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NOVEMBER 1996 16.11.96 Manchester United 1 Arsenal 0 24.11.96 Arsenal 3 Tottenham Hotspur 1 30.11.96 Newcastle 1 Arsenal 2
Wimbledon 2 Arsenal 2 After all these years I've finally figured out Wimbledon. I've sussed them. It's blindingly obvious really; they're playing a completely different game to everyone else. They're playing tennis. Think about it; high balls, power smashes, all that grunting, all that arguing, strength without finesse... I'm telling you, it's tennis, not football. Come to think of it, that explains Newcastle as well; days of graceful sustained effort, only to collapse dismally at the end. My God, they're playing cricket. Wimbledon, however, are now more than a one-trick pony. Ever since they have been using Reservoir Dogs as a training video, they've managed to barge, bash and bludgeon their way through the league. And sometimes, just to get on your tits, they play a bit of football as well. On Saturday they were giving no quarter. You could almost imagine Joe Kinnear's pre-match talk. 'I want their big lads taken out with head wounds and that lippy bloke with the gold tooth, Vin, you take him down. Tonight he sleeps with the fishes.' If Arsenal were a bunch of frothy eclairs like Newcastle of Man Utd (Brain Eclair?) Wimbledon would have had our lads in unmarked graves somewhere on the A1 by half time. As it turned out, Vieira, who didn't know any different, claimed the midfield as his own, walked through it like he owned it, put a superb ball through to Wrighty, who took it at an awkward angle and sweetly tucked it away. 1-0 us, six minutes gone. Wimbledon, currently enjoying the longest unbeaten run in their history, came back with their ram raid tactics. When the unpalatable meets the immovable, the only outcome is blood. Both Adams and Bouldy went off at certain times during the game to have the old ketchup stoppered. Arsenal, clearly feeling the continental influence of Wenger, tried to get a few grass stains on the ball, but Wimbledon, who were fast reverting to archetype, were mentally on some piece of south London waste ground, playing brutish Sunday football. So, it was lots of thrash, bash, smash until just before half time when Vinnie Jones, of all people, popped up with the equaliser. The night before, Friday, Wenger had been quoted in the press as saying that Vinnie Jones was a 'good player'. Subtlety is wasted on Wimbledon. If they found a two inch crack in a wall, they'd drive a tank through it. The second half was more lump'n'bump footy, with Arsenal having slightly the better of it. Vinnie thumped Wrighty and the rest of The Wild Bunch generally chewed lumps out of the Gunners. Inevitably, it was Merson who scored, a tidy, rather than a spectacular goal. After that we didn't have to wait long until the south London visigoths blundered the poor beaten up ball into the Arsenal net. 2-2. You just knew that was that. Arsenal missed their chance to secure the top of the table and we went home and counted our dead and wounded. Arsenal have a testing month coming up (Man Utd, The Scum and Newcastle) but the Gooners will not be tested physically like this again until the Dons turn up in their yellow Robin Reliant at Highbury. The conclusion? Arsenal are doing OK and Wimbledon might sneak into Europe. I'd love that. What a gas. It could be WWI all over again. Man of the Match: Patrick Vieira.
Manchester United 1 Arsenal 0 Of course what's really important is that Moan Utd are back on track for their date with destiny. If you've read the newspapers in the last week or so, you'll realise that what's been occupying the mind of a nation has been the lack of form from Taggert's ragged bunch of mercenaries. Honestly, if you play without any centre backs you must expect to have your arses kicked. Even Southampton worked that one out. But didn't you just know, that on Saturday, against the gooners, that this would be the day that the red devils would start their revival? I hate Old Trafford. We are long overdue a bit of luck there. We hit posts, bars, have things kicked off lines and generally come away with nothing apart from a bad taste in the mouth and a hefty petrol bill. Saturday was no different. Old Trafford was packed to the gills with people from Wales, Portsmouth, Carlisle and Exeter; you know, the usual home crowd. Giggs was back for them and we fielded what is beginning to look like our strongest side. It was never on. The traitorous cockney, Beckham, hit the post, Platt went close and Wrighty had two or three efforts stopped. One, right at the end, had Schmichael (or whatever the nonce is called. I really can't be bothered to look it up) pull off a save that basically gave all three points to Jam Utd. Once again, Old Trafford, proved to us to be as fertile as the Sahara. Were we unlucky? Well, we never put our chances away and Wrighty still is yet to score at Old Trafford for the Arse. I bet that rankles. Losing to an own goal is always a sickener; it was a complete defensive lash up that caused it, so you can't blame Nutty. Still, we did look the better side for much of the game; small consolation. But I'll lay money that we'll take them at Highbury. Let's hope that some of the luck, the bounce of the ball, the wind, a wayward mole come back before next Sunday. Losing that one to an own goal would blow the Samaritan's switchboard through the Van Allen Belt. Man Utd? They looked like an old, shagged whore. Still turning tricks, but with no feeling. Me, I don't give a rats and I hope that Juventus give them a right seeing to on Wednesday. Sour grapes? You bet. Man of the Match: Ian Wright.
