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1997/8 14.10.97 Arsenal 4 Birmingham 1 (AET) 18.11.97 Arsenal 1 Coventry 0 (AET) 28.1.98 Semi Final 1st Leg: Arsenal 2 Chelsea 1 18.2.98 Semi Final 2nd Leg: Chelsea 3 Arsenal 1
Arsenal 4 Birmingham 1 (AET) Just like the old days this game. Cold wind, rain, tiny crowd, Birmingham and nothing to play for. Wenger put out the reserves (sorry, some of the higher numbered squad players. In fact, some of the numbers were so high you needed two blokes to show the whole number) and Trevor Francis put out a team that looked like it was waste matter salvaged from hospital dustbins. You’d think that with Birmingham having all those great motorway systems that your average Brummie would have some rudimentary sense of direction. But judging by the amount of blank blokes in Toyota Celicas who stopped me to ask where the ground was, you can only conclude that it must be a few years since they went out anywhere, let alone a proper city like London. You can’t help shrugging your shoulders at the mention of Birmingham. Brummies are ‘the Welsh of England’ my mate reckons. He’s got a point. When the team trotted out it was like that episode of Star Trek where fatty Kirk finds himself in a parallel universe that looks like his but everyone is shitty and Spock has a beard. In this other Arsenal reality, Stephen Hughes is a major star, David Platt is sagacious and Lee Dixon is a talentless journeyman who couldn’t cross his legs. Maybe that reality is closer than you think. No dodgy beards, though. It might have been a different team (average age about 12 and a bit) but they were wearing the sacred red and white, so they deserved our support. The ‘fans’ who had asked for their money back had a point, but it was their loss; it turned into a cracking night. Strange night, strange team and made even stranger by the appearance of a black referee and a female linesman. The ref was a bit arbitary, the linespersonage fine, but the other linesman, a ginger midget, was something of a berk. I bet the other kids at his school called him the ‘red tortoise’ or something. I’ve seen continents shift faster than him. As soon as the whistle went you knew you were watching a team that looked like Arsenal, felt like Arsenal, but did other things that were totally alien to the current Arsenal team: like running off the ball. It wasn’t the greatest first half. I spent about fifteen minutes wondering how moths manage to fly when the atmosphere is 90% drizzle and the tossers who sit behind us spent at least half an hour talking about blood clots. Football supporters, eh? For every Nick Hornby there are a thousand anoraks. When Birmingham scored the collective Arsenal head went down and to be honest it was then that the Gunner’s inexperience showed. During the second half, the lads were diligent and patience was finally rewarded by Luis Boa Morte cracking a curving volley from the edge of the area. It bent, wriggled and snuggled into the net. Blinding. As is the way with youth, the boys perked up then and in extra time, with the Arsenal threatening, there was an inevitability about the penalty. All the young gunners seemed petrified about taking it, so up stepped David Platt (who had a terrific game, by the way) and cool as a whole box cucumbers, hit it hard and straight. 2-1. Birmingham then fell apart like a cheap Amstrad radio (or a cheap Amstrad team). Boa Morte got another, swiftly followed by the ever improving Mendez. Wreh went close, too, but that was it. 4-1. Soaking wet, but well happy. A thorough night of entertainment. The young lads were highly delighted and we were too. The Coca Cola cup might now be a bit flat now the cap of a Euro place has been lost, but if you saw the faces of the Young Guns as they came off, you would have thought they’ve just won the world cup. Then again, who’s to say that one day one of them might be doing just that? Man of the Match: Wreh was cool, but Boa Morte was hot.
