Love In A Cold Climate

G'day fellow Gooners,

I certainly can't claim to be Nostradamus, with my assertions in recent weeks, that after treading water since the start of the season, without losing a game, those gombeens at Old Trafford were bound to come good at some point.

Then again, I'm certain it's not the first time we've seen one of Fat Sam's sides roll over and play dead for the benefit of his Red Nosed pal. Apart from Man Utd knocking us off our table-topping perch, the biggest wind up as far as I was concerned was the sight of the Red Devils positively gorging on the success of Fergie's decision to revert to 4-4-2 on Saturday.

When was the last time that the Gunners capitalised on our dominance, by putting Premiership opposition to the sword in such an unequivocal fashion at our place? Sadly we're all too often guilty of letting lesser opponents off the hook, failing to go for the throat at the first scent of blood and invariably ending up sweating out games, on the edge of our seat right up until the final whistle because we lack the killer instinct needed to press home our obvious advantage.

Amongst a relatively diffident Arsenal squad, I've often bemoaned the absence of the sort of big personalites who are capable of almost single-handedly grabbing games by the scruff of the neck. But then this is a perennial problem nowadays, in a more mercenary era, where the archetypal Tony Adams type 'dogs of war' are hardly growing on trees.

However, in my most humble opinion, a far easier failing for Arsène to address is le Gaffer's frustrating insistence on gifting away home advantage to less illustrious visiting sides, with his fixation on playing 4-5-1. I suppose many might contend that le Prof's's preference is more of a 4-1-2-3 formation, but which ever way you choose to analyse Arsène's line-up, after having been an advocate of 4-4-2 for so many years, it's suddenly become passé and for some strange reason our manager refuses to entertain the idea of playing a strike partnership any more.

There must be something to it, as Arsène is far from alone in forsaking old-school 4-4-2 tactics. Doubtless the statisticians have come up with a convincing argument that has converted virtually all of football's major players to 4-5-1, but while many opposition manager's have a more flexible, "horses for courses" attitude, it would appear as if our pertinacious gaffer has decided that there's only one way to play the game nowadays.

Wenger would probably contend that there's more pliancy in his line-up and that in fact we play with three strikers on the pitch in home games. However, all I know is that when visiting sides peruse the Arsenal team-sheet, I'm certain their defence must breathe a sigh of relief on realising that they only have a lone front man to contain and I'm convinced that this must serve to encourage their belief in being able to shut us out.

Whereas surely weaker opponents like West Brom and Newcastle would feel far more apprehensive about the prospect of having to stifle a pair of strikers of the calibre of Chamakh and Van Persie and would perhaps be sufficiently concerned about preventing us scoring, to limit their ambitions at the other end of the pitch.

With Robin's frustratingly brittle bones, we've yet to discover if the Dutchman can actually form a working relationship with our new Moroccan front-man. Yet we know Van Persie doesn't particularly enjoy leading the line and prefers to play a deeper role and with Chamakh's seemingly unstinting willingness to unselfishly work his socks off, it might prove that the pair of them would compliment one another.

But whether it be Van Persie, Chamakh, Bendtner or even Vela, above all, I firmly believe that the most important factor about lining up at home against the lesser lights with a couple of strikers on the park, is the psychological statement of intent, which says that we're far too good to worry about being outnumbered in midfield, because we're about to batter you where it hurts most.

However it's not just our failure to put teams under the cosh which is responsible for this rash of pathetic results at our place (as evidenced against the old enemy, where for once we actually went at our guests right from the off). I'm convinced it's no coincidence that the Gunners are far more likely to play with the handbrake off away from home of late. Aside from the fact that we're bound to find more room to hurt the opposition, when playing against teams who are forced to show a modicum of ambition on their home turf, I get the distinct sense of a more relaxed Arsenal side that's far more likely to enjoy their football on the road.

Whereas, not only do we risk visting players being inspired to play out of their skin in the glamorous surroundings of our grandiose gaff, but I fear that the Grove will never quite become "Fortress Arsenal", so long as the Gunners continue to shoulder the burden of an affluent audience that gets on their backs, the moment they put a foot wrong.

The contrast with our travelling support couldn't be more stark. Despite missing a sitter on Saturday (prior to scoring a stunning second goal), Samir Nasri's new ditty echoed around Villa Park, drowning out any noise from the home fans (if there was any?). This is the main reason I continue to attend away games so religiously, so I can continue to support the Gunners. Often the loudest noise at home games is the collective sound of 60,000 groans, as our fickle fans express their feelings that the football on offer is simply not an acceptable return for their obscenely priced tickets.

Consequently I can't wait for this evening's Carling Cup quarterfinal, where hopefully 10 and 20 quid tickets will attract the sort of support that's prepared to show their appreciation for a rare opportunity to be able to afford to watch the Arsenal play live.

Enuf of my whinging. Come on you rip, roaring Reds

Big Love

Bernard

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Can there possibly be a more fickle mistress than modern day Premiership football? There were plenty of deluded Wenger whingers calling for le Gaffer’s blood after the injury of our Derby Day debacle was added to by the insult of those cock-a-hoop cockerels (or Stratford Hotspurs, when I’m pulling the leg of my Spurs pals) qualifying for the Champions League knockout stages, while, following another fiasco in Braga, we’re left to sweat it out until our final group game.

Although any criticism of AW must be water off a duck’s back, to a manager who’s tenure is cast-iron, compared to the utterly farcical insecurity of so many if his contemporaries, who float in as the flotsam on the tide of instant gratification of their King Canute chairmen and who can just as easily end up washed up with the discovery that this team sport tide’s not for turning.

Notwithstanding all those poor touchline Johnnies permanently on the precipice of a potential nervous breakdown as a result of the relentless pressure, the punters certainly aren’t complaining. We savoured the widest possible spectrum of everything that is wonderful about the beautiful game, on a weekend which left the scintillating football of a 4-2 victory at Villa Park as a mere footnote in the tale of the top flight’s response to “the big freeze”, with what felt like a concerted effort to stoke up the temperature by several degrees.

We Gooners have grown accustomed to seeing our season shipwrecked during “black November” in recent times. Yet despite a miserable month, where the depressing gloom of defeats to Shaktar, Newcastle, Spurs and Braga was only temporarily lifted by all too brief interjection of decidedly fortunate wins at Wolves and Everton (where you could barely slide a Rizzla between the slim margins that separated success and failure), are we downhearted? You bet your life we’re not!

Considering we started out in the August sunshine, struggling to believe Arsène’s continued stubborn resistance to taking care of the pressing business of addressing the Gunners patently obvious inadequacies, most Gooners would’ve bitten the hand off that proffered the prospect of approaching the festive season with everything still to play for. Meanwhile we’re not so naïve as to kid ourselves that we remain in contention, courtesy of anything other than a Premiership marathon, where up until now all the contenders have been plodding along, merely jockeying for position, wondering when one of the contenders is going tp put their foot down.

Abramovich’s increasing interference might’ve ensured that Ancelotti’s Blues continue to sputter, but you sensed that Saturday was a day when others were determined to put in a burst as a statement of their intent. The Gunners certainly came out of the blocks in Birmingham as if their backsides were burning from the exhaust emissions of the timely insertion of a nitro-glycerine fuelled rocket.

Fabregas has been such a pivotal presence in the recent past, that those hardy Gooners who braved the trip to Braga, despite a general strike, would’ve expected to walks through arrivals on their return from Portugal, to be greeted by a posse of “the end is nigh” sandwich-board bearers. Perhaps it’s an image entirely of my own creation, but I couldn’t help but seek comfort when Cesc limped off last week. Saturday’s effusive display was more grist to the mill of my theory that no matter what Fab might contend in public about giving of his all to the Gooner cause, I can’t help but wonder if our skipper’s a more sullen and resentful private persona casts a demoralizing shadow in the dressing room?

It remains to be seen if Nasri, Wilshere, Arshavin et al are to cast off the shackles of their inhibitions and truly let rip with the free-flowing football in Fabregas’ absence, in the sparkling manner which left Villa struggling to catch their breath during Saturday’s frost-bitten first forty-five. But I’m sure I sensed a certain “joie de vivre” in Saturday’s display that we’ve rarely witnessed of late.

Perhaps this was merely a response to the bitter taste of the ignominy of events of the previous week. Yet despite being one of the greatest players on the planet, not only is Cesc some way short of the vocal “stand firm” leader we’ve required in recent matches, in his present state of mind, I can’t envisage him being a particularly positive influence?

Meanwhile, with 14 goals in our first 3 games, it’s hard to believe we’ve ended up making such heavy weather of potentially the weakest Champions League group. But then if we can’t beat a Serbian side that’s yet to secure a single point, we really don’t deserve to take our seat at the top table of Europe’s elite. I’m off to pick a bone with the bouncer who let Harry’s uncouth Hotspurs in.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Treacle (our mutt) Heads To London Colney To Teach The Lads How To Hang Onto A Lead

Handing Harry Redknapp’s mob the odd crumb of comfort in 17 years isn’t really grounds for the renting of Gooner clothes and the donning of sackcloth and ashes. Nevertheless there were enough angry fans calling for the baby to be thrown out with the bathwater, when the final whistle blew on Saturday’s fiasco. Such frustration was perfectly understandable, as Spurs didn’t win this game; the Gunners presented it to them on a plate, as a gift-wrapped premature Xmas present.

Considering the huge police presence at these Derby games, it seems downright daft that the coppers should be so conspicuous by their absence at the most obvious point of contact, on exiting the ground. So it wasn’t so surprising to see Gooners letting off steam, as I also felt the inclination to want to punch someone, or something, because only 45 mins prior we’d pictured ourselves heading home with 3 points in the bag and that smug satisfaction of knowing we’d be sitting pretty atop the Premiership pile, even if it had only turned out to be for a couple of hours.

