Never Mind Southern Softies, What About Those Namby-Pamby Northeners?

I’ve curtailed my halftime habit at home games of playing hide and seek with the stewards on the stairwells, while surreptitiously sneaking a few pulls on a cigarette, ever since a steward mate of mine warned me that they’d started confiscating membership cards (which constitute our season tickets!) of anyone caught smoking. Apparently a grovelling letter of apology will get it returned after a first offence, but get caught again and one is in danger of losing it for good. And the umpteen thousand on the season ticket waiting list is enough to make me worry that this is no idle threat.

Yet while the Arsenal might be doing their bit to save me from the ravages of lung cancer, it seems I am likely to end up losing the remainder of my teeth instead, as I nervously chomp my way through the packets of sweets that have now replaced the cigarettes, as this particular footie fan’s equivalent of a comfort blanket. Mind you if the conditions get much colder than they were on Saturday, I am going to end up needing one of these as well!

Now if I was really organised I'd be taking a flask and some nosh, like some others I saw last weekend, as being deprived of a cigarette at the break wouldn’t be nearly so bad, if one was able to obtain some refreshments, without having to queue for the entire 15 minutes and risk missing the start of the second half. At our old gaff, you could always guarantee getting a warm up from a cup of tea or a Bovril, without missing a kick of the ball and it’s hard to believe that the club have failed so miserably in their ability to cater for the increased numbers, with the facilities at our grandiose new ground.

On a freezing afternoon like Saturday, surely the club must be missing out on a small fortune in revenue, for while the 8,000 Club Level occupants are fortunate to be inside, in the warm, supping on their free beverages, it seems as if, like myself, the vast majority of fans in the upper and lower tiers just can’t be bothered with the huge halftime queues.

Instead of which, everyone stands there feigning nonchalant disinterest in Gunnersaurus and his little helpers, circling the pitch perimeter, firing tightly wrapped t-shirts into the crowd by means of a positively lethal, air gun type contraption, which could take someone’s head off if it wasn’t pointed skywards. That is until one of these airborne missiles comes your way, at which point, regrettably, one can’t resist participating in the undignified scrabble. Myself and the missus will have to see if we can master the rugby line-out tactic, so that I can lift her up to gain some advantage, as for the second time on Saturday this prize eluded me, as it bounced off several folks’ fingertips to a chap in the row in front, only for him to smugly boast that this was the second time he’d been the unwitting beneficiary of the fact that none of us was going to make the cricket team.

Until Willie stole into Wigan’s box to head home in the 83rd minute, it had begun to feel like the three points were also about to slip through our fingers, along with a crucial opportunity to gain ground on Man Utd. Despite totally dominating possession, we gifted Wigan perhaps the two best first-half goal scoring opportunities, with two free headers that resulted from a couple of moments of defensive indecision. Following the break and the news that Utd were behind at Bolton, the more fickle Gooners began to express their frustration at our failure to trouble the Wigan keeper.

However despite my continued concerns about the solidity of Arsène’s first-choice partnership at centre-back, if there’s one attribute that William Gallas has added to the Arsenal party, it’s his winning mentality. For the second consecutive home game, we have to be grateful for Gallas’ tenacity, as without his late goals we’d have lost against Man Utd and failed to capitalise on their slip-up on Saturday.

I had to chuckle listening to Carlos Queiroz’s comments on Match of the Day about Bolton’s intimidating tactics. Arsène always gets slaughtered over the Arsenal’s “don’t like it up ‘em” attitude whenever he does likewise. Myself I quite relish these ‘Beauty & the Beast’ type confrontations, so long as the opposition doesn’t resort to the sort of malicious attempts to inflict GBH, such as Marcus Bent’s cynical assault from behind on Denilson. To my mind it’s the physical nature of our football and the levels of commitment, which make the Premiership a far more enthralling proposition than the less intense brand of the beautiful game played on the Continent.

In the knowledge that the majority of sides would be swiftly put to the sword in a straight contest of ability, we’ve grown accustomed to the opposition paying us the compliment of trying to kick us off the park. Theo Walcott is far from the finished article, but he's come a long way from the lightweight scnhip of last season, who was so easily muscled off the ball.

On an afternoon when Wigan’s Michael Brown spent the 20 minutes leading up to his inevitable booking, charging around like a headless chicken, clattering into anything that moved, it was very pleasing to see young Gunners like Denilson, Diarra and Clichy, standing their ground in the face of such aggression. Whereas in the past we’ve acquired this faint-hearted reputation as a result of players who might’ve had more of a tendency to ‘bottle it’ when it comes to earth-shuddering 50/50 confrontations, more concerned with self-preservation than maintaining possession.

Having held out for so long, Gallas’s goal knocked all the stuffing out of the visitors, while at the same time forcing them to be more ambitious. It wasn’t long before we took advantage of the Lactic's efforts to venture forward, cutting them to pieces with a swift counter that ended with Rosicky securing all three points, as he scuffed home our second off the inside of the post.

It was then a matter of sweating out the remaining minutes of the radio commentary from the Reebok, fully expecting the inevitable last gasp equaliser after news of the four minutes of injury time. What has bothered me most in the past when Sam Allardyce’s Bolton have bullied us out of the points with a lion-hearted display, has been the knowledge that the very same team would be likely to timidly lie down like lambs against their Lancashire neighbours. However under Megson it would appear that Bolton were able to overcome their inferiority complex for the first time in nearly 30 years.

I’m sure it was no coincidence that this defeat occurred with Vidic absent at the heart of Utd’s defence and on the face of it, Bolton away is a more taxing proposition than playing Wigan at home. However where previously one might have questioned the Arsenal’s strength in depth, could it be significant that we stood the test of coping with the enforced absence of the likes of Fabregas, Hleb and Flamini, while Fergie mistakenly assumed he could afford the luxury of leaving out similarly influential figures, from an already depleted side?

The finely tuned Arsenal engine might clunk and grind a little without our first-choice stars but crucially we made it home safe. Meanwhile Alex might want to renew his AA subscription for the jump-start Man Utd require without Ronaldo & co.

Arsenal Pass The Ball

Hi Folks

I had to finish the following piece in a mad rush, in order to get it filed to the paper prior to Monday's deadline, before dashing out of the house to get to Reading. Sadly I didn't end up leaving in time to meet up with a mate, as arranged, but with it only being a 45 mile drive, it wasn't such a big deal heading out on to the M4 on my tod.

Although it wasn't until I turned off the motorway that I really began to regret missing out on a lift, as I'd completely forgotten quite what a nightmare parking can be, in the concrete jungle around the Madjeski, for while my pal was able to park up in the shopping precinct adjacent to the ground, courtesy of his blue disabled badge, the local council must be absolutely coining it in, from all the other unsuspecting visiting fans who must regularly risk leaving their cars in what is an empty, terribly tempting pitch, so close to the stadium. From past experience I was at least aware that this is a guarantee of a parking ticket.

On the subject of Blue Badge holders, it seems that they've been cracking down on the abuse of disabled privileges around our new stadium, as there was a small crowd gathered at the top of Aubert Park after the Man Utd match, watching a tow truck picking up a large 4 x 4. I must admit that I also dallied briefly, I suppose attracted by the Schadenfreude of seeing the face of the owner returning to find their vehicle being removed.

But I didn't need to wait to revel guiltily in the misery of others, as it seem the tow trucks had been very busy during the course of the 90 minutes. Heading back to Highbury Quadrant, there's a spot at the top of our road which we've previously labelled "Cripple Corner" because of the proliferation of blue badges. I've always found it somewhat ironic on the many occasions I've been walking around to the game, late as ever, to see folks parking up in this spot, placing there badges on the dashboard and then literally sprinting from their cars, in an attempt to make KO. It would appear that folks have become so accustomed to being able to abuse these privileges that they've absolutely no shame, whereas in their shoes, I would at the very least feel obliged to limp a little, for the benefit of anyone watching!


Thus I couldn't help but feel slightly amused as I rounded the corner to discover a gaggle of gutted folks all sitting along a low wall, staring at the empty spaces previously occupied by their vehicles.

Meanwhile I might not have made my lift to Reading, but my efforts to do so meant that I arrived in plenty of time to spend half an hour driving around looking for somewhere to leave the car. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts to bribe the attendants guarding the assorted car parks (for badge holders, hotel guests etc), I eventually gave up and was following the signs to the nearest "£10" parking, when I was fortunate to spot someone leaving their car on a grass verge, where there was room for one more small vehicle.

Although there's always some small satisfaction to be gained from finding free parking, to be honest, I'm often happpier stumping up, just for the reassurance of having somewhere safe to leave the car and knowing I don't have to spend the entire game fretting that a great result is going to end up soured, or bad day out capped by a fifty quid parking fine on returning to the car.

