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AUGUST 1998 9.8.98 Charity Shield. Arsenal 3 Man United 0 17.8.98 Arsenal 2 Nottm Forest 1
Charity Shield. Arsenal 3 Manchester United 0 The wally on the PA system was blathering on about ‘Wembley The Home of Legends’. My mate forlornly looked at his bottle of warm mineral pee that he had just been rushed two quid for and muttered darkly, "more like the fucking home of ledgers." Yep. Welcome back to Wembley: medieval toilets, merchandising that would look shoddy on a shopping channel and catering straight out of a Little Chef’s dustbin. I mean, how long have sausage rolls been the same colour as an elephant’s arse? This is what we are giving Highbury up for. Madness. Still, it was a burning blue day as we walked up Wembley Way. As you passed the groups of lounging fans you could hear lilting Welsh voices (or what passes for Welsh; that peculiar sound of a consumptive trying to cough up a ball of pubic hair.) Strong Scottish and Cornish voices, Irish brogues, quizzical Danes and plippy ploppy Swedes. Indeed, the whole babel of voices that now indicate your average Man Utd fan. There they were, the Family Fortunes generation, the 2.5 families, all in this week’s red and black nylon ‘sports fashions.’ Complete bottom feeders and tat zombies. It may have said ‘Sharp’ on their chests but they looked anything but. Stretford meets Stepford. Support your local brand. However, the Gooners were in fine fettle. Lots of the new tabard style strip to be seen atop some truly horrible uncovered legs. Me and the boys having sweated puddles in previous years incarcerated inside the wet hell of a genuine ‘replica’ shirt were wearing more sensible clothing: fur lined parkas, thermal dry suits, full armour, etc. We waited in the wobbly heat for the teams to appear. Arsenal looked cool and relaxed: if Vieira or Petit were nursing hangovers, then they were hiding it well. In comparison, United looked like surly midgets, with the spectacularly ugly Jap Stamm winning the ugly prize by looking exactly like a half dissected corpse. Check out Grey’s Anatomy if you don’t believe me. The game started well. Both side were at full strength and both sides looked like they meant it. Tony Adams, complete with bizarre blonde locks was in wonderful form. Vieira and Petit were pure silk and Overmars was making Gary Neville look like he couldn’t outrun a milk float. United had Roy Keane back but he looked a bit dozy. Beckham was roundly booed every time he went near the ball, but most of the Gooners vitriol was reserved for Teddyboy. At one point Sherringham tried to laugh it off by pretending he couldn’t hear the insults. The crowd went mental. Teddy, looked a little worried and scuttled back to the safety of the bench. Arsenal looked the better side throughout. At first, it was a bit worrying to see just Anelka up there on his own. But the midfield soon pushed up to give him support. Parlour, in particular, had a terrific game. The first goal, out of the blue and into the net, came from a cheeky Bergkamp back heel that found Anelka who fed Overmars who cracked it in from a side saddle position. Nice. And it stayed that way to half time. Man United mixed it up a bit in the second half, brought on about fifty subs who all looked and played exactly the same. Arsenal brought on Wreh who promptly scored at his second attempt after the ball bounced off Rudolph the Red Nosed ‘Keeper. The customary back flip followed. I couldn’t believe it when my mate said "who scored that one?" "Small, nippy black bloke does cartwheels and back flips, why that must be Martin Keown." Perhaps the heat had got to him. The third goal was the best of the lot. Anelka chased down an impossible ball, completely outpaced Jap Stump, turned, waited for Schmeichel to make his move and whacked it in the crack between the Man Utd players. Stunning. So, easy, easy. United looked anything but world beaters. They huffed and puffed and fell for the Gunner’s diagonal cross field balls again and again. We romped it in the end. Another thing of silver flashing in the sun. I suspect it won’t be the last. Man of the Match: Patrick Vieira.
