The Lamp.

It would appear, curiously, that drinking large amounts of premium lager, cuddling a spaniel and a tricky pub quiz does indeed numb the pain of defeat, but not the day after. No. It would also appear that strong coffee, fags and a bacon sandwich do nothing to rid me of this terrible hangover either.

I woke up this morning with Simon Amstell Hair giving me a kiss on my cheek as she went to work and left me in bed to enjoy my day off. Aaah, a lie in, how lovely. Snore. Zzzzz. Sleeeeep.

But. Hang on. Oh. Ooooh. No. Noooo. NOOOOOOO! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.FUCK! Birmingham. Birmingham? Shit, that was it. That's what happened. Oh. My. God.

For those of you reading this that share the same affliction as myself, you will understand the pain, the nagging torment of visualising the cock-up between Scrabble and Koscielny, and the utter, desolate desperation of losing yet another final with this wonderfully talented team. I was a believer that by winning the League Cup yesterday, it would be the catalyst for this team to go on to greater things. But all we are left with is images of players on their knees, Jack Wilshere's tears and the open mouthed silence of Gooners at Wembley amid the madness of the Zulu nation.

And my hangover.

Why did it come to this? How did it come to this? Team selection? Rosicky instead of Bendtner? Really?  That's a bit harsh. The injuries to key players? That certainly was a factor, but I think we all felt that we had more than enough on the pitch to beat a somewhat average Birmingham side. Of all the days to not play very well, a Cup Final is not a good day to choose. And not play very well we did. Defensively we were ropey at best, in midfield we controlled the play, but in the final third as we've seen on countless occasions, we failed to break down a well-drilled back ten. A back ten I may add, whose main centre half was barely able to run for the last half hour. You may have your own thoughts as for why we failed to turn up, but I know why we didn't. And here's why -

Let me tell you a story.

It all began last Sunday afternoon ten minutes prior to kick off against Leyton Orient. For my 40th birthday I was presented with a genie lamp by the beautiful, talented and wonderful girlfriend of the Tottenham-West Ham hybrid. At ten to four, Simon Amstell hair, being the curious type, lifted the lid of the lamp and looked inside. What was she thinking? Here's what followed -

Orient Equalise in dying minutes
A Power Cut
Windscreen wipers are torn off a car in Buxton
A car breaks down in Sheffield
Cesc off injured v Stoke
Theo off injured v Stoke
New Zealand earthquake
Colonel Gaddafi goes mad
RVP injures himself scoring wonder goal
Birmingham score late goal to win the Carling Cup.

That's what happens when you let a Genie out of a lamp, and the worst of it is we've yet to find the bugger to put him back in.

So for all your theories about why things have been going wrong, now you know.

The LEAGUE Cup Final

Firstly, and most unimportantly, I'm not going to call it The Carling Cup. Because Carling tastes like piss. It tastes like the piss of a man that's drunk too much Carling, been pissed into a barrel with Carling stamped on it, spewed out into a pint glass, and served to you in a cheap boozer by an evil man masquerading as a barman, slapping it on the bar as you rummage in your pockets for loose change and take a sip -

'That's two pound twenty, please.'
'HOW much?'
'Two twenty.'
'For THAT?'
'Yep.'
'But it tastes like piss, you got anything else?'
'Stella.'
'Oh, I'll have one of those, then.'


Let that be a lesson to you.

Bleeeeuuurrrrgggghhh

Neither is it the Milk Cup, The Littlewooods Cup (more of a Vernon's boy myself), The Rumbelows Cup, The Coca-Cola Cup or The Worthington Cup. No it is The Football League Cup. Or The League Cup. End of.

Since Patrick Vieira's winning spot-kick against Man Utd in 2005 we have won precisely fuck all. We've been close to triumph in various competitions since then, but I don't want to drag all that up and put you on a downer before a match that could prove to be the catalyst of an amazing season. There has been some talk along the lines of it being our time to win something, it's been six years - so suuurrrely. It's a bit like living where I live. It rains. A lot. It's raining now. After an average spell of six days non stop rain we all kind of get to thinking, isn't it about time the sun came out?  No. It doesn't work like that. It still rains.

We can't affect the weather, we can't change it.

However. Leaping from the meteorological world to the world of football, tomorrow at four o'clock, at Wembley, eleven men in red and white - some tall, some average, one tiny and one mad can change things. And change it they must.

It's a competition, that frankly, has been derided by most of us in recent years. It has been seen as a breeding ground for our younger players - something that was scoffed at by most clubs, although now most copy our blueprint and use it to also blood their youth. Even the loss against Chelsea in 2007 was greeted by some with a shrug of the shoulders because of the experience and age of the team we put out, and because we knew we had bigger fish to fry.

But it didn't quite work out like that, did it?

This year, things have changed. Although fourth on the list of his priorities, some of the sides that Arsene has fielded in The League Cup show that he is taking it seriously at last, or listening to the discord and pleas of the fans to get something shiny in that trophy cabinet, however small.

