Sing When We're Winning!

Hi folks,

I filed the following piece to the Irish Examiner before leaving for work on Monday morning, but I had so much more to get off my chest and mercifully I'm not limited to a specific number of words here, so I wanted to wait until I found the time to elucidate a little. However I've been really busy in the meantime and as is invariably the case, I've calmed down quite a bit since, managing to put last week's two disasters into some persepctive.

I suppose Arsène is obliged to come out and attempt to deflect some of the criticism away from his squad but I hate the way in which Wenger has this unerring abillity for his whinging to sound like sour grapes.

Personally I felt that some of his trademark complaints have never been less justifiable as far as Saturday's defeat was concerned, since considering their substantial size and weight advantage, with virtually the entire Stoke first XI being refugees from the Land of the Giants, to my mind they went about their old-fashioned business in a decidedly honest fashion, with hardly a hint of malice or foul-play.

OK so we saw Adebayor needlessly taken out, outside of the field of play. But I certainly didn't get the sense that there was any intent involved on the offenders part. What's more, it might be obvious that Delap didn't have a hope of making contact with the ball and therefore clipping Theo's legs was somewhat cynical, but I'm certain he only intended stopping the pocket rocket, rather than causing him any harm. It was just unfortunate that Theo fell awkwardly and hurt his shoulder and I defy anyone out there who has ever played the game, to suggest that they've never been guilty of this minor indiscretion. Especially those who've played in defence and who've competed against a speedy little winger/striker who's effortlessly capable of embarrassing you, leaving you looking like you are running backwards. Personally speaking, this was my party-piece, in the latter stages of games when I was seriously beginning to flag, as instead of haring after my opponent in vain and ending up allowing them into the danger zone , I often found it impossible to resist the urge to concede a relatively harmless free-kick in the middle of the park by taking their legs away.

However compared to the way we've been roughed up in the past, at grounds like the Reebok, Ewood etc, Saturday's game was a relatively tame affair and it was more down to bad luck, than bad tackling, that we ended up with nine men, looking like the walking wounded.

Doubtless there is some logic to le Boss resorting to the bully boy card, perhaps he feels we might benefit by getting more protection from the officials in future. But as far as I'm concerned the disadvantages far outweigh any potential positives. Let's face it, we had only recently managed to shake off the "don't like it up 'em" tag by breaking our North-West hoodoo and to my mind teams (including the likes of Stoke) had stopped focusing so intently on setting out to disturb us with their muscular attentions. But we've now ended up back at square one, where virtually every single opposition manager will be instructing their sides to do their utmost to try and get under our skin and rattle us sufficiently to put us off our game.

What's more, I get the distinct sense that Arsène's insistence on publically complaining at every possible opportunity, about the fact that opposition teams refuse to politely stand back and invite us to weave pretty passing patterns around them, without any interference (what does he expect?), is offering our squad the perfect excuse. For someone who has proved himself to be psychologically so astute, it baffles me that Wenger doesn't seem to appreciate the negative impact of his actions.

When le gaffer leaps out of his dugout and stands on the edge of his technical area with his arms out wide, imploring the ref to protect his precious charges, every time one of them is clobbered by a full-blooded tackle, he's blatantly sending out the signal to the lads that they have every right to feel hard done by.

When he should be screaming at them to "kick the bleeders back", or to get up, dust themselves off and to do some damage where it really hurts, by taking out their revenge on the opposition's goal, he's basically giving them carte blanche to throw their toys out of the pram because the boss has said they are being hard done by and thus they're prone to losing their focus and getting involved in petty on pitch squabbles, instead of doing what they do best.

With this in mind, in some respects I am pleased we are playing Man Utd this weekend, as it's the sort of match where we will need no additional motivation and Man U will be coming to the Emirates to try and beat us, instead of merely trying to thwart us. Thus it should be a game where we can let our football do the talking and where, no matter what the result, I wouldn't normally have any worries about us acquitting ourselves well.

Mind you, I am just back home from watching us struggle to beat a Fernebace side who I believe are notorious bad travellers and if like me, you believe Fabregas needs to be on song, if we are to achieve any sort of result on Saturday, then there wasn't much cause for optimism based on Cesc's efforts this evening, especially second half, where the incisive, accurate orchestrator of all things good about our game, seemed to have been replaced by an impostor who kept casually conceding possession, with limp, wayward passes.

However Cesc is such an exceptional footballer, that as far as I'm concerned his dip in form must be a mental problem, resulting from the fact that he's not exactly enjoyed himself on the park in the past couple of games. Hopefully he'll be back on song come Saturday, relishing the prospect of going up against Utd with everyone and their mother having already written us off.

Obviously the circumstances aren't ideal, as it's hard to see where the Gunners goals are going to come from, in the absence of Van Persie & Adebayor and based on the woeful recent track record of our defence, it's hard to imagine us being capable of keeping a clean sheet against Utd's formidable front line (in fact it's far easier to envisage Berbatov, Ronaldo, Rooney, Tevez & Giggs running riot against our positively permeable back line!).

Nevertheless I'm always convinced of our ability to give a good account of ourselves against our immediate rivals and in spite of the adverse circumstances, I wouldn't be at all surprised to see us battle our hearts out to earn a creditable draw, which would be well received, considering all the pundits are expecting us to get a roasting and which might be just the sort of stalwart effort that could get our season right back on track, but which ultimately could condemn us to another season as "also rans", since it seems as if the team that's going to take the title this season, will be the one that takes the most points off the other top three sides.

Meanwhile, considering we've spent the past week, plumbing the depths of our disastrous capitulation against Spurs, with this resulting Saturday's horrible hangover, which seemed to still be in evidence in tonights uninspiring encounter, I would gladly accept getting our campaign back on track against Man Utd (as quite frankly, even on form, I can't really see us having a hope of demonstrating the sort of consistency necessary to mount a genuine title challenge).

Although in some respects, one might argue that it would serve us better in the long of a wake up call for Wenger which even he would struggle to ignore. Whereas any sort of determ to get mullahed by Man U this weekend, since this would be the sort of eye-openercent result against ol' Red Nose's Northern monkeys would only paper over the cracks which appear patently obvious to all but le Prof and it would leave Arsène gloating before his tabloid tormentors, telling them that he has never for one minute doubted his squad's ability to prevail against the Premier League elite

But the truth of the matter is that we've never had a problem competing against the cream of domestic competition. It's been our inability to shut shop and scramble three points from a single goal win, when the luck's against us, in games against the more obdurate of the league's lesser lights that has been the principal cause of the past few seasons of under-achievement.

I get frustrated by our repeated failings, but it's easy to gloss over them when everything is going well. But with adversity usually being the source of so much more material to write about, it's the ideal opportunity for me to do my broken record impersonation, by revisting the well-trodden path of some of my pet complsints, of the sort that regularly results in me throwing my hands up in exasperation.

Our problems at centre-back are legend but I've alwasy been convinced that a keeper with some real presence and the sort of stature necessary to dominate his area and unerringly mop up, by coming out to claim absolutely anything within a specific parameter, this sort of world class goalie would emit an aura of composure and security that's likely to cure many of our current defensive ills.

Meantimes, with most other Gooners believing that Gallas and Kolo Touré are not blessed with the necessary attributes to provide a suitable pairing (with many coming from the little and large school of centre-back beliefs), myself I can't help but wonder whatever happened to the Kolo who was always a far more influential all-round performer back in the day when he was playing alongside Sol Campbell. Back then, Kolo's defensive duties seemed to be accomplished almost instinctively, to the extent that he was able to bring his influence to bear all over the pitch. Whereas nowadays, sadly he appears to have become something of a more peripheral influence to the squad as a whole, perhaps with his lack of pitch time (or could it merely be the bias of the new kit?) accounting for the fact that Kolo seems to be carrying a crucial few extra pounds that perhaps detracts from his explosive ability to compete with the paciest of opposition strikers.

I often scrutinize our defence at set-pieces through my binoculars and am invariably flabbergasted at the seemingly haphazard way in which we go about our business. It's here where the lack of any real leadership is most apparent, as myself, I want a captain screaming and gesticulating at his team mates, reminding each of them of their specific responsibilities. Instead of which, I regularly find myself astonished at how little communication appears to be taking place. But then perhaps they have nothing to talk about?

At this level of the professional game and with Wenger's reputation for his remarkable attention to detail, I'd be expecting our team to be taking to the pitch, with each of them having been advised of their responsibilities at set-pieces, who they are to pick-up, their weaknesses and strengths, which foot to show them on to, whether they are a threat with their head etc. etc. And yet watching us take up positions to defend a set-piece, I've seen many a Sunday league side which appears to be more organised, as apart from two of our smallest players, Fabregas and Clichy, taking up their positions on the post, for anyone else who doesn't happen to be marking fresh air, it seems merely a matter of picking up whomsoever happens to be standing nearest them!

As a result we end up shipping goals like the one conceded the other day, when Abou Diaby switched off just long enough for the player he was supposed to be marking to steal into the six yard box and score. Instead of which, if everyone is allocated their responsibility beforehand, should their target escape their attentions, there can be absolutely no argument about culpability.

Up until recently, Clichy and Sagna have been two of the most effective full-backs in the country, but of late even their consistency seems to have taken a turn for the worse, suffering from the general air of insecurity that seems to have blighted our defending. Moreover, considering they and most of our team is blessed with so much pace, it drives me to distraction every time I seem them clip another floated cross in from close to the touchline, some 20/30 yards out, for the opposition keeper to calmly come and pluck the ball out of the air (that's on the odd occasion they beat the first man).

I simply don't understand why it is that they aren't being told to bomb all the way to the byeline and bang the ball in from close to the corner flag. As has been seen elsewhere in recent days with various own goals, a cross is so much harder to defend against when you are forcing the defending team to risk playing the ball in the direction of their own goal, rather than allowing them to face up and to hack it clear in the opposite direction.

