|
1998/99 Third Round Fourth Round Fifth Round 13.2.99 Arsenal 2 Sheffield United 1 23.2.99 Arsenal 2 Sheffield United 1 Deja Vu Sixth Round FA Cup Semi Final 11.4.99 Manchester United 0 Arsenal 0 (AET) 14.4.99 Manchester United 2 Arsenal 1 (AET)
Preston 2 Arsenal 4 Anyone coming to this game cold will get the impression that it might have been some kind of walk over. But, let me tell you, being 2-0 down after 40 minutes is not the best feeling in the world. The opening line-up didn’t help much. Mendez playing in Bergkamp’s hole, with Boa Morte up front, was quite frankly, the formation from hell as far as we were concerned. Wreh, apparently, was shitting sausages five minutes before kick-off, thus promoting the most unlikely centre forward of all time, Senor Luis, to the front ranks, all because a dodgy bout of food poisoning. What with Manninger in goal and Vivas, once again, grossly out of position at left back, you were left with a formation that couldn’t win a heat of Come Dancing. The biggest problem was that Preston played this horrible pressing game that made them look like Smurfs on amphetamines. Rush, rush, kick, sprint. The first fifteen minutes was like taking dope and watching Wiley Coyote trying to nab the blue chicken thingy. Of course, after twenty five minutes or so, we were two goals down. All that pressure resulted in two very scrappy, but highly pressurised goals. Arsenal, quite frankly, looked as effective as a fart in a whirlwind. The problem was that we tried to play them at their own game. For fuck’s sake, Arsene, we’re DOUBLE WINNERS, we should have been setting the pace. Without Adams, Seaman, Winterburn, Anelka and Bergkamp we looked as thin as an Ethiopian’s larder. Horrible, bulimic performance. The cover for the team, let’s be fair, is only molecule deep. In an ideal world we would have Robbie Fowler and Chris Sutton sitting on the fucking bench. Wenger may be a wiz at trawling France, but when it comes to England he’s a sodding alien. But cometh the man, cometh the whatsit. Boa Morte, miserably unhappy at centre forward, received the ball on the edge of the area, ran inside and shot across the goal and squeezed in the thinnest of goals to make it 2-1 as the teams trudged down the tunnel. In the pub, we were livid. You should have heard the language. Fuelled by Guinness and Scampi Fries the pub was exposing it’s flesh and venting it’s collective spleen. Arsene, at that moment, you were seven feet under in some Strasbourg backwater. Get us some cover, for god's sake. But, like every other time a bunch of drunks have decided that they’re better managers than drinkers, we were proved wrong. Overmars made an electric run that culminated him being scythed down right on the edge of the area. The Preston bloke with the outstretched foot unfortunately walked and Petit was left taking a free kick against a six man wall that was longer than a Selfridges sale queue. Blow me if he didn’t bend it like a banana and stick it into the interior of the side netting. What a goal. After having two penalties turned down in the first half, we suddenly felt vindicated. Beer everywhere. Marvellous. Suddenly Preston had to play our game. We passed the ball around and they ran after it. The real script had arrived. Boa Morte, eel-like and fluid turned the ball inside. Cabellero (who looks exactly like an old kids’ toy, ‘Charlie the Monkey’) flattened some northern mug in the area and Petit strolled in with a straight plonk to make it 3-2. Excellent. Preston then decided, like the germs they are, that the Penicillin had arrived and promptly faded as the majestic Marc Overmars slotted home a stunning fourth. What a night. 2-4. Could have been 3-6 easily. It’s two in morning as I’m writing this. I’ve drunk so much Guinness, that I can barely see, let alone speell. What a draining night. But that’s Arsenal for you. For predictability you’d be better off going out with the bird from ‘Fatal Attraction’. Great night. Liverpool, on Saturday, have no chance. Fucking A1. Man of the Match: Manu Petit. Class all the way.
