As promised, this report will not linger over the statistics of the game, which is just as well because I can't remember half of it. I'll attempt to impart the flavour of a day out at Wembley for the benefit of those that weren't lucky enough to be there. I've now been to three Cup Finals in my life, something I couldn't even dream of when I was a kid, and have seen Chelsea win twice. I've also experienced the dark despair of losing at Wembley, so commiserations to the Villa fans who made the trip. I was chatting to one of them on the tube after the match, and was shocked to discover that it's been forty three years since Villa lifted the trophy, which makes our twenty seven year wait look like kid's stuff. The guy got one thing wrong, though: he said that Villa fans wanted it more than Chelsea fans, but I soon put him right there. You'd have thought that we'd never been to Wembley before, such was the atmosphere at Wembley on Saturday.

The day started early for me, as I had trouble sleeping on Friday night due to nerves and excitement. Suddenly, at 10AM, nothing happened. Unfortunately something was supposed to happen: it was the appointed time when the idiots who were meant to be travelling up to Wembley with me were supposed to arrive. After several increasingly irritated calls to these Wee Willy Winkies, I sat down to await their arrival. The first bad penny to turn up was my brother Ruprecht (his real name's Tom, but if you've seen the film Dirty Rotten Scoundrels you'll know the type of bloke I'm talking about). He was farting, whining and moaning, wanting to know where his breakfast was, complaining about the weather, his trousers, etc. I good naturedly smacked him round the back of the head and told him to sit down and shut up until he could behave like a normal human being. A couple of hours later I relented, otherwise he'd still be there now... (that was a joke, for any Germans reading this..)

As me and the missus enjoyed the Chimps Tea Party that was Ruprecht munching his way through a plate of bacon and eggs, I mused over the events of the previous 24 hours. Along with Marc, who'd flown in from Hong Kong on Thursday, we had decided to drive down to Guildford, just down the A3 from Putney, so that Marc could visit a certain shop to buy some hydroponic equipment (don't ask !).

Unfortunately we made the breathtakingly naive error of allowing Ruprecht to navigate using his "Famous Short Cut Method". We arrived in Guildford three hours after leaving my house in Fulham, a journey that can only possibly take a maximum of an hour, even in the worst traffic conditions, with both me and Marc alternately yelling insults and hitting the idiot. All the while he moaned, farted, and claimed he was suffering from car sickness. It all came to a ridiculous head as we caught him studying his A to Z upside down while complaining that "this road wasn't fucking well here here last time: how can I be expected to navigate when they're constantly moving the goal posts ??". To my knowledge, every road we drove along on Friday has been there for a minimum of eight hundred years in one form or another. Need I go on ?

Next to arrive at eleven thirty was Marc himself, looking like death, having been up until four the previous night. He deposited something nasty and green that he had hacked up from his chest into my bathroom sink and collapsed into an armchair, unconscious. A few minutes later we were joined by Col. Mustard, AKA Dicko of the Glasgow Death Grip. The usual greetings/insults were exchanged, and the party was nearly complete.

From this unlikely beginning our motley band began the serious business of making sure that we would for ever have the greatest difficulty remembering a single thing about the day, as we fell upon the contents of various bottles, etc. Finally we sallied forth and crammed ourselves into the sort of car that gives minicabs their bad name. Worse was to follow. The driver, Tony from Ghana, turned out to be what can only be described as a dangerous nutter, but we band of brothers were invincible; what could possibly go wrong ? I laugh now at the naivety with which we set out..

As we careered down the A40 we spotted a car with Villa flags flying, and just to make conversation I suggested to Tony that he might like to crash into it. Just in jest, sort of thing. Unfortunately I hadn't realised that we were in the company of a psychopath; "No problem", says Tony, "Hang on tight !". He then subjected both the driver of the Villa car and the three of us to a terrifying ordeal as he violently swapped lanes back and forth, narrowly missing other vehicles, ending up three inches from the bumper of this poor guy, flashing his headlights, pressing the horn, swerving, etc. The look on the Villa fan's face as we tore past was something I'll not forget in a hurry, while the sight of his wife shielding their small baby in the back (I know, I know...) will stay with me forever. We looked at each other in horror as Tony laughed like a drain, slapping the steering wheel and whooping like a loon...

Somehow we made it to Finchley Road and the North Star pub, with Tony still chuckling about his performance. "Did you see that guy's face ?" he yelled delightedly. We shook our heads in silent disbelief, paid him off and went gratefully into the pub. My hands were still shaking an hour and four pints of Guinness later. We left for Wembley at one fifteen, but not before denuding a delighted shopkeeper's stores of various types of take away alcohol. We didn't even moan about paying this guy's incredible prices, we were so relieved at being alive. Apart from Ruprecht, that is. "When can we move in, then ?", I heard him say to the puzzled shopkeeper. "What do you mean ?" says the guy. "Well, we've bought the fucking shop, haven't we ?" says Ruprecht.

