I've got a Bike, you can ride it if you like,

Hah, Title lyrics by Syd Barrett of the original Floyd.

Brilliant don't you think? The next line is something like .....

"its got a basket, a bell and rings and things to make it look good, I'd give it to you if I could but I borrowed it. "

Utterly deluded acid induced lunacy of course, as was most of his stuff but endearing in its own spaced out way, but also from my perspective a very creatively torturous , not to say tenuous route into todays post. So whilst I move the writing background track onto the truly magnificent "Set The Controls for the Heart of The Sun" lets move on.

I'm a simple bloke really. Not simple in the head (although some may wish to argue the case that I am, or at least act that way) but simple in taste. I mean I went to Nice the other week and one night, courtesy of a supplier, we ate in The Negresco Hotel, a sort of Nice equivalent to The Ritz complete with a Concierge dressed in a purple top hat with a red feather protuding , matching this purple frock coat, tights and black patent leather buckled shoes. Its the sort of place that when someone like me walks in the swing doors there is usually a couple of heavies holding me under the armpits pushing straight back through it. The Art work on display is truly magnificent and brilliantly avant garde and the food is very nice but fucking miniature in size, and consequently is pathetically unfulfilling and massively overpriced. The whole place drips in money - the type most of us will never have freely available to squander in such ostentacious surroundings. Not my kind of place - give me the glorious market place of Cours Saleya any day, with its rumbustious array of restaurants, cafe's and bars. Even if I was a multi-millionaire this would win over the posh and snotty faux airs and graces type establishment every time.

More proof of my simplicity comes from my hobbies, a bit of golf, a bit of fishing (now lapsed far too long), a bit of writing on this blog and thats about it, unless you include serial loafing as a hobby. Exercise used to feature a bit when I was younger but really I wasn't into any Cardio-Vascular stuff, barring football, and then progressed onto simple weight training because....well it was simple and uncomplicated, as were many of its exponents I got to know at the gym.

A few years ago we visited a Center Parcs in Longleat and my mates son took his push bike. Now anyone who's been to this particular site will know that its built in a very hilly area and previous to its conversion must have been a haven for mountain goats or hill sheep. So I did what any self respecting faux-uncle would do and I nicked this bike. To my amazement I loved it! I hadn't ridden a bike since I'd been 16 because mopeds and cars took over (particularly handy for getting home from the pub when I was too pissed to walk) . I nicked the thing at every opportunity because frankly it was easier than walking "up hill and down dale" constantly, especially as Baby was exactly that and liked to be carried by her Daddy wherever possible. It was so advanced from my day, a mountain bike with 24 Derailleur gears made by Shimano, with lovely big knobbly tyres for "off roading" (gripped...sorted). I immediately ordered GMD to buy me one on our return. We paid around £300 for it and yes...you've guessed it ....after an initial burst of activity it sat in the shed for over 2 years. Then we moved around the corner to a bigger house, nicknamed Graceland by BigSykes, but really just a modest 4 bed detached Acacia Avenue type house. Another burst came about but didn't last. Then last year when baby decided she rather liked cycling and suddenly she wanted me to escort her out and build her skills and confidence I got the cycling bug again. Winter came and the incentive was again lost, but now I've started again and in the last 3 weeks I've regularly been buggering off for between 1 and 2 hours discovering all of the local hidden roads, paths and bridlepaths. And a real eye opener its been as well. Tonight I was joined by BigSykes and we cycled through country lanes and ended up at the peak of Broadhalfpenny Down (see where I live...what fabulously named piece of countryside) next to my beloved local pub. No, we didn't have a pint but we took in the views, got chased by a dog, said hello to horse riders we didn't know, barracked some cows, nearly ran a rabbit over, gave the finger to pig ignorant motorists, shared a laugh with a tractor driver (normally the bane of my life), cycled up hills to kill the legs and down hills to break the skull should you come off. It was bloody marvellous. 2 weeks ago we went across country to the peak of the local country park from where you can see across to the Isle of Wight, and down into Portsmouth Harbour. Breathtaking in more ways than one!

