|Looks like DD is happy to see Wembley again|
And by ‘eck, he was magnificent again.
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.
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.
|After the season he's had Carroll understandably celebrates nearly scoring|