Frankly this is not rocket science, it's extremely basic footballing principles and yet I can't help but glean this impression that le Prof is beyond bothering himself with such mundane matters, trusting to a belief that players who've reached this elevated level of the game, must already have these basics down pat.

Don't get me wrong, as I've stated below, as far as I'm concerned, our manager walks on water and I remain eternally endebted to the man for the utter privilege of watching some of the most entertaining football on the planet. Moreover I would hate to be thought of as one of the idiotic Wenger knockers, who've suddenly started crawling out from under their rocks to make all sort of preposterous suggestions on the radio phone-ins (bearing in mind that it tends to be the more outrageous and contentious lunatics who are allowed on-air by the editors).

However that doesn't mean there aren't occasions where, for such an incredibly sagacious geezer, I can't help but wonder where his head's at. For example, watching Arsène prowling his technical area at the Britannia Stadium on Saturday, I could sense his frustration from all the way up in our stand behind the goal and so I'm certain this must've transmitted itself out on to the pitch. Additionally, I got the sense that Saturday's selection policy was based on the fact that Stoke are such an inordinately tall side and so Arsène chose to play all our tallest players. But we were still always going to suffer from a height disadvantage, no matter who Wenger played and personally I don't think it sends out the right message for a team such as ours, to be worried about lowly Stoke's one and only advantage.

We should be playing to our strengths, but by choosing a midfield comprising of Fabregas and Song in the centre and Diaby and Denilson on the flanks, Arsène was attempting to put round pegs, in square holes, as neither of these two is anything like a natural wide man and it left us playing without any width whatsoever, when going around the home side, instead of trying to pick a path through them, might've been the one tactic that could've yielded some success.

Although such was the hangover from our derby debacle that I'm not sure it would've mattered how we had lined up, as we appeared destined to forfeit Saturday's three points.

Hopefully all the reams of criticism that's resulted from events of the past few days will result in a battening down of the hatches, for a fortress Arsenal type "backs to the wall" response on Saturday that will silence all the gloom & doom merchants. And if it doesn't, I guess at least there's the prospect of salvation in another carefree Carling Cup performance against Wigan next week.

As we exited the Britannia on Saturday, my pal turned to me to say that he sure hopes Arsène takes the FA Cup seriously this season. But then considering how much pleasure there is to be had watching the youngsters, without all the tension that accompanies our first team outings, I'd almost prefer to see them selected in both competitions?

Keep the faith....Come on you Reds
Bernard
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The teeming rain that accompanied our miserable return journey south from Stoke on Saturday was an appropriate reflection of the melancholy mood in our motor. Or at least that was the case for myself and my Gooner pal at the wheel, whereas hard as she tried not to gloat, Monica, who’s been a staunch Stoke supporter for more years than a gentleman cares to mention, didn’t need a car to convey her back to Cobham. She was so high on her side’s surprisingly comfortable success that she could’ve floated back to her Surrey home, aboard the rain sodden layer of cumulus.

It’s impossible for those of us who take top-flight football for granted, to fully comprehend what just having a seat at the glamorous Premiership table means to those Stoke supporters who’ve endured 23 long-suffering seasons of lower league mediocrity. Let alone us being able to appreciate the unconfined joy of competing against and actually conquering, those sides who’ve previously existed on another planet all together.

Such has been the Arsenal’s misfortune in the past couple of encounters that I half expected us to end up on the hard-shoulder of the motorway with engine trouble. I certainly wouldn’t have been too disappointed to have missed seeing Lineker and co. picking the bones out of our Brittania Stadium funeral. But on an afternoon where most of the other results went Stoke’s way, Monica was desperate to get back in time for Match of the Day, as if she required this televisual testament, to confirm that it hadn’t all been a glorious dream.

I pulled the covers up on Sunday morning, burying my head in the comfort of a couple more hours of my own reverie, rather then confronting the woeful reality of the 5 points we’ve blown in the past few days, the worrying reoccurrence of Theo’s troublesome shoulder injury, the potentially significant injuries to Adebayor, Sagna, Gallas etc. and the prospect of playing Man Utd without them and the senselessly suspended Van Persie. Still, with one woman’s meat being another man’s poison, there was some slight consolation, as I envisaged Monica being up with the lark, to savour every last morsel of the fillet mignon of the match reports in her Sunday papers.

Having finally sensed some long-awaited signs that Van Persie had struck a vein of form against West Ham and Spurs, I was furious that the Dutchman could be so dumb as to not appreciate the obvious consequences of his petulant frenzy, according to the Fuhrer like Rob Stiles. But as if blowing our best chance of a recovery against Stoke wasn’t bad enough, I could’ve throttled him when I realised he’d ruled himself out of next Saturday’s big game. Some might point to Van Persie’s hot-headed track record as an excuse for his behaviour, while others might suggest his lack of self-control typifies the sort of irresponsible attitude towards the club, that makes an absolute mockery of the badge-kissing mercenaries of the modern era.

I also didn’t appreciate the way in which Robin waved a dimissive hand in the direction of his Danish teammate when he appeared as sub on Saturday. By the looks of things, Bendtner was equally unimpressed at being informed in this fashion that he was to play out wide on the left. Mind you he’d been so ineffective that never mind outside-left, I’d have preferred for him to have been left outside (the old ones are the best!).

Yet it was the wave of Van Persie’s hand which suggested to me that all is not sweetness and light in the Gunners camp at present. Doubtless it’s evidence of the sort of aggravation that only tends to raise it’s ugly head when the wheels begin to come off.

Both fans and players alike were all a little shell-shocked after Wednesday’s derby disaster. Under the circumstances, most of us sensed that Spurs might come away with something, but having demonstrated our undoubted superiority and when we should’ve had the result in the bag, it was the unbelievably bizarre, last gasp denouement of this game that completely knocked the stuffing out of us (and which has sadly provided a massive leg-up as far as the Lilywhite’s confidence is concerned!).
For my money, mentally, we weren’t even at the races on Saturday and it was no real surprise to see Stoke reap some reward from their most potent weapon. Rory Delap’s throw-ins were always likely to wreak havoc, amidst a defence that so frequently struggles to demonstrate the necessary composure, where an undercurrent of insecurity is only compounded due to a keeper who lacks the necessary presence to dominate his area.

Even at our imperious best, our current line-up all too often struggles to find a cutting edge up front and when our ability alone is not enough to break down a resolute defence, we regularly flounder for the want of the sort of “they shall not pass” leadership, capable of cajoling and inspiring his teammates in equal measure, to ensure we aren’t the architects of our own downfall.

Who knows, perhaps in adversity we’ll witness the sort of “backs to the wall” display against Man Utd, which will be just what the doctor ordered to restore the sense of unity needed, to get our season back on track. But as much as I adore le Boss, he seems to have a serious blind spot when it comes to recognising the need for an adjutant out on the park, with the strength of personality to pre-empt the sort of disasters we’ve witnessed alarmingly often of late. Moreover with each successive setback, I come away wondering about our failure to address extremely basic footballing principals at both ends of the pitch.

It’s the mixture of talent and steel necessary to prevail that makes the Premiership so attractive and sadly we seem destined to remain “nearly men” until Arsene gets this balance right. Nevertheless there are plenty of glory-hunting Gooners out there who need to appreciate that we are only so disgruntled because le gaffer has spoilt us rotten. If only they knew the taste of the sort of medicine endured by the loyal likes of Monica, they might not be quite so quick to throw their toys out of the pram!

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Seems Messrs Ross & Brand Should Have Some Company In The Apology Queue

Prior to tonight’s derby, I am sure that I wasn’t alone in thinking that it wouldn’t be such a surprise, under the circumstances, if Spurs got something out of the game. However I don’t think there could’ve been a person in the stadium this evening who, with the score standing at 4-2, could have possibly dreamed that they’d be capable of such a dramatic comeback at the very death (especially the eleven players in red & white, which was probably a major contributing factor!).

What bothers me most is that ignoring our defensive aberrations, there were periods during this game, where I was left feeling incredibly proud of the way we pressurised Spurs and the manner in which we wove such intricate patterns with our passing, that our opponents were left positively chasing shadows.

If this game was a boxing match, either Harry Redknapp would’ve thrown in the towel, or the referee would’ve stopped the contest, when we had them on the ropes in the eighth round, for fear of us doing irreparable damage. As a result, I and I imagine everyone else present, was left feeling devastated because of that awful feeling that our obvious superiority was more than deserving of all three points

Obviously there was an element of good fortune to the timing of our first two goals, with almost the last kick of the first half and the first kick of the second half. But our efforts to pull ourselves back into the match were so relentless that we earned the right to take the lead.

On the radio, Lee Dixon didn’t stop singing Gael Clichy’s praises, absolutely in awe of our full-back’s boundless energy. On a night when there were several equally impressive performances from the likes of Nasri, Fabregas, Van Persie etc., it’s extremely sad that we are left bemoaning the individual (and collective) mistakes that were ultimately responsible for our inability to see the victory out, instead of marvelling at such a fabulous game.

Let’s face it, our failure to put weaker opponents to the sword, in matches where we’ve dominated, is a perennial problem. Yet rarely have we ever managed to shoot ourselves in the foot quite so spectacularly, in a match where we should really have been able to cruise to victory in some comfort.

The only slight consolation was that the vast majority of Spurs fans missed their team’s unbelievable return from the grave, having long since left the ground. However when Spurs escape relegation this season (and escape relegation they will!), they will owe us a massive debt of gratitude for gifting them the sort of spirit on which their survival will be founded. Instead of sending them back to their dressing room feeling disconsolate, knowing in their hearts that they just don’t have the necessary quality to cut it with the big boys, they’ve ended up strutting back there, feeling seven feet tall, after we’ve gifted them the sort of positive team spirit and the confidence, which can be developed from just such a comeback!