I came back tonight feeling exhiliarated, fresh and most importantly alive. As drugs go, it might not be the wildest but at the moment it feels like a panacea to all my recent blues. Long may it continue and maybe I'll take a camera next time to share some of the views across my part of the country.

Later, GrocerJack

Be Careful What You Wish For....

Oh dear.

It seems The Company has just broken the wrong sort of record again for the second time in 5 years by posting the single biggest ever Corporate loss for a British firm. Our CEO however seems to be saying (internally at least) that the picture is rosy and we're on target to meet our goals. It does have to be said that the press and the media are overblowing the story, when in fact most of the loss is caused by mandatory capital asset write downs and not on the operating performance of The Company.

However it doesn't cover up the fact that according to our CEO and his bunch of ....ahem.....Leaders "bad is the new good" .

We appear to be cutting around 400 jobs on this announcement alongside the recently announced outsourcing deal for huge chunks of out IT department. No doubt the Network department will be next as Ericsson continue their efforts to take over The Company's network operations. This "network outsourcing" would affect me and so I watch this situation with interest. It hasn't happened and may not even happen but The Company does seem to heading down the road to the trendy and frequently discredited outsourcing model.

Although I'm unhappy in my job I do my work willingly in order to support the lifestyle we have chosen, including several holidays per year to The Money Pit, my membership of the golf club, the full package of cable TV, piano, singing and dancing lessons for the girls etc etc. The list goes on and its only when the prospect of losing the income source that funds all of that looms in the dim and distant future that you realise just how lucky you are. I'm hoping that something will come my way in The Company which will re-invigorate me and I made this desire known in a fairly candid (and friendly for once) chat with The Schoolteacher last week.

Of course after over 12 years of service I'm likely to get a reasonable pay off if previous incentives are anything to go by (eg: a month for every year worked, professional CV written, career option training share options cashed in etc) but knowing my luck this would be changed into something crap like one week per year which is a far less tempting sum of money. A years salary would be more than enough to kick off my own business for example, although I've no idea what I would do.....although I do have a hankering for doing something with a visual, tangible product at the end of it. Trades (carpentry, building, electricians etc) are very attractive because apparently youngsters these days all want to work in IT, or the media and no-one is going into these areas. But how do you do this and keep the wolves of the building society and credit card companies at bay? Balance all of this against the fact that my pensions are being consolidated into The Company final salary scheme and that would put me close to 10 years from early retirement and you see the dilemna. I have qualifications and experience but get the feeling my age (44) is seriously against me know. But maybe it would be time to change my life direction again. Who knows? I'll worry if and when it happens. In the meantime, make hay while the sun shines will be my motto.

Later, SunnierJack

A week of peace?

GMD, Teenager and Baby have all buggered off for the week to The Money Pit. They've been joined by MiddleSis and her brood and LittleSis and her nipper as well. 3 adults, 6 kids. Can you see why I didn't go?

But whats strange is how I thought it would be nice to have a week to myself but in fact it turns out to be rather an insular feeling. At first Friday (the day they left) was a real novelty. Able to do what I wanted, when I wanted it and even if I wanted to do nothing I didn't feel guilty. However, 4 days in the truth is it's now a little too quiet for me. Something about an empty big house just doesn't feel quite right. And there's only so many DVD's you can catch up on! So my weekend consisted of drinking, golf, more drinking and more golf alongside some movie catching up.

Meet The Fockers - utter rubbish

The Butterfly Effect - compelling and a good twist on time travel. Bleak ending I thought.

Fahrenheit 9/11 - thought provoking and a confirmation of just about everything I thought about Bush, Blair and our whole realtionship with the Middle East. They must hate Michael Moore in the US.

Sin City - at first I thought it was rubbish but eventually cottoned onto the "cartoonish " nature of what was being attempted. In the end I thought it was a rollicking good violent romp and its pseudo- cartoonish style made it a very interesting and ultimately quite challenging and rewarding experience.

Anyway, at least someone's getting their moneys worth from The Money Pit. Apparently the weather in the South of France has been unbroken sunshine and blue skies.

I wonder if we'll see any good weather this year. It just doesn't feel like it's verging on Summer does it?

Later, GrocerJack

A flicker of light? Music to the rescue again!

