Chelsea are only one perfect performance away from heading to Munich. One performance away from having a chance at finally lifting the UEFA Champions League.

This more than anything is what we want most. It’s the one Terry and co. haven’t won. The one that has eluded us through refereeing ineptitude, wild controversy and plain old bad luck. The side that progresses will be the one that wants it more.

We’ve been here before. We have shown that we are capable, if any side in europe is? We can beat Barcelona. We did it last week, and without allowing Barca an away goal. And that means we don’t have to win on this most vital of Tuesdays.

Let us put the past behind us though, but who can forget the most impressive opening of any Chelsea side with Duff slotting home. Or the sublime goal of the ever impressive Frank Lampard from an impossible angle that he maintains he did intend. Or even Ashley Cole crossing to Drogba who spun and smashed the ball home. Maybe we shouldn’t forget the past, lest we doom ourselves to make the same mistakes.

It doesn’t take a talismanic Ivorian forward to know that we’ve been robbed in the past against this over-hyped Barcelona side, and ‘f***ing disgracefully’ at that. That doesn’t matter though. We can only try control what we actually can control. We can’t control the fact that commentators the world over will fail to objectively report the game. We can’t control the referee. For large parts of the game we won’t control the ball.

Chelsea haven’t changed much from the side that saw Iniesta steal that goal in 2009, but neither have they. Barcelona play through the middle. They have no real width. They have no true striker. They lack a truly world-class goalkeeper. They have revolutionised football without ever having a plan B.

Messi can be stopped, he has never scored a goal against Chelsea. Xavi can be stopped, I call it the Mikel effect. Before the first leg Pep Guardiola, who is no Special One, just very familiar with the Catalunyan way, admitted difficulty in formulating how to create scoring opportunities against Chelsea. He wasn’t bluffing. He now claims he has no doubts they will prevail.

Now he is bluffing, as even the happiest married couple will tell you, there are always doubts. It won’t be easy, as playing any great side is never easy, but we are a great side too. Even if we aren’t thought of as such. If we lift The Champions League trophy in Munich that might change though.

We must be dynamic. We must be at the top of our game. Barcelona will play their pretentious form of anti-football that monopolises possesion, but we have to play the Chelsea way. The defensive discipline, the decisiveness in front of goal and the refusal to lose. Cech and Mikel have returned to form. Mikel’s interception of Robin Van Persie’s little disguised pass on saturday was nothing short of brilliant.

Gary Cahill and John Terry need to be immense again, and continue displaying a solidity that must have the english FA licking their collective lips. Ivanovic cannot be caught out as often as he was in the first leg. Didier Drogba’s one man campaign of terror must continue, on his day he is simply unplayeable. Ashley Cole must allow the world to see he is the best left-back on the planet, yet again.

Mata cannot drift out of the game completely for long periods. Frank Lampard must once again prove ageist sceptics wrong; yes, he is a better player than Steven Gerrard. Ramires must put in a yet another player-of-the-season performance. If we play to our strengths and do what we must do, we can do what too many don’t believe Chelsea can.

If we can somehow nick a goal and maintain our shape for the entirety of the match we will go through to the final, but we can’t play for a scoreless draw and we can’t waste possession when we do have it.

The team that wants it the most will progress. Has the Barcelona bubble popped? Are they about to experience the joy people have in tearing down heroes and making them villains? Will we have a shot at ultimate glory come the final or will we once again rue what might have been? I think the final result will be 0-0 in the Camp Nou.

Mission Possible. As always blue is the colour. See you in Munich.

So, Chelsea supporters, you’ve had a tough time of it recently. And now you’re off to meet Napoli in the Champions League, hoping against hope that this will be what brings your club back from the brink.

Well, in case you’ve been hiding under a rock, I’m here to tell you — this tie just might not be the simple one you’re wishing for. If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that Napoli won’t be that easy to beat, particularly at home.

At first glance, it looks as though the partenopei are in a “crisis” similar to Chelsea. After all, they’re in sixth place in Serie A, and were just beaten by league newcomers Siena in the Coppa Italia. And yes, it really hasn’t been a fun season to be a fan of Napoli, unless you like frustration, roller coasters, and the fear that you’re about to have a heart attack.

The club wasn’t prepared to play in three competitions, and Coach Walter Mazzarri made some questionable decisions with the rotation of players.

