucking Chaplin such is the way my clothes hang. This then leads to that terrible affliction……….Clobber Dysfunction Syndrome. The point where you end up in a spiral of not being able to decide what to wear, where nothing looks right and that without Trinny and Susannah you’ve no hope of looking anywhere near sartorially elegant for work that day. Most women I know suffer this 24 * 7, but occasionally on mornings such as this it’s the dressing equivalent of a flame-out uncontrollable tailspin on a jet plane. The only result is a crash landing of clothing styles and the hope that no-one at work takes any notice of you. I’m so anonymous these days within The Company that it’s not really an issue, but I bet today is the day someone actually notices me. And not for losing weight. In the end, it’s a bright turquoise Ben Sherman with black trousers and …..Good god man!…brown shoes?

Event 4:

The 15 minutes or so it took to get dressed have thrown the morning routine out of kilter by several degrees. CarShareMan is knocking on the door and I’m still putting my strides on. Teenager revels in telling me that it looks like I’m late. Still CarShareMan has stitched me up enough this week with his 19:00 finish times so fuck him. But trouble is I can’t think like that, so I rush down, open the door, acknowledge his arrival and try to get my shit together. I pick up my lunch, my heavy Chelsea coat, my new Chelsea scarf and stride to the car whilst collecting the green rubbish bin for the dustmen to empty. I dump the bin on the road and dump my stuff in the car. I get a static shock off of CarShareMan’s A-Class. A real belt as well. This happens every day he drives, both in the morning and at night. It’s like the car is saying Hello in its own vindictive spiteful “I’ll always zap you Jack” way. I curse, climb in and after the obligatory cursory chat I shut my eyes. A good thing about sharing is the opportunity to get a bit of extra kip each way, and thus avoid trying to make conversation. We know each other well enough to be comfortable with falling asleep whilst the other drives. 10 minutes later I wake with a start…something’s wrong. A few seconds of eye-rubbing and I realise what it is. My laptop is still on the futon in the study. In my rush the black laptop bag had cunningly disguised itself against the rustic light brown and beige covering of the futon cushion. CarShareMan was early today and I have to explain that we need to turn back as without that I cannot do any work today. Its meeting free you see, plus no-one has desktop PC’s at work so it s not like you can bunk down on an empty desk and run your stuff from here. Things just don’t improve. He smiles understandingly, but I know that underneath he is masking his annoyance. I know this because I would do exactly the same.

Event 5:

Arrive at work, having gone back to sleep in order to avoid the sideways glances of sub-surface irritation from CarShareMan. A chance to sit down and not worry about any meetings. I boot up and log-on as normal. The first thing that pops up is am meeting reminder! For a meeting that started at 08:00, and one that I had agreed to attend late last evening just before leaving work. I normally sync my phone up to my laptop whenever I accept this stuff as my phone is my main memory annexe, along with my Blackberry. Without these I wouldn’t know where to go or what my days was made up of. Because we’re late due to my laptop mishap, I gather my bits and wander to the meeting – it’s 08:45. I enter the hushed room and my boss, The School Teacher says “OK, thanks everyone, we’ve done well to finish early….Oh Hi Jack….we’ve ……aaaah….hummmm…..errrrrrr….”

“......Just finished?” I say in order to end his sentence closing torture.

“Aaaaah…….errrrrrrr….yes”

And so, red faced I trudge out picking up a “handout” from the PA. A quick coffee with The School Teacher for a debrief on what I missed and I’m back at the desk. I think he understood that for me this was one of those days.

I now sit here writing this in a state of trepidation, carefully trying to plan out everything I do in order to avoid any more mishaps. Perhaps the best thing would be to sit here by my desk all day. But knowing my luck a ceiling tile will fall on me. The picture sums up how I feel perfectly.

Tonight’s Guinness is my only hope of re-synchronising myself with normal life. I may need a big dose.

Later, ClumsyJack

My Hero RIP – Peter Osgood - February 20th 1947 – March 1st 2006.