'There is a weight on the team at the moment. We have to deliver trophies because we have not won any...I'm not the only one for whom that is important, there's the players' feelings too.'


True, to a point, but what about us, Monsieur, the fans? We're the ones that fill the stadium every game and sell our allocation to every away game, that's every, by the way. We deserve this as much as the players' 'feelings' do, if not more.

Fabregas and Walcott, in case you hadn't noticed are both out injured. While I would like Cesc on the pitch, it's too much of a risk when you look at the games to come, whatever his fucking personal trainer says, and Mr Ferrando doesn't pay his wages. Diaby, by some miracle is fit again, as are Van Persie and Koscielny. Nasri (who apparently is on the verge of signing his new deal) will slip elegantly into the centre and egomeister/winger Bendtner will play out on the right.

Birmingham will not be easy to play against. They are tough, direct, and have a few good technical players capable of turning a game - all ex Arsenal I might add. They have Zigic, who at 9 ft 6, will pose us more than a few problems at the back, but nothing that a Djourou and a step ladder can't deal with. I don't want to dwell on the opposition, however, because they still remind me of Eduardo's shattered limb and for that, I hate them.

It's a chance for Arshavin to continue his improvement all round and hopefully in front of goal, and for Jack Wilshere to pretty much do what he's been doing all season - be the best player on the pitch, unfazed by anything. Fabregas and Walcott aside, we have more than enough in terms of experience and talent to beat them, but I don't think it'll be a stroll. We're The Arsenal and we never make anything easy, you know.

This is a massive match for us. A win tomorrow will go a long way to instilling belief in the players' often fragile minds that they are winners. Putting my head on the block here, I'm sure if we lift the cup tomorrow, then we can put it in the trophy cabinet next to a much bigger one come the end of May.

Three points - at a price. Grrrr.

Fuck it.

On the one hand I'm delighted with three points last night against Stoke, who I hate. One the other hand, which is turning into a clenched fist as I type, we have lost Theo for a few weeks with an ankle sprain and Cesc for God knows how long with another tweek of his hamstring. I am no doctor, no, but the look on his face when he walked off tells me it's not good.

Lucky for us, we haven't got any big games coming up. Oh. Hang on.

So Theo will miss the Carling Cup Final. I'm gutted for him, but you know what? We can win it without him. Cesc? Come on, he's bound not to play, and even if he's 99% fit, he shouldn't. Because you know, ten minutes in, the hamstring will go PING and we'll have to do without him for the rest of the season. Theo possibly missing the Barcelona game is a big worry because I fancied him to run riot at Maxwell in the space that Camp Nou provides, and without Cesc there, I imagine we'll struggle to create much like we did last night after he went off, although I doubt very much that Barca will stick nine men behind the ball.

With Cesc on the pitch last night there was a buzz about the place, and we should have been at least two, possibly three goals to the good before he went off.  Theo hitting the post and another one he skewed wide. When he did leave the pitch, the team went as flat as the stadium did. How odd. I'm just thankful that the much maligned Squilacci stuck one in with his nut (from a corner of all things, not directly, but with another Bendtner assist), because we really failed to create that much thereafter.

Much like against Orient, we took the lions share of possession, got ourselves into good positions, and then did not a lot with it. Tip tap tippety tap tip tap nothing. No, Stoke didn't make it easy, they were never going to, but I still find it infuriating that the loss of our Captain can change the mood of the team so quickly. Nasri can create, as can Wilshere and Arshavin, so we'll just have to get on with it.

On a positive note, I'm loving Scrabble in goal. The man makes decisions, quickly, and deals with things. He doesn't come flapping, and when called upon last night he made a fine save from Carew's drive, having first put down his cup of tea and kit kat. Perhaps more importantly, he doesn't seem right in the head. And that I like.

There was a lot of twitter ranting last night about the tackle on Theo. I think it's symptomatic of the hatred of all things Stoke/Pulis/Baseball hat/Shawcross/Delap/towel/throw-ins that the iphone was ablaze with abuse towards Whitehead, but you know, I thought it was just a tackle, a little clumsy maybe, and Theo was just unlucky to go over on his ankle. Sorry, but that's the way I sees it.

We're now only one point behind Man Utd who play Wigan-Chelsea-Liverpool, and I'll be fucked if they don't drop points out of the last two of that little lot. So injuries aside, my little lovelies, things ain't looking too bad are they? And we've got a cup final to look forward to on Sunday.

And I've got Monday off.

So fingers crossed on the injuries, not only to Cesc and Theo, but also Van Persie and Koscielny. Come on Gooners, please let's be positive. What did she wear?