Wolves 1 Arsenal 2 Right, imagine this. You’re standing at a bus stop and someone comes up and calls you an ‘arsehole’ or a ‘prick’ or some smellier or more inaccessible anatomical part. You think ‘nutter’, ‘scum supporter’ or that ‘care in the community’ was only ever a Tory excuse to empty the nuthouses so they could flog them off for yuppie housing. Basically, you don’t care, you just grin and hope that he doesn’t get on the bus and sit next to you. OK. Stay with me here. You’re standing at the same bus stop and someone comes up, forearming smashes you in the boat and draws copious amounts of blood. Later, a mate of his comes along and whacks you full in the face. The question is, which one of those incidents represents the greatest felony? In the real world it’s the latter, but in planet footy the greatest crime a player can commit is telling an official that he is just a knackerless less piece of swarf whose parentage really lies in the spilt juices of two pigs fucking. Or something like that. What all this is about is about another tiny refereeing parcel absolutely bursting with his own sense of self worth and importance. In a nutshell, Petit gets sent off for a few gallic gestures, whilst Keith Curle can land a haymaker on Bergkamp, right in front of the ref and get away with it. Obviously, there was a big bundle. And in the ensuing melee, Grimandi managed to bounce a ball off someone’s head and it all started to get real interesting. But I digress. People say that referees aren’t consistent. Rubbish. Nearly every referee we’ve had this season has had his head so up his own arse that they look like a weeble with a whistle. Look, if Petit has to walk because of his fast mouth, shouldn’t Curle had gone too because of his fast fists? We know our lot aren’t whiter than white. All we want is a bit of consistency. So what was the match like? Well, Arsenal spent the first half completely asleep. Anelka, Bergkamp and Overmars might as well have watched from the stands. Indeed, it was a somnambulant Overmars who picked up the ball deep in his own half, drifted forward, ambled across the pitch, got about twenty yards out from the Wolves goal and sent a low, not particularly hard, drive across the face of the goal. Blow me, it went in. Their keeper, basically, was bit of a clumsy mug. I’ve seen people with Parkinson’s Disease hold more than him. So 1-0. I must say, we all thought Wolves were awful. They could only play in certain parts of the pitch; a couple of neat triangles and a few mobius strips, that was the extent of their passing. Their boy wonder, Keane, certainly was. Ran around like a chased rat for ninety minutes. Still, at least he had a bit of passion. If our forward line was missing, our midfield was horribly inconsistent Petit sprayed balls that went anywhere except where they should go (I wouldn’t like to stand next to him in the bog based on today’s offering.) Parlour showed genuine touches of brilliance and Remi Garde probably had his best game for the club. At the back, Winterburn and Dixon were excellent, as was Upson. Adams, on his wrong side was adequate, but he looked out of sorts without Keown or Bould. And that left Alex Manninger. Really, Wolves’ goal was his fault. The ball came over, he called for it, Upson left it for him, out he came and up he went against another Norwegian called Flo (what are they doing in fjord land? All sleeping with one another sisters or something?) and then managed to punch thin air as the lumbering Flo guided it with his head in a loop and into the net. Bugger. It must be said that Arsenal in the second half were much livelier. You knew when Wolves hit the post that Arsenal were bound to win. This is the way of the world. Wolves were disintegrating under the pace and pressure of the boys in red and white. A couple of good chances could have sneaked in, but the one that went in was a crappy Bergkamp volley that hit the floor first, then Flo’s head then Keith Curle’s kidneys, then wobbled into the net. Mad goal. We laughed our heads off. Wolves’ tiny packet was well and truly shot. After that we had Petit being sent off for breathing and Curle lamping Bergy. And then the referee did the one thing in the whole afternoon that wasn’t tinged with inadequacy: he blew the whistle. A genuine Pyrrhic victory. Brilliant to be in the fifth round but deeply shitty to lose Petit for so many important matches. Ce monde est plein de fous. And we aren’t talking about Petit. Man of the Match: Ray Parlour. But Upson ran him close.