Some might question Almunia, thinking that if he managed to get a palm to Bentley’s speculative effort, he should’ve been able to turn it past the post. However as (sadly!) we know only too well, even the greatest keepers are capable of being caught off their line every now and again. Perhaps Manuel was somewhat more culpable for Spurs second, as if Huddlestone’s effort was too hot to handle, instead of presenting it to Lennon, he should’ve turned it away from the danger zone.

Yet personally, I am far more pissed off at our defence, as I get really angry when they switch off in this fashion and end up guilty of the sort of schoolboy error of failing to follow a shot in. If a defender gets beaten to a rebound by a nippy striker and ends up throwing himself in vain to try and block a shot, fair enough. But if I’m not mistaken, Sylvestre was more of a spectator than I was, watching Huddlestone’s shot and while Gallas was perhaps also caught on his heels somewhat, I think he was at least going for the ball, while his partner just stood watching as Lennon was presented with a tap in.

Still if our captain hadn’t handed Huddlestone possession in the first place, the score would’ve stayed at 3-1 and neither of them appeared to going hell for leather to win the ball back . Then again, it was almost worth conceding, for Spurs fans to get a sniff of a comeback, only for us to go straight down the other end and snuff out this glimmer of hope (or so I thought), with Adebayor putting one on a plate for Robin to rifle home our fourth.

I can see where Wenger was coming from with his substitutions, as it was such an end to end game that there were bound to be some tired legs out there and Arsène wanted to wind the clock down. It’s easy to criticise in hindsight but after Eboué had stood on the touchline for about 10 minutes, waiting for the ball to go out of play, thereby completely defeating the point of his warm up, my first thought was that this was the worst possible sort of game to come in cold and to immediately attune oneself to the incredibly frenetic pace.

Diaby’s appearance proved a masterstroke in Istanbul and with his long legs, Abou managed the odd mesmeric moment again tonight, but instead of running at their defence, I would have rather seen him run the clock down, taking it to the corner flag. I felt the introduction of Eboué, Diaby and Song, all in such a short space of time, had a negative impact on the rhythm of our play.

At the very least you would expect the players with the fresh legs to be putting themselves about, but coming into this cauldron late, I don’t think it’s easy to immediately appreciate the levels of commitment required. When Gael Clichy had his tragic slip (considering the last time he fell over in this fashion was at that disastrous match at St Andrews, I don’t want to witness Gael losing his balance ever again!!), watching a replay, I simply cannot understand why Song was not gaining ground and closing Jenas down, when the Spurs player had to take the ball with him and Song had only just come on. At the very least Alex should’ve been trying to exert some pressure on Jenas, so he wasn’t able to take his potshot in such a composed fashion
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Then for the fourth and final act of this tragedy, I seem to recall seeing Diaby loping along in the wake of Darren Bent, when of all players, I’d be expecting all three subs to be simply busting a gut to catch up with play. However often in these circumstances I get the sense that instead of adding something to the flagging energy levels, the subs get dragged down to the same fatigued state of those who’ve been on the pitch for the entire ninety. Myself I would’ve much preferred to see the likes of Kolo Toure being introduced late on in tonight’s game, as a player who only knows how to play at 100 per cent, with plenty of experience of the steel needed and the potential costs of losing focus in these high octane encounters.

I seem to recall hearing it said that a ref should allow 30 seconds injury time for every substitution, but I can rarely recall any other refs applying this provision so precisely, if at all. And even then, this would only account for three minutes of injury time and considering I can’t remember either of the physio’s making a single appearance on the pitch (which itself is quite remarkable in such a hotly contested derby match), I don’t know where he found a further minute from? Yet it would sound too much like sour grapes, to be having a pop at the timekeeping, especially when, by and large, the fact that Atkinson was so inconspicuous suggests he had a blinding game.

In truth it was a breath of fresh air to have an official who seemed happy to keep his cards in his pocket, preferring to have a quiet word, rather than saddling himself with the rash of early bookings that have all too often ruined these derby games, when they’ve inevitably resulted in a sending off or two.

Considering the recent crack down on virtually any physical contact involving a sliding tackle, it was great to see a ref use his discretion, showing some appreciation of the fervent circumstances and attempting to let the game flow without unnecessary interruption and the customary need of all too many Premiership officials, to impose their authority.
So it would be a travesty to take our ire out on him, when we should be pointing the finger of blame at those who patently failed to play to the final whistle, whenever it was!

Personally I don’t really care that we’ve gifted the enemy such a much needed boost to their confidence, as I was already of the opinion that Harry’s arrival might enable Spurs to stave off the looming shadow of relegation. Far more significant a consequence of our somewhat naïve failure to close out this derby match, is the fact that we’ve blown two, possibly crucial points.

What have we learned in the process? Well there’s nothing revelatory about the propensity of our defence to be so porous and like I said, despite our miserable failure to “take it to the bridge” as far as the win was concerned, I remain nonetheless quite proud of the sort of commitment and fighting spirit shown for the majority of the ninety.

However, sadly, when you think it should’ve been oh so different and an overwhelming victory over our neighbours should’ve left us feeling that much more optimistic about our prospects, instead of which it has only managed to reinforce my feelings of foreboding, that when it comes to the Premiership prize giving in May, we will once again be left with our faces pressed up against the window, watching enviously as the silverware is handed out to our rivals, principally as a result of the fact that neither Chelsea or Man U would be guilty of the gift of mercy, once they’ve got a vice like grip around their opponent’s throats.

Still I suppose from a glass half full perspective, the one thing we’ve got to look forward to is how much sweeter it’s going to taste, so long as there’s no repeat performance of this sort of reprieve, when we give them a right royal stuffing back at White Hart Lane. Although I’ll be lucky to maintain my presence on this mortal coil, if we have to suffer many more similarly stressful matches in the meantime!

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Oh When The Spurs, Go Marching Down

Hi folks

I received a slap on the wrist from the Sports Ed at the Examiner last week. He was worried that I was beginning to lose the self-discipline I've shown from the start of this season and that I was slipping back into my old habit of lumbering him with far too much work, by prattling on at such length and vastly exceeding the required number of words.

However, having renewed my efforts to please my Corkonian pals, I've ended up omitting several points I planned on making in the following piece. But you guys aren't so fortunate, as there are no such restrictions on my blog and so, work permitting, I plan on returning to offer my comments on last Thursday's AGM, the devastation of the Saturday fixture list by relatively meaningless UEFA Cup games, my displeasure at Carlton Cole's sending off and this worrying recent trend to try and rule out the sliding tackle and the possibility that perhaps events will prove we might have been better served by a draw that saw both Chelsea and Liverpool dropping points on Sunday?

Until then.....Come on You Reds
Nuff Love
Bernard

PS. For the info of those who weren't present at Upton Park yesterday, along with all the amusement that was had singing "oh when the Spurs go marching down" (hilariously sung with the same elongated beginning to the chant), there were some relatively unsuccessful efforts to introduce "Theo Walcott. He's an Englishman at Arsenal" to the tune of Sting's Englishman in New York and I assume the fact that Eduardo is relatively close to a long-awaited return, inspired several choruses of "Eduardo Silva, Arsenal's number nine" (to the tune of the Fernando Torres song)
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It was predictable that Spurs would ring the changes in advance of Wednesday’s derby. My closest Spurs pal has been so depressed that he’d done a bunk to Marrakech. Having texted him the breaking news on Saturday night, he phoned me back to tell me that he’d received my message in a restaurant, just as the belly dancer appeared. Thus for him Redknapp’s arrival at Spurs will be permanently associated with the sight of this dancer’s jiggling navel.

As wobbles go, the best thing about our neighbour’s plight is that it’s been the source of so much amusement on the terraces - doubtless you’ll hear our adaptation of “when the Spurs go marching down” echoing around our ground on Wednesday night. Unfortunately, it’s likely to prove a smart move (albeit from the same chairman who sacked Martin Jol!). Compared to “charisma bypass” Ramos, if there’s one coach with the personality necessary to arrest Spurs slide into oblivion, it’s likely to be Redknapp. He’s from the same mould as Venables, in his innate ability to charm players into wanting to perform for him.

However Harry’s appointment is indication of Spurs sudden shift in aspirations, as they’ve not plumped for this wily old campaigner because of any Champions League credentials, but because of his nous of what’s needed in a Premiership dogfight. Should Redknapp succeed, I can’t help but wonder if he’ll be the author of his own downfall, as no sooner will he have achieved mid-table security, than his employers are likely to return to setting their sights on the more sophisticated set-up, which might take them to “the next level”. Still, as genial as he may be, it will be hard to have much sympathy for someone who’s lived by the self-serving sword, should Daniel Levy end up disembowelling him with it!

Sadly we’ve been denied the sort of drubbing we might’ve meted out to Ramos’ despondent troops, but the circumstances should at least guarantee a rip-roaring atmosphere. I only hope the occasion inspires our lot to set about our neighbours with a little more urgency than we witnessed from the start of Sunday’s match and in other recent games, where it’s taken a goal deficit to really get us going.

Faubert might take a lesson from his teammate, as none of us Gooners standing behind the goal (the seats in Upton Park’s Centenary Stand are utterly superfluous, apart from being somewhere to park one’s bum during the break) could quite believe how Collins managed to clip the ball safely over his own goal some minutes earlier, from a position almost directly beneath the crossbar. Yet up until the French full-back inadvertently diverted the ball past his own keeper, it felt as if Rob Green was going to have one of those impenetrable afternoons, where, as time wore on, I envisaged the Irons nicking all 3 points from a single Bellamy breakaway.

I love going to West Ham, as on Sunday I was able to watch live coverage of the entire game at Stamford Bridge, not walking out the door until the final whistle had confirmed the welcome conclusion of Chelsea’s 4-year unbeaten home record, jumping on my motorbike at 3.30pm, scooting through the East London traffic and even with the detour due to Stratford’s massive Olympic development, I just made it into the ground for the 4pm KO. What’s more, with the missus away, I was able to make it back home again, before the dog had time to express her displeasure at being left alone, by taking a dump on the kitchen floor!