Arsenal 1 Coventry 0 This was very much like the Birmingham game: rain, reserves and ugly wet people from the midlands. Again, the first half was something we’ve seen before: endeavour, close shaves and Lee Dixon’s peculiar orbital crosses. Martin Keown made a welcome return, his waving offside arm now fully functional. Bergkamp, on remand, made a rare footballing appearance and David Platt in the midfield, continued with the greatest comeback since Lazarus. Coventry, however, were no walkover. They roamed around the park in little gangs, kicking anything that moved and shouting their heads off. If you’ve ever been stuck in Coventry city centre on a Saturday night then you’ll recognise the tactics. Gordon Strachan may look like the little one out the Krankies with a ginger syrup, but he has managed to mould Coventry into something that looks like team. Tonight’s Arsenal, a mix of the old, the new and the sublime, hardly had it their own way. Anelka hit the upright with a shovel footed shot early on, but at the other end Manninger, standing in for Seaman, was called upon to make some outstanding, though over elaborate, saves. I know that when I was 18 I used to try and do things that impressed girls, like eating a whole jar of pickled onions when the obvious thing was to buy them a sports car, or something. He’ll learn. Indeed, as the game went on, this blonde, red faced ‘keeper, (mmm, that sounds familiar) just got better and better. He made a couple of staggering saves; one point blank stop in extra time from Huckerby even had the Coventry striker applauding. In the midfield Platt, Parlour and the ever improving Mendez looked like they actually played for the same team, whilst up front Anelka, though silky, became increasingly invisible as the game went on. Bergkamp continued to look like he was acting out every football fantasy you’ve ever had, the only flies in the ointment being the annoying Coventry defenders who fouled him at every opportunity. As usual, the referee was a complete Braille jockey who couldn’t find his own arse with both hands. At least Bergie kept his cool. No bookings this time out. At the back Keown, Upson and Bould looked solid. Dixon, as usual, managed to look both solid and dense. The man continues to confound. The first half was nothing too special as was most of the second. Manninger threw himself around and did his confidence the power of good. At the other end, Fungus the Bogeyman, did likewise. Bit of a goalie show, this one. A couple of minutes before time and Arsenal had the ball in the back of the net, but the linesman, a horrible little bloke of Subbuteo proportions, reckoned it was offside. So, extra time and a crowd doomed once again to eating warmed up cack left in the oven by your missus who has gone to bed about four hours before you get in. Honestly, one minute from the end and people were on their feet, pointing at their watches, shouting at Bergkamp, "Score, for fuck’s sake. I’ve gotta get a bus to Muswell Hill and take the friggin’ dog for a walk....blah, blah, Sainsburys, blah, kebab, blah." You know how it goes. I was amazed. Bergkamp’s goal came early in extra time. A long ball from Hughes, deep in the Arsenal half, dropped about a yard in front of Bergkamp. Den ran on, defenders tracking him, waited for Oggie to commit himself, then lofted it over him; a nice lopping ball that hit the post before it went in. And all done on the hoof. Neat goal. That was all. Coventry ran out of steam and ground to a halt and Arsenal finished the game looking comfortable. The mixture of old, new and perverse seems to be working very well. Manninger of the Match: The Arsenal Goalkeeper.
West Ham 1 Arsenal 2 This was more like it: big screen, big, pub, big drink, big game. Having this complete antipathy towards Upton Park and its ersatz bunch of ‘cockinees’ the only logical place to watch the game was in a pub. Seeing as we were all knobbed off with the Highbury Barn Tavern (you try watching a game with two juke boxes playing at once, people eating like pigs and groups of kids playing pool badly. Anyway, all the barmaids look like badly made-up cattle.) So, it was down the Gunners for a couple of hours of noise with a group of your own. Much better than schlepping off to east London for all that ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles, knees up mother Brown’s groin I’ll have that handbag now Maree Poppins' bollocks. From the off this looked like a good ‘un. West Ham’s pitch looked like an allotment after a rave. One look at Berkovic’s face said it all; no-one fancied playing on that cabbage patch. Hartson looked keyed up and seeing him made me rue the day we sold him. However, any regrets went out of the window when we spotted what he was sporting. Honestly, people with ginger hair shouldn’t be allowed to grow beards by law. The red flock on his mush looked like he had half a ginger cat in his mouth. Horrible, really horrible. West Ham had obviously decided that they were going to run around like excitable children all night. Arsenal, being wiser, let them do just that. Ian Wright, back from suspension, started off like a rocket. His running off the ball was quite brilliant. Very early on he latched onto a ball from Bergkamp and tried to steer a looping header over Forrest. It went over the bar, but Bergkamp and Wright both played