However one's exit from a huge car park can often add an extra hour to the journey and after driving around for so long, I was just keen to dump the motor and get to the game. What can I say, we ended the evening back on top of the table, having hardly been tested, there was no ticket on my windscreen when I got back to the car and I was out onto the motorway and back home relatively quickly. Does my life sound so sad, if I say it doesn't get much better?

After watching the weekend's games on Match of the Day, I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic about our prospects, as like ourselves, Man Utd look capable of scoring against anyone, but I have to admit that the Moaners appear somewhat more solid at the back. Although I wouldn't want to wish harm on anyone, let's put it this way, I wouldn't be so unhappy if Vidic ended up getting himself crocked for a couple of months (and even less miserable if he missed the rest of the season!).


Yet I was in a much more positive mood following my brief trip to Reading, The Royals might have managed to frustrate us, right up until Flamini (our defensive midfielder!!) arrived in the box to score the opening goal, but after that, once the home side were forced to come out of their shell in the second half and chase the game somewhat, instead of merely trying to prevent us from winning it, we literally sliced and diced them, with a performance where we were never really forced out of first gear.

The football that we savoured in the build up to our second and third goals (and the one that was incorrectly ruled offside) was pure poetry in motion. Although I'm sure most of those present behind the goal at the Madjeski will confirm that until we came out for the second half, with our tails up after the taking the lead on the stroke of halftime, we had looked a long way from playing at anywhere near our best.

I'm not going to name names but focusing on a couple of players with my binoculars during the first half, I gleaned the distinct impression that on a particularly brisk night, there were those in red & white who would've rather been elsewhere. Obviously I might be mistaken but after the adrenaline rush of performing before an audience of a billion around the globe in our last glamorous encounter, I suppose it's perfectly understandable if some of the Gunners were struggling for similar motivation on a brass monkey Monday night amidst the new-town tedium of Reading.

But then I guess this bodes well, because if we can blow teams away in this fashion when not at our best, then we can only begin to imagine what we have to look forward to, when we're firing on all cylinders. Yet if it was true on Monday that our far superior ability eventually began to tell, there are games on the fixture list in the none too distant future (with a fairly daunting December!), where we're unlikley to get away with it, unless all eleven can match the opposition with sufficient commitment and the sort of wholehearted attitude that will enable our ability advantage to come to the fore.

I am sure there were others (Kolo, Sagna etc.) but from my perspective there was only one Arsenal player on Monday night who demonstrated, without any doubt, that he was performing (as ever!) at 100 per cent. Whereas, for example, both myself and my mate beside me happened to notice a 50/50 ball where Rosicky's effort was sufficiently tentative that we both remarked on him "bottling it". I really don't think Gael Clichy would know how to do anything without absolute commitment. What's more I always cringe at the sight of a Gunner going for a ball, when it's patently obvious that there's an element of half-heartedness about their approach because they're principally concerned about the prospect of picking up an injury, when they should be demonstrating a totally blinkered focus on winning the ball. From what I recall of my childhood education on the pitch, it was often the more timid of the two players competing for a 50/50 ball who invariably came off worse.

By contrast to those who might've been a little less focused against Reading, Gael Cllichy continues to impress me more and more, with each passing match, as I find his enthusiasm and his energy levels increasingly mind-blowing. On those rare occasions when Reading advanced up the pitch and Gael wasn't goal side (of Kitson?) when the ball was directed down his flank, despite giving his opponent several yards start, I don't recall a single instance when he was beaten to the ball and there were a couple of occasions when Clichy arrived so far in advance of the Reading player, that you could be forgiven for thinking his opponent was running backwards!


It was also good to see Diarra get a run-out as sub, as the Frenchman shows similar enthusiasm in his desperation to prove his worth to Wenger. And with the likes of the French international, the Brazil captain and Theo on the bench, I adore the fact that there's so little room for complacency, with such genuine competition for places.

Mind you perhaps the best part about Diarra's appearance on the pitch was the fact that it inspired a rousing rendition of a relatively new chant (at least it's the first time I've heard it) from the Gooner choristers, which had me giggling away. I only hope Cashley Hole returns to fitness in time for our mid-December meeting with Chelsea and that on the day, Diarra gets a look in, just so we might hear the whole ground resound to several reptitions of "Diarra...he left the Chelsea scum, 'cos Ashley wants his bum"!

There was one other conclusion which I drew from a weekend without an Arsenal game to focus on. I found myself watching Pompey v Man City on Sunday and it was interesting to think that these were two of the gaggle of clubs, currently performing relatively well in the wake of the leading pack, because to my mind there was one obvious difference between us and them. Watching possession passing from one team to the other as this game progressed, it suddenly dawned on me quite how brilliant the Arsenal are at keeping the ball.

Reading's tactics were quite strange for a team playing on their own turf but then I guess Coppell felt under pressure to try something different, after last season's supremely efficient demolition (and it might have been the same on Monday, if Ade's had managed to find the inside of the post in the opening blows). Mind you I imagine many of the home fans must've been tearing their hair out in frustration during the first half, as it was as if the Royals had been instructed to adopt a zonal defence, whereby they sat right back, to take up defensive positions around their penalty area, allowing us as much possession as we wanted, apparently without even attempting to retrieve the ball until we threatened to encroach into their box.


Perhaps Coppell's plan worked up to a point but surely there must be a correlation between the number of goal scoring chances we can to create and the amount of time in possession of the ball and we looked so incredibly comfortable while they stood of us, that in the shoes of the Royals fans, I would've been screaming my head off, demanding that my team put us under some sort of pressure.

However if ball retention against a remarkably reticent Reading was no big thing, it was another matter all together against a Man U side, where Hargreaves, Anderson etc. were giving us absolutely no quarter. Nevertheless, there were periods during the previous week's match where it looked as if Man Utd might need their own ball if they were going to get involved in the game, as we certainly weren't allowing them to play with ours!

Watching the Arsenal every week, doubtless I take the standard of our football for granted to some extent, but watching the broadcast of the game at Fratton Park, I couldn't help but notice the marked difference in the way that moves kept breaking down when both teams were guilty of giving away the ball. We might often lose patience, whilst waiting to see some end product but there's a truism in football that says you simply cannot concede a goal while the ball is at your feet and while most of the pundits would have us believe that we will eventually come unstuck because our defence doesn't match up to Man Utd, it should be remembered that it doesn't matter how solid (or not) we are at the back, so long as we retain the ball.

Meanwhile I've managed to prattle on so long that if I don't wrap up this long-winded missive post haste , it will soon become so outdated that I will end trashing it, rather than sending it out. Appologies for the delay but it's been a very long week work wise and tonight is the first night that I've managed to stay awake long enough to get it finished.

Although my views on International weekends might be well known to you by now, I am quite looking forward to this one, merely from the point of view that it's hard for me to get my head around the thought of this entire country supporting l'il ol' Israel on Shabbat (the Sabbath).

Naturally an eternal cynic like myself simply cannot help but have some suspicions, as surely the likes of Abramovich will have been tempted to interfere, if only to prove to himself how powerful he is, perhaps offering the Israelis a few million for a new stadium if they go easy against the Ruskies. On the other hand (as the Fiddler on the Roof would've said), the home side's record in recent times might lead one to conclude that they are indeed "the Chosen People", at least when playing within the much disputed confines of the Holyland.

On the basis of their home record, it wouldn't be such a surprise for them to achieve a result, especially when you consider that their players are going to be only too aware that they will be performing before their biggest TV audience ever and each one of them will be going to bed on Friday night, to dream of this chance of a lifetime to produce the sort of impressive display that might catch the eye of watching managers and earn themselves a highly-prized opportunity to join Benayoun on the Premiership's big stage.

Although I'm not about the change the habit of a lifetime and start predicting results, but I'd quite fancy the Israelis to pull it off and breathe life back into England's qualification prospects and Steve McClaren's managerial career, by taking points off the Ruskies, IF it wasn't for the fact that I really rate Gus Hiddinck. Who knows how Hiddinck would fare when it comes to making the most out of the world class talent available to an England manager, but when it comes to achieving results by means of relatively modest resources, I'm afraid there is no better man. On the basis that there is bound to be a number of chinks in the Israeli armour, it seems to me that there's a fairly high probability that Hiddinck has prepared his team to best take advantage!

Mind you, for all those who would be devastated at the thought of next summer's tournament taking place without any England involvement, the truth of the matter is that actually perhaps you should be grateful to Hiddinck for doing you all a huge favour, by saving you from all the undoubted misery when Steve McClaren's side fail to live up to expectations once again.

