Chelsea reach their second consecutive FA Cup Final.

 Chelsea reach their second consecutive FA Cup Final. 

It almost as if Chelsea knew they were going to reach their second consecutive FA Cup Final. Nothing had changed and nor was it ever likely to. Wembley Stadium was still an oasis desperately need in water, the fans were still at home watching from a very atmospheric living room, rosettes on their club shirts, rattles faithfully playing the same old tune and scarves waving from far and wide, lagers and cups of tea punctuating every goal kick, free kick or corner while on the sofa dads were convinced that their team was by far and way the best team in England.

Football is still missing its familiarity, its traditional home comforts, its old fashioned identities, the sound systems, those incessant vulgarities, the fans mischievous sense of humour, those insulting comments, voices laced with contemptuousness, rivalries deep rooted, the hatred on their tongues, intolerant of each other and wishing nothing but age old misfortune on their respective opponents. 

This is now the business end of the Premier League season. Manchester City, who were determined to win all four of the major trophies on offer at the end of the season, have more or less cleaned up on the domestic front and the Premier League title can only be a matter of weeks away. Chelsea are of course firing on all cylinders and after a shaky, jittery mid season have finally emerged from their winter hibernation as strong contenders for a place in next season's Champions League. 

Yesterday Chelsea booked their place in this year's FA Cup Final with a performance that suggested at some point they will once again become the dominant force that they were when Jose Mourinho was in charge. For much of their season that novice manager Frank Lampard had often skilfully constructed a young team of lively talents, learning their trade and adapting to the go- ahead, innovative style of their manager. It was a team of vibrancy, huge intelligence, wondrous imagination and eye catching cleverness on the ball. 

But then somehow Lampard lost his way and Chelsea suffered. The assured victories had now degenerated into a sloppy, slovenly mess. The team were not working on the exalted levels that they had enjoyed under Mourinho and standards were slipping quite alarmingly. Defeats and dropped points went hand in hand and Lampard was shown the exit door. 

Historically of course Chelsea have always been one of the game's great entertainers, cabaret performers, music hall artists, renowned gag tellers, West End glitterati, tap dancing their way through matches as if football was some outlandish high wire trapeze act or a portrait gallery. When Dave Sexton was boss during the 1970s, Stamford Bridge was reminiscent of Shaftesbury Avenue, a theatrical landmark full of the latest musicians and dancers of the moment, a West End melting pot. 

Some of us still fondly recall the magically mercurial Ray Wilkins, now sadly no longer with us but a midfield player of extravagant gifts, a playmaker of the highest class and always comfortable on the ball. There was Charlie Cooke, tireless, artistic, scheming, subtle, delicate as porcelain, hard tackling and driven. Ron Harris was funny but ruthless, hard as they come at the back, always leaving his legacy on his opponents. There was Ian Hutchinson, he of the celebrated throw and Peter Osgood up front, a lethal goal scorer of stunning goals and a wonderful supporting act when the ball had to be held up.

And yet yesterday evening Chelsea once again showed the swagger, polish, exhibitionism and the expressive short passes. There was a natural cohesion and understanding which was still there like a mahogany cabinet in the corner of your dining room, varnished, immaculate, not a scratch in sight. Chelsea displayed their entire back catalogue, the tricks, the flicks, the subtleties, the trademark craftsmanship, the draughtsmanship, the fine tuned excellence, the fastidious finery, the bows and ribbons, the silky filigree, the braids and tassels.

Under Thomas Tuchel, Chelsea looked like a well oiled piece of machinery, flowing easily and gracefully across Wembley as if football had temporarily become ballet or ballroom dancing for 90 minutes. Their passes were sweet, precise, technically perfect, their movement on and off the ball a fluid mechanism, a team of harmony and melody at times. But this was because you could actually hear the soft shoe shuffle, the ball tapping a thousand notes on your consciousness. Without football supporters football is now clearly audible as well, the ball sending out its very own Morse Code. 