As things transpired, our capitulation proved to be even more infuriating with Chelsea getting beat in Birmingham, knowing we could’ve been heading to Braga as the current “Big Kahuna”. I say heading to Braga, but then as things stand at present, that might be easier said than done with several flights being cancelled due to a local baggage handlers’ strike.

It wasn’t until walking the dog later that evening when I finally managed to put Saturdays dumbfounding events into some perspective - note to Arsène Wenger: whilst also managing to hold onto the lead for the duration! Truth be told, most Gooners who witnessed quite how fortunate we were to come away from Wolves and Everton with all three points, they’ll be able to appreciate that our elevated Premiership status is something of an illusion. As much as I rue this rare Derby defeat and the bragging rights we’ve gifted our local rivals for the next few months (least until we reap vengeance at the Lane in Feb), in some respects it was a timely reality check, reminding us that we only reside amongst the top three, by dint of the fact that the competition has been equally inconsistent and the chasing pack only somewhat more so.

However, as it stands at the moment, it’s tantalizing to think that all it would take is a for us to put a decent run of victories together to perhaps be able to put ourselves in the box seat. Sadly Saturday’s slap in the face demonstrated that the Arsenal are still some way short of that “B of the Bang” blinkered focus and concentration for consistently grinding their way to a title triumph.

For some time now I’ve been grumbling about the Gunners inability to start home games with the necessary intensity and pace to immediately put the opposition on the back foot and often as not we’re particularly slow to come out of the traps in these early KOs. So I was delighted to get off on the right foot on Saturday, taking the game to Tottenham and rattling them right from the opening whistle. Yet despite our first-half dominance, having failed to fully press home our advantage, by killing the game off with a third goal, come half-time, it seemed obvious to me that our opponents were bound to rally at some point.

What disappointed me most about our Derby Day defeat was our patent inability to cope with the inevitable Spurs surge, when it came early on in the second half. For all the first-half brilliance in Fabregas’ cultured promptings, in his current “want away” state of mind, our skipper certainly is not now, or never really was what one would call ‘a natural leader of men’. Cesc was handed the captaincy as a carrot, not because he has the required character attributes and on Saturday when we needed a leader capable of encouraging his team mates to stand firm, calm them down and remind them of their ability to retake control of possession, sadly our skipper was no less guilty of a headless chicken impersonation than any of his team mates.

The only consolation at the minute is that we’re no less mired in mediocrity than anyone else. But where I can envisage both Man Utd and Chelsea benefitting from that all-important experience of knowing what it takes and being imminently capable of putting their noses to the grindstone when it matters, I’m far from being convinced the Gunners are any closer to being the real deal. Yet despite our more obvious and much debated shortcomings, with Van Persie playing his way back into fitness and the likes of Walcott, Ramsey, Vermaelen all still to come, in a season where the title is dangling there, waiting for anyone to demonstrate they’ve large enough cajones to make a lunge for it, I’m still a long way from giving up hope.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu

I always look forward to the annual Everton expedition. Like a comfortable pair of battered old shoes, Goodison Park remains a Coronation Street style peoples’ palace, compared to the modern glass and steel aesthetics of the Gunners’s iconic Canary Wharf-like atheneum. With chips & gravy for all, under the familiar shadow of Dixie Dean’s fixed bronze stare, rather than the exclusive surroundings of the Arsenal’s 190 quid a head pre-match haute-cuisine.

Followed by 90 minutes spent dodging either side of a post holding up the roof, in the positively ancient Archibald Leitch environs of the wooden Upper Bullens enclosure of the Toffees’ Grand Old Lady. Some jocular banter with the Scousers and best of all, skipping round Stanley Park, heading back to Lime Street station with three points in the bag, making just about bearable the traditional Sunday train delays due to seemingly inexorable signal failures and engineering works, which turn the return trip into a riotous Red Army trudge.

Moyes was spot on about neither side being at their best, but I’m certainly not bellyaching about it. It’s been a while since we awoke on a Monday morning to find the Gunners breathing down the neck of the league leaders. I imagine there’ll be plenty of pundits prognosticating about the Arsenal’s capabilities of mounting a credible challenge. Nevertheless, while the league table may never lie, the more avid spectators amongst us will confirm that the Wenger Boys still look some way short of convincing title-winning material.

I almost felt sorry for the Wolves fans on Wednesday, their evening spoiled by a first and last minute Chamakh attack that once again left Mick's Black Country boys feeling deservedly hard done by. And if Everton had pulled a goal back on Sunday with a little more time left on the clock for a Canonières meltdown, we might just as easily have collected a mere deux points, instead of six, from our forays North these past few days and would be going into Saturday’s big derby, with the Gareth Bale show arriving in buoyant mood, our neighbours retaining misguided delusions of reeling the old enemy back in.

Instead of which, our annual St. Totteringham’s Day festivities suddenly hove into view, with their customary inevitable feel, as we soar into 2nd, five places and seven points to the good of Harry Redknapp’s 'glory, glory' wannabees. On the face of it, with our squad returning to something vaguely resembling full-strength, with the likes of Van Persie and Walcott cooling their heels on the bench, hopefully impatiently waiting to remind us what they have to bring to the Red & White party and our manager getting more than his fair share, everything is looking decidedly rosy. So why am I not feeling more a flutter with excitement at the prospect of the Gunners kicking on?

Sure Cesc Fabregas finished Everton off in fine style on Sunday, with the culmination of a sadly all too rare flourish of dainty “pass & move” football at it’s very best. However considering how accustomed we’ve grown to Fabregas being the Gunners creative fulcrum, the inspiration behind all our most incisive moves, it’s disconcertingly evident in recent weeks that the Arsenal’s formerly shy and retiring skipper has developed into an all together different, more resentful creature.

After seeing Heittinga trying to bully young Jack Wilshere, to the point where poor Jack was left nursing his bruised limbs on the bench after the break, it’s not the occasional evidence of the Gunners biting back that bothers me, as many might contend that a sighting of this sort of mettle is long overdue. However Cesc’s couple of rash tackles, his recent relentless tendency to try (and more often than not fail!) to pick the perfect through ball and the fact that Fab’s struggling with that World Class trait of finding time and space in the most frenetic of circumstances, this might all be construed as evidence of his personal Barca frustrations boiling over and having a negative impact on the pitch?

I was gutted when Howard denied Samir Nasri a potential goal of the season on Sunday, following the French midfielder’s mazy run from inside his own half. Hopefully with the likes of Nasri and Wilshere stepping into the limelight, we’ll no longer be quite so reliant on the promptings of our Spanish pass-master. I’m certain Cesc will continue to shine when the Gunners are on song but it’s when our backs are against the wall that any underlying bitterness is more likely to manifest itself.

I sincerely hope time proves me wrong, but truth be told, I’d have rather Cesc had packed his bags for the Nou Camp than to have him trash so many wonderful memories, should we have to spend the duration questioning whether our skipper’s heart has long since departed London N5.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Martha to Andy Carroll's Arthur

If some French floozy has managed to distract an obsessed Arsène Wenger from his spreadsheets and his wall-to-wall diet of world football, long enough for some extra-curricular activities, well all I can say is that she must’ve presented him with some seriously attractive statistics. But then the scandalmongers obsession with salacious tittle-tattle in this country, is more an expression of the warped sense of moral propriety of their readership than their targets.

The only roasting I’m really interested in is the one I expect our manager to be dishing out in the dressing room after the Gunners casually coughed up another costly three points at the weekend. Despite all the much deserved plaudits earned by Chris Hughton’s Toon, sadly I can’t envisage them taking points off of any of our rivals on their travels, with the sort of smash & grab tactics they deployed at our gaff.

Sure Andy Carroll is a handful, Arsène acknowledged as much in his programme notes. But then how is it possible that a Premiership defence isn’t sufficiently well-drilled to know they need to pick him up at set-pieces. There was much mirth over the way the Everton backline joined hands the other week, but personally I adored this evidence of Moyes' regimented defensive drilling from the training ground being reproduced on a match day. If only we could see a few more signs at the Arsenal of this sort of concerted, disciplined effort to address our defensive frailties.

I can’t claim to be a seer to have predicted that it was only a matter of time until Flappy Handski’s next gaff, as unfortunately such is a goalkeeper’s lot. Some suggested he’d have done better to remain on his line but I’m delighted to see a keeper keen to dominate his area, by coming for everything inside his domain. However at the time I couldn’t fathom why he wasn’t able to beat Carroll to the ball considering he has the three-foot advantage of the use of his arms.

It wasn’t until watching the lowlights on the box later than night that I realized it was his indecision that was to blame. He started to come for the ball, hesitated and then realizing Chamakh had left Carroll with a completely free header, he had no choice but to challenge for it. Fabianski is a decent enough goalie, but he lacks that abrasive cocksuredness of a keeper who does everything with total conviction. If he hadn’t hesitated, he wouldn’t have been competing with Carroll from the standing start that left him struggling to get to the ball.

Nevertheless our susceptibility to defensive faux-pas notwithstanding, Sunday’s defeat was several more times frustrating than having our bum smacked by the Baggies. At least they caught us on a bad day and posed a threat by playing some entertaining footie, whereas on Sunday Newcastle merely endured because they wanted it that it that much more than we did.

