Morning:
8°c
Even with the spark plugs clogged, the tyres flat and the engine underpowered, the Chelsea juggernaut reached its destination last night after one of the more curious spectacles the Champions League will produce this season.
Two games were being played at once and for more than an hour Chelsea could scarcely have been less interested in winning the one against a willing but second-rate Atletico Madrid on the pitch.
With qualification for the knockout stage a gimme, their minds were clearly on the one in their heads . . . the marginally more momentous domestic fixture at home to Manchester United on Sunday.
Given how close United came to losing at Old Trafford themselves, Sir Alex Ferguson's chaps may have been equally distracted by that imminent Sabbath mash-up.
This is the curse, of course, of these interminable qualifying groups. At the halfway point, with maximum points from three games, Chelsea had effectively done enough. So rather than berate them for their lethargy, we should laud them for refusing to accept defeat after falling behind. Most of us would have shrugged and thought, sod it, this isn't worth the effort.
Fraction fans will appreciate that this, in defiance of all cliches, was a game of approximately four-quarters in which a blindingly uneventful first 65 minutes yielded to a frantic last 25 before Didier Drogba finally took ownership of the night.
Last seen in this competition barefoot and eyeballing the camera insanely after that mildly-contentious semi-final loss to Barcelona, he returned from his ban to steal the show. No surprise, there. Along with Kevin Pietersen, this is one of English sport's two leading narcissists, and as such he was never likely to let the match pass without taking centre stage. For a long while, having said that, it seemed he would.
So irrelevant were Chelsea as an attacking force that Drogba, despite missing one early chance, featured more as makeshift defender than in attack. Intent on husbanding energy and retaining fitness with Sunday in mind, Chelsea spent the first half soaking up what little pressure Atletico could exert.
Considering that the Spaniards hadn't managed a goal in their three previous Champions League games, this was no colossal challenge for the side that emasculated Barca for 92 minutes a few days after the Catalans had scored six at Real Madrid.
For more than an hour, the game was rather like watching flies buzzing round a cow's behind. At any moment, you felt, all Chelsea need do was swish the tail and that would be that. In the event, they were content to tolerate the irritation until Atletico startled everyone, not least themselves, by taking the lead.
Chelsea had looked a touch less comfy in the second half, enduring a couple of nervous moments from set-pieces, yet there was no portent of the goal of borderline genius to come. It arrived when John Terry's poor headed clearance of a right-wing cross fell to substitute Sergio Aguero. God knows why this gifted Argentine didn't start but his finish was one of such perfect technique and blistering ferocity that Petr Cech was left helpless.
Chelsea's response was swift and predictable. With Frank Lampard suffering a rare off night and Joe Cole evidently miles from match fitness, they had produced next to nothing as an attacking power.
Finally, angered by Atletico's insolence, they roused themselves under Drogba's de facto leadership.
The Ivorian first cashed in on atrocious marking to head home Florent Malouda's artless cross from close range, then unleashed his fearsome strength to scythe through the defence, slotting in his second after his shot rebounded off goalkeeper Sergio Asenjo's chest.
Sadly, their previous indifference denied them any right to feel aggrieved when Aguero curled a delicious free kick inside Cech's right-hand post to secure the draw.
This had been not only an eccentric affair but a nostalgic one, with Atletico full of ghosts of better days past. Diego Forlan, Jose Antonio Reyes and Florent Sinama Pongolle all had stints at Big Four clubs.
But there is nothing spectral about Carlo Ancelotti's Chelsea.
Ageing his players may be but this remains a formidable team of blood and guts that can be excused a lacklustre night in the certainty that they will be prepared to lay down their life when it matters.
And so, albeit sluggishly, the blue juggernaut rolls on. Time will tell whether they have the energy to roll all the way to next spring's final at Real's Bernabeu but I think it would take a very rash punter indeed to bet heavily against Chelsea returning to Madrid in May.
