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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Madness

It says a lot for our demented season that the only rare glimpses of joy we have had lately were the events at the Santiago Bernabeu last night.

I have to admit that watching that lot from up the road get a sound thrashing, thanks in no small way to the implosion of Peter Crotch, made me feel all warm inside - imagining the bars in Madrid, full of sickened supporters with little chickens on their shirts, drinking away their pain with some crap Spanish beer and after about two o'clock, deluding themselves that an early goal back at the lane next week will spark the greatest comeback since The Doors with that lairy prat out of The Cult.

Yeah, right, course it will. Year ends in one, my hole.

While we're on the topic of delusion - let's roll out the red carpet for Mr Emanuel Adebayor. The man says the reason he left Man City was because the fans weren't showing him enough love, and to top that went on to say that the Arsenal fans loved him and 'I think even today they love me.' Now listen here, squire, I love my girlfriend, but you don't see me picking up a camerman's stool, burgers and anything else that comes to hand and luzzing them at her, do you? The two goals you scored last night mean nothing to me, you're still a greedy cunt and I fucking hate you.

That's me, eighth in from top right in the red, giving you the wanker sign, or the 'love wave' as I imagine you might call it in the strange world you inhabit.

Honestly...

I was born in Fulham. You probably didn't know that, and growing up there I used to go to a few home games in the 80's and I saw some strange sights - the hairless Gary Lineker for one, the horrific Peter Beardsley, and little David 'Diddy' Hamilton. Not just at Craven Cottage were the freaks to be found - no - the filming of Noseybonk for the TV program 'Jigsaw', just what an eleven year old wants to see whilst getting muddy in the park.

Fucked up or what? Strangest thing ever seen in Fulham, or so I thought. Until last Sunday, when this appeared -

I've seen it all now, and if you ever wanted proof positive that the world has gone mad, then here it is.

This weekend sees the Gooner massive heading up the coast to Blackpool for our first game at their place since 1976 or something, and another chance for The Arsenal to redeem/make dicks out of themselves. Myself, Gooner In Exile 2 and our ladies are excitedly picking out our outfits for the weekend and readying the buckets and spades. There will be more on the Seaside trip either before or after the event, with the distinct possibility of a few photos chucked in as well for good measure. Until then, enjoy the rest of your week, and the whinnying of S****s fans all over the world.

Ta ta.

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Toothless

Morning all. And a fucking grumpy morning it is, too. Unless you're a Mother, in which case you'll be stuffing your face full of chocolates, arranging your flowers in a vase and looking forward to a nice lunch, a stroll in the park perhaps, and a shag for the first time in about two months.

There will be no match summary today because there's not a lot to summise. You watched the game like I did, and you saw how poor, void of ideas, toothless, and uninspiring we were even against ten men for the last twenty minutes, maybe all bar two players - Wilshere and Arshavin. That the mad Russian had a good game, may suggest the paucity of the players around him rather than his own performance. Just a thought.

Hands up, I didn't think we'd win the league this season, and it's fair to say after yesterday's performance nor did the team, and we won't. Unless a catastrophe occurs at Man Utd, the result against Blackburn gift wrapped the title to them in a lovely big-eared box with a pretty red bow and a card saying - 'Best Wishes, The Arsenal'.

Yes, Manchester United will drop points, so it's still possible, but can you really see this Arsenal team not dropping any more either? Nah, didn't think so. We don't even have the distraction of Champions League or FA Cup football, the only thing for us to concentrate on is the Premier league and we're flitting it away match after match. Man Utd, I'm sure, will win the league at a stroll and I still suspect we'll limp in third. It wouldn't be so fucking annoying but this is one of the weakest Utd teams I've seen in years, there for the taking, and they're going to run away with it.

We lack bollocks. The ability to fight. Add one or two players with the necessary steel to this team and we'd have a great side. Saucy Jack is one of the few that's coming out with any credit. A kid in his first full season, man of the match week in week out, seemingly carrying the team and trying to inspire those around him. But, oddly, those around him seem uninspirable, strange given the situation we found ourselves in before kick off - beat Blackburn, keep pace with Utd and still have a game in hand.

A clear-out in the Summer is needed, I don't have to name names, you know the suspects as well as I do. Bring a few in (of real quality) and ship more than a few out, the difference in numbers can be made up from players within. This team is so close, which is why it all seems so utterly frustrating - it just needs a helping hand or two.  Big shouty and sweary helping hands.

