|
AUGUST 1996
Lots of losing, not a lot of Den, Seamo, Tone or Platty. The hysterical bandwagon has started early this season with all the doomsayers going on about this being the end of the Arsenal as we know it. Losing the bulk of your pre-season friendlies is not exactly pleasant, but realistically it means nothing. After spending the summer drinking lager and eating bags of crisps watching Euro '96 you must expect a certain amount of ring rust. Since when did John Wark's testimonial constitute a major run out? However, losing 3-1 to Northampton was particularly gruelling. Last season we had a spectacular 100% pre-season record, beating all those amateur Scandinavian teams made up of sauna salesmen and modular kitchen makers. Maybe, remembering that, will help put thing into perspective.
Arsenal 2 West Ham 0 You know those old pop singers that have one hit (reaches number 17 in 1972) and then do the cabaret circuit for the next forty years, always climaxing their act with that one sodding song? Well, Arsenal did that against West Ham. By popular demand they gave us, 1993. You must remember 1993? Long balls, hit so high they blotted out the sun, passes that ended up on a bloke's shin rather than his feet...you get the idea. The day started bright enough: new bogs in the East Stand, the pitch looking like green skin and the West Ham supporters applauding the waving David Seaman. Even a couple of pictures of the new midfielders on the jumbotron. A look, however, at the team sheet cast a large shadow over the day. Wrighty as a sub, no Platt and Morrow and Parlour as the creative force in the middle of the park. With a slimmed down Hartson up front and Den filling in just behind him, the crowd seemed a bit subdued as that horrible little ginger ref peeped up for the kick off. Injury crisis or not, West Ham, looked more than familiar: swarms of buzzing blokes in midfield, a defence that was 90% gristle and an attack that couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo. Amongst West Ham's fascinating collection of ethnic slavs was one, Frank Lampard Jnr. Looking at his horribly familiar ugly mug you couldn't help wondering if someone at Upton Park isn't engaged in some disgusting genetics experiment. Arsenal started strangely. For the first twenty minutes you had the definite impression that the Gunnersauros was still on the pitch. Our ponderous midfield murdered every ball that fell to it, long passes were in danger of taking out the floodlights and short passes ended up whacking some West Ham mercenary on the back of the legs. Bergkamp, on half power, was still light years in front of everyone else on the pitch, making runs, trying to thread balls and still managing to pop up in front of the West Ham goal. As the afternoon warmed up, so did the team. Merson went close, then Hartson, then Dixon. West Ham's reply to this increasing pressure was to run around a bit more and get that laboratory assembled monster, Bilic, to throw his weight about. Midway through the first half Dixon cut in from the left, crossed low and neat, Harstson made a stab, pushed it beyond Miklosko, ran on,did the decent thing and hammered the ball into the net from about four inches. 1-0. West Ham tried to apply themselves after that (more blind man's buff running) but Arsenal, stodgy and sticky, never looked that troubled by the Hammers. West Ham have spent a fortune turning themselves into Coventry. The Clock End taunted their fans with an adaptation of 'Three Lions on a Shirt'...'You're going down, you're going down. West Ham's going down.' The afternoon was warming up. A couple of minutes later Arsenal had a clear cut penalty; someone from the Upton Park Foreign Legion handled, Bergkamp stepped up and stuck into the side netting on Ludo's right. 2-0. After half time it was more of the same. The afternoon got hotter and the football more pointless. High balls, shocking passes and West Ham seem prepared to match us, crap pass for crap pass. Wrighty came on, Den came off. Dickov came on, Hartson came off. (Dickov's size always causes comment. The bloke who sits near me watched Dickov run out and grumbled, "He looks like he should be on a key ring." One day he'll get a good run in the team. Watch him fly.) Our forwards were now about five foot high. Ray, Steve and the other stooges thought this an ideal opportunity to try out their new, exciting high ball tactic. We all watched the clock creep around to 4.45. So, three points. We've played better and come away with nothing. If West Ham were any better we would have been in trouble. The match was like one of those historical tableaus where they re-enact Crecy or Agincourt. All we re-enacted was all those crappy games against West Ham. Man of the Match: Lee Dixon. Postscript: Kevin Campbell scored a hat trick for Forest against Coventry. Don't get fooled Forest fans, he's done that to us. It means sod all.