If I’d wondered about Wenger’s apparent interest in Alonso during the summer, the manner in which he and Mascherano bossed the midfield at the Bridge, demonstrated exactly why le Prof wanted the Spaniard as a partner for Fabregas. In a question and answer session with some of us only a few months back, Wenger vehemently assured us that according to his stats, Alex Song most definitely was not an option alongside Cesc in midfield.

I often wonder if Arsène’s approach is a little too scientific and if he might dispense with the endless stats, every now and again and trust to his instincts more. Song might not be the ultimate solution in midfield. It remains to be seen whether he can develop the mental poise, to match his physical power. However he’s appears to be a more compatible partner for Fabregas than the flyweight facsimile of Denilson and lends a more dogged steel to the heart of the Gunners side.

There was much consternation amongst us on Sunday when Wenger withdrew Walcott & Nasri, the two most likely candidates to conjure up an opening. But we were soon bowing to the boss’ far superior knowledge, as the appearance of Adebayor and Diaby resulted in Van Persie shifting to the right, which somehow seemed to liberate the ineffectual Dutchman, as Robin began to impose himself on the game.

Diaby might not have managed the same dramatic impact we’d witnessed in Istanbul but a fresh-legged Adebayor was a handful for Upson and Collins. If Bendtner keeps feeding the Togonator the sort of passes that set-up our second, they’ll soon be best of pals and as if to repudiate any suggestion of bad feeling between these two, there was a moment earlier where Ade hit the deck after an effort on goal and the Dane dashed over to haul his teammate onto his gangly, long legs.

I was surprised to hear that prior to Sunday, we’d beaten the Hammers at the Boleyn only once in the previous 8 years. But while the win and a rare clean sheet was encouraging, it bothers me that it took until the last quarter for us to begin to turn the screw. If we fail to demonstrate sufficient urgency in Wednesday’s derby, the longer the game goes without a goal, the more our guest’s confidence will grow, to the point where they begin to believe a result isn’t beyond them.

Considering the two teams’ comparative expectations, dropping 2, or even 3 points would be far more damaging to us, than a Spurs side who, up until their cockney Lancelot came charging over on Saturday night, would’ve been happy merely to avoid embarrassment. With big games coming thick and fast in the weeks ahead, as ever, consistency will be the key to a genuine title challenge.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Normal Service Resumed?

I was fretting at half-time on Saturday, as my 11-year old nephew had flown over from Dublin with his mum, for his first ever pilgrimage to the Home of Football (Mark II). I was most disappointed for him that we were 0-1 down, after such a dreadfully humdrum first-half Arsenal performance. And with the two of them sitting close to the front, behind the goal, I was gutted that we hadn’t managed to score at their end of the ground, as young Jake would’ve enjoyed a wonderful view, from such close proximity.

It was also somewhat disconcerting to discover through my binoculars that they were only separated from the Everton fans by a thin line of orange-jacketed stewards in the very last two seats in their row. Fortunately, when it dawned on me that my route through the visiting fans enclosure was barred, instead of spending the break scuttling around almost the entire circumference of the concourse in the opposite direction, I realised that I could reach them by hiking upstairs to the Upper Tier, across and down. Luckily Jake’s not a delicate lad and didn’t appear unduly bothered to find himself acting as the net, with all the banter being batted back and forth above his head.

Aisling revealed that at least the worst offender was sufficiently ashamed about the possibility of broadening the boy’s vocabulary. Apparently he was constantly turning the air blue, swapping insults with the Scousers, but after each successive curse he was tapping her on the back to apologise!

Credit where due, as I’m all too often whinging about Wenger’s reluctance to tinker with his team until the last 10/15 mins. Although, in truth Arsène was forced to shuffle his pack at half-time on Saturday, as we were rapidly running short of defenders, with Kolo’s withdrawal. Moving Song to centre-back and Eboué to right-back, he sent Theo on to wreak havoc on the right flank, resulting in the injection of dynamism and directness which led indirectly to the equaliser.

If it wasn’t for our captain’s injury, I wonder if Wenger would’ve maintained his customary patience and left our Wonderboy cooling his heels on the bench, until the last quarter? As it was, the timing of our goal was absolutely crucial, coming only 3 mins after the restart. Without it, as the clock on the big screen began to tick down, our prospects of turning this game around would’ve diminished in inverse proportion to the increased tension, resulting from the growing mood of discontent amongst many Gooners present.

The moment Nasri’s grass-cutter skimmed its way into the bottom corner of the net, I immediately trained my binoculars on Jake. I was delighted to discover that his initiation into the tribe was complete, seeing him give vent to first-half frustrations and the Toffees fans’ gloating, with a rapid-fire succession of one fingered salutes, directed at his new found “friends”. “Go on my son” I muttered under my breath, “give ‘em loads”. I couldn’t have been more proud if he was my own.

I guess as far as he was concerned, our 3-1 victory will have tasted all the sweeter for having been behind at the break. But having taken our seats only moments after watching Chelsea reserves ominous tonking of Boro at the Riverside and with Man Utd seemingly coming to the boil that evening against the Baggies, blessed with so much attacking threat that they didn’t appear to miss £32mill. Tevez, the ruthlessness and the potential consistency of the competition leave me feeling somewhat pessimistic about our own Premiership prospects.

With Liverpool and the Gunners both making hard graft of our games, while the other two contenders cruised to victory, normal service appeared to have been resumed this weekend. Yet as the tension evaporated with our equaliser and we were able to relax, we were transformed into the Arsenal side that is no less an irresistible force than either of our two main rivals

It leaves one wondering exactly what it is that’s responsible for our recent trend towards inertia, seemingly waiting for success to fall into our laps and needing to go a goal behind, to inspire the sort of urgency that’s required to really force the issue. Why we can’t apply ourselves with the same intensity right from the off?

If it’s a matter of complacency then seemingly they aren’t the only culprits, since Saturday’s events would suggest that the lack of aggro at our new gaff up until now has resulted in some of the old bill going to sleep on the job. I’m unsure whether some slieveens in the posh Club Level seats above the away fans were responsible for causing the problem, or if they were reacting to some aggro below, but from the evidence seen since on YouTube, their behavious was reprehensible. Mercifully the fracas occurred towards the back of the Lower Tier, but I spent the last 10 mins focusing on Ais & Jake, terrified they’d get caught up in the middle of it, watching the over-reaction of a copper who’d had his helmet knocked off, trying to make up for the lack of numbers, by lashing out at the Everton fans indiscriminately with his long black truncheon!

This heavy-handedness (or being hit from above) provoked a rabid reaction amongst a few away fans, where I’d have expected to see a squadron yellow-jacketed old bill flooding into the area to quell such unrest. Instead of which, it went on unabated until the end of the game and if I was sufficiently worried about what might happen outside, to dash around to meet Ais & Jake right by their exit, then surely it would’ve made sense to hold the Everton fans back long enough for the crowds to disperse?

Instead of which some of them headed straight out the exit to start attacking all and sundry in their vicinity. Astonishingly there weren’t any police on the scene to intervene. If I was kacking my pants, standing waiting on my tod, heaven only knows what an ordeal it must’ve been for some of the women and kids amongst the civilians caught up in the inexcusable efforts of a small group of Evertonians to seek some retribution!

Eventually a lone mounted copper came clip-clopping along the asphalt to try to separate the troublemakers. Thankfully I spotted Ais & Jake emerging from the stadium and hurriedly shepherded the two of them off, in the opposite direction, taking the long way around the ground to avoid any further incident.

Considering the light-hearted banter I’ve shared with the Scousers for several years now, I would’ve never believed it would end up being Evertonians christening our new gaff with it’s first scenes of violence (thus I have to assume there was some provocation). However by comparison to the sort of sedate, often to the point of soporific atmosphere that is unfortunately the norm at our new gaff, I guess Jake couldn’t have wished for a more fervent occasion for his first ever game, if not all of it particularly pleasant. Still doubtless he’ll have returned to Dublin to impress his playground pals with a barrage of choice invective and the win means he doesn’t have to worry about not being invited back.

Hopefully publication of this piece will coincide with a return from Istanbul with 3 more Champions League points in the bag, in a game which based on form, is highly unlikely to be a boring scoreless draw and where the side with the least inconsistent defence is likely to prevail.

Only Daniel Levy knows whether Juande “Charisma Bypass” Ramos will still be (not so) gainfully employed. According to tradition, the Spurs chairman will eventually lose control of an increasingly squeaky sphincter, 3 days before the derby, in a desperate attempt to salvage a result against us, by sacking the Spaniard. For those Spurs fans who weren’t still hiding behind the sofa on Sunday night, if the advice of messrs Dixon and Keown wasn’t hard enough to stomach (Plug even sounded sincere, suggesting they should stay loyal to their hapless gaffer), how worrying must it have been to have heard Adrian Chiles reveal on MOTD2 that only Southampton have survived such a woeful start to a Premiership season to stave off relegation!


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e-mail to: LondonN5@gmail.com

Wake Me Up When It's Alll Over

Hi folks,

I was planning on writing a bit of a preamble, in an effort to add some much needed Arsenal relevance to the following missive. However after a long day unloading several containers stuffed with inordinately awkward and weighty scenery, I'm afraid I can just about muster hitting the send button.

So if you are only interested in the Arsenal (as I am, but unfortunately I still have to file my piece to the Examiner during an International break), then you have been forewarned

TTFN
Bernard
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The hypocrisy of the tabloid media knows no bounds. Myself I’m rarely sufficiently absorbed in the eternal soap-opera that is the England team, to give a monkey’s. But it was a bit rich to see the Red Tops having a pop at those fans who booed Ashley Cole at Wembley on Saturday, when its they who are largely responsible for much of the resentment felt towards Cole, by perpetuating the image of him as one of England’s avaricious, overpaid “Bentley boys”.

