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MARCH 1997 8.3.97 Arsenal 2 Nottingham Forest 0 15.3.97 Southampton 0 Arsenal 2
Everton 0 Arsenal 2 Sometimes when you look into the eyes of a really old dog you can see that he’s not long for the world. Everton have that look about them. Make that dog three legged and blind and you have the Everton defence. Arsenal’s first goal, coming from a monumental cock-up from Unsworth, was so soft that even Bergkamp was embarrassed. After that, every time that Unsworth went near the ball you could see the small, round white thing actually cringing. Not much happened. Everton, like a group of Italian soldiers from Dads’ Army tried to surrender at every turn. Arsenal, barely muddied their kits, kicked the ball loquaciously around in the shifting winds and tussled now and then with an over fussy ref. The second goal, a lightning piece of opportunism, gave Wrighty his 25th of the season. No sweat. Two-nil. Easy, easy. Joe Royle looked at his team like he found them just growing in the back of the fridge: old and mouldy. Arsenal on this showing were barely tested. Just for once all the problems were with the other mob. Man of the Match: Dennis Bergkamp.
Arsenal 2 Nottingham Forest 0 Forest have fallen apart of late. True, they put up a pretty good blockade for much of the game, their new manager, Harry Bassett, is too much of a guerrilla fighter to do otherwise. However, Forest’s tally of one shot on goal for the entire game, a Dean Saunder’s offside, does suggest that they might be plying their trade at the Hawthorn’s next season rather than Highbury. Arsenal, sans Wright, were peculiarly subdued. Young Stephen Hughes looked up for it, but the rest of the side looked like a dusty old Subbuteo team you come across in the attic; a bit faded and broken, leaving you wondering how to flick them up the arse properly to get them going. But there’s always an exception. Dennis Bergkamp. Nobody told him that this was a match you were supposed to forget five minutes after it finished. Den ran around like a one man team: defending, dribbling, crossing for himself, shooting…he just didn’t stop. The only role he missed was Gary Lewin’s. His two goals, one a penalty, the other a tap, were good by the standards of ordinary mortals, but workmanlike for the Dutch god. The more I see of Forest, the more they remind me of an old Arsenal side; red shirts, red faces, bags of effort and sod all to show for it. I reckon what they need is David Platt or if they can’t stump up the reddies for him, maybe a reconditioned Steve Morrow. Maybe we can find them an old centre back in a cupboard somewhere. If they took Campbell, they’ll take anything. Man of the Match: Dennis Bergkamp.
Southampton 0 Arsenal 2 Funny enough, I was in Brighton this weekend, so I managed to hear most of the match on some wretched local radio station. God, I hate local radio. It’s full of smug gits with patronising oily voices and horribly unfashionable haircuts whose only claim to fame is that they once worked on Radio One for a fortnight on a work placement. They spend the next thirty years of their lives acting like some horrible clone of Peter Stringfellow, opening branches of the new Asda Superstore and shagging some gormless local media rep called Claire. Call that a life. I’d rather live in Rwanda. Risible though the local commentary was, it was much improved by a few Guinesses and my mate’s tiny daughter’s attempts to ram a bread stick up my nose. The bloke on the radio was doing his pieces every time an Arsenal player went near one of Souness’s angels. Vieira, in particular received more than a lorry load of bile for his handling of the ‘ugliest man on the south coast’, Matt Le Tissue. Arsenal, seeing as they were missing, Seaman, Dixon, Bould and Wright, did bloody well, I thought. Even though Southampton are pure sillage, no bugger has beat them at the Dell since Boxing Day. Mind you, the Saints’ ‘keeper helped out by dropping Ray parlour’s cross so Stephen Hughes could score his first Premiership goal. Even the second goal, by Nick Hornby lookalike, Paul Shaw was a bit jammy. Still, who cares? They all count. And if anyone had Ray Parlour in their Fantasy League team, that’s two assists. Amazing. I don’t dislike Southampton, who could? Taking them to task about anything is a bit like asking a tramp to piss himself a bit more quietly. (What?) But giving the yokels a bit of a seeing to is a world away from burying the Scallies. Arsenal would be wise to be cautious. Man of the Match: Stephen Hughes.