Liverpool 2 Arsenal 0 You can't help hating Liverpool, can you? Everything annoying, mean and jammy seems to emanate from Anfield and its giro subsidised environs. The match started badly for all concerned. Sitting in the back of the Highbury Barn Tavern with a cold guinness, watching the despised Sky TV, you could tell as soon as you saw the commentary team that we were in for a long, bumpy night. Trevor Francis started and predictably he was moaning. He's never got over the Gunners beating Sheff Wed in those two finals. As soon as he opened his eminently smackable mouth you knew what was going to come out: whinge, whinge, whinge. His co-commentator, the breezy Alan Parry, was quite upfront about his admiration for all things Liverpool. "If you look over there you can see the spot on the Kop where I spent my youth. Of course, we all stood then." This didn't bode too well in the objectivity stakes. Arsenal fielded the same side as they did against West Ham. They began very slowly. Liverpool pressed a bit, occupied acres in the middle at will and decided they would try and win this one by half time. Just when you think Arsenal should pack up and go home, something catches your eye. Slowly our midfield pressed, behind them the weight of the defence ground forward. We let Liverpool have their fifteen minutes exercise, then we applied the thumb screws. Parlour, Bergkamp and Merson began to hit long, accurate crossfield balls that seemed to spook Liverpool no end. Dixon and Winterburn caused trouble down the flanks and Martin Keown began to block, tackle and distribute like a man possessed. Not many chances in the first half as most of the play was confined to the middle. As the second half started, the general consensus in the pub was that everything was OK. There was the usual dicky ref, some fussy area sales manager from Milford Haven, or something. It was the same story; they pull shirts, we get sod all, we pull shirts, we get yellow cards. This plus the usual biased commentary (I'm not even sure that the commentators know they're doing it- Liverpool don't commit 'fouls'- they 'concede free kicks'- It's embedded in their language) set the scene for the second half. Arsenal were holding Liverpool tight. Without the space or time, any goal that was coming would have to be remarkable or a complete fluke. Steve McManaman half screws a shot from the edge of the area, it hits Bouldy, send Seaman completely the wrong way. 1.0 scousers. In the next 5-10 minutes it was business as usual; Arsenal incisive at the back, Liverpool probing and pushing. Perhaps in the need to get forward, a bit more space opened up in Arsenal's defence; Fatty Barnes ('ninety minutes of sheer hell') had a shot, Seaman parried, it fell to McManaman again who used the bulk of Bould as a shield again and blasted it into the Arsenal goal. That was it. Wrighty came on, looking horribly unfit. He had one shot, but it lacked spite and venom. James gathered it up easily. Hillier, with his new gippo haircut made an appearance, played wide on the right and believe it or not, actually played quite well. But our moment had passed and Liverpool knew it. Roy Evans took the piss and brought on two 12 year olds, we all had another pint and watched Andy Gray murder the English language. Was 2-0 a fair result? Well, Arsenal were good enough for a draw, but Liverpool didn't quite deserve their win. The curse of Anfield strikes again. Man of the Match: Martin Keown.
Leicester 0 Arsenal 2 You can't imagine the Enterprise without Capt. Kirk, can you? What about the Tories without fat blokes? Or the sooty show without the yellow oven glove? Arsenal without a real manager, however, seem to work quite happily. An unchanged, auto piloted side trotted out at Filbert Street looking resolute against a sleepy Leicester. The first half mainly consisted of a dominant Arsenal and a Leicester side that seemed obsessed with putting Bergkamp on a stretcher. Den, who is quite prepared to whack people if they whack him, put it about a bit and Leicester suddenly went all soft and moany and threatened to tell their dads. It was only a matter of time before Leicester did something stupid and they obliged by giving Den an easy penalty to convert. It was all going rather well; Keown at the back was doing his Wellington bit magnificently, Hartson was causing the Leicester all sorts of problems and our midfield, much to the away fans' disbelief, looked more than serviceable. In the second half, someone had obviously taken a cattle prod to the Leicester; they came out stung and smarting, determined that the Gunners wouldn't completely have it their own way. A hangover from the first half, Den's inevitable booking came early. Leicester pressed and a 25 yarder had Seaman tipping magnificently over the bar. That was the Leicester attack; their purple patch passed over like a little rain cloud. The now usual substitutions happened: Hartson (somewhat unhappily) went off for Wright and Bergkamp's illogical sub, Hillier, came on. Wright's goal, when it came, had all the good fortune that was missing at Anfield five days earlier. 'Space' Casey Keller, the dodgy American Leicester 'keeper, dribbled the ball madly, hit Winterburn and Ian Wright rolled the ball into an empty net. This was a goal he could have managed if he had dark glasses and a dog called Goldie. That really was it. Three points in the bag and Arsenal quite unbelievably sitting third in the table. Things are warming up and despite the lack of a rudder, Arsenal are definitely going in the right direction. Man of the Match: Dennis Bergkamp.
I Current Season I Match Archives I Mail us I Links I Home I
|