Where do I start with this tragic event that has affected me in a way I never imagined? Do I quote the lines “I can’t believe the news today….I can’t close my eyes and make it go away”, do I start with a memory, or do I start with just how bad this has made me feel because hero’s don’t die…do they?

Well ,I’m sure there are plenty of people willing to write a tribute to Ossie that details his career and his achievements to the nth degree. He was, after all, the one and only player to be granted the title (in perpetuity) of The King of Stamford Bridge. But in my own GrocerJack way I’d rather talk about the personal side of what this man meant in my life.

Back in 1970 I was 9 years old and football mad, totally and utterly football mad. Day in day out we’d play football, at playtime (it was junior school after all), on the way home, after school and even in the living room when Mum wasn’t about. But one thing was missing – I didn’t have a team. But this was resolved in 1970 by the usual route of following Dad. But not because it was deep rooted, not because we were true blues. My Dad was an Alf Garnett like person with incredibly Conservative viewpoints of the time (in other words pretty institutionally homophobic and racist). He didn’t have a team and himself was rubbish at football, which is always a disappointment to any young football mad boy (or girl in these more enlightened times). But he loved to watch the game, in that strange way that some people can watch a game without any specific affiliation. My dad would always cheer on the London team though, no matter who they were. His only dilemma came when two London teams would meet, and then it would be decided on who was the underdog. Ironically in a time when people were hectored and abused for the colour of their skin or their sexual preference by people like my Dad who knew no better, he would always stand up for the underdog, the unfancied one, the one most likely to lose. And so, at school, as the FA Cup Final approached between Chelsea and Leeds (we lived in Hayes near Heathrow) were jumping on the glory hunting bandwagon of supporting Leeds because they finished second in Division One that year, and had the name Leeds, which made them sound like “leaders” (such is the thought process of a 9 year old) I went home from school weeks before the FA Cup Final and asked Dad who I should support in the Cup Final. It was simple he said, “….You support the London team son, and the underdogs, and that’s Chelsea” and that was that. He bought me a magazine that had a picture of the squad for that year, and he bought me a book about the team. And he told me of the player who had scored in every round that year, one Peter Osgood. And so I read everything I could about the team and one thing shone through – Peter Osgood, a man who had gone from non-league football straight into the professional ranks and was a hero at Chelsea. My dad was also bemused as to why he wasn’t the first choice England striker. He had after all scored a hatful and a half of goals that season and had been consistent during his time with Chelsea thus far. The more I read, and the more I stared at that poster, the more I was seduced. The more I loved the all blue strip, the more I loved the devil-may-care football and the glamour side of this club, all of which was encompassed by the style and presence of Peter Osgood.

The final arrived by which time I was totally and utterly a fully fledged Chelsea fan. Even when playing with friends I always wanted a Chelsea player as a nickname during games. And of course I always wanted to be called Ossie first and foremost. . The minute my allegiance started was the minute by dislike of Arsenal started. Football does that. I watched the game live of course on TV, because it was the TV sporting pinnacle of the year, and at 9 “the Cup” was the most prestigious prize of all. Such was the difference in stature of the competition in the 1970’s.

It was a thriller of a game played on a pitch that makes our recent SB pitch look like a Crown Green bowling surface, swinging to Leeds, then us, then Leeds again and back to us to finish 2-2 and so off to Old Trafford for the first ever replay since the switch to Wembley.

Another game followed where Leeds exerted an early upper hand, but this was a time when Chelsea were almost universally loved by neutrals, because we weren’t as stiff and disciplined as Leeds. And we were poor. Not like the uber-rich club we are now. But our boys were happy to play fire against their fire in both games. I watched riveted to the screen as time marched incessantly on it’s path, we were 1-0 down and for all the world it looked like we would be valiant losers. At 9 years old my young heart was learning how to break through football. I used to have a treat in those days, whereby I would ask my Dad for two biscuits and he would tease me gently before giving in. But he knew something was changing on the night of the replay because son Number One hadn’t asked for his treat. Instead son Number One was crying, sobbing because his chosen hero’s were going to lose.