Arsenal 1 Liverpool 2 Before we get into some serious whinging and finger pointing, let’s get one thing straight; Arsene arsed this one up big time. Despite what Wenger’s been saying about ‘passing football’ the one horrible abiding memory of this match was the mortar bombardment of high balls to a lone Ian Wright who was comfortably snuffed out time and time again by his towering namesake Mark, the only bald bloke in England with a ginger head. Couple this with an over benevolent midfield, hellbent on giving the ball back to Liverpool at every turn and you had the makings of a match that even Nostradamus with a migraine could have predicted. The barren first half was not without interest. Wright ploughed a solitary furrow upfront, Den just behind him. Behind him was our lightweight midfield, hampered by a David Platt performance so inept that we should immediately sell him to Nottingham Forest for a couple of mill or failing that perhaps we could ask the council to sling him off a balcony into a skip. God, he was crap. Arsenal had a few pokes, but Liverpool looked very keen on the break and Seaman, back in the team after a lengthy spell away, had the unmistakable tinge of ring rust about him. At half time we were still in with a shout for the league championship and the champions’ cup place. However, after ten minutes, we had to set our sights lower (UEFA, Sherpa Van, Beezer Homes, Asda, Islington Gazette ‘Best Team in Islington’ Shield, etc). After Collymore poked one into the net, it must be said that Seaman should have covered the initial shot. The bobble, the drizzle and the sitting around for weeks on your arse watching daytime TV had obviously softened his senses. Tomorrow, he’s at the Palace getting his MBE, let’s hope he doesn’t drop it. One down and Liverpool who were supposed to be knackered by now, found another gear and pressed the Gunners even closer. Fowler, who had been a nuisance all night managed to skin through the Arsenal line and found himself one on one with Seaman. Seaman dived and Fowler went down. Very dying swan. Penalty. From where we were sitting it was a little difficult to work out what was going on. But seeing Seaman’s reaction we worked out that whatever foul occurred only existed in the clogged synapses of Mr Gerald Ashby, the man the Programme somewhat cheekily referred to as the ‘referee’. Even Fowler looked embarrassed as he stepped up to half-heartedly to tap a ball straight at Seaman. Our man blocked, but true to form, couldn’t hold it. McAteer, who, by the way, had a blinding game, ran up and crashed the ball in. Two down and looking woeful. The referee was fucking awful. Seaman, who was supposed to have fouled Fowler was neither cautioned or sent off. Bergkamp, however, who was fouled every thirty seconds all evening, was booked for diving. Gerald Ashby really deserves to have shit poked through his letter box, have sheds delivered to his house in the middle of the night and have remedial kids make his children cry at school. What a complete waste of a central nervous system he is. By this time we’d all given up and were now screaming something that rhymes with ‘punt’ at the ref and savagely musing whether Robbie Fowler looked like Piglet on steroids or was just another ugly, malnourished, interbred Scally. The only person who hadn’t given up was Ian Wright. God bless ‘im. His lob over James accompanied by a snapping pack of Liverpool defenders was sublime. For us, that was it. The ref, the clock and our very own double agent, Mr Platt, had all conspired against the Arsenal. It was always going to be 2-1. After the final whistle, Wrighty sprinted across the pitch to say something to the ref. A little Praetorian Guard of red shirts formed to keep him away from the man in black with the white stick. Finding his way blocked, he grabbed the match ball and blasted it high into the North Bank. That was probably the second best strike of the night. To be petty and sullen, Liverpool were a bit lucky. They had the bounce, the ref and they cleared a couple of shots off the line, but ultimately they were better than us. That’s what really hurts. Man of the Match: Ian Wright. (Yes, he’s getting nearer, but I’ve lost count.)
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