Springtime for Arsenal

Sunday’s triumphant victory over Man Utd was tinged with the bittersweet regret about what might have been, if only the Gunners had been able to reproduce such an accomplished display on a more regular basis. Moreover there was little satisfaction knowing we’d kicked the door of the Premiership title chase open, only to offer Chelsea the chance to drive though.

Nevertheless I was so desperate for the Arsenal’s faltering season to end on a high note (or at least out last significant encounter) that I was fully prepared to pull out all the superstitious stops. The omens seemed auspicious on Sunday morning; from the moment all four of Sky’s journo pundits plumped for a Man Utd win. But when the time came to head around to the ground, the thought occurred to me that perhaps I was to blame for our recent miserable run, by altering my habitually tardy traits of old and arriving in good time for the previous few games.

Having made a conscious decision to don the exact same attire I’d worn to Bloomfield Road, the last time we’d enjoyed success against Blackpool, thankfully I heard the news of Cesc’s withdrawal on the radio just as I was heading out the door, thereby affording me with the excuse to dawdle a little longer, while I went back to change my Fabregas t-shirt. On the radio they were already speculating about whether our captain had played his last game for the club. So I didn’t feel appropriately dressed, potentially expressing my support for the Arsenal’s past, when I should be showing my faith in a propitious future.

Who knows whether Cesc truly tweaked a hamstring, or if his criticisms in the Spanish press caused him to be excluded (and if Arsène has agreed to let him return to Spain, can Barca stump up sufficient spondulicks)? Whatever the case, from my point of view, Cesc's absence proved providential, with it seemingly timed to coincide with Aaron Ramsey rising Phoenix-like from the flames of Ryan Shawcross’ savagery,. It afforded a midfield triumvirate of Ramsey, Wilshere and Song an opportunity to finally come of age, without them constantly looking to our incredibly talented but disaffected captain for evidence of leadership.

Don’t get me wrong. We’ve witnessed far too many false dawns over the past half dozen seasons for me to go overboard, following this single goal victory over such a relatively mediocre incarnation of Fergie's Champions-in-waiting. I’m sure that if a single point hadn’t been sufficient for the visitors, psychologically their approach to the game might’ve been a little less unadventurous.

However this good old-fashioned “1-0 to the Arsenal” was a win which will have warmed the cockle’s of le Gaffer’s increasingly overtaxed heart. With the vultures of the media gleefully gobbling at the once again ravaged remains of Wenger’s vision and with le Boss visibly wilting in the face of the pressure for him to accept the folly of his failed experiment, his young charges finally produced the sort of spirited, faith-restoring goods to placate his critics, with a poignant reminder that indeed “Arsene Knows”!

I only hope that this “too little, too late” triumph isn’t the sort of delusory fuel that will encourage him to carry on regardless. Leaving aside the obvious frailities responsible for falling at the last fence in this and successive failed attempts to finish the Premiership course, I've always argued that the principal missing “do or die” ingredient of a winning “team” spirit simply can’t be purchased off the shelf.

Apart from the obvious euphoric instant when Ramsay’s shot left Van Der Saar flailing in it’s wake, personally speaking, it was Koscielny’s second-half cameo which was most inspiring, as our intrepid centre-back pinched the ball and went charging up the park, with a presence and a determination to influence proceedings, which was positively Tony Adams like.

Yet despite the burgeoning evidence, in the wholly committed attitudes of the likes of Sczczny, Koscielny, Wilshere and Ramsay that Arsène’s green-fingered endeavours are finally beginning to bear fruit, yet another barren season stands as testament to the need for Arsène to accept that he simply cannot afford to continue tending the Gunners garden entirely single-handed.

If you hark back to oft quoted aphorism about the necessity for either changing the manager, or the team, every five years, then it seem evident that changes are required both off and on the pitch. To continue the horticultural analogy, unlike all those misguided idiots, who want to dig over the entire ground and start from scratch, I firmly believe le Gaffer's great project will begin to bear silverware laden fruit, if only he'd turn for some help from the sort of Arsenal agronomists who are capable of ruthless pruning and tender watering in equal measure.

Meanwhile, as weary as we might be with our years of wandering the wilderness, awaiting our arrival at the Promised Land, Sunday’s victory does at least offer a glimpse of the sort of footballing milk & honey we might enjoy on arrival, if we’re patient enough to keep the faith.
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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Least They Shoot Horses!

Considering the scenes of an increasingly tormented Arsène Wenger, writhing in anguish on the touchline these past few weeks, I’m sure if he was a four-legged filly someone would’ve felt it an act of kindness to put him out of his misery! With each passing week and the recent catalogue of lapses in concentration that have proved so costly, our manager has looked more and more as if he’s buckling under the weight of his responsibility for the Arsenal buck.

I’m sure I wasn’t the only Gooner at the Reebok wishing someone would put me out of my misery, before another depressingly long schlep back to North London. As has been the case these past half-dozen seasons, on thinking about this post mortem of our dead parrot of a season on my way home, it occurred to me that it would probably go unnoticed if I forwarded a previous piece from the penultimate month of any of the past few seasons, as quite frankly it’s been said so many times before that the needle playing this particular broken record has been ground right down.

It’s not exactly rocket science. You only had to look at the Gunners reaction to going 0-1 down just before the break, to fully appreciate the crucial missing ingredient amongst Arsène's talented troops. The worse thing is that , there are at long last some signs of those staunch, game-winning character traits in the likes of Wilshere and Sczczny.

Yet watching the Gunners trudging back to the halfway line to restart the game on Sunday, with no-one turning to shake their fist at their team-mates, to demand that defeat to Bolton was unacceptable and in fact absolutely no communication amongst the players whatsoever, I worry that with no big personalities on the pitch to encourage these youngsters, the flowers of their fervor will be defoliated, before they’ve ever had an opportunity to truly blossom. How long can such kids be expected to want to sweat blood for the Arsenal’s cause, when the more phlegmatic demeanour of some of their much higher salaried colleagues suggests it doesn’t matter nearly enough?

Masochist that I am, I arrived home to watch a replay of the highlights on the box and for a brief moment it seemed extremely thoughtful of the BBC’s program announcer to issue a Gooner related warning “Scenes which some viewers may find disturbing and some strong language…tragedy unites a club and its community”. But then I realized I’d rewound the Sky gadget all the way back to the beginning of the drama about the Munich air disaster that was on just before. Nevertheless, such a “heads-up” was no less appropriate, as supporting the Arsenal has begun to feel like being stuck in an eternal loop of M. Night Shymalan horror movies, with the same plot, blood & gore and the same inevitable tragic ending.

Don’t get me wrong, unlike some of our more splenetic supporters, I’m not an advocate for wholesale change. I don’t know about all those whose seats at the Emirates cost several thousand more, but at a 1000 quid my season ticket seems blinding value for a guaranteed pitch to watch some of the best footballing entertainment on the planet. All, or nearly all the ingredients are there for great football, but we continue to lack the crucial catalyst of genuine leadership that inspires the camaraderie of a truly great “team”. I have to laugh these days at our pre-match hugging ritual and its transparent insincerity, amongst a side that still hasn’t discovered that rapacious, run till you drop ability to fight for one another.

Aside from our on pitch frailties - the absence of some sergeant-major who could drill our defence to the point where they’d be terrified to show their face in the dressing room, if they failed to mark touch-tight and our incredibly frustrating reluctance to take responsibility in front of goal, when instead of attempting to welly it into the net, we opt for yet another, infernal, far more awkward slide-rule pass - it’s off the pitch where our complacent satisfaction with our proximity to success, which seems to pervade the club.

When it comes to a miserable lap of dishonour at the last home game of the season, does a board which seems to focus more on the business of football than the football itself (with their willingness to spend more on Club Level refurbishment than in the transfer market) really believe we Gooners will be raising the rafters chanting “we all love our sustainable business model”?

To end on a more cheerful note, the back of this particular camel broke on my arrival home from blowing a two-goal lead in the midweek Derby match, with the straw (must’ve been the one le Gaffer wasn’t clutching at!) of discovering I’d dropped my iPhone outside White Hart Lane. No sooner had I hung up from calling to request the phone be blocked, than my Ma was on the phone. Someone had found my phone and called “Mum” in my contacts. Apparently, on seeing my Arsenal screensaver, the lad who picked it up had said “it belongs to a Gooner, we better give it back”. The odds of it being picked up by a fellow Arsenal fan (and an honest one at that!), amongst 30,000 of the enemy were incredibly long.

