The Grump

Some swear words for you first.

Piss. Shit. Bollocks. Fuck. Cunt.

Thanks. I feel better. Had one of those days, you know. Only the recent arrival of Sunshine Johnson as my summer apprentice has calmed my mood. That and the couple of beers I'm going to drink whilst writing this late late blog. Stella it is, although I have developed something of a penchant for San Miguel of late, but that is neither here not there.

So heartfelt apologies to all of you for the pathetic numbers of blogs recently. I have been snowed under with work, enjoying myself, pissing off for a few days to get smashed up a tree somewhere in Spain, apathy and downright laziness.

                                                                      Sunshine Johnson. London.

The unreal glory and obvious shimmering beauty of Sunshine Johnson, however, can not in any way alleviate the pain and frustration of an Arsenal season that, at times, has had me near to tears and my mouth brimming with bilious vomit.

It's over now. It's done. A season that, once again, promised so much has left us with precisely fuck all. An average Manchester United has walked to the Premiership title and we've whimpered to a shoddy fourth. Since the sheer mentalness of beating Barcelona back in the middle of February, we have been nothing short of utter shit, with the exception of beating the champions elect at the beginning of this month.

Why? I know why. It's simple. Our grand old team is littered with fucking pillocks. That's why. That our manager has recently told Denilson that he can leave shows that at long last even he is beginning to grasp it. I'm going to name and shame the culprits for you, in no particular order of my feelings of utter disdain for them, with my reasons to follow -

Denilson

Almunia

Eboue

Bendtner

Rosicky

Diaby

Arshavin

Denilson - Lazy, lacks pace, has ActionMan Uni-hair, and offers nothing going forwards or backwards, just sideways. Gobbed off to The Sun about what was wrong with The Arsenal, in that no-one could work it out,  without realising the fact that he was actually part of the problem.

Almunia - A professional wearer of clown shoes, a Spanish catastrophe, like a fucked up paella.

Eboue - A no more than average squad player. The joker of the pack and leader of his own cult. Everyone thinks he's funny. Funny how? You think he's funny? Watch the last seconds of the home game against Liverpool. I'll give you fucking funny.

Bendtner - If his talent matched his ego, he'd have been leading Barcelona out at Wembley yesterday. But he wasn't. Yeah, he plays out of position, and yeah he'll leave and be fucking brilliant somewhere else, but he does my head in. Sorry, not a quarter as good as he and his Dad think he is. End of. 

Rosicky - The Little Mozart. Couldn't orchestrate a piss-up in Prague. Getting on a wee bit. Has lovely hair.

Diaby - This is where it gets personal. Has struggled to find full fitness since that wanker Dan Smith smashed his leg up years back - fair enough. His sending off, however, four nil up away at Newcastle that sparked the most insane of insane capitulations, almost ruined my 40th birthday celebrations. And that, I cannot forgive.

Arshavin - A late addition to this little lot. Yeah, I know he's scored a few, assists blah blah, but he's fucking lazy, living in a crazed dreamworld surrounded by pigs, toasters and tiny cats, and for all his talent, he chooses instead to waste it and amble around like a little lost boy. His goal against Barcelona was an undoubted highlight, but it's not enough for me. Back to Zenit, rosy cheeks.

So. Arshavin aside, it's fair to say that the rest aren't what you call 'starters' are they?

Which means, chums, that we've got real fucking problems.

There's definitely a problem with mentality here (NO. REALLY?). Err, yes. After the Carling Cup defeat, as we suspected, the team would be adversely effected. Badly. And then some. And the rest. Some would say the blame lays with the manager for failing to inspire these players after such setbacks? Listen up. The man is not a cretin. Of course he would have soothed them, put his gangly arms around them, but also told them that it wasn't good enough and tore into them when he thought it necessary. Seriously, though,  I do wonder if he's trying to inspire uninspirable players.

