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August 2000 19.8.00 Sunderland 1 Arsenal 0
Sunderland 1 Arsenal 0 It’s like the summer never happened. Lose to Galatasaray, fly back home, have a rest, shed a few players and then fold to a Sunderland side that looks like it was assembled in a tea break at a small light engineering works. The season, complete with its bad luck, ill fortune and badly aligned planets, is truly underway. Perhaps Wenger, should bought a cart load of rabbits’ foots rather than his customary frogs’ legs. Unusually, most Arsenal supporters have spent most of the summer being uncharacteristically upbeat. Wearing the spanking new nylon sheaf that now passes itself off as the new home strip, most supporters having been sweating their way around various Sainsbury’s, Homebase’s and Ikea’s in a round of seemingly interminable and pointless shopping trips, comforted only by the publication of the fixture list and the thrill of anticipating that first throaty roar of the Highbury faithful. In a word, optimistic. We all knew the score; no pun intended, there. Petit, did very little last season. He moaned, he suffered those injuries that people who moan a lot seem to get and he looked restless. Overmars looked like he was playing on his own most of the time, as if the game in his head bore no relation to the one on the pitch. He ran and ran, to little effect, and indeed, if someone had opened a gate at Highbury, he would have just kept on running up Avenall Road and through Highbury Barn and not stopped until he cleared the Spanish borders. It was all so bleeding obvious. Football, for all it power and money cannot buy men’s hearts. And yet, losing two players at the same time, to the same club, has ripped a chunk out of Highbury that won’t be healed in the immediate future. The muttered comments into the half empty glasses in the hostelries around the ground are all the same; this current squad is too thin to cover the nine month spread. Before we get too deeply into the sorry debacle of the dim bulbs at the Stadium of Light let’s have a little look at the current team based upon a couple of drunken autopsies after the pre-season ‘friendlies.’ Seaman Increasingly resembling an old Labrador. Expect him to start dropping whoopsies over the living room carpet any day now. (Hang on,, that’s exactly what he did yesterday in Sunderland. His badly timed punch gifted Niall Quinn with a well worked header that now leaves Arsenal below Man United in the Premier League. Yes, I know it means absolutely nothing, but I’m depressed, OK) Wenger, really should have done something about Seaman during the close season. (The very least, taking him to one side and telling him that a ponytail the size of a bunch of chives doesn’t do anything for a portly 37 year old northerner. He looks like a Steven Siegal groupie.) Hate to say it, but his days must be numbered. Silvinho No complaints. He gets better and better. And with young Ashley Cole deputising for him, the left back position could be sorted for the next five years. Dixon Again, not many complaints. Been around longer than the Black Death, but shows little sign of waning. Good for at least another season. Squadwise there’s little to back him up. Lauren can play back, as can Grimandi, but we’d all prefer to have the right tool rather than a right tool. Keown/Adams Their much appraised understanding seems to have gone slightly backwards. At times yesterday they looked surprised to see one another outside of the treatment room. Still, we expect them to have a longer run with one another this season and we think all this Adam’s ‘one foot on the grave’ to be a cross between a clever Wenger smoke screen and a load of horse conkers. Vieira Man of the match yesterday. No messing. Sent off in the 90th minute for a wayward elbow. Peter Reid’s sterling half-time talk obviously consisted of, ‘wind up the frogs, rip the shirts from their backs and feign injury if a breeze blows past you.’ Despicable, I’d call it. Makes me ashamed as a human that Peter Reid’s species are my closest genetic relatives. Spank that monkey. Anyway, Pat, when he’s playing, will be key this season. Lauren/Pires/Ljungberg/Parlour In the pre-seasons Lauren has looked class. Fast and wide, he can cross a ball and run with it. And he’s not frightened to shoot. Long-term, he’s probably a replacement for Ray Parlour whose shocking miss at Sunderland will forever redefine the term ‘open goal’ or at least ‘cow’s arse’ and ‘banjo.’ As for Pires. Well, who knows. Different sort of player than Overmars. We’ll just have to wait and see. Freddie? Improving. However, all the midfield is light at least one player. And that, we all know, is the Arsenal Holy Grail of midfielders; a melange of Brady, Paul Davis and Petit. Maybe this will be the season we find him. Sure. Pigs or even Concorde will fly first. Bergkamp Class. But is it the Class of ’98? He looks increasingly marginalised by his rotating striking partners. Last season it was only on the odd occasion, usually with Suker, strangely enough, that he looked at his floating, telepathic best. Still, he’s one of the few players that deserve the epithet ‘great’. We’d still invade a foreign country with his head on a flag if it was asked of us. Kanu The news that he might be buggering off to play in some meaningless antipodean scout jamboree has us spitting feathers. The cheek of it. Who plays his wages anyway? We hate him. Well, at least until he does a little shimmy, a little shake and makes the ball sigh with pleasure, then we’ll change our tune completely. He’s important, but he will come and go. Henry If you know anyone who has the ear of God or any gods, ask them to pray that Thierry doesn’t get injured. If the midfield is missing a piece in the jigsaw, then the attack is a single piece (one of those bits that’s all sky that you can’t fit anywhere). If it all goes well, he’ll be awesome again this season. Arsene Buy a midfielder. Buy a striker. Buy a goalkeeper. Buy a right back. Get Seaman to get his hair cut. And so, back to Sunderland. Horrible day. Bags of effort and work; open goals missed, chances fluffed and a referee who gave Sunderland everything they craftily connived. Couple this with Wenger keeping one eye of Monday’s ‘Pool game and hence not playing Bergkamp, Lauren and Pires and you had an afternoon that was the quintessential Arsenal experience; frustrating and empty. Only nine months to go before optimism sinks in again. Man of the Match: Patrick Vieira.