Such honesty deserves far greater reward than the validation of another fruitless season up at Bolton. As much as I’d hate to gift the title to the Blues, now it’s utterly meaningless as far as the Gunners are concerned, doubtless young Zak will get his just deserts when we stuff Man Utd on Sunday?
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Testes Time

Hi folks,

Had to come home and lie down in a dark room after events last evening and I'm glad I let the dust settle before putting fingers to keyboard, as I'm certain my comments would've been far more rancorous.

However having benefited from being able to put yesterday's draw into some perspective, if you exclude those eventful last few minutes (and BTW unlike AW, I'm not going to be so hypocritical as to complain about the ref's timekeeping, as when it took umpteen first-aiders what felt like an eternity to decide what stretcher to use for Jamie Carragher, I was whinging that, as ever, there'd be no way we'd be getting an equal amount of injury time added on at the end!) what really galls me is god awful feeling of dissatisfaction, with a Gunners side who were so far from leaving me with the sense that they left everything out there on the pitch, in their effort to cling on, with every last breath in their body to our ever decreasing prospects of ending our barren run.

I so badly wanted to win yesterday, not because I've seen anything to suggest we're truly capable of pipping Man Utd to the title, but because I wanted to keep the spark of feint hope alive, to inspire me to schlep all the way up to the unglamorous likes of Bolton and Stoke knowing we still have something to play for. But I have to admit that amongst many around me at the Emirates and for those on the pitch on Sunday, I didn't really get the sense that it mattered to them quite so much?

Instead of which, I've been left feeling so utterly deflated that despite having so much more to comment on, I thought that if I don't get this posted now, I'll never find the enthusiasm to bother doing it. The most patently obvious missing ingredient in our current squad remains the lack of leadership because when I looked around the pitch with fifteen left on the clock, you realised that there wasn't a single player out there, either with the personality or the commitment to the Arsenal cause to cajole and inspire the others. In fact Sczczny apart, I don't recall anyone talking to their team mates and for far too long now the good ship Gooner has come up short in such crucial situations as these, due to the fact that sadly there's no one at the helm doing the steering.

For all Manny's culpability in conceding an unnecessary penalty, when I watched the highlights on MOTD2 last night, I realized that it need never have come to this, if only young Woijech had benefited from the sort of commanding presence on the pitch who was capable of bellowing at him moments earlier, to hang on to the ball for a few seconds and then calmly roll it out to a red shirt, instead of hoofing it upfield and handing the Scousers the possession which they converted into the subsequent costly free-kick.

I was also a little surprised listening to the radio as I walked back from the ground and then the post-match comments on the box after I returned home, hearing the media and pundits offering the Scousers so many plaudits. Personally if I'd been a Liverpool fan, I would have been disappointed to have travelled down from Merseyside, only to see my team play with such limited ambition (in fact considering they spent the entire game bypassing the midfield, I'm astonished that we didn't once respond to such unentertaining, percentage football with a single teasing refrain of "Liverpool hoof the ball" - and believe me I tried several times).

As I've said below, it is perhaps understandable, in light of the way in which their defence was decimated and with Daglish doing his best merely to stabilize such a leaky Scouse ship. But having been impressed by the little I've seen of Suarez, I was quite looking forward to seeing the Uruguayan striker in the flesh. However he did little of note on Sunday with the ball sailing over his head on the rare occasions that the visitors had possession. And if I was supporting a team that had just invested the £50 odd million they received for Torres on a strike-partnership, I have to admit I'd be just a little disappointed by their "hoof it up to the big lad" tactics. As an option up front Carroll is a useful target man, but it looks to be a bit of a Catch-22 if it's going to always encourage them to look for his ability to win the ball in the air.

What's more, compared to the headache Carroll has managed to cause defences in a Toon shirt, I thought both Djourou and Koscielny had the long-haired git (I can say that now, having recently been sheared for the summer) in their pocket for the most part.

In saying that, after having seen the highlights on MOTD2 last night I became more aware of the sort of effort and commitment some of the Scouse youngsters put into this game. What I wouldn't give for the Gunners to have shown equal measures of passion and commitment of the likes of Spearing (the poor little bugger seems to have hit all the branches of the ugly tree on his way down) and the 2 young full-backs.

What's more, hard as I try, I can't help but admire Dalglish for having the balls to trust in the appetite and desire of some his teenage Scousers, rather than relying on some of Liverpool's more impassive, overpaid stars. And in contrast to the more vindictive David Moyes, I have to respect Kenny's refusal to talk about what transpired at the final whistle.

Perhaps time to limit my own loquacious tendencies

Keep the faith
Bernard

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OK hands up! Never mind the seemingly never-ending saga of Manny Eboué’s infuriating naivety, I take full responsibility for the injury-time fiasco at the Emirates on Sunday. You’d think I’d know better by now than to have tempted fate to kick us Gooners in the testes, as only on Saturday evening I was joking with my West Ham pal about his nephew’s angry reaction to Agbonlahor’s late winner for Villa and the fact that it left the Irons’ fan fighting amongst themselves outside Upton Park.

I fatally intoned the sentiments of Kipling, suggesting that at least age and experience has benefited us with the ability to meet with triumph and disaster and to treat those two impostors just the same. As we all know, these words came back to haunt me as I hollered myself hoarse the following afternoon, spending most of Sunday’s encounter with the Scousers, imploring for more passion and more urgency from our players.

If le Gaffer appeared ungracious at the final whistle, compared to me Arsène was calmness personified, as frustration got the better of me and I turned to vent my fury on the nearest inanimate object. At least I have an excuse for letting my emotions get the better of me, having never been schooled in the Oriental ways of “Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”. But I imagine we were both left regretting our reactions. I know I was as I limped home, after kicking the crap out of my 1000 quid seat.

Possibly le Prof was left kicking himself for relenting and once again indulging the immature antics of Eboué. Thanks largely to Sagna’s consistency, Manny seems to have spent most of the season paying for past crimes, confined to the bench and contributing merely as the club’s official court jester (with only the bells missing from his whacky apparel). Manny might not find Arsène quite so forgiving after his latest faux-pas?

Forget the inevitable debate over the dramatic injury-time denouement. Above all, the most disappointing aspect was that during the relatively drab 90 minutes that preceded it, from the lack of fervor from the terraces and the uninspired football on the pitch, the lukewarm demeanour of both fans and players alike, left me feeling as if far too few of the red & white hordes arrived at the Emirates on Sunday, prepared to put heart & soul into one last roll of the Premiership title dice.

After Mancini’s Billionaires finally brought the curtain down on the Red Devils’ treble dreams in Saturday’s FA Cup semi, Sunday’s game presented us with the perfect opportunity to turn the screw and to apply a little more pressure upon the league leaders. As a result and with Daglish coming to the Emirates intent on trying to consolidate the Scousers burgeoning confidence, seemingly content to merely thwart the Gunners, I would’ve much preferred to have witnessed a “balls out” statement from Wenger, risking a three-pronged attack, or at the very least two strikers, on this “all or nothing” result.

Instead of which Arsène insists on incessantly gifting away home advantage with his quasi-religious conversion to 4-5-1. I don’t know any Arsenal fan who perceives Van Persie as an potent lone striker. Admittedly Robin was effective up front earlier on in the season, but back then opposition defences had to cope with the distraction of 4 midfielders bombing on into dangerous areas, whereas more recently we find ourselves complaining about the dearth of red & white in the penalty area, with a lack of drive and determination that results in all our football being played in front of the opposition’s defence.

This was particularly evident on Sunday, as the Gunners were once again guilty of sitting back for much of this match and waiting for the Scousers thoroughly committed defence to part like the waters of the Red Sea and offer them an opening. Perhaps my most oft repeated criticism of le Gaffer is his failure to tinker tactically, in order to target opponent’s potential weaknesses. Considering the Scousers were depending on two teenage full-backs for most of the 90, I was flabbergasted by our failure to exploit Walcott’s pace and that it took until Shava's introduction late-on for anyone to probe the flanks.

Truth was, with the likes of Fabregas, Wilshere and Nasri all failing to fire on four cylinders, we looked a tired outfit on Sunday. Sadly I doubt Fergie left our directors box feeling he had anything much to fear. To the contrary, so long as the Gunners continue to demonstrate that they don’t have the wherewithal to take advantage, the knowledge that Man Utd can comfortably afford to slip up is more likely to enable them to relax and play some football!

