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OCTOBER 1999 30.10.99 Arsenal 0 Newcastle 0
West Ham 2 Arsenal 1 I thought that West Ham were magnificent, seeing as they only had twelve players. Mind you, the twelfth man was wearing a different coloured shirt to his team mates and for some reason he kept blowing a whistle and waving yellow and red pieces of paper in the direction of the Arsenal players. But he was an accommodating sort; he smiled sweetly on Lomas and Moncur as they kicked, elbowed and tore at Arsenal shirts in the first half. Then he laughingly admonished Dennis Bergkamp for scoring an offside goal in the second half and then he generously offered Patrick Vieira the chance to cleanse himself early in the team bath before the water got too cloudy and the word ‘Lifebuoy’ was worn off the soap. Then he saw the great joke when Mr Ruddock attacked Mr Vieira after the sending off and blithely ignored Mr Paulo elbowing Mr Keown in the face. This was a 24 carat stitch up. I’ll lay odds that West Ham won’t score two goal against the Arsenal in the next ten years. Any fucking odds you want. I’ll give ‘em. West Ham must be the luckiest so-and-so’s outside of Chelsea (score after 28 seconds, play 10 men for the bulk of the game and have Berg score you an own goal.) This game was a travesty. The only problem was, that Arsenal, haven’t found their groove yet. Quite frankly we haven’t looked like smacking anyone severely yet this season. If Arsene’s great striker rotation plan is looking a bit thin, then his great defender rotation plan is looking positively anorexic. His removal of Luzhny for Overmars (!) was bordering on ‘bloke who has brain tumour’ behaviour. Grimandi filled in as right back and the entire midfield consisted of Patrick Vieira and another bloke from Senegal who quite spookily was also called Patrick Vieira. It was a complete mess. West Ham’s first goal was a stupid bit of cretinous pinball that fooled everybody including the returning Seaman and allowed the then up to that point invisible Wanchope to bundle the ball over the line. Their second goal was just the by-product of taking off half of the defence and allowing West Ham free reign on the left. Arsenal clawed one back with Suker pouncing on a daft misplaced Lomas clearance and stroking it over the line. Bergkamp went close and had a perfectly good chip over Hislop disallowed and generally Arsenal wandered around trying to do this and that and being told by the referee that this was a claret and blue day so they might as well go home early. Terrible afternoon and a benchmark for shite refereeing. If it makes you feel any better this is West Ham’s high point of the season, but it’s hard to tell at the moment when exactly the Arsenal’s will be. Man of the Match: Silvinho. Fitting in well.
Arsenal 4 Everton 1 Somewhere in this tight knot of a match Arsenal played their best thirty minutes worth of football this season. Everton came to Highbury with an impressive defensive record, mainly due to crafty old Walter Smith narrowing the pitch at Goodison and dispensing with anyone that looked vaguely like a wing back and had a bit of flair and instead relying on that that great Evertonian tradition of back fours: the newly dug up and freshly animated cadaver. Richard Gough, looking every one of his ninety odd years staggered around the pitch like a lump of livestock with a motor neurone disease, stopping every now and then to do a passable impersonation of a telegraph pole falling to the ground. Old, shit Spurs players never seem to know when to give up. However, for the bulk of the first half, Arsenal were terrible. Vieira had trouble holding Barmby, Bergkamp was smothered and Suker might as well have been in Croatia. The only thing that kept us entertained was Kevin Campbell demonstrating his hilarious new dance routine: ‘The Offside Shuffle’. He adds it to his extensive repertoire that includes: ‘ Running into the Hoardings’ and ‘Falling Over When You’ve Beaten the Goalkeeper.’ The bloke’s a born entertainer. When John Collins placed a the ball for a free kick just outside the area, we knew that Everton were going to score. Up, over and in the top left corner before Seaman could even get his bearings. Bugger. Arsenal, distracted, frequently dispossessed by the Everton midfield, looked well out of it. Not many moments later Arsenal had a similar free kick. Bergkamp lofted it and it dipped sweetly before pinging off the bar and coming back into play. The follow up was lashed in by a player whose shirt number was obscured by the low sunlight. When the purple spots cleared, there was Lee Dixon, of all people, running around with his arms up screaming his head off. We all assumed it was him that scored, but we waited for the official confirmation to be sure. Three years since his last one at Highbury, I think. At half time, it was all square. Arsenal were slowly waking up, but a draw looked inevitable. But the second half. My God, you wouldn’t have believed it. Ray Parlour, Marc Overmars and Davor Suker were absolutely superb. And if they had played like that in the first half then they would have all been ‘men of the match’. As is it, Nigel Winterburn had one of the best games ever for the Arsenal. Running, shooting, passing, tackling he did all of these; and with only one leg. The second half also saw the first real flowering of a great relationship between Suker and Bergkamp. Frequently they found one another with flicks, blind balls and one-touches that were poetry to watch. Indeed, it was Dennis on the left crossing across the Everton goal, that found an outstretched Suker leg for Arsenal’s second goal. The third goal, when it came, was almost a carbon copy; a great cross aimed at what Arsenal have been lacking for years: a great goal hanger. Two Gerd Muller type goals for the Croatian and Arsenal 3-1 up. After that Arsenal could have had 5,10 more. Gerrard, between the Everton sticks, made one phenomenal save after the other. A Ray Parlour run that took him past five or six Everton players would have been the goal of the season if the finish had matched the peerless run. Oh well. By the time Kanu came on and grabbed a simple goal deep into injury time, Everton looked completely shell shocked. When the whistle did come, Arsenal went off to tumultuous applause. There were really too many things to applaud: Overmars’s return to form, Suker’s developing telepathy, Bergkamp’s tenacity, Vieira’s powerful second half runs, Ray Parlour’s stunning second half and the back four for being awesome. Something really clicked at Highbury today, let’s hope the bits are still in place for Tuesday at Wembley. Man of the Match: Nigel Winterburn. Just shaded Suker.
