Have we been Pep-a-ruined?

 

       He led Chelsea to The Double, so we fired him.

Welcome to Chelsea Anonymous.

My name is Charlie and I’m a Chelsea Fan.

As Chelsea fans we are used being tested, tormented and tortured. We suffer because along the way we celebrate, win more than any other London team (pretty much all of them combined!) or play incredible creative exciting football and lose with honour. Or Costa.

Watching the last two games with Young Richard, over 100 years of True Blue between us, we both felt as low as we ever have as Chelsea fans.

We don’t care if we lose, as long as we play with passion. We know there are as many downs as ups; that the notorious midwinter Chelsea ‘Bad Moment’, as coined by our greatest ever manager (himself Ancelotti The Eyebrow), can last for two months; that being a Chelsea fan is worrying often if the team will turn up.

But this bunch of young exciting talented players are pretty much the same crew who were blowing teams away before Christmas. I was in shock at how quickly Maresca gelled us into an attacking unit that scored for fun, from all over the pitch.

That - as we know - is how you win titles. And when I say titles, I don’t mean the foreign manager description of the Community Shield.

I mean Premierships.
The league.
League Division One in the old money.

A mere four months ago we were fearless, focused and - but for the lack of a mature striker, a fit Fofana and the return of Petrovic  - as good as I could hope for.

So what happened? Some ideas: not even opinion. Just trying to make sense of this drivel we’re playing.

No leadership. We look clueless, but Maresca is a great tactician, so I’m sure there is a plan. If we’re not executing it then somebody on the pitch must make it happen.

Nobody’s shouting or pointing out there. Nobody's taking charge on the pitch. Young players without a mature mix, desperate for a kick up the backside during games.

What happened to change our season? Well, Maresca played to type, a mini-Pep, and started playing Moisés Caicedo at right back, inverting with possession.

All very clever, two shapes for when you have and haven’t the ball. Mind-blowing when introduced by Pep years ago, but now teams know how to exploit it, so don’t do it.

Anyway, Moises is the best Midfield Destroyer since St. Claude ‘Wot Moi?’ of Makelele, so leave him at the neck of the spine to bite like a vampire.

Stop tinkering with the centre backs and goalie. That triangular three is the rhythm section of all great teams, so choose and stick, as much as injury allows. Then everyone knows their job and players start to trust each other.

Anyone in goal but Sanchez or Kepa. Bring Petrovic home from loan. If it ain’t broke blah blah blah. He did well enough last year.

I know Fofana is injured, Disaster’s out on loan, Badiashile turned out to be an anagram of his name and yuk, it’s ugly, but choose and stick.

The reason our defence has been so shite is that nobody feels safe in their position. Play there every week. Tackled by Terry. Cleared by Carvalho. Allow it to evolve.

A hedge fund doesn’t change its spots. In this world of bottom lines and pure profit, fans are clients and academy players a commodity.

It’s never going to change but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Excel will always be more important than Footballing Excellence, yet we fans know that academy players will put in the extra 7 minutes after a long bruising 90, to win with the team they love.

Watching a True Blue play for the first team transports us fans down onto the pitch. It's an empathy exchange that clings to the core of club loyalty.

Elephant in the room: how do you spend over £1bn and fail to buy a viable striker? If a frustrated wasted miserable Ice Cole has to masquerade as a false 9 again, he’ll be off to Real Madrid come the Summer, before you can say “Buy-Out Clause.”

Finally, in that vein, don’t give players eight year contracts. Alongside large salaries it makes them unaffordable to other teams, thereby removing jeopardy from their status as Chelsea players.

A goal up after 20 minutes and they think they've done enough. They’re under contract for another 6 years. Crazy and then some.

So have we been Pep-a-ruined by our very own Guardiola clone? 

Tinkered from simple success to complex catastrophe?

How long is this season's ‘moment’ going to be?

©Charlie Adley

18.02.2025

She was golden kindness on legs!

“If you’ve got power back tomorrow I’ll drive over to you. If my power’s back I’ll meet you off the usual bus tomorrow afternoon. One way or another we’ll watch the match together.”

“Sounds like a plan, Stan. Cool. Talk tomorrow morning then, bruv. Cheers.”

Next day I’m calling him from the chilled darkness of my electricity-free home.

“Hi. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Straight to voicemail.
Bugger.

Same an hour later.
Double bugger.

Didn’t know what to do.
Brain not functioning after such a cold night.
I needed heat inside me.