Considering we were viewed as the team most likely to slip out of the top four when the reverse fixture was taking place back in August, perhaps we’ve little cause to complain. But in truth I would’ve preferred for our dead parrot of a title challenge to have expired in a bland scoreless draw, than to have experienced the crushing blow of the acute plummet from the all too brief euphoria of having our feint hopes reignited in those last few seconds, only to be snuffed out again moments later. Better still perhaps if we’d blown all 3 points because we were hell bent on glory. At least this would’ve offered the comforting reassurance of a team who’s desire matches my own.

Forget the title, at this precise point in time I will gladly settle for success on any terms against Spurs on Wednesday night, so we might at least salvage some North London pride, while giving Gooners everywhere good cause to celebrate the 50th anniversary of our local rivals last league success.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Sun, Sea & Scant Solace

G'day fellow Gooners,

I actually typed out the following missive Monday last, sitting in the back of our big, old Toyota bus, parked beside our B & B in Blackpool, with the sunroof open (although for some unknown reason, I believe it's called a "moon roof"?) and the sun beating down upon my bonce, not because I wanted a tan particularly, but because I would have never finished my column sitting inside our hotel room, deprived of the positively essential fag in hand.

However you'll have to forgive me for failing to post it out (either that or buy yourselves a copy of Wednesday's edition of the Irish Examiner, you tight-fisted buggers!), as I was so desperate to get it finished and make the very most of the sunshine, before the good weather broke and Blackpool's Golden Mile became a bleak, grey, rain and wind swept vista only to be viewed from behind the comfort of our sea-view window.

Fortunately, although the weekend heat wave was well and truly finished, we did at least enjoy several sunny interludes as we lingered by the seaside until Wednesday night. But so as to boost next week's paltry pay packet after taking a few days off, I ended up working all hours Thursday and Friday and as a result (somewhat inspired after savouring the end up Man Utd's treble hopes this afternoon), this is the first opportunity I've had to open up my laptop.

Having never before tasted the delights that Blackpool has to offer - which are marvelous so long as you are able to survive on a strict fish/chips, hot dogs & burgers diet - we decided to head down there in the wee hours of Friday night/Saturday morning, in the hope of missing the worst of the weekend traffic. Best laid plans and all that, as I pulled over for an urgent caffeine hit at Newport Pagnell services, only for the Toyota's battery to expire without warning.

Despite this unexpected additional hundred quid cost to our "cheap" break, I was delighted when an obliging AA man got us back on the road before too long, as when I first turned the key in the ignition, my heart sank when the old bus failed to fire up, as I had visions of the cause being something far more terminal and our weekend away being over, before it had even started.

As a result, I suppose being somewhat paranoid of a repeat episode, I didn't stop again until we pulled up outside our "dog friendly", seafront hotel. Whereupon pointing her snout towards the sea-breeze and tasting the salt air, Treacle was positively straining at the leash for a gallup down on Blackpool's vast beach. Either that or the poor mutt was desperate for a "pony" after five hours cooped up in the back of the bus!



It was worth the long schlep just to see Treacle shedding her advancing years as she cavorted amongst the waves (although the ice cold waters of the Irish Sea must be guaranteed to kickstart the most faltering heart) and while Treacle drip dried during a brief walk along the seafront, we soon discovered we'd missed out on a home from home. Then again, you would imagine that this was one weekend during the football season when Blackpool's Highbury Hotel would be fully booked.



There was also a welcome at the seaside waiting for us at a local confectioners. I thought it was an expression of fondness for the Gunners football until I realised that the sign stating "Arsenal Rock" was advertising souvenir sticks of rock for visiting Gooners. I meant to return to buy a stick or two to bring back (as obviously a stick of Arsenal Rock is the one thing missing from my collection of Arsenal everything else!). But when I next passed by it dawned on me that this particular seaside entrepreneur must've produced nineteen similar signs, as by Wednesday the same shop-keeper was flogging "Wigan Rock"!

Róna jokingly pondered whether perhaps the Highbury Hotel had similarly interchangeable signage to cater for the visiting fans from all the other Premiership clubs?

Meanwhile we were still in Blackpool when the news came in of Danny Fiszman's tragic demise and I see that the club have renamed the two bridges at the ground, one in honour of Fiszman and the other in honour of Ken Friar (I'll have to check it out this afternoon to see which one is which). Ken Friar has been an incredible servant to the club his entire working life, as the public face of the Arsenal for as long as I can remember. He was due to retire just before the move to the Emirates and was persuaded to stay to see the project through. But you get the feeling now that the only way Ken will leave his post at the Gunners will be in a wooden box (and even then, he's been such a part of the fixtures and fittings that he'll doubtless come back to haunt the place).

There's no doubting the fact that Fiszman is due plenty of credit for all the effort he put into turning the Emirates project into a reality and I don't like to badmouth anyone when they can no longer answer back, but I speak as I find and while I can recall occasionally seeing Fiszman on our travels around England and Europe (on the rare occasion I found myself wandering into First Class), compared to David Dein who we always seemed to bump into wherever we went with the Gunners, I never got the sense that Danny was quite as dedicated a Gooner as Dein?

Although I suppose it depends on how you measure this because while Fiszman might not have found the time to travel to quite as many away games (although I don't really know this for a fact, as for all I know he could have travelled by private jet/helicopter), judging by the deal done with Stan Kroenke for his Arsenal shares, it would appear as if Fiszman was taking care of Arsenal business on his bloomin' deathbed? The again perhaps he was just looking out for the future of his own family by cashing in on his investment.

Back on the pitch, with the imminent return of Sczczny (thank heavens!!) and the news that Thomas Vermaelen is back in full training and might well return before the end of the season, I'm suddenly feeling somewhat more optimistic. But with the Scousers this afternoon and Spurs on Wednesday, we won't have long to wait, to find out just how hungry the Gunners are for the run-in. With Liverpool coming to us buoyed by their 3-0 win against City, with Carroll and Suarez both beginning to find their feet, I reckon it might be an "interesting" afternoon!

But I've still got half of Blackpool's beach to get out of my trainers in time for me to trot around their for KO

Come on you Reds
Big Love
Bernard
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In light of the way in which the Gunners campaign has petered out in such a pitiful fashion these past few weeks, I don’t think there are too many Arsenal fans who truly believe that the 3 points secured against Blackpool on Sunday has put us back in the title picture. Still, without a win since our walkover against humble Leyton Orient six games back, it was at least good to finally return to winning ways. Although, much like most other footie lovers, I sincerely hope Sunday’s defeat for the Seasiders doesn’t prove crucial in their increasingly desperate bid for Premiership survival.

After having spent an absolutely gorgeous weekend soaking up the sun, strolling up and down the glorious sandy beach of Blackpool’s Golden Mile, I will be absolutely gutted if such a pleasurable excursion doesn’t become a regular part of the awayday calendar. That is, so long as the fixture scheduling gods can guarantee us a return every season in the late spring or early autumn sunshine - I assume Blackpool is not nearly such an attractive proposition set amidst the backdrop of a bleak mid-winter. Albeit that the novelty of a sea breeze blowing across the terraces sure beats various alternative outings in the more traditional heartland of the industrial North-West.




With the sun on the backs of our fairweather stars, I quite fancied us to turn on the style on Sunday. But then Blackpool should’ve been dead & buried by the break and our profligacy in front of the Seasiders’ goal, which proffered Ian Holloway the opportunity to fire his troops up for an admirable attempt at a second-half fight-back, just about epitomized the soft-centred box of chocolates, the crucial absence of the Gunners’ killer instinct, that once again seems destined for Arsène to end up empty-handed.

Not that I don’t fancy Fergie’s particularly uninspiring vintage to slip up again during the run-in. But should Man Utd leave the Premiership door ajar, in their pursuit of European glory, neither myself, nor many other Gooners have much faith in the Arsenal’s ability to gain the sort of momentum that would enable us to kick it down.



There was little sympathy for Almunia on Sunday. Contrast our Spanish keeper’s withdrawal from the game with a 40-year old match report in the local gazette the previous day, which told of Blackpool’s brave keeper playing on with a broken arm! The lunatic that is Jens Lehmann might be no less prone to glaring gaffes, but at least he has the redeeming quality of being a big, imposing unit and there’s nothing timid about any of his antics. Ref Mason might’ve made the contest more interesting if he’d sent Lehmann off. At least for comedy value alone, we might’ve witnessed Nick Bentdner’s big-head filling the goalmouth.