Arsène’s argument for squad rotation is only valid if players need to be kept fresh for the business end of the season because we’re challenging for trophies. I’ve always been an advocate of starting with our best XI and hopefully giving players a breather once we’re a couple of goal to the good. I’m certain there can be little benefit when we’re forced to send our star turns on to rescue a result, since I'm convinced they end up no less spent than if they’ve played the entire 90. Besides which, as far as I’m concerned, above all it is the maintenance of a winning momentum which is most crucial.

Coming on the back of our defeat against Shaktar Donestk, we once again went into Sunday’s game against lesser opposition, with a low tempo, lackluster approach, as if we have just a little too much belief in our own ability and that this will eventually tell as the opposition begin to flag, without ever needing to match their work rate. The fact of the matter is that the key to success against such sides is for us to play the game at the sort of pace that they can’t live with for 90 minutes. But sadly when you start matches at such a pedestrian pace, without the necessary vitality, it becomes impossible to shift down through the gears, until invariably we go a goal behind and are forced on to the front foot.

Not to mention my bugbear about psychologically gifting away home advantage by lining up with a lone striker. If Hughton was brave enough to play 4-4-2, why couldn’t we go like for like, as surely it would’ve been better off to start the game with a front pair, than to have to risk chasing the game at the death with FOUR strikers?

There might’ve been some solace in the Scousers stuffing Chelsea, but in truth it only made me that much more enraged at having wasted a rare opportunity to reel the Blues back in. Although based on our current inconsistent form, we’re still some way from mounting a viable challenge.

Wednesday night’s trip to the Black Country is not one for the feint-hearted, against a Wolves side that’s bound to be indignant about their recent run of bad luck. Should the Gunners find the necessary fortitude, as we often do away from home, it’s only going to leave me feeling that much more mystified why we insist on playing Martha to visiting Arthurs in our own backyard!

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Will we ever learn?

Is it just me, or does it feel like Groundhog Day, where we storm ahead in the Group Stages, then take our eye of the ball and end up having to make a bit of a scramble to get into the knockout stages, when we should really have been on cruise control.

We’ve got a tricky game in Portugal next and instead of storming into the last sixteen, we could end up having to play a full strength team against Partizan in the last game because we need a result.

Worst still this defeat could end up taking all the steam out of the momentum we’ve built up these past couple of weeks and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we end up making hard work of the Toon on Sunday as a result.

It seems as if Arsène sets far too much store in the need for rotating players, in order to try and keep them fresh. But there’s very little point in players being fresh, unless we end up involved in those important end of season games which are likely to test their energy levels. Besides which, nothing keeps players fresher than that crucial winning momentum and by the same token, fatigue creeps in a lot quicker with defeat.

See Ancelotti’s Chelsea this evening. He pretty much sent out his strongest XI at home against Spartak Moscow and although it sounded as if they were a long way from their best, they still had more than enough in the tank to roll over the Russians and maintain and build on the head of steam they’ve been building up in the Champions League.

Moreover by sending out a weakened side, Wenger will have only fuelled Shaktar’s determination to prove that we were wrong to take them lightly and it sends out the wrong message to his own dressing room, where flat-footed Gunners think they can get away with giving the ball away cheaply all evening. And the likes of Clichy isn’t sufficiently focused two minutes from half-time to appreciate that he’d be best putting the ball into Row Z, rather than conceding possession in a dangerous area and his midfield team-mates, the likes of Eastmond and Wilshere, complacently believing Clichy will take care of business, don’t bother to track the runners.

And don’t talk to me about Bendtner and Eboué! I had to laugh when one commentator suggested the Dane made a run to distract defenders, allowing Theo room to shoot. If he did, it was about as much running as Nick did all night, as he was sat on his heels all evening and as a lone striker, he was as much use as the proverbial spare penis and only slightly less infuriating for his apathy as Manny Eboué was with his customary headless chicken impersonation.

I’ve always believed that there is very little to be gained in terms of keeping players fresh, if you are forced to send the likes of Chamakh on to chase the game with 15 mins to go, as the French striker will have ended up no less spent than if he’d played the entire 90. In my humble opinion we’d have been better off starting with our strongest possible XI and then taking players off for the latter stages once we’d secured a win, as the players involved would have been no more fatigued for Sunday’s game and psychologically speaking, they’d have come home feeling a whole lot more positive!

Ho hum, two steps forward, one step back! So what else is new. Although it's only slightly more galling this time around, with our friends from the wrong end of the Seven Sisters Road crowing like it was going out of fashion. Bring on Spurs in the knockout stages so we can well and truly put a spanner in their glory, glory delusions

Keep the faith

Bernard

We're The Famous....

With the looming prospect of dropping two costly points on Saturday, when Gael Clichy careered down the left flank in the 88th minute against the Hammers, I offered up a little prayer that our profligate French full-back might for once find a team-mate with a decent cross. We’ve grown so accustomed to promising forays forward petering out with Gael’s final pass, that we were all left somewhat agog, when he played a perfect ball (with his right foot!) into that “corridor of uncertainty” between defence and keeper, for Alex Song to steal in and pull the rug from under the Hammers feet, by heading home the winner. I didn’t dare celebrate for an instant, before casting a glance towards the lino and the ref, convinced that someone, or something was about to spoil this rare fantasy.

I think everyone, including the team, believed Avram Grant’s confidence bereft Irons would prove to be relatively easy prey. But the combative likes of Parker and Noble are more than capable of showing up an opponent that isn’t really “at the races” and with our principle orchestrator having seemingly turned up without his baton (would Wenger seriously risk an unfit Fabregas, or as Lineker implied on MOTD, was Cesc merely preparing the ground with his hamstrung excuses for being on the missing list for an unglamorous midweek schlep to the Ukraine?), the Gunners were guilty of sliding back into their shell, waiting for the game to come to them, when we were all hoping they’d turn the heat up on the Hammers' hapless defence.

Nevertheless, as much as I would enjoy watching the Arsenal turn over the opposition every week, with a glut of goals in every game, rather than tearing what’s left of my hair out, with the stress of having to sweat it out until a decisive intervention at the death, there’s probably something far more positive about the Gunners nicking a last gasp winner, in a goalless game.

With Robert Green yet again saving his best for the Gunners and with both Theo and Samir hitting the woodwork, I’m sure I wasn’t alone in thinking it was going to be one of those disappointing afternoons, where all hopes of a title challenge began to flounder. But in demonstrating the fortitude to keep plugging away in a below par performance, there is perhaps at long last a glimmer of the sort of steel on which genuine champions are founded.

For a while there I thought Chelsea were going to slip up, but if anyone’s got the knack of banking all three points while not performing at their best, it’s the Blues and it’s this winning habit which is likely to take some serious consistency of our own if we're ever going to reel them back in.

Three clean sheets on the bounce is not a bad start. I’m not a stats man but I’d guess it’s been a while since the Gunners achieved a succession of dot balls. Although Fabianski is growing in confidence, I can’t help but feel that with each additional shut-out, we’re that much closer to his next ricket. Whereas to my eyes Wojciech Szczesny really looked the part (kudos to the first terrace songsmith who manages to work our young keeper's bonkers moniker into a catchy chant) with a performance at St James Park that suggests he might possibly posses the sort of “big I am” personality that the introverted likes of Almunia and Fabianski patently lack.

I can appreciate Arsène’s reluctance to push Szczesny into the pressure-cooker spotlight too soon, for fear his promising career could be shipwrecked on the sort of glaring errors which might be inevitable for a player with such meagre big stage experience. The Carling Cup is the perfect proving ground for the Polish youngster. After tricky away games against Spurs and Newcastle, the quarter-final draw was a bit of a result. It’s a bit premature to be planning a trip to Wembley but with only three games between us and our long awaited debut at the new incarnation of the Home of Legends it’s hard not to get ahead of oneself, especially when the first of these is a home banker against the Lactics. Although for fear that similar expectation might permeate the dressing room, it could be argued that we might've been best served by a stiffer test.

Meantime if we can ease our way past Shaktar, into the knockout stages of the Champions League on Wednesday, it would be a great help, taking the pressure of the last two group games, easing the strain of fixture congestion and perhaps giving the kids more game time. It’s laughable to hear Shaktar’s manager explaining away his team’s inadequacies by blaming the Scandinavian ref’s Anglo-Saxon roots, but bristling with indignation at their humiliating trip to Highbury, we’re bound to face a harder examination on the Ukranian side’s home soil.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Outta Toon

G'day fellow Gooners,

I've been getting very slack of late, filing my missive to the paper on a Monday morning and failing to post it out, until it ends up being out-dated by events in midweek. Truth be told, I've been forced to become just a little more self-disciplined, as the sports ed at the Examiner will no longer accept my typically (overly)loquacious pieces and unless I restrict myself to an acceptable number of words, he'll just send it back to me.

As I result, on those rare occasions when I do manage to limit myself to anything less than a mere 800 words, I'm invariably left feeling as if I've omitted so much of what I had to say that I'm loathe to post out my piece without adding a preamble including some of the more salient points.

With procrastination being the thief of time, suddenly it's Thursday and I still haven't got around to doing it. Everyone tells me that I'd be better off sending out shorter posts anyway, but since I don't earn anything from my blog, there is no real incentive for me to split my missives into separate posts, in order to generate more traffic and besides, after ten years of writing my weekly diary pieces, I'm pretty certain that if I was producing my War & Peace like efforts for anything other than my own self-gratification (and in the vague hope of offering a little flavour to a few geographically challenged Gooners), this would be bound to become a chore rather than a pleasure and would be likely to lose something in the process.

Meanwhile I'm now in a position where it would feel farcical if I sent a post without referring to events at St James Park last night and so I guess I'd better get on with it...