Curry, Cakes and Catalans

Eighty quids worth of curry on the table. Kathy Neros turned up with a bag full of moody cakes destined for the bins and The Arsenal were ten minutes away from kick off against the best team in the world. Surrounded by Stella Artois, Gooners, a Tottenham-West Ham hybrid (he's confused, but strangely always welcome), his charming partner and the glamour of Simon Amstell Hair, we tucked into the food. But I wasn't hungry. I hadn't eaten since twelve. I mean - I was hungry, really hungry, but I wasn't. Understand?

'Prediction?'

'Three one, The Arsenal.'

A few nods, a few shakes of the head. Eyes fixed on the screen as the teams strolled out, chana masala dribbled down my chin, wiped back into my mouth with a damp piece of chapati. Classy, son. I was nervous. The sick feeling that had been welling up in my stomach since 7.25 am had overtaken my body, and it felt like it was on its way up. I washed it back down and stared at the screen.

Copenhagen and Paris. '94, '95, '00 and '06, been there, did it, and I was nervous, but nothing like this. I don't quite know why, but there you have it.

The first half flew by and I could hardly catch my breath. Barca swarmed all over us. Intricate passing patterns weaving in and out all over the pitch. Messi should have scored after 15 minutes, but I like to think the sheer oddness of Scrabble in goal put him off. A David Villa goal under him on 27 minutes was the difference at the break, but it could have been worse, Barca had a second goal wrongly disallowed for offside. Alex Song was booked early on, and frankly I was astonished he stayed on the pitch to last over an hour. RVP had two good chances, the first he shot straight at Valdes after a chip over the top from Cesc, and the second I thought he should have done much better with, skewing his shot well wide of the post on his favoured left foot.

Half time arrived and it was time to breath again.

Fuck. Here we go again.

We actually seemed resigned to the fact that we were going to be chasing shadows all evening, just happy to nick the ball when the chance was offered to us. But from the kick off in the second half, there was a greater energy about us. Outplayed in the first half as the ITV stats gleefully showed, but only a goal down, a single goal. Through the tipsy haze that had now descended, I can recall a few frightening moments, just. Eboue giving the ball away and Messi hitting the side netting when a pass seemed a better option being the one that sticks out, but we were still well in it.

Step forward Simon Amstell Hair for quote of the night -

'I'm bored now, I want Arsenal to score.'

Really? How odd, because so the fuck did I. Two minutes later, her wish was granted as Van Persie belted one in at the near post. Near post, yeah, leaving Valdes looking somewhat a plum, but still a quite brilliant and  accurate finish. One must say, had it been Almunia or Fabianski, he would have been slagged off by all and sundry, but not our Victor. Anticipating a pull-back, he took a step to his left, leaving a gap that RVP gladly filled.

Madness.

Five minutes later, Saucy Jack helped on a ball to Cesc who played a beautiful pass with the outside of his right foot to Samir Nasri marauding into space down the right. Holding it up, and with the chance seemingly gone, he waited. Then he waited a little bit more until the tiny Russian came sprinting into view. Nasri played the perfect curled pass to the onrushing Arshavin, who without breaking stride side-footed it into the net from a couple of yards inside the box.

Oh Dear God. Bedlam.

Excuse me for getting carried away here, but at the final whistle the result was Arsenal 2 Barcelona 1. Yes. I was confident before the game, but must admit that after half an hour I was fearing the worst. Listen, if it had been Man Utd that had just beaten them, they would have been queuing up to grovel and lick the feet of Lord Fucking RedNose himself, and God forbid if had been that little lot from up the road. We earned this result - not on balance when you look at the stats, but beacuse we refused to give up playing the football that we play. Teams have come to The Emirates and been totally outplayed yet have come away with the points and have received the plaudits. So let's have some of those over here, please. Very few teams are going to take the lions share of posession against Barcelona, that's a given, but even fewer are actually going to beat them. Make no mistake, this was a massive result for us - an incredible result against the best team that I've seen in my life.

The second leg awaits. Jack Wilshere showed on Wednesday as we suspected, that he's more than ready for anything this game can throw at him. At just nineteen he uses the ball intelligently, shows amazing maturity and was truly outstanding - the best player from either team on the pitch for me. Koscielny had a great game, reading runs and tackling intelligently, Nasri will be fitter and Sagna will be back. Pique will be suspended and fingers crossed Puyol loses his battle to be fit. The prick.

Brilliant, Arsenal. Just Brilliant.

A final thing. Let's not forget Rocky Rocastle. Tickets available here for 'Rocky Remembered' - a knees-up at The Rocket, Holloway Road on 2nd April. Riders of the Night and The Away Boyz perfoming. It would be rude not to, wouldn't it?



I Hate Barcelona

Where to start this evening? Hmm..

I hate FC Barcelona. I hate them with a fucking passion. I've hated them ever since Marquez and Puyol kicked Henry to bits in the Champions League final. I hated them when Larsson came on and changed the game. I hated them when they lifted the Cup in front of me in the pissing rain in Paris. I hated them when they signed Henry at the end of the following season. I hated them even more when they took us apart over two legs last season.