“Have two biscuits son” he said “it’ll make you feel better, then come and have a cuddle with your old Dad” …I trudged to the kitchen, opened the tin slowly, eyes lighting up over the choice between Custard Creams, Digestives and Bourbons – only one winner there really. Crying, I slipped my hand into the biscuits tin, grabbing three, one to wolf down and two to take back in I jumped out of my skin. The roar from the dining room was massive, and I ran in, biscuits dropped to the lino floor. My dad stood in front of the telly and all my tender young ears could hear was

“Fucking Osgood, fucking Osgood, you genius” and in a blink of an eye he scooped me up and danced me round the room cheering Osgood’s name. My tears went from dismay to joy in a nano-second. Ossie, my Ossie had done it. We were level, we were going to win. My Ossie. My Hero. My Icon. The man I wanted to be. From that point on, biscuits reclaimed I sat with Dad knowing, just knowing we would win. When the final whistle went we jumped around the room singing “Osgood” and “Chelsea” in unison. Mum thought we were mad.

From that point on my Chelsea fate was sealed. Osgood had been the final seducer, he had closed the deal. He had recruited someone to the cause for life. It was virtually certain by then, but had we lost…who knows? I was 9 years old and maybe malleable enough to be persuaded by peer pressure at school to dedicate my footballing life elsewhere. But no, Osgood had achieved god-like status to me. He could have mugged brian mears and run off to the States and sold the Cup, it wouldn’t have mattered. My dad would have entertained Ossie …ahem…entertaining my Mum for a night if it meant he could meet the man and buy him a beer. Blimey, I would have swapped him for my Dad such was his heroic status in my life. It didn’t matter what he did after that, hero status is rarely diminished even long after they have retired or fallen from grace. Any Manchester United fan knows exactly what I mean by that.

I met him later on two occasions, once as our “host” on a corporate do on the day we beat Spurs 3-0 at the Bridge with JFH is sparkling form. He hugged me when I told him what it meant to me. He was politically as incorrect in his jokes and comments as I could imagine, but it didn’t matter. He was still my hero. He signed a photo for me, which the Corporate host stole. I’m after that bastard even more now. The next time I met him he was sat in the SO bar outside the main gate with another 70’s hero who’s lucky to be with us, Alan Hudson. I said “Alright Ossie” , he smiled and said “Brilliant mate, brilliant”. I still kid myself he remembered me. As the bar filled up the fans clocked him and we sang to him. Poor old Ossie, no chance of a quiet pint for him that day. But he knew that, the wily old fox.

It was only weeks ago during the Liverpool game that he was the star at half time, walking around his old territory milking the applause of the Chelsea faithful. In the MHL we sang his song

“Osgood, Osgood, Osgood, Osgood

Born is the King of Stamford Bridge””

And he waved. Little did we know that would be his last wave to his loyal and loving followers?

Today, a little piece of our great club has died. Nothing will ever be quite the same. I know the club will honour him in the true manner to which he deserves. I hope the current crop can show their respect by perhaps winning on Saturday, and dumping Barca on their arses next week. That would be a true tribute to a real Chelsea legend. And then we should erect a Bronze Monument at the gates, as a lasting reminder of one of Chelsea’s greatest and most iconic players.

Ossie, we’ll miss you, but we’ll always remember you and cherish the pleasure you bought into our lives. I’ll have a Guinness on you this week mate. Have a nice rest, God knows you’ve earned it.

Later, GuttedJack

Death of My hero

Today my childhood hero has died at the young age of 59. RIP Ossie, truly you were and always will be the King of Stamford Bridge. A fuller tribute to follow.

Later, GuttedJack

Back with a big gob?

Well, folks I was bastard ill last week with the bastard son of a bastard cold - NOT fucking Man 'flu as all the witty women I know seemed to think (come on girls some of us know the difference between a rotten stinking cold and proper flu - give some of us some credit!). Hence the lack of posts because I just couldn't get very enthusiastic about doing anything except trying to play silly but unbelievably complex flight simulator games on my PC. Mind you, trying to fly an F-15 Eagle, F-16 Falcon or Su-27 Flanker on a computer, following a 150 page manual at the same time as reading a keyboard layout card, whilst suddenly trying to achieve ambidextrosity in order to press the right keys to fly straight/land/select weapons/select views etc is something only a man can understand the fascination with.

