The other day, I made myself a sandwich. It was the most frustrating thing I have ever made.

This sandwich, or at least the process of making it, was f*cking annoying. For 71 minutes, I fumbled the bread in my hands like a masochist playing a game of hot potato. It was at the 71 minute mark that I dropped both slices on the ground, and in the same motion somehow stepped on them and flattened them into what were essentially tissues. These were the only two slices of bread left in the packet, and I knew charities would be rioting outside my door if I let them go to waste. I had to retrieve them.

Every now and then, you just have to accept that at the end of the day, a loss was a fair result. You have no choice but to sit back and admit that the opposing team fully deserved the three points.

Unfortunately, because we played Chelsea, I'm afraid I can't do that. I hate them. I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them. So bloody much.