As a member of the Away Ticket Scheme, I feel somewhat obliged to go to every away game, with my tickets turning up automatically in the post. I'm sure that if I wasn't writing my weekly column for the paper, I'd probably pass on the occasional exhausting schlep around the country, but both for the benefit of myself and others, my column gives me the excuse that I simply have to go to every match because it's "work".

Whereas Carling Cup match tickets are optional and if I'd received a ticket for the match at St James Park last night, I might well have made more of an effort to get there, since in my experience over the past few seasons, some of our awaydays in this Mickey Mouse tournament have been amongst the most enjoyable trips of the season, for one reason or another.

As desperate as we all are to secure some long awaited silverware, the nature of this tournament means that I can enjoy watching and screaming my head off at these games, but without anything like the same excruciating tension that I invariably experience at the vast majority of the Arsenal's other matches. Similarly, there's often an absence of anxiety on the pitch that allows the players that Arsène selects to play with a certain freedom, which often isn't quite so evident in Premiership and Champions League clashes.

However, while this is all well and good when the Young Guns have run riot, embarrassing and often humbling far more experienced opposition, in some incredibly memorable performances in this competition, I have to admit that there have been times when we've had our backs up against the wall and have ended up exiting the tournament, where I've wondered if Arsène's attitude and his prioritization of the bigger prizes has permeated down into the dressing room, to the point where we've ended up waving goodbye to the season's first sniff of silverware because we simply haven't wanted it enough.

Usually I so enjoy the opportunity of watching our carefree kids cavorting around in a rare first-team context that I'm keener to go on Carling Cup outings than any of the other trips. But in this instance, after a long eight hour drive to Manchester on Sunday and with me being up to my eyeballs with work that wont wait, I was forced to stop at home. Perhaps if I'd had a ticket, I might've made more of an effort to try and juggle my responsibilities to the ballet (after all I've never let my "show must go on" obligations interfere with my footballing pleasures in the past and at forty-eight years of age, I've a feeling any such prudent maturity might well have long since passed me by!) but with the match being live on Sky and hopefully plenty of material to come from our weekend encounter with the Hammers to fill my Examiner column, it was easier and substantially more economical for me to "just say no" for once.

A couple of my pals were flying up to the Newcastle on Air Miles tickets. Compared to an exhausting drive up the A1 to Tyneside, I would've loved to have taken much of the strain out of such an arduous trek, by joining them. However not only have I been unable to accomplish the sort of travel that would amount to sufficient Air Miles for a free ticket, they travelled up on Tuesday and aside from the cost of the flights and hotel, it would've meant losing a couple of day's wages and as a result, I doubt I would've lasted until Monday with the meagre contents on next week's pay packet.

The problem with this is that with me having not travelled and with the Gunners having managed such a resounding triumph against the Toon, should we progress to an away draw in the quarterfinals, I'll have to struggle with my superstitious nature, dealing with the dilemma of knowing that if we end up losing, I will inevitably feel personally responsible for our cup exit, as a direct result of me being present at the match.

But if, as looks likely, le Gaffer is giving the Carling Cup a bit of a go this time around, I guess I'm definitely going to have to resolve this groundless hogwash, since if we should end up going all the way to Wembley, I'm certainly not missing out on the Gunners first return to the new incarnation of the "Home of Legends"!

Myself I don't agree with all those who might contend that this competition has been devalued by Arsène and all those other managers who've followed suit, by making use of the Mickey Mouse cup as a means of blooding the youngsters. To the contrary, I believe this policy has injected some much needed lifeblood into the Carling Cup, by turning it into the one and only piece of silverware that fans of every single club in land can aspire to.

The Cup of many drinks (Milk, Coca-Cola, Carling) has always been the least prestigious trophy but it's acquired a whole new interest in the modern era, as just as we've been doing for several seasons now, fans of all the other major clubs are seriously interested in the tournament as the principal opportunity to run the rule over some of their young prodigies. In fact, as far as I'm concerned, I now look forward to our Carling Cup games with far more enthusiasm than the vast majority of decidedly unenticing fixtures in the Champions League group stages (try telling that to those poor unsuspecting numpties at White Hart Lane!).

Sadly last night, not only did I not get to go to the game, I couldn't watch it live, or even listen to the commentary on the radio. In fact, I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm only just watching a recording of it now for the first time!

I had to fetch some of the painted backdrops cloths for the ballet's new production of the Nutcracker yesterday afternoon and when I turned up at the scenic artist, he asked if I minded having a cup of tea and a biscuit, as he only had to put "a couple of ribbons" on the cloth stretched out on the floor, for it to be finished, so I could get that out of his way (as it's an enormous cloth and I could appreciate how keen he was to get it out of his way). However it wasn't until I was sitting outside in the van waiting for him to finish (and for my cuppa) that it occurred to me that if he was still painting on it, I'd have to wait until the paint dried for us to be able to fold up the cloth. I ended up sitting outside his Hammersmith studio for about two hours!!

As a result, I found myself driving to our stores in deepest, darkest Kent in the very worst of rush hour traffic and it took an absolute eternity. I actually got to hear the first half hour of the radio commentary, but as I reversed the van into the stores, it suddenly dawned on me that there was no AM reception on the radio once the truck was inside the stores and by the time I'd finished unloading and loading up again and drove back out, the Gunners were 3 goals to the good. Having dropped the shutter around the back, I had some more stuff to fetch from the front door of the stores and having left the van doors open and the radio blaring, mercifully I just about heard the commentary as the fourth and final goal went in (or at least enough of it to know that the Gunners had scored) and for the benefit of no-one but myself and to the surprise and amazement of the local rabbits. foxes and assorted other wildlife, I stood there whooping and hollering.

The worst thing is that I'm trying to watch the game (as I simply can't go to work without even seeing the goals at the very least) whilst catching up on a load of correspondence and you miss enough watching football broadcast on the box (compared to being there in person) but for me, I find it impossible to absorb anything, unless I concentrate fully on the telly.

Nevertheless, while I don't feel particularly qualified to comment on the game, I've seen enough to know that I like what I see of Wojciech Szczesny in goal (kudos to the first terrace songsmith who manages to work our young keeper's bonkers moniker into a catchy chant?). Despite our incessant pleas and mounting media pressure to address our goalkeeping situation, I'm guessing that le Gaffer has been doing his best to rein in the young Pole because (hopefully much in the manner of Joe Hart), he appears to have the sort of unbridled confidence of youth which is bound to end up with him making the occasional glaring ricket.

But give me this sort of confidence any day, over the timidity we've grown accustomed to from our other triumvirate of kack-handed keepers, as I'd gladly suffer Szczesny dashing out in his efforts to dominate his area and being sold the occasional dummy by a wily striker, rather than us and our defence having to suffer the abiding air of uncertainty that we've grown accustomed to at the back, never knowing if the vacillating likes of Almunia, Fabianski and Mannone intend on stopping at home, or coming out and making their presence felt.

Who knows if Wojciech is going to be the answer to all our prayers as he proves himself to be the real deal in games to come? But what I am certain of, even on the little evidence I've seen to date, is that unlike our introverted trio of goalkeepers, the youngster definitely seems to have the personality which at the very least, leaves me feeling confident that he has the potential to become a sufficiently imposing presence between the sticks. And no matter how impressive a shot-stopping display we witness from the likes of Almunia and Fabianski, sadly they both appear to be the sort of shrinking violets who are never going to be able to lend that much needed aura of calming reassurance to our back line because it's not in the nature of their somewhat pusillanimous personalities.

But that's more than enough of my prattle for one post. Anyone for the Hammers in the quarterfinals? It will certainly make for an awkward atmosphere (as will be the case on Saturday), with my boss, as the master carpenter at the ballet is an Irons season ticket holder (according to EEC terminology, he's actually now deemed as the ballet's "Chief Mechanist" but sod that, as master carpenter sounds a whole heap more impressive :-). Mind you, it will probably be me who ends up chopping up an endless pile of wood, if the Gunners give them a hammering (but it will be well worth the resulting punishment :-)

Come on you Reds
Big Love
Bernard

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In light of the Arsenal’s abysmal recent record against our immediate rivals, we were tickled pink to come away from Sunday’s game with all 3 points, as it was looking like the sort of significant encounter that was either going to leave us clinging to Chelsea’s coat tails as a credible challenger, or battling it out with the also-rans for Champions League qualification.

Nevertheless I was so keen to see us lay down some sort of marker against Man City, that I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of disappoinment that our comprehensive 3-0 triumph was somewhat cheapened, by the way in which the ref Clattenburg demonstrated his cajones, by reducing the home side to 10 men in the opening minutes, thereby leaving Mancini able to contend (albeit almost unintelligibly) that his team would’ve won the day if it’d been an even contest.

It’s hard to argue, as City looked good value in those opening moments. With Richards running riot down their right flank with his athleticism and Silva pulling the strings with his silky skills, City looked more than capable of posing a threat against any defence. You only had to see the £100 million’s worth of bench-warmers to suspect that City’s strength in depth is likely to serve them well, when other sides might start to hit the wall in the Premiership marathon.

A red card for the opposition isn’t often cause for celebration, as aside from ruining the spectacle for the watching millions, it invariably ends up with them battening down the hatches, to the point where we struggle to break them down. Normally the penalty area would be far too congested with bodies, for us to carve a route through with the sort of one-two that resulted in Nasri’s opening goal. Still playing at home and with their own point to prove, City couldn’t spend the entire 85 minutes sitting on their heels and for once, the extra-man served to our advantage.

Despite Fabregas being on the receiving end of several clatterings early on, Clattenburg seemed to spend the remainder of the first-half intent on evening up the odds. By half-time we were left wondering who in an Arsenal shirt hadn’t been booked and it’s to the Gunners credit (and much to my amazement) that we avoided giving the ref his get-out of jail card and lasted the remainder of the ninety with all eleven still on the pitch.