Things have been shit lately, hence the lack of insiration, or more likely the lack of motivation to write, or do very much at all. The blame for yet another black mood (which I felt was better not communicated via the blog) is firmly laid at the doorstep of The Company. Not only am I fucked off with my job, and especially The Schoolteacher who manages his employees like your Nan might (have you done this, have you done that, make sure you do this, make sure you do this etc) if she were your guardian and a particularly fussy and pedantic Nan at that. To cap it all, the miserable scrotes reneged on a yearly bonus scheme introduced this year for the workforce. It wasn't brilliant but it might have paid us up to 10% of our gross salary before tax under certain (admittedly utopian) conditions. Of course, The Company didn't hit the financial targets required to pay this out (quelle surprise!) but anyone Band F (see below for Band explanations) or above will recieve their bonus payments as apparently The Company hit the right targets to pay them out. Add to that a bit of Shareholder jiggery pokery to reset Financial targets for Directors and for a small proportion of The Company its "trebles all round".

Following this, they decided to increase the budget for the annual salary rise to a whopping 3.5% , which in todays climate isn't bad I suppose. So, I planned my teams rises on the basis of how good they were and also to introduce some parity between those doing the same job and but earning less through no good reason other than the fact that previous bosses were stingy wankers. I like to adopt a pretty "champagne" socialist methodology to my pay rises, whereby reward is both performance based and used to rectify a few past wrongs...but not this year. Oh no, the bean counters who told us to put across the "positive message" have now applied mandatory rises according to annual review grade (school report in all but name).

We are graded as either P (poor), I (Improvement required), G (Good), E (Exceeded objectives) or X (Excellent or sleeping with boss as we like to call it). So anyone graded as G (like me for example) who meets all their objectives and slightly exceeds in some will receive between 2 - 2.5%. Unless of course we're near the top of our band, or on a salry above the band "soft limits". In which case, you'll get ......fuck all. Or maybe a small token lump sum subject to tax. Since last year we have been re-banded from Band A to Band J. Band A is the very top and contains the CEO as far as we can ascertain, Bands B-F are then descending levels of Senior Management (sorry, Leaders as they're all now called) - a sort of exclusive club the entry key to which appears to be top secret, or can be attained by giving great Corporate Fellatio or Anilingus to the right Corporate Automatons. Bands G-J are for the rest of us. I am Band G, which is firm middle management ground. So, in a company of around 15,000 in the UK, around 600 occupy Bands A-F, and 14,400 occupy bands G-J. Can you see the obvious problem here? When the bands were applied we were all told no salaries were associated to them, but come salary review time we find that in fact salaries have been associated to them, based on some vague external market research. Hence an awful lot of people will have performed admirably, reached or exceeded all their targets but will recive no pay rise or an insultingly patronising payment. And they wonder why people never vote us into The Times Top 100 Compnaies to work for! The ironic thing is that whenever we have team meetings we are always being told about the great Employee Experience programme and how successful it is. To coin a favourite phrase of mine, these people running The Company seem to live in a drug induced collage of utterly fucked up bollocks.

Anyway, I can't stay down for long. I have resolved to wind my neck right in to its limits at work, keep my mouth shut and quietly and efficiently deliver everything on the objectives menu. My relationship with The Schoolteacher, and for that matter all the other "leaders" is entirely professional, no more idle chit chat, no more jovial banter, no more non work related dialogue. Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. Boring twats wouldn't get a look in down my local. An extreme reaction maybe, but it seems the only way I can stop myself from decking one of them.

My salvation, as usual came from a quick and intense affair with my record collection. The usual suspects gamely did their job of detracting me from the woes of Corporate Imprisonment , you know Zeppelin, Floyd, Radiohead, Abba etc, but something new was needed to just give the final push back to living in a twilight zone as opposed to a midnight zone. 5000 tracks of music and I couldn't find something to raise the hackles. Along came fate, or Skank as it is known. Thats my erstwhile brother for the unfamiliar (look at the Cast!). He emailed me a song I haven't heard in 25 years and it was the catalyst to a night of illegal downloading of stacks of others, including some favourite videos. The song was PSI Power from Hawkwind. I've no idea what album its from or what year, but Skank went through a heavy hippy period, living off dope, bread and butter and weird music back in the late 70's and picked up a few weird musical liking s from then. Hawkwind to be honest were never my bag but they did knock out a few good tunes other than the signature tune Silver Machine. And of course they spawned Lemmy who formed Motorhead so another bonus point for them.

