Fuck

This is all a bit difficult, today.

It's hard enough trying to write a blog when your team have just snatched a draw from the jaws of victory, it's even harder when you can't feel any of the fingers on your right hand. Tendonitis, apparently. It makes it feel like my hand is a big stupid muffin banging on the keyboard, while the left one dances merrily away. It's just numb, like I slept on it. Insert masturbation joke here.

I'm literally sitting here scratching my head with my good hand, not knowing what to say about yesterday. The main reason being, I think I've said it all before. In a game that we laboured through at The Emirates, we were gift-wrapped a chance to win it right at the death and we took it. Minutes later, even more at the death, we contrived to throw it all away. How very us of us.

You may not know this, but I was some player in my day. 'Blarsenio' they called me, a Brazilian name - a nod to my sublime skills demonstrated all over the pitch. Gooner in Exile No 2 has seen it all with his own eyes. Yup, some player, me.

Scratch that. I was shit. Utter shit. Tall, awkward and clumsy. But I tell you what - I was relatively competent at the simple things. I could hoof a moving ball upfield, I could blast it out of the park for a throw-in, I could swear at people and I could get sent off.  I even knew how to shepherd a player that was already running away from goal, even further away from goal. Simple stuff, even an idiot could do it.

YOU FUCKING THINK?

Think again.

Our Emmanuel Eboue, the 'cult hero' of The Emirates, was on his knees having just given a penalty away with what was to be the very last kick of the game, and I know what he was thinking. Amid the myriad of strange thoughts that no doubt course through this young mans brain - saucepans, lions, Revels, tents and blue ducks with tinsel on their heads, this one leapt to the fore -

'What have I done? I'm such a cunt.'

I'm sorry, mate. You seem like a lovely fella, but as an Arsenal footballer you just don't quite cut it. Not from where I'm sitting, anyway.

So, yeah, I'm blaming him for the equalizer. Of course I am, it was his shitting fault. He was, however, surrounded by a few other numpties on the day. I have banged on and on about the need to outscore teams to beat them, and bar our penalty, a Koscielny header against the bar and a Van Persie one on one, we really didn't create much. Saucy Jack looks at last like this season is catching up with him, Fabregas - with the team built to play around him, I thought, had another quiet day and the thing is, set up like that, if he doesn't perform it all seems to go to pieces it. Old kebab-legs Nasri isn't the influential player he was a few months back, and when one of our big target men comes on, he's played as a  right winger. I just don't get it, sometimes. 

Fair play to Liverpool, they defended well, and it was our job to break them down. This team doesn't need a new keeper, this team doesn't need centre halves, this team needs a striker, someone that can snatch a goal out of nothing, is willing to take a gamble on a cross near post or back post. Ian Wrights don't grow on trees, I know, funny looking trees they would be if they did, but we are crying out for the fox in the box, and have been for years. 

With the return of Djourou at centre half and Scrabble in goal, defensively we looked sound, until you know who did you know what. And you can't tell me that I was the only one that just knew, when they got the free kick, that we were going to fuck it up. And we did. The upsetting thing really is that it wasn't in the least bit surprising.

So it's the Spuds on Wednesday. Brilliant. What better place to forget this painful experience and turn it  into something positive, or on the other hand, what worse place to carry on as we are. Can we please stop embarrassing ourselves. Our capitulations are becoming (have become) a joke, and we're turning into a bit of a laughing stock. At least we could stop gift-wrapping opposing teams results. This is not the time for presents -

It's nearly Easter, not fucking Christmas.

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Hungover Ramblings

And..........we're back.

Good afternoon to you all at the end of what has been a very Arsenally week.

So, we went to Blackpool, and what a fuck-dump that place is. Sharing The Highbury Hotel with The Herd made for some quiet breakfasts, some interesting cigarettes out the front listening to stories of extreme adult misbehaviour, and being shat on by a seagull. Good luck? No, not really. Still, the sun was shining, casting its golden rays on a shit town. And it still looked shit.

Blackpool is full of mentals. From fifty year old men in tight leather shorts and flowing hair, to a couple in shorts and t shirts in wheelchairs with tubes up their noses, puffing on fags, it has it all. If you've never been, I heartily suggest you don't, unless it's a midweek game, then you can sneak in and out while it's dark.