Never mind the victory, keeping our first clean sheet away from home since Villa Park in January was cause to get the flags out and Fabianski was in fine form. Nevertheless it’s not our keepers' shot-stopping capacity, but their failure to dominate their area where they tend to fall down. On a day when I should be singing his praises, there was one too many instance when hesitation at the back should’ve been resolved by Lucasz bellowing in the ear of his defenders to leave the ball. Standing behind Joe Hart’s goal and watching his impressive work, I couldn’t help but wonder where the Gunners might be with an equally imposing personality between the posts.

It wasn’t until Alex Song emphatically stabbed home our second that I began to espy the difference between an organically grown squad and a hotch-potch of star talent that’s been thrown together thanks to City’s loadsamoney owners, as any remaining resistance seemed to evaporate and we were left to savour watching the Gunners “taking the Michael” with a keep-ball session for the remaining 25 mins. Perhaps Mancini will foster a greater fighting spirit over time, but it’s not a facet of a team sport that you can turn on like a tap.

Myself I was just delighted to be there. After having my car pinched a couple of weeks back, I replaced it with another old banger and fatalist that I am, I spent the entire couple of hundred mile journey, fully expecting the engine to blow up in my face. Hence having stopped at the services for something to eat just outside of Manchester and being accosted by a City fan in just such a predicament (his mate’s motor having died on them), I simply couldn’t refuse to come to his rescue. Besides which I benefitted from my Samaritan act, as apparently my new Mancunian mate saved me from the scallies in hi-viz yellow coats, who pounce on unsuspecting travelling fans, by waving them into illegal parking pitches, where they are easy prey to unscrupulous private tow-away firms.

Chamakh appears to rise to these big occasions. I’m sure his teammates appreciate the lone striker’s selfless efforts to provide the likes of Samir Nasri with space to weave his magic spell. But by ramping up the positive reading on the Gooner karma meter, I like to believe I too contributed to our success, in my own small way.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Jack Be Nimble, Jack Be Quick, Jack Don't Jump Into The Candlestick

(seems a bit pointless posting this now, considering we've seen us mullah Shaktar 5-0 and the Spuds larf a minute match in Milan, since - poor luvs, I was almost jealous of how excited they were about their big outing and it was a poignant reminder quite how much we take the Champions League group stages for granted - but since I've had this missive sitting on my machine these past few days, I wasn't about to delete it. Read or ignore as you so choose....)

Howdy fellow Gooners,


Saturday's win began to look all the better, by the time both Man Utd and Chelsea had dropped a couple of points. I had the bore draw at Villa Park on the box live, but wasn't really concentrating and so I'm unsure whether it was Houllier's side's performance, or a little complacency from the Blues which was most responsible (as usual it's more likely to have been a little of both). Moreover, having only seen the highlights on Match Of The Day, with the Baggies coming back from two goals down at Old Trafford, I don't really know if this was a reflection that our defeat wasn't quite the disaster if first appeared, or merely further confirmation that (on current form) Man U really don't look like a team that's likely to mount a challenge for the title.


I'm loathe to tempt fate, because as Fergie has proved time and again, if his side are still in contention come Christmas, the old dog is capable of inspiring the troops to the point where they become a totally different animal from their current lacklustre incarnation and it would be downright foolish to write them off so prematurely, knowing that they are more likely than not, to maintain a consistent run at some stage in the Premiership proceedings.


Nevertheless, although to all intents and purposes Ancelotti's side appear to be head and shoulders above the competition as title favourites, the weekend's results have served to reiterate that the sort of dogged, week in, week out three point consistency of the main contenders, which has served to demoralize us in recent seasons as we've struggled to make inroads into a significant points deficit, is perhaps not going to be attainable, in the way this campaign is beginning to shape up.


This would be a source of genuine hope for our own title credentials, if I truly believed the Gunners to be capable of the sort of consistency that meant we'd be breathing down the opposition's neck every single time they slipped up. But sadly to date, I've seen little evidence of the sort of unquenchable thirst for glory that would see us positively laying waste to lesser opposition and rarely ever looking the least bit vulnerable to defeat.


One of the aspects to the majority of our encounters which most epitomizes quite how far the Arsenal still have to go to become the real title challenging deal, is my reaction and that of the crowd in general to corners. Considering we were the club that pretty much perfected the art of the near-post flick on, back in the days of Stevie Bould and co., it's a downright tragedy quite how ineffective our set-pieces have become nowadays (or have been for several seasons now). In fact, we've grown so accustomed to our profligate failure to make corners count, constantly either failing to beat the defenders at the near post, or merely wafting the ball into the keeper's hands, that the lack of anticipation in the air whenever we're awarded another corner has become positively palpable.


There was a time when the award of a corner on home turf would be the catalyst for the crowd to exercise their vocal chords, rising to a crescendo of 'Come on you Reds' or 'Arsenal' as we did our bit to try and suck the ball into the back of the net. Whereas nowadays Arsenal corners are almost greeted with a groan, as we anticipate yet another wasted opportunity.


By contrast, such is the level of insecurity that we've grown accustomed to from our own rearguard that you can almost smell the scent of fear any time we have to defend a corner and whether we're playing table-topping giants, or lowly minnows, we end up gripping our seats, with our hearts in our mouths, in utter dread of the impending disaster possible at every single opposition set-piece.


As far as I'm concerned, this is the watermark which indicates why we continue to be the competition's most entertaining team of nearly men and as much as I've enjoyed Arsène's efforts to prove that success is possible by means of simply outscoring the opposition in every game, I always find myself harking back to that age old cliché about all great teams having been built from the back.


Who knows, with their growing confidence, perhaps Marouane Chamakh and Thomas Vermaelen will develop into the sort of players who have the knack of getting themselves into the right spot in the box and the determination to go through a brick wall if necessary, in order to get their heads on the end of our corners.


We can at least be grateful that Theo Walcott appears to have the resolve to make the very most of his talent, by seemingly spending hours on the training pitch perfecting the art of imparting velocity on a dead ball. As a result this will hopefully mean that we are no longer solely reliant on Robin Van Persie to spank set-pieces into the box with the sort of pace that gives cause for concern to even the most assured of defences.


Considering the amount of time our players spend on the training ground, I've always found it somewhat incredible that for all our squad's bountiful talents, RVP seemed to be the only really decent free-kick taker. And considering our renown in recent years for being vertically challenged, quite frankly I've never understood the point of the Fabregas and others simply floating balls into the box, which have invariably proved meat and drink to the opposition defence, when it seems so blatantly obvious that a ball struck at pace is always going to be more difficult to deal with. Instead of just one and now potentially two, surely a team like the Arsenal should have at least half a dozen players capable of curling one in from thirty yards. Shava has shown himself capable of doing just this in open play, as I suspect have Nasri and Rosicky.


But where Theo appears to have spent his summer fuelled by a burning desire to prove himself worthy of all those teenage plaudits, perhaps the reluctance of others to want to take such responsibility is symptomatic of the Gunners' malaise?


I shouldn't be knocking Nasri or Rosicky, as while many will marvel at Nasri's ability on the ball, what I admire most about little Samir, is his willingness to give as good as he gets and Rosicky is a grafter and all I ever ask of our players is that they at least work their socks off. As I've said in my piece below, Tommie covered more ground in five minutes than Shave had the entire previous seventy and while we all adore the diminutive Russian's special footballing gifts, there's a growing mood of displeasure amongst Gooners on the terraces at what is perceived to be a blatant lack of effort on Shava's part. It might not be so obvious when watching on the box, but there's many an Arsenal break where the ball will just pass him by in the middle of the park and it comes across as downright disrespectful to those of us who make such sacrifices for our Arsenal pleasures, to see players who don't even deign to make some pretence at putting in a little effort.


Perhaps we will yet see the likes of Squillaci and Koscielny developing into the sort of formidable centre-back partnership which is capable of restoring some much needed composure to our defence of corners and set-pieces. Although I've always contended for more seasons than I care to remember that our defensive woes can only truly be cured by means of the reassurance of a world class keeper.


As Edwin Van Der Saar demonstrated at Old Trafford on Saturday, even the world's most experienced goalies are liable to the occasional major boo-boo. Who'd be a keeper eh? Every other player on the park will make several mistakes a match, a goalie can make a million marvelous saves but his gaffes will always make the headlines.


I can forgive a goalie when he makes a near-post blunder, or a hare-brained dash from his line but it's never been our keepers errors which have bothered me most, but their patent lack of authority which has always been my greatest cause for concern. Without it, our defence is always going to appear panic-striken in their efforts to nullify the opposition because they need that crucial reassurance of an authoritative keeper to be able to defend with any real composure. Otherwise they're left feeling obliged to try and deal with every ball coming into the box, as they never know for certain if Almunia or Fabianski is going to come and get it, when what they really need to know is that within a specific area, they had better get out of the way, as the bloke behind them is always going to come barreling through them and anything else that gets in their way, in order to reach the ball


As it has turned out, perhaps Jack Wilshere's automatic three-game suspension could prove to be a blessing in disguise, with it seemingly perfectly timed to coincide with our captain's comeback. Wilshere has been playing so well, that it would be harsh to have to drop him the moment Fabregas returns to fitness and in most matches Wenger might have some trouble accommodating them both in the same team. I can't remember if it was Zigic who was the culprit, but as my neighbour suggested might be the case after Saturday's game, it seems to have gone unnoticed by the media that Jack was flattened by what might've been a flailing elbow that seemed to strike our precious young prodigy flush on the conk.


