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January 1998 31.1.98 Arsenal 3 Southampton 0
Arsenal 2 Leeds 1 By half time me, my mates, the other 34,000 Arsenal supporters and Petit were ready to strangle the referee, Gerald Ashby. It always astonishes me that out of thousands of people there’s not one bona fide nutter who would run onto the pitch and clock the blind whistle blower. Mind you, most refs in real life are from that peculiar strata of middle management where their ego far outstrips their ability. Violence is useless against the stupid, the only thing this lot would understand is the stripping away of power and dignity. So perhaps, someone should run onto the pitch and urinate up his back. That might do it. Petit, on the other hand, incensed by the lack of anything resembling refereeing, took it upon himself to go head-hunting around the pitch. He was lucky to stay on, but we had a lot of sympathy for him. At one point the tossers who sit behind us were on their feet having a go at Petit for his behaviour. Unbelievable. I’m afraid I lost it completely. In my head I said, ‘In any society where those appointed as guardians fail in their duty to uphold and implement the democratically agreed laws and fail to protect and serve their charges then those who have been most affected by those faliures will sometimes take it upon themselves to rectify the wrongs, without recourse to the aforementioned authority.’ Of course, there is a big gap between the brain and the mouth, so it actually came out as, ‘Why don’t you fat cunts just shut it?’ That was really all there was to the first half. A dodgy ref and a glimpse of the most grisly team that George Graham has ever assembled. Leeds are basically a psychopathic flat back five, a midfield that makes Spurs's look good and that human space hopper up front, Rod Wallace. During all this mayhem, Arsenal were actually trying to play some football. Petit, riled and nasty, actually went through some kind of barrier and elevated himself to some status where he played exceptionally well. Indeed, it was his pass that found Overmars, who switching wings, went walkabout in the midfield, jinked a couple of George’s golems, saw a chink in the thigh forest and let fly a powerful, dipping shot from about twenty five yards out. Boy, did that one fly. Great goal. Old George, ever the chess grandmaster, promptly took off Bowyer, brought on that serial underachiever, Hasselbaink, who promptly bundled in a Wallace cross from about two inches. Terrible goal, but they all count. What was more worrying was the way Wallace turned Dixon inside out to get the cross over. We all prefer Dixon to Grimandi, but surely there must be a third option? Arsenal’s second was very similar to their first; Overmars in possession, terrific acceleration, couple of chimps in Leeds shirts huffing around him, then a low, hard shot. Martyn had it covered all the way; he even locked his legs together, but Overmars shot through the tiny triangle just below the ‘keepers knees. Nutmegged England’s number two. Brilliant, but obviously a bit worrying for the World Cup. Ha, ha. In the last twenty minutes, Overmars could have made it three, but Martyn, I grudgingly admit, did save well. Wrighty, too, exploded late. His thirty yard lob/chip nearly just crept in by the post. All too soon it was nearly five o’clock. After a terrible, frustrating first half, the second was a corker. If the boys play like this at Vale Park on Wednesday there should be no problems (always assuming they find out where it is.) Man of the Match: Martin Keown. But because of the goals: Marc Overmars.
Coventry 2 Arsenal 2 After this game finished, Gordon Strachen appeared on the telly and basically went potty. He moaned about the referee (I’m with you on that one, Ginge) he moaned that nobody has given Coventry any credit (my, you’re looking good for that relegation dogfight this year, Gordy. Happy now?) and he moaned that they played like Gods and deserved a place in Valhalla for their endeavours (what planet do little ginger blokes come from? You played like fucking Coventry. We all know what means.) He did his little ginger barnet; but fortunately being Scots, nobody understood a word anyway. I reckon we were robbed. Their goal came from a bit of sloppy Arsenal ball avoidance, whilst Bergkamp, unlike the Sky Blues, actually produced something from his top draw that wasn’t pant shaped. Great lobby thing, great goal. Just to rub it in, Anelka bundled a ball over the line for a messy, but vital goal. In between all this action, Vieira managed to get himself sent off arguing with the ref over a dubious hand ball that he was accused of. He would have got away with it too if he hadn’t been let off with just a finger wag after he tried to eviscerate Huckerby about thirty seconds previous. Oh, well. The final controversy was the sending off of a Coventry player who brought down Bergkamp when he had a clear run on goal. The newspapers and television are full of ‘Bergie diving’ stories and that nasty streak of xenophobia that lives below the media surface has been getting a good airing. We’ll say this only once; if Bergkamp dived, then so fucking what? We know he’s not an angel, but some of the tackles and holding he has had to put up with this season has been disgraceful. Maybe, this redresses that balance. All we want to see is a fair game, with the rules being applied equally to each team. Sadly, referees have an agenda that is mainly governed by their disgustingly bloated bourgeois egos. Everyone might be famous for fifteen minutes, but they’re going for the full ninety. Ship ‘em out. A well won point but without much of a performance. Like the old days, really. Man of the Match: Dennis Bergkamp. (Free the Highbury One.)