Three points were duly delivered, with the usual dose of 'oh fuck here we go again' after they pulled a goal back. But, hey, we won, witnessed rare goals by Diaby and Eboue, saw the return of Mad Jens, packed up our buckets and spades and got the fuck out of there.

On Monday, rumours of goings on in the boardroom that had been rumbling on since the middle of the previous week, came to light when Stan Kroenke upped his stake in the club to 62.89%, triggered by the failing health of Danny Fiszman.

Referring to the move from Highbury (God bless her) to The Emirates, Arsene Wenger said -

'There was a team, Ken Friar and Danny Fiszman, who did all of that. It is fair to say the Club wouldn't be where it is today without Danny Fiszman'.

Quite literally, monsieur.

That Danny's thoughts were about safeguarding the future of The Arsenal in the last days of his life says a lot about the man. A classy act from a classy man. Rest in Peace, squire, and thank you.

                                            

I doubt things will change much. Those who now think we now have squillions of pounds to spend on world class players, will, I imagine, be disappointed come summer, when our manager will probably dig his heels in again and refuse to spend it. We've always had money to spend, we just don't like doing it. Peter Hill-Wood remains as Chairman, sitting at the head of the Boardroom table with his mortar board hat on his head and his cane in hand, chewing on toffees he confiscated from Eboue at training.

'Emmanuel!'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Are you chewing?'

'No, Sir.'

'Spit. It. Out.'

The lot from up the road got dumped out of The Champions League, early goal and we're back in it, my arse. You're out, it was fun while it lasted, now let's see if you can get back into it again. Doubt it, boys. As ever, one fan with a chicken on his shirt was spotted crying. Yeah, there's always one. Still, you'll probably be cheered up when monkey boy wins Player Of The Year on the back of two great performances against Inter. I'm not even going to get started on that one. Pffffft.

Today, we entertain a somewhat resurgent Liverpool side. Scrabble returns in goal, and Djourou comes back in to the side as well. Thank fuck for that. Suarez and  nineties raver boy Carroll (big box little box cardboard box) will be a handful, but I suppose we'll just have to cut off their supply by not letting them have the ball. It's so easy, isn't it?

I fully expect a score draw, I'm sorry to say, but we need the win just so we can keep touch with Man Utd, but more importantly - it will annoy my chum Graham who seemingly only starts bleating on about Liverpool when they start winning again. Yeah, until of late, he's been relatively quiet, you know.

Anything less than a win and it really will be the final nail in our Premiership title coffin. 

I'm off to Bolton next week, so if you fancy a pint, get in touch at @buxtongooner and I'll let you rub the bobble on top of my hat.

Come on you Reds.

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Blackpool, innit.

Afternoon

Later on, well, at four (I told her to be ready to leave at four, so maybe something like half past) myself and Simon Amstell Hair will hop into the Gooner wagon -

and make our merry way up to Blackpool. Checking in at the Highbury Hotel (yeah), and meeting Gooner in Exile No 2 and his wife (it's their wedding anniversary, you know) for some of this -

...a bit of this...

...and more than likely, this...

For further updates, please follow @buxtongooner. Now, where's me bucket and spade..





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Madness

It says a lot for our demented season that the only rare glimpses of joy we have had lately were the events at the Santiago Bernabeu last night.

I have to admit that watching that lot from up the road get a sound thrashing, thanks in no small way to the implosion of Peter Crotch, made me feel all warm inside - imagining the bars in Madrid, full of sickened supporters with little chickens on their shirts, drinking away their pain with some crap Spanish beer and after about two o'clock, deluding themselves that an early goal back at the lane next week will spark the greatest comeback since The Doors with that lairy prat out of The Cult.

Yeah, right, course it will. Year ends in one, my hole.

While we're on the topic of delusion - let's roll out the red carpet for Mr Emanuel Adebayor. The man says the reason he left Man City was because the fans weren't showing him enough love, and to top that went on to say that the Arsenal fans loved him and 'I think even today they love me.' Now listen here, squire, I love my girlfriend, but you don't see me picking up a camerman's stool, burgers and anything else that comes to hand and luzzing them at her, do you? The two goals you scored last night mean nothing to me, you're still a greedy cunt and I fucking hate you.

That's me, eighth in from top right in the red, giving you the wanker sign, or the 'love wave' as I imagine you might call it in the strange world you inhabit.