But this is a squad that rises to the occasion, and hosting Chelsea will certainly be a reason for them to show off. Mazzarri won’t be present on the touchline, after shoving Nilmar during the 2-0 win over Villarreal, but that doesn’t mean his presence won’t be felt. He’ll certainly make sure that Napoli put their best faces forward.

Hugo Campagnaro is a doubt after limping off in the 3-0 victory over Fiorentina on Friday, but there are no other injuries or suspensions to deal with.

That means the starting XI should be predictable: Morgan De Sanctis; Gianluca Grava, Paolo Cannavaro, Miguel Britos; Christian Maggio, Walter Gargano, Gokhan Inler, Camile Zuniga; Marek Hamsik, Ezequiel Lavezzi; Edinson Cavani.

And of course it’s the front three that the Blues should be worried about: the Three Tenors, The Trident, and The Holy Trinity. A search through the matches in which Napoli have struggled reveal that these are the ones in which one of the threesome were dropped. Those who give the partenopei just a glance believe that it is Cavani that holds all the cards, and while it is true that the Uruguayan is a talisman of sorts, without Hamsik and Lavezzi, the system simply doesn’t work.

The two that support Cavani may not have his goal tally, but if Chelsea concentrate simply on stopping El Matador, they won’t be very effective. Hamsik, despite often being criticized by those who rarely watch him play, has the vision, is the one that reads the game and can execute the perfect pass at exactly the right moment. When he’s rendered ineffective, the entire team suffers. Then there’s Lavezzi, who can terrorize with his trickery, and whose pace will certainly frighten much of the Chelsea defense.

This isn’t to say Cavani won’t be a worry. He’s more than a simple poacher, a striker that relies upon service from the rest of the players. He certainly has a nose for goal, but Cavani invades the entire pitch, running back to defend before appearing in the box to head in a cross or nudge the ball into the net. With Chelsea’s backline looking so shaky as of late, it’s hard to imagine a scenario in which the partenopei don’t create multiple goal-scoring opportunities. And we haven’t even discussed the threat of Christian Maggio on the right wing — whichever makeshift left-back steps in for the visitors — won’t be prepared to handle his speed.

So, how to break down the partenopei? Overwhelm them in midfield and cross your fingers that the Chelsea defense is up to the task. And, of course, there’s Didier Drogba and Daniel Sturridge, whom I presume will be starting for Chelsea, the thought of which makes me anxious. The Napoli three-man backline has also had a tough time of it recently, and if Grava starts in place of Campagnaro, it will be even weaker.

The Blues certainly have more than a chance in this tie — if they can overcome their recent performances, that is. And, if they bring earplugs to drown out the noise of the San Paolo. That will be enough to get even the most experienced knees shaking.

This introduction to Napoli was contributed by Kirsten Schlewitz, who is a Napoli and Aston Villa fan, and contributes to 7500 to Holte and SB Nation Soccer. You can follow her on Twitter here @7500_Kirsten.

Apologies for the hiatus in our perambulations across Europe, whilst we’ve been diverted by weightier matters closer to home.  But with the Champions League winter break almost behind us, and a trip to Napoli heaving into view, it’s time to re-visit la bella Italia.

With The Special One having joined Internationale following his departure from the Bridge, it was inevitable that we’d meet him in the Champions League, and when the draw for the round of 16 paired the clubs together, a number of hasty telephone calls with a few pals resulted in some fairly cheap flights to Milan, a half-decent hotel next to the station and an early trip to Gatwick to fly out the day before the game. 

It’s worth remembering that Milan is served by two airports, and whilst Linate is the junior partner, it’s certainly more convenient for the city centre (as I discovered last March when my flight to Pisa was diverted to Milan Malpensa when the windscreen in the cockpit cracked whilst flying over the Alps and I was told that it would take nearly as long to get to central Milan as it would to wait for the replacement plane).

Having evaded the squadrons of mini cabs looking for a fare and located the official taxi rank, a 20 minute ride took us to our hotel and following check-in and a meet up with a mate who was in another nearby hotel, we set out to explore the city. One of our party (let’s call her K) had expressed a wish to visit an outlet store in the Via Manzoni where highly desirable designer goods could be purchased at heavily discounted rates, so we decided to call in there.  It was the first in many shopping disappointments for me on this trip.  Nothing worth having, in my book, or hers.  We then decided to head for the famous Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, packed to the brim with Prada, Gucci, Chanel and other leading designers.  On the way, we passed La Scala, one of the world’s most famous opera houses.  Another disappointment.  It looked incredibly utilitarian and municipal.  I’d been expecting something along the lines of the ROH, where I occasionally patronise the cheap (sic) seats, or the heavily rocco’d Paris Opera.

