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.