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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