|
APRIL 2000 16.4.00 Leeds United 0 Arsenal 4
Wimbledon 1 Arsenal 3 There’s a world of difference between ‘friends’ and ‘mates’. Friends are the people that come to your house for dinner, bring a bottle of undrinkable Paraguayan Chardonnay and spend all night talking about work and how much their house price has gone up in the last nanosecond. Friends also sit around drinking coffee, sleep with one another and all look like super models. Well, that just might be a TV show, I don’t know. Mates, on the other hand, have been around forever, have been there at four in the morning discussing the lumps in your vomit, nicked your drinks, your clothes, trashed your flat and know intimate details concerning the state of your underwear. And they never, ever drink coffee. Cough mixture chasers maybe, but only after a handful of pints. Mates are also about as reliable as Halley’s comet; coming up trumps every four hundred years or so. Which brings me nicely to the Wimbledon game. For all the addled and dispossessed that actually bother to read this tawdry pap, you might have been wondering why this match report is later than the late Charlie Kray. Well, @FC is basically composed of me, a computer and a bunch of unreliable, aforementioned ‘mates’. So when my better half screamed the word ‘holiday’ at me closely followed by the words ‘or’ ‘else’ ‘divorce’ and ‘season ticket’ ‘u-bend’ and ‘flush’ it seemed highly unlikely that I would make the Wimbledon game. Enter the small cadre of mates. Yes, they assured me, of course we’ll do the match reports (and they have in the past, that is true) we won’t let you down (not so true) you can rely on us (a complete pile of pants, that one.) So, idiot that I am, me and Her jetted off to the land of the free, the brave and the armed psychotic, safe in the knowledge that my pals would just once this side of 1967 actually keep their promises. Ha. You can see what’s coming. Not only did none of them even bother putting pen to paper, but they all had the temerity to not actually go to the game at all. Urgent job, urgent shopping, large dogs stuck in small catflaps, finding out the house was built on an Indian burial ground and having the home invaded by freshly dripping Navaho zombies; fucking excuses like there was no tomorrow. But no match report. Which is why the following report, almost verbatim, is done by…a…Wimbledon supporter. (Groan.) The only bloke I actually know who went to the game. "The problem with Wimbledon is that we’ve too many second division Norwegians. Son of this and son of that, but no-one prepared to get hold of the game and be the daddy. (Get on with it. What about the Arsenal?) "Henry was everywhere. Definitely the best man on the park." (Well, that’s the man of the match taken care of.) "Kanu missed a couple of sitters and his goals were not out of his top drawer." (His top drawer? I know he’s a tall boy, but he’s a geezer not a fucking chest of drawers.) "Seaman looked wobbly." (I think this translates as, ‘Neil Sullivan will be playing for the Arse next season.’) "Keown was terrific." (Knew that already.) "Luzhny should never had been sent off." (Oh good another early bather.) "Henry’s penalty was OK, I s’pose, he took it well." (Top man.) "Our goal was blinding. Lund got the ball and……." (Enough of that.) And that’s it. Do you feel short-changed? I bloody do. Anyway, normal service will be resumed after the Lens game. I’ll be home good and early, because there’s no way I’m going down the pub to buy any of that lot a drink. Even if they do know the colour of my underwear. Man of the Match: Lund. No, sod off. Henry then.
Leeds United 0 Arsenal 4 Firstly, apologies for the lateness of this report. This is due entirely to extreme inebriation and the fact that, for once it wasn’t my fault, but was entirely due to my wife. That’s an original excuse. There we were, happily ensconced in the pub, soaking up the footy, soaking up everything else and generally having an all-round groovy time. As the match finished we were have our usual garbled autopsy, ready to go home and call it one happy day, when who should turn up in the pub, but my missus. Having spent most of Sunday at the launderette, owing to our increasingly incontinent washing machine, she pronounced herself ‘bored’ and turned up at ‘The Gunners’ demanding to be watered and then fed. Drink, drink, drink, restaurant, chomp, drink, chomp, drink. And then a sodding big black hole that culminated in waking up bolt upright about six in the morning with eyes like piss-holes in the snow, a bladder the size of Berkshire and a case of the squits that you don’t even want to know about. And I had to go to work. After shuffling into work doing a passable impersonation of Albert Steptoe, it occurred to me that, deep into my cups, I had made a few notes about the match on a stray serviette. Oh good, I thought, that’ll make the match report easier. Below you can see for yourself exactly what was written. Pretty lucid, eh?