I've taken it further. I hate their city. I hate their Ramblas. I hate their hot chocolate with 'churros'. I hate Gaudi. I hate their Parc Guell. I hate their Casa Mila. I hate Montjuic. I hate their unfinished stupid drippy cathedral.

Bitter? God, yes. If Thierry had slotted in one of his two chances in the 2006 final and we'd have won, I'd probably love the fucking place. But he didn't, and I don't. As you may have gathered.

Their incessant pursuit of Fabregas doesn't entirely make me happy either. Every time one of their players opens his gob, the letters D, N and A invariably drip out. Yes he's Spanish/Catalan, yes he used to play for you a long time ago, but he doesn't anymore. If you thought he was that good, maybe you should have tried just a little harder to keep him in the first place.

I hate Xavi more. Because he looks like Robert Downey Jnr, and as we all know, he's a cock.

Cock

I don't mind Messi, though. He's Argentinian, and he'll be some player. Mark my words.

We play them tomorrow, you know. Yes, we do.  With the majority of the English press, the Spanish press, the World press, the Universal Press and the Alien Press Association (Thrib Wibnot Thripnab) writing us off before a ball has been kicked, I hope to God we play as we all know we can.  If Sporting HEEhon can stop them playing, then I see no earthly reason why we can't. Robin Van Persie's on fire at the moment, Cesc will surely be licking his lips - fired up against his suitors, and in Jack Wilshere we have a precocious young talent surely ready to fully announce himself against one of the greatest teams that ever put down jumpers for goalposts. Is he ready for this? Yes, I think he is. I really do.

Clichy will have his work cut out, no question, but he will need support from the player is front of him. If Nasri is as fit as we're hearing, then he may start - a bit of a risk, in my opinion, with plenty more important games coming up. If not, Arshavin will retain his place, and cover back he must. Big time. The centre halves, I'm not too worried about, oddly. I think with the guile of Djourou and the speed of Koscielny we should be ok, they just need to stay fully concentrated. It's the threat from our right hand side that's worrying me. The legend that is Eboue will start instead of the suspended (doh) Sagna, and at best he's jittery. Still, he'll only be up against Messi. Eyes down, Emmanuel, eyes down. And Szczesny? Don't worry about him, he doesn't.

We have to close them down, harry them off the ball (Song, with your hair), force them into making mistakes, don't give them time to pick their passes, just like they do. Fight fire with fire. Get it out wide to Theo, the one player that honestly scares them. Let him run at Maxwell, let him pick the correct pass and let RVP stroke it in. An then do it again. And again.

They are a brilliant team, no doubt. We are a brilliant team on our day, and yes, Barca are beatable, very much so, of course they are. It will require maximum effort from everyone, including the home crowd. It's a massive ask to beat them over two legs, but by defeating them at The Emirates, it'll give them something to think about for the return at Camp Nou, especially with not a Silvestre in sight.

Oh, and please, again, no oles. I fucking hate them too.

Love

Good evening. Just a short one to let you know I still exist.

Back late from a weekend away in The Lake District with Simon Amstell Hair. We've had a wonderful time full of mountains, lakes, good food, bad food, alpacas, punk sheep, coffee shops, underground shops, a cinema and a bad case of the shits.

I return with my heart full of love, on this day of all days - St Valentine's Day. There was no card this year for the love of my life, I forgot. So, I'm sorry. I love you Arsenal, and I always will.

SAH received a necklace with a heart on it. She was very happy.

In our absence, it seems as if the whole of the footballing world has been collectively masturbating over Shreks goal on Saturday. Yes, it was a great finish from a shit cross turned into a good cross via a deflection following some woeful build-up play. I'm guessing the fact that it was him, and him being an English him, and the bizarre obsession the press have with all things him, Man Utd and Lord Fucking Ferguson, would explain page after page devoted to it in a sickening hacks wank-fest. For me, it's a brilliant goal. No more. No less. However, I'll take Van Persie's against Charlton any day.

And so the fuck should you. Listen, he's been shit all season, so it was only a matter of time before he did something right. Let's say no more about it.

We beat Wolves 2-0 at The Emirates, two quality Van Persie strikes (see above, he can do stuff) wrapping it up, to keep us in touch with this seasons Premier League winners Man Utd. If it wasn't for Wayne Hennessey, and the usual dodgy finish or two, the score would at least have been four or five. A stroll in the park it seems before the business of The Champions League starts up again for us this Wednesday against our charming friends from Barcelona, and not a new injury in sight.

The mighty barca were held to a draw at Sporting HEEhon. They were tired, apparently. So tired, they were excused training yesterday. Let's hope they stay tired. Pep Guardiola bemoaned the fact that HEEhon suffocated Xavi and Iniesta in midfield. Hard luck, mate. What do you expect them to do? I remember Trevor Francis saying a similar thing after the FA Cup Final replay in 1993 about Chris Waddle.

