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1998/99
Derby 1 Arsenal 2 Well, I thought if Wenger could do it, so could I. Seeing as this was only the League Cup surely it would make sense to have a bit of a rest tonight and get the wife, with the high squad number on her back, to write the match report. The idea however never really got off the ground as the little woman did a fair impersonation of being asleep when the report needed to be hacked out; even going as far as adding a bit of reality by pretending to make a noise like a small truffle pig and cover the sofa in strings of dribble. Still, she gets more worked up about matches than I do, as the calculator that she hurled at the telly when Kiev equalised last week would testify if it wasn’t in a million placcy pieces. So tough. You’re stuck with old miserable me. There’s something vaguely delirious about these league/milk/coca/Littlewoods/Worthington ties. We’ve talked about it before; the team look like Arsenal, play a bit like them, have results like them, but still manage to look totally alien. It’s as if the usual first team has been totally eradicated from this reality. On this earth, Remi Garde is captain and Stephen Hughes is one of the oldest, wisest heads in the team. What was real though, was the appalling Pride Park. Derby’s ground is another MFI flat pack stadium. It was probably delivered late after going to the wrong address a couple of times, the assembly instructions were in Cantonese and quite probably half the sodding screws were missing. Whatever happened to the great stadia of yesteryear? These, souless, poxy corrugated tin boxes are springing up everywhere: Anfield, Ewood Park, etc. They go up in about a week and have all the atmosphere of a Little Chef or a service station. It’s like watching football in a fucking car park. But at least there was a bit of football. Mirror Arsenal played very well. The back line of tommorrow: Upson, Grondin and Vivas looked very effective. Manninger between the sticks made Seaman look ponderous and even Grimandi flirted with the word ‘class’. Hughes and Ljungberg prowled around the middle and Mendez playing in the famous footballing ‘hole’ just behind Wreh looked solid. Indeed, Arsenal’s passing play was in marked contrast to Derby’s clueless counter attack ploy. Arsenal’s pressure, never really paid off until a hard hit cross into the Derby area was met firmly by Carsley’s head. Now if he had hit it right instead of left, he would have cleared it. Instead it was a cracking own goal. Nice deft flick and in. Ho,ho. In the second half, Arsenal continued to control the game and press forward. A Mendez corner found Vivas unmarked. Legs apart, feet firmly planted on the ground, he swivelled from the waist and guided the ball with his head past the oddly named Poom. The smile on his face as he wheeled away, revelling in his first Arsenal goal, did more for Anglo/Argentinean relations than a thousand visits from that weird Argie president who looks like Julio Inglesias. Derby, not relishing another bollocking from Jim Smith decided to earn their wages. (Incidentally, Jim Smith, in our book is a top man. When asked whether he was in favour of a European Super League, he said ‘no.’ Because, ‘you couldn’t go to work on Monday and wind-up the Real Madrid supporters.’ Brilliant.) Their one big attack had Powell hitting the post, the ball cleared ineffectively, only to come back to Sturridge who scored with a diving header. Oh well, the first team have a penchant for letting in late goals, too. A good game this. Chelsea in the next round, I’ve just been told, so we might get to revenge the travesty of last season’s semi final second leg. Man of the Match: Nelson Vivas.
Arsenal 0 Chelsea 5 Well, at least I stayed to the bitter end. By the time the whistle blew there were about three people left in the East Stand. The Chelsea fans were delirious, obviously beating our reserves has given them delusions of adequacy. Carry on like this Gianluca and we can see you lifting another tin-pot cup. Just think, the last time Chelsea won the League there was still rationing on sweets and a whole generation had no idea what a banana looked like. Is there anything you can salvage out of a 5-0 defeat? Well, Bergkamp’s back was back in place and so was he. Ljungberg started off like a rocket and had one sensational dribble on goal blocked by a mound of panicking blue shirts. And that was at 0-0. The first half was actually better than we’d thought it’d be. Grondin on the left, Vivas on the right and Boa Morte and Wreh as the diminutive target men. Garde captain and Grimandi and Upson in central defence. It was Okish. But when you’re lucky you’re Chelsea and when you’re not you’re us. First the Blues got an iffy penalty and then a string of suspicious goals with the merest whiff of offside and that was it; we were stuffed. Vialli played like a man possessed, seemingly unaware that this was the Worthington Cup. Indeed, his new strangely exploded physique was the source of much speculation. I wouldn’t mind sending a pint of his piss to a lab. You don’t get muscles like that running around Kensington. My mate reckoned that Vialli was on what he calls ‘stair-rods’. Well, it sounds a bit like that; we didn’t want to disillusion him. The somnambulant referee, David Elleray, did his best to gift Chelsea with every courtesy in the first half; dishing out a terrifying wagging finger rather than a couple of yellow rectangles. I could go on, but what is the point? This means fuck all, but it still rankles. A word about the Chelsea fans. They really are wankers. Kids in snide designer gear or old round blokes in car coats and in-between a smattering of freeloading city dealers and Sloanes; all the Jaspers and Luciens who have trouble working out why the ball is round and why nobody is picking it up. A plague upon them. At least you can have a decent argument with Spurs fans. Chelsea fans are like Pot Noodles; they take no time at all to bring to the boil and all you’re left with is a steaming mug full of unpalatable shit. The height of their wit was making wobbly aeroplane gestures every time Bergkamp missed a pass or shot. Tasteful or not, the Gooners’ reply of a plummeting helicopter impersonation was wickedly spiteful. This match will probably be the highlight of Chelsea’s season. Me, I’m thankful it’s Wednesday and not Saturday. Bring on the scum. Man of the Match: Nelson Vivas. Snarled, kicked and played a bit. Never gave up.
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