Personally I’ve never believed in booing a player who’s wearing the shirt of the team you are supposed to be “supporting”, as it’s hardly likely to encourage them to play any better. However that doesn’t mean I don’t understand why so many of the 90,000 present, who’d stumped up serious wedge for their Wembley tickets (in these belt-tightening times!), felt entitled to give Cashley the bird.

England v Kazakhstan was hardly a mouth-watering prospect and I was half hoping for salvation, in the form of my missus needing some assistance pushing a trolley around Tescos, as I’m sure I’d have found more excitement in the supermarket aisles, than in the first half of this drab affair. However watching on the box, I thought I sensed some complacency in a couple of instances where, with the game still at 0-0, England players seemed to be caught on their heels, hardly breaking their necks to be first to the ball.

Having finally achieved an air of respectability, albeit courtesy of a bog standard set-piece and an own goal, Cole’s casual backpass and his gift of a glimmer of hope for the Kazakhis, was the apotheosis of the sort of lax, arrogant approach that has cost the England team so dear in many matches over the past few decades and it’s the sort of problem I would’ve expected a strict disciplinarian like Capello to have pounced on.

Every schoolboy defender has it drummed into them not to pass the ball back across their own box, to avoid just such a mishap. But it wasn’t just because supposedly the world’s best left-back had committed such a cardinal sin that they were in such high dudgeon on the terraces, but that it was representative of an insufferably casual attitude
I actually prefer Clichy, as in my most humble opinion he may be some years away from having Cole’s wealth of experience, but where Cashley requires the inspiration of the big occasion, or a grudge match to raise his game nowadays, Gael has more to prove and can therefore be guaranteed to produce the same consistent levels of commitment, week in, week out.

There was some suggestion that it was the Gooners present at Saturday’s game who were responsible for giving Cole so much stick. However while Golden Balls Beckham can do no wrong and receives more adulation from the England crowd for his warm-up routine, than Rooney gets for scoring a couple of goals, if it had been any of the other players who’d presented the visitors with a gift-wrapped goal, they’d have been subject to the same sort of angry reaction.

Moreoever, it is the media again who are largely culpable for the way in which the England fans permanently exist on the cusp of this love/hate relationship with the national team, as a result of the incredibly fickle way in which they vacillate between deification of the players one day and accusing them of being the devil incarnate the next.

Myself I’ve always tended to give them the benefit of the doubt, when they’ve offered up “we gave it our best” type clichés, in breathless post-match interviews because I suppose still cling to some misguided romantic notion that even the most jaded old whores of the professional game must feel some inspiration, pulling on their national shirt. Despite the evidence of my own eyes, in games where I’ve expected them to go for it, hell for leather, I guess I’ve always assumed they were acting under the manager’s instructions not to hare around, chasing the ball like headless chickens.

However, sadly it would appear that nowadays, for established squad players, playing for one’s country is merely part of their job description and they go about it in a far too perfunctory and businesslike fashion for my liking. No matter what they might claim, all the evidence suggests that these days, it’s just another day at the office.

Myself I am more of a Theo Walcott fan than an England fan, as I can never really set aside some of the resentment I feel towards some of our Premiership opponents. Although Theo started Saturday’s match with all the energy and enthusiasm of a youngster who still gets a real buzz from being picked to play for his country, as the match progressed, it was as if the spark of his dynamism was doused by the humdrum way in which his teammates went about their business.

It reminded me of the joke about the young bull wanting to run down to the lower field to procreate with a fine looking heifer, while his elders advised him to walk down and procreate with them all. Yet in truth most spectators would’ve rather seen Theo score once early doors, than to wait all afternoon hoping the old bullocks might find the energy to do the business before all the cows end up heading back to the barn with a headache!

Meanwhile it’s unlikely that as a stadium, Wembley is ever going to become the fervent home fortress the FA are hoping for, because of the way in which, much like our new place, they’ve focused on maximising their income from the corporate moola. If it’s mildly embarrassing at our gaff when the game restarts after the break with Club Level half empty, because of the prominent position of the posh seats of the Bobby Moore Club at Wembley, it looked bloody awful when the second half kicked off, with the camera pointing directly across the halfway line, showing the players in the centre circle, with all 1800 of the seats in the background entirely empty.

I actually contacted a Gooner pal of mine to get the scoop. I suppose my strict scruples about not selling football tickets above face value are not quite so valid, in an age where the suits are perfectly happy to write off vast sums for the privilege of being present at “must see” football matches. Thus along with others, he bought his Bobby Moore seats as something of a buy to let investment, whereby the approx. £500 a pop pitch doesn’t really cost him anything, so long as the Gunners don’t make it to a Wembley finals and he can cover his outlay by flogging them off for both Cup finals for a small fortune.

In their defence, he tells me that the 1800 member club and its restaurant are so vast that it takes him 8 mins to get to his table and back and by the time you include a trip to the karsey, half-time is over. So the logistics of serving 1800 members makes it impossible for them to get back before the start.

However he also forwarded details of Saturday’s menu, which I’ve included here, as it highlights more succinctly than I ever could how dramatically football has changed in recent times and how the large amounts of disposable income from the “nouveau” footie fans have become a necessary evil, to feed the insatiable appetite of he footballing beast (although perhaps much of this income will have been disposed off during the parlous economic climate of the past couple of weeks!).

On the pitch it might still be the beautiful game, but the trend for these elitist and extremely profitable enclosures in our modern arenas couldn’t be more far removed from the pie & pint, piss in the pocket of the punter in front terraces of yesteryear.

As for the Boys in Green, perhaps the Azzurri’s draw in Bulgaria suggests that the outcome of Ireland’s group is not written in stone (as nothing else appears to be nowadays!). Yet on the basis that even a misfiring Italian team should have sufficient wiles about them to win the group, an Italian win in Sofia would’ve probably best served their qualification prospects. We can but hope that they can do their bit to keep the competition interesting with a win in Cyprus?


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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Down....but certainly never out

The Stadium of Light is a long old schlep and after an exhausting week, if I’m entirely honest, if Saturday’s game had been live on the box, I might’ve been sorely tempted to stop at home with my feet up, instead of spending a gruelling 12–hours at the wheel of my motor, only to endure 90 minutes in the wind and rain at a North-East encounter, which hardly held the promise of being a particularly scintillating affair.

But then until such time as the Irish Examiner feature is renamed “Recliner Armchair Rabbit”, instead of “Terrace Talk”, I’d feel too much of a fraud if I didn’t make the effort and as every travelling fan knows, a failure to ‘pay one’s dues’ at the Premiership’s least tempting profferings, can often prove the sort of fatal mistake that will inevitably guarantee one misses out on the game of the season.

I would’ve also thought that most travelling Gooners would know better than to give up the ghost on this Arsenal side. After making the 500-mile round trip trek, I pity the many poor souls who made a disconsolate dash for the exits on 85 minutes, the moment Leadbitter’s speculative shot nestled in the back of Almunia’s net. I know it’s an almost instinctive, ‘not our day’ type reaction to want to escape the scene of one’s misery, after having the rug pulled from beneath our feet, with what was the epitome of a smash & grab, 3-point robbery (considering our almost total domination of possession).

However after travelling all that way, how gutted must these Gooners have been to have missed out on the highlight of our afternoon and the gleeful celebrations that greeted Cesc Fabregas’ equaliser, as the young Spaniard salvaged not just a point, but some self-respect, by avoiding our worse start to a season in umpteen years. I imagine most will be too embarrassed to admit it, but I simply can’t imagine my last Arsenal memory, before a six hour return trip in the pouring rain (and a two week International break) being the sound of the eruption in the stadium behind me, which would’ve been loud enough to indicate a goal, but not sufficiently sonorous to suggest a second for the home side. What a sickener!

Sadly by and large, the game itself lived up to its unappetising billing. Although I doubt it’s a paucity of entertainment that’s responsible for the large swathes of empty seats at the Stadium of Light, as the pictures on MOTD of sparsely populated terraces elsewhere and the perimeter advertising, offering reduced price season tickets would suggest that Premiership football is fortunate to have obscene amounts of TV money, to cushion the adverse effects of the credit crunch.

Still the recent proliferation of the Irish tri-colour on scarves and flags around the ground would suggest there’s no shortage of punters willing to travel from the Emerald Isle to support the Quinn/Keane revolution on Wearside – who could’ve possibly predicted that such a hostile relationship would eventually develop into wedded bliss (although the cynic in me might conclude that it’s only a matter of time before this analogy arrives at its inexorable conclusion, involving deceit, divorce and customary disputes over illegitimate offspring!).

Saturday’s match was evidence of the contrasting levels of expectations between the two sets of supporters. As with most clubs who’ve endured yo-yoing between the top division and the various incarnations of the far less glamorous lower league, you get the distinct sense that Sunderland fans are simply grateful to retain their invitation to the Premiership party. Whereas an Arsenal home crowd would scream their disgust, if Wenger dared to employ Roy Keane’s negative tactics, getting ten men behind the ball for the entire 90. Nevertheless, Arsène should be more than used to opposing managers paying us this sort of respect and he should be aware that any sort of “park the bus” griping is likely to sound like sour grapes.

No, Sunderland must be commended for the well drilled way in which they stuck to their manager’s gameplan and as frustrating as it proved for anyone associated with an Arsenal side, tasked with breaking down what basically resembled an attack v defence training ground exercise, if any criticism is due, it should be directed at our own lack of dynamism.

Mercifully the miserable weather abated during the second half, just long enough for a football match to break out. It’s all well and good for the best teams to be patient, but when all efforts fail to pick a path through the ten bodies blocking ones route to goal, the obvious answer is to employ a sufficient burst of pace to deny the opposition time to get back into position, facing the ball in two impenetrable banks of four, lined neatly across their area.

