2052, Drogba Arena, London – Chelsea battered Liverpool 3-0, and the scoreboard barely captured the gulf. Calin Dimario’s lot toyed with Klopp’s heirs, tiki-taka strangling the Scouse wing-play like a python around a rat. Shots? 24 to 2. Expected goals? 3.28 to 0.13. Liverpool might as well have stayed on the bloody coach.
Kieran O’Sullivan lashed in the opener after twenty minutes, the winger ghosting in unmarked while Liverpool’s back four stood there like statues of Maggie Thatcher waiting to be toppled. Logan Granger rammed home the second from the spot minutes later, and by the time Johnny Jenkins leathered in the third, the away end had long since drowned its sorrows in overpriced lager.
Chelsea didn’t just beat Liverpool. They embarrassed them. Possession sat 58% in blue hands, passing strings flowed, and O’Sullivan ran riot. Five key passes, a goal, and man of the match. The lad had Hammond and Ramos chasing shadows down the right. Granger’s penalty was calm as you like after Dave Millington confirmed the foul via VAR. Jenkins wrapped it with a finish as crisp as a freshly buttered barm.
Liverpool’s stats sheet? Two shots, none on target. Jonah Owusu and Agnew huffed without end product. Ramos limped off injured, Nikolić looked like he’d never seen a midfield press in his life, and Bassey was the only red shirt who could hold his head up, stopping it from being five or six. The rest? Cowards. Fraudulent. Another wasted trip to London where the scran’s overpriced and full of that shite cheese they sneak on everything.
This isn’t just one bad night. It’s structural rot. Ten straight Chelsea wins, and they’re walking toward a thirtieth straight league title. Meanwhile Liverpool look like a club drifting into mid-table mediocrity. And I tell you what – until someone grows a spine and stops them, the league will stay stitched up by those Tory cunts in blue.
By Digby, Red Corner