Arsenal 2 Nottm Forest 1 "Another boring season" said the bloke in front me as he squeezed into his seat. We all nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Time to go back into the box and then wait another ten years for anything to happen. Every time you win something, you feel the same. What happens now? Usually it’s a vague attempt to climb an impossible steep slope and watch the team disintegrate under the weight of expectancy. All the usual moans were there: the squad is too thin/fat/old/young/Dutch/French/ugly. We heard them all and more. Still, it was a fabulous, life-affirming evening. The pitch looked like it should have pockets in the corners, the air was full of red and white balloons and the ugliest publication in the world, the programme, is now two quid. Talking of old ugly things, the Arsenal back four had a storming game. Faced with a Forest side that strung five across the middle and four at the back, the Gunner’s central midfield (Vieira) was totally outnumbered. The back four had to deal with a well advanced midfield that fed worrying balls through to the speedy Darcheville. At one point he easily outstripped Keown. All that arse warming on the England bench has done Martin no favours whatsoever. Vieira, deserted by Petit, who was playing a little further upfield, stuck out his long legs like a dancing spider, but the shuffling bodies of Nottingham stood in front of him like, well, a forest. You sort of got the feeling that lots of games at Highbury this season were going to be a bit cacky to watch. Sides will come to north London, string a chain of mutts across the park and squeeze the life out of the game and go for that exciting 0-0 draw. Oh well, we used to do it, I suppose. Adams, Parlour, Winterburn and Dixon were all having splendid games. Overmars was getting past Bonalair on the odd occasion and Anelka was experimenting with a new English word that he was hearing for the first time: ‘offside’. Indeed, time and again Nick was caught out by Harry Bassett’s offside trap. It looked like something out Night of the Living Dead the way the Forest shambled around. Arsenal should have buried them, but they would have probably dug their way out if we did. In the first half Anelka hit the post. Bergkamp flitted in and out of the game, looking a bit like a poor Dennis Bergkamp impersonator and we all got frustrated. The miserable hump who sits behind me even thought that Arsenal were ‘crap’. The short memory mob were in tonight. Half time and Forest ambled off to be groomed and have their toe nails trimmed and we watched a great smear of sunset slide between the West Stand and the North Bank. Lovely evening and a vintage Arsenal performance. The only problem the vintage was from 1994. The second half was more of the same until Parlour forced a free kick and Bergkamp floated a ball into the Forest area. We were still watching the moths diving into the floodlights when Tony Adams, a fifty foot tall (bottle) blonde colossus, rose up into the air and met the ball meatily with his head. It smacked into the crossbar, rebounded out, disappeared into a flapping forest of Forest and was met by a crouching Petit who guided it in sweetly with his (real) blonde head. Terrific. Arsenal began to motor a bit until Geoff Thomas, of all people, ran with ball, shrugged off the old guard and belted a screamer past the flapping Seaman. Bugger. Good goal, though. We were just gearing up for a real moanathon ("See, knew we’d lose/draw. We’re shit. Should have bought Kluivert/Carlos Kickaball, blah blah.") when Overmars spoilt it all. He collected the ball on the half way line and ran as if he had the legions of hell at his back (well, Steve Chettle isn’t that far off.) Nobody could catch him. Beasant came out, Overmars dipped and whacked the ball with a smack we heard in the East Stand. It hit Beasant’s legs. Shit, shit, shit. It rebounded out, high and hard, over Marc’s shoulder. Bollocks. And then. And then. Overmars swivelled, lifted his leg higher than a leg should go, caught the ball, hit it over his own shoulder, guided it over Beasant in a dipping arc and planted it in the top left hand corner of the net. Unbelievable. Completely. This is why we go to footy. Not much more to say. A shaky start, but it gives us two points on United and a whole three on Tottenham. Welcome back lads. Man of the Match: Marc Overmars
Just a thought Saddest sight of the night was that of Steve Stone. Once a lightning fast winger with a lightning fast brain he has now become a niggly journeyman worn down by serious injury and brutalised by Division 1 football. Shame.