And so here is the list of some of the "new" tracks I've been listening to that have lifted heart and soul......for how long who knows but now's the time to play myself sick of them....

Psi Power - Hawkwind

Hurry on Sundown - Hawkwind

Hocus Pocus - Focus

Watching The Detectives - Elvis Costello - featuring some of the best pop lyrics ever writen

"Long shot of that jumping sign,
Visible shivers running down my spine.
Cut the baby taking off her clothes.
Close-up of the sign that says,"We never close"
You snatch a tune, you a match a cigarette,
She pulls the eyes out with a face like a magnet.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.
She's filing her nails while they're dragging the lake."

Its My Life - Bon Jovi - the video brings this to life, believe me.

Crackling Rosie - Neil Diamond - yeah I know, but its a bloody happy singalong tune so fuck off if you don't like it!

Samba Pa Ti - yep, the M&S Food ad music. Wonder how many know its this piece of magic from the latin guitar wizard - music to kick your shoes off to......

Dirty Harry - Gorillaz

Love is like Oxygen - The Sweet (hmmm, include Teenage Rampage, Ballroom Blitz, Hellraiser and all the post Chinn-Chapman era stuff)

Please Don't Touch - Motorhead & Girlschool - whatever happended to Girlschool?

Altogether Now - The Farm

And finally, The Devil Went Down to Georgia - The Charlie Daniels Band

Works for me

Later, GrocerJack

Where have I been?

Lazy-itis again, plus a period of utter uninspiration due to the crap at work I'm taking at the moment. A few days in Nice on business seemed like a good idea as well, in order to take the bastards for every penny I can and have a jolly, but really Nice is a place to go to relax and enjoy French city life and not for trudging around Olympia sized exhibition halls listening to sad little corporate puppets spouting arsebollocks talk about their exciting (sic) new products and developments in the "dynamic" and "challenging" emerging worlds of Wireless Technology.....yawn.......double yawn.


Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Later, BlankJack

How things change

Go back 15 years to when I was a spritely 29 year old.....

Hmmmm....Scrub that........

Go back 20 years to when I was a spritely rebellious 24 year old "Jack the lad" who's hobbies consisted of drinking lager, pulling women, watching football, going to the pub, smoking, driving my Cortina Mk IV 2.0, smoking the odd spliff, fighting after the Friday night out "clubbing" (and the press thinks this all new?) and doing fuck all exercise because age hadn't undermined the regenerative powers of abuse and copious sleeping.

Imagine you're a time traveller, say Doctor Who for example and you pitch up outside The Carpenters Arms in Hayes End on a sunny Saturday afternoon as Jack and the boys tuck into a boozy afternoon/evening/night session.

"Jack" you say " in 20 years time you'll be a different person"

"Whatever you wanker" comes the stock reply from young Jack

"No you will" says The Doctor "...you'll be listening to a talk based radio station specialising in rolling news and sport..."

*intrigued but disbelieving look from Jack, scorn delivered by mates*

"You'll tune into Radio 2 for your music needs"

"Of course" I reply "knobhead"

"You'll be a golf fanatic, playing every week and going on golf holidays"

*Jack dissolves into Smash advert martian laughter*

"You'll drive a Volvo"

*convulsions of extreme laughter for Jack and mates*

"You'll be a Technical Process Manager"

*Sudden silence and looks of bemusement*

"What the fucks that? " I'd say

"One of The Mysteries of The Universe"...the time traveller would reply before continuing "....you'll no longer read The Sun but will become a Guardian reader"

"Ok you prick, you're no longer funny" Jack would have responded "....you better quit whilst you can or you'll cop an unfortunate one"

But relentlessly he carries on....