The wind had eased, but world outside was frozen solid, so after chiselling my way into Joey SX, I drove him through a snowy icy North Mayo, in search of a cooked breakfast.

In a pub near Ballina they bought to me a large pot of strong hot sweet tea, which arrived at my shivering core with the pleasure and power of an illegal drug.

After two eggs, two rashers, two sausages, black and white, beans and toast, I tried calling my mate again.

“Hi. Leave a message and I’ll -"

Then I sent a text, saying if I didn’t hear from him, I’d drive to his gaff (an hour away in Co. Roscommon), ‘cos my spare room was like an igloo, whereas his sofa bed was by the stove in his cosy living room.

I’d be warmer at his place without power than he would be at mine.

Yeh but no but, ‘cos I’d no way of knowing if he'd seen any texts or heard any messages.

What to do?
Where to go?

No point driving through that dangerous winterscape, all the way to his town, only to find he’d already jumped on the bus to Ballina.

I’d have to meet that bus, just in case he was on it.

The 22 bus comes from Dublin Airport, stopping at 5,379 towns and villages on its merry way. It was due at 14:16 (not 14:15, oh no) but even on a good day, I know from experience, it arrives at least 20 minutes late.

You’d think that this mélange of knowledge and experience might cocktail into some wisdom, but sadly we can’t escape who we are.

Even though I’ve lived in Ireland for 33 years, I’m still very English, and can’t arrive late for anything. I pulled into the tiny lay-by outside the bus station at 14:10, and sat in Joey, watching the drab damp world progress outside.

The sky was as dark as daylight allows. The freezing wind smashed huge wet snowflakes onto the windscreen.

After an hour I ran the engine to get some heat into the car. As I defrosted I suddenly and urgently needed to go to the loo. Zipping up my coat I headed out into into the weather.

Bloomin' heck! Before I made it into the bus station, that wind cut clean through my layers of weatherproof clothing, pierced my own fatty cladding, slashing shards of ice onto my innards.

Relieved, a few minutes later I came out to see another car had squeezed into the lay-by behind Joey. Drawing level I glimpsed through the window a middle-aged woman in the driver’s seat, texting.

Without hesitation I knocked on her window and asked if she was waiting for the 22 bus, and if so, was she texting someone on board?

Despite the freezing cold wind smashing into her face, she wound down her window and smiled as she explained that yes, she was. Apparently the bus was crawling along at two miles an hour, and was only in Swinford now.

Thanking her profusely I climbed back in Joey SX, wondering for the umpteen-kabillionth time how lovely the people are, here in the West of Ireland.

It is of course possible that an English person might’ve responded with the same warmth, care and smile, but equally it’s very likely that, had I asked them to lower their window and enquired whether they were waiting for the 22, the response would've been something along the lines of 

“What’s it to you? Fuck off and mind your own business.”

Half an hour later I heard doors thumping, and saw through my rear window two young people climbing into her car.

Had I somehow missed the bus arriving? No, even given the appalling conditions, I’d’ve seen a whacking great bright red Bus Eireann Expressway coach turning into the station.

Nearby, other people were walking past, rolling their suitcases and carrying backpacks.

What was going on?

Behind me her car was now full, and I expected her to drive off, but instead she climbed out of her warm dry environment and walked over to Joey, tapping on his window.

“The bus broke down half a mile down the road, so your friend should be here any minute."

“Oh right. Broke down? Bloody hell! Thanks so much for letting me know. I was wondering what was going on.”

“All the best. Stay safe, now.”

And she was gone…

I waited a short while longer, and then climbed out to look down the road. Nobody in sight, but I’d hate to drive off now and miss him, after waiting an hour and three quarters.

But no. He wasn’t there.

Off I headed, back to my cold dark home, only to find - yippedy dippedy dingle dongle dooooo!!!! - the power was back on, and bliss: light and cheer and whiskey followed.

We won’t talk about the football, but that woman and her kindness stayed in my head.

She could’ve simply driven off, but instead she decided to venture from the warmth and safety of her car to tell a stranger what was going on.

In the majestic order of the universe, it might look like an insignificant gesture, but not to me.

She walked through that cold wet wind, just to tell me about the bus. She didn’t have to, but she wanted to.

Now, instead of remembering a wasted miserable wait and an absent friend, I’m thinking only of a golden beam of kindness on legs. Her humanity shone through the coldest of wet afternoons.

I’m so glad I live here. The weather is a challenge, but the strangers are the finest.


©Charlie Adley
26.01.2025