The Blue Meanies
It's not a good tale to tell the children, is it? As Terry and Lamps held the Cup aloft, I couldn't help thinking 'the baddies have won. Again.'
There'll be no Hollywood epic of the 2010 Cup Final, which is a shame, as there was enough in it for a damn fine script to emerge. Chelsea hit more bits of woodwork than an erratic carpenter in the first half. Saloman Hassungotta Kalou was back to his worst.
I sometimes think that a footballer's haircut is a good barometer of how well they think they're doing - and Kalou's 'I was run over by motorbike' look suggests self-confidence.
Mind you, nothing quite compares with the original Ronaldo's 2002 slid-forward toupee - a work staggering both in terms of its audacity and it's its utter naffness. Then again, the lad scored a hatful that tournament so maybe the bumfluff forehead helped.
Prince of grieves - Boateng is inconsolable after his penalty miss
Any road, following Kalou's three-yard miss, I fully expect a low-key sensible barnet for next season. As for Kevin Prince-Boateng... keep the shirt over your head for the summer, mate. You might comfort yourself by watching Frank's woeful scuff up the other end (good lad Lamps, get it out of the way now son, eh?) or dipping back into the annals of time to find this Pat Nevin special.
But really, it looked set-up to be one of them stories that neutrals get a bit giddy over - like Sunderland beating the evil, talented and cynical empire of Leeds United in '73. Or Saints in '76. Or Wimbledon in '88.
But no. Avram's lads, united in their misfortune, with Jamie O'Hara carrying his fractured shins around the park, and Aaron Mokoena throwing himself in the line of fire in a way that Kevin Costner could only dream of with Whitney Houston, looked like it might just be their day.
Then Wince-Boateng's bottling of the pen was followed by the inevitable Didier Drogba goal and that was that. The Blue Meanies triumph.
A word on Drogba. A man of many parts.
There's the agonised writher, apart from 50 Cent I can't think of anyone who's has so many 'near-death' experiences.
There's the jostling, nudging, tugging, needling stuff - but then I forgive any centre-forward that when he gets twice as much coming the other way.
There's the sulk. I swear he's the reason Nicolas Anelka's grown up over the past couple of years. He must have looked at Didi-dums and thought 'I'm not like THAT, am I?'
There's Red Mist Drogba 'n all. Too often the bloke gets his marching orders when it counts.
And then there's the footballer. The Drogba who stands up, doesn't cry, gallops like a centaur (I had to look that one up), shoots like Robin Hood (but with a better Northern accent than your man Crowe), and all in all leads the line like some terrifying matador.
In other words, the bloke's really talented, really annoying and the best all-round centre-forward in world footie at the moment, including Torres.
Chelsea must be commended on their first Double. But I can't quite bring myself to do it,
which is not the case for England's T20 boys, after their majestic drubbing of Australia in the final.
The short-form still seems a bit unsubtle to this old fella's eyes but you can't deny it's entertaining. Credit must go to Michael Clarke for persisting with the blond mullet that is Shane Watson and giving Craig Kieswetter and KP a pie-fest for three overs.
There's nowt like being world champs to make you put aside a few question-marks, but the two men who brought the game home for us were born in Jo'burg and Pietermaritzburg. Is this a problem? It might be for Norman Tebbit, I suppose. And South Africa.
But Craig's Mum's Scottish and Kev's Mum's English and in any case Eoin Morgan was at least as important to England's batting line-up... and he's - ahem - Irish.
Look, the point is, he says, arguing with himself, that England don't write the rules on qualification - and so it's not our fault they want to play for this noble nation of ours. In fact, the least we can do to show our gratitude to the batsman-factory that is the RSA is to go and win the World Cup for them, then they can win it here in 2018 when we host it. Which should happen so long as eminent people in the bid don't get caught having private conversations with their friends.
Kieswetter and KP - English and proud
I can't say too much about Lord Triesman, but we all say things in private that we wouldn't say in public - and if we're getting to the point where every under-the-breath aside is being recorded and then used against us then we might as well turn into a bunch of mute robots with politically-correct placards held above our heads.
It's another shoddy affair, any road. But it shouldn't affect the bid. Fact is, England has the best facilities on offer, the best grounds, an unending supply of interested fans, and we should host it. The main stumbling block is not some alleged text messages to a young tell-tale, but the playing surface of our national stadium.
They'd be better off playing the divisional play-offs in the flipping car-park. Back in the 70s, Scotland fans were pilloried for digging up squares of Wembley's precious turf. I tell you what, dear Pictish friends, pick up your spades, your pitch-forks and your barrows and come and flaming well take the silly sods (of turf) away!
Then we can pool together the greatest minds in lawn preparation and solve this problem. Look for a Cameron-inspired coalition of Titchmarsh, Don and Dimmock to be in place before too long.
Of course, by then, we could have a Miliband in power. I'm all for the brothers having a shoot-out, me. Take note you cowardly Klitschkos. Vit v Vlad? As long as we don't get the boxing equivalent of a Williams sisters final, that'd be grand entertainment.