with a terrific economy: nothing was wasted, every ball counted. With Petit and Vieira absorbing the Hammer’s flurries in the middle and Keown taking care of Hartson, we looked a little bit cool. Then of course they get a penalty. Seaman ‘fouled’ Kitson, he went down quicker than Gillian Talforth in a lay-by and suddenly with about fifteen minutes gone there’s a real crisis. There was so much water on the pitch, that it was no surprise that Hartson fluffed the spot kick. Seaman guessed right and smothered the shot. That really was the end of West Ham. Arsenal’s goal came from a long clearance from the ’keeper that somehow arrived at an accelerating Ian Wright. He flashed across the edge of the box, played a lightning one-two with Bergkamp, who shot it straight back to Wright. He took in on another yard, turned the defender and whacked it in. Stunning bit of footy. The pub went potty. Nearly swallowed a whole bag of dry roasted in the excitement. Between that and the other Arsenal goal was a lot of huffing and puffing from West Ham. They had most of the possession but Arsenal had the guile and patience. A ‘mature’ performance, my mate reckoned. I thought it was more like when you used to take a girl out for ages and ages and never get near her interesting bits. Then your mate would come along, go out with her once and manage to have her sixteen times on the top of a 38 bus. Oh, well it was nice to be the bloke on the bus for a change. The second goal came from a cock-up in the West Ham defence. Rio Ferdinand, the Bash Street Kids Plug look-a-like, managed to bang into another iron. Overmars nipped in between them, waited for the bounce and tucked it away with a bit of continental aplomb. West Ham got one back and Seaman had his now customary flap, but the boys held out well. The rest of the night ended in a swimming pool of Guinness. Welcome back boys. Top night. Man of the match: Ian Wright.
Semi Final First Leg: Arsenal 2 Chelsea 1 To be frank we should have buried Gullit and his bunch of Kensington dilettantes by half time. Chelsea arrived, sans LeBeouf, Di Matteo and Wise but still toting that dodgy offside trap: an edifice with more holes in it than Robin Cook’s morals. Arsenal were without Vieira, who was doubtless pointlessly arse-warming some subs bench somewhere with the French national side, so Stephen Hughes got a rare run out. Grimandi, who can go back to France anytime he wants, filled in for Mr Huff ‘n’ Puff, Lee Dixon and the three fingered Seaman was deputised by the red cheeked Austrian, Manninger. Gullit’s insufferable hubris dictated that he himself was the linchpin of the Cheslea defence. Looking like an old, slow sheepdog, most Arsenal fans were delighted to see him pogoing maniacally without a clue what was going on. The rest of the Chelsea side weren’t up to much; Flo looked like somebody who had strayed off a basketball court, Le Saux grinned like a kid who had just had his first haircut and Zola looked like a whipped dog. My mate reckons Zola was a better when he had that job sitting on top of the organ rattling a tin cup. In goal, the peculiar Ed De Dodgy continued to prove the maxim that the people who attempt to grow facial hair are usually the ones less well equipped in the hormonal/testosterone department. The candy floss flock on his face is deeply offensive. I can only recall one footballer in the last 20 years who could grow a proper beard and that was Celtic’s, Danny McGrain. I wish footballers would knock off the fuzzy felt. Chelsea started off like a rocket, but like all rockets it fizzed a bit and exploded into a pretty cloud and left everyone feeling deeply unsatisfied. Arsenal contested everything. Parlour had a low, early shot stopped well and Bergkamp had a header bounce off the upright. Yes, it’s official, Bergkamp has a head. Overmars was causing all sorts of problems, no more so than he ran past a telegraph pole like Gullit who obligingly headed backwards with a bizarre header not seen since primary school. It looped up into the air and disappeared into the night. Overmars beat the goalkeeper to the ball by a heartbeat, toed it into the net and satisfyingly made it 1-0. Chelsea looked shagged. Arsenal ran the rest of the half, moving well, working hard even do some sterling running off the ball. That was a rare sight. The second half had barely started when Anelka twisted and found Overmars. He ran, streaming Chelsea players in his wake, took the ball to the by-line, turned back and laid a blind ball into space that Stephen Hughes ran on to. With one stride and with one sweet strike had it in the back of the net. Marvellous. 2-0. That should have been it. Ed De Gooey then made a fabulous instinctive save from a venomous Bergkamp strike. That should have been our three-nil. The the old scripts came out, along with Mark Hughes MBE (More Bloody Elbows) who promptly got half a head to a deflected ball that left Manninger conducting air. Bollocks. A soft, stupid goal. A good game to watch, this one. Arsenal were committed, sharp and inventive. In three weeks time Wright, Vieira and Keown will be back. Unfortunately Overmars will be on international duty, but so will de Goey. Bergkamp, as we know, doesn’t fly. Well, not unless he’s near a Coventry defender, so he’ll play. Can’t wait. See you at the Bridge. Man of the Match: Marc Overmars.
