Chelsea Dagger

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I hope someone’s packed a step-ladder in their luggage this evening; there appears to be a wealth of Tottenham fans who need scraping off the ceiling as soon as possible. They’ve been bobbing around the air vents since Wednesday; floating as lightly as the wispiest cloud. Carefree and very much at one with the world. How do I know they’re still there? Well, I’m up here with them, admiring the view, ceremoniously blazing a fat one every time another chorus of ‘F*ck Arsenal’ permeates through the ranks. I’m not sure I know how to get down, either. And I’ve got work on Monday.

Safe to say we’re all still on a bit of a high, then. A North London Derby- already assigned its own DVD- not likely to fade fast in the memory. Instant heroes, returning heroes, and those who we had a sneaking suspicion were just plain marvellous anyway. Back stinging slaps around. Hot dog.

But little time for navel gazing now; there’s further work to be done. It’s Chelsea, folks- the next date in our whistle stop tour of the Big Shooters. Wednesday may’ve been a veritable Woodstock as far as performances go, but this has every chance of turning into the Altamont Speedway, if our ‘A’ game isn’t to the table bought. And we don’t want to be dawdling on the tracks when that train comes hurtling out of the station.

Ancelotti’s lot have indeed added some yards to their stride in recent weeks. After a wobble- of which barely even caused a flutter on the seismometer- they’ve replied like a back alley slugger. Ten were smashed past Villa in less that a fortnight; in the midst of a run which saw them charge to the summit of English football and make the F.A Cup final- all with a few flicks of their sovereign coated fingers. Blip, indeed. Worse news for us is that their already formidable looking squad seems to be fixing itself at an alarming rate. Ashley Cole makes the bench tomorrow. The slag.

Can we trump that? Well, that you might ask. Word on the Napa Valley grapevine is that Aaron Lennon has set his sights on a return this weekend. Shirley not. Keen not upset the locals, though, I might keep schtum about this one. As many will testify, the last time I sounded the ‘Lennon’s Back’ siren, something got clogged in the mechanism and the siren turned quickly into an apologetic cough. Let’s all just pray we at least see something of the motor-footed wingstress come five o clock tomorrow.

Bale and Lennon?

Good lord.

Cermonyouspuuurs.

1-0.


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