Meanwhile, with the voracious corporate vultures having been circling the club for so long now, I suppose it was only a matter of time before “Silent Stan” was forced to pounce on his prey (with Kroenke’s hand seemingly forced by the Uzbek gangster’s recent share activity). For now, we can only speculate upon the eventual impact of the Arsenal’s almost inevitable transition towards private ownership.

Personally I am quite optimistic, as one gets the sense that some sort of change is vital, in order to spark a shake up of a somewhat stagnant boardroom, where upward financial, or commercial mobility has become the principal focus of a cozy and increasingly elderly collection of suits, who are all too comfortable with the Arsenal’s lot, preferring to stick with Le Prof’s safe bet, rather than risking going “all in” on the roulette wheel of football’s quest for the glittering prize.

Back in the day, before we departed Highbury, I would’ve been devastated by the prospect of the Gunners going down the same road as so many other Premiership clubs, by selling our soul to some foreign devil. But that was when owning a share of the Arsenal was about far more than money. It was about the feeling of pride engendered by a framed share certificate that proved you were part of our beloved club. There’s no room for such sentiment in the ruthless corporations that have become of our ancient institutions nowadays, where fans are nothing more than anonymous figures on a balance sheet.

Shareholders’ trusts might be a thoroughly admirable attempt to keep football in the family, but in truth they are little more than an irritating fly in the corporate ointment. Despite the amazing impact of “people power” across the political landscape of the Middle East, I think it’s naïve of us to believe we can have anything more than a token influence in the way our clubs are run nowadays. Or at least so long as there are thousands more bums than there are seats at glamorous clubs such as ours.

As Arsenal fans we can do little more than sit back and watch the corporate hand play out, while hoping that ultimately it has a positive impact on the pitch. In some respects we are not that different to Blackpool and I’m sure that much like Ian Holloway we’d gladly sacrifice our tag of being an entertaining side that everyone loves to watch, on the altar of becoming the club that everyone loves to hate!

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

A Sad Sunset On Yet Another Unrequited Season

I fully appreciate that there can be no condoning Wayne Rooney’s outburst to camera at Upton Park on Saturday because kids everywhere will doubtless end up imitating the angry little gurrier. Nevertheless, I have to admit, what I wouldn’t give for just a soupcon of the same raging intensity from some of the Gunners.

More than likely it should be his manager apologizing, as I can picture Man Utd’s master manipulator, pulling his striker’s strings at half-time, sending Rooney out after the break, hell bent on sticking it to his detractors, thereby almost singlehandedly salvaging Utd’s monopolization of the table’s summit.

Considering it’s always felt such a fanciful proposition that a paper-thin Arsenal squad and perhaps the most mercurial and erratic image of the Wenger vision was on the verge of ending our barren run, by bringing home the Premiership bacon, it perhaps wasn’t so surprising to see the good ship Gooner finally holed below the waterline, in a home game against Blackburn.

I had my feet up on the couch on Saturday morning, enjoying the coverage of the cricket World Cup Final. In light of what transpired, I kind of wish I hadn’t bothered turning over to have my chain yanked, with hope springing eternal when the Hammers took a two-goal lead against Man Utd at Upton Park. But being all too familiar with their own team’s frailties, even the Irons fans would’ve bitten your hand off for a draw at this stage and what followed was the inevitable wind up of West Ham’s second-half capitulation.

It was tiresome enough watching on TV as Man U displayed the sort of game-saving determination, which Fergie’s sides seem to be able to reproduce perennially, when it comes to dragging themselves over the Premiership finishing line. But it might’ve proved a far more leisurely and less irritating afternoon all round, if I’d ignored the football entirely and lingered to savour the vicarious thrill of the climax to events in Mumbai, instead of trotting around to the Emirates, only to endure yet another disappointing reaffirmation of the Arsenal’s inability to do likewise.

It didn’t exactly augur well when it all went tits up at the Boleyn and pessimist that I am, after such a disappointing turn of events, I half expected the game against Blackburn to be a point-dropping banana skin. Despondency is beginning to feel like that unwelcome Gooner relative, who insists on making an appearance at every family function. Sadly we’ve grown all too familiar with this party-pooping guest in recent times and thus we’re well accustomed to coping with our annual failures.

However it would’ve been far easier to accept if fate had dealt us another bum steer. But what really left me baffled was that we were once again the masters of our own misfortune and I must’ve been powered home by the steam venting through my lugholes, positively boiling over with Rooney-like indignation at the Gunners abject failure to throw the kitchen sink at Rovers.

Ignoring the fact that we’ve stumbled our way through the season (along with all those other clubs who’s managers might’ve benefited from the aid of a guide dog!), we rocked up on Saturday in the knowledge that we’d somehow arrived on the kerbstone of greatness, only nine wins away from this squad carving their names in Gooner hearts by inscribing their very own page in the history books.

With the competition still fighting on various fronts, my only demand was that we witness the blinkered, “eye on the prize” focus that demonstrated an appreciation of sort of desire and fervour necessary, to take that one big step towards a trophy. It seems Arsène was no less flummoxed and for once our Emperor had the good grace to appear in front of the cameras and finally admit to his stark-bollock nakedness. But for all his erudition, football is not rocket-science.

Saturday was the 10th anniversary of Rocky Rocastle’s tragic departure from this mortal coil. Staring up at the banner hanging from Club Level to honor our heroic no. 7, you couldn’t have wanted for a more stark reminder of the sort match winning personality that’s sorely missing in the current squad. Rocky and various other stars of that same vintage would’ve spent the entire game cajoling and encouraging their colleagues, constantly reminding each other of the prize they were playing for.

Contrast this to a complete lack of communication amongst our current squad and an absence of leadership that leaves our youngest prodigy shouldering the greatest burden of responsibility. The not so golden silence is such that I’d even be grateful to have uber-lieutenant Lehmann out there barking orders from the back.

It’s scant solace to read in the programme that our new Club Level restaurants are up for some design awards, when the money might’ve been better spent on preventing the implosion currently taking place on the pitch. Still if all else fails, at least I’ll be travelling North this weekend with the comfort of knowing that whatever transpires against the Tangerines, we intend to tarry for a few days to pleasure ourselves on Blackpool’s famous beach. Never mind the crowds, heaven forfend Tottenham triumph against Madrid, at least I’ll be far from the maddening taunts of my Spurs mates.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Hardly The Return Of The Lean Mean Hungry Gooner Machine

Hi folks,

I guess my failure to post out last week's missive is indicative of the sort of apathy I feel towards breaks for International footie. But I'm sending it out now, if only to satisfy my pedantic need to maintain a weekly record, so please feel free to ignore.

This week's rant to follow!

Big Love
Bernard
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Usually an International break at a season defining stage of the campaign is about as desirable as a hole in the head. But after having endured the masochistic battering of the perennial disintegration of the Gunners vain quest to end our barren run these past few weeks, I’ve rarely been more relieved by a brief period of respite from the relentless run of recent disappointments.

Obviously I couldn’t resist watching the cultured clash between Wilshere and Ramsay, in the middle of the park at the Millennium on Saturday, but it proved the painful opposite of “car crash” TV, as I sat there praying for the safety of the pair of them. Personally I’d prefer if Jack was playing alongside Aaron, or after seeing Scotland’s capitulation against the Samba Kings at our place on Sunday, better still if he was eligible to join the Jocks. At least then, we’d have no worries about Wilshere suffering under the immense weight of expectation of his entire nation.

However with the tabloids seemingly so intent on labelling the Gunners’ prodigy as England’s latest “great white hope”, I can’t help but have some concerns about whether Wilshere’s performance on the pitch will remain unaffected. I suppose nowadays, even St. Peter himself would struggle to avoid bad press pratfalls! But no matter elusive he is in midfield, the flimsy “red top” evidence to date suggests it might be something of a miracle if Jack develops the sort of rock solid temperament necessary for him to be nimble and quick enough to dodge the increasingly harsh glare of the media’s all-pervasive spotlight.

