I fear that even the unquestionable ability of a learned Jedi Knight, albeit a dead one, can not save us from our current predicament.
Well, Tuesday night was fun, wasn’t it? Another toothless, faltering performance, punctuated with costly errors, firmly embedding us within the relegation morass.
I was tempted to write this preview directly after that game, but I think even the porn-riddled internet would have been offended by some of the language I had lined up.
There’s no point in me raking over the coals in a vain attempt to conjure any warmth, as there is none.
2. Make Mine A Bitter
Having said that, there is one thing I can’t bring myself to overlook.
Bolton’s first goal stemmed precisely from a passage of the directionless midfield/defensive passing that has become our hallmark.
Gabbidon to Parker, to Tomkins, to Parker, to Kovac, to Gabbidon, to Ilunga, to Gabbidon, to Ilunga, to Kovac, to Parker, to Tomkins and on and on and on and on....
...until a pass goes astray, we’re all on the back foot and a footballing team with the panache of Bolton Wanderers slices us open.
Possession, you might say.
Possession is, of course, fundamental and all well and good if ultimately fruitful, but during this sorry episode, we didn’t even get out of our own half.
Not that I can see us beating any team in the league this weekend, but the arrival of Chelsea to Upton Park on Sunday afternoon provokes a particularly uneasy wince.
Top of the League, blessed with an outrageous squad, money to burn, west London – they are literally the mirror opposite to ourselves and I fully expect them to batter us.
If he plays, just imagine what the ruthless Didier Drogba will do to wet-behind-the-ears James Tomkins...
Even cheap Lampard gags are futile and reek of a pathetic desperation, a churlish bid to embolden ourselves by slagging off an ex-player who would improve our own midfield no end.
4. Then Again...
'Come 'ere, you..... You're beautiful.'
If you look through the history books at our overall record against Chelsea since 1915, we fare well having registered 24 more goals and four more wins.
This record has of course been eroded significantly since Chelsea became a clandestine beneficiary of the suspect Russian oil and aluminium industries.
Salomon Kalou’s volley was enough to earn Chelsea a 1-0 win in this fixture last season, and while a weakened Chelsea were the better side, we had good chances.
Kieron I’m about to die-Er (a snip at £400,000 per game) shot tamely at Petr Cech from a great position and Diego Tristan’s flicked header was cleared off the line.
Our best chance, however, fell to Mark Noble after Ilunga was felled in the penalty area and awarded a spot-kick. Noble didn’t so much mess up as produce a fine save from Cech, and the game was lost.
6. Showing The Strain
As I’m sure you understand, I’ve lost all enthusiasm for writing about our prospects and so will cut this short.
Steve Clarke’s affected stance that Sunday represents “a great game for us”, does nothing for me, and I can only presume that the long-absent, arch-pessimist Headhammer Shark has hung himself.
7. Rage Against The Dying Of The Light
And now to an unrelated rant, I'm afraid.
For a little over three years now, at least four of the eight of you have grudgingly weathered this blog, its cheap gags, naive optimism and/or arduous cynicism – and all at no cost!
With that in mind and in the season of giving, there is currently a campaign in the UK to oust Simon Cowell and his cabal of saccharine, Satan-worshipping evil-doers from their mainstream media perch.
A commendable effort has been made to deny Cowell and his latest pre-pubescent, characterless mannequin of bland, parasitic, undistinguished, pox-ridden mediocrity the Christmas Number 1 single for the fifth year running.
The proposed alternative is Rage Against The Machine’s classic angst-ridden, expletive strewn, early-90’s ditty, ‘Killing In The Name’. A veritable panacea for X-Factor, Britain's Full Of Talentless Freaks and Cowell's omnipresent parade of the deluded.
Cowell has declared the emergence of valid competition as little more than a puerile witch-hunt, the collateral damage of which may tarnish the porcelain complexion of his latest doe-eyed paramour, to which I say, 'Fuck off'.
You can purchase a copy for a paltry 65p by clicking here, which I have done despite owning the album. I’m just that wealthy.
I urge you all to contribute, not least because a percentage of the proceeds will go to a variety of charities, but that it’s little victories such as these that we must cling to, to sustain us through the bleak, joyless months ahead to which all Hammers fans are surely condemned.