'What shall we do about Waddle, gaffer?'

'Aah, nothing, don't worry about him, just let him play.'

'But he's brilliant, boss, their best player.'

'Doesn't matter. Let him get on with it. Let's not ruin it for the viewers.'

Wouldn't happen would it? No. Didn't think so. So there's the trick, boys, close them down in midfield, stifle them, don't let them play their football. If HEEhon can do it, I don't see why we can't.

More on Wednesday for the preview. Until then, I shall remain nervous.

I'm off.

Just a quickie, slightly rushed inbetween tacos, bread and butter pudding and the astonishing piece of information that my home town of Buxton is the same height as 'The Shard' being built at London Bridge. Thank you Mr Walton.

For those of you interested, I'm going to The Lake District tomorrow morning with Simon Amstell Hair until Monday. So that'll be nice. This means that there will be no blog over the weekend, but I will endeavour to catch up on my return. I have re-grown the beard for the intrepid look, and I've packed all the walking gear. I'll fucking look the part, alright, I can tell you, but the closest we'll get to adventure is a cheeky fag out of the back of a pub in the pouring rain. I do have 'Blog Press' on my i phone, but I'm fucked if I know quite how to use it. I'm a decorator, not an IT geek, you know. If, however, things appear on Twitter that look like some form of blog, then I apologise in advance for being inept, drunk, or both.

A Geek I am not.

Saucy Jack had a fine 45 minutes yesterday on his full debut for Engerland in wonderful Copenhagen (aaaah), and I thought Theo did ok as well. It was a pity for Jack that he only got a half, especially considering the hype surrounding him, but as an Arsenal fan I'm pleased he didn't play longer. Theo lost an eye following a vicious attack on his beautiful face setting up Engerland's first goal. It shouldn't affect him too much, it didn't hurt the careers of Napoleon or Sammy Davis Jnr, both wonderful flying right wingers in their day. So breathe easy.

A few words on Nicklas Bendtner, following his performance last night and his interview the other day. Yes, Nick, considering the money that Tevez, Rooney and that ilk earn, then you probably are worth your £52,000 per week, relatively speaking. The fact that you cannot ski saddens me greatly, to such an extent I can't sleep thinking about you in your massive London residence staring forlornly at your still gleaming skis. I weep openly at the thought of your neatly folded salopettes gathering dust. Don't worry, son, hang in there. Your career will be over in ten years or so and then you can do all the skiing that you want. I like Nick, because of his charming arrogance, and by all accounts his self confidence is 'off the scale', but in this financial climate I just think his comments are just a little insensitive.

His performance last night was typical. 'Useful' is what I call it. Played alright, didn't set the world alight either. When one oozes confidence and arrogance, one needs to back it up. Now, I hate Cristiano Ronaldo, and I mean hate. A diving wanker he may be, and arrogant in the extreme he is. As a footballer, there are few better, but he can and does back it up. Maybe there's a clue to all this in the word 'can'. Is he really as good as he says he is? In flashes, maybe. To be fair, we've never really seen him play game after game after game without injury. Still, young man, get your head down, Nick, and stop talking shit. Actions speak louder than words, don't you know.

Incidentally has anyone seen Nicklas and Ian Poulter in the same place at the same time? Just saying.

Just a few thoughts for today. I'm off to pack, and then to watch Simon Amstell Hair pack, so it'll be a miracle if we ever leave at all. Until next week. Come on you Reds.

The Pope and Saucy Jack.

Good morning to you all.

There is much to catch up on, and when I say much, I mean not a lot. Not a lot that bothers me, anyway.

Some good news first. It's all about the Swiss, not all the Swiss, but one Swiss gentleman in particular. Step forward Mr Cuno Wetzel (a kind of pastry), the Swiss physio, who informs us that the injury sustained by Johan Djourou on Saturday is just a bruised knee and he could be back in training within the week, and indeed could be fit to face Wolves this Saturday.

One week. Judging by the efficiency of their integrated rail network, the deliciousness of their chocolate, and the skill and utmost precision accuracy of their clocks and watches, expect Mr Djourou to trot out onto the pitch at precisely 16.05 on Saturday. Not a minute more, not a minute less. Having given a lot of thought to the St.James's park circus day, I have pinpointed, as have many others, the loss of Johan as the vital factor in the comedy free for all that followed. Some incredible facts (as ever) were flying around the tweeterverse last night, not least that in the 26 games the young man has played for us this season, we have lost none.

The Sun offered up some astounding insightful reportage yesterday with the news that Roman Abramovich was going to make a 50m offer for Cesc in the summer. Really? Get to the back of the queue, and fucking stay there. A smattering of bollocks is what I put that down to. And with the news today (a week before we play them), from FC Barcelona (more than a club - a giant player-raper of a club) director Raul Sanllehi  saying the Cesc deal is 'dead', expect them to continue their pursuit of our young Captain until a few days before the beginning of next season.  A proud Catalan he may be, a Chav he most definitely is not.

