I've Always Hated Chelsea.

No, I have. Ever since 1973, when I spent weekends at me Nana's on the old Arkwright Street (above the TSB, where the playground opposite the Poet's Corner is), and one of the bastards threw a brick through the window. narrowly missing me when I was playing Haunted House on the dining room table. I hated them then, I hate them now, and I'll even keep hating them when Roman Abramovich either gets bored or toppled and they end up with the kind of debts that make Forest's look like a lottery win. I lived in London for 13 years, and in all that time I only met one Chelsea supporter who wasn't a glory-hunting bandwagon-jumping ponce or the type of neanderthal who should have been experimented on by Boots. Just one.

Forest, do this one thing for me; either beat those bastards or crop some of them out of the season. Do this, and you can hold full-on IRA-style dirty protests in any pub in town you like.