I can only recall two instances where the Gunners managed to change down a gear, to attack at sufficient speed for Sunderland to have only five men tracking back into their box, still facing their own goal. One resulted in Van Persie forcing a decent save from Gordon and the other resulted in the ref disallowing a perfectly good goal (at least from my close proximity Walcott prevented the whole of the ball from going out of play). Whereas for the majority of the rest of the match, for all our possession, it was the home side’s rare forays forward which proved more threatening, as our attack lacked the necessary incisiveness.

To my mind, considering Sunderland’s lack of ambition, Alex Song was superfluous as a midfield enforcer. In a contest with the obese and the infirm (an overweight Andy Reid and a positively pensionable Dwight Yorke) which wasn’t particularly physical, the more cerebral ball skills of Samir Nasri might’ve proved more successful in picking the Black Cats lock.

At least Cesc’s determination to get his head on the ball at the death meant that we didn’t head home feeling too deflated. But having blown 8 of 21 points to date, to continue with the feline analogy, I can’t help but feel that it is a bit early to have already nixed the majority of our nine lives. Although I guess we must be grateful to our North London neighbours, as by joining Newcastle as the Premiership laughing stock, Spurs have ensured that all such trivial setbacks are put into proper perspective.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

To Err Is Human, To Forgive Is Divine

...and in contrast to our neighbours continued capitulation, I think we can afford a little forgiveness?
Nuff Love
Bernard
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From our seats in the lower, we had the perfect view, directly in line with Geovanni and Almunia’s goal, so that almost from the instant the Brazilian’s wonder strike left his boot and arced its way into the top, far corner of our net, I knew it was a Goal of the Month (if not Goal of the Season) contender.

Nevertheless, although there was nothing for it, but to graciously applaud the “worth the entrance fee alone” quality of Hull’s equaliser, the way in which the Gunners’ defence positively invited the Tiger’s midfielder to take his phenomenal potshot, by failing to exert the slightest pressure on the ball, was symptomatic of the sort of complacency, some might even say arrogance, that was responsible for Saturday evening’s upset. Doubtless this was the reason why Wenger was left spitting feathers, to the extent the he felt his team had afforded “too much room to West Brom”!

I can accept getting turned over by the better team on the day, but after satisfying victories on the road against Blackburn and Bolton, getting beat at home by Hull was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing we’ve the ability to give Premiership’s latest arrivistes a good hiding.
Sadly we once again witnessed the lack of that killer instinct that’s cost us dear in recent times and the absence of which could well prove to be the decisive difference between us and our principal rivals. It’s hard to imagine Chelsea or Man Utd letting Hull off the hook in a home game, after going a goal ahead and we were more than capable of killing this match off as a contest, after McShane helped the ball into his own net early in the second half, with Hull having finally been undone by one of Theo’s blistering bursts of pace.

Yet where against Sheffield Utd. the previous Tuesday night, Arsène’s young protégés had scored with gay abandon, almost every time they strode forward, on Saturday our more experienced players reverted to the same old allergy of wanting to walk the ball into the back of the net, seemingly lacking the youngsters carefree hunger and determination to grab the goal scoring responsibilities with both feet.

All credit to Hull, their fans and their manager. Even if Brown does look a prize plonker with his radio mic attached to his ear – I’m always half expecting him to break into a Boyzone song & dance routine and he very nearly did when the Tigers took a shock lead. Yet while their fans maintained a raucous racket throughout the 90, I sensed that their team couldn’t possibly sustain the same levels of commitment seen during the first-half, for the entire duration and was hoping our superior ability might begin to tell as fatigue set in.

However as it turned out, we failed to really test the Tigers fitness, as our own intensity dropped once we’d taken the lead and instead of going for their feline throat, we reverted to producing pretty passing patterns, as if we’d a divine right to achieve a two-goal cushion. It was bad enough that we were all gob-smacked when fate gifted our guests with such a humdinger of an equaliser, but when more slipshod marking saw us concede a second from yet another shamefully defended set-piece, there was a side of me that couldn’t help but feel that the vast majority of 60,000 present, who’d been sitting there in silence, expecting a perfunctory 3-point return to the top of the pile and the lackadaisical players who’d been found severely wanting for sufficient focus and concentration, had received exactly what they deserved, as these Premiership upstarts went and rubbed our faces in our elitist arrogance.

I mistakenly assumed that despite the tender average age of this Arsenal squad, there should be enough seasoned campaigners to appreciate (especially after our Craven Cottage wake-up call!) that there are no “gimmes” in the Premiership fixture list nowadays. Sure ourselves and a couple of our competitors might be blessed with sufficient talent to get away with giving less than 100% every now and again, but eventually you will get found out, in the fiery cauldron of a competition, where entire careers are on the line game by game. With the margin for error having become so slight in recent seasons, there is absolutely no room for complacency and ultimately the team that takes the ribbon in the Premiership marathon is invariably the outfit that’s best equipped to cope with this crucial fact.

Meanwhile if it’s true that “to err is human, to forgive is divine”, we Gooners will all be a little closer to G-d if we put things right against Porto, even if those of us of the Jewish persuasion should be praying in a different temple altogether on the occasion of our New Year. Although after spending Saturday morning fretting about making it to the match, whilst delayed in Dublin airport, I doubt my pal’s son Danny was feeling too forgiving, when he returned back to school in Kildare on Monday morning, to face a barrage of scorn from the Man U brigade!
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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Whaddabout those kids eh!

Considering James Beattie was being touted as the new Alan Shearer not so long ago, while the goal scorers tonight will doubtless steal all the glory, I think we must also give plenty of credit to the likes of Djourou and Song for not giving Sheffield a sniff (did Fabianski have a save to make?)

These two performed particularly well as a CB partnership and I am increasingly impressed by Djourou the more I see of him. Aside from having that Rio Ferdinand type confidence on the ball, which makes him equally happy to be steaming into the opposition's penalty area, the Swiss lad has some massive cahones, as he's incredibly cool under pressure

In the past I've wondered if perhaps Johann was a little bit too cool, in the sense that I thought he might be guaranteed to end up getting caught out attempting a dragback on the edge of our own area and losing out, with only the goalkeeper to beat. Nevertheless I admire the confidence that has him believing he's good enough to get away with it and I have to admit that I am a lot happier having someone with his apparent composure under fire, than the sort of frantic defending that we are all too often in the habit of practicing.

And big respek to everyone else. A couple of Carlos' goals were absolute peaches and young Jack Wilshere went a long way to enhancing his burgeoning reputation. Even though he's still such a schnip of a lad, apparently it's not a problem with his low centre of gravity, even against the Sheff Utd bruisers and old warhorses like Gary Speed (isn't Speed old enough to be Wilshere's dad - how embarrassing for him must that have been!)

Whilst I am at it, anyone know what the connection is between Wilshere and Sheff Utd's Chris Morgan, as the two of them had a long exchange after the final whistle and looked to be very close?

Finally the hole in the wall at Highbury House had been emptied of cash and so I didn't end up getting a program, but from what I read of Wenger's notes in a copy I borrowed at half-time, Arsene appeared to be making the point, so that there should be absolutely no confusion, that he will be keeping faith with the youngster's, no matter how far we progress in the competition. And I for one am glad he's come out straight away and quashed any suggestion that he should start introducing more experienced players in the latter stages, as at least this way there should be no prospect of him being put under pressure by fans and media, merely because of supposedly being desperate for a sniff of some silverware

Personally I have always believed it's correct to play the same team that has got us there and when you start throwing in the odd experienced player, they become a team of strangers anyway. For my money, you can't betray the kids who will hopefully get us there and start suggesting that you don't have sufficient confidence in their abilities, certainly not for the mere reward of this Mickey Mouse trophy. Besides on current form, I'd be perfectly confident of this lot giving the neighbours a good hiding

Big Love
Bernard

Can We Play In Lancashire Every Week?

It wasn’t so long ago that there was an inevitable sense of foreboding about our outings to the North-West. Even on Saturday, as I strolled towards the Reebok, admiring its pleasant rural setting (if you ignore the ubiquitous adjacent retail park) in the late afternoon sunshine of our Indian Summer, considering our long trek back from Kiev in midweek and the news that Van Persie and Theo had been left on the bench, I have to admit that I would’ve been happy to accept a draw.

I don’t think that under the stewardship of messrs Megson and Ince, the manner in which their respective sides attempt to shackle the Arsenal’s silky skills is any less robust. Thus it would appear that we are learning to cope with these more muscular encounters, without getting rattled. What’s more, with our impressive form of late, the physicality of our opponents is only really a factor at set-pieces. In open play, for the majority of the time the pace of our passing is so rapid that strength just doesn’t come into it, if they simply can’t catch up with the ball.

The more inappropriate the “don’t like it up ‘em” sobriquet becomes, the less our opponents focus on tying to kick the crap out of us and as we’ve witnessed in the last couple of games, in a straight contest of ability, there’s only likely to be one winner. In fact, compared to the uncompromising, route one footie we’ve grown accustomed to from the Trotters in recent times, I can rarely recall a Bolton display that was more pleasing on the eye.

However, with the Gunners having been galvanised by going a goal down, we should really have been home and hosed by half-time, as we were all hypnotised by a positively breathtaking half hour spell, during which we virtually laid siege to Jaaskelainen’s goal, weaving scintillating waves of the very best of Wenger-ball. But there was no disgrace upon the home side in this demonstration of the huge gulf in class. Bolton, Blackburn and most other Premiership sides are likely to find that resistance is futile, when we’ve all guns blazing in such a fabulous fashion.

Meanwhile, considering Clichy was left to hobble home on crutches, I think it’s safe to assume that the likes of Davies and Nolan are hardly practicing for their Boy Scout badges in hospitality! Don’t get me wrong, in the words of Mark Lawrenson, I don’t want to see football turned into a game for “Jessies”, as to my mind (as a former full-back in my all too dim and distant youth), it wouldn’t be nearly so beautiful without a balance between the physical contest and the fleet footed artistry.

