SEPTEMBER 1996

4.9.96 Arsenal 3 Chelsea 3

7.9.96 Aston Villa 2 Arsenal 2

16.9.96 Arsenal 4 Sheffield Wednesday 1

21.9.96 Middlesbrough 0 Arsenal 2

28.9.96 Arsenal 2 Sunderland 0

4.9.96

Arsenal 3 Chelsea 3

Yes, they were lucky. Yes, they relied on a tedious offside trap. Yes, they were Chelsea. Gullit's much vaunted improvements roughly amounted to, one past it Italian (Gianluca Vialli looking a cross between Jean Luc Picard and Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now) and a rickety offside tactic borrowed from QPR. But, enough of the eurotrash, what about the Gunners?

It started well. Settling down in the squeaky plastic seats, marvelling at the iridescent greenness of the pitch, watching the late summer moths crash and burn on the floodlights and waiting for Martin Keown to carry on his twice yearly tactical, nuke-em offensive against that small, mean Welsh colony called, 'Mark Hughes'. I was really looking forward to it.

All eyes seemed to be on Gianluca, but he really is just a decoy for the real star of the Chelsea show; Frank Lebeouf. The man can really play. After five minutes I was praying for someone to break his legs or at least take him out with a single, high powered rifle shot (grassy knoll, anyone?)

After a dodgy couple of minutes it was almost inevitable that Steve Bould was going to do something like overreach in the area and bring someone down. He duly obliged and with only six minutes gone on the clock, Chelsea had a penalty. David Seaman had contrived to leave one end of his hamstring in Moldavia a few days earlier, necessitating us extending a cautious welcome to the prodigal 'keeper, John Lukic. That man Lebeouf took the penalty like most of us would like to think we would; hard and straight. Lukic moved/fell and it was, quite nightmarishly, 1-0 to Gullit's Legionnaires. At this point, Arsenal didn't look that clever. Parlour was promptly brought down at the other end, but the ref was having none of it. Penalties, it seemed, were special things, reserved for blue shirts only. Chelsea replied by running up the park, spreading the ball wide to Gianluca Picard, who shot, somewhat erratically, for the near post. Lukic had it covered all the way but managed to patter cake the ball down and push it into the net. Shit. 2-0 down and millennia to go to half time.

Arsenal replied by looking a bit sad and playing 'Hunt the Morrow'; a wretched sport at the best of times. We all shut up and shot daggers at the celebrating Chelsea rabble.

All the clocks said half time when Bouldy took a free kick deep in the Arsenal half. It was touched on to Bergkamp who pushed it wide to Merson. A nice, low shot moved sweetly across Kharine and unbelievably it was 2-1. The first proper goal.

Half time was fun and we were smiling. It was the first evening game and the pitch looked devastating. I began to wonder how my mate Dave, who has a red/green colour blindness, really sees the average Arsenal game. Does he just see legs and heads? I dunno. I was going to ask him but he was busily scoffing a 2lb bar of cooking chocolate and deep questions about visual perception didn't seem quite right. Why can't mates be normal?

The second half started and it looked like Chelsea had been sussed. If any Premier league team has a forward playing midfield that are a bit mobile (Man Utd/Sunderland) then they will destroy Chelsea.

On the Arsenal front, the 'Hunt the Morrow' competition had been successful. They found him, grabbed him by the scruff, led him off and brought on Mr Dodgy Vertebrae, David Platt. This game was made for Platty. Winning the ball in the middle, was the best way to stop Chelsea's passing pattern. Already, Arsenal looked brighter.

First, there was a corner. Up went Keown, all guts, legs and sweat. A great, smacking header and the ball flew in. 2-2. Chelsea, a body without a backbone, will never score a goal like that in a billion matches. Pure Arsenal.

We all decided that we had been a bit hard on God, when he decided that he had had enough of Lebeouf playing well and mysteriously crocked him bad enough to get him carried off. Nice one, deity.

The Blues began to look ragged. Even with the aid of a linesman who was totally befuddled by the offside rule, Chelsea were finding it hard to contain the Gunners. Merson was looking sharp, Bergkamp's touch was making Vialli look leaden and even Parlour stopped getting on peoples' nerves.

About 15 minutes to go and Wrighty came on for an injured Uncle Bouldy. Almost immediately, there was a long ball from the back. Wright ran it, him against three Chelsea players, turned on the speed and strength (maybe, just a little foul) and slotted beyond the advancing, kung fu kicking, Kharine. 3-2. Justice at last.