If I was 13 then it would be a doddle.

Anyway I'm better now and hopefully the creative juices will be flowing shortly. Work is duller than ever and it seems everyone is on a singular mission to make it even duller. This morning has been a 2 hour session with The Officer (see cast) explaining to me in the most Janet and John terms how soemthing called Basel2 will affect The Company and the merits and emergent properties of "distinctive competencies" as defined by the Grant Business Strategy model based around the resource and capability models. This is of course as aopposed to the Porter Business Strategy, which apparently most large organisations use because ...well..its easier and more tangible.

Yup, now you see why I am like I am. What is becoming apparent that the real thing I enjoy doing most is writing. Writing for this blog , which admittedly has died off a bit recently even pre-illness, and for the Chelsea Blog - something which always easy to do bearing in mind my increasing obsession with my beloved Chelsea. In fact, were I 16 now I would be doing my damnedest to be come a sports journalist. It is becoming apparent to me that other than flying fuck-off fighter jets, playing professional golf then this would be my ideal career. Not doing whatever it is I do currently! The biggest sticking point would be trying to remain impartial when it comes to discussing Chelsea. Mind you compared to Mr Chelsea (see cast) I can assure you that I am the perfect model of objectivity, which if you've ever read any of my articles (now being recreated here regularly as they are published on Chelseablog) will give you an idea of how much Chelsea blood runs in his veins.

Anyway, just a few brief observations and comments:

1.) Life on Mars ended this week, with a terrific episode leaving the conspiracy theorists (me included) going wild on Digital Spy with speculation over what it all meant. I can't really say enough about the quality of the plot, the story arcs , the acting, the "girl next door gorgeousness" of Liz White (gratuitous photo above) and the attention to detail this series displayed. Fantastic, can't wait for Series 2.

2.) The Welsh are celebrating St Davids day today. Anyone remember when St Georges Day is? I do cos it's Dave the disappearing brothers birthday. Will we all be celebrating.....yeah right...coz that would make us racist, imperialistic, anti-muslim, jingoistic Little Englanders wouldn't it? Notice also that the Welsh are also opening The Senedd building today, their own democratic assembly home. It's the equivalent of the Scottish Parliament building called Holyrood (except this didn't cost as much or overrun) which of course hosues the democratically elected Scottish Parliament. So, it leaves me with the question - Northern Ireland has Stormont, Scotland has Holyrood, Wales has the Senedd....what does England have? It would appear to something called Fuckall. Thats right, England has a Parliament known as Fuckall residing no doubt in a building called Fuck Hall. Currently it appears this assembly is occupied by a group known as Fuck-knows made of of Fucking Nobodies. And us English are happy to sit by and allow this to happen?

Regular readers will know I am very Pro-European, which means I favour the Euro, like the idea of a united body of European nations economically standing up to the US and the Middle East, whilst helping Africa and collaborating with Asia. This doesn't make me anti- UK
or anti anything really. It means I believe that England has a right to exist as a state, unashamedly and without prejudice. It means that I think England and English people should be equally represented with the UK Parliament and political system. Just as France and Germany exist with the EU and play their part without compromising national identity and culture, I think the Uk could do the same as well, with England being a powerful subset of the UK, rather than
the marginalised and increasingly divided society we have become. I'm not sure why this appears to be difficult to achieve. As the other members of the UK gain semi-independence their national identites and cultures grow - whilst England continues to be apathetic and consequently and unwittingly secedes these rights, our national identity dilutes and our society fragments.

Shame on us.

3.) Last rant for now - a series of statements to sum up UK PLC and the spineless society we have become that allows us to restrict free speech and has us tiptoeing around walking on egg shells.