Doubtless I’m in the minority, but with Davies seemingly totally focused on the ball, I felt it was merely a typically committed, “let them know you are there” type full-blooded tackle, with no apparent malice involved. However while our manager’s acerbic comments might not be entirely without motive (since Arsène is obliged to seek any advantage by focusing officials’ minds on offering us more protection), it’s perhaps not so surprising that we remain a tad irascible, with the images of Eduardo’s dreadfully distorted limb still fresh in our minds.

Perhaps it’s their fading memories of former glory but something seems to inspire Davies and Nolan to raise their game against the Gunners. In our centre-backs’ shoes, these bellicose Bolton stalwarts would probably be two of my least favourite opponents as they invariably prove to be such a handful. Then again, watching the replay of Bolton’s goal on the big screen at half-time, Clichy appeared to be somewhat culpable. We might have kept a clean sheet if he hadn’t strayed from his post.

Although it could just as easily have been all-square at the break, if it wasn’t for Kolo’s goal saving tackle, where I had to marvel at how he managed to avoid conceding a penalty. But it’s both a compliment and a criticism, as where our main competitors might have the defensive composure to avoid getting themselves into such a pickle, Touré and Gallas are all too often forced to use their pace and their ability as a frantic “get out of jail” card, for a situation which shouldn’t have been allowed to develop in the first place.

We rarely appear as secure at the back as Man U or Chelsea, but unlike all those who feel our centre-backs lack sufficient height, I tend to believe the solution lies in a keeper capable of dominating his area. Almunia performed well again on Saturday and as a shot-stopper, I’ve absolutely no complaints. But against a team with Bolton’s aerial strength, the key to defensive composure lies in the centre-backs having complete confidence in a keeper who’s going to come barrelling out to use the 3 foot advantage of their arms, rather than timidly being blocked off on their line.

I found myself chuckling as we serenaded Ewood Park last weekend, with a sarcastic chorus of “You’ve only come to see Eboué”. Whereas a reprise of the same ditty on Saturday was both amusing and accurate, as even the biased Northern pundit on BBC Radio Manchester admitted at the break that our Ivorian hothead had run the show up until then.

However trust the Arsenal to fail to capitalise on their dominance, leaving us without the comfort of a two-goal cushion to luxuriate on second half. Instead of which, as the intensity of Eboué and his teammates diminished after the break, the tension on our terrace behind the goal increased, knowing we were only a hoof up field, or a set-piece away from being knocked off our top of the table perch.

Neither Sagna nor Djourou looked particularly comfortable playing out of position after Clichy’s departure. Moving Gallas to left-back seemed the more logical solution, but what do I know? All credit to Bolton, buoyed by their drummer boy, their crowd maintained a relentless racket, inspiring the home side to continue to chip away at any frailty on our flanks.

Thankfully Le Prof produced our “pocket rocket” with 15 minutes left on the clock. Theo’s injection of energy and dynamism eventually resulted in Denilson slotting home the “get this party started” third goal, enabling us to give vent to all that second half tension, by way of a lusty last five minutes “top of the league” chorus.

Obviously you win nothing in September and it remains to be seen how the depth of our squad stands up to the test of the winter months ahead. But there was little in Sunday’s big clash at the Bridge to suggest we have anything to be scared off (apart perhaps from the lack of solidity required to grind out 1-0 wins). In the meantime, hopefully all the pundits will continue writing off our prospects, as we continue to savour just about the most enthralling entertainment in the country. And for all their millions, we have the advantage over Man City of a Premiership table with North London bookends that has rarely looked more satisfying!

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Let's All Laugh At Tottenham

Hi Folks

I thought I'd better get this sent out before Spurs sneak a result against Villa and start to soar to the heady heights just out of the relegation zone! I refuse to buy the News of the Screws, because I abhor their infamous "agent provocateur" efforts to create their own scandals. However it doesn't stop me glancing at the back pages when Ro occasionally comes home with a copy. There was a piece about Theo Walcott in Sunday's edition by Andy Dunn which made me chuckle, where in reference to Theo's new contract Dunn writes:

One England team-mate - well, squad-mate - would apparently urge him to think twice before signing it, if his comments of six months ago still stand.

"If he is not getting the minutes at Arsenal, Theo is going to have to look elsewhere. You want to play football and you want to make money as well," said David Bentley, now of bottom-of-the-table Tottenham.

Of course. Heaven forbid you might want to study under the most intelligent, most creative manager in the Premier League.

After all, what is the point of becoming a supremely accomplished player - and learning a style of play that thrills and inspires - when you could be making a pot of dough at a comedy club?


Peace & Love
Bernard
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I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but as I studied the players through my binoculars when they trotted out at Ewood Park on Saturday, I sensed a distinct difference in Theo Walcott’s demeanour. As he received the grateful applause of the Rovers fans, the somewhat diffident teenager who’d departed the pitch at our place two weeks back seemed to have been transformed into a cocksure star, with the sort of confident swagger of a player who’s suddenly realised he has the potential to put the fear of god into any opposition.

As far as I’m concerned the International breaks are an annoying interruption to Arsenal business, but I was nonetheless chuffed to bits, to see our boy wonder bag his England hat-trick and receive all the plaudits, from those same pundits (eg. Hansen) who’d only recently expressed their doubts as to whether Walcott was the real deal.

Frankly they were not alone, as Theo’s ability and his blistering pace have been evident from day one, but aside from the odd cameo role, coming on as an impact sub, his inability up until now, to live up to our massive expectations, meant that the vast majority of Gooners had begun to wonder whether there was a vital missing ingredient. Walcott’s all too frequently suspect decision-making had even caused me to question whether he possessed the necessary footballing brain.

However, where our patience might have worn thin with another player, there was never the slightest chance of us giving up on him. He might only have been at the club a couple of seasons but Theo feels like one of us. I recall seeing a kid wearing a Walcott shirt at a motorway service station a while back and my pal pointing out that the youngster was accompanied by Theo’s dad. I can’t picture the parents of too many Premiership players schlepping all over the country, supporting their progeny, along with the rest of the travelling hordes?

As ever, confidence is the key and instead of the customary groan of frustration as Theo galloped down another blind alley, there was a buzz of anticipation at Blackburn, every time he touched the ball. Two weeks back he’d have taken on one player too many, but with his jinking run only 8 minutes in, ending in a perfectly timed and weighted pass to set up Van Persie for our first, this was further evidence that events during his time in Capello’s camp had resulted in a metamorphosis, from a timid chrysalis into a bold and beautiful butterfly. Never mind caffeine saturated soft-drinks, in Walcott’s case it would appear that a hat-trick against Croatia has given him wings.

Meanwhile it was Manny Adebayor’s turn to fill his boots against Blackburn, with another 3-goal haul that went a long way towards repairing his fractured relationship with all those Gooners, who’d previously bemoaned “Greedy-bayor’s” efforts to hold the club to ransom.
Like everyone else, football players need to feel loved and prior to playing Rovers I’m sure that our ambivalent attitude towards Ade must’ve had some impact on his performances. Whereas Saturday’s chest-thumping, badge-kissing goal celebrations demonstrated quite how delighted he was to hear the entire terrace behind the goal resounding to the tune of our Togolese striker’s song.

Adebayor’s control and his first-touch continue to leave a lot to be desired. Nevertheless, for some inexplicable reason, far from hindering him, Manny’s ungainly efforts somehow seem to assist in his prolific goalscoring feats. Saturday’s hat-trick also put paid to any one season wonder apprehension and waylaid concerns that we might’ve been better off cashing in on him.

The 27 passes which concluded with Denilson’s pinpoint cross onto Manny’s head for him to head home our second, just before the half-time whistle, was vintage Wenger-ball and virtually killed Rovers off. Yet few present will disagree that the final 4-0 scoreline was just a tad flattering.

It was the Beatles who sang about the 4000 holes in Blackburn Lancashire. Much to my consternation, more than a few of these were to be found at the heart of the Gunners’ defence. Observing our lack of composure in dealing with set pieces, if I have one principal grievance about Gallas as our captain, it’s that neither he (nor anyone else!) appears to take command of such situations.

In his ability to unsettle centrebacks, Santa Cruz reminded us why there was so much interest in him during the summer. But ultimately Rovers failure to take advantage of our defensive insecurity provided Le Prof with the luxury of handing Ramsey and Wilshere (the Arsenal’s youngest ever) brief league debuts, as Wenger tries to break-in more young starlets, before the relentless 2 game a week schedule begins to take its toll on our squad.

It’s a great time for these young Guns, as they’re likely to be afforded plenty more opportunities over the next 4 months, for them to prove our manager’s parsimony in the transfer market correct, so that Wenger might avoid the aberration of a cash-splashing readjustment come the January window.

One only had to consider the host of unfamiliar names lining for all the other sides on MOTD later that night, to appreciate quite what a lonely course Arsène has plotted, compared to most of his peers. Doubtless the “told you so” crew will be queuing up to crow, the moment our campaign begins to go off the rails. Yet with 3 clean sheets and 11 goals to show for our last 3 outings and with our big-spending neighbours languishing on the bottom, for the moment at least, le gaffer continues to look more genius than crackpot.
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Will Arsène Be Sporting Kevlar PJs, or The Emperor's New Clothes?

Hi folks,

Apologies to any subscribers to the Arsenal Mailing List, as some of you might have already read much of the following because I've ended up regurgitating much of what I wrote in a couple of posts to the list.

But then it's never easy to conjure up Arsenal content (or I should say, original Arsenal content) during an International break and I must admit that I was in a bit of a rush to get my piece for the Irish Examiner written, so that I could concentrate on Andy Murray's vain attempt to subdue Roger Federer at Flushing Meadows, as sadly, after the physical and more significantly the mental exertions of the past couple of days, he struggled to rekindle the sort of fire I'd witnessed in an amazing quarter and an even more astonishing semifinal.