Ex Hitler Youth member, Bishop of Rome and leader of The Roman Catholic Church -Pope Benedict XVI, has arranged to meet the Spanish World Cup winning squad next Monday in Rome, so it's possible eight Barcelona players may miss Monday's training session. Sergio Busquets said -

'We have to talk to the club, but with the Champions League tie in London it will be very difficult. We'll talk to The Spanish Football Federation and the club, we'll do what is best'.

No, don't bother. Go to Rome. Have a good look round, it's a beautiful place. Have some pizza. Have lots of pizza. Maybe some pasta too. Get some down that Messi kid, he could do with a little bit more on him.

As for Cesc, one expects he will still be laid up with the 'flu'. One hopes, anyway.

Engerland play Denmark tonight in Copenhagen (aaah, memories..) in a meaningless friendly. Just like all the other meaningless friendlies, they are designed to do one thing - knacker out our players and fuck them up for the rest of the season. I readily admit that I am a club over country man every time. Always have been, always will be, and frankly don't give a flying fuck about our National team. Yet, tonight, I'll be watching. Because tonight, for me, it's all about the Wilshere, and to a lesser extent, the Walcott.

Young Jack will be playing in the holding roll. Interesting, considering his best position is a little further up the pitch. If he plays well in that position tonight and becomes accustomed to it, could it be a good thing for us, possibly supplying cover for Song if ever needed? Or, could it confuse the poor lad? I don't know. Isn't he a little to small to play there, or is he the next Makelele in the making? I'm sure, given that he's the most talented English footballer of his generation, he will be able to adapt to both, communicate with the dead, wrestle alligators and talk to dolphins. He's that good.

So, I'll be watching to see how our boys play. Fingers crossed for Rooney, Terry, Lampard and that Chelsea left back to get smashed (no apologies) to bits, and our lot to come back safe and sound from their respective games.

*crosses fingers*, *and toes*.



Whaaaaat?!

My reasons for not writing this blog until today, are twofold. Firstly, the Newcastle game interfered with my 40th birthday celebrations which culminated in a few too many at a pub quiz last night, and secondly, I'm still in shock.

Enough about me and the possibility I'm also suffering from the after effects of an uncooked scallop, let's chat about the match. I'll skip the first half, because, oddly, it's not really important any more. Suffice to say, we were winning. Comfortably. And then some.

Where to start? Oh, I don't know. Diaby's sending off is as good a place as any. In Song's absence, he was having a cracking game. A fair tackle (talksport) by the delightful Mr Barton sent him on his arse and he reacted by pulling the little fucker up by his throat, Nolan ran over, Diaby shoved him away. Straight red. Can't really argue with that, although with an injury history that reads as long as War and Peace, his reaction didn't really surprise me. Still, he reacted, and that's what happens when you do. It's how the team reacted that bothered me.

After a massive half time bollocking from Alan Pardew, the geordies had come out with a different mind-set, unsurprisingly. That of stopping any further embarrassment and at least putting up a fight - and I'm ashamed to say, we couldn't really deal with it. We seemed a little taken by surprise by their attitude, went into our shells and struggled to keep hold of the ball or pose any real attacking threat - which are precisely the things we're supposed to be good at. A worrying injury to Djourou to be replaced by Squillaci had already set off the little alarm bells ringing in my head, which became giant NEE NAHS after the sending off. A soft penalty followed. Four one. Best poked in another one after the ball dropped kindly to him. Four two.

Then. Yes. The second penalty. Having watched the replay over and over again I fail to see how it's ever a penalty. My friend, Graham, a rugby fan, tells me there was a slight push from Rosicky. Still can't see it. Someone else suggested that if had happened anywhere else on the pitch it would have been a free kick. No it fucking wouldn't. There was nothing to it. I suspect that Mr O'Dowd was caught up in the madness of the game and simply put his whistle to his moronic potty mouth in reaction to thousands of screaming, sweating, fat, topless geordies. But I'm afraid that's simply not good enough, not at this level, or at any level. It was a terrible, useless and baseless decision. End of.

Barton stepped up and made it four three. The fact he was there to take it perplexes me. After taking out Arshavin in the first half from behind (play on, O'Dowd), he should have been booked. Pure and simple. The tackle on Diaby was a booking, in my opinion (and millions of others), and he should have gone. But no. Booking Alphabetical for holding onto the ball after the second penalty was farcical, especially after the UFC take down by Nolan. The man really is a useless cunt.

Conspiracy theory alert. Am I the only one in thinking that Cesc's words to the fourth official against Everton may have played a part in this? Just a little? I hope not, but based on some of his ridiculous decisions it does make you think doesn't it? A friend of a friend (Mexican Les - he knows stuff) has since told me that not only is O'Dowd a shape-shifting reptilian humanoid (much like George W Bush), he has also been implicated in the death of Princess Diana, the 911 disaster,  is a Freemason and high ranking member of The Illuminati. So if that's not proof positive, I don't know what is.