Arsenal 2 Liverpool 0 There must be words in the dictionary to describe Graham Poll, the referee. Maybe a nice a nice sibilant one that alludes to putrid laboratory waste or a harsh sounding one that refers to the cankerous orbit that surrounds the swelling wen of a meat fresh cancer. But, being a simple soul, I have no knowledge of such terms, so somewhat reluctantly I’ll revert to a good old fashioned ‘Cunt’. For those of you who don’t know the whole story and have merely scanned the shrill tabloid headlines, what broadly happened in the barking spacko referee department was: 1. Mcallister was sent off for a fairly chunky follow through on Vieira. A definite yellow. Poll produced a red. 2. Vieira reacted after being scythed. (Heskey, the human squash ball, I think.) Yellow card. 3. Vieira is then yellow carded again for a perfectly good tackle where he won the ball. (You don’t need me to tell you what two yellows mean, do you?) 4. Liverpool’s Hamann is then sent off for having a pointy face. 5. The laws of physics are turned upside down, the natural order of the universe is inverted; men lie down with the beasts of the fields, clouds of locusts obscure the sun and blood falls as rain from the sky as Arsenal fans and Liverpool fans sing as one, ‘YOU’RE NOT FIT TO REFEREE’ at a decibel level that could liquefy your tripes. 6. The referee fills his shorts with copious squirts of warm poo and refuses to come off the pitch at the end of the game as he thinks he can see Gerard Houllier and Arsene Wenger lurking in the darkness of the tunnel cleaning their nails with something that looks suspiciously like a couple of flick knives. Well, at least the pitch looked nice. But somewhere amongst the swirling mayhem there was a bit of a game. Arsenal started with Pires, Bergkamp and Lauren. And unfortunately with Luzhny as preferred right back to Dixon. I like old Oleg, but he always looks to me like he should be carrying a fucking shovel over his shoulder or something. Grimandi partnered Tone and Mart in the middle. Up front, a sizzling, bald Henry sliced across the front line. Unfortunately, Seaman is still sporting the worst pony tail outside of a TV mini series about drug dealers. The Clock End, no slouches in the fashion department themselves (I’m employing an ironic device here- do try and keep up) were quite firm in their appraisals of Seamo’s tuft. A long chorus of, ‘GET YOUR FUCKING HAIR CUT’ probably did nothing for Dave’s confidence. At least his missus thinks he looks pukka. ‘Never mind babes, at least you hair looked nice,’ as Victoria Beckham is rumoured to have said to her husband after he got sent off in the World Cup against Argentina. As early as the second minute Henry played a one two with Lauren that had the geriatric East Stand creaking to its feet. Indeed, Lauren continued to be a threat for the entire game. The Cameroonie (or whatever they’re called- I have no idea) forced a corner. In came the ball to a confusing bit of pinball, squirted out and that man Lauren stroked it into the net though a gaggle of players. If he carries on like that, he’ll be the find of the season. There is a problem though. As the bloke next to me pointed out, he’s a dead ringer for Dwayne Dibbley. You know, The Cat out of Red Dwarf. Wait until the papers pick up on that one. The bloke next to me also kept referring to Pires as, ‘Jimmy Carter’. Well, I thought it was funny. Henry had one fabulous shot in the first half that no human being built to the same specification as me had any right to get on target. Thierry, in fact, had a splendid, game capping it with a sweet goal in the 90th minute that hit Westerveld came out and then the rebound was curved with the outside of his boot around the keeper and into the goal the long way around. Tasty. But the truth is that the only thing people will remember is the startling ineptitude of the referee. The shitty thing is he will slip down the ref rankings and be quietly removed from the Premiership lists because of this performance. But, by then it will be too late; Vieira will be branded a thug and probably play his next League game about the time the baby Jesus unwraps his pressies. Deeply crap. Still, we’re all much cheered from Saturday. First victory against the Scousers in six years and my vocal chords feel like someone’s run an electric sander over them. I think the season’s finally begun. Man of the Match: Lauren.
