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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