By Digby 4 August 2056
I’ve had a week of eating nothing but salad cream and rage. I’ve just watched us roll over at that soulless bowl they call the Drogba Arena, and I am absolutely livid. It’s the opening day of the season, and we’ve handed three points to that lot on a silver platter.
We’ve been beaten 2-1 by a 22-year-old kid named Billy Laing, who apparently our defense decided was invisible.
A Defensive Shambles
Let’s talk about the goals, shall we? Because I won’t be sleeping tonight. Eight minutes in—EIGHT MINUTES—and Laing scores a header from point-blank range. How does an attacking midfielder get a free header in the six-yard box? It’s basic stuff, the kind of thing they teach you before they teach you how to tie your own boots.
Then, on 14 minutes, he curls one in from 20 metres. It hits the post and goes in. Nice goal? Maybe. But where was the closing down? We stood there like a bunch of Tories at a soup kitchen—completely out of place and doing absolutely nothing to help.
The Ultimate Insult
The “highlight” of the night? An own goal from McKauley Civzelis. A “legendary” centre-back, they call him. Legend? I’ve seen more coordination from a newborn giraffe on ice. To gift them the game like that is a disgrace to the shirt. We had more of the ball—56% possession—but what did we do with it? Absolutely nothing. We had 6 shots. They had 17.
Billy Laing ran 15.8km. Our lot looked like they were stuck in treacle. He was everywhere, and we were nowhere.
Looking Ahead (If I Have To)
We are bottom of the league after one game. Dead last. I don’t care if it’s “early days”—it’s embarrassing. If this is how we’re going to start the campaign, I might as well stay in the pub and skip the Super Cup in Parken.
Chelsea are top of the table, and we are looking up at the likes of Rotherham and Plymouth. Sort it out, or I’m done.