Arsenal 2 Sheffield United 1 By now the controversy generated by this game has reached from the upper echelons of FIFA to the lowest tabloid journalist gutters. In a nutshell, what really happened (as opposed to what all the a-holes and know-alls who weren’t actually at the game said happened) was that well into the second half, with the score at 1-1, Sheffield had an attack that was broken down by the Arsenal. Their player went down and didn’t look like he was getting up. The ball was duly punted up the field by the Gunners. At this point the Blades didn’t seem too concerned that one of their players was writhing around in the Arsenal area. David Seaman was furiously trying to attract the referee’s attention, but not succeeding. Finally, the United ‘keeper got hold of the ball, saw Seaman flagging and kicked it out of touch. I reckon only about two or three players on the whole pitch actually knew a man was down. Parlour picked up ball, turned his head and clocked the injury and threw the ball alone the touch line towards the Sheffield goal. Kanu, without looking, ambled onto the ball, crossed it to Overmars who simply stoked it in. At this point it was no worse than banging a ball forward after a minor infringement. Almost instantly most of the spectators realised that this was a pukka goal. Whatever, the idiots in the press have been saying today, no footballing law was broken. Sure, the ‘gentlemanly spirit’ of the game had been breached, but no rule had been contravened. Several things happened then. First, there was an almighty ruck on the pitch, where several Arsenal players were thumped quite heartily (didn’t see that reported in the fucking Sunday comics, did we?) and all the Sheffield fans went absolutely bat-shit. That I can understand. Steve Bruce, tried to pull his players off the pitch, but they were too busy pushing and slapping people to notice and generally for five or six minutes it was bedlam. Interesting, but mad. When play finally resumed it was a tight embarrassing affair with a bilious atmosphere that you could cut with a Stanley knife. It was like the seventies all over again. As Arsenal supporters we were all feeling a bit sheepish. This was no way to win, we thought. And then somebody started to laugh. Then someone else. Then we all joined in. What the fuck, this very situation has happened at least twice to the Arsenal in the recent past: once when Gary Stephens never returned a ball and Tottenham went ahead and scored and again a couple of seasons ago when Chris Sutton ran down a ball he had no right to be near. Blackburn scored and with hindsight that result probably cost us the Championship. Of course, it wouldn’t have done any good complaining because no rules were broken. It was shitty but we had to live with it. By now you all know that Wenger in a post match interview offered to replay the game. An unprecedented, but generous offer. And of course, the FA agreed. Terrific. Arsenal protest and everyone says they’re whingers. Puffy, tearful Steve Bruce does it and he gets a replay. This creates an absolutely amazing precedent. Here at @FC we actually find ourselves siding with Philip Don, the head referee. This makes a mockery of the game. Every refereeing decision that someone doesn’t like is now open to being overturned. Great, I can live with that. We’ll start with having Petit’s sending off repealed and then we’ll have that cheating cunt Redfearn up on a charge. How about that then? We find ourselves again coming back to the inescapable conclusion that there is one law for Arsenal and one for everyone else. Me, I’m glad Sheffield have their replay. Steve Bruce, may bang on about ‘gentlemanly’ conduct but we’d like to know if that extends to having a word with his oafish players about the five yellow cards that they picked up kicking the boys in red and white? Probably not. Even as I write this the Sheffield United Supporters’ Club (sic) are bleating about moving the tie to Bramwell Lane and some other sap is banging on about letting all the tykes in for free or something. Get a fucking life. If Sheffield United agree to pay for all the damage they caused (ripped up seats were thrown at the police. Didn’t read about that either, did you?) then we should think about letting them back into Highbury. These people want the bloody earth. I hope some dodgy Malaysian betting cartel douses the Edisons and we’re all plunged into darkness. The problem is, with the vile florescent yellow Sheffield United away strip, they could probably play in the dark and win. Anyway, enough of the puerile ranting (but we feel better, now.) It will be good to play United again, wherever. We’ll take them apart next time and scatter the pieces to the four winds. (Blimey, I’m getting a bit pumped, I might have to lay down and suck a mint.) If anyone’s still reading this they’re probably wondering about the rest of the game. Well, Arsenal were without Adams (squashed nose) Dixon (squeezed head) and Keown (one of the rubber bands in his legs had gone ‘ping’.) In the centre of the park Wenger paired Bould with Grimandi and actually played Vivas in his correct position. In attack, Anelka was bench warming and Diawara was kind of paired with Overmars. Bergkamp played very deep and looked desperately unhappy to find himself up against a tenacious, though not overtly skilful, United midfield. Hard to believe considering all the hype, but the game was a bit dull. Diawara was terrific though; a kind of mobile version of Emil Heskey. In the first half his peculiar swivelling stance managed to carve out two chances that hit both posts. Marvellous. The goal came from a set piece. Bergkamp floated a free kick across the area and Vieira glided it in. Their goal was also from a set piece, demonstrating that even the Arsenal can stand around like garden ornaments when they feel like it. Kana came on in the second half and found the pace of the game hard to cope with. I just hope all this sorry stuff hasn’t knocked him back too much. I saw him in a post match interview and he looked like a lost soul. So, this little episode will be put on hold until Tuesday week. Meanwhile on Wednesday we get the chance to turn another team called United over. What’s the betting that if Arsenal get another ‘cheated’ goal against the mankies, that Wenger doesn’t offer them a replay? Man of the Match: Patrick Vieira. The mantis is back.
