Primarily, this is because Jose Mourinho appears to be following Dr Nash down the road to the loony bin, if his comments over results in the weeks gone by are anything to go by. Claiming to have won the league game that Chelsea drew last weekend, and to have drawn the game that they lost, and which as a result also threw out the chance of his defending Chelsea's first major trophy under Russian ownership, Jose's increasing distance from reality seems to be shouting out for a swiftly administered dose of insulin to me. Step forward Mr Plummer, if you please, I believe your skills are required. I will leave it to you to judge whether his role in defeating tyrannical foreign interlopers with no respect for tradition or local culture through passive resistance and close vocal harmonies is of any relevance to the Chelsea situation in general, though if you start hearing Edelweiss sung at the Bridge, you can remember you heard it here first…
Of course, Chelsea have pulled further ahead of their rivals in the league this weekend, though not before Petr Cech's entry for keeper's howler of the season had delivered Blackburn a half time equaliser, and the failure of their main current rivals to keep up had much to do with goalkeeping errors too.
Manchester United were the most slapdash, the normally dependable Van der Sar having a total mare on his 35th. birthday to let Boro's first drift through his fingers, followed in due course by three more, in which he himself was not entirely culpable but where Muppet Ferdinand (remember him from last week's commentary? You know he wouldn't, in your place!) was brilliantly awful in allowing the second, such that he subsequently had to be substituted. Sir Alex's assessment that his team were "woeful, awful and unacceptable" implies that he at least touched based with reality long enough to accurately sum up the match, but you have to wonder quite what Carlos Queiroz has got photos of him doing to still be seemingly in charge of team tactics and ineffective formations.
In the North London derby, Arsenal's equaliser eventually came from a poor Robinson clearance falling to Robert Pires, whose sweetly struck right footed shot whizzed between four Spurs defenders to nestle satisfyingly in the net. I thought the quality of the strike, and the degree of invention reintroduced to the struggling visiting side by his half time introduction from the bench, belied the criticism which he had somewhat unfairly been copping all week from the press – though I must admit I myself had had a chuckle when I first heard a rumour that Saddam Hussein's legal team in Baghdad were preparing a cunning last ditch defence for their client in the event that he was awarded the death penalty in judgement for his crimes, ie that they'd ask if Pires could take it!
There was not much else of note in the game, but for the record can I just state how incredibly impressed I was at the "lived-in" look which the Spurs ground staff have managed to achieve with a breeze-block only construction ethos, though they are more in need of a plumber rather than Mr Plummer if the state of the loos is anything to judge by. Having reminded myself what a lovely part of town Tottenham isn't, I can only presume that the rumours about Roman Abramovic initially wanting to buy into Spurs were caused by his Russian chauffeur's poor knowledge of London postcodes… the Park Lane being sought at the time was of course in W1 rather than N17, but it's easy not to know which option to choose on your bullet-proofed BMW's satnav, isn't it?
Maik Taylor, who once upon a time not so long ago was unbeatable in goal against England, rounds off our demonstration that a mistake by the man in the number one jersey can be the most costly while allowing Everton to score what the table tells me is their third goal this season for a one-nil win over Steve "I'm not unsackable, but can I just try to de-emphasise that point" Bruce's Birmingham City.
Charlton fluffed their chance to stay second in the table by succumbing at home to Bolton, the second automatic Champions League spot being snapped up by an eager and victorious Wigan side, whose form is starting to make me wonder if I might be hallucinating myself. I was similarly surprised to see Liverpool comfortably dispatching West Ham at Anfield after having been outplayed by Crystal Palace in midweek to the evident fury of Rafa Benitez, whose post-cup-exit interview was a masterpiece of furious deadpan stonewalling, if you can have such a thing.
Thus, with all this uncertainty around, we fall back on reliable old Sunderland to provide the expected farcical collapse, though even the blackest-minded of cats must have been hoping for a celebratory bowl of victory cream once their side had managed to hold a 1-0 lead through the entirety of the first half, only to then ship four after the break. Applause is due to Laurent Robert, who showed impeccable timing once again in refusing to take his place on the Pompey bench just before kick-off and thus left his side with only four subs. Well, he may have been trying to heap pressure on manager Perrin, whose position might well not have been tenable had the visitors lost at the Stadium of Light, but how does that decision to strike look now that Portsmouth have climbed further from the drop zone?
If Perrin were to take the chance to call a jovial Graeme Sourness for advice on the matter, I imagine he'd be told to sell the player on to any idiot who'll pay enough – after all, there's no point having a misfit around. And how ironic that Sourness can offer that advice while basking in the glow of a late Sunday victory achieved through the services of one time Bernabeu outcast Michael Owen, whose deftly flicked first goal and quick-reacting predatory second showed why any other clubs which in the summer could have matched Newcastle's bid while tempting him with the lure of European football unavailable at St James Park, were quite simply mad not to have done so. Where's that insulin again?