"You'll live in a tree lined road, in a detached house in a small rural village, close to the seaside but not in London"

*Silence from Jack...this doesn't sound too bad...don't let your mates see*

"You'll have a wife and two kids, girls...who you'll spoil rotten"

"You'll treat their boyfriends with contempt in much the same way you've been treated by others"

"You'll watch football but not play it"

"You'll give up lager and drink only Guinness or red wine, you'll accumulate a taste for Single Malt Whisky"

"You'll quit smoking"

*Jack and mates quieten down because this sounds like a serious malfunction and betrayal of all they stand for*

"You'll lose your extreme socialist principles and settle into soft Middle England, Middle of the Road politics"

"You'll start to enjoy gardening and DIY"

"You'll get a hankering to do projects around the house"

"You'll holiday in France and buy a mobile home there"

"You'll take your parents in law on holiday with you and enjoy their company"

*more confused looks because this really is alien thought territory*

"You'll hate Radio 1 and Top of the Pops"

"You'll enjoy being grumpy"

"You'll start to enjoy and appreciate Art, both old and modern"

"You'll do a degree in Philosophy and Art History"

"You will become Middle Class"

*palapable scorn, derision and disbelief builds slowly*

and then finally he says

......."Chelsea will win back to back League titles and England will win The Ashes"

The Doctor turns and enters his Tardis. It disappears.

Jack starts laughing out loud, his mates join in.

"What a fucking idiot" Jack says " I thought the lager had done me, or the joint".......his mates laugh loudly but nervously....."I might have believed some of that until he said that bollocks about Chelsea winning the league"

How things change indeed.

Later, GrocerJack

The Dark Night looms again

I had thought there was hope at work as things appeared to be picking up. My turn at the Corporate Bollocks off-site temporarily lifted my own self esteem even if no-one else was impressed. The dull arsed arslikhan fuckwits I deal with are so consumed with their passion for sound-bites and their obsession with getting their fat corporate snouts up the collective arse of The Company’s alleged great and good/movers and shakers (in reality wankers and arseholes) that they wouldn’t recognise a committed and intelligent individual if he pinned them down and pulled out their teeth using a rusty mole grip dipped in fresh dog turd. Such is the level of corporate cock sucking within my work environment that I swear I could fill the next 10 series of The Apprentice with highly motivated obnoxious, power hungry, cash greedy twats that the whole country would unite in hating.

Week by week, day by day I go through the charade of going into work and executing a master-class of deception in pretending to be even remotely interested, or even caring a slight jot about the crap they spout daily at us. How I don’t just snap and physically smack someone. For that alone I deserve something better.

Another small reason for the nuclear winter dark days of my work being transformed into a twilight ambience was because there seemed to be……. not so much an increased level of interesting work, but less mind numbingly dull things were being expected from me. But this was nothing more than a mirage displaying a small oasis in a parched desert of utter corporate banality and bollocks.

I had my annual review last week with The Schoolteacher. It wasn’t good. This de-motivating, uninspiring, uncommunicative moron and I ended up arguing over virtually everything. Not because I hadn’t delivered. Oh no, nothing that simple. No, he wants me to deliver more which may be fair enough, but he also now wants me to tell me HOW to deliver rather than just WHAT. And for me that’s just too much. In my 12 years with The Company I have always delivered exactly what’s been asked and usually more, all by my own fair hand, using all my own attributes. I have never ever not reached the objectives set for me. And now this twat wants to tell me HOW to do things.

Not content with that he also then decided to tell me he was unhappy with feedback from my “customers” and my team! Apparently my mask of deception is so bloody effective that no-one had any real bad things to say about me, in fact it appears only good things were said, which meant he couldn’t set any development objectives for me! The most galling thing is he sent them a questionnaire rating me from 1-10 on various “capabilities” with 6/10 set as “acceptable”. Apparently everyone gave out 7/10 and higher giving an average of 8/10 over all. And this is bad? Good is the new Bad apparently. Oh dear, poor old Schoolteacher. What a bucketful of vomit this is. So, it’s my fault my “customers” and team seem to like me, the way I work and my style? I must be one hell of an actor to be able to pull this off.

This Friday I will finally work from home and try and craft the perfect CV to either move within The Company, or hit the ejector seat button myself and find something I really want to do. Something fulfilling and challenging whilst being enjoyable that keeps the financial wolves from the door…..how hard can that be?