Arsenal 2 Sheffield United 1 Groundhog Day again. Only this time with a Sheffield generated moanathon that the Bladesmen kept up for the whole of the ninety minutes. ‘We’re supposed to be at home’, ‘Shame on Arsenal’, ‘Kanu is a cheating cunt’, Overmars is a bit Dutch. I don’t know; but it went on and on. Solid Yorkshire moaning; 4,500 Geoffrey Boycotts all droning for England. A great advert for genocide if I’ve ever heard one. You kind of wondered who was actually being mean spirited, us or them. Arsenal started the game brusque and businesslike; but this was no Leicester. United were well drilled and their five man midfield, a pulsing yellow fluorescent chain of footballers dressed as road workers, nearly did it’s job of overwhelming the Arsenal. Indeed, Stephen Hughes continuing with his horrible metamorphoses into David Hillier, gifted the United midfield with the ball again and again. At one point Adams lost his rag completely and screamed at Hughes. Only Vieira ran around like a daddy long legs, putting a foot out here and a leg out there to thwart Sheffield. Midway through the first half a piercing long ball found Overmars. Even before the United supporters could crank up the booing machine, Marc raced away, outstripped the defence and lashed the ball past the keeper and into the net. Ha, ha, ha. Almost enough to make you believe in Hoddle’s Karmic twaddle. And it shut up the whinging United crew. What a perfect little sublime moment made even better by Winterburn’s goal celebration which involved spinning Overmars around so the United supporter’s could read the name on his shirt. I think it’s called rubbing it in. Marvellous. Arsenal then slipped effortlessly into another gear and pinned Sheffield back. An incredible cross field ball found Ray Parlour deep out on the wing. He curled it around his foot and crossed it back into the middle. Bergkamp, standing side on to the goal, chipped, lifted or lofted the ball in a perfect parabolic arc over the keeper and into the depths of the net. Stonking goal. Well worth a blank video tape on its own. The second half was another half entirely (bit Ron Atkinson that, but you know what I mean.) Bergkamp and Anelka went off and Diawara and Kanu (boo, hiss) came on. And Arsenal just disappeared. Sheffield’s late goal, three or four minutes from time was one of those events down purely to blood, sweat, tears and all the other fluids. Arsenal had a sticky five minutes and Bramell Lane looked on the cards at one point. When the whistle went we all jumped up and thirty two thousand Arsenal supporters waved the plucky Yorkshiremen goodbye with the traditional cockney farewell of thumb and forefinger together and a little shake of the hand. Think of it as a mark of respect and a gesture to those upright, stoic Yorkshire souls. Yorkshire is easy to find; just keep going up the M1 until you hit the all shit and the animals. Goodnight Sheffield. We must do it again some time. Man of the Match: Dennis Bergkamp.
