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.

.