Arsenal 5 Charlton 3 (Arsenal declared after first innings.) Weird day this one. The weather was all mixed up; rain in the air, across the ground, dripping from brows and insinuating itself into 76,000 armpits and 38,000 arse cracks. The pitch was a liquid emerald skating rink and the atmosphere oppressively muggy. On the pitch, Charlton didn’t help by electing to play in an away strip that was the negative of their home strip, ie, red and white. So everything was red, white and green and covered in a smeary dripping ick. Before the game, the melting supporters were introduced to a rather cool looking Wiltord. Resplendent in white, he displayed his newly numbered Arsenal shirt to the crowd at arms length. A distasteful expression on his face, as the red nylon sweated buckets all on its own. Wiltord is an astute signing by Wenger, but don’t expect miracles; we reckon he’s just about the deluxe version of Diawara. Keep that in mind, and we’ll all get on just fine. Along with the ominous rumbling of barely audible thunders on the horizon the other rumble going around the East Stand was that Wenger had stuck a hefty bid in for Gareth Southgate. You heard it here first. Only one midfielder and a goalkeeper to go. When the confusing mix of red and white players finally got underway we all settled down into our sticky chairs and waited for the slaughter that was our God given right as London’s elite team. Kanu had the best early chances, but beguiled by the sultry atmosphere, he wanted all the time in the world to tee the ball up and make it perform, oblivious to the hard working sweaty midgets in Charlton shirts who regularly nicked the ball off the tip of his boot and belted hell for leather up the field with it. Arsenal’s first goal actually came from a superb Kanu ball that floated over the Charlton defence and was met by Vieira who delicately dummied the keeper and flicked it over the diving body into the wide open net. Lovely goal, with a deft bit of technical precision. After the week that Vieira’s had, his celebrations were both joyous and touching. Whipping off his shirt, he wheeled away and dived into the crowd for a big group hug that seemed to go on forever. Brought a tear to your eye it did. Oh good, just what we needed, more liquid. That should have been it. But no, the Arsenal defence decided to indulge in a bit of primary school ball watching. Andy Hunt, a striker somewhat reminiscent of the hated Sheddy Shittingham, banged in two elementary goals, that had the entire Arsenal defence frozen in time as if some bastard had chucked the fucking magic boomerang. (Older sad gits will understand this reference.) Seaman, who came out for the cross last week and naused it up horribly, decided this week to stay put. He didn’t even register the ball as Hunt nodded it in. It was like watching some old bloke in a home forget to close his mouth when he eats; or take his trousers off when the stuff comes out the other end. The rest of the defence wasn’t much better. Dixon gave the ball away to anyone with a bit of red in their kit, Keown seemed to be having a pointing and shrugging contest with Grimandi and Adams went from sublime to the ridiculous in the blink of an eye. So, 2-1 to the visitors. Half time came and went. We were all just settling down for a sweaty scratch and major moanathon when Adams picked up a ball in midfield and side footed it forward to Henry. Thierry flicked it up, juggled it in the air and let fly from well outside the area. Me, I thought nothing of it. People shoot from there all the time. It never goes in. I can remember my heart missing a beat, not being able to breath and then clapping like a seal on speed as the ball dipped in the air, screamed passed the goalkeeper and nearly tore the net out. Astonishing goal. 2-2. And Henry never even cracked a smile. Charlton’s third was not unexpected given the Arse’s defensive frailties, but it was definitely their best goal. A run down the wing by the motoring Lisbie, a terrific cross and Graham Stuart swivelled and lamped it between Seaman, Adams and the post. 2-3. Didn’t see that one coming. It was at this point that we realised that this was quite a good game. Arsenal supporters can be a bit slow sometimes, you know. Kanu, who had dropped deeper and was now accompanying a pulled inside Pires, released the simplest of balls across the pitch. Vieira ran onto it and from 25 yards out he whacked it sweetly. No surprise to see that one in the net. 3-3. Charlton began to run out of steam, failing to deal with Arsenal’s reupholstered midfield now plush with Kanu, Pires, Bergkamp and a pushed up Grimandi. Indeed, it was Gilles, burning down the right wing who slipped a superb ball to Henry. It was a shame that Thierry was virtually on the bi-line because this would have been a terrific…wait he’s cut back in, he’s made a tiny space, he shoots, but the angle is soooo acute. Bugger me. It’s gone in. Across the face of the goal and in. 4-3. There was no way Charlton were coming back now. They had a few more chances; high, wide and wobbly. The strikes of beaten men. Just about on ninety minutes Silvinho picked up a wide ball just inside the Charlton half. He ran as usual; past one player, through two players, dropped his hip, swerved and then lashed a ball that bent away from the keeper and smacked the net emphatically. We didn’t see that one coming either. Blow me. And much, much better than Gigg’s goal against the Arse in that forgettable cup semi final. At least the Charlton defenders weren’t backing off their man. So there. Hot and sweaty. Phenomenal goals, no fingernails left to speak off and a thumping headache trying to sort out the reds from the whites and the whites from the reds. Magic. Man of the Match: Vieira again.
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