We look like a rudderless ship, an outfit without a natural captain. Cesc is without doubt one of the great Arsenal players, but a captain? No, not for me. I want a captain to shout, to scream, to clench his fists and sweat blood for the cause before, during and after the ninety minutes if needs be, and definitely not a player whose mind is seemingly elsewhere.

The last two games, both must-win, and we've seen the team play them out with entirely the wrong attitude. Complacent to say the least and a smattering of arrogance suggesting that merely to turn up is enough. No, it's not, it's about graft as well, by the bucket loads.

With rising prices at The Emirates and performances like these, supporters are having to put up with an awful lot. It's only a matter of time before they stop putting their hands in their pockets, and the 'Arsene Out' brigade starts gathering momentum (I'm not one of them, by the way). Our manager backs his players to the hilt and puts all of his faith in them, I would suggest it's high time that this faith was repaid.

You can have all the talent in the world, and we've got a fair portion of it, but without guts it will come to nothing. When Manchester United need to dig in, they dig in. When we need to, we are found wanting, and that's the difference between the sides. Football matches, and more importantly trophies are won with desire and belief, not ability alone.

.

Back to it.

Good morning.

It's been too long without The Arsenal. As all seven of you will know, I've been bored. The ukulele playing has coming on to such an extent that I now know about half of two songs, which in real terms makes one whole song, although somewhat disjointed, discordant and a bit shit. The bathroom that for so long remained unpainted due to my slump in now finished. Sort of.

Thanks to the cunts at BT, my fully planned David Rocastle tribute blog turned into a snatched measly effort done at Simon Amstell Hair's house whilst trying to cook bits of Hairy Biker chicken. So apologies if you were expecting a profound epistle, I was planning on posting it anyway after the event, but it simply wouldn't have had the same resonance if I had. 

 All the other blogs that I read wrote some beautiful, moving stuff, and the world of twitter was a very sad place on Wednesday. Bizarrely, I found it more upsetting than the day Rocky passed away, maybe because I was reading tweets all day from not only supporters of Arsenal, but Leeds, Chelsea, Man City and even that lot up the road, as opposed to chatting with the same mates about it in The Bailey that awful day in 2001. I don't know. Whatever, it was an amazing reaction from a legion of Gooners and the football world, remembering and celebrating a special talent, a gentleman and an Arsenal man through and through. I remarked to Uncle Jay (Gooner in exile No.2) that with a few more like him in our team we may well have had the Premiership title sown up already. RIP, Rocky, loved and never forgotten.

A special mention goes to Tim Stillman (@LittleDutchVA) for his blog. I just thought it summed up everything we all thought about the man and more. Good work, young man. I say young - he's pushing thirty, but as a forty year old he seems young to me - I'm old now, but not as old as my old man who's eighty, so in Dad's eyes he's a baby. Good work, baby.

Back to the ukulele football today, and our match against Blackburn. Amazingly, most of our players on international duty have come back unscathed, and those that were scathed are ok. Van Persie's in the squad after a clout on the knee, the ankle of Nicklas Bendtner has self-healed due to the ego-fluid coursing through his veins, and the usual injury suspects Cesc, Song, Diaby and Walcott all return. The only one missing is Aaron Ramsey out with a groin strain. After being thrust into the limelight as Captain of Wales last weekend and seeing the game pretty much pass him by (surprise, surprise), groin strain or no groin strain, he could do with a few days off.

It's yet another massive game, and we're beginning to run out of them. I literally can't emphasise enough how important this game is. Goalkeeper and first choice centre halves apart, we've got the first team back, and we can not, dare not, drop points tomorrow. I've said before we're going to have to outscore teams to beat them, because we sure as fuck can't depend on us not conceding, but with the attacking players available there should be no excuses.

Phil Dowd is the referee today, and why not, after his brilliant performance at St James' Park which saw us throw away a four goal lead (on the day of my 40th birthday, thank you), with just a touch of a helping hand from his good self. Untold Arsenal have a good piece casting an ugly shadow over him and today's game which can be found here. Well worth a read, I just hope to God they're wrong, or we're all fucked.

