Sunday brought sunshine to West London. Sunshine; in January; in London. That should've been our first warning that the Mayans were right. There's quite clearly some sort of an apocalypse going on, if not on global terms, certainly in English football cup terms. The misguided and the unseeing will blab on about the "Magic of the Cup" but I know what's going on. I see it all, man. There are dark forces at work. And I bow down to the coming of our alien overlords.
* invasion within the next month and a half, I'm quite sure at this point
Let's review. There's a League Two finalist in the League Cup (sorry, Capital One Cup), going up against a side making their first ever major cup final appearance in their 100 year existence. That's mid-table Bradford City, who had won just 40% of their League Two matches yet have vanquished three Premier League teams to reach the final. And that's fashionable Swansea City, risen from the dead, yet overshadowed by a supremely silly episode between Eden Hazard and a twerpy 17-year-old.
Then, on Saturday, for the first time in 24 years, a non-league side defeated a top division side, as Luton Town shocked Norwich City 1-0 at Carrow Road. Their run may yet extend ever further, as they get a relatively easy draw in the next round with Millwall of the Championship. Luton Town's upset of quite significant proportions would have been enough magic pixie dust for any given weekend, but not this one. Oh no, this one saved the best for last. Thanks, Mayan calendar-maker-person.
So then Sunday. Sunday, bloody, strange, Sunday. We all know just how badly Chelsea played;* what we did not know is that the 2-2 vs. Brentford would not be biggest shock of the day. It may have been comedic and brain-melting, but then Tottenham and Liverpool happened. Both Premier League sides found themselves losing by two goals at one point and couldn't do much else than to pull it back to just a one-goal defeat. At least Spurs lost to a decent Championship outfit in Leeds United. Liverpool, on the other hand, were bested by an Oldham Athletic team for whom I was convinced for a good while that Doctor Who was playing at center forward. Maybe he can save us from the alien invasion?
So where does that all leave us? Chelsea will surely blast Brentford back to the stone age in the replay and we'll all get to forget or laugh about the insipid draw - eventually, of course, after this whole Interim manager nightmare is over - the way we reminisce about drawing with Wycombe Wanderers or Southend United. Or, well, you know. Aliens.
* I think all my anger is spent. I cannot manufacture it fast enough, and now I'm literally all out. Some may call this numb or catatonic. I call it safe. Safe, in my padded room. So so safe.