Tories privatised Water. Shareholders demand dividends. Money goes to shareholders. Investment in infrastructure decreases. Infratsructure crumbles. Bills and water rates rise.More droughts. Compulsory water meters now given the go ahead in Kent. Country surrounded by water. No investment in national water grid. No investment in desalination plants for bath/shower/garden supplies. We pay more, we get less, shareholders get richer. Water chiefs rewarded for failure.

Repeat for gas and electricity - with roads to follow and who knows, air one day?

And life is better?

Later, Grocerjack

Joyous, simply joyous

I'm easily amused and so when I received this I had to post it. fantastic, and don'y you just wish you could do this outside your house?

Later, GrocerJack

The World Shortest Fairy Tale

This is old but still sums up most blokes I know.

Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl "Will you marry me?"

The girl said, "no!"

And the guy lived happily ever after and went fishing and hunting and
played golf, he went to football a lot and drank beer, watched porn whenever he liked, left the toilet seat up and farted whenever he wanted, played computer games until the early hours and played his music as loud as he liked whenever he liked.

The End

Later, GrocerJack

The Storm Arrives in the shape of a Conspiracy Theory

Last year around this time (well the 10^th March to be precise) I wrote my first article for this most esteemed of footie blogs. The article was called The Calm after The Storm and basically was the deranged witterings of an average but intensely loyal and passionate Chelsea fan in light of our marvellous second leg destruction of the footballing landed gentry that is Barcelona FC. At that time the world was only beginning to hate us, we were still a novelty and JM was still revered by the press as a refreshing breath of new air, breaking up the tedious dull media hogging duopoly of Lord Fergie of Salford Keys and Count Arsehole of Highbury, in their yawn inducing battle of psychological warfare between two increasingly toothless old tigers fighting over the mouldering corpse of their Premiership supremacy . Of course those two have now been joined by Prince Rafa of The Wirral in the campaign for the Return Of Triumphant Teams Emblazoned in Red (ROTTER), a triumvirate of teams who play in red and have “history” ingrained into the very culture and values of their clubs by some sort of magical spell. But enough has been said about them for the time being.

No, almost a year on and the whole world it seems is in an alliance of hatred against the “Nouveau Riche” of West London that is our beloved Chelsea. A team that has never been much more than “occasional achievers” but for whom a stroke of luck and wise counsel saw them bought by a multi-billionaire who sorted all their financial issues out and allowed the huge throng of loyal fans to live the dream. And it was no more typified than through the media view of last night. I appreciate some fans of other clubs wanted Chelsea to win, but in essence the message was “we hope Barca thrash you”. This also occurred within both the press and broadcast media, both of whom have turned on the club like a King Cobra who's tail has been stood on. In recent times we have been pilloried for having dangerous players, diving players, an arrogant manager, an even more arrogant Chief Executive, playing boring football, dominating the Premiership (what after 1 season?) and turning our pitch into a Paddy field to solve some sort of West London Bistro rice shortage crisis.

But never in my wildest dreams did I ever think a footballing authority would try and sanction a covert campaign to remove us from their primary flagship competition. But it seem that UEFA feel that is exactly what is required. And the scariest thing for all you non-blues is I think this may even extend to the members of ROTTER. How else do you explain the rash of sendings off that seem to accompany very game we play against the alleged footballing aristocracy of Europe. Every game we have played against Barca has seen a player from our side sent off, maybe not in both legs but in at least one. To my memory Babayaro saw red a few years ago when we went out to them over two legs, then last year Drogba went off for a challenge that might have damaged someone with sugar glass for bones but no-one else, and then last night Del Horno goes off for being a clumsy bastard. Now I don't think too much of Del Horno. I think he is well short of being a world class left back, at least when he plays for us. Wayne Bridge, currently enjoying a rich run of form for Fulham should have been given the chance to restore his place as first choice. Billy also plays in that position as if he was born there. Glen Johnson did a passable job there against Colchester and Ferreira can fill the spot for a short while. However, irrespective of my personal feelings about Del Horno that challenge was no more than a yellow card offence. But prior to this the writing was on the wall as the referee gave decision after decision to Barcelona culminating in the red card for Del Horno. It was a bloody disgrace and in any other league or competition that would have been worthy of a rebuke from his employers. But not if they are UEFA. UEFA are omnipotent (or is that just impotent) when it comes to ruling European football with a pwer that FIFA doesn't even enjoy worldwide.