Arsenal 1 Derby 0 Well, farewell Derby: a team scraped from the crud of the bottom drawer of Europe, a team that elbowed, kicked and shoved its way into the sixth round of the FA Cup, a team supported by a bunch of inbred ingrates (iodine deficiency in the thyroid gland used to be endemic in rural Derbyshire due to inter breeding. Huge lumps on the neck are not the most fetching fashion accessory - and you thought we were just a bunch of North London no nothings) and a team managed by a sherry sodden version of Mr Potatohead, Jim ‘putty nose’ Smith. Yes, we’ve always hated Derby and they have always given us something to hate. The Derby fans didn’t help by winding us all up by chanting ‘Same old Arsenal always cheating’. Well excuse me, but what bunch of supporters was it that invaded the pitch eight minutes from the end of the last game of the season against Fulham, got the match abandoned and Fulham failed to secure the point that would have taken them into the old first division? We see the infamous short memory of the Midlands operating here. I suppose when you live in such a muddy shithole as Derby that it helps to have only a couple of brain cells. Any more and they would want to live down here. Jim Smith, a manager of the ‘old school’, who never really made it out of short trousers and into the ‘new school’ came up with this fabulous wheeze of getting the animal Carsley to man mark Dennis Bergkamp. Fair enough if you’re Paolo Maldini but a lumpen troll like Carsley couldn’t mark his own underpants. His idea of man marking seems to be get hold of a man and put as many marks on him as possible. In these circumstances you might expect some protection from the man in black. But no, the referee, a man of breathtaking shortcomings, a man who could make Mr Bean look like Bill Gates (actually Bill Gates does look a bit Beanish) decided to give Derby free reign to go on a first half spell of ethnic cleansing. In the first half, however, Derby were slightly the better team. Arsenal, sans most of the French (Vieira, Petit and Garde) employed a strange lightweight midfield comprising Hughes, Parlour and Ljungberg. Hughes continued to play like hasn’t got a pair of eyes in his head, Ljungberg was rustier than R2D2 after a paddle and Parlour was employed in the unfamiliar role as a midfield linchpin. I must say it worried us, looking at our weedy middle compared to the lumbering animated bits of gristle in the Derby midfield. We would have thought that someone like Grimandi would have been made for this game. However, Ray Parlour did a terrific job in the middle; anything that happened came through him. The first half was a forgetful mess, punctuated only by dour bouts of Derby violence. Lots of bookings, very few of them for the right offence. The referee didn’t mind a bit of blood or dangling muscle tissue but didn’t like it when any of the players opened their mouths and didn’t call him sir. Another small man puffed up with his own self importance. You want to watch that sort, they have a habit of invading Poland. The second half started with Vivas in for Hughes who had retired holding his elbow. (Yeah, we had something in mind involving elbows with Hughes, too. He had a stinker in the first half.) Little Nelson made an immediate difference with his tenacious ability to stop Derby running all over the pitch like hyperactive grazing animals. Slowly Arsenal cranked up the volume. Overmars made several runs bordering on the greedy that stretched the Rams. Bergkamp found a couple of empty inches between Carsley’s ears and managed to get a few balls through and Anelka even hit the post. The turning point in the game was the arrival of Kanu. One look at the war that was going on and it seemed obvious that the last person you needed on the pitch was a laconic, languid Nigerian with a dicky ticker. But, how wrong can you be. Kanu held up the ball, demonstrated a previously unseen resilience when dealing with a team of pitbulls and picked his spot beautifully when it came to laying the ball off. It was great to watch. With nothing left on the clock, most of the divvies who sit about us had pissed off home in time to watch Noel’s House Party or something and we were watching what looked like the last Arsenal strike of the game. The gunners forced a corner, the ball came in like a hand grenade; Adams helped it through the melee, Keown had a shot blocked and the ball fell to Kanu, six feet out from goal. He gave it a half scissors lash (you know what we mean) and belted it into the net. Keeper got a bent finger to it, I think. We went potty and the players went ballistic. Kanu, a wide half moon smile as big as Highbury, was engulfed by a leaping mound of red and white. Vivas, screaming his head off, somehow ended up on top of the Arsenal mountain. Magic. Derby, of course, protested. Handball, they said (chest). Offside, they said (level and a bit more.) In all the fuss, Derby’s Sturridge got himself sent off. God knows for what. The final whistle, funny enough, was not that long in coming. And there you are; another semi-final. Barnsley in the next round and Everton in the final would be a right treat. But we suspect that the words ‘Tottenham’ and ‘Manchester’ will be there when the mists clear in the crystal ball. Man of the Match: Ray Parlour.