Honestly...

I was born in Fulham. You probably didn't know that, and growing up there I used to go to a few home games in the 80's and I saw some strange sights - the hairless Gary Lineker for one, the horrific Peter Beardsley, and little David 'Diddy' Hamilton. Not just at Craven Cottage were the freaks to be found - no - the filming of Noseybonk for the TV program 'Jigsaw', just what an eleven year old wants to see whilst getting muddy in the park.

Fucked up or what? Strangest thing ever seen in Fulham, or so I thought. Until last Sunday, when this appeared -

I've seen it all now, and if you ever wanted proof positive that the world has gone mad, then here it is.

This weekend sees the Gooner massive heading up the coast to Blackpool for our first game at their place since 1976 or something, and another chance for The Arsenal to redeem/make dicks out of themselves. Myself, Gooner In Exile 2 and our ladies are excitedly picking out our outfits for the weekend and readying the buckets and spades. There will be more on the Seaside trip either before or after the event, with the distinct possibility of a few photos chucked in as well for good measure. Until then, enjoy the rest of your week, and the whinnying of S****s fans all over the world.

Ta ta.

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Toothless

Morning all. And a fucking grumpy morning it is, too. Unless you're a Mother, in which case you'll be stuffing your face full of chocolates, arranging your flowers in a vase and looking forward to a nice lunch, a stroll in the park perhaps, and a shag for the first time in about two months.

There will be no match summary today because there's not a lot to summise. You watched the game like I did, and you saw how poor, void of ideas, toothless, and uninspiring we were even against ten men for the last twenty minutes, maybe all bar two players - Wilshere and Arshavin. That the mad Russian had a good game, may suggest the paucity of the players around him rather than his own performance. Just a thought.

Hands up, I didn't think we'd win the league this season, and it's fair to say after yesterday's performance nor did the team, and we won't. Unless a catastrophe occurs at Man Utd, the result against Blackburn gift wrapped the title to them in a lovely big-eared box with a pretty red bow and a card saying - 'Best Wishes, The Arsenal'.

Yes, Manchester United will drop points, so it's still possible, but can you really see this Arsenal team not dropping any more either? Nah, didn't think so. We don't even have the distraction of Champions League or FA Cup football, the only thing for us to concentrate on is the Premier league and we're flitting it away match after match. Man Utd, I'm sure, will win the league at a stroll and I still suspect we'll limp in third. It wouldn't be so fucking annoying but this is one of the weakest Utd teams I've seen in years, there for the taking, and they're going to run away with it.

We lack bollocks. The ability to fight. Add one or two players with the necessary steel to this team and we'd have a great side. Saucy Jack is one of the few that's coming out with any credit. A kid in his first full season, man of the match week in week out, seemingly carrying the team and trying to inspire those around him. But, oddly, those around him seem uninspirable, strange given the situation we found ourselves in before kick off - beat Blackburn, keep pace with Utd and still have a game in hand.

A clear-out in the Summer is needed, I don't have to name names, you know the suspects as well as I do. Bring a few in (of real quality) and ship more than a few out, the difference in numbers can be made up from players within. This team is so close, which is why it all seems so utterly frustrating - it just needs a helping hand or two.  Big shouty and sweary helping hands.

We look like a rudderless ship, an outfit without a natural captain. Cesc is without doubt one of the great Arsenal players, but a captain? No, not for me. I want a captain to shout, to scream, to clench his fists and sweat blood for the cause before, during and after the ninety minutes if needs be, and definitely not a player whose mind is seemingly elsewhere.

The last two games, both must-win, and we've seen the team play them out with entirely the wrong attitude. Complacent to say the least and a smattering of arrogance suggesting that merely to turn up is enough. No, it's not, it's about graft as well, by the bucket loads.

With rising prices at The Emirates and performances like these, supporters are having to put up with an awful lot. It's only a matter of time before they stop putting their hands in their pockets, and the 'Arsene Out' brigade starts gathering momentum (I'm not one of them, by the way). Our manager backs his players to the hilt and puts all of his faith in them, I would suggest it's high time that this faith was repaid.

You can have all the talent in the world, and we've got a fair portion of it, but without guts it will come to nothing. When Manchester United need to dig in, they dig in. When we need to, we are found wanting, and that's the difference between the sides. Football matches, and more importantly trophies are won with desire and belief, not ability alone.