I've had my say about the tackling debate below, but having read Arsène's programme notes since, it seems ironic that le Gaffer returned to this favourite old chestnut, in advance of what transpired. He talks about a good tackle being one where "your feet are on the ground" and this is all well and good but a challenge only has to be slightly mistimed for the tackler's feet to meet his opponents limb in mid-air, instead of colliding with the ball on the ground and I suspect that with the vast majority of these offences, the players concerned were attempting to come into contact with the ball, not the man, on the deck but the tackle has either been badly timed, or the opponent has been too quick to shift the ball.


In my most humble opinion instead of having officials rule to the letter of the law, they have to be able to use their discretion (although this would've made little difference to Saturday's incompetent twat in black), as such hard and fast regulations only end up with farcical situations where the most perfectly timed tackle is penalised because it's been made from behind, or one of the game most artistic manoeuvres, a scissors kick, resulting in the most spectacular goal, can end up being ruled out because its deemed dangerous play, due to the striker's foot being in the air!


I was surprised to see Koscielny warming up on the pitch with the rest of the subs (apart from Bendtner, who obviously doesn't need the exercise and who I fully expected to end up straining something when he eventually came on because he was too lazy to stretch his legs!) as according to le Gaffer's programme notes, he pulled a back muscle the previous day. Considering how often I've complained in the past about Arsène's failure to focus on the opposition and select his team to best take advantage of their relative strengths and weaknesses, I have to admit that there was some speculation on Saturday as to whether he'd included Djourou amongst our tallest possible team selection, in an effort to combat Birmingham's behemoth of a striker, the 6'8" Zigic?


It annoys me when our defence have one single point of attack to focus on and they fail in their TCB duty (as I believe is the trendy current acronym for "taking care of business"). But when you are always likely to struggle to prevent the giant from getting his head on the ball, surely the answer is to ensure that you do everything possible to prevent the Croatian from being supplied with any ammunition. Could it be that Wenger has our troops so pumped up with belief in their own ability, that there's an element of arrogance in their failure to close down the Birmingham player and prevent him putting the ball into the box for Zigic to break the deadlock.


Contrast this with the spirit and work rate of the Seasiders, in their enthralling efforts to contain Man City the following day. All credit to Ian Holloway's side as they weren't so far from doing us a big favour and provided great entertainment in the process. Everyone seems to be suggesting that Mancini's battalion of mercenaries are set to pose the biggest threat to the established top of the table aristocracy. While the new Man City owners might be working according to the theory that if you put enough monkeys in front of a typewriter, they will eventually come up with Shakespeare and the law of averages should eventually favour their Italian manager with a sufficiently potent line-up, it might well prove that this massive collection of egos is just as likely to implode.


Meanwhile events have contrived to make next Sunday's encounter a massively significant clash, as it down to us to travel to the North West to demonstrate to the nouveau riche Man City monkeys that money can't buy class. Should we fail in this task, you can rest assured that the tabloids will point to this result as evidence of the demise of the natural order of things as far as Chelsea, Man Utd and our own stranglehold on Champions League qualification is concerned. There couldn't possibly be a more timely occasion for us to put a spoke in City's wheel, to impede the momentum of the Mancini charabanc, before it gathers sufficient impetus to roll right over the Gunners.


Sure it will be good to see a fit and healthy Eduardo return with Shaktar tomorrow night. But unlike all those Spurs fans under 50 years of age who are looking forward to the club's biggest night in their lifetime, with them all wetting their pants at the prospect of visiting the San Siro, I've become so blasé about the somewhat tedious six-game format of the Champions League group stages, that you'll have to forgive me if I find the prosapect of Sunday's encounter at Eastlands just a tad more intriguing


Come on you Reds
Big Love
Bernard

________________________________________________________________

I never thought I’d be so relieved to see Nicholas Bendtner back fit and in the squad, but along with Theo Walcott, it was great to see the return of some genuine firepower on the bench for Saturday’s game against Birmingham. The scent of imminent competition certainly didn’t seem to harm Marouane Chamakh, as the Moroccan lad had one of his most effective games in an Arsenal shirt to date. OK so the replays of the penalty incident left his tumble in the box looking just a little iffy, but from where I sit, it certainly appeared to me at the time as if there was contact.

I’m usually the first to complain about players going down too easily, especially when they choose to hit the deck, instead of taking advantage of an opportunity to beat the keeper. Not that I don’t celebrate the award of a penalty, along with every other Gooner - especially on Saturday, after Birmingham had taken the lead with just about their only effort on goal, as we were desperate to get back on terms before the break, so as to prevent the visitors coming out for the second half, shutting shop on their slender lead and perhaps punishing us on the counter as we became increasingly forced to throw caution to the wind – but I want to see strikers playing in red & white with such a voracious goal poacher’s appetite that the thought of passing up a genuine goal scoring opportunity, in the hope of the ref awarding a penalty, simply wouldn’t occur to them.

It’s the absence of this sort of blinkered hunger for putting the ball in the back of the net that left us on the edge of our seats for the remainder of the afternoon After Marouane began to make a name for himself, with the sort of goal that demonstrated the very best of his goal scoring talents, only a couple of minutes after the break, we really should’ve gone on to put the result to bed, by going for the visitors throat and proving the overall gulf in class between the two sides. But while we once again dominated possession, as ever the Gunners were guilty of overplaying around the edge of the penalty area and on the terraces we were left pleading for the love of Mike (whoever Mike may be?) for someone to please take responsibility.

When Rosicky replaced Arshavin in the latter stages, he had more efforts on goal in five minutes than the little Ruski had the entire time he’d been on the pitch and Tommie’s shoot on sight policy was a refreshing change from the Gunners customary “after you Claude” habit of always looking to a team mate. In fact Shava seems to have taken to Arsène’s Zen philosophy just a little too enthusiastically, with an economy of movement which appears to have restricted the Russian to taking up one particular spot out on the park and remaining there like a little Buddha, the entire afternoon, contributing merely with the occasional wayward backheel, should the ball ever come within range of his diminutive legs.

With the tendency of opposition teams to work their socks off when they come to our place, we just can’t afford to carry any such passengers. But the problem is that Shava is one of the few (fit!) players with the natural ability to unlock the tightest of defences that you always want him out there, in the hope he might conjure up that one single moment of breathtakingly inspirational genius. Sadly such hopes went unrequited on Saturday, as the lazy little bugger left the pitch, having hardly broken sweat.

Still as events elsewhere subsequently proved, all that really mattered against McCleish’s side was the three points and hopefully the home win which might enable us to begin gathering some momentum, as our squad returns to some semblance of side capable of challenging for honours. Sadly, no sooner are players restored to fitness, than we lose others to suspension. Considering how influential Jack Wilshere has become in the Arsenal midfield of late, it will be interesting to see how we cope in his absence.

I suppose the more Arsène ranted on about the lack of protection, the more inevitable it was that fate would intervene to see the bitten biting! But perhaps the most annoying thing about Wilshere’s red card was that his OTT tackle became the focus, instead of a display where Jack was both nimble, quick and constantly making mugs of Blue-shirted candlesticks.

In an age where we’re always complaining about the lack of commitment of many of football’s modern day mercenaries, I find it just a little perverse that we’ve managed to start a witch-hunt, which is invariably going to end up punishing any evidence of over-enthusiasm. Personally I like the idea that Wilshere was so peeved by his clumsy first touch that he let rip in trying to recover the ball.

Give me this manifestation of how much it means to them, any day, over the sort of laidback indifference that really leaves devotees like me losing their rag. And if the price we have to pay for such an intense brand of football is the occasional broken limb, as far as I’m concerned this is far preferable to seeing our frenetic version of the beautiful game over-officiated, to the point where it’s unrecogniseable from the sedate, quite frankly, boring version of the sport played elsewhere.

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Beauty and the Beast

Hi folks

I've managed to tear myself away from the enthralling prospect of tonight's England encpunter to take the time to post out the following piece. It's been amusing the past couple of weeks, listening to all those deluded Gooners, who've been trying to convince everyone quite how delighted they are that they don't have to pay to watch an Arsenal side that plays like Chelsea.

As someone who grew up watching "boring, boring Arsenal" as opposed to Arsène Wenger's entertaining all-stars, I have to tell you that I'd give my right arm to be watching players of the calibre of Drogba, Essien, Terry, Cech etc perform in a red & white shirt every week and was only too happy to pay to watch Anelka and Cole strut their stuff at THOF.

Besides which, the Blues football is positively bewitching by comparison to the sort of dour displays we endured during George Graham's latter years. Let's not kid ourselves, the current league leaders have proved on many an occasion that they are perfectly capable of turning on the style and perhaps one of the biggest differences between the two teams at present, is that while Arsène is intent on sticking rigidly to his principles of playing the way he wants his Arsenal side to play, with seemingly little or no regard to tactical adaptions to target to the strengths and weaknesses of specific opponents, Ancelotti's side is more pragmatic, with their first priority being how can we ensure that the opposition can't score.

More than many of those Gooners who didn't endure the good old, bad old days, I fully appreciate how privileged we've been over the last few years to enjoy such scinitilating entertainment. Nevertheless, no matter how enjoyable it is, I can't help but believe that success will continue to evade us as far as the big prizes are concerned, so long as we remain so reliant on our ability to outscore the opposition and until such time as our squad contains the range of players who are capable of being sent out, secure in the knowledge of being able to keep a clean sheet (now that would be a novelty!)