And the match? A real event, if nothing else and not at all like the pisshead napkin precise. It began with a minute’s silence for the two men murdered in Istanbul. Arsenal presented the Leeds players with bouquets of flowers in a moving ceremony strangely reminiscent of 26th May 1989 at Anfield when we took the League in the last minute of the last game of the season. There then followed a minute’s silence which, quite incredibly, was immaculately observed in the pub. Wonders, will never cease. The first twenty minutes was all Leeds. Apart from a cracking Petit shot that was palmed away by Martyn, the youngsters in white had all the game. Harry Kewell, at one point, ran from the half way line, beat everybody at least three times and then completely ran out of brain cells in front of the goal and squared it to somebody I forget, (Smith?) who put the pig’s bladder into the bleeding Van Allen Belt. Such was Leeds domination that we were all drinking like diabetics on a Saharan holiday when suddenly O’Leary’s kids changed tack completely and Arsenal, sensing a lull, went for the jugular. A Parlour run down the right culminated in a cross that Henry received side on to the goal. A flick, a lift and the still moving ball was diverted into the bottom right corner of the goal beyond Martyn. 1-0 us and the pub ceiling was dripping stalactites of foaming beer. For a time the game got quite dirty. Leeds, a filthy side at the best of times, excelled themselves. Bakke and Bowyer two guilty parties that should have been carded, but the referee, fifteen stone of pulsating jelly, decided that red shirted players only were to be the yellow rectangled ones. Then, just before half time, Bergkamp followed a ball through and tussled with Harte. The Leeds player fell over and then in a fairly pernicious display of petulance, managed to stud Dennis in the arse whilst laying on the ground. The ref talked to the linesmen and then pulled a red card out of his pocket. We all thought Bergkamp was about to walk. But no, luck for once had a red and white replica kit, and Harte was ordered off. Half time. Immediately after, Kewell made another run down the wing, clashed with Dixon, left his foot in and Lee shoved the Aussie around about the shoulder area. Maybe people down under are wired up different from the Brits but the cheating bag of Koala doo went down clutching his face. We tried a brief experiment in the pub that involved going around slapping people on the shoulder and not one of them evinced any sign of facial wounding. Cheating cunt. After that, the rest of the game, quite inexorably began to turn Arsenal’s way. A Petit corner was solidly met by a jack-knife Keown header that Martyn splendidly saved. Of all people, Keown got the rebound and smashed the ball into the net. Terrific. 2-0. About ten minutes and three pints along, Silvinho picked up a ball just inside the Leeds half and ran, and dribbled, and ran, and turned, and dribbled, and ran, and ran through the entire Leeds side and then with just the ‘keeper to beat neatly slide the ball sidewise to Kanu who scored the easiest goal of his career. Have a look at that Silvinho run, if you get a chance. It made Kewell’s dribbleathon in the first half look like a baby’s first steps. Magic. By now the game was sewn up. Almost at the death, Marc Overmars, latched onto a long ball, and had that wonderful one on one situation with the goalkeeper that he so relishes- all speed and diagonal angles. There was no way he was going to miss. 4-0. The pub goes ballistic. You should have been there. A truly memorable afternoon; if only I could remember the evening. Man of the Match: Petit, by a whisker.
Watford 2 Arsenal 3 Firstly, I’d like to congratulate Manchester United on winning the Premiership title. Over the season, they were by far the best team, relegating everybody else to the level of snot and pond life. It was quite masterful the way they manipulated the basic rules of football; wangling a month’s break in the sunshine, escaping without any censure at all from the FA and then conniving to have fixtures re-arranged when they wanted; I didn’t see many other teams being allowed to play league games on FA cup days. Throw in a brace of over lenient referees, some iffy penalty decisions and you have the leftovers of a once decent league served up to those who have the most clout and the most money. Of course, Europe was a different water brewing vessel filled with piscine organisms. Those foreigners, eh? Never read scripts, do they? Anybody who heard any of the shell shocked twaddle dribbling out of the mouth of Ferguson following the Mankies surrender to an average Madrid side, can only rub their hands in glee at the prospect of next season. Talking of next season’s European tour, there’s not much to say about this game, apart from Arsenal consolidating the third place in the Premiership (that dodgy Chelsea Champions’ League qualifying spot) and they might even sneak into the runners-up place if Liverpool throw a wobbler (you know, the dealer’s late with the stuff- usual scouser problems.) The annoying thing about this game was the fact that at half time we were three up. Two goals from Henry, one running and shooting the other a blinding rake and one from Parlour should have buried Graham Taylor’s collection of spare parts. But no, we let them back in and turn it into one of those wretched games that suddenly become interesting for the ‘impartial fan.’ Still, with a couple of smart games still to happen (Chelsea, Galatasaray) I’m not complaining. Shame the league didn’t go to the wire, though. Man of the Match: Thierry Henry.
Everton 0 Arsenal 1 Typical. The whole of England basks in glorious sunshine but in Liverpool it piddles done. Now I know that a lot of Scousers have a bit of a chip on their shoulders, but having your own weather system is taking things a bit far. Arsenal arrived at Everton without both Henry (hamstring) and Ljungberg (undiagnosed busted rib from the Werther game) so Kanu, newly returned form Nigeria (he scored against Eritrea, of all people) was stuck up in front of Bergkamp. Grimandi filled the hole in the middle for the rested Vieira. Walter Smith has, in a couple of seasons, turned the Toffees into a sticky old mess. Mean at the back and just hopelessly boring everywhere else, they rarely lose, rarely win and in fact, spookily look like a mid-nineties version of the good old Arsenal. They also have only lost once at home this season. Anyone looking at the scoreline would think this to be an even scrap. But Arsenal dominated for such long periods that the blue shirts were relegated to wandering around picking up litter and ordering small boys off the park. So, of course, the first real chance fell to John Collins, a sitter of planetary proportions, that he neatly tucked into a cloud formation somewhere over the Mersey estuary. Meanwhile, Arsenal, Petit and Overmars, in particular, were having a great time in showing the Scallies how to pass and run with ball, without looking like a divvy girl. Bergkamp, now getting back to his best, hit a smacking shot that hit the post square on. Honestly, this season Arsenal have hit more woodwork than a pissed up George Best. About five minutes after that a long Arsenal clearance found the amazingly underused head of Bergkamp, who looped it into the path of Overmars. The bandy legged one ran onto the ball, a good thirty five yards away from the goal, and trailing Everton defenders, coolly put it down to the left of Gerrard and squeezed the ball just inside the post. Classy goal. After that it was the current Arsenal crop of near misses; Overmars, overbars, a superb Parlour header and a Petit shot that took goalie skin with it. Really, if we had scored a fraction of the near misses this season we would be looking down on Manchester United squabbling with Liverpool for second place. Oh, well. Three points and the Southern sun even came out at the end showing those Northern trogs exactly what they’re missing by living at the wrong end of England. A satisfying afternoon. Man of the Match: Manu Petit.
I Current Season I Match Archives I Mail us I Links I Home I
|