Tiote, then spanks one in from three hundred yards, as you do, to make it four apiece. At some point during all this madness, Newcastle scored a legitimate goal ruled out for offside, and we scored an illegitimate goal ruled out for offside. Here's the bottom line. It was the same referee for both halves. He didn't help matters, no, but we have to look at ourselves here. To suddenly become a disorganised rabble when losing a centre half and having a man sent off is baffling and unacceptable. Keystone Kops spring to mind.

The news on Djourou is that he will be out for a month, apparently, so call it six weeks to two months so as not to get your hopes up. So we're left with Squillaci and Koscielny as our only two fit centre halves, a knock to one of them will possibly see Song drop back, which will surely unbalance the side, or Ignasi Miquel promoted from the reserves. Bah. We all knew it would happen. All of us, except one, so it seems.

This is all very depressing. The 'soft underbelly' that everyone bangs on about reared its ugly head again, just when we were getting used to not having one. A team that is four one up at half time with any pretensions of winning The Premier League, should not collapse in the fashion we did -. but, curiously, we are a point closer to Man Utd thanks to Wolves, who we play this Saturday. We have to get back on the metaphorical Arsenal horse and get on with it. No wallowing dressed up as psychological damage, let's just put it down as a freak, can we?

A weekend full of surprises, indeed. And if you were with me on Saturday, you'll know what I mean. I'll leave you with a little something that may or may not cheer you up. Au revoir.

Barcodes

A brief preview to the Newcastle game tomorrow.

But first, let me say this. David Moyes - Shut the fuck up. It's boring and no-one cares.

Look at me. Look at my eyes.  I'm not real. I talk shit incessantly about something so trivial just because we lost at The Arsenal. I stroke Fellaini's hair as I sing him to sleep while breast feeding Tim Cahill from my whisky dripping teets, as Phil Neville dusts and cleans around us.

Right.

On paper, it would seem that it is a good time to play Newcastle. Andy Carrol's just naffed off for a few more quid (much as I think they're paying for potential, isn't 35 million just a little extreme?). Ameobi's out with a smashed face, and according to ESPN they may sign Jeremie Aliadiere to bolster their striking options. Chuckle.

St James's park, on it's day, is a brilliant place to watch football, like a giant cauldron full of steaming zebras. And the atmosphere, if the home team are on top I must add, is second to none. We go into this game missing Song, who got a proper kicking by Koscielny, apparently. That's what I want from our centre halves - fighting spirit, getting stuck in, kick 'em if you have to, but please, not our own players. So that leaves either Diaby or Denilson to step in. With rumours flying around that our average Brazilian may also have a knock, we could be stuck with Diaby. Update - average Brazilian has said knock. Don't get me wrong, I rate Diaby, it would just be nice to see him have a decent run of games to prove his worth. I expect him to last no more than twenty minutes before limping off with a niggle, to be replaced by Rosicky. Fingers crossed, though, eh?

Arshavin will most likely start after coming on with immediate effect against Everton. His cool finish, one hopes, will have restored some of the confidence that has been oozing out of his tiny Russian pores for a few months. I know it was only a goal that any decent player would have slotted in, but on recent form you wouldn't have been surprised if he'd have hit the corner flag. But you know what? I have a good feeling about him today, that's all I'm saying.

One must presume that both City and Utd will win their games against WBA and Wolves, and Chorres will beat Liverpool on Sunday, so three points, again, is a must. A little bit of revenge from our home defeat by the magpies (which still makes me shudder) back in November is the order of the day.

Memories

I wake this morning with a fuzzy head. Yesterday was my 40th birthday, and to commemorate the occasion I have put together a  list of my 40 favourite Arsenal memories for your pleasure. They are in no particular order, and I'm sure many of you will question my choices (much as I love Charlie George on his back at Wembley, I was three months old) and indeed ask why others have been left out. Still, it's my list, so there. Please put on your rose tinted spectacles and read on...