Arsenal 3 Tottenham Hotspur 1 The thing about ugly kids is that no-one loves them except the parents. This is particularly true of local derbies. No-one outside of the 'N' postal codes could possibly see anything of merit in this fixture. But to us, the initiated, this match is the first leg of the North London Cup. The marvellous Sky TV had deemed this boy to have a 4 o'clock kick-off on a Sunday that was wet enough for Noah and cold enough to freeze snot. Of course, most people had been sheltering in a dry pub for hours, so the atmosphere, when it cleared of beery belches and pub grub farts, was a bit intensive. The big news of the day was the omission of Seaman. A brace of cracked ribs from the Man Utd game effectively rules him out for the rest of November. With some trepidation we watched John Lukic warm up, praying that the mare of a game he had against Chelsea, was well and truly behind him. The first half was the usual sortie/scouting football that characterises local derbies. We sat there, breathing raw drizzle, waiting for the bomb to drop. Just before half time Bergkamp cleverly wormed his way into their area and was ruthlessly hacked down and somehow was kicked about fifty times in about two seconds. For a split second we didn't take a blind bit of notice; getting penalties against Tottenham is one of those impossible things like finding the ark of the covenant or waking up next to a super model. Blow me, the ref gave it. The only one who wasn't nervous was Wrighty. The bloke in front of me was on his hands and knees, facing away from the pitch, praying to the space between my knees and the bottom of my coat. Anyone watching would have thought it was weird time for a blow job. Wrighty, no nonsense, smacked it straight and hard. 1-0. His celebration included putting his shirt over his head Ravenelli style and showing everyone his t-shirt that had 'I love the lads' biroed on it. Strangely, Arsenal's game picked up after that. Wright went close again, shooting just wide and bingo it was half time. The second half began with a strange floodlight fandango. They went down, they came up, they went down, they came up again. Someone said they must have been made in Crystal Palace. Spurs, in the semi dark, woke up. Lukic made two brilliant saves and Vieira and Armstrong had a little ruck. Just after that, the odious Armstrong, two-footed Vieria's ankles and our boy went down and didn't get up. Bouldy lost it completely, shouting all sorts of shit at the linesman, but the ref clearly didn't want to know. One of the Arsenal players kicked the ball into touch so Patrick could have a cold sponge wrapped around his goolies. What followed, left a nasty taste in the mouths of fair minded supporters everywhere. Instead of throwing the ball back to us, Spurs, greedy and petulant, lobbed it to one of their own. There was a messy cross, Andy Sinton muffed a shot, it hit the post, came out, hit Lukic on the back of the head and went in. 1-1. The crowd around me were boiling. The last time I recall such disgusting conduct was a few years ago when Gary Stephens never gave the ball back after a similar incident. Yes, it was Spurs again. The only difference being, I remember, was that Gary Mabutt gave him a royal public bollocking. Spurs really are the bottom of the fucking barrel. Now the game was on fire. Wrighty went close again, but this was not going to be a day of hat tricks. Spurs, seemed solely to rely on the over the top ball to the clumping Armstrong. Meanwhile our Teddy did what he does best; start little fights in midfield and then bottle it when it gets rough. I have no words to describe the blind hate I feel for this man. Spurs seemed happy with one point. They played stop/start slow motion football, looking like a bad Arsenal side from the early eighties. The only thing I'll say in their favour is that Sol Campbell should get out of there as soon as possible and get himself into a decent side. The man has improved beyond recognition. Arsenal meanwhile went up a notch. Merson, in particularly, was laying on some terrific passes considering the pissy weather and slippy pitch. The centre backs, liberated by Vieira, were getting further and further forward and Dixon and Winterburn continue to look like they are playing on amphetamines. Bergkamp, playing deeper than usual even got in a couple of amazing tackles. With not long on the clock and the smug Spurs content to cruise, Wenger pulled off Platt and brought on Hartson. Blimey, what a masterstroke. Straight away the extra man upfront caused the Scum all sorts of problems. True, there was a hole in the middle, but with the pressure we were causing, it hardly mattered. Four minutes to go, Bergkamp whips a ball into the Spurs penalty area. In the melee, the ball bounces, a left leg, belonging of all people, to Tony Adams, catches the ball on the volley and smashes it across the face of the goal, beyond the floppy Ian Walker rag doll. Buried. Everyone around me went bonkers and believe me, old, moany blokes in the East Upper seats don't go bonkers that often. We were still jumping about and making variations on the Vulcan 'live long and prosper' sign at the Tottenham supporters, when, as one, we all spotted Bergkamp in the Spurs penalty area. Bugger knows how he got there. He had a Spurs player in front of him; the ball came down on his left, he teed it over onto his right and belted to the side of Walker. The net bulged suggestively. Now you know why it's called scoring. 3-1. Parlour came on for his appearance money, Den went off and the man in black blew his whistle. A great victory and justice was done. Whether we can keep up the passion on Wednesday against Liverpool and on Saturday at St James Park, remains to be seen. Spurs? Fuck them. They got what they deserved. A word about the man of the match. Merson, Bergkamp, Wright, Adams, Keown and Vieira were all heroes. But I'm going for the man below. A couple of times in the game he was the only thing between us and destruction. Well done Nutty. Man of the Match: Nigel Winterburn.