Whereas although I can recall Ramsey coming on apace before Ryan Shawcross attempted to separate Aaron from his right limb, I worry that his long stint on the treatment table (and our despair over some of his more diffident stand-ins) has resulted in him growing in stature in our memories, to a point where we now expect him to be the finished article, instead of the emerging talent that he was.

What’s more, after such a horrific injury, would it be so surprising if some of Ramsey’s youthful promise were stolen by the lasting psychological impact of his shattered tib & fib? What sort of rugged mentality will it take for Ramsey to charge around the pitch in quite the same committed fashion? With the likes of Blackburn, Bolton and Stoke all on the horizon, I guess it won’t be long before all is revealed.

If “car crash” TV is your trip, then I guess you need look no further than Il Trap’s Boys in Green. Just when you thought it safe to come our from behind the sofa, with Ireland about to cruise through a qualification game, two up in twenty minutes, they switch off just before the break to concede the goal which left us all on the edge of our seats for the entire second half.

I suppose for a football fan it was an act of sacrilege, not to even bother wandering around the corner on a sunny Sunday afternoon to watch Brazil do the business. But the thought didn’t even occur to me to fork out yet another fifty quid for the privilege of attending a meaningless friendly. However with a TV replay of Sunday morning’s F1 procession in Sydney hardly captivating my interest, I turned over to find myself regretting that I hadn’t made the effort. Needless to say I’m referring to Neymar’s natural talents, rather than the feast of feminine charms occupying the Emirates terraces (at least that is if I want any dinner tonight!). Mind you if I’d been there in person I might have missed out on amusing coverage of the stark contrast between the grim-faced Jocks, cutting a wretched pose with arms-crossed, all too familiar with yet another feeble outing from the Tartan army and the garish yellow and green fiesta going on in the Brazilian sections of the ground.

It seems Sunday’s entertaining fare was just the appetizer necessary to revitalize my appetite anew for the feast of football to come. Before that I’ll be holding my breath, hoping everyone returns intact from the array of farcical midweek International friendlies. I never imagined I’d be so looking forward to the Rovers return to the Emirates (and that was before I discovered the cult figure of John Jensen has become Blackburn’s assistant manager).

I only hope that the Gunners are equally reinvigorated on their return to the fold, able to galvanize themselves to make a real fight of our nine remaining fixtures. With my Spurs pals teasing me about taping Eastenders for them when they travel to Madrid (and with me encouraging them to make the most of it, as it might never happen again), I know our season is collapsing around our shoulders, when I no longer need worry about checking the Arsenal’s fixture list before agreeing to future work.

Nevertheless, while I might not hold out that much hope of us exerting the sort of pressure which might redeem our season with the Premiership Holy Grail, we’re still some way from the fat lady’s climactic choral reprise. Until then, personally I’d settle for the reassuring sight of some genuine fight in the Gunner’s young pups.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

They Are The Passengers....And They Ride & Ride & Ride

We might've been better off if Arsène had been banned from the dugout instead of Fergie? Perhaps he'd benefit from an enforced change of perspective, because with each passing game, it becomes increasingly hard to fathom why le Gaffer continues to place his faith in our gormless Brazilian galoot; when, from our point of view on the terraces, it’s become as plain as the hooter on ol’ Red Nose’s ugly mush that Denilson and some of his equally diffident colleagues, are absolutely bereft of the necessary quality, or the required drive and determination to ever bring home the Premiership bacon.

It’s all the more galling, with the recent leveling of the competitive playing field, where, despite punctuating matches with all too brief moments of brilliance, no one challenger has managed to rise above the relentless grind of relative mediocrity. I’ve rarely ever felt that the title was more there for the taking, by whichever team is capable of pulling their collective fingers out for the remaining few fixtures, rousing the appetite to elevate themselves above the the more dispassionate also-rans. What’s more, I fear that such pedestrian form won’t put us in with a sniff of the title in future, with so many other clubs looking to kick-on.

Thus with Arsène constantly reaffirming the Solvite like strength of the bond between his young charges and their dogged desire to shake-off their tag of perennial under-achievers, I keep expecting them to produce the sort of statement of intent, which might convince the none-believers amongst us that there’s a possibility we might not bottle it again.

However for all that le Prof might prattle on about the Gunners proving their resilience, by clawing back a two-goal deficit to earn a draw against the Baggies, quite frankly I’m afraid that Arsène has completely missed the point of the two we dropped at the Hawthorns on Saturday! I can appreciate that from his point of view, Wenger feels obliged to focus on his players' positive attributes in perpetuity, but surely there must eventually come a time to share a few home truths?

1-0 down at the break, after enduring 45 all too predictable minutes of relentlessly prodding the ball from one side of the pitch to the other, where we only once managed to conjure up sufficient pace and momentum to threaten Carson’s goal, there was a palpable mood of frustration in our corner of the ground, with a first-half display that was such a pale shadow of a performance from genuine title contenders.

I can’t recall the last time Fat Sam’s Bolton failed to roll over for his pal Fergie. But with Owen Coyle’s Trotters still holding their own at half-time, I would’ve liked to grab hold of the Gunners individually and physically shake some sense into them. Or at least be reassured that there was someone in the Arsenal dressing room with the sort of presence and stature to remind his team mates that somehow, in spite their half-arsed efforts to date, they remain within touching distance of greatness; thereby lighting a sufficient fire under our backsides to go out with all guns blazing. Unfortunately I fancy that lunatic Lehmann is more likely to be instigating fights in a phone booth than winning us a title.

I don’t enjoy singling out scapegoats, in what is after all a team effort. I’m sure that in defence of Denilson’s contribution, le Prof would quote prolific passing statistics and completion rates (albeit that these don’t reveal that 90 per cent are played sideways and backwards, over a distance of less than 5 yards!). But I’m afraid that after doing my best to give the bland Brazilian the benefit of my doubts thus far, my patience in a player who appears to have absolutely no redemptive qualities, has eventually run its course.

It’s not ineptitude that aggravates me, anywhere near as much as an apparent lackadaisical attitude. Rumour has it that the distraction of scandalous off-field shenanigans has put the kibosh on our Muslim brother’s season. But in a rare substitute appearance after the break, at least Marouanne Chamakh ran around as if he meant it.

I know Shava is one of the few players capable of producing the sort of quality strike that got us back into this game. But in an awkward away encounter that demanded we set about the opposition with a warrior like desire, the Arsenal simply can't afford such nonchalant passengers.

Who knows what game The Grauniad's Joe Lovejoy was watching, but in my most humble opinion Arshavin didn't deserve to be anyone's Man of the Match, when our Moroccan striker was forced to get stuck in out on his flank. Moreover, I might have misread the circumstances, but until it dawned on the diddy-man that Bendtner was replacing Ramsey, I could've sworn he was once again guilty of taking a few steps towards the touchline, thereby only adding to my suspicions that Shava is hardly the most committed Gooner.

There's no doubt that with his indisputable talent, Shava would be one of our brightest luminaries, if the Gunners season was on song, but sadly the diminutive Ruski just doesn't have enough of the "right stuff" to spur on our spluttering troops. In the absence of our skipper, personally I'd great hopes in Samir Nasri stepping up to the plate. Perhaps Samir is simply running on empty, but after spending so much of the first-half of the campaign proving the absurdity of his absence from the French squad during the summer, sadly Samir has seriously gone off the boil compared to those scintillating early season displays that had many pundits touting him as a potential candidate for player of the season.

Another calamitous goalkeeping/centre-back gaffe is more grist to the mill of all those who point to our manager’s failure to address our defensive frailties. But to my mind, the complete lack of zest and vigour in so much of our insipid football of late, only highlights quite how dependent we are on the “make do and mend” presence of Alex Song in a holding midfield role, protecting our flaky rearguard.

Ancelotti’s mob appear to have a far more formidable propensity for ramping up the heat in the run-in than we do. But I’ve rarely ever been more grateful for an International break. Aside from the hope of some of our players recovering (both pride and fitness) in the interim, it gives me time to kid myself anew that instead of being infected by the air of insouciance around them, the likes of Wilshere and Ramsey can inspire the sort of fortitude that might enable us to make a real fight of it?

Above all else, keep the faith
Come on you Reds
Big Love
Bernard

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

The Arsenal - Business Or Pleasure?