Quite honestly if any organization will die of asphyxiation from having its corporate head stuck up is own arse, then The Company is heading the queue. Last week it announced that it had decided on “centralized outsourcing opportunity model” for it’s Global I.T operations”. Interesting use of the word “opportunity” isn’t it? I wonder how the potential 6000 or so employees who potentially lose holidays, pensions, share schemes, possibly even jobs and other benefits feel about this “opportunity”. Although the way I feel I might prefer to be affected by this in order to take a decent pay off and do my own thing (head brimming with ideas on what business I could start).

Listed below is a small collection of the crap buzzwords and phrases I hear each day.

Capabilities

Synergies

Leadership (we don’t have Management anymore, they’re all Leaders apparently)

Performance management for our people

Optimizing resources

Business Partners – apparently we don’t have other internal departments anymore, they’re all Business Partners, so we have Supply Chain Business Partners, Finance Business Partners and yep, they’re now all abbreviated to BP’s ……… *vomits again*

Roadmaps

External market comparison

Vision statement

Mission statement

That’s enough……I can’t take any more corporate gobbledygook bollocks phrases. Remember The Office? That’s where I work.

The slide is back on, maybe its time to enjoy the ride.

Later, GrocerJack

The truth about Prescott

No arguments from me! Click to enlarge. If it still isn't clear then click the opened image once more (certainly works in Firefox) and it should be crystal.

Later, GrocerJack

Those Magnificent Men in The Chelsea Machine!

*Published on Chelseablog.com*

For the week or so between the desperately poor game against RedScouse FC and the advertised “Clash of the Titans” match against Manure FC it seemed to me that the faint hopes of the collective UK nation were slowly but surely showing their hands in favour of Manure FC giving us a bit of a drubbing and prolonging the inevitable back-to-back Premiership Title accolade. Every paper across the land was filled with knobber hacks desperately building up the slim hopes of former ABU* (Anyone but United) and ABA* (Anyone but Arsenal) groups, now reformed as ABC* (Anyone but Chelsea) into believing that with sufficient pressure applied by victory of Sir Rednose of Salford Quays resurgent team might just bring about the Devon Loch collapse of the team that had sat proudly atop of the premiership table for 18 months.

* Notice there is no ABL (Anyone but Liverpool) group there because frankly in league terms they have become so insignificant that nobody really gives them a second thought, despite the best efforts of their turd-lobbing, ambulance-toppling fans to get them noticed and to show their true depth of history and class.

For that whole week I had to read drivel written by slimy low-lives with no concept of truth or fairness writing vile pieces about a team that frankly 5 years ago they couldn’t have given a flying piece of mouldy celery about. But more on the scumbag press of our once proud nation later. This is about my recollection of the day, with caveats aplenty for any omissions or errors caused by brain cell destruction linked to an excessive intake of Guinness following the end of the game and the season, and hence my first sojourn into the heady and occasionally murky world of season ticket ownership.

To say that I was a bit nervous is like saying that John Prescott is a bit of a fat shagger, Catherine Zeta-Jones is a bit gorgeous or that the Pope is a bit Catholic. You get my drift here, don’t you? I was chewed up rotten from Wednesday onwards as the importance of the occasion grew in my subconscious. This sense of growing tension was enhanced by the fact that a so called colleague of mine at work had got Corporate tickets for the last game against Charlton and had not thought to invite me along, deeming it sufficient to send me photo’s from his mobile of the trophy celebrations post match. He may have been well intentioned, but it felt like a complete and utter smack in my face. Especially as he is a dyed in the wool Gooner. Vindictive bastard. Anyway, no matter how I tried to continue on a “business as usual” basis, it was becoming obvious that my mind was on one thing only, the game. Nothing could detract me from Thursday onwards, not even the obligatory threesome fantasy of me, Jennifer Aniston and/or any one from the aforementioned Zeta-Jones, Liz White, Billie Piper or Kate Winslet could dislodge my beloved Chelsea’s biggest game of the season from the depths of my mind. And as Saturday approached, even the pre-match Friday night drink with my mates consisted of one subject……..the game and the possible team selection/formation/outcome. It was hell.