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Back to it.

Good morning.

It's been too long without The Arsenal. As all seven of you will know, I've been bored. The ukulele playing has coming on to such an extent that I now know about half of two songs, which in real terms makes one whole song, although somewhat disjointed, discordant and a bit shit. The bathroom that for so long remained unpainted due to my slump in now finished. Sort of.

Thanks to the cunts at BT, my fully planned David Rocastle tribute blog turned into a snatched measly effort done at Simon Amstell Hair's house whilst trying to cook bits of Hairy Biker chicken. So apologies if you were expecting a profound epistle, I was planning on posting it anyway after the event, but it simply wouldn't have had the same resonance if I had. 

 All the other blogs that I read wrote some beautiful, moving stuff, and the world of twitter was a very sad place on Wednesday. Bizarrely, I found it more upsetting than the day Rocky passed away, maybe because I was reading tweets all day from not only supporters of Arsenal, but Leeds, Chelsea, Man City and even that lot up the road, as opposed to chatting with the same mates about it in The Bailey that awful day in 2001. I don't know. Whatever, it was an amazing reaction from a legion of Gooners and the football world, remembering and celebrating a special talent, a gentleman and an Arsenal man through and through. I remarked to Uncle Jay (Gooner in exile No.2) that with a few more like him in our team we may well have had the Premiership title sown up already. RIP, Rocky, loved and never forgotten.

A special mention goes to Tim Stillman (@LittleDutchVA) for his blog. I just thought it summed up everything we all thought about the man and more. Good work, young man. I say young - he's pushing thirty, but as a forty year old he seems young to me - I'm old now, but not as old as my old man who's eighty, so in Dad's eyes he's a baby. Good work, baby.

Back to the ukulele football today, and our match against Blackburn. Amazingly, most of our players on international duty have come back unscathed, and those that were scathed are ok. Van Persie's in the squad after a clout on the knee, the ankle of Nicklas Bendtner has self-healed due to the ego-fluid coursing through his veins, and the usual injury suspects Cesc, Song, Diaby and Walcott all return. The only one missing is Aaron Ramsey out with a groin strain. After being thrust into the limelight as Captain of Wales last weekend and seeing the game pretty much pass him by (surprise, surprise), groin strain or no groin strain, he could do with a few days off.

It's yet another massive game, and we're beginning to run out of them. I literally can't emphasise enough how important this game is. Goalkeeper and first choice centre halves apart, we've got the first team back, and we can not, dare not, drop points tomorrow. I've said before we're going to have to outscore teams to beat them, because we sure as fuck can't depend on us not conceding, but with the attacking players available there should be no excuses.

Phil Dowd is the referee today, and why not, after his brilliant performance at St James' Park which saw us throw away a four goal lead (on the day of my 40th birthday, thank you), with just a touch of a helping hand from his good self. Untold Arsenal have a good piece casting an ugly shadow over him and today's game which can be found here. Well worth a read, I just hope to God they're wrong, or we're all fucked.

Man Utd travel to Scott Parker in a game they should win, Chelsea take on Stoke with Fernando Torres on fire, and Man City will no doubt bore everyone to death with a tight win over Sunderland, enlivened only by some Balotelli antics, (which is probably why they bought him in the first place) and S****s go to Wigan. Let's presume that they all win, which is quite probable, and our position in the table, should we drop points, will be seriously under threat. So, focus, please.

Welcome back, Johnny 'Faxe' Jensen, Arsenal goal-scoring legend with the strange thin moustache and hair of pubes and now assistant manager at Blackburn that bought me a beer in a shady nightclub way back in 1994 in Copenhagen. I hope today is miserable for you, but thanks for the drink, and this -

Right oh. Good luck to everyone in The Arsenal Family involved in 'Rocky Remembered' at The Rocket today. Hope it all goes well, everyone leaves legless, and you raise a ton of money for Great Ormond Street Hospital. A sterling effort for a great cause. If you want to donate, and you should, go here.

Hopefully there'll be no more problems with the Internet at Northern Gooner Mansions, but I can't promise anything. If there's no new posts for the next week or so, I suggest you call 0800 800 150 and take it up with them. The pricks.

Come on you Reds.