Liverpool 0 Arsenal 0 Liverpool, we reckon, are just on the verge of coming good. With Redknapp and Fowler in the wings, a defence that’s looking solid and the affable Mr Houllier supplanting the haunted Roy Evans, squeezing a 0-0 out of Anfield was a real result. To tell you the truth, we didn’t fancy this one much. At Highbury we were told that only two types of seat were available for Anfield: ‘restricted view’ and ‘severely restricted view’. "What the bloody hell does that mean, ‘severely restricted?" Said my mate. "Goodison." Said the ticket bloke, without a trace of irony. The thing is, though, we could have won this one. Anelka buried a shot into the side netting, Bergkamp went close and Ray Parlour faced with an open goal the size of the Mersey Tunnel, managed to put the sodding ball into the stratosphere. At the other end Seaman woke up for a couple of saves and the back four Home Guard were once again roused from their autumnal slumbers at the Home for Gentleman Footballers and sent once more into the breech. Tony Adams had retired before the game with a bad case of the squits (strange what people keep in their luggage) so young Steve Bould was strapped to a slab and had a cackling octogenarian German dokktor pull the lever at the height of the storm to give our monster life. What a superb game he had. He certainly kept Michael Owen quiet with some great tackling and one superb interception. And we thought the only way to keep an eighteen year old quiet was with a crate of alcopops and a pile of wank mags. Both sides looked streets ahead of the rest of the Premiership. Paul Ince, in particular, was brilliant. Come Christmas, there could only two sides in it and we don’t mean the side that paid 12.5 million for a bad Andy Cole clone. Man of the Match: Steve Bould.
Arsenal 0 Charlton 0 Well, Charlton who were reckoned, by the cognoscenti, to be the cream of the clubs up from the first division, turned up at Highbury with a nine men defence that looked like it came from Sparta, an appalling long ball game and a vapid coloured strip, somewhere between cappuccino and lager sick, but described in the programme as ‘ecru’. They played adequately against an Arsenal side that mentally was still running around the summer playing fields of France lapping up the glory. That left the fans praying for the day when we don’t have to break in these tiresome first division triers (you know someone like West Ham will put five past them) and yearning for a pitch with a bit more width so that our speed boys can leave the flat back eight zombies spinning aimlessly and grabbing air. Still, having rubbished Charlton and questioned the whole point of the first division, it’s fair to say that, Charlton, if they could have finished any better, would have buried the Arsenal. Holding up two things that from a distance look like testicles, but on closer examination appear to be a couple of sour grapes, you could argue that the first half was ruined by the linesman and the second half by the referee. Time and time again, the bald headed gump with the yellow flag waved offside. We reckon he got it right once and wrong no less than six times. If you’re level you’re on. Read your own FIFA directives you sad mug. It’s a real shame that they don’t identify which linesman is which in the prog anymore. It doesn’t seem fair to kidnap both the dogs of both linesmen, nail their entrails to a wall and send them a note written in Rover’s blood saying: ‘BERGKAMP WAS ONSIDE, YOU TOSSER’. The other linesman was nearly human, so I suppose we’ll let them be. You probably all know by now that Petit walked the long walk in the second half. He really gave the referee no choice. But then again, Mr Poll, this week’s middle management under achiever, looking for his fifteen minutes of fame, started the whole ball rolling, by basically, letting the ball roll on after Vieira was lumberjacked down on the edge of the Charlton area. Free kick, we reckoned, no doubt. Petit, incensed, went potty, ran over to the ref, waved his arms about in that threatening gallic way and had a little yellow rectangle waved back at him for his troubles. A minute later, Petit, hot continental blood still coursing manfully, chopped down Shaun Newton. Second yellow and off he went. We’ve seen Petit head hunt before, but this is the first time he’s really been caned for it. Oh, well, que sera, que sera. Was there any real football to speak of? Well, Overmars had a tame stab saved one handed in the first half, Anelka tried to dribble the ball through 38,000 people and both Dixon and Winterburn auditioned for vacant kicker positions at the NFL. At the back, Tony Adams was magnificent. Charlton’s dive bombing long balls kept him occupied all afternoon. The only other Arsenal player that deserved any credit was Ray Parlour. Funny, though, up until the point that he got sent off, we thought Petit was having a stormer. After the sending off, Wenger went all inexplicable, taking off Vieira, Anelka and Dixon and bringing on Hughes (had a stinker) Wreh (had a back flipless twenty minutes) and Vivas (had a yellow card in about five minutes- barged someone off the ball with his hip. Never seen that before.) A frustrating afternoon. Feeling blue? Nah, just a bit ecru. Bring on the Chelsea. Man of the Match: Tony Adams.
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