Alternatively if Israel manage to take a point or three off the Russians, then as a PR exercise, this game could prove bigger than the Six Day War in terms of their popularity.

When Saturday comes, just for the day, I guess we'll all be Yiddos

Peace & Love
Bernard
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Arsenal Pass The Ball

After a decade or more of racking up huge debts, chasing the Champions League Holy Grail around Europe, it's basically the lack of any further lines of credit that's forced me to curtail my customary habit of following the Arsenal absolutely everywhere. With the exponential increase in the costs of tickets, travel and the amount of time off work required to achieve an 100% attendance record, I doff my hat in all due reverence to the ultra-loyal band of Gooner-holics who manage to maintain the nigh-on monastic devotion necessary, to ensure that social, domestic and occupational responsibilities don't ever impinge on their footballing pleasures.

Obviously the nature of the overblown corporate beast that has swallowed whole the previously unencumbered blue collar kingdom of the beautiful game, means that there were probably plenty present in Prague last week who are in the fortunate position to be able to write off the cost of their outing, as a tax deductible 'entertainment' expense. Nevertheless, I often survey the vast majority of working stiffs like myself, who's faces I see every week, on terraces up and down the country, with ever increasing wonderments and incredulity. For while they remain ever-present on all the European trips, I'm beginning to feel like a positively lightweight part-timer by comparison. Even by blowing every last disposable penny of what must amount to far more than basic wages and with the most 'sympatico' of football supporting bosses, I honestly struggle to comprehend how they continue to manage it?

Although I'm prepared to suffer the deprivations of being penned in and herded like lary Gooner livestock, on organised one day outings, in preference to stopping at home and screaming pointlessly at an inanimate television, personally speaking, I believe one might as well have been to Leicester for all the broadening of one's mind by this sort of tawdry travel experience. Whether it's the cut-price hospitality of promiscuous East European cathouses, or Prague's abundant cultural heritage that tickles one's fancy (better still, a historic building that happens to be a brothel!), it's downright criminal to travel to as interesting a city as the Czech capital, without enjoying any cultural interaction.


While those long-suffering saps who support lesser lights like Spurs, live in hope of UEFA Cup trips to some godforsaken town in the back o'beyond, the thousands of pounds worth of debt I've acquired on the Champions League merry-go-round has enabled me to hop off at many of Europe's most alluring destinations. From Rosenborg to Panthinaikos, Porto to Spartak Moscow, with Real, Barca, Inter and Roma in between, we've savoured a sumptuous cultural meze across the length and breadth of the entire continent, most of which just wouldn't have been on the menu if it weren't for football.

I consider myself most fortunate to be in possession of an "I was there" t-shirt, to prove I was present in Prague a couple of seasons back, when Thierry Henry unexpectedly returned from injury to finally trump Wrightie's goal-scoring record. However I've yet to tick off Seville or Bucharest and I'm gutted that I'll have missed out on experiencing two more unlikely destinations during this group stage. It wasn't just because I'd already been to Prague that I wasn't too bothered about being unable to afford last week's trip.

Actually if I was going to miss out on an away game, I couldn't have picked a better one if I tried and I ended up feeling quite sorry for the fifteen hundred odd day-trippers who would be trudging through Stansted in their rain sodden replica tops in the wee hours of Thursday morning, after having frozen their cods off in the pouring rain, whilst enduring an anti-climax of an encounter, a dreadfully dour affair compared to the previous goalfest. I suppose it's a reflection on quite how far we've progressed in recent seasons, as it wasn't so long ago that the travelling hordes would've been returning in high-spirits, celebrating qualification for the later stages, considering it a job well done to have achieved this objective via a goalless draw, on a murky miserable night so far from home.

Instead of which, there were more than a few disgruntled Gooners giving vent to their indignation the following morning, believing Arsène was wrong to send the kids out to do a man's job, when winning the group should've been his priority. You only had to see how the home side celebrated their hard earned-point to appreciate quite how desperate they were to redeem some self-respect, after having been so humiliated at our place. As a result Slavia worked their socks off all night, to stifle any possible potential for threatening their goal. Credit to them, their spoiler tactics were sufficiently efficient that their keeper could've remained in the dry of the dressing room, considering how unemployed he was for most of the evening.


I doubt we did ourselves any favours by adding insult to the injury of the seven stabbing wounds inflicted a fortnight earlier, as Le Boss left four of team that played Utd at home and four more on the bench. A similar line-up might've made mincemeal out of Sheffield Utd but in the frenetic mêlée in the middle of the park in Prague, they lacked the composure to carve a path through committed Champions League opposition, where no quarter was ceded merely out of respect for our youngster's reputation.

Denilson is undoubtedly a star in the making, in the same mould as Fabregas, but the Brazilian youngster hasn't had much game time and the conditions were hardly conducive for him to replicate the feats that have always marked his Spanish team-mate out as such a precocious talent and which are the trademark of every genuine midfield class act, namely the appearance of having time and space on the ball, where none exists, to pick out the killer pass.

Consequently perhaps we can cut the likes of Bendtner some slack because our strikers saw so little of the ball. Eduardo might be the current incumbent of the actual shirt, but we've waited with stoic patience for the return of an authentic no. 9, ever since we saw the last of the likes of Smudger and Hartson. Although the loping Dane has proved he has the appropriate tools in his locker, with his brief cameos as an impact sub, I'm concerned he could be in danger of being devoured by the enormous weight of Gooner expectation. Perhaps I'm prone to being hypercritical due to Bendtner's 'Bertie Big Bollix' reputation (which wouldn't be quite so disturbing if the youngster had actually done something to merit such an inflated ego). But I was none too impressed by the images on TV, of him lurking at the mouth of the tunnel as both teams trotted out for the second-half, as if he was avoiding the cold and the rain, determined to be the last arrival at this disagreeable party.

Instead of which, you'd imagine he'd be raring to get out there after such a disappointing first-half, desperate to prove to le Gaffer that he was borne to perform on the glamorous Champions League stage. It'll be a crying shame if Nicklas' career goes the way of so many of the "too much, too young" modern generation of professional footballers, following in the path of the Brit-pack likes of Pennant, Dyer and Jenas, who, coming from modest backgrounds, acquired the supercars, the bling, the birds and all the other trappings of success at such an early age, that they were convinced they'd cracked it, with nothing left to prove. But for all their material wealth, they've been treading water ever since, with no medals to put on the table.


Meanwhile Bendtner's ego might not be the only worry for Wenger. The worst thing about a fixture free weekend is that without any football to fill the Arsenal related column inches, the Red Tops will fill the void with vacuous gossip. I only hope the team spirit on the pitch stands the test of the recent undercurrent of alleged bad vibes between our keepers and those that have resulted from Arsène's apparent reluctance to give the Brazil captain a regular run-out (let alone the armband!).

As it stands I can fully appreciate Wenger wanting to stick to a winning formula, but we've just drawn three games on the spin and you can just picture the flock of vultures waiting to pounce come the transfer window, if the laidback Gilberto begins to lose patience. Hopefully the panacea for all such signs of unrest will prove to be a return to winning ways against the Royals. It might not be a total cure-all but hopefully it will keep the tabloids off our case!


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http://goonersdiary.blogspot.com
e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Who the f*** are Man Utd......?

......and the Reds go marching on, on, on!

It took a moment for us to realise that a goal had been given in the dying throes of Saturday's game. From our position in the stands, we assumed Howard Webb was about to call time in the last chance saloon, once the ball had stopped ping-ponging around Utd's penalty area and that we Gooners would be trudging out of the stadium seconds later, crestfallen at having ceded such a big psychological advantage to our principal Premiership rivals.

Once the initial euphoria had subsided somewhat, I found myself contemplating the frantic activity in the press box, as all those journos were forced to bash out the polar opposite match report, from the one they'd been preparing to file a few moments prior, perhaps crediting the Arsenal as worthy title contenders, instead of writing us off as lightweight impostors.

In truth, no matter how over-hyped Saturday's clash of the Premiership titans to maximise the theatre for the billions watching around the planet, no prizes are handed out in November. Yet while you may not be able to win a league title before all the leaves have fallen off the trees, you can definitely lose one (as, sadly, we've demonstrated all too ably these past couple of seasons), and I believe this was in the back of the minds of both managers in the tactical deployment of their respective troops.

Perhaps Wenger wouldn't have opted to play 4-5-1 if Van Persie was fit, only he knows. Yet even if this was the optimum use of the players available to him on the day, if I'm honest, with the Arsenal's star in its ascendancy, I was more than a little disappointed to be lining up at home against Man U, with a lone striker. Adebayor might have already bagged a handful of goals (before his current seven game barren streak) and has contributed to the team effort with his Trojan work rate, but I think most watchers would agree that when it has come to the crunch, in and around the penalty area, to date Ade has struggled to find his touch.