The Chelsea fans shut up: we didn't. We held on for a glorious 3-2 win and went second in the league. Well no, not really. It didn't quite happen that way. The reality was that the irritating Dennis Wise glove puppet, popped up in the 475th (or whatever) minute and put one in the Arsenal goal and gave poor old Lukic a night to leave by the bins. 3 bloody 3.

Conclusions? Chelsea are wearing their best party frocks and playing pretty. But, they will get no better. Arsenal, however, are still under strength and playing from memory. I'll lay money we'll be above them, come the end of the season.

Man of the Match: Paul Merson.

7.9.96

Aston Villa 2 Arsenal 2

This was always going to be an awkward match. Villa were the most tenacious buggers we played last season, so this was always going to be tricky.

However, the biggest problem was that no-one I knew well was going to the match. I (me, Gary) was at a christening 25 miles away from Villa Park and the rest of the so-called @FC team were a) working b) decorating the hall c) gone to IKEA and d) sitting in a church near Droitwich with me. The nearest we got to the match was following a coach full of swaying Gooners up the M1. Fair weather supporters, or what?

Well, a friend of a friend of a (you get the idea) was going to the match, so I asked him to do a review. After talking to him on the 'phone for five minutes, the words, blood, stone and getting, came to mind, but not necessarily in that order.

Friday

Me: Yeah, it'll be great if you could write something. Just a list of five things that were brilliant and five things that were shit. I'll pick the bones out of that and write up a match report. They'll never know I wasn't there.

Him: Five? Er...what on paper?

Me: That'll be nice, but I don't mind. Whatever. (Click.)

Sunday

Me: How did it go?

Him: What go?

Me: The match. Looked a bit iffy to me. What about the review?

Him: Ah. You know that bit of paper? The one with the stuff on it. Yeah, that one. I lost it. I had it in the pub in Aston, then nothing.

Me: (Small sigh) Never mind. What was good about the game?

Him: We got ripped off in a Little Chef. Four quid for a bit of napalmed bacon and an egg that came from some hospital dustbin.

Me: That was the good bit? What about the match? Good was it?

Him: (Sound of shrugging) Well y'know. Merson scored. And Linighan. With his head. Both of them. (Both their heads? How many fucking heads has Andy Linighan got, I thought.) (Another pause) They played Morrow again. Might as well play my sister, she's got bigger balls than him.

Me: What formation did we play?

Him: Usual. Wrighty, Den and Merson. They dropped Hartson, y'know?

Me: This isn't exactly a penetrating expose, is it?

Him: I told you, I lost me bit of paper.

Me: What about Villa?

Him: Bloody awkward. That Milo bloke got two.

Me: (Long sigh) What about the Arse?

Him: Merson played well. (Major pause) Did I tell you they played that cunt Morrow again? Wanker. (I think that was aimed at me.)

Me: (Giving up completely) Anything funny happen?

Him: That Ansells is crap. It's all frothy like a milkshake. Or soap. (Pause) Did I mention the Little Chef?...

...we could have carried on like that for hours. Obviously, these match reports are going to be harder than we thought.

In a nutshell: Villa strong. Arsenal resilient. Seaman still out. Bergkamp good, Merson better. Wrighty got away with thumping someone. Classic Linighan set-piece goal. Oh, and Merson had a perfectly good goal disallowed.

That was Saturday. This is Monday. Bring on Borussia Munckinhandbag.

Man of the Match: Paul Merson.

16.9.96

Arsenal 4 Sheffield Wednesday 1

This week's manager, Pat Rice, didn't look that impressive in his mugshot in the programme. Somewhat red and waxy, he looked like one of those anatomical diagrams where they flay the top layer of skin to show the muscle structure. Still, he was breezy and optimistic as only someone who has a truly temporary job can be. Lord knows who'll take over from Pat Rice if he buggers off to Leeds/QPR. I suspect our next caretaker manager will really be the caretaker. ('Oi you lot, get off that grass.')

The latest management tactic of locking us all out of the ground on the pretext of some dubious 'power cut' gave everybody a much needed half hour to digest the thin programme, a new 'Gooner' and the news that Arsene Wenger was finally on his way. Tonight, you felt, could be the dawn of a new era. That feeling lasted about a millisecond, or as long as it took for the Owls to make an attack.

The Wednesday supporters, complete with drummer and that peculiar half naked fat bloke who seems to follow them around, were clearly enjoying the dizzying heights of being the early season pacesetters. Their manager, that hapless gnome David Pleat, clearly had a firmer sense of reality than most of his supporters when he said on the afternoon when they topped the Premier League, "Three more points and we'll be safe from relegation," without the slightest trace of irony.

The biggest buzz in the ground was the announcement that Vieira was on the bench. On the pitch, however, excitement was at a premium as Arsenal appeared to be experimenting with what only can be described as a flat back nine.