Big Love
Bernard
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It suddenly occurred to me at the weekend that I might’ve missed England v Montenegro, only to discover this game wasn’t until Tuesday night. As far as I’m concerned watching Peter Shilton and Ann Widecombe stumbling around on Strictly Come Dancing is a far more entertaining proposition, than an England XI attempting to grind out a victory against the table topping team, from a country which sounds more like a combination of two of British Leyland's lousier motors.

Naturally I’ll be tuning in, if only to see if Jack Wilshere gets a look-in. Although after turning out for the U21s at Carrow Road, I’m sure Arsène won’t be too amused if Wilshere ends up playing two games in four days. Heaven only knows exactly what more Capello expects to learn about one of the countries most promising teenagers, by selecting him alongside “couldn’t score in a brothel” Bent and an ageing workhorse (I was going to say “cart” but didn’t want to be guilty of putting it before the horse!) like Kevin Davies.

Unlike the Scousers, I suppose I should be grateful that the lack of turmoil in London N5 leaves me with so little to say during the Interlull. What astounds me is that Liverpool’s financial meltdown was predicted many moons back, when the date of their loan repayment was made public. Yet everyone at Anfield appears to have ploughed on regardless of this doomsday scenario. Never mind being too good a team to get relegated, for the Scousers sake, I certainly hope they aren’t about to find out the hard way that they aren’t too big an institution for bankruptcy!

I doubt there’ll be too much gloating at the other end of the M62, considering that the Glaziers have encumbered Man Utd with the sort of debt that many a third-world country would be proud of and which makes the Merseysiders’ parlous financial predicament look miniscule by comparison. But then aside from the sugar-daddy sorted likes of Chelsea and Man City, the effort to keep up with the Jones’ and the fear of falling off the Premiership perch has resulted in culture of living beyond ones means for so many years now, that I imagine the majority of top flight clubs are in a similar, "there but for the grace..." situation of constantly having to keep their creditors sweet.

I guess it's for this reason that the Gunners are so proud of their rare achievement of a "workable business model" and why the club spent £4mill on providing posh nosh, instead of investing it on the pitch during the close season. But then after five silverware starved seasons, where Champions League qualification has been the limit of our ambitions, I’m sure if you asked most Arsenal fans they’d be absolutely delighted to be joining all those other clubs constantly teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, in exchange for being top of the league!

In checking the latest news on the Arsenal web site for the want of some inspiration, all I discovered was a piece revealing “Arsenal in the Community have embarked on a two-year programme entitled ‘How are you feeling today’ funded by the Premier League and Sport Relief, which aims to improve social inclusion and wellbeing for people with mental health problems, in the Club’s local area”.

A timely project perhaps, for all those of us Gooners, who are likely to end up as blathering lunatics, wandering around Highbury with a weird form of Tourette’s, habitually blurting out “get a keeper”, “for gawd’s sake spend some money” or “please no more Diddy Men”!

Some might volunteer le Prof as the programme’s first punter. I appreciate that Arsène is obliged to spout the party-line in public, by singing his own team’s praises, but surely in private he must realise that far from having Chelsea “on the ropes” the Gunners fell victim to a classic “rope-a-dope” display by the Blues. For once our dodgy keepers weren’t culpable. Defeat at the Bridge was due to the unmistakeable evidence that we continue to lack the blend of players necessary to forge a successful squad.

When I envisage the teams lining up in the tunnel when we play Birmingham this weekend, as that somnolent Elvis dirge “the Wonder of You” pumps out of the PA, I hardly imagine Alex McLeish’s side being intimidated by their opponents. The 6’ 8” Zigic will see Arshavin, Nasri and Wilshere as a light snack between meals. I’m tired of teams looking forward to taking on our talented ball-players, when I want them to be bloody terrified. Enough of Ken Dodd's dainty little mates, where’s the scout with the cajones to surprise le Gaffer with a 15-stone stopper who’s capable of kicking lumps out of the likes of Drogba?

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Many A Slip 'Twixt Cup And Lip

G'day Gooners,

This was one of those weeks when I had so much more to say about Sunday's game at the Bridge, that I didn't want to post this out, until I'd had an opportunity to add all those points that I wanted to make but which wouldn't fit into my diary missive for the Examiner.

However with the ballet going out on tour nest week, I've been so busy that I've barely had time to open my computer (or if I've had the time, the long schlep to Kent and back has left me far too cream crackered to even consider opening my laptop) and so I thought that if I don't send it out now, it will be too late to even bother doing so and with no proper footie this weekend, I guess I can save all my whinging for next week's diary missive.

Meanwhile, it's an ill wind whipping up off the Mersey at the moment and unlike everyone else, I'm slightly envious of my Scouse pal, who writes the corresponding Liverpool diary column for the Irish Examiner. Steve Kelly and I always forward each other our pieces for the paper and I've noted over the last few days, that all the aggro at Anfield has resulted in him being requested to write three extra columns to date.

The Merseyside club might be struggling to avoid going "mehullah" but my Scouse pal Steve is positively minting it as a result :-)

Keep the faith
Big Love
Bernard
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In the absence of the spine of Arsène Wenger’s side (Van Persie, Fabregas, Vermaelen. Walcott etc) the Gunners gave a creditable account of themselves on Sunday. However after only six wins in the past 33 games against our two greatest nemeses, the resulting downsizing of Gooner expectations, meant that it was hardly a bombshell to find ourselves trudging away from Stamford Bridge with nothing to show for our efforts.

I adore Arsène Wenger and the man walks on water as far as I’m concerned. When you consider the parlous financial predicament of so many other Premiership clubs, our manager has achieved a minor miracle in maintaining the club on an even keel, keeping us competitive whilst constantly serving up sumptuous entertainment, despite the upheaval and the millstone of massive debt necessary to finance the new stadium.

Nevertheless, while the Scousers might be making plenty of noise about the mismanagement of their club, in the need to point the finger of blame for their current plight, by and large, there’s a good reason why you don’t hear us taunting the opposition about our superior profit and loss account, because ultimately it’s football results not financial results which are all that matter.

With this in mind, surely there must come a time when it dawns on le Gaffer that there’s a critical missing ingredient in his grand design for the Gunners, that crucial catalyst capable of turning a team that’s every genuine football lover’s favourite Premiership attraction, into the sort of success machine, that a nation of underdog aficionados will inevitably come to love to hate.

Never mind the scholarly connotations, Arsène increasingly reminds me of the mad professor, who can’t find the glasses sitting on top of his head, as he ploughs on with his blinkered obsession, regardless of our squad’s blindingly obvious inadequacies. I’ve never held with the simplistic men v boys theory but there’s no denying the facts which apparently state that on average the Chelsea side were 3 inches taller and 2 stone heavier. In truth we stood up very well, the pint-sized Wilshere bossed so much of the game and Drogba is capable of bullying the beefiest defence.

However matches against Chelsea have become the litmus test of the Gunners credibility and sadly it keeps turning acidic. It might’ve been a different story if we’d forced the home side on to the front foot, by capitalising on our early chances, but the portents were ominous from the moment they took the lead.

Personally I believe it’s more instinctive than tactical, but the Blues have learned that they can afford to let us have the ball, because all our best football is played in front of their defence. They can soak up the pressure, safe in the knowledge that they’ll be presented with an opportunity to carve us open on the counter.

Perhaps the penny began to drop with Arsène’s decision to send on rookie, Jay Emmanuel-Thomas, to try and bulldoze his way through in the last 10 minutes, as he’s built like the proverbial brick out-house. Sadly this was too little, too late.

I’ve complained in the past about the lack of communication between our players and I’d like to say that it’s good to see Squillaci talking to his team mates, if it wasn’t for the sense that this is indicative of him learning about them on the job. Chamakh is also receiving an education, discovering that he doesn’t have time to take an additional touch amidst the Premiership’s more frenetic climes. It’s hard to blame Song for shifting out of the way of Alex’s free-kick, as I’m not sure I’d want to put my face in front of such a guided missile, but it’s not like Chelsea weren’t telegraphing their intentions by sticking Malouda in the wall, exactly where Alex was aiming.

If it wasn’t bad enough getting beat, perhaps what bothered me most was the way in which our spirit seemed to evaporate, as we rolled over at the death. Instead of striving for some respectability, we gifted Chelsea so many chances to add insult to our injury. Yet this match was always likely to be a bridge too far, with a defence that barely knows one another coming up against Chelsea’s settled strike-force and a lone striker who’s finding his feet, trying to pick holes in the league’s meanest backline.

After losing to City, this was just as big a game for the Blues as it was for the Gunners. But having failed in our efforts to reinforce a Chelsea wobble, I’m not too downhearted. In light of the inconsistency across the board, it might already appear as if the Blues are destined to retain the title but it’s only the beginning of October and there’s still likely to be many a slip ‘twixt cup and lip!

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com

Bridge Of Sighs Or Highs?

Hi folks,

It's another "twofer" week, since I wrote the following diary piece last Sunday night/Monday morning, for publication in Wednesday'Irish Examiner and I never got around to posting it out, in my rush to get it finished and filed to the paper so that I could go and get my motorbike MOTd - as much to my great distress, I returned from working on Saturday night to deliver a hired truck back on Sunday morning, only to find that the car had been stolen. I was so cream-crackered, after a hard day/night's work, that the last thing I needed at 7am on a Sunday morning was to discover we were car-less.

Quite apart from all the aggro of having to report this crime to the old bill and the insurance company, it was the long schlep back from Greenford on the tube which was just about the last thing I needed. I suppose it could've been worse, as I was considering unloading the truck in Kent in the middle of the night, just to avoid any traffic and them I would've arrived back at Greenford before the tubes started running, but after setting out only to find myself forced to take a massive long detour because of the Blackwall tunnel being closed, it was one of those "last straw" type moments, which left me feeling as if the whole world was against me and the thought of having to deal with the whole bothersome matter and having to sort out some new wheels, left me feeling desperate to get home, slide under the covers of my much needed bed and never poke my head out from under the duvet again!