So it was that whilst we dominated possession in the centre of the park for long periods, the most common complaint on Saturday was that far too frequently when we advanced forward, there was no one in the box to be able to inflict any real damage. Whereas the more incisive approach play of Rooney, Tevez and co. meant that although they saw less of the ball, they looked far more likely to threaten our goal with it, while we patiently tried to pass it through the eye of a needle.
Nevertheless there was some suggestion that Utd were guilty of showing us too much respect and I believe the recent progress of this Arsenal side was reflected in Fergie's focus on containing us on the counter, with his midfield duo of Anderson and Hargreaves both sitting deep for much of the match and concentrating almost exclusively on their defensive duties.

I've been impressed with Anderson ever since seeing him stand out whilst playing for Porto last season. Despite his distinctive locks, with my premature Alzheimers, I'd forgotten this was the same player, when casting an appraising eye over the new additions to Utd's squad, in a televised pre-season game against Glentoran, where the Brazilian youngster's ability shone like a beacon.

The cheating little sod hardly went about winning friends and influencing people in his first appearance at our place, when demonstrating absolutely no shame, in not even feigning a bit of a limp, but jumping to his feet just moments after he'd managed to get Fabregas booked with an outrageously melodramatic floorshow, as though he'd been felled by a bullet. Yet in spite of a somewhat more restrained performance on the ball, Anderson still managed to impress and I wonder if he might've been more influential if not fettered by Fergie's instructions.

Meanwhile I'm not sure there are too many Gooners who'd agree (just yet!) with the latest contention that Alex Hleb is the best player in the Premiership. For my money, too much of Alex's best work still amounts to nought and he lacks sufficient pace to be able to support a lone-striker. However Hleb's poise and confidence increases apace with each passing game, to the point where he now has this matador like quality which makes me want to shout 'olé' each time he drops a shoulder and leaves a defender for dead. There was a period at the start of Saturday's game where Utd were having such difficulty relieving Alex of possession that it appeared as if our guests were going to need their own ball if they were to play a part in this encounter.

It's not only Hleb who has benefited from our new-found fearlessness. Its awe inspiring watching the incredibly energetic Gael Clichy take on all comers down the left flank, late in the game and on the rare occasion space opens up in front of Kolo Touré, he appears positively unstoppable when he storms forward. While with his preference for the no. 10 shirt, you just know that Willie Gallas has never really accepted the limitations of his centre-back role, when just like every other child at heart footballer he continues to covet heroic goal-scoring ambitions. Willie's wishes were fulfilled at the weekend, where it was 'Gallas of the Gunners' rather than 'Roy of the Rovers' who saved the day for the Arsenal.

I'd just been thinking how quiet Ronaldo had been when he popped up in the penalty area to tap home what looked like being the winning goal. Having stunned us Gooners into silence and given those pesky premature evacuators their cue to miss the rush and take their habitual early leave, the abiding mood on the terraces was that the game was well and truly up.

However if there were few tangible clues as to which of the two teams is better equipped for a title challenge, the thrilling conclusion to Saturday's compelling contest did prove to be a reaffirmation of our side's never say die spirit. Despite the most rousing atmosphere to date, Rooney's goal just before the halftime left me reflecting during the break on the potential disadvantages of our new home and the possibility that we're more susceptible to conceding goals in the closing stages of both halves.

Apparently Sam Allardyce has commented on the fact that the Arsenal are the fittest team in the league, but instead of making the most of this advantage by going for our opponents throats when they're beginning to flag, I get the distinct sense that we might occasionally be guilty of switching off somewhat, merely winding down the clock, waiting for the whistle. The players on the pitch must be aware of all the movement in the stands, as all those who are more interested in the beer, their bellies, or beating the rush home, head for the exits. As the atmosphere and all the intensity of the game appears to evaporate with the activity on the terraces, obviously there will be opponents who remain sufficiently focused to make the most of this shortcoming as Man U did when opening their account on Saturday.

Mercifully the Gunners went and proved my theory wrong with William Gallas' last gasp equaliser. I might've been still screaming as loud as ever, urging them on to the last as always, but in my head, like the majority around me (not to mention all those who were already on their way home including many who must've missed the goal – poetic justice if you ask me!), I was already contemplating how I was going to cope with my workmates merriment over our misfortune.

Of the 60,000 present, it was perhaps only some of the eleven in red & white on the pitch who maintained sufficient belief and refused to give up hope and this bodes very well for the massive challenge ahead. Other than this, some might draw conclusions about the comparative strengths of the two sides' keepers, with Almunia responsible for a couple of obvious rickets and the possibility that Utd appear a little more solid in defence. Yet with the talent at Wenger's disposal, why should we be "bovvered", when the occasional error at the back will only increase the prospect of our footballing pleasures. It was in this vein that I tried to console my neighbour at half-time on Saturday, by suggesting that at least going a goal behind meant that we were guaranteed a great second-half.

The only other obvious opinion one can draw from Saturday's encounter, is that if there was any danger of peace breaking out between the two managers whilst they were both trying to knock Mourinho off his perch, the Chelsea manager's departure has resulted in a return to business as usual and the outbreak of the sort of hostilities that are bound to keep us all engrossed in the coming months ahead.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

"Steve Gerrard, Gerrard......"

".....he kisses the badge on his chest, then hands in a transfer request. Steve Gerrard, Gerrard"

(I have been working all hours, fitting up Snow Queen for the ballet in Oxford but having written the following in the wee hours Monday morning, I thought I had better post it to my blog before tonight's Carling Cup encounter at Sheffield leaves it looking somewhat outdated)

I’ve been castigated in certain Gooner quarters for suggesting that up until recently we hadn’t actually been playing as well as the media hyperbole would have you believe and that our elevated status was more a reflection of the mediocre start to the season made by our competitors. I stand by this, as I firmly believe that the fact that the much unfancied Flamini and our two full-backs have been our players of the season so far, is all the evidence needed to confirm that many of the more illustrious Gunners had yet to hit a genuine groove.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that we haven’t entertained, as we’ve produced purple patches of absolutely sparkling football, ever since day one. But with Arsène having set the Arsenal bar so incredibly high, up until the trouncing of the hapless Slavia Prague last Tuesday, to my mind the individual instances of brilliance were too disjointed, stalling on a wayward pass, or without any sting to the final ball.

With so many of our players still struggling for the delicate touch and control that is their trademark when in top form - even those who’ve been banging in goals for fun like Adebayor, Van Persie and of course Fabregas, might’ve been working their socks off, but few present would suggest they were in top form – we had yet to witness 90 minutes, nay even 45 minutes of the sort of total footie that would stand as testament to our true title credentials. That was until Sunday!

Obviously our confidence must’ve been soaring, after seeing off the Czech lambs to the slaughter in the Champions League midweek, where we laid down the sort of marker, which was bound to make the rest of Europe sit up and take notice. But after Gerrard attempted to strike the cover off the ball with his extremely effective opening gambit (albeit aided by the sort of gaping hole in our wall which the Liverpool captain could’ve driven a truck through!), the 40-minutes which followed was as dominant a display as I’ve seen from an Arsenal side playing at Anfield.

Not that there wasn’t continued frustration at our failure to capitalise on our first-half superiority, as all our flowing football came to naught in the final third. Far too frequently we resorted to a diagonal ball into the box that was meat and drink to Hypia and Carragher, with a solitary and somewhat isolated Adebayor all too often out-jumped. Considering we can move the ball with such incredible pace, I simply cannot fathom our reluctance to continue down the flanks to the byeline, from where a ball whipped in is much harder for the opposition keeper to deal with and which would force the lumbering defence to attempt to clear, whilst running back towards their own goal.

However it’s churlish of me to moan about such trifling matters as actually putting the ball in the net, or the odd misplaced pass, when from a purist point of view the Arsenal were poetry in motion for much of Sunday’s match. That doesn’t mean that that there was a sudden improvement in the level of individual performances, but you sensed that everything was ramped up a notch for what was an all-together more high quality contest than many we’ve played to date. Our passing was crisper with the ball forced to travel much more quickly around its triangular course, by the way in which Mascherano and co. were doggedly hunting us down in packs. While on the rare occasions that we were not in possession, 0-1 down and facing their stiffest examination of the season, our defence was a study in concentration, knowing they couldn’t afford a second slip up.