Clichy's been Clichy, you know, alright. Not the left back he was and maybe on his way out. Djourou's been solid, showing lengthy glimpses of the player we all hoped he would be, and unless we go mad and buy a world class centre half, will partner Vermaelen next season at the heart of our defence.  Squillaci was bought as cover, so don't go blaming him for his averageness. Koscielny has been a surprise package. He's had his moments, good and bad, but as third choice he'll more than do, ta very much.

Bacary Sagna and Saucy Jack have been nothing short of magnificent. I feel for Wilshere, you know. Man of the match every time I've seen him play, constantly let down by some of those around him. Enjoy your summer off, and be thankful you don't have to spend it with Stuart Fucking Pearce. The mong.

Some things, however, we just couldn't help. Vermaelen's been out for the whole season (ish). It's not beyond the realms of possibility to say that with him things would have been a whole lot different. A fit Van Persie for the whole season too, would have been nice. Samir Nasri, who's first half of the season was Player Of The Year form , trailed off, much like his face, to ugly disappointment. With these three fit and firing on all cylinders, who knows what could have been?

Theo was great in patches. Arsene has said that his most natural position is through the middle, and I don't think I'm alone in thinking it's about time he was played there. Why put square pegs in round holes? Play the players in their preferred positions, where they are most effective, surely? See Bendtner, Arshavin and Nasri...

Much to think about, and all fucking summer to do it. I just thank God it's all over.

I'll be back during the summer at some point to pour scorn on transfer rumours like the Christopher Samba one and other random averageness, but until then, I shall leave you with a picture of a horse.

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Mordor and The Twat

8.05am. This morning. Location - Buxton.

There I am, having a coffee, when in walks a man that I know known as 'The Twat'. Oh fuck. Please don't sit with me, just get your drink and do one. He's walking over. Shit.

'Mind if i join you?'

'Nah, not at all.'

We've all done it.

Down he sits, and tells me in some depth about his weekend, the details of which are so uninteresting it counter-acted the effect of the caffeine. Some weekend.

Now, this bloke, 'The Twat', watches the odd game, doesn't know too much about football, and doesn't pretend to either, so when he started going on about The Arsenal, I rolled my eyes and looked up.

'Watched the match yesterday. Thought you lot were shit. Did you go?'

'Yeah.'

'It's amazing, you know. Your team has so much talent, everyone can see that...'

'Yeah, I know.'

'...but yesterday, it looked as if they weren't even trying.'

Brilliant. Thanks for that. I finished up my coffee, bade him farewell all friendly like, and tootled off to work.

Thing is, I'm afraid, he's not wrong. He may be 'The Twat', but he hit the nail on the head.

Not. Trying.

Well, we didn't, did we? The team played like a team that knew their season was over (Saucy Jack, again, being the exception), without a thought to the hordes of travelling Gooners that had once again forked out their hard earned to watch their beloved team

It's bad enough driving into the very heart of Middle Earth to the stadium of Mordor itself, full of screaming and crazed Orcs, baying for the blood of Hobbitses, rallied by that horrible little man Pulis in his stupid little hat, without turning in a performance so lacklustre, listless, flat, tepid, tedious and downright SHIT, in the face of such provocation.

                                         

                                                               Dave. Aged 32. Stoke City fan.

Thanks a fucking bunch.

Provocation? Yeah, I'd call it that. Fucking knuckle dragging pricks that think they're in the right to boo Aaron Ramsey, a player that fourteen months ago was lying near the half way line on the same pitch with his fucking leg hanging off, every time he touched the ball. Just because he never accepted an apology from the very thug that left his leg in tatters. You couldn't make it up.

Bloke walks up to me in the street. Out of nowhere he smashes me in the gob. He says sorry. 

'Oh, that's quite alright mate, apology accepted.'

Don't think so. 

I'm not one to back down from other supporters when it comes to a bit of the old verbals and all that, but as we left yesterday, the fans I'd been giving the wanker sign to throughout the game, waving us 'Cheerio' as we limped down the steps - I couldn't even look them in the eye. Head down. Ashamed. That's what this team have turned me into, a speechless head shaking gimp, incapable of clever and witty banter on the way out, or of abuse when it's abuse that is called for. As we waited outside the stadium for the buses, we all looked at each other blankly. There was nothing to say that hadn't been said a thousand times already this season. I have nothing left to give this season, and I can't wait until it's all over.