Hi folks,

I could've prattled on with a rant at least twice as long as this week's missive for the Irish Examiner (which was already a couple of hundred words more than what was required) and as a result, you are the "lucky" recipients of my cathartic efforts to get all my remaining gripes off my chest

It's growing increasingly difficult to argue against all those "throw the bath water out with the baby" Gooners who are beginning to lose patience with Le Prof. Nevertheless, if ever I need convincing of how fortunate we are to have Wenger, I always hark back to the fact that any number of massive clubs would be delighted to relieve us of his services and the certainty that they'll be dancing in the streets at the wrong end of Seven Sisters Road, the day Arsène does eventually hand over the reins.

However I can't help but wonder if the stability we've enjoyed during le Gaffer's tenure has reached a point where everyone at the club, from the suits to the playing staff, feels far too secure in their positions, to the extent that we appear to lack the edge of some of those sides whose employees exist with the permanent knowledge that they are only ever a few disappointing results away from being handed their cards.

There are obvious advantages to this situation, as most of the coaches of other major clubs will claim that they can't afford to risk their positions, by demonstrating the patience in some of their younger prodigies, of the sort that has given Jack Wilshere the opportunity to develop into such a promising star prospect. However we might well be enduring the downside to the Arsenal's rock solid immutability, as we jog along each season, with no wealthy benefactor throwing their toys out of their pram at our perennial failure to fulfill our expectations.

If I thought the performance against Barca was a complete betrayal of Arsène's footballing principles, it's nothing compared to the breach of faith that I'm beginning to sense, in the way in which I was sold a pup, when being convinced of the sound principles of moving to a new stadium. Personally I never ever wanted to move from my home from home, THOF in Avenell Road. However I understood the logic that the move was essential, in order to produce the sort of matchday revenues necessary for the club to compete with the rest of Europe's major players.

I was given to believe that an additional £3 million revenue per home game would afford the Gunners the opportunity to compete on a level playing field with any other club, in bidding for the games biggest stars. And yet having finally achieved this financial promised land, all we ever hear the Arsenal's CEO, Ivan Gazides prattling on about is "a sustainable business model", as if the Gunners' worldwide support, the people who fund the entire shebang from their hard-earned income, should merely be content with the prospect of our long-term existence, under the auspices of a manager who's able to work the oracle of Champions League qualification every season, on a fraction of the spending of many of those other clubs who aspire and regularly fail to squeeze their snouts into the trough of European football.

When you see the Arsenal spending £3 million on the close-season Club Level refurbishment of a couple of restaurants that are intended to produce a healthy return on the balance sheet, courtesy of all those high-rollers who (incredibly!) can regularly afford to stump up £200 for some matchday grub, instead of being invested back into the playing staff, you have to begin to question whether as football club, the Arsenal have lost sight of their principal raison d'etre, due to a shift that has seen us become primarily a profitable going-concern as a business first and foremost, with football as a mere subsidiary activity?

During the interminable delay before we were allowed to leave the Nou Camp last Tuesday night, I couldn't help but look around the cavernous expanses of empty terracing and be struck by the fact that aside from it's mammoth size, there's nothing very impressive about this huge concrete bowl when empty. In complete contrast to the impressive environs of the Emirates, with the absence of a Club Level, executive boxes, luxurious fine dining, or seemingly any apparent sign of the Catalan giants pandering to the obscene excesses of the corporate pound, one couldn't help but get the sense from their 95,000 fairly homogenous, cramped and uncomfortable seats, of an institution firmly focused on a single solitary objective, that of producing the best possible talent on the playing field.

Should Pep Guardiola fail to satisfy Barca's baying hordes, he has to answer for their disappointment. It seems to me no coincidence that the Arsenal's sojourn in the silverware starved doldrums dates back some six years, to the bad-blood which resulted in David Dein's departure. For all his perceived faults, perhaps Dein was the only suit at the club with a sufficiently close relationship with Arsène and with the burning expectations of a committed Gooner, to be able to call into question some of le Gaffer's more obdurate tendencies. Whereas in Dein's absence, we've been left with a bevvy of businessmen, who all appear to believe the sun shines out of le Boss's backside, with Wenger's miraculous achievements of maintaining the sadly all too gossamer like veneer of the Gunner's competiveness, simultaneously with a healthy profit and loss account.

Moreover, if there's no one at the Arsenal capable of expressing the obvious bare nakedness of our Emperor's not so new clothes, similarly with no one to question the fallacious verisimilitude of Arsène's seemingly unshakeable faith in players, who have time and again failed to prove they can cut the world class mustard, our retinue of constant under-achievers (need I really speak their names, as we all know who they are?) will endure in the warm glow of le Gaffer's unswerving adoration, picking up their vulgar wage packets, while resting on their laurels ad infinitum, when every Arsenal fan knows that for various regular squad members, the time for a "shape up, or ship out" reckoning is long overdue.

I didn't really expect to win at Old Trafford on Saturday (at least not until I saw Fergie's piss-takingly poor team selection) but what I wanted most was to see a reaction to our midweek humiliation, from a team of players determined to display the sort of passion and commitment which would at least serve to comfort us with the reassurance that they shared our pain (the sort of Gooner pride that had 9000 of us embarrassing the huge but hushed home support for the last ten minutes of the match, as we resorted to lauding bygone Gooner gladiators, with an endless, hearty rendition of "we won the league at Manchester" - with nuff respect to all those present, as this was of far greater comfort than much of the uninspired football on the pitch).

From the little I can recall (as I've been trying to erase the memory ever since), only the likes of Jack Wilshere and Laurent Koscielny showed anything like the sort of determination that was necessary to win the day. And it pains me greatly because this sort of wholeheartedness needs to be nurtured, by surrounding such fervent stars with the sort of stalwart personalities capable of encouraging the youngsters to ever greater feats. Instead of which, I seriously fear that it won't be long before their enthusiasm is stifled, by playing alongside the diffident and lackadaisical likes of Diaby and Denilson.

It's not the fact that the Gunners are so far from greatness that frustrates me, but the fact that we continue to remain only a couple of big personalities away from being able to fulfill all that potential. But the contribution of winners of the calibre of Carlos Puyol, or dare I say the John Terry of old and their ability to inspire those around them with their win at all costs willingness to risk all when required, unlike pass completions, or yardage covered, this is not something that can be measured on a statistical spreadsheet. As I result, at such downhearted moments as this, I wonder if a pragmatist like Arsène can ever truly appreciate this glaringly obvious missing ingredient in the current Wengerboys mix?

Myself I would've much preferred to have seen Aaron Ramsey in the starting line-up on Saturday, as even if Ramsey had an utter stinker, I would've rather we'd taken a gamble on his all action efforts and lost, than to endure yer another 90 minutes of sideways and backwards football from the shrinking violet that is Denilson, or the heartbreaking sight of Diaby languidly loping back towards his own goal, seemingly expressing utter indifference at the possibility of influencing play, once the ball had passed him by. Considering Arsène was perhaps the only one present amongst the 9000 plus Gooner contingent, who didn't know full well to expect yet another disappointing contribution from this midfield duo (and the likes of Rosicky), I can't help but feel that a more instinctive manager might have gone with the hunch of having nothing more to lose by giving young Aaron a go instead?

Meanwhile I don't want this to turn into a tirade that might see me align myself with the ever burgeoning band of Gooners who believe Arsène's time has been and gone. Just like big personality players, great managers don't exactly grow on trees and sadly many of us will never fully appreciate quite how privileged we've been to have savoured such fabulous football during the Wenger era, until such time as we've endured a succession of duff managers. In my most humble opinion Arsène is no less of a legend than he was when the trophies were rolling in wholesale, it's just that he and his players are crying out for someone capable of telling them what time it is!

Come on you Reds
Keep the faith
Big Love
Bernard

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Patently Obvious (To All But Le Prof) That Some Of Our Weak-Willed Passengers Will Never Be Winners

Despite last week’s doom-laden prophecy, I was left reeling on the ropes, feeling no less punch-drunk following Saturday’s dismal FA Cup defeat. Taken in isolation, there’s absolutely no shame in being beaten by the world’s best footballing side. Nor is a defeat at the Theatre of Dreams anything to get too depressed about (or we’d have ended up slitting our wrists after any of our five previous trips to Old Trafford).

But to have the ignominy of our Carling Cup Final fiasco, compounded by the misery of our exit from two more competitions, in the space of only a few short days, well if this is more than most Gooners can bear, then heaven only knows what chance there is of the Arsenal re-discovering sufficient confidence to produce a concerted challenge for the Premiership title!

