Summer madness

Fuck me, it's started.

The season only finished a couple of weeks back, and the rumours are already flying around piloted by lunatic hacks in their red-top jets, drunk on Scotch, reeking of fags, curry sauce splattered down their ties and receipts from 'Secrets' falling out of their back pockets.

Morons on Twitter are joining in left, right and centre, claiming to be in the know, fanning the flames of fabrication.

And I'm sick of it already.

I've decided that this summer, now that I'm all grown up,  I am only going to get excited when we make a signing, and not wind myself up about a potential one that may never happen. Remember when George Graham was after some french chap called Martins from Auxerre back in the early nineties? Proper excited, I was. No? Don't remember? Oh well. I stuck three quid on at the bookies when we got a tip off that Jan Molby was at Highbury to sign for us. Three quid wasted. That was a couple of pints. Gone. Just like that.

What bothers me, is that at the grand unveiling of our new players, we'll all shrug our shoulders, and just think, great, Scott Parker, great, Chris Samba, great, Phil Jagielka. Decent Premiership players, don't get me wrong, but really? Whatever happened to FUCK ME - DENNIS FUCKING BERGKAMP?

We've got money to spend. Not as much as City, Chelsea and Man Utd have and indeed will spend, no, but we've got some. I'd just rather we spunked it at Waitrose than fucking Morrisons.

                                                                    Look Samir, behind you, it's a cunt

Samir Nasri. Nasri. Nasri. Nasri...

Now, Samir. I don't have a problem with you and  your agent asking for an improved deal (ok, I do, but that's the way it is nowadays, isn't it?), but on the basis of a good first half of a season, I think it's a bit rich. When you play consistently at a high level throughout a whole season for more than one season, then we can talk. When you want considerably more than the top earner at the club, the club captain, a world class European Championship and World Cup winner, I might add, you're having a laugh. I know it's all a game of brinkmanship, I do, but do us a favour. A little perspective, please.

However, when you're asked if your agents have been contacted by Manchester Utd, here's one of the few things you shouldn't say -

I have to see if there is anything true about it. Then we'll have to ask the right questions and talk about it with the club after the Poland game with France.

A better response, in my opinion, would have been -

Non.

Or, better still -

Fuck, non.

All you've done now is upset a large amount of already uneasy Arsenal fans who now think you're a bit of a cock. If you want more money, all I'm saying is there are better ways of going about it. If you want to leave, just leave, you'll get your few extra quid and you can get your teeth lengthened, you gummy twat. It's disrespectful. End of.

And the madness continues. Gervinho, will he won't he? Cahill? Oxlade-Chamberlain? Hazard? No doubt in the coming weeks Mertesacker and Subotic will be mentioned again, and you know what? It's boring. Bore with a capital RING.

So Phil Jones went to Manchester United. Two reasons I'm glad we didn't get him. Firstly, for a nineteen year old, albeit a very talented one, it's a lot of money, and with limited premiership experience is precisely the sort of player we don't need at the moment. Fans were going mad when we didn't get him, but I suspect they'd have been going equally mad if we did. Secondly, he's got the most boring name ever. Phil Jonezzzzzzzzz.

The Cesc saga grinds on. I reckon he'll go, and I'll be gutted when he does, but I can't blame him. The boy wants to go home and play for his club. Let's just get as much money out of the gits and pack him off to the welcoming arms of his somewhat stalky Catalan lovers. I shall never set foot in that fucking city again, with their unfinished cathedral, stupid park, shit picky food, weird looking houses and hairy women. Bitter? Nope.

We have signed Carl Jenkinson for the princely sum of £1m from Charlton Athletic. He's a Gooner and he loves a bit of it. Signing for your boyhood club is the stuff that dreams are made of, and I'm sure we've all had them. He has a name that smacks of public school, straw boaters in the summer and the sound of leather on willow.

Jenkinson!


JENKINSON!


Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir.


What in GOD'S name are you doing, BOY?


Masturbating, Sir.


IN MATHS?!


Sorry, Sir.


PUT IT AWAY, BOY, AND SEE ME AFTERWARDS.


Sorry, Sir, I couldn't help it, I've just signed for The Arsenal.


Fucking brilliant. I got suspended for that.

The window's only been open about a week. So let's all calm the fuck down, shall we? Let's wait and see exactly what happens before we all judge.

I leave you with a little tune, which may or may not be better than the picture of the horse I left you with last time. It's a personal thing. If you're into horses, that's great, wonderful animals. Kool And The Gang your thing? Even better.

Enjoy the summer madness.

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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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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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