The human poultices who sit behind us were at again yesterday. In the first half one of them reckoned that Wenger would ‘bring on Henry and Parlour’ in the second half if things got messy. Ray Parlour, for their information, was actually in the starting line-up. What passes for reality in Block A, Row D of the East Stand Upper?
This
is a word for word account from the transcript of a Talk Radio Presenter: " And next on the line we have Kirk from Epsom. What's your question for Victoria, Kirk?" Kirk: "Hi Victoria" Victoria "Hi Kirk" Kirk: "Victoria, I am a big Chelsea and England Fan, and despite all the anti-David publicity I am a real admirer of David's football" Victoria: "That's nice of you, Kirk" Kirk: "Well I was wondering Victoria, obviously David has been very successful at Man Utd, and must be very happy there, but we all know that he is a London boy at heart. He really is a great footballer and I would love to see him play for Chelsea one day. The question is Victoria, and I am sure all Chelsea fans would like to know the answer..........…..Do you actually take it up the arse?" Presenter:
Oh really..........! can we please have some sensible
Chelsea 2 Arsenal 3 Because basically we’re organisms rendered repetitive by age, lager and brains the size of a smartish woodlouse, a typical match Chelsea match report would contain certain things: 1. What a warped malformed piece of jerry building flat packing Stamford Bridge really is. 2. How the bulk of Chelsea supporters are actually a lot sadder than David Mellor. 3. That Dennis Wise is actually a disease and is, indeed, smaller than some bacteria. 4. That Robbie Fowler has a point about Grahame Le Saux . Well, something to do with shit moving in the wrong direction. Throw in some arbitrary cack about Ken Bates only being allowed to live so that paedophiles can feel morally superior to someone (well, Graham Rix, anyway) and some other guff about the weather (Biblical rain, if you’re interested) and you have the formula for a well worn, run of the mill match report that we’ve trotted out once a year for the past three years. But, we’re going to avoid all that and just for once talk about the football. Well, what do you want to know? Fifteen minutes to go and Arsenal were two-nil down. At Stamford Bridge. To a Chelsea side, not only with a 100% record, but who also haven’t conceded a home goal in the league since last May. Arsenal, bereft of the suspended Vieira, the resting Winterburn and the hamstrung Bergkamp, fielded a side we all looked a bit warily at, apart from the bloke in the middle with the blonde ponytail, who looked a little familiar. Chelsea caught out the Arsenal with two workmanlike headers that made our backs truly look like the sum of their ages. The fair weather away supporters, who had actually endured a considerable drowning, were beginning to file out; beaten by the elements, Ken Bates’s price policy on catering and the sheer shittiness of Stamford Bridge when Ray Parlour, having enough of Deschamps’s water carrying, broke up a midfield foray and pumped the ball forward. Overmars collected and rasped it into a packed area. Kanu, surrounded by big men in blue, wobbled, bobbled and stuck out a long leg. With no back lift whatsoever he stroked the ball with his instep and stuck it into the corner of the net past the weebling keeper. Great goal. Scant minutes later the same thing happened again. Kanu in the area, with the ball and the long legs. (Sounds like the denouement in Cluedo, don’t it?) This time he dribbled parallel to the goal, turned and lashed the ball past Ed De Krap Facial Hair, or whatever his name is. Fabulous. Back from the dead. 2-2. Kanu, who smiles rather than frowns, came over to the Arsenal supporters with Henry and affectingly kissed the club crest on his shirt before joining the celebrations with his team-mates. A nice little cameo that brought a lumpy thing to our throats. Of course we weren’t crying, it was the bleedin’ rain. Hmmm. We would have all been quite happy with a 2-2. After Tuesday we would have been happy with winning the toss or the mascot scoring. But in injury time Kanu ran down a nothing ball on the left wing, tackled and got a happy bounce, cruised down the wing, turned sharply at the goal line only to be faced with old, stupid, round Ed in the Chelsea goal, about four miles off his line, trying to tackle the two hundred foot high Nigerian. Kanu picked his way around Ed the Shed and then looked up. There was no-one to cross to, the area was swarming with Blues, so our boy had a shot. Standing on the line, he had a shot. Just think about that. The ball bent; went right, went straight and then, impossibly, went left. I don’t think you can actually do that with light particles without a gravitational mass the size of Saturn, let alone a leather football. And the ball sweetly went in, past an astonished LeBeouf. We all went mad with pleasure. Several Arsenal supporters actually exploded, I believe. 3-2 to us. And then the final whistle was blowing. The Chelsea, just dead men walking. The look of Chris Sutton’s face was a memory to cherish on your death bed. A good afternoon’s work? More like a key life affirming experience. Only 98 hours to the next one. Man of the Match: Kanu the juggler. Kanu the magician. Kanu the man.