The day itself started with a hangover from the Friday nights failed attempt to drown the subconscious voices in my head that were now occupying every living thought. My mind was running like a computer processor stuck in a program loop, running over different combinations of the same iterative equation of who would play, what would the formation be, would we play to draw, play to win, would we be glorious or would we blow it and snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and what the ramifications of such a defeat might be. Such is the mentality of a very long suffering fan whose 35 years of unswerving loyalty to Chelsea has been tainted by more pain, disappointment and humiliation than anyone should realistically have to have experienced. Such was the overriding feeling of PMT (pre-match tension) that despite hitting the 9^th pint I still felt like drilling a hole in my head to relieve the pressure. But the gang pulled up to chauffeur me to the ground where all would be revealed. Due to the early kick off and a sizeable queue outside The American Grill we decided to plump for the traditional Burger option as a pre-match meal. Then it was into the ground with a quick visit to the Megastore to spend some more money that Mrs Jack says we haven’t got. One noticeable thing was on show, both inside and outside the ground, and that was the overriding sense of tension and anticipation, a heady mixture of those fans brimming with complete self belief, and those like me who were approaching the game, not as doomsayers, but as people whose past experiences do not allow the big red button marked “Supreme Confidence” to be pushed in until the Dawn French look-alike is singing like a Friday night drunk. It was a very potent mixture and fans were either bright eyed and smiling or had faces etched with lines of worry. To some this was the day fated for the Premiership to come home, for others it was the small but undeniable fear of parties being held at Ewood or St. James – nothing could be as good as winning on your home ground and I for one knew that if it was to be won away from home then I would be watching, like most from a remote position via the TV.

And so to my seat in the Matthew Harding Lower. A seat that cost £650 and has given me such pleasure over the year, interspersed with howls of frustration, encouragement and anger (mostly at referees). Neil Barnett announced the teams and despite the awesome array of talent on display from Manure FC, when he reads out the Chelsea team consisting of names like Drogba, Cole, Terry, Lampard, Robben, Makalele and Essien you just can’t pinching yourself a little to make sure this isn’t some sort of coma based dream, or that someone hasn’t spiked your Stamford Bridge nuclear reactor heated coffee with a large tab of LSD. The group surrounding my locale greeted each other with firm handshakes and the usual “Alright mate”. I went to sit down, but it was obvious from the outset that sitting in the MHL was not the order of the day. From the minute the teams came out of the tunnel the sun seemed to shine on Stamford Bridge. And then it started and The Chelsea machine immediately clicked into action, as if Patrick Head and Adrian Newey in their Ferrari heyday had tuned the machine themselves. The team battled for every ball, harassed every United player whenever they got within a sniff of the ball. We passed sublimely and every area of the field seemed to contain a hungry blue shirted footballing aristocrat. Reviews of the game in depth are available all over the place so I won’t witter on too much about the game….it was very much there for all to see just how big a gulf exist between these teams. Every Chelsea player deserved a 10 rating in my view, but if we set the standard rating at 8 then the following players deserved a full 10.

Drogba – magnificent and a real handful that worryingly for England seemed to disturb Ferdinand big time. Since he stopped the theatrical diving he is now showing a real class and showing why he cost so much money. Long may it continue!

Carvalho – “Percy” as he seems to becoming known as may be off to real, and has often been the culprit this season of silly shirt tugs and giving away free kicks in dangerous positions but on this day he was truly supreme. Great tackling, marvellous blocking and a wonder goal to make virtually every striker in the world sit up and applaud.

Terry – need I really say anything about a true Captain Marvel

Cole – The single most influential player on the pitch who scored a wonder goal leaving 3 Manure players for dead. Whilst the Rooney situation is indeed sad for England then surely we have a ready made and equally talented solution in Joey Cole?

This is not to denigrate any other player on such a glorious day, all are worthy of mentions but these 4 players were for me truly outstanding. And let’s face it, 3-0 is a real panning for Manure.