The media have praised us to the hilt for sticking to our principles. Yet in truth Arsène Wenger’s side only knows one way to play, as suggested by the refrain which echoed out from our end of the ground for long periods of the game “Liverpool hoof the ball….Arsenal pass the ball”. In hindsight the script was written in the way the two managers set their stalls out, with our five-man midfield forcing the Scousers to chase shadows for much of the match, but with Adebayor struggling to make much of an impact. However with the home side’s three pronged forward line, their occasional foray’s forward were somewhat more direct, forcing Manuel Almunia to demonstrate that Lehmann hasn’t been left on the bench merely out of spite.

Naturally going a goal down wasn’t what we’d have wished for, but without Gerrard’s early strike I rather suspect we’d have witnessed a far less enthralling contest, with both sides probing for a weakness without really committing men forward. Whereas Liverpool were on the back foot right from the restart since we had no choice but to force the issue, taking the game to them as if we were the home side and they the visitors.

You could sense the effects on the Liverpool psyche of Benitez’s constant tinkering, because once the initial euphoria of taking the lead had subsided a nervous hush fell across the home crowd. Then again it’s not the first time we’ve found ourselves teasing “where’s your famous atmosphere” at Anfield. Although my own nerves were also up to ninety. The previous day’s results at Old Trafford and Stamford Bridge had made it even more important that we reaffirm our right to sit atop the pile, as despite our dominance in this game, without Fabregas’ 80th minute equlaiser, instead of singing our praises, the media would’ve undoubtedly begun to write us off as lacking sufficient substance to maintain a credible challenge.

It’s either black or white as far as the press are concerned, either we are the best thing since sliced bread, or a bunch of immature kids who can’t possibly hold their own in the manly marathon ahead. Obviously this was just the first in a succession of formidable hurdles, but it was vitally important that we didn’t fall at the first as personally I believe Sunday’s fightback could prove psychologically significant in the mental development of this young squad, as is next weekend’s encounter with Man Utd. And if we can emerge from both these fixtures with our unbeaten record intact, the Gunners will have thrown down the gauntlet by establishing the pace the competition will have to keep up with, if they’re to continue breathing down our necks.

Stranger things have happened but considering our dominance, I would’ve felt incredibly hard done by to have departed Anfield with our tails between our legs and when it eventually came, Fabregas’ equaliser was nothing less than we deserved, making our nine hour round trip trek seem worth every arduous, traffic-ridden minute.

Mind you it all could’ve worked out very different. Standing queuing for my half-time cuppa, there was little evidence of any panic in the air at our end of the ground. With continued patience and plenty of application, it always felt as if we had the weapons to prevail. However just as I was about to be served, my mobile phone rang and it was Róna on the line, in a frantic state, having just exited Brent Cross Shopping Centre, babbling about the car having been stolen.

For a minute there, I thought the fates were against me and it was all going to pot, that I’d be ending the weekend with the Arsenal conceding top spot to Man Utd and with my motor knocked off! Meanwhile it was only moments later that the penny dropped and having enquired of my missus if she’d applied the steering lock, I was virtually certain that she’d merely returned to the wrong floor of the massive car park.

Mercifully it wasn’t long before she retrieved the motor and much to my relief, by the end of the match the Arsenal had been restored to the top of the Premiership table, a fitting place for the country’s leading exponents of the beautiful game as it is meant to be played

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

A Hair Raising Fortnight

For a while there on Saturday it appeared as if Bolton might achieve their objective, with the sort of bullyboy tactics we’ve grown accustomed to from Wanderers, which distracted us from doing what we do best. That was until Theo Walcott‘s introduction somehow seemed to energize our entire side and suddenly, instead of battering our way through the Bolton rearguard, we managed to produce the finesse that eventually found the visitors out.

Theo has been the source of much frustration up until now. There’s never been any doubt that the youngster’s been blessed with absolutely blistering pace and the sort of natural ability that first brought him to the attention of the footballing world (at least one World Cup too early!). But there’s been a worrying possibility that Arsenal fans would lose patience with Theo and would begin to get on his back, if his struggle to have an impact on games had continued for very much longer.

Football fans are a remarkably unforgiving bunch and if it wasn’t for the fact that Theo has acquired the mantle of the Arsenal’s latest great, not-so-white hope, there’d be few allowances made for the fact that he’s still a mere teenager, learning his trade. He hasn’t been afforded too many opportunities this season, as I’m sure Wenger is similarly aware of the need to tease the talent out of Walcott, without our more fickle fans doing irreparable damage to his confidence. Yet with him being the only English player in the current squad (as Justin Hoyte appears to have slipped down the pecking order), Gunners fans have been understandably desperate for the day when we could gush that “the boy done good”.

And such high levels of expectation have also been reflected in the groans of exasperation, as up until Saturday all Theo’s appearances have proved rather ineffective, other than to demonstrate that our teenage prodigy is only a “meep, meep” away from being able to pass himself off as Roadrunner. Even I have to admit that I was beginning to have my doubts as to whether Walcott was going to be able to transfer all his training ground promise, to the Premiership’s pressure-cooker stage and there were others who were prematurely writing the teenager off as a one trick pony. Such breathtaking speed is a marvellous asset in modern day football, but in order to tear top-flight defences asunder, it needs to be matched by the sort of instinctive speed of thought necessary to prevail, in what is the mental equivalent of an amphetamine fuelled chess match

I watch a good game of football, just like I watch a good game of tennis. By which I mean it is very easy, looking on from the stands, to be able to assimilate the information, the way the defence is lined up, the potential gaps to exploit and translate this into the optimum point of attack, but only the very best, the Dennis Bergkamps of this world, are able to subconsciously interpret this overview. For the vast majority of more mundane professionals, their performance comes down to a series of far more simplistic decisions, as to whether to take on the player directly in front of them, or to lay the ball off to a team-mate.

To date, Theo’s appearances on the sidelines have always resulted in an audible buzz of expectancy around the ground, rising to a roar the first couple of time he’s flown past a full-back. But sadly the excitement has soon dissipated as he’s invariably dribbled down a dead-end and once his initial bubble of confidence has been burst, Theo’s decision making has become decidedly suspect, hesitant whether to stick or twist and all too often ending up bust.

It’s difficult to say what the difference was on Saturday. Perhaps some of the players were enervated after their International exertions and Campo & co’s infuriating repertoire of rhythm-breaking roguery had run its course. Whatever the cause, Wenger deserves the credit, as in the past I’ve frequently bemoaned his failure to intervene until the last 15 minutes. But the introduction of Walcott and Rosicky with half an hour to play was just what the doctor ordered, as it lifted the crowd (at 59.5k our lowest of the season, which I assumed was due to a few hundred Club Level suckers for punishment choosing to pay through the nose to watch England’s defeat in Paris, until I noticed the empty section of away seats that Bolton must’ve been unable to sell!) and stoked up the tempo sufficiently to put the visitors properly under the cosh for the first time in the match.



It was very gratifying to see a training ground routine come to fruition with Kolo’s industrial effort on goal finding the back of the net. It’s by no means easy to welly the ball on the deck, into the corner of the net with sufficient power to pass the keeper. But this was function over form and further evidence of the additional attributes that make this Arsenal squad a more formidable proposition.

Watching Villareal v Barcelona on Sunday night, Robert Pires’ mastery of a football made me feel quite nostalgic. Although there was an instance in this match where Pires’ trickery took him through, to be one on one with the keeper inside the penalty area. But instead of taking a crack at goal and perhaps killing off the game by making it 4-1, Le Bob tried an utterly audacious backheel, which rolled harmlessly behind the supporting striker. It would’ve been ‘magnifique’ if it had worked out but the fingers of blame would’ve been pointing in Pires’ direction if Barca had gone on to drag themselves back into this game.

I doubt the artist that is Pires would’ve approved of Kolo’s attempt to take the cover off the ball, but then in seasons past, the Arsenal’s efforts to caress the ball into the back of the net might’ve prevented us from getting the job done against the likes of Bolton. Meanwhile there was still time for the pretty passing patterns, as the game opened up once we’d taken the lead and Wanderers were forced to advance into our half of the pitch.

It will do young Theo’s confidence a power of good that he’s being acknowledged as the catalyst for Saturday’s success, but it could easily have been all so different, as the margins between back page golden boy and anonymous bit-part substitute are very slim. I happened to notice Rosicky having a word with our wunderkind after his first burst along the flank ended down a blind alley, with him failing to cut the ball back across the area to his unmarked team-mate. Whatever was said between them, their exchange bore fruit when Walcott arrived at a similar spot a few minutes later, as on this occasion he showed the awareness to pick out Rosicky, to provide the Czech with the relatively simple finish that secured us the three points.



