I write this letter out of sheer exasperation at what you’ve done to Chelsea FC. I understand that managers tend to impose their style of play on the club, but this recent string of results is ridiculous. This is so unlike us, and so unlike you.
First of all, you hail from a culture that plays a brand of football that is as exciting as trying to get spaghetti bolognaise stains off a white t-shirt. And then you made a transition to a foreign land whose language Ray Wilkins hasn’t succeeded in teaching you. And yet, unlike the greatest coach Uzbekistan has ever seen, you stubbornly refused to fail.
Something’s not right. Anelka’s smiling, Drogba’s not whining, Ashley isn’t in the newspaper, and by all accounts Terry’s now a virgin. Look, I get that one tends to win 6-0 sometimes in football, but to do it so often and even have Obi Mikel conjure an earth-shattering pass out of thin air is suspicious.
I have reason to believe, your top-secret lab run by the shadowy Bruno Demichelis has something to do with it. It is common knowledge at the San Siro that Demichelis, a master of the dark arts, is credited with doing the impossible and resurrecting Victoria Beckham’s musical career while also fixing her husband’s broke back.
Has the club finally learned how to clone the first team, letting us rotate the old geezers? Are we sending out fresh clones, every other week to get the job done in ruthless fashion? Have our attempts at crossing Obi Mikel with half-a-brain finally succeeded? Is Michael Ballack really gone?
So many questions.
This is not the Chelsea I fell in love with.