After a short trip on the underground we arrived at Wembley. As we were emerging from the tube entrance, a gaggle of Villa fans were chanting "England, England", a reference to the fact that most of our players are foreign (so what ?). Considering half theirs are also foreign it was a bit much, so I made an error of judgement by allowing my irritation to get the better of me. I know it was stupid, and I'm the first to hold my hands up, but my excuse is that I was a little over excited.

Anyway, I ended up having a sort of "discussion" with them on the merits of foreign players, etc. Certain things were said that with the benefit of hindsight probably should not have been. It did get a little heated, and I'd completely overlooked the fact that there were OB everywhere. As I moved away having made my point I could hear the Villa fans shouting out to OB that it was "Priesty, number 43" from the name on the back of my shirt, the wankers. I saw the coppers moving towards me, decided that discretion is sometimes the best part of valour, and legged it down the steps towards Wembley Way.

Luckily OB must have had better things to do with their time and gave up, or I'd have been banged up before even setting foot in the ground. All the same it was a close one. It was a wiser, if not sober Priesty who sat on the wall watching the carnival procession of fans trudging up Wembley Way. We were joined at the last possible second by Neil, who had also had a four o'clock night. At 2:30 we finished up our beers and went up to the stadium. Unfortunately we then had to separate due to the fact that we all had seats in different areas.

Having subjected myself to the ridiculous, dehumanising trip to the bogs I emerged relatively unscathed and climbed the steps up into the seating area. The wash of noise and colour that greeted me was breathtaking, as always. I barely had time to register this when I was knocked over by a guy who was clearly in a hurry. As I gazed after him I was knocked over twice more, once by three stewards, then by a couple of OB who were backing them up. As I dusted myself down they came marching triumphantly back with this guy, who looked a little the worse for wear. Apparently he had somehow forced his way past the turnstiles without a ticket. They should have given him a medal and a free ticket for his blind optimism.

My seat, having promised a "segregated fence view" turned out to be by far the best seat I've ever had at Wembley, right at the front of a block (plenty of legroom), and right next to the steps down to the inside of the stand. The fence was well below my line of sight, and I found myself in the unusual position of being able to see not only the pitch at my end, but in the dim distance I could swear that I could make out the goal at the other end as well. Amazing. We had to put up with some knob singing "Abide with Me" completely out of tune (why do they sing that song at the Cup Final ?), then the teams came out. The noise, the flags and the sheer emotion made my voice catch in my throat as I roared along with the rest of them. We then had to go through the interminable, stupid hand shaking routine, where some minor royal slums it with those common footballers while pretending to be a Man of the People, etc. The atmosphere was building to fever pitch, and eventually the players squared up. Suddenly, we were off, to a crescendo of noise from the hopeful crowd.

I won't bore you with the details, as it was a pretty nondescript match from where I was sitting, but the only moments I remember with any clarity were when Dennis scored what was a perfectly good goal that was disallowed, and of course the sublime moment when, after a goalmouth scramble following David "Calamity" James' dropping of Franco Zola's inswinging free kick, Robbie Di Matteo wheeled away having scored what turned out to be the last goal ever at a Wembley Cup Final, giving him two Wembley records now, the other one, of course, being for the fastest ever goal in a Cup Final.

Right at the death, Calamity James tried to repair the damage by haring up the pitch for a last gasp effort to score from a corner, but just as Chelsea got the ball and were about to score into an empty net, the referee blew the whistle. I nearly fainted with delight as I realised that we'd won the Cup, and I spent the next thirty minutes alternately grinning like a nutter and trying to stop myself bursting into tears. I will never forget the moment when I could have sworn that Gus Poyet looked at me just as I fell off the step in my excitement. When I climbed back up he was still looking, and laughed and gave the thumbs up as I waved back at him. Although he could well have been looking at some other idiot, I choose to believe that Gus and me shared an intimate moment at Wembley on Saturday. You just cannot buy this sort of entertainment. Bloody fantastic. Roll on next season. What the hell am I going to do for the next six weeks ?

What do YOU think ? Want to add your point of view ? Here's your chance to send me some feedback. NB: Opposing fans: abuse will be laughed at and then ignored, so don't waste your time. Considered, intelligent argument, presented in the spirit of friendly rivalry guarantees a response.