On an off day for the likes of Eboué and Adebayor, Gael Clichy again stood out. Admittedly he had very little to do defensively but it’s his energy level that so impresses, with a couple of storming forward runs late on, one where it looked as though he was intent on jinking his way around the entire Bolton team. Meanwhile Bakari Sagna stood out mostly because of his ‘barnet’. After the Samson like effect of losing his conspicuous blonde locks, with it coinciding with his first below par performance in red & white against Sunderland, it seems as if Sagna is no less superstitious than the rest of us. Bakari’s hairdresser must’ve been busy growing him some new day-glo extensions while Sagna was away with the French squad. Long gone are the days when boots and shin-pads were the only accessories a footballer needed!


Losing Van Persie for some crucial clashes over the next few weeks was a lamentable outcome of the International break. Albeit offset slightly by Togo’s exit from the African Nations Cup, which at least means Adebayor won’t be accompanying Kolo and Eboué in their disruptive three week disappearing act at the end of January.

Many pundits seem to feel that the forthcoming fixtures against Liverpool and Man Utd will prove the first genuine test of our squad’s title credentials. However based on our experience in the recent past, we’ve not had any trouble raising our game for these glamorous, so-called title-deciders. It’s been our tendency to blow points against the likes of Bolton that has cost us dear and it’s been a real wind up watching these also-rans work their socks off to knock us off our stride, only for them to roll over and play dead against our immediate competition in subsequent matches.

It’s amazing to witness the increasing effect of that aura of invincibility. Where last season Bolton might have considered Saturday’s fixture with the outside chance of picking up a point, suddenly you know deep down that such opponents aren’t really expecting anything out of the game and their unambitious approach is merely an attempt to come away with their pride intact.

Based on recent results, in truth there’s no greater risk of dropping points at Anfield than there was at Upton Park the other week and the three points earned against the Hammers are worth exactly the same as the three points on offer on Sunday. My main concern is that to date this young squad is used to going into such games as underdogs, hungry to test themselves against the Premiership’s greatest talents. It will be interesting to see how they react to their new-found elevated status and whether they can retain the same intensity, as our main rivals take their turn at shooting us off our perch.

Finally this week’s column can’t end without paying my respects to the passing of Denton, perhaps the most renowned ‘face’ amongst the entire Gooner tribe, who died tragically in a car crash whilst looking after the Pet Shop Boys in Moscow. I can’t be a hypocrite, since it was the serious violence of the 70s that turned me off football as a spectator sport, as the thought of getting stabbed on a Saturday afternoon wasn’t my idea of entertainment. Yet I was driving past the new stadium all last week, wondering about the increasingly impressive tributes, as by Friday the area around the two cannons had become a floral sea of red & white. It wasn’t until the weekend that it dawned on me that the wreaths were for Denton, who sadly might be gone but who certainly won’t be forgotten.

Rien Ne Va Plus

With yet another interminable interruption to our Premiership campaign (just as it’s coming nicely to the boil), I was hoping this weekend’s International fare might fuel my weekly column. Although with the Boys in Green’s Euro 2008 challenge petering out, with their dismal goalless draw against the Gerries at Croke Park and with the disappointing reality of a third successive qualification failure, compounded by England’s progress in the rugby, it occurs to me that perhaps the less said, the better, as far as Irish Examiner readers are concerned.

I’m unsure if any Arsenal players have succumbed to injury while on International duty thus far, but in truth apart from Jens Lehmann’s sadly all too uneventful evening in Dublin and Eduardo notching yet another strike for Croatia, there was very little of note in any of the games across the globe to arouse Gooner interest. If Robbie Keane has been left contemplating whether he might have done better, surely it’s small beer compared to Alexander Hleb’s embarrassment. I’m certain Hleb won’t be showing his face in Belarus, after suffering a home defeat to Luxembourg. Apparently it’s 12 long years since this tiny state last savoured success!

Personally I’ve rarely enjoyed watching rugby, especially since the modern game seems to have developed into a tedious, long-range kicking contest. However compared to the excitement enjoyed by those Philistine egg-chasing aficionados, proof positive that us fans of proper football were on to a loser this past weekend, came when I stayed up late on Sunday night, only to see Brazil’s samba soccer stars play out another boring scoreless draw in Bogota.

In fact from an Arsenal point of view, it was perhaps our keeper’s post match interview on Saturday, which most tweaked my interest. I looked up from my keyboard and cranked up the volume when I heard loopy Lehmann claim that since he hasn’t been seen on the bench following his couple of calamitous boo-boos back in August, obviously he hasn’t been dropped, but has been unfit these past couple of months. I’m unsure whether Jens is deluded, or he actually believes us to be sufficiently stupid to swallow his face-saving codswallop.

Whatever the case, our arrogant goal minder is going to feel a bit foolish if Arsène continues to keep faith with Almunia. Thus I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Jens again returns to the club with the sort of tenuous tendon strain that could keep him out of contention right up until the goalkeeping cock-up that might gift the German an opportunity to get his foot back in the first-team door. This would at least spare Lehmann from throwing his toys out of the pram, because he’s such an unhappy bunny playing second fiddle.

Meanwhile the dearth of Arsenal related doings on the pitch does provide a timely opportunity to delve into the increasingly muddy corporate waters, with the Arsenal’s annual AGM this Thursday. Friday night’s Evening Standard magazine included an interesting article about the latest predator to target the Gunners. With the mind-boggling billions of so many of these oligarchs having such dubious provenance, apparently a PR firm has been advising many of them to acquire a football club, as the easiest means of gaining social and commercial acceptance.

Even if only half the rumours currently doing the rounds about Alisher Uzmanov are believable, Yank businessman Stan Kroenke sounds positively saintly by comparison and it’s easy to understand why this n’er do well feels the need to legitimise his assets, with the Uzbek’s efforts to usurp such a prestigious chunk of Britain’s sporting establishment. When it comes to the relatively nouveau riche world of football club ownership, they don’t come much more establishment than the Arsenal, with its pre-war “Bank of England” reputation.

And who can blame him, when he gazes enviously at the high-society world his old Ruski sparring partner now inhabits. Abramovich has been welcomed with open arms, by those who’s noses are stuck so far up in the air, that they can’t possibly smell the rank odour of roubles, imbued with the amoralistic stench of blood, sweat & tears, upon which much of this fortune must have been built.

Personally I feel a little bit peeved. OK so I really wouldn’t have expected to be party to his latest tack, a charm offensive of a press junket on a private jet to Moscow, plus accommodation at the 5-star Kempinski, just so he could assure the British media that he has no intention of bidding for the club. At least not for the moment, which by implication, might only mean until the lockdown agreement of the other major shareholders, expires in a few months time? However my over-sensitive ego was more than a little piqued on discovering that my Gooner’s Diary blog didn’t merit the attention given by his legal muscle, to many of the other references on the Internet concerning the grievous allegations of Britain’s former Uzbek ambassador.

Mind you perhaps I should be pleased that I continue to fly below Schillings’ radar (Uzmanov’s extremely high-powered brief), as their threats appear to have put the willies up plenty of others. To the extent that one service provider switched off the server that also happens to host the blog of Tory candidate for London Mayor, the bumptious Boris Johnson (although many would proffer a pat on the back for this particular public service!).

Meanwhile it must be pointed out that while we sit atop the Premiership pile, raking in the moolah from all our corporate and Club Level facilities (an astonishing £3million per match more than Man U!), we’re extremely fortunate to be able to take the moral high ground, when it comes to such undesirable investors. If we were in Spurs’ shoes, scrabbling to extricate ourselves out of the relegation mire, or Man City’s, with a massive fan base who’d all happily sell their soul to the devil for a long awaited sniff of silverware and an opportunity to have one over on their neighbours, we’d probably be rushing just as quickly to bag a sugar-daddy all of our own and to blow his millions, intent on keeping up with the Jones’ and not giving a monkey’s about the money’s unscrupulous origins.

Mercifully it appears that we Gooners can afford to get on our high horse and at a time when so many of our most august sporting institutions have become nothing short of grubby casino chips, to be gambled on the corporate roulette wheel by a motley collection of billionaires (many with similarly shady reputations), wouldn’t it be bloomin’ marvellous if the Arsenal were able to finally shout “rien ne va plus”.

Myself I would love to see the Gunners call a halt to this recent trend of greedy vultures gorging themselves on the beautiful games greatest assets, by producing some sort of proposal that wasn’t just exclusive to the club’s major shareholders, but which included the many Arsenal fans who’ve bought single shares as an emotional, rather than a financial investment.

It’s probably totally impractical and I very much doubt it would hold legal water, but it would send out such a powerful statement that our beloved club is not for sale, at any price, if every single shareholder was to sign a pledge to retain their shares for a period of five years.