Arsenal 0 Newcastle 0 We’ve all seen this match before; the bore draw that characterised the seventies, the eighties and most of the nineties. A match only beloved by those masters of the arid and the dour: Don Howe and George Graham. Indeed, it takes a long memory wrack to come up with a game that even though it earned us a solitary point, was, ultimately, completely pointless. After Wednesday’s horror show Wenger, somewhat mysteriously dropped Bergkamp, Overmars and Kanu and decided to go with the pairing of Henry and Suker. With Ljungberg deputising for the pinged rubber band Parlour and Dixon being rested for his testimonial, the side had a queasy, unfamiliar shape to it; a bit like a celebrity eleven in Arsenal shirts. Newcastle, it must be said, came to Highbury to do one thing and they did that thing very well; defend. With five across the back and what looked like another twenty in front of them, they tackled, blocked, headed and kicked people with an application that was manic. But let’s not get too carried away, they still remain a deeply average side. I reckon Bobby Robson would have more luck with sows’ ears in the silk purse department then the grisly group of bottom feeders he has inherited. Indeed, at the final whistle, Robson indicated to one of his players that he should go over to the Newcastle supporters and give them a little clap. The player walked past Robson like he wasn’t there and doubtless was in and out of the bath and half way home before the rest of the players were even off the pitch. Sad, I thought. Arsenal were never truly terrible, but their eyes were still focused on Wembley, rather than Highbury. Vieira seemed to be the only player who realised what was happening; several of his great runs made ragged black and white ribbons of the Magpies back nine. Henry got an early rasper in that billowed the side netting on the wrong side and even Gilles Grimandi had a downward header uncomfortably saved. We also had one kicked off the line; which according to video evidence actually went over. We were parallel with it and to us it looked like the bloke was over the line, his kicking foot started out over the line, but alas, the ball wasn’t. Sorry. Just so you’re not thinking we’ve gone completely soft, a quick word about Alan Shearer. How about ‘cunt’. In fifty million years time when archaeologists find Shearer’s bones and try to reconstruct just what kind of organism he is, they’ll conclude he was a sly raptor with a penchant for taking his prey on the blind side, stunning it with an elbow or stud and then pretending that the small, gutted creature lying at his feet was to blame all along. What the archaeologists won’t be able to reconstruct is the mating call of Alanshearerboringtwatus (also known as Kickneillennonintheheadusandgetoffscottfreeus) which sounds like a long moan crossed with a long whinge. Certainly, the Arsenal supporters saw exactly what he was about; and we hate him for it. Shearer’s pathetic defence has always been that those supporters booing him one week, will be cheering him the next as soon as he puts on an England shirt. Bollocks. Me, I’m half Scottish, born and bred in Islington. A kind of Jockney, I suppose. Scotland forever. And at least the Scotland team doesn’t take away your best players, play them in the wrong position and then send them back injured. First club, then country. What next? A meaningless game against Solna on Tuesday, that at very best becomes a morale boosting exercise for some of the more ancillary players, then the biggie next Sunday against Arsenal Mk II. Me, I’m going to spend the week watching a pile of old Arsenal videos. Maybe the team should do the same. Man of The Match: Vieira. Watch him while you can.
Tossy Blokes. No 3. The simpletons behind us were having a field day again. Looking at the Newcastle line-up one of them said. 'Dumas?' 'Is he English?' His mate didn't know, but he thought that Domi's first name might be 'Donald' (Didier, actually). Cretins. A French word, I believe.
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