Man Utd travel to Scott Parker in a game they should win, Chelsea take on Stoke with Fernando Torres on fire, and Man City will no doubt bore everyone to death with a tight win over Sunderland, enlivened only by some Balotelli antics, (which is probably why they bought him in the first place) and S****s go to Wigan. Let's presume that they all win, which is quite probable, and our position in the table, should we drop points, will be seriously under threat. So, focus, please.

Welcome back, Johnny 'Faxe' Jensen, Arsenal goal-scoring legend with the strange thin moustache and hair of pubes and now assistant manager at Blackburn that bought me a beer in a shady nightclub way back in 1994 in Copenhagen. I hope today is miserable for you, but thanks for the drink, and this -

Right oh. Good luck to everyone in The Arsenal Family involved in 'Rocky Remembered' at The Rocket today. Hope it all goes well, everyone leaves legless, and you raise a ton of money for Great Ormond Street Hospital. A sterling effort for a great cause. If you want to donate, and you should, go here.

Hopefully there'll be no more problems with the Internet at Northern Gooner Mansions, but I can't promise anything. If there's no new posts for the next week or so, I suggest you call 0800 800 150 and take it up with them. The pricks.

Come on you Reds.

Rocky

 I doubt there'll be much to say in today's blog that hasn't already been said in the hundreds of other Arsenal blogs. So I'll keep this short and sweet.

Rest In Peace, Rocky. You were a gentleman and an Arsenal man through and through. You are missed by all and will never be forgotten.

Enough said.

BORED

I'm so bored, I really am.

With no Arsenal until next Saturday, I am at a loss what to do. I've tried working, but the boredom has crept insidiously into the small part of my brain labelled 'self motivation', which has left a bathroom that I've been putting off all week unpainted.

It's all Big Dom's fault. Since he left to go and live in Bury St Edmunds (?), it's just me, the van, some tools and tea making equipment. I'm not responsible for anyone else anymore, work wise. It's just me. And I'm bored. What steps have I made to ease the boredom and lack of motivation? I tell you what I've done -

I've bought a fucking ukulele.

So far so good, you know. It's easy to play, easy to transport from gig to gig, and very shiny. It cost thirty quid, constantly goes in and out of tune, but sounds impressive enough to make Simon Amstell Hair smile. And that, my friends, is a good thing.

Back to football. Or the lack of. We are slap bang in the middle of an 'interlull' of fortnight proportions. International football is something that I don't give a toss about, and never will. The last time I cared about it was the infamous 'Battle Of Highbury' on November 14th 1934. I was but a tiny twinkle in my three year old Father's eye, but I remember it well. Ish.

Seven of the England team that day played for The Arsenal, who were, at the time, considered the greatest team in all the world - Moss, Male, Hapgood, Copping, Bowden, Drake and Bastin. With the help of a young Stanley Matthews and a few others, they beat Italy, the world champions, 3-2 at The Arsenal Stadium, Avenell Road, N5.

That's a fucking England team.

I'm club before country, me. If you want to go and cheer on John Terry, Cole, Lennon, Lampard and all those other twats that you slag off week in week out, then fill your boots. Not me. The only thing I'll be doing is praying that our players turning out for a multitude of countries don't get knackered for the rest of the season, because we've got quite enough injuries at the moment, thank you very much.

Saucy Jack will be playing tomorrow, so good luck to him and no-one else.

Aaron Ramsey will captain Wales. Some achievement for a young man whose leg was hanging off just over a year ago at The Britannia Stadium. Congratulations, you deserve every little bit of it.

So until sometime next week when there will be pre match waffle about the Blackburn game, I'm going to learn 'Raindrops keep falling on my head', have a nap, then a curry and a beer or two.

Circus Circus

Fuck a duck.

This is all starting to get a bit tedious isn't it?

Scoring twice away from home against lowly opposition would be enough to take three points for any top four team with title aspirations. Not this team. Oh God no.

The Circus that is Arsenal arrived at the Hawthorns three points behind Man Utd with a game in hand. The changing room beforehand was a scene that Billy Smart himself would be proud of. The team jogged into the away changing room wearing bright coloured costumes, spinning bow ties, squirty flowers and carrying buckets of tiny pieces of paper. The West Brom players in the changing room next door must have been wondering what was going on amid the shrieks of laughter and the honks of noses.

Arsene Wenger followed the team in and gently pushed the door open. It promptly fell off. 

'Play time is over.'

'But, boss!' Screamed Almunia.