Mind you, in saying that, my own financial predicament is such that if I was being offered ten grand, or a 400% profit on a share I bought only a couple of years back, I might find the offer impossible to resist. However by and large, our shareholders are an affluent lot and if such a proposal proved effective, this display of their commitment to the club might well put Usmanov off. I imagine he was seriously irked by the suggestion from the old-Etonians on the Arsenal board that his money wasn’t good enough for them and it seems to me that his reaction since, has been a display of his determination to defeat them at absolutely any cost.

However if it begins to dawn on him that unlike Abramovich, he won’t be welcomed by the Gooner hoi polloi, as a knight on a white charger, he might well change his mind, especially if there’s a suggestion that he might have to be patient for a good few years yet in order to realise his ambitions. Hopefully he might turn his attentions elsewhere, perhaps towards our North London neighbours, preferring a battle he can actually win, as Spurs certainly aren’t in a position to put up much resistance to his unlimited advances?

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http://goonersdiary.blogspot.com

Can We Kick It? Van Persie Sure Can!

Come the revolution, the sadist who suggested noon kick-offs on a Sunday will be top of my list for lining up against the wall. Our walk to the new stadium might be a little longer, but it’s still only a 15-minute stroll around the corner. Whereas it must have been hardly worth the poor Wearsiders going to bed on Saturday night, considering their coaches departed Sunderland at an ungodly 3.30am. In this respect I was almost pleased for the couple of thousand hardy souls who packed the away section of our stadium, when they had, what I assumed would be a token goal to celebrate after 25 minutes, as we really should’ve been well out of sight by then, if it wasn’t for the dodgy offside decision that ruled out Diaby’s goal.

Yet instead of going in 3, or 4 up and cruising, after thirty minutes of football that served to highlight the huge gulf in class between title ‘wanabees’ and Premiership ‘willtheybees’, it was only 2-1 and this Arsenal side might’ve done better to spend the break with their ears cocked against the dressing room wall, listening to the dulcet tones of Roy Keane, instead of putting their feet up for a 15 minute “power nap”. Or at least this was the impression some of ours gave when the second-half started. Several of them appeared to be still half akip, as mere spectators when Sunderland scored the equaliser soon after. They should’ve known better than to switch off, against a Sunderland side constructed in its manager’s image, which was never going to roll over and play dead.


After thinking that we were about to dish out a swift and emphatic response to what seemed to be a somewhat flattering scoreline at Old Trafford the day before, I suggested to the missus at the break that it would be a tragedy if, instead of blowing the Black Cats away, their £9 million keeper came out and produced one of those special second half performances, where his onion bag was absolutely impenetrable and Keane’s other shrewd summer purchase, the burly Kenwyne Jones, popped up with devastating 90th minute equaliser. Mercifully Jones contribution to this contest came early in the second half, with plenty of time for us to respond. Roná never fails to be amazed at how fickle our fans can be, as the same supporters who’d been purring with content, during a positively peerless first half-hour of football, were suddenly roaring their disapproval at the way we’d allowed the Black Cats back into the game.

Mind you, nowadays, at our new stadium, I often wonder if these same fans share some of the blame for goals conceded in the five minutes before, or after the break, as the substantial amount of movement in the stands, from those dashing off to beat the queues and those dawdling back from their beer and burgers, must be a distraction. In fact it often feels as if we’re just playing out time until the whistle, once these thirsty/hungry punters have had the unspoken cue (usually the injury time board) to begin the rush from their seats. And after the break it’s as if the team are waiting to enquire “are you all sitting comfortably, then we’ll begin” but sadly the visitors are under no such obligation to perform according to the niceties of our new stadium etiquette and so Sunderland took advantage of this vulnerability, by catching us cold after the break.


If Roy Keane’s side was guilty of standing off and showing us a little to much respect early on, their two goals and a half-time haranguing were all the encouragement necessary for a bit of belief to break out. We were all a bit incredulous, as what had looked like being a comfortable Sunday afternoon romp, developed into a stiff test of our desire. I guess it made for much more interesting viewing for the neutral, assuming that like myself and many other footie addicts, you’ve rapidly come to the conclusion that you’ve no choice but to stump up an additional tenner a month for a Setanta subscription (espeially with their growing monopoly of all the big clubs dedicated TV channels). However , personally I could’ve well done without all the emotional stress of having to wait for Van Persie’s 81st minute winner.


Still when it eventually came, amidst all the euphoria, I couldn’t help but picture the smile being wiped off of Fergie’s face. I’d been unable to escape the image of the phone call the evening prior, between him and his protégé, to ensure the Black Cats produced a “balls out” effort to put a spoke in the wheel of the Wenger bandwagon. Ex-young Gun Anthony Stokes came close to doing this metaphorically, when the sub stretched Almunia with a looping, long range strike, whereas Mcshane’s effort was a little too literal for ref Stiles’ liking (and obviously Alexandre Hleb’s), when he appeared to catch the Bielorussian right between the legs. Although in the context of this whole-hearted encounter, it should’ve been a booking at worst as the kid from Co. Wicklow was only guilty of an over-enthusiastic tackle, rather than a concerted effort to separate Hleb and his wedding tackle.


Watching this incident from the opposite side of the ground, as it occurred directly in front of Keane, on first impressions, I couldn’t help but wonder if the Sunderland manager had to resist congratulating the youngster with a pat on the back, for an “if you can’t beat ‘em, knobble ‘em” type challenge that was once such a regular tool in the Corkonian’s own infamous armoury.

It would’ve been a massive psychological blow if we’d ended up making a hash of this home banker and thereby conceding top spot to the Mancs for the two weeks of another annoying International break. Ireland v Germany might be an enticing prospect, but quite frankly I detest the idea of having the increasingly enthralling rhythm and momentum of this Arsenal side interrupted, as our players disappear off to all four corners of the planet and the media in this country focus on an uninspiring encounter with Estonia and an endless stream of drivel bemaoning the Ruskies artificial playing surface.

Nevertheless it’s some consolation to be able to spend the break in domestic footie, looking down on everyone else from our lofty perch atop the pile. While many in the media point to the complacency that crept into this performance, as evidence of our immaturity, I prefer to believe that the way in which we had to come back and win Sunday’s contest a second time was further proof of our youngster’s new found resilience.

Perhaps we’ll have to rename Sagna, Samson, with his first bad performance in an Arsenal shirt coinciding with him having been shorn of his conspicuous locks. But it we’re prone to a more tangible weakness, it is that while Diaby and Hleb both appear to have the potential to be seriously influential players, neither of them are natural wide men, with the instinct to hare up and down the flanks, both to the byeline and back to help out the full-backs. Their tendency to head in towards the middle means that our full-backs are often the only source of any real width when going forward and we are also prone to being stretched when the opposition doubles up at the other end.

However these problems only confirm that we are a work in progress and compared to Benitez, we must be grateful that Arsène recognises the need to accommodate all his best players and that “points win prizes”, rather than slavishly following some grand plan. Who knows, perhaps the Spaniard is still to have a ‘tortoise and hare’ type last laugh? That’s assuming the Scouser’s patience stands the test of time! As for Chelsea, we might yet witness a Terry inspired revival, but in the meantime, the empty seats behind the goal at Bolton are bound to invite the variation on an old favourite, as in “where are you now you are sh*t?”

Oh East London Was Full Of Grit…..!

Hi folks

The fact that Matty Flamini was once again most people’s Man of the Match for the Gunners, just about summed up Saturday’s performance. Although most of us spent the second half fretting about the fact that we felt we were always going to need a second goal to win this game, after gifting West Ham all six points last season, it was great to discover that our young guns are capable of grinding out a gritty, old-fashioned “1-0 to the Arsenal”.


To my mind, the unsung Flamini and our two full-backs have been our best players of the season so far, which is basically a reflection on how much more we should be able to expect from this side, as hopefully the mood of confidence surging through the camp with our current unbeaten streak, results in others in the squad beginning to hit a similar streak of form.

Meanwhile it was a reflection on West Ham’s work rate and commitment that neither Clichy or Sagna made much of an impression on Saturday (apart, as far as I can recall, from Clichy’s long range shot with his weaker right foot). What’s more I was quite impressed with Dean Ashton. Despite the fact that West Ham fans still consider him some way from full-fitness “with the turning speed of an oil tanker”, Ashton managed to trouble both Senderos and Kolo, winning almost everything lumped into the penalty box and perhaps looking like the real deal as far as an England career is concerned.


In truth the Hammers had some cause to feel hard done by, as aside from the fact the Freddie was onside when he received the ball before scoring, I thought that the pass came off Kolo, which I guess meant that it shouldn’t have mattered where he was. Mind you it was only two great second half saves from Green which kept the Hammers in the game and I was relieved that they appeared to run out of steam a little bit towards the end, as I was convinced they were going to nick a late equaliser.