The first half was terrible. John Hartson was announced as, 'a Welsh powerhouse' and managed with his rudimentary knowledge of the offside laws to look as mobile as a Welsh shithouse. Wrighty ran around looking petulant and Linighan was confirming what we always thought, that he really does have right angles on his head. Anything that went near his noggin came off at the most peculiar directions. Only Merson, playing the best football of his life, seemed to know what was at stake.

Inevitably, we went one down. The Wednesday, hunting in packs, harried, hustled and made the Arsenal look as slow as a we really know they are. Seaman was forced to make a blinding point blank save, but the Owls were back a minute later when Andy Booth slid one past Seaman and had the benefit of the far post to guide it in. Wednesday also hit the bar. Half time, and we did likewise.

Second half, Pat Rice, on a hiding to nothing, pulled off Ray 'Pizza' Parlour and on came Patrick Vieira to a few ironic cheers. God, we all thought, he looks like fucking Carlton Palmer.

The only sound for the next forty minutes was the sound of people eating their own words. Within seconds it was obvious that even half fit, that Vieira, is on a different planet. No, make that universe. The man looks like being a contender for being the first midfielder to appear for the home side since 1980. He can pass, he can run like the wind and the sight of a jam packed English midfield didn't seem to phase him one iota; he just threaded the ball through and ran on to receive it back further on. MY GOD. WHAT'S THAT NUMBER 4 DOING IN THE BOX? I felt like weeping for joy.

Everybody woke up. Platt, finding someone alongside him who didn't look and play like a poodle, began to blossom. Hartson, now being dogged instead of stupid, gathered a long ball, held up play, passed it across the area and Platt whammed it in with a ferocious daisy cutter. Wright then did one of his impossible acrobatic shots that we all felt was completely stupid and unrealistic and made us all look like chumps by getting it to hit the bar. What do we know? Shortly after, Merson, full of fire, was brought down by Des Walker and we had a penalty. Des walked the long walk after getting his second yellow card. Wright put it to Pressman's right just beyond his wiggling fingers and the Arse were leading.

Stefanovic, who had already been stamped on by Wright, went off and Wednesday's shape went from Cindy Crawford to Pauline Quirke. Wrighty had a tug at Regi Blinker's dreads and Winterburn was having a row with some foul mouthed Wednesday git in a wheelchair. He'll probably get hauled up for that one, will Nutty. Shame.

Wright's second goal was inevitable. Ten minutes to go and Wednesday were in tatters. Even their sodding drummer had shut up. Simple really, Dixon, Merson, Wright, bang. Wrighty on a hat trick is a fearsome beast and his simple side foot a minute from time brought the house down.

4-1 and the best second half for years. Goals, rucks, singing and a genuine sighting of that rarest of beasts: a true midfielder. European union? Can't wait.

Man of the Match: Patrick Vieira.

21.9.96

Middlesbrough 0 Arsenal 2

"They'll be crap when it's muddy. They're all fanny players. Can't play in mud. And them Brazilians, do they know where Middlesbrough is? They wont last the winter. Sit on anything metal in that cold and your balls stick to it like a wet tongue on a Zoom lolly."

I sat back in the car thinking, who the fuck put Middlesbrough this far up the map? Hundreds and hundreds of miles, all tarmacked, all Little Cheffed, all planted with those horrible little trees that never look like real trees. On and on and on.

Next to me, 'thin irritating bloke who has no real friends, but who does have a car capable of doing more than 30mph' was still babbling. "Unbelievable, I know. But it's true, Paris is nearer to Middlesbrough than London." He'd said this pithy little factoid every five minutes since we hit the M25 about nine years ago. I pretended to be asleep. As I dropped off, dreaming of the 1997 UEFA cup final where we humiliate Liverpool so badly that they fail to come out for the second half, I heard Thin Git launch into 'favoured subject number two'. "Do you know it gets so cold in Middlesbrough that sparrows freeze in mid flight and fall out the sky..."

Right. Football. That's why we're here isn't it? Firstly, the Riverside Stadium is one of those post-modernist stadia that looks like a really big ground if you have a wide angle lens. In reality, its a bit titchy, like something Subbuteo or Hornby (that's 00 scale, not Nick) would knock out to house all their little plastic people. The food seemed to lack the usual culture club of salmonella and botulism and the toilets, while not being fit for your mum, were OK for your dad if he'd had a couple of light ales. Secondly, Middlesbrough were fielding their full complement of exotic players and talents. When they ran out, what with all the shapes and sizes, they looked a bit like a team made up of all the blokes from the cantina in Star Wars. Still, out of all the Premier League foreign legion units, Middlesbrough look the most formidable. I would have been happy with a draw.

