In a season of relative comfort, United have retained the ability to surprise their supporters - and perhaps even themselves - with the occasional eyebrow-raising scoreline. From the unadulterated joy of going goal crazy against Villa and the mackems to Leon Best's three Hammer blows and the unprecedented cliffhanger of that 4-4 draw, this has been an eventful ten months.    

On the road though, it's often been a case of quality rather than quantity, with just one goal in our last four away games before today and an overall strike rate on foreign fields that harked back to the attack-free misery of 1997/98 (King Kenny? that makes me a Republican, then...) 

There have been marvellous, life-affirming afternoons and evenings away from Tyneside this season: unexpected delights like breaking our ducks at the Emirates and the JJB, or the sheer brilliance of Ben Arfa's effortless arrow into the Gwladys Street net.

Despite revisiting our destructive habit of starting the campaign with one manager and ending with another, the lows of being intermittently cuffed by startlingly average home teams lasted no longer than the next league game - Gyan's flukey leveller more irritating than Reebok or Britannia pastings.

In fairness, we got by with just two managers (neither of them foul-mouthed or with Iain Dowie on speed dial), as opposed to the five separate appointments of our 2008/09 disaster area - progress? 

Coming into this game though, it seemed as if we'd had our thrills for the season.

True, the heat had been taken out of this contest by Chelsea's surrendering of the title, while ours and West Brom's ability to maintain forward momentum should ensure a final four minute billing in next Sunday's Match of The Day broadcast. In other words, a dead rubber. 

However a nagging feeling remained that there would be a reaction from a home side presumably smarting after surrendering their title but still had a second place finish to nail down. And regardless of the standing of Ancelloti in the Blues' dressing room, after a draw at Gallowgate and a win here in the Carling Cup, surely the lengthy list of absentees would ultimately see us found out. 

And enjoyable though the achievement of triumphing here in the League Cup by the odd goal in seven was, the result was devalued by the diminished nature of that competition - a similar situation that accompanied our FA Cup exit at Stevenage, where some pitch invading paper hat grabbed more column inches than the giant killing.

That feeling was reinforced within two minutes, when the home side netted after what looked like minimum effort - and a traditional SW6 pummelling seemed to beckon. Perversely though, we fielded eight of the side who won here in September (through necessity, rather than rotation) and when Ryan Taylor reprised his free kick success, the same feeling that anything was possible re-emerged.

In addition to their ranks of sulking fans (and stayaway corporates) the home side looked to be in a profound huff with themselves. Our fortuitous equaliser and consequent revival worsened that joyless mood and Chelsea became more and more ragged as half-time approached.

After the break it was more of the same, although neither 'keeper really had a great deal to do. But with the game drifting towards to an enjoyable (for us) stalemate, normal service was apparently resumed when a rick by Krul left him exposed and Chelsea with an undeserved winner.

That would have been a disappointing return for the collective efforts of the travelling players, fans and staff, but there was to be another addition to our late goals collection, prompting frantic scenes of celebration totally out of keeping with the gaining of a point.

Alan Pardew had disclosed to the media that he'd been present to observe the glorious madness that was our 4-3 win here in September, although he didn't reveal whether he'd dipped out before the final whistle to beat the traffic - and missed Shola's winner. 

He was certainly here for Taylor's leveller today though and deservedly enjoyed the moment. A little earlier, the manager had thankfully disregarded his own recent guff about owing Kuqi pitch time in favour of some young blood, handing Sammy Ameobi a senior debut and giving Kazenga LuaLua a happy ending to a season that had seemed likely to be curtailed by injury.

Already buoyed by a dogged display in an unfamiliar role from 19 year-old Shane Ferguson, to give Ameobi Junior a go was important for him and also the whole Academy setup - proof that a route from kids to reserves to first team remains (even if it does end up at places like Anfield....)  

As to whether LuaLua has improved as a player and a person remains to be seen, but his time with Brighton must have been more beneficial than lolloping around Darsley Park with the stiffs. Putting aside his ill fortune with injury, a timely injection of lower league reality followed by a chunk of top-flight pitch time can only have enhanced his value and put a spring in his step.

And although it was achieved in a blue and white striped shirt, his efforts this season outweighed those of Nile Ranger, who already risks losing his status as the next big thing due to his apparent brainlessness, despite the security of his contract. 

Quite simply, he's not good enough to be given the "respect" aka slack he seems to regard as his birthright - and Tino did the shooters thing with far more style. Forest Hall's Chuck 'D' returned to the scene of his sole senior goal this season and despite his assist, is arguably no further forward in his footballing career. 

Since Ranger scored here in September, he's avoided injury but proved incapable of taking the gaping opportunity presented by sales (Carroll), injury (Ameobi/Best) and uselessness (Kuqi.) His best chance now seems a lower league loan to find form - and maturity. 

One game to go then, before the real business begins: sales, signings and seeing what stupidity our squad have indulged in on their holidays. If nothing else though, United managed to send 1,500 of the faithful off in good spirits and improve their manager's standing by a notch or two.

Biffa