I tend to believe that Van Persie was aware the offside flag had gone up before he took his pot-shot at the Nou Camp (and if he wasn’t, he should be castigated for missing the target!) but our Dutch striker’s dismissal was none the less farcical. Right up in the gods, the sound of the ref’s whistle was utterly inaudible, amidst the cacophony of 95,000 fans. The only indication of the officials’ intervention was when the game was interrupted. So there was no way the Swiss ref could’ve been certain that Van Persie was guilty of a whole second’s worth of time wasting.

Besides which, the punishment certainly didn’t befit the crime. In a contest of such significance, what gives this jumped up official the right to rule on such a petty misdemeanor and potentially ruin the spectacle for all the watching millions around the world? Who knows whether or not he felt that the Arsenal had challenged his authority, by their tardy turn out for both halves, but I have to admit that from my (blinkered?) viewpoint, it certainly felt as if we were being victimized.

Nevertheless I can’t concur with all those (including our esteemed manager) who appear to be kidding themselves that this was the turning point. From my bird’s-eye point of view, Van Persie’s premature ejection was a complete red herring. Perhaps Robin would’ve been more clinical with the rare opportunity that arrived at his replacement’s feet late on and we’d have been left cavorting around the Nou Camp, thumbing our noses at the Catalans, after the ultimate smash & grab raid.

Instead of which, we were left penned in, for what felt like hours, rueing our defeat, until such time as tempers were bound to boil over and Gooners began venting their frustration by burning the nets situated in front of us, as some brave souls attempted to breakout. All the while, as if to rub salt in our wounds, the big screen intermittently flashed up the game’s statistics, confirming the hugely embarrassing no-contest of an encounter, in which we’d failed to conjure up a single shot on goal (on target or otherwise!).

I could cope with going out of Europe in a blaze of glory, but to me the inescapable agony of that big fat zero screamed a complete betrayal of Wenger’s principles. As far as I’m concerned and with Mourinho’s Inter being just about the only exception that proves the rule, if you allow Barca so much time on the ball, according to the law of averages, it’s inevitable that you’ll eventually end up sliced & diced by the purveyors of such fine quality football.

In the absence of Puyol and Piquet and as a result, deprived of their smothering blanket in the middle of the park with Busquets forced to play at centre-back, I was absolutely devastated that the Gunners allowed the psychological impact of their slender first-leg lead to completely dominate our tactics, by coming to the Nou Camp and like so many before them, failing to “park the bus”.

Never mind Wenger wanting an apology from UEFA, I feel we deserve some explanation from Arsène, as he’s always assured us that his Arsenal side are far better than this. Mercifully my mates dragged me to Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia the following day (at 12Euros a pop to enter the cathedral, you’d have thought they’d have the funds to have finished it by now?), then to the Picasso Museum. With the slim solace of some culture and five cartons of fags, at least my outing wasn’t a total waste.

I had to be up at 5am for work on Saturday and wasn’t even sure I’d make it to Manchester. If it wasn’t for a couple of mates who travelled all the way over from Egypt, I might well have not bothered. I had to wait for them at Picadilly station, after they’d missed the train. And then when one of them dropped his ticket while we were queuing for a programme outside the ground, it seemed as if fate was trying to tell us something. Fortunately (?) for him, it was found by an extremely rare breed, an honest Mancunian and miraculously we managed to retrieve it from a steward.

Once inside Old Trafford, my defeatist attitude began to dissipate, when it was revealed Fergie was fielding 7 defenders. But it seems old Red Nose got it right and I didn’t, as he his somewhat bizarre team selection had more than enough to cope with the predictable lack of penetration, of an Arsenal side that took until the start of the second half to fully appreciate our humiliating predicament. Sadly as a contest, it was all over (bar the excuses!) with Utd’s second goal.

Until Arsène accepts the need to surround his star turns with personalities possessing the sort of appetite for success that makes them prepared to accept more responsibility than some of the weaker-willed passengers in our current squad, I’m afraid our Groundhog nightmares might continue ad infinitum.

To complete our indignity, we were forced to travel back, sardined into a train, without even enough space to plot up on the floor. Our pooped out, mollycoddled players wont know the pleasures of a claustrophobic and incredibly cramped three hour train ride on ones feet, back from the North-East. It’s certainly the stick I’d like to beat some of them with after such a demoralizing week!

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

With A Soupcon Of Quality Added To Sufficient Huff & Puff...Sure We Can Blow Barca's Wall Down

Hi folks,

It's hard to recall having to write a more awkward diary entry this entire past decade, in respect of having to file the following piece to the Irish Examiner today, knowing that it will appear on the morning after an encounter which might ultimately prove to be either the zenith, or the nadir of this season's campaign.

Still it had to be done and with me working in Kent for the ballet all day, I ended up agonizing at my keyboard for most of Sunday night and well into the wee hours of Monday morning, so I could forward it before leaving for work.

Sure enough, it was only a couple of hours after I arrived in Kent that I saw a text message, which confirmed that my missive was already out of date. Thus as delighted as I was with the news that both Van Persie & Fabregas are likely to make the starting line-up against Barca, I had slightly mixed feelings, because I'd been bemoaning the potential significance of our most potent striker's absence.

To be honest, I'm no less apprehensive, as I fear that it might be Alex Song who we end up missing most in our encounter at Camp Nou. Nevertheless having been given the opportunity of a bit of a rewrite after returning home from work, I must admit that I was tempted to start over from scratch, giving my piece a far more optimistic slant.

Completely aside from the risk of me oversleeping and missing my flight in the morning, after tapping away all night to produce a complete rewrite, above all I daren't make wholesale changes due to my superstitious fear of tempting fate. As my thoughts below read at the moment, they barely sound more positive than all those media pundits who have already written the Gunners off and so hopefully, come Wednesday morning I'll be left sucking on a few toes, while they struggle to remove both feet from their oversized gobs.

In truth, by traveling more in hope than expectation, I'm hoping that even in the event of the worst case scenario I won't be left feeling too suicidal and should we end up pulling off a momentous victory, my experience will be far more euphoric than any of the travelling faithful who turn up with loftier ambitions.

My single only demand of the Gunners is that we do ourselves justice, by performing at the level which we know we are capable of. Beyond that, it's in the lap of the gods. But I have to tell you that in contrast to all those who seem to have swallowed, hook, line & sinker the myth postulated by all those Barca sycophants about the Spanish side being infallible, I'm convinced our Catalan opposition are eminently beatable and as we've already proved, at our best, no other team is better equipped with the capacity to demolish the media built wall that's been erected around the Barca myth.

Meanwhile in the certain knowledge that there's no way I'd bother posting this rambling piece on my return, I thought I had better get it out now

Come on you Rip Roaring Reds
Big Love
Bernard
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Hopefully by the time you read this missive, I’ll be breakfasting on Las Ramblas, basking in the warm glow, after the Gunners have made a complete mockery of all those who believed we didn’t have a hope in hell of surviving beyond our outing to Camp Nou. Alternatively, I’ll be drowning my sorrows, dreading the threat of our season ending up in tatters, after Saturday’s trip to Old Trafford. Personally I’m never happier than when everyone else is writing off the Arsenal, as from past experience, this has often proved the inspiration for some of our finest hours.

Having endured Messi’s four-goal mauling last season, it appears that some of the traveling faithful have chosen to stop at home this time around, unwilling to face the risk of further ignominy in the Catalan capital. Such trepidation is understandable, with Song joining Walcott on the missing list. Hopefully the return of Fabregas & Van Persie will provide a massive moral boost. Yet with them both having a ready made excuse for a less than scintillating performance, it won't be such a surprise to see our skipper and our most potent striker struggling for the tip-top form necessary to tear the Spanish champs asunder. It’s not so much the fear of losing against Barca that bothers me, since there’s no shame in being beaten by the best side on the planet.

We may have relished the brief respite of The Orient’s reality-check against our reserves in midweek. But if the abject frustration of our Carling Cup catastrophe and Saturday’s failure to capitalize on a golden opportunity to turn up the heat in the title race, end up being combined with the disenchantment of a Champions League exit, it’s hard to envisage Arsène’s young squad having the bottle to instantly bounce back against Fergie’s more mature mob, by snuffing out their cup ambitions and serving notice that we’re not about to make them a present of the Premiership trophy.

