A Chelsea fan opines.

Being the foolish bastard gracious sport that I am, I reached out to a long-time Chelsea supporter in the hopes of gaining some insight into their recent courageous run of form, because I cannot figure it out for the life of me.

Paul kindly obliged with some thoughts on it all, although he was busy packing his mittens for Moscow at the time.

Join me after the jump for some CFC praise, won't you?

I am 47. I have suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as a Chelsea fan since I was 7. Those many years of bad karma were rewarded that fateful day, when my favorite pillager of Russia’s natural resources, turned my Blues into his personal ego toy and began playing Fantasy Football with my beloved denizens of The Bridge.

Great names. Brilliant talents. A cornucopia of the finest midfielders in the world – Roman did indeed collect the whole set. And the maraschino cherry placed atop this magnificent dessert was my favorite manager to stalk the sidelines – The Special One; no further introduction is needed.

Under Jose’s exquisite touch, Chelsea marched through the EPL like turds through the proverbial goose. We did not lose at home. We did not lose to Arsenal. We violated Spurs with epic regularity. We turned the 1-0 lead into an art-form worthy of most Italian national sides. Boring, boring, trophy laden Chelsea.

There was, however, one proverbial fly in the ointment of Jose’s genius – the dreaded combination of Rafa Benitez, Liverfourth (credit to fellow blogger, Autoglass for this particular nickname) and the Champions League. For some ineffable reason, Chelsea would stub its toe against this rock and go crashing out of the tourney that Roman valued more than any other. The fly became a wasp, then a gull and finally the vulture that ate Mr. Fantastic’s job and tore my beating heart from its chest.

My new manager - a dour jowly bloated gelatinous douche of a man - Avram Grant. A man instantly disliked by 90% of the people who he would encounter and then, over time, utterly loathed by the 10% who had previously withheld judgment. A puppet of his Roman master, who we instantly dubbed Skeletor.

The wheel had turned – karma’s rent was due and the bank account was bare. Chelsea was done like dinner.

Somehow through the injuries to Lamps and Terry, through the displacement of the African Nations Cup and the collapse of Drogba’s form, through the complete rearrangement of Cech’s skull and face and through the wildly un-special gag at Wembley in the Milk Cup, Chelsea won a lot more than it lost. We played dull football. We lacked punch and passion, and we would throw in the occasional howler (Wigan and Barnsley come to mind), but still we plodded on.

Today, my Blues find themselves in a virtual deadlock with a struggling Man U at the top of the EPL, and, most amazingly in our first CL final after defeating the nemesis, the red beast of Liverfourth. How?

Skeletor gets some credit. His absolute banality and joylessness meant he was never a distraction (his urine-chugging bride was only good for a quick chuckle). His complete lack of animus and analysis meant he didn’t infuriate his dressing room and his decision to banish both Sheva and SWP to the footballing equivalent of the Outer Hebrides has served his team well. He installed Essien at right back, Makalele in the holding role, and shifted us to a 4-3-3 that gave us width and an ability to create danger. And he was blessed with good fortune in both Turkey and Anfield with beautifully finished own goals.

But in the main, he inherited a team filled with fortitude, and a relative lack of ego (I say relative because both Ballack and Drogba are on the same squad). They play team football, enjoy a heavy work-rate and are simply more talented than any other team who they play. This time it was Rafa who proved to be the distraction by inspiring Drogba and denigrating the referee before the match.

And thus, me and mine in Kingdom Blue are left with the ironic dichotomy of a team playing at the height of its powers for the Lord of Darkness.