Christ, Chelsea are an absolute shambles aren’t they?
After what was the first genuine sign of progress in the Todd Boehly era they’ve, for reasons unbeknownst to sanity, fallen arse first onto the reset button – how very owner hasn’t got a clue what he’s doingy.
The club’s hierarchy have made some baffling c*ck-ups over the past couple of years, but sacking Mauricio Pochettino after he took the Blues on (*checks notes*) their best run of form since 2021 is trying to eat soup with a fork-levels of counterproductive.
READ MORE: Pochettino’s Chelsea exit is proof Boehly and Co are alienating themselves from reality
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What’s the point of hiring a project manager if you aren’t going to let him manage a project? That’s about as dumb as re-appointing Frank Lampa–oh wait a minute.
It’d be sad if it wasn’t so silly, like that pirouette thing Antony used to show off with before realising he had about as much talent to flaunt as a Parkinson’s-riddled juggler.
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(Image: Getty Images)
Here’s an idea. To save himself the faff of endlessly hiring, sacking and compensating managers, why doesn’t Typhoon Todd just book a different guest manager every week, Have I Got News For You style?
He might as well, Chelsea are the new punchline of the Premier League after all. Someone should let Harry Maguire know.
P*ss off plastic pitch-invaders
Did you catch Man City’s pitch invasion last weekend? What sort of amateur dramatics society bulls*** was that?
I mean honestly, what a load of artificial, attention-seeking nonsense. Has winning the Premier League become so boring for them that they’re actually choreographing their celebrations now?
I guess when your attendance figures are that low and the atmosphere inside your ground is that cr*p you have to pretend you’re not a bunch of soulless bores who’d happily scrap the League Cup if it meant nabbing another £70m centre back.
In 2012 a pitch invasion made sense, ditto in 2022. But doing one this year was as absurd as me doing topless laps of the garden after successfully changing the oil in my car. So grow up City fans, you bunch of performative plastic plonkers.
So long, stroppy Kloppy
Am I the only one delighted to see the back of Jurgen Klopp? That miserable, snarling Schweinehund might be a brilliant football manager, but he’s about as pleasant as a fart during sex.
When he arrived in England he had charm and a sense of humour. But over the last nine years he’s degenerated into the physical embodiment of a scrunched-up fist and the phrase ‘You f***ing what mate?’ I guess that’s what living in Liverpool will do to you. (That was a joke, “calm down, calm down” etc).
I hated his sarcastic viciousness, his insufferable whinging and the fact that his teeth look like a newly-installed radiator. ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ Jurgen, you monstrous b*llend.