Newcastle 1 Arsenal 2 Well, I've seen the emperor's new clothes and they're definitely black and white stripes. Newcastle really are like one of those little birds that puff up their chests in order to look bigger. As we all filed into the North Bank, handing over our greasy tenners to watch a match on a great big telly, the main topic of conversation was, all things considered, that Newcastle weren't really all that much cop. They're pretty in the middle, but not solid; Shearer's class, true, but Asprilla is a maverick nutter that just confuses his team mates. As for the defence, I've had paper bags from Tesco's that were stronger. And we beat them twice last season. The Toon Army were going to be the main problem in my book. The crowd up there is worth half a goal start in my opinion. Arsenal, sans Den and Seaman, started well. Merson went close very early on. A cheeky chip had their goalkeeper producing a few wet skiddies in his trollies. Newcastle swept the ball around in midfield, looking for all the world that they were inhabiting some kind of video game rather than the grim reality of the Premier league. The crowd up there have elephant memories and were all barracking Dixon in some misguided belief that it was his fault for getting Ginola sent off at Highbury earlier this year. Almost on cue, Wright pops up, lofts in a cross and there diving in with a bulleting header was our Lee. 1-0 us. It was about this time that Shearer went into hyper moan mode. He really has turned into a surly bag of shit. Someone of his skill has no need to resort to diving, moaning and digging. We have a perfectly good Mark Hughes to do that; after all, how many arseholes does a bum need? Another thing Alan, if you ruck with Keown you'll be wearing your nuts for earrings. Pack it in. Inevitably, it was Shearer who got the equaliser. Sloppy defending let him get in front of a defender and just angle a header past Lukic. Very shortly afterward, Adams distracted by Aspirin running back from an offside position, clattered into Shearer who made a complete soddin' four course meal of the whole thing. The thieving magpies claimed a penalty and then moved the ball ten feet forward. Words were exchanged and then unbelievably we saw Tone make the long walk. A sending off good enough for a Whitehall farce. Tony's expression said it all. Twenty minutes gone, 1-1 and down to ten men. Lucky Arsenal? Their free kick came to nothing, but it was logical for the geordies to pile on the pressure. Wenger pulled off Hartson, brought on Linighan and marshalled the defence. They came forward, we held firm. Lukic pulled many balls out of the air, but they were all the same; waist height, half crosses or shots, with not a lot of power. This was the pattern until half time. Half time was great. Sky TV showed all the pools half time results. Like, who was score drawing at half time. What's the fucking use of that. Think about it. Newcastle came out and did what everyone dreaded; they closed down the midfield and squeezed the space. We soaked up attack after flamboyant attack, but as pretty as it looked, it could never the match the guts and determination of a crack Arsenal defence. The ref, by this time was booking people left right and centre, but only if they had the colour red in the top half of their body. Wright, Merson, Keown, Dixon and Platt all booked for breathing. It was mad. Just when Arsenal looked a little ragged, Merson got hold of the ball, skipped through the middle, rode a challenge, found Wright, who picked his way over a tackle and with his right foot put the ball to one side of the 'keeper. 2-1. The North Bank went potty. My mate Mick, who lives two miles away, heard the cheer. Twenty odd minutes to go. Do you know how long that is? I mean, you could blow up Russia in twelve minutes. Twenty minutes that put years on the blokes watching the game. People who went to the game clear eyed, baseball capped and supple, came out liver spotted and toothless with their midriffs cosseted by voluminous rubber incontinence pants. Well, as you all know, we did it. At one point, we were down to nine men after Quasi studded Dixon. And that cheating frog, Ginola should have been carded for a rotten dive. But so what? Who cares? This was a victory of marble hall proportions. Arsenal top of the league and a match to shout about forever. Or maybe until the next one. Man
of the Match: Martin Keown. (Ian Wright. 15 and closing).
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