'No, Manuel. Play time is OVER. '

They sat down, wiped off the face paint and got changed.

Out they trotted into the sunshine, ten resplendent in their rhubarb and custard kit and shiny boots, the hilarity of the changing room antics left behind them, one of them in black still wearing his big shoes. Time to focus on the job in hand.

Three minutes in, and we conceded a goal from a corner. The prolific Andy Reid towering above Aaron Ramsey to power a header past the hapless Almunia, rooted to the ground. At the other end,  Ramsey should have done better from a rebound of Van Persie's header, three yards out, he had time to compose himself and stick the ball either side of Scott Carson. Nope. He hit it straight at him. Shattered limbs and full fitness issues aside, he had to do better. 

Changes were made at half time. The utterly useless Denilson made way for Chamakh and we went 4-4-2. A quick word on Denilson, if I may. This pillock has been at our club for five years now. He was never good enough to play for our team and never will be. He offers literally nothing, except accurate sideways passing and an uncanny ability to turn the ordinary into awful. I've seen enough, now go away.

Chris Brunt should have made it two from a sweeping move, but with fifty eight minutes gone they doubled their lead, with more than a little help from us. Roll up, roll up!

A long hoof upfield from Mulumbu panicked Almunia into tear arsing out of his penalty area to deal with a situation, that frankly, had nothing to do with him. It was Squillaci's problem, and under normal circumstances with the keeper being where he should be, a header back to him would suffice. However, he found himself face to face with the onrushing Almunia, the ball broke clear of the two of them and Odemwingie rolled it into an empty net. Seriously, Manuel, if you're going to come and deal with it, then deal with it. The look on his face said it all. Honk Honk.

He may be the third choice keeper now, but he's been playing at the top level long enough. It was an awful decision, a schoolboy error, something you expect to see at Sunday league level, but not in The Premier League. Shocking, astounding and unbelievable. No excuses, mate, pack your big fucking shoes in your bag, stick Denilson in there and all while you're at it, and clear off. You dick.

Yeah, we scored two goals and snatched a point, but another goalkeeping error three minutes from time up the M6 handed Man Utd three points. Leaving us five points behind with a game in hand, nine to play. We've dropped four points in our last two league games against teams that we should beat, and I can feel this running away from us. What hurts most is not the actual results, just the shocking predictability of them. I've mentioned before that this team lacks the necessary bollocks, and nothing that I've seen from yesterday has changed my opinion. So what if we scored two? It's how we conceded two that angers me. With comical performances like this, hand on heart, we're going to struggle to finish third.

Cesc, Theo and Song should all be back fit for the next league game in  a couple of weeks, so it'll be down to us outscoring teams to beat them, because at the back we're just plain awful. Get the mad German in, at the very least to try an organise those in front of him, he surely can't do any worse.

This sorry shit has to stop, and stop now. Our season is in imminent danger of falling to bits.

Boing Boing

Afternoon.

It's been a funny old week in Goonerdom. From the bleak disappointment of the last two weeks when literally everything that could go wrong did go wrong, we are somewhat buoyed by the return of a mental German and the hilarious news today that S***s have drawn Real Madrid in the quarter final of the Champions league. Beat them, which of course they will, and they'll probably have to play Barcelona is the semis. Yeah, I'm bitter, but it doesn't get any funnier than that.

Also, of humorous note, Man Utd and Chelsea will play each other in said (worthless) competition, thus rendering them both utterly useless in the closing stages and race to secure the Premier League title - leaving it well and truly open for us to drag ourselves kicking and screaming over the finish line in first place.

Or something.

Welcome back, Jens. You mad fucker. We've missed you, your stunning hair, your Fraulein melting good looks and your odd little foibles. Your penalty save against Villareal in the dying moments of the semi-final and your sending off against Barcelona in the opening ones of the final. For all your madness, you're loved - an Invincible, and no mistake, who knows what it takes to win. It ain't going to do any harm having him around the place is it? 

Well, helloooo

The fact that Almunia and him don't get on is no secret, but if it helps Manuel focus on his job and not flap around like a good'un, then it can only be a good thing.  

