Moody Blues go from sublime to ridiculous

THE PHRASE “the sublime to the ridiculous” could have been penned for Chelsea FC. Whether it be Osgood to Mayes, Mourinho to Grant or last Wednesday’s spectacular performance up at Anfield to the extraordinary finish to Saturday’s game against Bolton.

But let’s start with the sublime; last Wednesday really was one of those special European nights at Anfield — if you are a Chelsea fan that is.

It was the “perfect” game — the choking deflation of going a goal down so early on, followed by the agony of a 10-minute spell where you’re staring at the real possibility of a hammering.

Then the finger-tip hope as your team begin to turn it round, the torture of a missed opportunity then the absolute and total abandonment and ecstasy as the goal finally goes in; then the breathless suspense as the second goal doesn’t come despite your team’s total domination and the fear that at any moment they could score against the run of play.

Just as your nerves are shredded to the point of madness, the goal that you thought was never coming hits the back of the net and pandemonium breaks out as a body of people as one go absolutely garrity.

You have barely caught your breath, and the best move of the game results in the third slamming into the back of the net and you celebrate so hard that the head-rush is immense and your cheering so hard there is a real danger of blacking out.

These are the kind of games that football is all about — the kind of game that leaves you with a stupid grin on your face for days; the kind of game that makes up for all those disappointments and heart-breaks which every football fan goes through at some point.

As if my week couldn’t get any better, last Saturday, I sat back and watched four goals hit the back of the net and started to write this column in my head wondering exactly how many euphoric adjectives I could get in, and ideally wondering if we could make it six or seven, after all, there was still half an hour to go when the horror show started.

The first Bolton goal goes in and you think “OK, got complacent, that will have woken them up — pity to have lost the clean sheet though”.

Then it was like watching a car-crash in slow motion and only the merest of touches prevented an equaliser right before the final whistle. As the supporters left the ground shell-shocked it felt like some sort of cruel joke.

All we had heard since the Champions League game was how Liverpool were going to need some sort of miracle to score three goals at the Bridge and there Bolton had gone and done it in eight minutes. It was like the God of football himself had said — “there you go Scousers — not that difficult is it?”

Cech had looked like some sort of petrified zombie and the defence in front of him were of little help to him whatsoever.

Now, as usual, you lot have the jump on me regarding the result last night. I am hoping that those mad eight minutes served as a harsh lesson in complacency and that we made it safely and without incident to the semi-finals — so hopefully more about that next week.

It’s that time of the year where important games begin to come thick and fast and we have barely drawn breath and we are at Wembley for the Cup semi-final against an Arsenal side which has been quietly racking up results. In terms of the recent form we are still the superior side, but I think it will be a close game.

Hiddink has already proved that tactically he is more astute than Scolari as far as Liverpool are concerned, and I am hoping he has identified Arsenal’s strengths and has a plan to nullify them. We are not a team blessed with pace so it will take more guile and tactical thinking to un-pick the Gooners game, but I am confident that Guus will have us prepared and aware of potential threats.

Hiddink has made it very clear that he will be leaving us at the end of the season, but many are wondering what would have happened if he had come to us just a month earlier — who knows, but I think the title would have still been a definite possibility for us rather than a mathematical long shot.

I rather admire the man for sticking to his vow to return to the Russian national team and wish him well, but I am concerned about his replacement.

It is looking increasingly likely that it will be Ancelotti — a man that does not speak English, has never played nor managed outside of Italy. His team are not even within a shout of the league title. Those European trophies do seem to grab Abramovich’s attention rather to the detriment of all other factors. Anyway, this is the kind of week which defines a season so players, supporters and management staff all need to do their bit.

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