Semi Final Second Leg: Chelsea 3 Arsenal 1 (Chelsea win 4-3 with a perfectly executed display of synchronised diving.) Let’s get this straight: everything about Chelsea PLC is a con. It starts with them charging 60p for a packet of crisps, £21.00 to sit in a stand with no roof and goes all the way up to Ken Bates believing that helicopters are a good mode of transport for people who disagree with him. You would have thought that Vialli had said before the match in his fractured English, something like, "I want this match to be a diving board for our success," given the amount of falling blue shirted bodies hitting the ground with monotonous regularity. It was incredible. Adams tackles Hughes. Hughes goes down clutching his face. Petit tackles Di Matteo. Di Matteo goes down clutching his face. It went on and on. So much for Vialli injecting a bit of Italian flare. The referee, the disgusting, Graham Poll, must have gave Arsenal at least six free kicks where a Chelsea player dived and failed to take any action against the ever horizontal blues. So, it was inevitable really that the player to be sent off was Vieira. Bang went the middle of a team. As most of the play was restricted to the centre circle, Vieira’s dismissal turned the game around. Two quick Chelsea goals and that was that. This all probably sounds like grapes of the sour variety, but we were sitting in the front row of the West Stand, about ten feet away from the players. Every kick, every elbow, every dirty bit of the foul LeSaux’s prissy tantrums, we saw it all. Chelsea conned this one pure and simple. Arsenal came out looking forlorn: no Bould, no Keown, no Wright, no Seaman. An injured Dennis Bergkamp, so whacked out on pain killers, that he didn’t know what day it was, a hobbling Ray Parlour and a crippled Nigel Winterburn, who seemed to break down every two minutes. Lee Dixon was about as fast as a wheelie bin, but not as satisfying in the content department. You could tell as soon as they kicked off that Arsenal were going to suffer big-time from the ‘New Broom Syndrome.’ I think it’s about time that some other club played someone who has just changed their manager. The game could have been won by using the flanks. Chelsea seem to think ‘wings’ are something that Linda McCartney used to play the tambourine in and ‘wide’ an epithet applicable to Dennis Wise. But inexplicably, Wenger tried to outsmart Chelsea in the middle, and that’s where we came unstuck. Their first goal came out of an eighteen man melee. On another night it would have hit a leg or a chest, but Hughes, somewhat jammily, managed to steer it through the crowd and out of the reach of Manninger. Apart from the penalty, which quite incredibly featured Duberry on the floor clutching the ball, Arsenal were never in this one. In the end Arsenal just disappeared. Chelsea’s no-nothing supporters, who seem to comprise of spotty accountants and round geezers with beards, appeared happy enough. They made a mistake trying to goad various Arsenal supporters into a dust-up, though. The few skirmishes I saw were short and nasty. Bit like Dennis Wise really. It’s amazing that the people who want to fight are always fat blokes and then only if there’s a fence or a wall between them and their opponents. Weird. Anyway, it wasn’t all bad, at least we got a number 19 bus back to Highbury and of course come the 29th March we’ll all be honorary northerners for the day, cheering on The Merse and ‘boro in the final. This was Chelsea’s highlight of the season. Watch ‘em slide now. Man
of the Match: Tony Adams. (His booking was a farce. A foot of air
between him and the Chelsea player, and he gets booked by an unsighted
ref thirty yards away. Brilliant.)
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