The Galleria Vittorio Emanuel reminded me of nothing so much as the Great Western Arcade in my native Birmingham, but with shops infinitely out of my price range.  Even K. was heard to mutter in Prada “too expensive” whilst Jimmy M., the sole male member of our party was told by G., “If you bought your wife one of those [£1000] bags, you could have your dinner cooked at 6pm every night for the rest of your life”, to which he replied “at those prices, I’d cook it myself”.

Whilst strolling back towards the Metro, I’d decided to call up a couple of pals who were also over for the game, Mr E. and Dazza A, who’d promised to join us at a dinner in the Porta Rossa for my flatmate, whose birthday it was (see also Travels with the Chels – Stuttgart).  Whilst the phone rang, I looked ahead of me, and to my amazement saw them standing 50 yards away from me.  We firmed up arrangements for dinner, and made our away back to the station and our respective hotels to bathe and change.

The restaurant in Porta Venetia necessitated a cab through the dark streets, however we arrived a little after the appointed time and made our way through an unlovely corridor into what appeared to be an outdoor bar and restaurant protected from the elements by a marquee.  We were shown to our table, where our friends were waiting and proceeded to order.  When it came to the Contorni (side dishes), the waiter was asked about a salad.  He said “this is a beautiful dish.  You have tasted nothing like it”.  Therefore an order was placed for it to share amongst us, together with a more prosaic side of chips.  So the food arrived and the wine flowed.  When the mysterious salad arrived, four or five of us tested it. I thought it was like an extra vinegary coleslaw.  “Be careful”, warned Dazza A. “That could go right through you”.  Prophetic words.

So the meal went on, only threatening to come to a fractious head when the bill arrived for a seemingly extortionate sum, which was resolved by the discovery that we’d been charged for more main courses than we’d had and the fact that the waiter had thought the party at the next table were with us.  With the usual grousing accompanying a large party (“I only had a main course”, “I didn’t drink all that beer”, “I didn’t have a side order) – we settled up and adjourned to the bar for drinks.

By the time 1am arrived, having had a few drinks, I was starting to feel tired.  My tummy was also starting to rumble in an ominous manner, and I decided to go back to the hotel, leaving K and G in the doubtful care of Dazza A.,whom I left outside the restaurant asking a cabbie what sort of low nightclub they could go on to.  I got back to the hotel just in time.  Dazza A’s prophecy came to pass and I spent much of the next two hours firmly clamped to the loo, clutching a packet of Immodium.  By 3am, the sickness had passed, and I crawled into bed just as K and G arrived back, not having much luck in finding a venue with suitably banging tunes.  G curled up in her bed and went to sleep, but K and I spent a most amusing hour playing “Arse versus Elbow”, in which the competitors take a picture of their arms crooked at the elbow, with the wrist pointing down, to see whose arm ends up looking most like arse cheeks.*

In spite of the uproar in my stomach, I slept, only to wake at 8am.  I thought I’d better go and try to have some breakfast but in spite of the tempting array, I could only manage a little toast and coffee and retired back to bed.  We hadn’t formulated any particular plans for the day, but over their breakfast K and G received intelligence of more friends arriving in town, and decided to go off to a bar to meet them.  I simply wasn’t up to sitting in a pub and lay in bed with the window open, praying I wasn’t going to be too ill at the football.  I was also considering the implications of wasting the whole of the day in bed.  Eventually it was too much for me, and I decided that the pub might have been out, but I could do some quiet sightseeing on my own.  I was determined at least to see the Duomo (Milan’s Cathedral), and I’m glad I did.  I’ve visited many of Europe’s great churches now, and there’s no doubt that Milan’s has got to be near the top of any connoisseur’s list.  In spite of the large numbers of visitors, it still maintained an air of peace and holiness that are lacking in others (Florence, for example).  I even managed to attend a mass in a side chapel, where I devoutly prayed for a win against Inter.  As many of the shops were close to the Cathedral, including La Rinascente, Italy’s main department store chain, I paid them a visit (mainly to laugh at the prices), and also went on the City Sightseeing tour in the pleasant winter sun.  I also hoped a light meal of pasta in the restaurant next the hotel would succour my recovering stomach against the night at the San Siro.