In fact I'm not sure if it's a reflection of how engrossing the tennis was, or how disinterested I was in events from Barcelona, but Andorra v England was such an unappetising prospect that when I got in the car on Saturday night to drive to a family do, I was actually gutted to discover that I could only find live coverage of the footie on the radio, when all I wanted to hear was how Murray was faring in his tie-break with Nadal.

I guess the answer is either for Capello to get a more alluring performance out of his England squad pronto, or for me to get a new motor - one with a digital radio, where I could've listened to the coverage of the tennis on Five Live Extra!

Meanwhile those of you who sometimes find my missives a little too long-winded, will be relieved to discover that I'm so cream crackered from commuting to Kent and back, working for the ballet, that I'm desperate to hit the sack. So without further ado.....

Nuff Love
Bernard
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Any feint hopes I might’ve had of the Arsenal flashing up on the Sky Sports News ticker, during that frantic last day of summer transfer business, evaporated when I flicked over to watch the stiffs play live on Arsenal TV. Mind you that’s a misnomer nowadays, if ever I heard one, considering the tender average age of our current crop of reserves.

While other managers were busy studying YouTube videos of the few remaining mercenaries left on the market, our glorious leader was sitting in the stands at Underhill, maintaining a keen interest in the progress of his young prodigies, against a Chelsea reserve side that included Drogba.

Then again we’ve all heard since how Mark Hughes was supposedly working on his golf handicap, when his club smashed the British transfer record (where’d he find a floodlit course?). Yet in contrast to the current trend at most other top-flight clubs, ever since the fractious departure of David Dein, the Gunners have been without the matching shirt & tie set, sort of slippery businessman to conduct all the shady, behind closed doors negotiations.

Thus until Wenger is able wash his hands of the more squalid and in recent weeks, somewhat obscene side of the beautiful game and the Gunners eventually get around to employing someone with an endless supply of Type “O” to keep the leeches of the footballing world, the unscrupulous agents satiated, it’s obvious that unless Arsène is at his desk (or at least on the blower), the Arsenal aren’t doing any transfer business.

It’s true that I might continue to covet a truly world class keeper and I might’ve been happier if our midfield had been fortified with an experienced enforcer (or two), rather than having to count on the kids being able to cut the mustard, when injuries and suspensions inevitably begin to take their toll on our first XI. Nevertheless I wasn’t disappointed and even felt an inexplicable amount of hubris, as the club I love maintained a dignified distance from the sensationalist shenanigans that have rocked football to its very foundations these past couple of weeks.

Obviously I might feel a little different if I’d suffered the ignominy of being a long-suffering supporter of an outfit that's lived in the shadow of it’s immediate neighbour for nearly half a century (City or Spurs?), or who’ve spent almost an entire lifetime hankering after a slice of the glory. However I was listening to radio host Danny Kelly drawing some interesting conclusions the other day.

The bombastic bearded old goat, Ken Bates drove Chelsea so close to the precipice of financial ruin, in his vain pursuit of a lasting legacy, that he was forced to flog the club for the princely sum of a quid. Similarly, allegedly the Arsenal supporting billionaire from Abu Dhabi focused his attention on Man City, a club that was fraught with financial trouble after Thaksin’s somewhat dubious fortune had been impounded by the Thai government. Therefore according to Kelly, the moral of the story would appear to be that in order to make oneself more attractive (than a relatively sound organisation like the Arsenal) to a sugar-daddy with seemingly bottomless pockets, clubs would be best advised to recklessly spend their way to the point of oblivion!

As Uzbek oligarch Usmanov has discovered, the depth of ones pockets doesn’t make the buying of the Arsenal any easier a business, with so many of the club shares in private hands. What’s more, I for one am quite happy that the Arsenal are so reluctant to sell their soul to the devil, but whatever your feelings about a billionaire backer, we Gooners can forget it in the immediate future, as our club would appear to be guaranteed a relatively stable short-term destiny, by nature of the lockdown agreement between all of our major shareholders, preventing them selling their interest to outside investors until 2012.

David Dein’s oft quoted metaphor about the Russians parking their tanks on the lawn and firing fifty pound notes at us, seems ever more appropriate. I’m fairly certain that Arsène would’ve added to our squad if he’d been able to do the deals he wanted, at the price he was prepared to pay, to offer some cover to ensure he isn’t forced into throwing inexperienced youngsters to the lions in any crunch games. Yet if one thing is certain, it’s that our manager is nobody’s fool and if he’s flying in the face of the opinion of virtually every pundit on the planet, I’ve got to believe he has good reason. Steve Bould believes there are 7 or 8 kids amongst his current Academy crop, including the likes of Jack Wilshere, who are capable of making the grade.

It seems evident to me that Arsène has sufficient faith in an exciting vintage of homegrown produce that he’s convinced they offer the protection of a pair of Kevlar PJs which will be impregnable to the mercenaries ammo, enabling the Arsenal to put the welcome mat out for all comers (tanks and all!). Should le Prof be proved correct, our success will taste all the sweeter, knowing the rest of the footballing world is dining on humble pie. And even if we fail, aside from all the entertainment we are guaranteed along the way, compared to the short term aspirations of those all around us, we'll be safe in the knowledge that le gaffer’s determination to play the long game is destined to foster a team spirit that might reward us with a successful dynasty, instead of putting all the club’s eggs into a single, increasingly elusive silver pot.

So long as we don't all end up suffering a severe bout of influenza due to the revelation that the boss is actually coming to the door, wearing nothing but the Emperor's New Clothes!

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He Who Laughs Last.....

The benefit of Saturday’s 5.30 kick-off was that it enabled the Kerry couple and their two kids to do the rounds of the museums, before meeting up with me. Three of the four were Man Utd fans and while Mum and the eldest boy were heading back to the hotel, the definition of devotion was demonstrated by Dad, who was taking his Arsenal supporting youngest to his first ever live game.

It wasn’t the wonders of the Science, or Natural History museums but the bizarre displays at Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum, which were the biggest hit with the kids. And for a while there on Saturday, they could’ve been forgiven for wondering if they were still amongst some of the planets strangest phenomenons, as they experienced the unprecedented sound of the more fickle members of the Arsenal faithful, begrudgingly singing the praises of Manny Eboué , after the Ivorian hothead had set up our second goal with his perceptive backheel.

Moreover, as we savoured a reassuring taste of the sort of entertaining entrées that we Gooners can hopefully look forward to gorging on as the season progresses, while basking in the warmth of the balmy early evening sunshine, there was a sense that the golden orb was taking one welcome last bow before its premature winter retirement, specifically to light the stage for the minor miracle that is Arsène’s Arsenal.

I doubt Wenger will thank his director, Danny Fiszman for alluding to the size of our war chest in the media in midweek and as I write, it remains to be seen whether he actually ends up spending any of the ALLEGED £30 million available to him. Le Boss is a stubborn bugger who certainly won’t be buying players merely to pander to media and fan pressure to bolster his squad. Nor will his pride allow him to be held over a barrel by any selling club and I suspect he’d rather walk away, than be forced to pay over the odds.

Yet if last week’s woeful effort at Fulham was a wallet loosening exercise, I wonder if Saturday’s victory might have the opposite effect and unless the player(s!) he’s interested in is available at the price he values them at, Arsène will have absolutely no qualms about sticking to his guns and continuing to swim against the tide of Premiership opposition, who’ve managed to convince the guardians of their respective purse-strings that they can spend their way into contention.

Ask me again, after awkward consecutive away games at Blackburn, Kiev and Bolton, if I concur with le gaffer’s philosophy, as I’m not going to get carried away, merely because we made hay with our mazy passing patterns, against Keegan’s Toon. Some might consider it naïve, but unlike many opponents they never come to our place intent on merely shutting shop and this usually results in the sort of open contest, which often encourages the best out of us.

Cesc Fabregas’ midweek return against FC Twente was the perfect cure for our Craven Cottage hangover as our little Franco restored the fluency, which had been so sorely missed until then and with the resulting four goals, we welcomed back the all important feelgood factor.

Then on Saturday we were aided and abetted by Rob Styles’ award of an 18th minute penalty. It helped to extinguish any remaining ambitions of the Toon team that had done us the favour of denying Man Utd 3 points at Old Trafford and any remaining Arsenal butterflies were banished as Robin Van Persie emphatically banged his spot-kick into the back of the net. With the sun on their backs and a goal to the good, the Gunners began to relax sufficiently for the natural quality of our sumptuous passing game to shine.

Even Van Persie, who’d been waiting far too patiently for the perfect goal scoring opportunity to come a knocking in the opening couple of games, was transformed into an influential contributor, intent on making things happen. The whole stadium held its collective breath as the Dutchman hobbled off, hoping against hope that this timely reminder of his class wasn’t about to be interrupted by yet another injury.

Nevertheless, nothing was going to put a dampener on what ultimately proved to be a good day to be a Gooner, as Carlos Vela came off the bench to offer a cameo display of his Eduardo like abilities. Minutes earlier Wenger was making like the proud dad, applauding on the touchline as Denilson iced the cake with the Arsenal’s third, capping a lavish flowing move with his debut league goal.

I’m yet to be convinced of the Brazilian’s ability to impose himself as Cesc’s midfield partner. It worries me how often he allows opponents to get goalside and ends up conceding free-kicks, when forced to tackle from behind.

It feels as if it’s become almost obligatory for an International fortnight to be timed to coincide with the Gunners hitting good form. However, signings or no, hopefully the three games on the road when we reconvene will prove to be the boarding ramp for us all to begin sharing Arsène’s unshakeable belief in his squad.

Much like the lad from Kerry, you have to admire the strength of such conviction, as the less well-trodden path is often the loneliest. Yet just as I imagined the youngster gleefully returning to their hotel to “give it large” to his big brother, I pray that it’s le gaffer having the last laugh come May.

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