What I couldn't understand was why anyone would want to steal my positively ancient motor, as I don't imagine there's such a massive demand in the Middle-East for 20-year old Rover's, that someone would want to make a "ringer" out of my old banger! But when I posed this question to the kindly policeman who called from Southall nick the following day (I got quite excited, thinking they'd found my motor around the corner and was extremely disappointed when I realised he was only phoning for answers to some of his many questions), he pointed out that there are many unscrupulous characters driving around in low-loaders, who'll pick up cars like mine, merely for the scrap value, which is a real wind up, as despite being old, this car's been such a great & reliable runner, that I don't think we've needed to spend a penny on it since we bought it.

And by the time the insurance company deduct the excess, I imagine any pay out I receive from them will be a relative pittance and the chances of finding another equally dependable motor are very slim. Just as in football, the old adage about paying peanuts and getting monkeys proves true for most things and I'm probably going to end up buying someone else's problems for the few pennies I'm likely to have to spend, getting the same clapped out monkeys that we keep ending up with in the Arsenal goalmouth!

I tell you, it's enough to turn anyone to religion! I was joking about Avram Grant's day of repentance not paying off, when the Hammers failed to win on Yom Kippur, but the Irons results since might be viewed as some sort of testament to the power of this religious malarkey. By contrast to the Hammers wins (away to Sunderland and at home to Spurs - first win against the scum at Upton Park for four years!), we might've enjoyed a Carling Cup victory at White Hart Lane, but we've endured a gut-wrenching 95th minute equaliser at Sunderland, an awful performance against the Baggies and a flattering result in Belgrade (considering our lethargic display).

Never mind our keeper troubles and the lack of a proper leader, perhaps I'm entirely culpable for what has transpired since, by incurring the wrath of the G-ds in taking the piss, by not only fasting but by revelling in a scrumptuous bacon sarnie.

The thought certainly crossed my mind when I walked up the Greenford Road at the crack of dawn on Sunday, praying my motor would come into view at any moment and I tell you, if we don't win at the Bridge on Sunday, we had better bloody beat Birmingham in our next game, or else I'm going to end up having to find out what the jewish equivalent of an exorcism is and get it sorted double quick, in order to lift this curse. Mind you, having already donated my foreskin to religious custom, if there's a ritual involved that necessitates any sort of further physical sacrifice, I'm afraid you can forget about the Arsenal's title prospects for this season :-)

With no car, at least for the immediate future, I thought I'd better get my motorbike sorted, so I at least have some form of legal transport and as I sat in this garage in Hackney waiting for my bike to be tested, I read a match report in the Daily Mirror (could it have been written by John Cross?) which I thought was sufficiently amusing, that if it wasn't already too late, I would've returned home and completely rewritten the piece below for the Examiner, as to my mind, it read like a load of tedious tosh, compared to this rib-tickling match report on our most regrettable result.

I rarely tend to read the newspapers nowadays, especially in advance of writing my diary pieces, as otherwise it's somewhat inevitable that I end up feeling slightly paranoid about whether my ideas are original, or if I'm just rehashing something I've heard / read elsewhere. But if this was an example of the sort of standard that's regularly being maintained in the written media, then I guess I will have to start reading the papers again, if only to ensure that I don't get complacent and that I'm always striving to raise the bar, rather than to be left feeling so disappointed that it reads like I've toshed the following piece out, compared to a professional's far more enjoyable writing.

In the past I've always relied on my Scouser pal, Steve Kelly, who writes for the same feature as me, to keep me on my toes, as his weekly diary pieces are invariably such a good read that this gives me something to aim for. Although I have to admit that I've given up entirely on being as concise as him.

I might have improved considerably over the course of 11 seasons, as I no longer forward any War & Peace length opii to the Irish Examiner's encumbered editor(as I leave these for the questionable pleasure of you poor unfortunate blog readers). Having long since been issued with a yellow card warning from the sports ed, I don't want to end up getting a red and the "tin tack" that would undoubtedly accompany it (even if, after all this time, there must eventually come a day when my diary pieces for the paper reach a natural conclusion). However I consider it an achievement if my missives come in under a 1000 words and unlike Steve Kelly, I'll never have the discipline to produce 750 word pieces on the button every week - besides which, there'd be no need for editors, if every writer was that accurate with their efforts!

Even if I wasn't particularly happy because I felt that the following missive was far too mediocre for public consumption, I intended sending it out in advance of Tuesday night's match. But naturally I managed to forget (so what else is new!) and then having written a blog entry of a few thousand words since then, I can't believe there are any thoughts in my missive below that I've not already pontificated on at some length.

Nevertheless, if only for my own pedantic satisfaction of maintaining my weekly record, I'm sending it out (you never know, we could go on to win the treble and I can burden the world with another book) and leaving it to you, the ultimate arbiters of what is and isn't an enjoyable read, to peruse, or to dismiss as you so please

Big Love
Bernard
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Pessimist that I am, it seemed obvious to me that the Gunners would blow a rare opportunity to capitalize on Chelsea’s defeat, from the moment the final whistle blew at Man City on Saturday. Mind you, Saturday’s failure to reel in the league leaders might only prove significant, if the Arsenal are capable of mounting a credible challenge for the title. While I continue to have faith that on our day, our best XI players are a match for anyone, sadly I can’t envisage our current squad winning the Premiership, not unless it’s gifted to us by the inconsistency, or the complacency of the competition.official.

It appeared as if one singular injection of pace by Carlos Tevez won the day against Chelsea, in an otherwise ponderous, low tempo encounter. All due credit to the Baggies for giving the Gunners a taste of our own footballing medicine, but I felt that they were allowed to grow increasingly confident as the game wore on, as a result of a similarly lethargic and uninspired Arsenal performance.

It’s very rare to hear Wenger publically criticising his team. His willingness to do so on Saturday was perhaps a reflection of the fact that our esteemed manager feels under increasing pressure to lead us out of a silverware starved wilderness, to a trophy-laden promised land. Perhaps this was reflected in the line-up for the midweek Mickey Mouse Cup encounter at White Hart Lane, which included a good deal more experience than we’ve grown accustomed to in previous seasons.

My Spurs pals tried to assure me that somehow their Carling Cup exit didn’t feel nearly so significant, now that they have Champions League fish to fry. But I pointed out that they’re faced with the same Catch-22 situation that’s afflicted us in recent campaigns, whereby the demands of a European marathon make prioritisation essential. But that this could all end in tears, when their Champions League dream draws to a premature conclusion, leaving them with nothing more to play for.

Arsène might be more accustomed to the annual juggling act involved in managing the Arsenal’s resources, but I don’t imagine anyone expected these to be stretched to the limit, so early on in the season. His team selection on Saturday hardly inspired me with confidence. Aside from the increasing clamour over le Gaffer’s failure to address the goalkeeping issue, one other recurring criticism concerns his tendency to focus solely on his own side, rather than targeting his team selection, according to the respective strengths and weaknesses of the opposition. Moreover, Arsène’s apparent reluctance to make ‘on the hoof’ tactical changes is often a source of much frustration.

Work commitments either side of Saturday’s game meant that I had to go to inordinate lengths just to be there and although I was completely ‘cream crackered’, I was buoyed by the euphoria of beating the scum 4-1 and Chelsea's slip up against City. Considering all the effort involved on my part, it was bitterly disappointing that the majority of my team couldn’t be bothered to turn up.

Instead of tearing out of the starting blocks, like a side fired up by the opportunity to prise open the door left ajar by Chelsea, they plodded out, reminiscent of far too many of last season’s performances, where, convinced of our own superiority, victory was just a matter of waiting until the Baggies began to flag and the waters of the West Brom defence parted like the Red Sea.

Even if I was a fan of this tactic, it’s dependent on the sort of precise passing which leaves the opposition exhausted, chasing shadows, not the sort of slipshod, casual play witnessed at the weekend. But more importantly, the lack of any real intent on our part allows our opponents time to relax, to the point where they begin to believe themselves capable of upsetting the odds. In fact at times on Saturday, the Baggies appeared to be so comfortable on the ball, adorning their play with clever backheels and incisive passing, that they looked far more Arsenal like than our lacklustre side.

We’ve barely the personnel with only Chamakh and Vela to choose from at present, but personally I’d much prefer a show of intent in home games against lesser opposition, by starting with two strikers, instead of gifting away home advantage by giving visiting defences a lone front man to deal with. Although it served Wenger well for so many years, unfortunately 4-4-2 seems to have become thoroughly persona non grata nowadays.

Almunia’s penalty save 10 mins before the break should’ve been the turning point, but the fact that no one responded to the roar of the crowd, by driving the team forward, is just further evidence of the crucial lack of leadership in this Arsenal side. It was no surprise that we were 0-2 down before Wenger was eventually forced to ring the changes. But then as they say, you can’t make an omelette without eggs. While Samir Nasri made a valiant, almost singlehanded effort to rescue a result at the death (much to the chagrin of all those premature evacuators), this only left me bemoaning the Gunners failure to pull their collective fingers out from the opening whistle and the fact that we lack the sort of personalities who are capable of putting a flea in the ear of their “below par” compadres.

Here’s hoping we’ve bounced back in Belgrade, so we can travel to Sunday’s clash with heads held high, as we certainly don’t want to be turning up at Stamford Bridge with our tails between our legs!

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e-mail to: londonN5@gmail.com