Having joined up again with the others, the ladies of the party spent a pleasant hour customising some specially bought Fila y-fronts, in tribute to Ashley Cole’s recent marital problems with the bon mots “Girls Allowed” which we planned to smuggle in past the stewards.  Then we headed to the recommended metro station to meet the buses which would take us to the ground.  Happily ours was full of Chels, but the drive to the ground seemed to take hours, in a huge Milanese traffic jam.  By the time we got to the ground, the game was about to start, and we hoofed up the circular walkways.  Halfway up, I was starting to feel unwell again.  In a throwback to the Old Wembley area, male (natch) fans were starting to use the walkways as a urinal, having been caught short after too much Peroni.  Eventually, we reached the top, only to find the view of the pitch obscured by netting, presumably to stop supporters from the upper tier throwing anything on to those below.  In a state of disbelief we took our seats, just in time to see Diego Milito open the scoring on 3 minutes.  To say we were disgruntled, at this point, would be an understatement.  However, the team dragged themselves back into the game, playing some decent attacking football.  And in spite of Jose Mourinho’s burgeoning reputation as a defensively minded football, Inter looked capable of scoring every time they had the ball.  Just before the interval, we should have had a penalty when Kalou was upended by Walter Samuel, a foul seen by everyone, it seemed, apart from the ref.  Half time saw us still a goal down, but hopeful at such an early stage in the tie. 

Just eight minutes into the second half, a miracle.  An equaliser from Salomon Kalou, following a rampage down the right by Ivanovic.  The decision to drop Joey Cole looked like a good ‘un.  But our dreams of a draw with a crucial away goal were dashed only four minute later when Esteban Cambiasso was the beneficiary of a couple of weak clearances, first by Carvalho and then Terry, and we found ourselves 2-1 down.

Worse was to follow when Petr Cech had to be carried off shortly after in one of those inexplicable turf accidents, to be replaced by Hilario.  Say what you like about Chelsea’s No. 2, he’s never let us down when he’s been called into the fray, and the game ended without us shipping any more goals.  The Inter fans celebrated as if they’d just won the Champions League, never mind about a round of 16 first leg, their joy magnified by a victory over a team now managed by the former boss of their bitter local rivals, AC Milan, the amiable Carlo Ancelotti.

The Chels settled down for the usual inevitable post-match lock-in, but this proved to be probably the most enjoyable part of the evening, save the Kalou equaliser.  The San Siro Wheels of Steel rocked us to the sounds of The Clash, The Jam, Madness, Squeeze and many other favourites.  It’s almost as if they’d done their research.

There was some unpleasantness on the way out as the doors at the bottom of the walkways were blocked by Carabinieri to avoid any potential clash between any Inter Ultras hanging around (of which there were a few) and our fans – the queues backed up unpleasantly and some misguided individuals decided to have an off with the Police; never a good idea in any country, downright foolish anywhere in Italy.  It is purely my opinion, and of course we were probably in the rubbish bit of the ground, but rather like the Stadio Olimpico in Rome, the Giuseppe Meazza looks great on TV, but does not live up to the reality.  Happily I didn’t find it necessary to use the “facilities”, but I’m told there were two loos for 4,000 visiting fans.  Animals would probably be treated better.

However, eventually we got ourselves on a bus and reached the metro in time to take a late train back to our hotel.  The evening concluded with a few drinks (non-alcoholic in my case) in the bar, but with the firm conviction we could still turn the tie around.

The next morning, Jimmy M. met us at our hotel to join the flight home and said that he’d been feeling lousy, and a subsequent conversation with Dazza A. confirmed he’d been ill too.  We all had one thing in common; we’d had the coleslaw salad at dinner on Tuesday evening.  However, conversations with other friends confirmed that the sickness hadn’t just been confirmed to us.  I’ve never heard of so many cases of illness during a European trip and whilst I don’t know what other people were eating, the moral appears to be of the story is whilst in Europe, be a salad dodger!  This is of course something which those off to Naples might want to bear in mind…

Speaking of which, I’m packing my tiny bag for my first European away trip of the season, which hopefully will bring enough stories to furnish a future “Travels”.  In the meantime, you can follow me on Twitter @BlueBaby67

*Readers travelling to Naples may find this a cheap way of filling any empty hours.