The Drog Does Work

Now I think I’ve probably written off Man City about three times this season and United about four. So I’ll steer clear of saying owt more about it, not least cos I’m starting to gag every time I even think of Mancini flourishing imaginary cards or Ferguson breathing deeply into the ear of a fourth official just before the added time board is put up.

This weekend I was in a sleepy Danish town where I found – and it didn’t take long – a fine establishment called The English Pub. By the prices you’d have to say that this English Pub was taking the piss. (As opposed to in Britain, where they simply serve it.)

Looks like DD is happy to see Wembley again

So I helped myself to a pitcher of Carlsberg (when in Denmark...) and exchanged pleasantries with the Danish landlord who professed himself to be ‘Liverpool through and through’. Jan Molby would’ve been ashamed of the lad’s accent, mind you.

I settled down to watch the FA Cup Final. Out of duty mainly. I didn’t give two fat shits who won the pot, but Drogba at Wembley is always worth a look.

And by ‘eck, he was magnificent again.

Drogba has been a big bulwark of English football since he arrived. When he first appeared you wondered why a big lumbering lunk with the first touch of a nervous teen attacking a bra-strap was being brought into a club that could buy anyone.

But his second season at Chelsea saw his strength and touch improve and he simply started to terrify people. He was pacy, haughty, and defenders slid off him like satin sheets. Your best hope with Drogba – and this is still the case – is that he gets what I call his ‘hammock head’ on and spends 90 minutes preferring to lie prostrate on the turf with his head in his hands, like a lazy sunbather playing hide n seek.

On Saturday Drogba led the line with the old arrogance, outdoing Skrtel in the air and linking up well with fellow countryman Salomon Kalou. (Although surely Hassungotta Kalou must get his marching orders this summer. Maybe he comes in a package with the Drog, but it does often make Salomon look the dense, hopeless Mrs who comes along on alds’ night out and contributed absolutely nowt.)

At the other end, Suarez scuttled around beneath preposterous forward punts. And Gerrard patrolled the deep waters in front of the back four when they really needed up in the shallow end. Indeed until Didier confirmed that he actually owns Wembley (there is a new drinking-hole in the executive boxes called the Drog Bar), Liverpool were shite.

Down the left it was like Downing and Luis Enrique were speaking a different language – in fact that might just be the problem – and Henderson couldn’t find a curry house on Brick Lane let alone a teammate with a four-yard pass. Chelsea barely broke sweat fending them off.

At 2-0 down, Dalglish fumbled around in his bag of tricks and pulled out a pony-tailed joke; football’s equivalent of that gun that can only fire a flag that reads ‘Bang’. A kind of Fernando Torres but without the success.

Yes, it’s Andy Carroll. He sounds like a useful tune to have about your person around Christmas time, but he is in fact £35 million pounds worth of Geordie G-force. Aw my God, said an adjacent Dane decked out in red. And then splurged out some guttural oogly-boogly Danish which sounded appalling.
(Incidentally I reckon every English oath and insult ever uttered is derived from Danish. While there, I managed to get a packet of Spunk, a telecom company was entreating me with the legend ‘Slut Spurt’, the phrase ‘man spill’ appears in some Danish song or other and the train to the airport took us through the town of Middelfart (which sounds like the only place in the Lord of the Rings where you can get a decent lamb bhuna)).

Jan Molby: Carlsberg on the outside, Carlsberg on the inside

Any road, much to the dyed-in-the-wool Scouse-Dane’s delight, Carroll gambols on and within minutes he’s turned the game on its head. The dopy hopeful punts are more successful now that they’re landed on a dopy, hopeful head. And, aided by Bosingwa’s gaff (I’ve seen better defenders in Hello Kitty pyjamas) Carroll skinned Terry and tonked Liverpool back into the game.

It was – slightly – reminiscent of one Didier Drogba. From then on Chelsea backpedalled like Bolton Wanderers with a two-goal lead and only one miraculous Cech save kept them in it. For a moment it looked like I would have to lead a crack squad of vigilantes into FIFA headquarters, strap down Sepp Blatter in his swivel-chair and force feed him the scarves of various clubs who have been denied by his fucking ridiculous insistence that the fourth official can’t look at a telly and tell the ref whether a goal has been scored or not!

But, as it turned out the linesman got it right. Carroll was denied but he should’ve scored. It was – slightly – reminiscent of one Darren Bent.

Chelsea held on and deserved the win. Liverpool have one cup already, bless ‘em. (The shit, meaningless one, but don’t tell anyone I said that.) And while Drogba may yet get another season out of Chelsea, especially as they can’t seem to shake off the old veterans no matter how hard they try, perhaps, just perhaps, young Mr Carroll might start living up to his billing, if not his ludicrous price-tag.

After the season he's had Carroll understandably celebrates nearly scoring

I hope Woy takes him to the Euros. We’ve nowt to lose. Shorn of Wilshere and Rooney there’s a lot of guile missing. Sticking the big lad up the top is a good option if you’ve run out of ideas. It nearly worked for Dalglish.

And on Woy...

I’m very happy with him as boss. He seems a really decent human being. I doubt we’ll get any bullshit off him. The players he has available are run-of-the-mill honest Johns by and large. Roy does okay with them.

Good luck to the man.