On the final whistle the tears welled up and the emotional release from me was all too obvious to those around me. The big fat foulmouth drunk behind me even gave me a kiss. And do you know what. I didn’t mind no matter how rank he smelt. I think that was the first time my arse actually touched my seat as I sank down for a few minutes as all the thoughts and worries were released. To be honest the pressure valve had loosened substantially on the second goal, and bit more on the third. But the final whistle had mimicked the sound of a proverbial kettle in my head reaching boiling point and finally releasing the steam. I stayed for an hour until the ground emptied, shaking stranger’s hands, and high fiving with people I’ve never seen before and may never see again. I saw grown men wiping their eyes (no doubt protesting that something had flown in there). I saw more shiny happy people that day than I’ve ever encountered or Michael Stipe could even imagine. Stamford Bridge was smiling and from above it must have looked like the worlds biggest collective smiley icon. Even when I left the ground clutching my bag and goodies desperately close, tripping through the hawkers selling their “back-to-back” flags and t-shirts (for a bloody tenner, the robbers), past an impromptu communal game of football echoing the advert on TV, past the singing in the SO bar and the smiling mounted police. This was party time Chelsea style. If the Kings Road has a swagger normally then today it was positively hip gyrating. We sang as we walked up the road, cars sounding their horns and non footballing people looked on in bewildered amusement. The journey home was almost serene as we sat in the car smiling like a collective of Bonnie Langford’s after sampling the best Skunk money can buy.

It was paradise. If heaven exists then I hope it is very much like this.

Finally, some bouquets and brickbats to finish on. Brickbats first I think so that I can finish on a happy note. Brickbats to the Press who got a rousing reception when they walked onto the pitch, but not of the nice kind. Personally the afternoon could only have been capped by getting the reporters from the East Stand into the pen as well and then inviting us all onto the pitch to give them a well deserved kicking. A brickbat to the referee and his assistants, Mike Dean, our friend from the Fulham game…the one with indecisive mind who seemed determined to kill an enthralling and competitive game with a display of breathtaking pedantism and fussiness. A brickbat to the FA because of their treatment of us this year and their blatant disregard for the fans with the poxy brown-nosing to the lords of TV and stupid 17:15 kick offs miles from home. The idiots also get another one for the England manager fiasco. A brickbat to the very few fans who booed Rooney off the pitch. Some people really do not have any class. Brickbats to the fans who booed Drogba at the Man City game. No matter what I can never boo anyone wearing the Chelsea shirt. Voice your disapproval in the pub or on this blog but do you really think you’re going to help the player by vilifying him whilst he’s out there playing. Besides, a lot of us knew how good he was from the start and kept faith. We told you so! And the final brickbat goes to RedScouse FC. When you emulate this then please come and comment here. Until then, keep remaining a “cup” team. Enjoy the qualifying round of the CL.

Bouquets to the Manure fans that applauded the team at the end, some even stayed for the presentation. Some I met after the game were dignified and gracious in defeat. Bouquets to the Blues fans that applauded Rooney and chanted his name as he left the pitch, face twisted in pain and despair. Bouquets to JM for ensuring every person on the Manure bench got a handshake in the spirit of the game and NOT as the sewer rat Richard Williams implied in his poisonous Guardian article (an extra brickbat to him personally for this mean spirited and vile column tainting the souvenir pages of the Guardian report). Bouquets to the Stewards who allowed the single fan to dance on the pitch and greet every one of his hero’s in front of the MHL and then allowed him back in the crowd without getting all Jobsworth and ejecting him or getting him arrested. A bouquet to Gary Neville who, despite getting loads of stick from us, then had the dignity to graciously hug Super Frank at the end and then seek out EVERY Chelsea player and shake their hand. A bouquet for Wayne Rooney who despite a bad tackle on Terry was one of the few Manure players to show constant fire in their belly, and also because no player deserves to have their World Cup hopes dashed so cruelly and via such an innocuous route. A bouquet for Hernan Crespo for whom the emotion of the whole thing was screened for all to see. For someone whose heart for Chelsea has been questioned this seemed an extraordinary reaction. I’d love him to stay with us. A class player and a class person. A bouquet for the MHL who in my opinion are the best fans anywhere.

And the final bouquet to the team who have bought more joy to my life than I can remember outside of my immediate family.

You are all my heroes.

Later ChelseaJack