FA Cup Semi Final Manchester United 0 Arsenal 0 (AET) Well, it was different from last year’s semi final. Then we got to Villa Park with about two minutes to spare; this year we were standing in the shadow of the Holte End two and a half hours before the kick-off. Have you ever tried to kill two hours in Aston? No pubs that weren’t boarded up, no shops that didn’t smell of dog widdle, just a few salmonella sausage outlets, a scruffy park suffering from alopecia and a couple of red brick churches with weedy graveyards full of Birmingham City fans. Being up since half five can scramble the mind, so it seemed a good idea to kill time by blowing up about four dozen yellow balloons, tying them together and then when they are the same size as a monstrous haemorrhoid, letting them roll around the Midlands. We also perused this year’s big printed yellow song sheet. The most obvious candidate for pants song of the year being ‘Kanu, Kanu, I’m so in love with you’ to the tune of Blondie’s Denise. After about two hours we couldn’t even see the pitch because of all the balloons we were holding; we had eaten about a dozen scotch eggs, pissed a vat of passed Ribena and juice and read all the big words in the crap programme. Boring or what. The tiny peep of the whistle and the movement of players signalled an end to the fucking purgatory of Balloonworld and we all settled down for a game that we knew was going to be more practical and tactical than thunder and blood. The boys seemed in no rush at all. Wenger pulled in Parlour and Overmars into the middle and anchored them around Vivas and Vieira. We think the plan was to keep out of the wings. If Parlour and Overmars were allowed to run then Winterburn and Dixon would have gone with them and that would have let in Giggs and Beckham; and we all know what happens then. The problem with Arsenal was that they played the sort of game where they were trying to hit on the break but they never did any breaking. Parlour would bring the ball out, move sidewise and appear in the middle of red shirt city; Butt and Keane would relieve him of the ball and push it to the ever switching Cole and Yorke. It was like watching a bleeding pinball machine. Meanwhile, Staam was having a fabulous game; man marking Bergkamp and dealing with Anelka like he was shithouse fly. Out of our lot, Keown was breathtaking. Quite simply, one of the finest defensive performances you’ll see. Arsenal were making heavy weather of United. We seemed to have sacrificed all our pace for a plan that contained United and offered very little else. Still, we’ve learned to trust Wenger, so we sat there amongst the bobbing balloons, only very slightly shitting ourselves. One United move saw Yorke drift offside. The flag went up, but the referee never noticed it and play went on. A good forty seconds later Roy Keane got hold of the ball and whacked it past Seaman. It was then that the United players noticed the flag. No goal. The united kindergarten went ballistic; toys were tossed aside, pants were wee’d in and tiny feet were stamped. Still, no goal. Listen, forget Sky, Alex Ferguson and all those pissed out journos, Yorke was part of an attacking move; he was offside. The flag went up. So fucking what if no-one noticed it? No goal. Never. For the press and the Manure camp to suggest that the bloke put his flag down and then up again is just a lie. We were sitting right above him and that flag was up for the entire time. I thought Man United were lucky to finish the whole unsavoury incident with a full complement of players. But, I suppose Roy Keane has a special dispensation to manhandle referees that Petit is yet to achieve. The rest of the game was a tense nail biting, balloon bursting affair. United should have finished it off half a dozen times. I thought Yorke was a good finisher? At least that’s what all those slappers say in the News of the World. Ha. As the game went on and United pressurised but achieved nothing you could sense that Arsenal might have their moment. Anelka, who had an afternoon wandering around Villa Park like an octogenarian with Alzheimer’s went off to be replaced by Kanu, who proved, yet again, that he is deceptively effective. Poor old Vivas also went off; the recipient of a second yellow card. Blinding elbow, though. It wasn’t until the last couple of minutes of extra time that Arsenal really tested the mankies. Ljungberg, on for the quiet Overmars (or Mark Marsbar as my mate’s four year old calls him) broke free on the left and found himself with a one on one with the advancing red nosed Dane. Alas, Fred shot his bolt early and the shot was smothered. A couple of minutes later we nearly had the goal of the season. Bergkamp, picking his legs up and down with the ball, looking for all the world like Scooby Doo tip toeing through a minefield, nearly mugged all of the entire United defence. Only a stray stuck out toe deprived him of the finishing shot. Great moment, nearly a classic one. When the final whistle went Arsenal were definitely the stronger. And on Wednesday, Petit’ll be back. Maybe, the bubble (or balloon) has finally burst for the moaning ones. Man of the match: Martin Keown.