Look at the decision, both players went down, both making a right Paella (as in latin meal) of the alleged challenge. Messi then went through his version of the Green Cross Code as he looked left, looked right and looked left again before realising he'd been been hit by a depleted uranium tipped bullet fresh from the barrels of the gun on Roman Abramovich's circling Apache-AH64 Gunship. I've asked Tufty to renew his club membership for him and a letter of commendation from The Green Cross Code Man is on its way. Del Horno hit the deck screaming as if someone had just let off a capsule of Sarin nerve gas under his nose. Both, it's safe to say, overreacted. Both should have got a yellow card. But wait.....can you hear the bugle call in the distance...........yes here comes comes the cavalry in the form of a gang of upright walking humanoid lemons..........oh sorry its their “away” shirts..... I meant Barcelona players outraged by this assassination attempt. They heckled the ref, they pleaded for justice, they acted like it was market day in Old Jerusalem when a sale was on, but it made no odds because at the back of the ref's mind the mantra of the UEFA “Chelsea” decree was strongly to the fore....the mantra that states....

“It shall be the responsibility of any paid UEFA official to bias any appropriate decision as may favour any team in the G14 that play Chelsea in any UEFA sponsored competition, in order to benefit said G14 member and put these chavvy upstarts in their place until they learn some bloody manners”

Of course thats not written anywhere, but how can I not be convinced this is not the case. Somewhere, sometime the cabal of “big clubs” got together and rejected our bid to join them. Why? Because we hadn't done our time. We hadn't followed their traditional route to historical glory by winning things with players sired only from the local communities. We had soiled their honourable competitions and leagues with filthy lucre. We are the Richard De Vere against their Audrey Fforbes Hamilton, the Richard Branson to their Duke of Westminster and the Bill Gates to their Sultan of Dubai. And at this meeting they decided to pressurise the government in the form of UEFA into supporting their interests to prevent the Oiks from upsetting the natural order of football hierarchy. And lo, UEFA listened because they knew the power of the money these clubs had, and they feared upsetting them. For UEFA it was easy to put measures in place to teach us a lesson. We are like the working class family that wins the lottery and moves into the mock Tudor gated estate of 10 bedroomed detached houses with in and out gravel drives and a swimming pool in the garden. We're not wanted and for some never will be. I hope we shove it up their arses at some point and crush everyone before us. I really do. I hope we are the catalyst for the reform or abolition of UEFA in favour of something more....democratic......and less corrupt. TV Companies anyone? Put them together with some business brains and some old footballers (Sir Trev for example) and do something new, something that favours the players and the fans, as well as their own business interests. Something that destroys petty bureaucracy and officialdom.

Well it couldn't be worse than now could it?

Lastly the game itself. Barcelona are a great team with great players which shames their diving and histrionics even more. They are more than capable of beating virtually any team on talent alone so why habitually cheat? Our boys were heroic with the exception of Del Horno who had been run ragged prior to the sending off and must surely now be looked at in terms of bench warmer rather than regular starter. John Terry was utterly magnificent last night and if Sven was watching then he should be asking himself what else could he ever ask for in an England captain? The man is a born leader the likes of Gerrard, Beckham and Owen can only dream of being. Joe Cole was substituted but looked to be the player who could cause them problems, Deco doesn't even come close to Joe. Another concern is again over Cech who had he been on his line for goal number one could have mad a clean catch, and for goal number got caught between two minds and picked neither instead of challenging Eto'o for the ball. Maybe Carlo should be given a little run. Other than that I think we played out of our skins with ten men and but for two basic defending and goalkeeping errors could have kept the one goal lead or at least held them to a draw. As it is we have a mountain to climb to score at least 2 in the Camp Nou or win 3-2. I know we did it last year but that was at home and maybe this year we should just look to a League and Cup double to at least prove the English supremacy crap we take all the time.

KTBFFH!

Later, ChelseaJack .