However this is football at the highest level; where winners have an insatiable desire for success and limitless reserves of adrenaline, which enable them to thrive on the relentless barrage of big games as the season builds to a climax and the leaden-footed losers are left bellyaching about lactic acid build-up, fatigued by the demands of playing for 90 minutes every three or four days.

Sadly last Saturday’s scoreless draw was a long way from demonstrating the Gunners coming of age. We all turned up for the game in eager anticipation of a performance that might confirm the Arsenal’s imminent capacity to cast off the shroud of our perennial “nearly men” mantle. I won’t condone our fickle crowd venting their ire at our midfield duo so vocally because I firmly believe supporters are duty-bound to stay faithful, but I was no less vexed than anyone else present. By contrast to the anguish felt on the terraces, in Diaby’s languid demeanour and Denilson’s hapless football, these two players seem to epitomize the Gunners’ lack of appreciation (with a couple of exceptions) of the urgent need to kick down the door that had been left ajar by Man Utd’s defeat at the Bridge.

Sure if justice had prevailed (and if the officials had got the big decisions correct!), the pressure we brought to bear for the last half hour would’ve resulted in a game winning goal. But for once I have to agree with Alan Hansen’s suggestion that the key to success in a championship run is “to start quickly”. Yet instead of Sunderland harassing us to play at a high tempo, we seemed content to patiently push the ball sideways and backwards, waiting for the game to come to us, until eventually we began to run out of time and Wenger was forced to ring the changes. We seem to have completely forgotten the art of starting home games with the sort of intensity that's enabled us to steamroller lesser opposition in the past. Instead of focusing on our misfortunes, Arsène might do better to encourage some of his shot-shy troops to go out and make their own luck!

Still one of the good things about living on the Arsenal’s doorstep, is that you are never short of a Gooner or two to commiserate with, in moments of such great disappointment. When I headed to the local shops late on Saturday evening, you could positively sense the anti-climactic atmosphere, amidst the exchange of pleasantries that passed for the licking of red & white wounds, as we queued to pay for our groceries and contemplated the Gunners immediate future.

Despite subsequent Gooner glee over Utd’s capitulation at Anfield, in some respects it was that much more maddening, knowing that a win against the Black Cats would’ve left us breathing right down the leader’s necks. Nevertheless we’ve gained a point on Utd and with their Mayday trip to North London, our destiny remains in our own hands. Perhaps the return of Ramsey or Vermaelen will provide the necessary momentum. But unless our competitors are to continue falling over their own feet and we’re about to end our barren run by default, we badly need to discover some consistent form, before risking the increased heartache that's at stake, when one truly dares to believe.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Time To Prove Their Balls Have Dropped & That The Gunners Are Not About To Drop Any More?

I'm just glad I wrote Monday's diary missive in advance of listening to Alan Davies' latest episode of The Tuesday Club podcast (highly recommended & amusing aid for getting Sunday's anguish out of one's system), as otherwise I would've felt that it sounded as if I'd only regurgitated some of their opinions, word for word.

Alan Davies did however point out the relatively poor performance of Alex Song, which I neglected to mention, as I was expecting Alex to be one of our most influential players on Sunday and was particularly disappointed by the way in which the game just seemed to pass him by.

However, on reflection, I was only commenting at Leyton Orient the other week, that I was surprised to see Song starting in our FA Cup encounter, as in light of Alex's energetic style, if there was one player who I felt might have deserved a breather against the O's it was him. I don't have a programme to hand to check his appearances, but ever since we've commenced the recent hectic schedule, I've had the sense that Song is the one player who, when fit, seems to have played game in, game out, without Arsene considering it necessary to give Alex a rest, when he's rotated the majority of other players.

Maybe someone who's got the stats in their head will correct me, but if this isn't a misapprehension, then perhaps we should be cutting Song a little slack because it could just be that his disappointing display on Sunday was due to the fact that he's simply running on empty?

Amazing second half to the match at Stamford Bridge. I know he was somewhat to blame for Wayne Rooney's opener, but at a fraction of the cost of Torres, sadly I can't help but marvel that David Luiz looks a blinding purchase. With Utd at 0-1 up at the beginning of the second half, I was about to comment quite how solid their back four looked, even in the absence of Ferdinand. That was until seemingly someone stuck a rocket up Chelsea's backside.

Nevertheless, even in light of the subsequent pressure the Blues brought to bear, I still have the sense that even when Chelsea were at their most potent, Utd looked so much more composed than we tend to do in similar circumstances. I just pray that the Blues continue with their inconsistent (complacent?) form, as based on Chelsea's performance in tonight's game alone, I'm wondering if we should be celebrating their victory quite so enthusiastically because if they continue in a similar vein, we might have been better off with a draw?

Still, at least there was plenty of comfort in knowing how pissed off our Spurs pals will be with having been leapfrogged into 5th place. While I was teasing my Spurs mates, I made sure to remind them that this was poetic justice for all those times in the recent past, when I've given them stick for supporting Chelsea and all their Nazi neanderthals, when it suited them to see the Kings Road mercenaries mullah the Gunners.

I also reminded them that at this rate, they'll soon be leapfrogged by the Mickey Mousers as well and that they'd better win the Champs League, if they ever want a sniff of competing in the tournament in the future. Apparently, if they can't qualify in 4th, they'd be happier finishing completely out of the running, rather than having to compete in the Europa Cup! Naturally I assured them "ask and so shall ye receive" :-)

Meanwhile it's down to us now to consolidate tonight's wonderful result (with the cherry on top being the red card which ensures Vidic missed the trip to Anfield) by beating Sunderland on Saturday and I'm sure I'm not alone in my inescapable pessimism about the prospects of us blowing it against Steve Bruce's mob, as we've invariably tended to do, whenever we've been afforded an opportunity to capitalize on the competition's slip ups.

Hopefully we'll see Chelsea revert to their recent complacent form soon enough, especially if Cashley Hole is the arbiter of the Blues attitude, as with Malouda playing on his flank, it seems to give the cnut license to take his foot off the gas (mind you, no surprise if poor Cashley's become a bit shot shy!). Nevertheless based on the second half alone, my abiding sense was that both Chelsea and Man Utd's squads appear that much more formidable than our own.

Sure I appreciate that with our average age of 23, we are a work in progress and perhaps the eventual return of Tommy the Tank will afford us something of the solidity and composure at the back that still appears to be our biggest disadvantage. You never know, the Terminator might even to lend us the leadership capabilities, which we so obviously lack when our backs are up against the wall. But with the reports that we'll be travelling to Catalunya without the injured RVP, for my money, this is only more grist to the mill of what might yet prove to be the most significant disparity between the Gunners and our immediate competition.

When you see Ancelotti having the ability to turn to Doddier Drigba when the Blues were 0-1 down and Fergie throwing on the likes of Berbatov and Giggs to try and rescue a result, I can't help but make comparisons with the relatively blunt instruments at Arsene's disposal to spearhead an Arsenal recovery.

Perhaps Nicky Bendtner will yet prove himself to be anywhere near as brilliant as he is inside his own over-sized head. Yet no matter what the Dane does to make me eat my words, with the weight he must be carrying considering the size of his ego, can anyone seriously see the lumbering striker ever possessing the sort of grace of movement seen from RVP (or the likes of Berbatov and Giggs) of the sort the marks out the world's greatest marksmen? Or the pace and power of the likes of Drogba, the sort that has centre-backs looking at the opposition team sheet and conjuring up a niggle, rather than being embarrassed by the prospect of a 90 minute wrestle with the world's best?

Even if it's true that Marouanne's loss of form is merely due to the fact that his head's not right, while allegedly his lawyers do everything in their power to prevent him becoming the latest laughing stock as a result of a purported salacious scandal involving 3 Swedish birds, a Las Vegas Hotel room and nothing but a rubber raincoat covering the lad's embarrassment, as much respect as I might have for the Moroccan's work rate and his potential to provide AW with some much needed variation, it's hard to see Chamakh standing on the touchline as the Gunner's very own Superman, coming off the bench faster than a speeding bullet to save the day.

But I don't want to get too morose, as I'd better leave something to moan about should we not be able to live up to the massive weight of expectation that's bound to accrue in the media when Saturday comes. And you never know, the mighty Gunners might just be about to prove that our time has come?

Come on you rip, roaring Reds, it's in your own hands...all you gotta do now is prove yourselves worthy of making the cricket team by not dropping the ball

Big Love
Bernard

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com