1. Anfield '89 - The greatest night of them all
2. Copenhagen '94 - A close second
3. FA Cup semi final '93 - Revenge is sweet
4. FA Cup Final '79
5. FA Cup Final Replay '93
6. FA Cup Final '02
7. League Cup Final '93
8. FA Cup Final '05 - Vieira penalty
9. AFC v Sheffield Wednesday '92 - 7-1
10. Tony Adams v Everton '98 - Would you believe it?
11. Kanu v Chelsea '99
12. The Merse v Leeds FA Cup 4th round '93
13. Bergkamp hat trick v Leicester '97 - Enough said.
14. Limpar v Liverpool '92 - Forty yards out? Why not.
15. Arsenal v Sp**s '96
16. TH14 v Sp**s '02 - From inside our own half, for Gods sake
17. League Cup Final '87 
18. Old Trafford '91 - Super suede and the brawl
19. Crystal Palce v Arsenal League Cup Semi '93 - Shut up, Ron Noades
20. Rocky v Man Utd '91 
21. League Cup Semi Final replay v Sp**s at the Lane '87
22. Ian Wright v Everton '93 - The mural goes mental
23. David Platt v Man Utd '98
24. Wiltord v Man Utd '02
25. Robert Pires v Villa '02
26. Arsenal v Austria Vienna '91 6-1
27. FA Cup Semi Final v Sp**s Old Trafford '01
28. Real Madrid away Champions League '06
29. Inter Milan away Champions League '03
30. Arshavin v Liverpool '09
31. Swindon v Arsenal '93 - Campbell hat trick, top that Wrighty. Oh, ok..
32. Arsenal v Man Utd '91 - A party
33. TH14 hat trick v Liverpool '04
34. FA Cup Final '03
35. David Rocastle tribute at Highbury. 
36. Arsenal v Juventus Champions League '01
37. Arsenal v Juventus Champions League 06 - Return of Vieira, the rise of Cesc
38. TH14 v Man Utd '00
39. White Hart Lane '04 - ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
40. Signing Sol Campbell - HA HA HA HA HA HA

Not a bad little lot is it? There are probably loads (hundreds) that I've missed out, but at my age the old memory's not what it was. These are the ones that just stuck out in my mind for whatever reason. Feel free to add comments at the bottom and I'll do another list when I'm 50. Here's the top ten, in order, with clips. Oh yes.

No 10 - David Platt v Man Utd 1997

No 9 - Dennis Bergkamp v Leicester'97

No 8 - Arsenal v Chelsea FA Cup Final '02

No 7 - Sylvain Wiltord v Man Utd '02

No 6 - League Cup Semi Final replay v Sp**s

No 5 - Andy Linighan FA Cup Final Replay '93

No 4 - Donkey wins the derby FA Cup Semi Final '93

No 3 - Tony Adams v Everton '98

No 2 - Alan Smith v Parma Cup Winners Cup Final '94

No 1 - Anfield '89 one minute one minute one minute

Nigglocaust

Good Evening, ladies.

Prior to yesterday's game, a few text messages went back and forth a little like this -

- got a bad feeling about tonight
- got a draw written all over it
- just ain't feeling it tonight.

You get the picture. Were we the only ones 'not feeling it'? I always feel comfortable playing against teams we should beat when we play away from home, not so at The Emirates.

Anyway. Someone, somewhere at the ground last night brought with him a bag of niggles. And when I say a bag, I mean a sack, and when I say sack, I mean a big fucking sack. And he/she proceeded to sprinkle them all over the place. Horrible little snidey tackles were the order of the day, and there was a nasty undercurrent to the whole game, not least helped when Everton scored a controversial goal.

Saha's goal? I don't really care about the rules, in fact, I readily admit that half the time I don't understand them. Call me old school, because I am, but it was offside. So bollocks.

More niggling. Half time. I'm sure that Mr Wenger sat them down at half time and told them to calm down. If he didin't, he's madder than I think he is, but whatever he said it worked. We carried on playing our football, kept probing, whilst being snapped at by little Everton shirt wearing Jack Russels, until the breakthrough came. Luckless Andrei, who had replaced Rosicky, pounced on a delightfully weighted Rodwell back - header to stroke home, and within minutes Koscielny rose to meet Van Persie's corner to make it two one.

It was a vital result in a tricky game, against difficult opposition. Eight bookings tells the story, as does a couple of knocks to Song and Walcott, and how Sagna kept his sausages in tact is beyond me. Both Man Utd (snore) and Chelsea both won last night, so a loss (or a draw, which is pretty much the same thing in my opinion), and we'd have been eight (seven yadda yadda..) points behind the leaders.

David Moyes, after the game, stated that Fabregas should have been sent off for something he said to the fourth official and the useless pillock that is Lee Mason. Oddly, Arsene said that he didn't say anything, but I'd have been more surprised given the debatable decision for the goal if he didn't say anything. Now, I don't want to get drawn into all this (which I clearly have), but it's a bit fucking strong coming from a man that went charging onto the pitch to confront referee Martin Atkinson after the Everton-Man Utd game back in September. Sour grapes, I think, now fuck off and eat them.

Arshavin got the goal that we've all been hoping for, as, I suspect, has he. Listen, we know this guy is a player. Hopefully, it will be the shot in the arm he needs. Like I've said before, we need players like him to be performing back to their best if we're to have a tilt at all the big shiny gorgeous things on offer, especially with Nasri out. Keep it up Andrei, and I'll buy you a big lollipop.

Tomorrow, I'm forty, so I'm off now to enjoy the last Stella of my thirties with my girlfriend who shares the same hair as the DaSilva brothers and Simon Amstell.