Too many cliches occur and block my efforts to express the feelings and experience of Sunday's narrow defeat: roller coaster, passion & pride, sick as a parrot.
Suffice to say the boys done good and we're proud of them. Or to use Harry's exact words: 'I'm well pleased with the lads.'
This is all apart from:
a) Pav's free kick (nyet, nyet, I take, I am striker, look.... Chyort voz'mi! I hit big screen)
b) Bentley's penalty. He can put a ball in a skip from a hundred yards for a Rolex (see below) but can he hit a sodding barn door or Ben Foster from 12? The answer is no.
It was actually quite emotional. Most fans stayed to cheer the players when they went up for their medals (compare Chelski fans last year who were heading back to the Bridge before the final whistle blew) and there was none of the churlish 'I didn't care about this mickey mouse cup' attitude that I remember from '82 when Liverpool beat us. At the end of that game we sang 'Stick your milk cup up your arse'. It was a bigger trophy in those days too.
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