At first I thought it was Bowyer who tackled Hleb and being a bit of a little thug, I was sure he’d intentionally knobbled the Bielorussian. However Noble comes across like an honest lad and on seeing the replays I don’t think there was any intent. Although judging by last week’s performance against Newcastle, I am not so concerned about picking up injuries, because it might just prove an opportunity for some of our Carling Cup kids. I wasn’t so impressed with Eboué’s performance, but I’m prepared to cut him some slack, with Manny having just returned to fitness. Yet he looked great for the sixty minutes that he played against the Toon, as it seemed to me that we lost much of our attacking impetus when Eboué was substituted

However I guess Diarra was without doubt the biggest talking point following our midweek encounter, as he plays like Gilberto on speed, with bags of commitment and the sort of skill on the ball that left everyone catching their breath, when he pulled off the sort of audacious move bringing the ball out of defence, that might have seriously backfired if it had gone wrong. But I suppose this is just another reflection of the burgeoning confidence running throughout the squad, which all augurs well for some wonderful football to come

Bring on Bucharest
Big Love
Bernard
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Oh East London Was Full Of Grit…..!

Upton Park might have lost some of its renowned intensity since the main stand was moved back several feet and as a result, I imagine it’s no longer quite such an intimidating place for visiting teams, because the home fans aren’t nearly so “in yer face” as they once were. Yet it remains one of my favourite awayday outings.

Mind you I can only assume it’s the preparations for the London Olympics, or the Channel Tunnel rail-link which impinged upon my short hop through the industrial wastelands of East London and my enjoyment of the radio coverage of Man City v Newcastle, as I made my way to the Boleyn on auto-pilot on Saturday. I was somewhat flummoxed to find my customary route through all the back streets blocked by road closures, which forced me to turn the car around and to have to think of an alternative. It wasn’t long before I started to panic about missing kick-off, as I ended up inching my way towards the Bow Interchange, caught up in the almost permanent queues of traffic that seem to exist on the dreaded section of motorway that leads to the Blackwall Tunnel.

Mercifully I managed to negotiate the eyesore that is Stratford,(London E15, as opposed to Upon Avon, Shakespeare’s far more salubrious domain) which will require one helluva facelift if it’s to become the least bit beautified by 2012! On eventually approaching my usual parking pitch at Upton Park, I was relieved to discover (as I am every season) that Newham continues to be just about the only London borough that hasn’t cottoned on to the ridiculous amount of revenue, waiting to be realised by enforcing the sort of rigorous residential parking restrictions that are the bane of every driver in the capital.

Even after the circuitous stroll, forced upon visiting fans, all around the houses, to the entrance at the far corner of the Centenary Stand, I still managed to buy my matchday programme and make it to my seat, before a ball had been kicked in anger. I appreciate West Ham’s need to maximise their limited income, but at an outrageous £3.50, theirs is probably the most expensive half-time read in the Premiership. If they can get away with it, you can be darn sure other clubs will soon follow suit, by stinging the football tourists for the traditional souvenir of their visit. However what was once a fairly painless superstition, is fast becoming an over-priced obsession, for those of us addicts who are convinced we can’t win without all the essential ingredients of our matchday ritual.

Seat is a bit of a misnomer for my pitch behind the goal on Saturday, as the only time I actually sat in it was when trying to sneak a surreptitious half-time ciggie. Being stuck right at the very back of the lower tier, it was easy to get away with a smoke without being caught. But the roof of the upper tier above makes the few back rows very claustrophobic and I was reluctant to add too much smoke, to the heady smell of BO, Bovril and burgers (not to mention other, more noxious human odours). Combined with the humid climate, by half-time the atmosphere was unbearably oppressive.

Besides, I’m no great fan of the sort of ‘letterbox’ view of proceedings offered at the back, that leaves one having to guess where the ball is going to come down every time it’s kicked above head height and so I headed down the front towards the end of the break, hoping to find a pitch in the fresh air. Many Gooners were still gabbing out the back, or queuing for refreshments when the game recommenced. So while I waited to spy a spare seat, I could sense the steward beside me bristling and decided to strike up a conversation, before he had an opportunity to complain about me standing in the stairway.

There’s a slightly dilapidated feel to the Centenary Stand, which makes it seem like it’s been in situe for a lot longer than a dozen or so seasons. But there can be no denying that there’s something about standing at a live football game that makes for a far more fervent mood than the sedentary atmosphere found at most of the Premiership’s more modern, but sadly somewhat sterile stadia. At most grounds these days, the stewards tend to hassle you to sit down if you are on your feet for any length of time and I believe persistent offenders have even been thrown out at our new place!

My missus moans and I can appreciate her point of view, as it’s a problem seeing the game if you aren’t particularly tall. But from my point of view, the opportunities to stand for the duration at a top-flight football match are fewer and further between and so I make sure to savour this increasingly rare pleasure. I certainly don’t miss that warm, damp feeling down the back of ones leg, when the inconsiderate bugger behind couldn’t hang on until the final whistle and doubtless my memories are more than a little rose-tinted, but Saturday’s game was a nostalgic throwback to a time when one could spend 90 minutes hollering one’s head off, without fretting about inflicting a headache on the fragile folk in front.

However my rapidly ageing bones are not averse to spending the duration of a game on my backside, but it’s when one is up and down like a jack-in-a-box which drives me bonkers, as I detest the idea of missing out on a crucial incident due to not jumping up quick enough every time the ball comes down our end of the pitch. In answer to my query about why they weren’t hassling us, the steward informed me that they only did as they were told and usually it was only when the FA inspector’s were on the prowl that they had to be seen to be making an effort to get everyone to sit down.

Compared to many other clubs, it would appear that West Ham are quite enlightened, being patently aware that the more heated the atmosphere, the more likely they are to profit from their home advantage and thus they aren’t in the habit of discouraging any contributing factors, unless they have to. The Arsenal wouldn’t get away with it, as far too many of our ‘nouveau’ fans would be up in arms, as they’ve paid for a relatively luxurious, padded seat and so they’re bloody determined not to be deprived of making use of it.

Modern day audiences seem to be made up of two types of supporter, those who want to sit back and enjoy their football in silence and those who are intent on participating in proceedings and who enjoy coming away from the match feeling spent, having vented a week’s worth of frustration at the officials, the opposition and even their own team. And our stadia should be able to cater for both. Sadly in spite of all the sensible protests, I can’t see it happening in this country because of perceived safety issues (albeit that to my mind the current situation is fraught with far more danger) but we’d all be much better off if we could do away with the current farce completely, by creating purpose built standing areas at every ground, such as those in Germany.

Not only would this do away with all the aggravation for and from the stewards and the screams of “si’down” every few minutes (although I must admit that I’ve been inclined to join in myself when Róna’s struggling to see), but at a time when we’re constantly bemoaning the fact that the once famous walls of sound, from terraces like the Kop and the Gallowgate, are turning week by week into a timid whisper, these areas might act as a focal point to inspire everyone else to open their gobs and perhaps stem this inexorable tide towards corporate graveyards, encouraging the return at some of our grounds, to at least something of the cauldron of noise for which they were once so renowned.

I finally found an empty pitch right down at the front for the second half on Saturday and I stood there trying to avoid the gaze of the geezer beside me, for fear he’d tell me his mate would be back any moment. Until I turned to discover it was someone I knew, in the exact same boat and who’d also been hoping I wasn’t about to tell him to bugger off back to his own seat. It was only then that I relaxed and focused on the footie, but unfortunately what had started out as frantic, full-blooded London derby, began to fizzle out, as we Gooners grew more nervous, certain that one goal wasn’t going to be sufficient and the Hammers fans began to lose hope, believing their best chances had been and gone.

Despite the fact that the home side struggled to get their ball back during brief periods when we dominated possession, this was a much more even contest than was suggested in many of the media’s match reports. Moreover, after gifting the Irons all six points last season, we were all very grateful to depart Upton Park, having seen our young guns demonstrate their new found ability to grind out a good old-fashioned “1-0 to the Arsenal”

I had to forego the opportunity to earn a small fortune, for a lucrative day’s work, in order to go to Saturday’s game and it’s bad enough knowing my wage packet will be lighter than everyone else’s come Friday. But my life positively wouldn’t have been worth living if I’d passed on this job, only to face a barrage of merciless teasing from the Hammers fans at work on Monday, if we’d ended up blowing all three points. Instead of which, I guess I can’t complain, as we’re still top of the league and I’ve managed to survive thus far, without getting the sack from my claret & blue boss!



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