Tomorrow, we play West Bromwich Albion at the Hawthorns with a still weakened team. No Djourou, Song, Fabregas or Walcott. I'm presuming that we still have enough to beat them, and if the sound whipping they gave us at The Emirates (and it was sound) isn't enough to motivate the team, then I'm buggered if I know what is. They're five points off the bottom of the league and we're three off the top with a game in hand. There is a gulf in ability, as the twenty five points between us should indicate, but with this Arsenal team, fragile as it is, one never knows.

For what seems like the hundredth time, this is another mugantic game, and it's three points at all costs. I urge the players to go at it and stay going at it until the ninety fifth/sixth/seventh/eighth minute until the job is done. Anything less and we'll probably be looking at points dropped again, and the two weeks of unmitigated misery that we've all suffered will be stretched to a semi-suicidal third.

They'll be reading this blog - all the players do. Saucy Jack, when he went for some new 'ink' had 'Blarsenal Blarsenal' done all gothic like across his back, and Henri Lansbury had '@buxtongooner' done just above his pubic mound. Class.

So come on lads, we're more than in this, it's in our hands. Get up there, give the Baggies a good thrashing and all come home in one piece. 

If nothing else, it'll piss off Frank Skinner, who's a cunt.

Just when you think...

...it couldn't get any worse, it fucking does.

Oh Dear.

It's not easy being a Gooner at the moment is it?

In just under two weeks, we've gone from being in four competitions, to being in one. Just like that. I know we were never in with a realistic chance of all four, but we reached a final in one and fucked that up, we got what we deserved for finishing second in our Champions League group - a beating by Barcelona, and on Saturday we all but limped out of the FA Cup at Old Trafford against a weakened United team. 

Up against a team playing seven defenders, we enjoyed enough possession, but once again were found wanting in front of goal and creating problems for ourselves at the back. Yes, again.

I'm frustrated and angry, I'm sorry to say. I'm positive before games when I look at the talent that we have available to us, but all to often I feel that I'm being let down. And at the moment, I'm being let down at every turn.

We have got ourselves into a horrible habit of making things difficult for ourselves. From hogging posession, we make basic defensive errors and concede goals. When the going gets tough, we look at each other, shake our heads and plod on. Plodding, I'm afraid, will not win you football matches. We are depending on a young man too much in his first full season. Saucy Jack is playing his heart out in every game, and that his efforts are being rewarded with man of the match performances is no coincidence. Just like with Fabregas four or five years ago, an outstanding talent is being let down by the players alongside him. Players that should know better. Denilson has perfected the art of being average, and Diaby has developed an uncanny knack of slowing the game down when we're attacking and speed is the key. Arshavin, after recovering some of his form, is going backwards again. His body language is at best shoddy, and his efforts are sometimes not much better. Nasri is trying, but not affecting games as we know he can, especially stuck out wide.

We were beaten, again, by a team that simply wanted it more than us. You can slag off drunken old red nose all you like, whether his players are all shit scared of him I don't know, but they play like they are. They don't give up and they generally do just enough to win games when it matters most. I'm not saying we don't care as a team, just that we need to learn how to respond as a team when things get tough. I just think sometimes we need more fire in our bellies, a bit more fight. If Scholes can be so fucking nasty (and get away with it), why can't we?

 More of this please

Tiredness could be a factor. We've played more games than anyone else, but that's what happens when you're in (were in) all four competitions, and unescessary replays add to that tally. Is Gibbs tired? No. Denilson and Diaby? No. If they are, they shouldn't be. All teams are getting tired at this stage of the season, not just us. The injuries are mounting up, Djourou's unfortunate dislocation couldn't come at a worse time, but Cesc and Theo should be back shortly and Ramsey's return is a boost. Yes, we're going to struggle at the back, that's a given, so we're going to have to out-score teams to keep out title hopes alive. And that, mes amis, means we have to find the back of the net.

A mention to the nine thousand that went on Saturday. We could hear you. You were brilliant, and kept going to the end. You are the faithful with unshakable faith, and I salute you. That Eboue was one of the few that came over to applaud you shows that although a crazed lunatic, he appreciates the effort and support of the fans. He may not be the best player we have, but he does have the right attitude. More of that please, everyone.

However, the one trophy that means more to me than any poxy cup competition, The Premier League, is still within our grasp. With our current injury toll, it's going to be a massive ask for these players to win it, but sometimes you've got to roll your sleeves up and get on with it with what you've got. They have to step up.