Arsenal 3 Southampton 0 Congratulations to the Saints for being the second worse team I’ve seen this year. Their performance, whilst not being quite on par with Crystal Palace in terms of pegs on noses, was still bad enough for all us to wistfully remember those great Saints of yesterday: Er, Saint Channon. And, er, that’s it. Their performance was strictly, St Michael, i.e. a big pile of pants. Yes I know, they had Carlton Palmer, Benali and Davies out, but we had Dixon, Keown, Wright and Vieira all missing, so that argument wouldn’t even hold Skol lager. What made it worse was the fat bloke in the red boots who walked around the pitch like he’d been let out of some kind of residential home on a weekend pass. I believe he used to be Matthew Le Tissier. The scoreline was a little flattering as Arsenal made heavy weather of this cobbled together Sunday League side from the south coast. They had corner after corner, hit woodwork, grazed posts and generally did everything except show Southampton up for the filler we know they are. It wasn’t until the second half when Bould released the ball over the midfield, Bergkamp ran onto it, Southampton stopped and waited for the offside and Dennis strode forward, ignored the keeper and banged it into the net. The dickheads behind me thought it was offside, but the jumbotron clearly showed a saints’ mug playing Den on. A couple of minutes later, Petit swung a corner in and Adams flicked it in with a mere nod of his head. Of course, Southampton thought that was foul. Blah, blah, blah. The third goal was the best, a terrific movement by Bergkamp, who belted down the wing, did all the work, and left Anelka with a smart tap in. After that Overmars just used the Southampton goal for target practice. Their keeper had a blinding game. Not the finest performance I’ve ever seen, but good enough to keep the pressure on a besieged Man Utd, who quite incredibly surrendered their unbeaten home record to the mighty Leicester. (Ha, ha.) Certainly, the game wasn’t as bad as the bloke who writes for the Sunday Times, Chris Lightbown, thinks it was. This speccy, middle class tosser, has been writing his sour bollocks for too long. Listen to this: ‘Arsenal were fortunate’, ‘Southampton were good’, Arsenal looked ‘lacklustre’, ‘Arsenal at their worst’. Blimey, it goes on and on and it’s shit. If we were still awarding our ‘Tosser of the Week’ Lightbrown would win it hands down. Before you go, I’ll tell you a story. A couple of years ago I was sitting in a restaurant opposite the Arsenal in Blackstock road. It was after a home game and at the table opposite us were three blokes: big, red, loud and obviously on expenses. It took about five minutes to twig that they were journalists. Two of them were absolutely shitfaced: they’d just been to the game. They must have seen most of it through the bottom of a brandy glass; I could smell them two tables away. The other bloke, only slightly less pissed, had not been to the game. The two reptiles were filling in him on the game (though, it didn’t resemble any match I went to). He was making notes; this was going to be his match report. Pissed up hearsay from a couple of cronies. Marvellous. Needless, to say, he picked up the tab. And guess who he worked for? Yep. You guessed; the Sunday Times. Well, if they’re lying about something as ‘light’ as footy, then what are they doing to the really big stuff where a semblance of the truth actually matters? Right that’s it, I’m off me soapbox. Don’t believe the hype. Chelsea next. Man of the Match: Ray Parlour.
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