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Thoughts on a Picture

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Although we didn't get to see this on television, there was apparently something of a commotion at Stamford Bridge during this week's 4-1 win over Spartak Moscow when a travelling fan decided that he wasn't involved enough in the action and took things into his own hands. The result? This rather bizarre image, from which I will attempt to divine everything about what happened on that fateful Wednesday night:

  • We don't get too many pitch invaders in American sports. Baseball isn't really exciting enough for people to get up and run around for (and I say this as an avid baseball fan), and you'd have to be a complete and utter nutcase to disrupt American Football or basketball players mid-play. Ice hockey is out for rather obvious reasons, too. Maybe my expectations for a runner are just too high, but in my opinion they should do something more interesting than run to the centre circle, shout, and then get detained. Do it naked! What's wrong with you?
  • On second thought, maybe it's just a Moscow thing. I don't think I'd want to go streaking in Moscow in early November. If I ever decided to invade the pitch in a Russian winter I'm pretty sure I'd be wearing so many layers that I'd be mistaken for the ball.
  • This man is what you'd get if you divided one by Yuri Zhirkov. I will call him Benji.
  • Why are the stewards numbered? We've got a beefy looking dreadlocked fellow who goes by #27 and a rather elderly chap whose number is obscured. Also, I swear that I've seen the Numberless Steward before:

    Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:

    'Please, sir, I want some more.'

    The master was a healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupified astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.

    'What!' said the master at length, in a faint voice.

    'Please, sir,' replied Oliver, 'I want some more.'

    The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

    Steward #27, you are the Dreadlocked Beadle. Numberless Steward, you are every miserly Victorian gentlemen ever featured by Charles Dickens.
  • Salomon Kalou is clearly attempting to suppress a grin. Going through Kalou's mind: At last! Finally someone on the pitch who's worse at finishing than I am!
  • Going through Branislav Ivanovic's mind: Fee fi fo fam! A tasty morsel for this Serbian!
  • Benji has made a fatal error. If you'll direct your attention to his trousers (I realise this may be slightly unappetising), you may notice a distinct bulge in one of his pockets. The outline matches a wallet, or perhaps a cellphone - either one being more than enough to identify him upon capture. If you weren't wearing pants, this wouldn't have happened!
  • On first impression, it looks like Benji is shouting at the crowd while making a rather rude gesture. However, upon close impression his expression is of abject terror rather than anger, and his wild eyes are focused not on the crowd but squarely upon his raised fist. So just what is going on with his hand? I have some guesses:

    Demonic possession. "No, hand! Please don't punch me in the eye! Noooooo!!!"

    He's holding a very small mirror tightly and thus can see Branislav Ivanovic coming up to eat him.

    Hands are scary!
  • How much more lopsided can a restraint be? The Dreadlocked Beadle has everything covered, whereas Mr. Zero looks like he'd go flying off into the background if Benji so much as raised an arm, presumably taking poor little Kalou with him.
  • Benji, you're the worst streaker ever.

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