As ever, there will be no match report here, you all saw it and you can all draw your own conclusions as to what went wrong, where it went wrong, why it went wrong, and why it keeps happening. I've said before that for me, Wenger's still the man for the job, but this team needs a shake up, a fucking good one.  A few new players with the necessary will to win wouldn't go amiss either, players to breathe some fire and belief into our blundering efforts.

On a personal note, I would like wish the charming Stoke City fans all the best next Saturday at Wembley. I trust you will have a lovely day out in our beautiful capital city. I hope you are beaten well and it ruins your fucking year because I think you're a disgrace.

I'm not bitter. I just know a bunch of cunts when I see one.

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A Happy Rant

I ONLY BLOG WHEN WE'RE WINNING..

Not so.

I have draughts of three blogs sitting on here, and to be fair, they're all a bit muddled and more than a bit shit. The reason being, I've been trying to be all clever and journalistic about the Wenger question that everyone keeps asking me - Should he stay or should he go. I have some reasoned arguments from both sides, and many thoughts on issues such as 'weak underbelly', 'new goalkeeper', 'lack of bottle' etc etc.

To be honest, it just ain't my bag. This blog was set up as a bit of fun, and more than that, a bit of therapy that started in January to make our inevitable collapse easier for me to take. And so it has. The wider question as to why our inevitable collapse happened, I shall leave to the more, ahem, serious Arsenal bloggers that litter (in a good way) the Internet, all sixteen thousand of them, give or take a few. I am an away fan, painter and decorator and ukulele player. Henry Fucking Winter I'm not.

On the Wenger question, I shall say this. Deep breath -

I love the man. Given the financial restrictions that we all assume he has been placed under, there is no manager on earth that could do a better job.

And that includes Sam Allardyce, who is a cunt.

With me?

Good.

                                        

                                             Fucking leave me alone, and let me do my job.

Earlier, we beat Manchester United, as I think we all knew we would. Why? Because, we had nothing to lose (nothing to win, either), and the pressure was well and truly off. If we were still in with a shout of the title, I suspect things would have been mightily different. A hollow victory, if you will. But a victory over the best average team in England, nevertheless, and I'll take it, thank you very much.

Aaron Ramsey, in for the injured Cesc, scored the single goal to win the match and to complete the cycle of his rehabilitation. Good on you, mate, it's well deserved. Another Arsenal legend in the making, methinks.

Vidic did what Vidic does and got away with it, again. Looked like Clichy got away with one too on Owen, but that's life. A little more invention from United may have brought some rewards, but it was a fair result that could have been worse.

Nice to hear a bit of noise at last at the Emirates. You should try doing it more often and not just leave it to the passionate minority. The away support at all the games I've been to has been a) sold out and b) exceptional. Little wonder we do so well away from home. Just a thought. Which brings me neatly to -

I started going to football to have a laugh with mates. The more successful a club becomes, the higher your expectations rise, and the harder it is to accept defeat. The Carling Cup final was a disaster, but I was there in Paris 1995, Copenhagen 2000, Paris 2006, to name but a few. I've seen it all before, and I'll  see it all again. I just think that sometimes we should take a step back and think about why we support a team. If it's purely for glory, I suggest you pack it in.

If you want to run up and down the Seven Sisters Road taking the piss, fine. If you want to sink eight pints in The Bailey before a match and stagger to the ground singing, fine. If you want 'Gooner' tattooed across your face, fine. It's all good in my book. If, however, you want to take to your throne at the Emirates, moan at the players, tell people to sit down and shut up, then you can get fucked. You're not wanted.

Fans at Old Trafford, Anfield, Stamford Bridge, indeed every ground, will tell you the same thing. The only worthwhile thing that ever came out of Roy Keane's mouth (and I'm not talking about Alex Ferguson's cock) were the words 'Prawn' and 'Sandwich'.

This is football. Not fucking Polo.

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