Manchester United 2 Arsenal 1 AET If you want to watch a game, watch United. If you want to observe a war, watch the Arsenal. Tonight the Arsenal were magnificent. Don’t let anyone tell you different. They came up against a team that are enjoying the form of their lives. When Giggs and Beckham are old fat and incontinent they will be showing their two goals tonight as the summation of their careers. You’re going to have to believe me on this one. Tonight was a turning point for Manchester United. Arsenal are now out of the equation and it’s up to the black and white teams, Juventus and Newcastle to shape the destiny of the lucky ones. And make no mistake about it, tonight Manchester United were as lucky as they were ever going to be in their history. It was as if the take-off at Munich had been smooth and not plagued by ice in the wings; they were that lucky. History might prove us wrong, but their celebrations at the final whistle were redolent of a team that had had a massive let-off. They looked like they had just saved the Earth from Martian invaders, not just seen off an Arsenal side. They were at the peak of their season. And Arsenal, believe me, came so close. The kick off saw no Overmars, a hastily put in Ljungberg and a newly restored Petit. From the off, United dictated the pace. Even with a second string forward line that replaced Cole, Yorke and Giggs. Ferguson, was clearly exploiting his squad system; even though it’s just a myth. All he ever switches around is his forwards. When’s the last time he dropped Stam or Keane? Absolute bollocks. However, Arsenal were nervy and subservient; everything they did was in response to United. They did not stamp any authority on the game. Indeed, most of the match went like this. United flowed at will and Arsenal’s one lone response was one astonishing attack from Dennis that nearly produced a goal. The idle rich were probably at Villa Park, but us lot, the idle poor, were all sequestered the back room of the Gunners. The place was absolutely mad; as packed as I’ve ever seen it. Arsenal’s only contribution in the first hour was a rather smart shot from Dennis that old red nose had to stretch himself for. And that was it. And then Beckham got a goal that was more to do with the Gunners ball watching than anything else. In acres of unchallenged space, Beckham managed to bend a ball around the stretching Seaman. A fairly flaccid goal, reeking of once in a career luck that Sky Telly lapped up. It was fucking horrible. You could see Andy Grey’s cum splattered on the screen. Believe me, the lacking one will never get another goal like that. Might be talent: looked like a fluke. Who cares, anyway? The funny thing is, my mate Andy was up at the bar when United scored. When it was my turn to go the bar. I took a careful look and saw that United were on the attack, By the time I clocked the screen and picked up four pints of Guinness, Arsenal had walked the ball up the field and Dennis had lashed a ball at the United goal and had scored with a supernal rebound. Wow. Have you ever seen four pints of beer empty just like that? Fuck knows where they went. What a blinding moment. By the time I’d bought another round and returned to the wet patch where we were standing, Roy Keane had been sent off. Suddenly, Arsenal were in with a real shout. Overmars came on late into the game and made a magnificent difference. So how did the rest of the game go? Well, Arsenal got stronger: got the ball in the net once (Anelka offside) and then at the very death, (one minute to go) gained a penalty when Parlour was brought down. Of course, Bergkamp missed and old red nose saved. Our moment had passed. The rest is history. United jam a win and we have to take it. Listen, this report is pointless. It’s three in the morning and I feel like shit. I’ve spent the whole night drinking and breathing in dope fumes from some of the more wanton members of society in the pub and I don’t care. Tonight, I cried, for a magnificent performance and a lost dream. United are shit. Shallow as a puddle and as interesting as Algebra. They flatter to deceive. Their entire future depends on teams in black and white: Newcastle and Juventus. Me, I’m knackered and sad and more than a little liquid. Fuck United, they could still win sod all. Sour grapes? Probably. Sometimes football can be so hard…(and I know it’s the booze talking; but shit, am I fed up. But the consolation is that United have peaked, believe me.) Man of the Match: All of them, every man jack.
I Current Season I Match Archives I Mail us I Links I Home I
|