Patience is wearing thin in some quarters for Arsene. Not with me. However, I do think it's about time that the players he has so much faith in should start repaying that faith, regroup and get their act together, before this season that has promised so much falls completely apart without so much as a whimper. May I suggest a team meeting much like the one after we lost at home to Blackburn in 97-98?

Bottom line. This team don't need a comforting arm around their shoulders, they need a kick up the arse. A fucking big one.

Farcelona

I don't know where to start today, I just don't. What a horrible evening that was. The result compounded by possibly the worst steak and cheese baguette I have ever had - chewy beef that slapped against your bottom lip in full strips and dirty stringy pale cheese, and as for the onion rings,  don't even get me started on them.

Now then. Thoughts? A few, yes. Some you'll agree with and some you won't. On a night with a few flops, I think it only fair to start with the biggest.

Massimo Busacca. Step forward, please. You're first up, and please remove your tongue from the anus of Mr Guardiola when I'm talking to you. What the UTTER FUCK do you think you were playing at? I've seen some piss poor decisions in my life, but this is right up there with the best of them. Kicking the ball away? Time wasting? Are you sure? It was an abominable decision and a schoolboy one. As the news creeps in today that both Wenger and Nasri are being charged by UEFA over comments made to your good self, hold your hands up, sunshine, what did you expect? I tell you what I expect - at this level, the very pinnacle of European football, I expect at the very least a referee that is capable, not swayed by the histrionics of players, nor the baying screams of thousands upon thousands of supporters, and if at all possible - able to make sound decisions, not frivolous bookings in a game that matters so much. Admittedly you missed a chance to give Barcelona a penalty, but you more than made up for it by ignoring various scissor tackles, play acting and throat grabbing. If UEFA can charge players over comments, then I see no reason why a referee cannot at least be asked to explain his decisions. Then charged. Then hung, drawn and quartered. Then fed to the pigs. Big fat ugly pigs.

Cesc Fabregas. Oh God, this is going to be painful. Much as I hate to say it, I thought he was awful last night as he was in the first leg. If he was not 100% fit, then he shouldn't have played. If he did feel a pain in his leg after fifteen minutes, he should have come off, and if he did feel the need to back-heel a ball on the edge of the box, I can only suggest he does it up the other end next time. Suicide, Cesc, pure and simple. You may as well chuck in arrogant, unthinking and a tiny bit egotistical. His bleating tweet last night, if I'm honest, sounded a bit needy -

'Great support from the Arsenal fans. I take full blame for the result tonight. One of the worst moments of my life. I apologise.'

My clever, thoughtful, supportive and incisive reply -

'Don't be a twat. Get over it, and move on, Son.'

I haven't heard back yet, but I'll let you know when I do.

The match itself pretty much went as we all thought it would. Barcelona attacking, us defending and trying to catch them on the break. We defended brilliantly at times, but down to ten men, the result was inevitable. I had hoped before the game that Chamakh would start before Van persie's Lazarus-like rising from the treatment table was sprung upon us. I just felt that in a game where we would need to keep the ball up top when we had it, his strength and hold-up play would have been a better option, not to mention an aerial threat from set pieces. In the middle,  how we missed Song and his mad-haired ability to nick a ball. Diaby didn't cut it, Rosicky was again ineffective and Nasri struggled. The Barcelona midfield didn't make it easy with their high tempo pressing game, no, but I just expected a little more from our boys. Saucy Jack? Once again, brilliant. I can't speak too highly of him.

Scrabble went off with a dislocated finger and was replaced by Almunia as we all looked away and shook our heads. Amazingly, he kept us in the game, fair play to him, and how he might now be needed. Fingers crossed (dislocated or otherwise) however, that we don't.

The goals? You've seen them. Messi's opener was something so daring and beautiful I could watch it again and again, had it not been against us. Ours was an own goal courtesy of Biscuits from a corner, and for a few minutes we dared to believe. The sending off put paid to that and the seige continued. We were cut through the middle for Xavi to slot in the second and Pedro fell over Koscielny's leg before any contact was made, and Messi calmly stroked in the inevitable penalty.

So we fucking lost. Three one. Four three on aggregate. Against the best team in the world. The shame of it is that they couldn't even be gracious in victory. There is a snidey side to Barcelona that I despise, and it's unbecoming of a team with such brilliant, mercurial talents. They should be winning games on their footballing merits alone, and definitely not with the help of a weak-willed referee. 

Bring on United.