Published: 28 December, 2012

IS it in the cupboard? No. Is it in the front room? No. Did you leave it in the car? No. Well, where did you have it last? It can’t have just grown legs and walked off on its own.

What bafflement: Chelsea fans, as hard as they search, don’t seem to be able to find their “Rafa Out” placards anywhere.

One moment they were staging protests at Stamford Bridge against the thrice-yearly sacking of their manager, the next it’s all chest-pumping at beating Aston Villa 8-0. Have you seen Aston Villa recently? I think the actual Chelsea fans themselves, regardless of their characteristic distended stomachs, would fancy their chances against Villa at the moment.

Never mind Villa’s patheticness, the supporters at the Bridge are raving excitedly about how they may now even catch the Manchesters. What a difference half a month makes. Why can’t they take a stand and stick to it?

Or possibly this: why don’t they admit that Roberto Di Matteo, bundled out of the door by West Brom not that long ago, didn’t actually “mastermind” the club’s first Champions League win. Instead, he got fantastically lucky. First he inherited a team that had cost £[insert ridiculous figure here] to build up in the transfer market. ­(Seriously, how many of those winners were taught the game by Chelsea?).

Then, his team benefited from one stroke of luck after another. Messi missing a penalty, the things that never happen.

Roman Abramovich’s operation lacks the class shown at Arsenal, but maybe his club’s own fans, as they wave the flags we never saw in the 1980s, could at least remember where his money has got them.
Richard Osley

TO the Arsenal fan who attempted to give me a high-six hand-clap on Essex Road on Christmas Eve, I suggest a look at the table on Boxing Day night.

To the Chelsea supporter who turned up at Gran’s Christmas party dressed in a Kimono, fur coat and very little else, her mate Gladys would like your number.

And to everyone who wrote in to tell me I’d failed my Gypsy Petulengro audition by predicting that Tottenham could deliver a top-four Christmas, I say, “erm, haven’t you got anything better to do?”

All right, so Spurs didn’t technically deliver Christmas on time, and I may not have been the only Tottenham fan to have spent most of the day head down under a cock and ball eiderdown.

Just as Gran may not have been the only Spurs supporter sullenly trying to unpick the number 4 off a new replica shirt before they could wear it to their Christmas bash.

But our boys got round to it eventually and they didn’t need soft penalties to get there.

Just Gareth Bale.

Oh dear. Maybe Santa can make up for our slightly delayed Christmas by bringing us a few prezzies in January.

Like a handful of one-way tube tickets to White City, so we can get rid of the dead wood, a captain who can inspire the team for a full 90 minutes, and a flair player or two who can get us up on our feet.

Deliver on that, AVB, and we really will have a happy new year.
Catherine Etoe

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