So it was that the likes of Cesar Azpilicueta, a mountain at the heart of Chelsea's severely disciplined defence, Kurt Zouma and Antonio Rudiger stood firm and impregnable at the back, barely troubled if at all. Then the brilliant Thiago Silva was all finesse and refinement, stylish and smooth. Ben Chilwell, a shrewd signing from Leicester City, could be England's most consistent full back, neat and tidy, rarely flustered. 

Then there was the Chelsea midfield engine room, a place of natural creativity, of instinctive touches, utter simplicity and an inclination to attack fluently and dangerously, pausing for thought when they had to and then speeding up the tempo as and when required. Mason Mount is already an England player and deservedly so. Mount's footballing mindset has an obvious originality, a level headed personality, a player with a handsome passing range, a man with almost peripheral vision, youth, confidence and so much to offer the game. 

Both Mount, the imperious Jorginho and the beautifully balanced N'Golo Kante, always the controlling influence and a passer of whimsical magnificence, dominated the middle of the pitch. Kante was perceptive, composed, a player of now experienced pedigree. Up front the German striker Tino Werner, who has struggled to score for Chelsea since he arrived at the club, this time made sure that he would not be forgotten about. 

As for Manchester City this was not the Manchester City of this season or the one before Liverpool so completely bossed last season. Your mind goes back to City's first Premier League title or trophy of any description when on the last day of the season they wrapped up the title with a final day victory over Queens Park Rangers. On that day City were almost driven over the finishing line by hundreds and hundreds of thousands supporters whose fanatical support may have been the difference between finishing first rather than runners up. 

But this season falls into an entirely different time zone and environment. Football is the same as it's always been and yet it doesn't seem to bear any relation to the genuine article. City are back where they belong at the very zenith of the game and after a seemingly irrecoverable slump in the middle of the season when they looked utterly out of contention for anything let alone the Premier League title, Pep Guardiola's pass masters were knitting their quick, quick, slow, slow, staccato, rat a tat patterns, swivelling their protractor around at all manner of  beguiling angles and taking geometry to new heights. 

Sadly City will not be gracing Wembley Stadium with their dignified presence in the FA Cup Final. The immensely gifted Kevin De Bruyne is still capable of producing the most remarkable of long, stupendously accurate, crossfield and diagonal passes. He can also still  slice open defences with  that heavenly collection of slide rule passes in between gaps that suddenly open up in opponents defences without blinking an eye lid. Ruben Dias was a study in poetic motion as well as the ageless Fernandino, grace personified. Aymeric Laporte and Ilkay Gundogan were always searching for something to take the breath away. The Cup Final is not though City's destiny. 

And yet City frequently had nowhere to go at times, their attacking avenues blocked by a blue wall of Chelsea shirts who seemed to grow into the game. Jorginho, the permanently forward looking full back Reece James, Mount, the magnificent Thiago Silva, N'Golo Kante, Hakim Ziyech and Christian Pulisic and Kurt Zouma all seemed to possess a much greater sophistication and subtlety. There was something rather more dashing and debonair about Chelsea's attacks that always looked like winning this FA Cup semi Final. 

Chelsea's winning goal was enough to settle a hugely disappointing first half that seemed to be locked away in some dusty vault. In fact there was something very tiresome and shapeless about the whole game that cried out for something spectacular. For the best part of an hour the match seemed to stuck in a huge vat of sticky treacle, a leaden footed, ultra cautious game stifled by fear and anxiety. 

Eventually Chelsea broke away from the City stranglehold. Tino Werner, Chelsea's German striker who couldn't score a goal however hard he tried, finally ran directly at the back pedalling City defence, kept running before reaching the edge of the City 18 yard area and then laying the ball off simply for the onrushing Hakim Ziyech who came hurtling into slide the ball past the American keeper Zack Steffen. 

So Chelsea are back at the FA Cup Final where they have now become frequent visitors in recent years. Last August they were outmuscled and outwitted by Arsenal, who in the end went the extra mile in the Wembley showpiece. This year Chelsea will meet either Leicester or Southampton in the FA Cup Final which is rather like telling a middleweight that they've just been told that they'll probably come face to face with a cruiserweight. There will no be hint of tentative jabbing or the southpaw leading with a savage hook but you suspect that blue will once again be the predominant colour. Football will indeed be the game.