We had Vieira playing and Tone on the bench. Almost immediately it seemed obvious that Middlesbrough were up for a ruck with the ref. Every time something happened that they felt was a bit dodgy, they would stop, wave to the ref and point a bit. Arsenal have learnt the bitter lesson of many long campaigns of 'playing to the whistle'. Whilst some of the United Nations of Middlesbrough moaned, the rest, a poor defensive unit, tried to catch the Arsenal offside. Dixon, taking advantage of their paralysis, found Hartson with a long ball, who ran a bit, then lobbed Miller. 1-0 Arsenal. Three minutes gone and I'm still picking bits of pie gristle out of my teeth.

Middlesbrough looked a bit dozy. Perhaps, it was the first breezes of Autumn? Come the cold, perhaps all the exotic Middlesbrough animals curl up and hibernate? All I know is, you can't grow orchids in a cold frame. Still, Ravanelli hit the post, but that really was the last of him. For all his effectiveness he might as well as run around all afternoon with his shirt over his head. He couldn't move without Steve Bould nipping him. Shame.

In the great tackle fest of midfield we were clearly winning. Vieira got his first Arsenal booking and Juninho wasn't far behind. Half hour gone and Merson pumps a ball forward. The Boro' defender does his best Andy Linighan impersonation, fluffs it and Wrighty takes it off him and bends it around Miller. 2-0 us.

Dixon, with one eye on Cologne, limped off and on came a rather fit looking Big Tone. Welcome back, mate. Yes, he had a fine game. A shot of his hit the post and he managed to introduce Emerson to the joys of the British NHS Casualty Department. Thin Git started moaning that Emerson was in his Fantasy League team and he hoped he wouldn't be out for long. I began to seriously think about walking home.

The rest of the game saw the Arse defending well and Middlesbrough having played their one string fiddle obviously wondering what their next match will bring. Our future, with Wenger arriving tomorrow (23.9.96) and the game against the Germans on Wednesday is a little clearer.

We left the ground in good spirits, clouds of warm breath billowing out from the chatting Gooners. Somewhere, a voice like a long fart, could be heard. "It gets so cold here in winter that peoples' retinas crack..."

Man of the Match: Tony Adams.

28.9.96

Arsenal 2 Sunderland 0

Civil disobedience obviously works. As Alf Garnett says, "Bloody Ghandi. Wouldn't eat his dinner, so they gave him India." However, passive resistance as practised by Peter Reid and Co has a long way to go before he can hope to gain any ground from it, let alone three points.

By half time, Sunderland had two players sent off. Scott gained two yellows for chopping down Dixon in as many minutes and Paul Stewart, a much reviled villain of yesteryear, was booked, once for handling and the second time, for God knows what. Perhaps he called the ref a short-sighted, petty, anal retentive, nylon underpant wearing, trainspotting, over fussy, bag of shit. I certainly hope so. In-between all this highly amusing stuff, Peter Reid, looking more like the PG Tips chimp everyday, was frog marched off at the ref's insistence by a rather bemused policeman.

Half time it was 0-0 and it was apparent that the Arsenal were suffering from a monumental German lager hangover. The three centre backs: Bould, Keown and Adams looked particularly bovine; ambling around, chewing the odd grass blade and sitting down if it looked like rain. Adams had what is popularly known as a 'right mare'. Platt was doing his best David Platt impersonation (surge, surge, bike kick, arse sit) Vieira looked knackered and Merson was suffering from the 'Curse of Being Selected For England.' He looked like bloody Chris Waddle. Wright was busy searching for somewhere to explode and Hartson was playing some weird game where you stop in acres of space and 38,016 people point at you saying, "offside, you Welsh tosser."

Sunderland, fuelled by petulance, decided that they weren't going to play anymore. Coton kicked the ball perpetually into touch and the other eight muppets never went anywhere near the Arsenal half. If this game had been played over the park, the Sunderland lads would have picked the ball up and gone home early for their tea. Seaman, bored out of his brain, even begged to take a throw in at one point.

We were all fuming. Bad ref or no bad ref, refusing even to play the game is childishness of the highest order. My mate reckoned that this was some strange form of dissent, "you know like swearing, spitting or putting your arms up in the air and waving them about." We carried on watching a barren Arsenal attack try to find their way through nine blokes who thought they were at the Alamo, whilst trying to work out how 'putting your arms in air and waving them about' constituted dissent.

Arsenal were clueless. True, we had two goals disallowed, but as the afternoon ground on we were staring down the barrel of an embarrassing 0-0. Or even worse. Perhaps, they were just trying to lull us into thinking they were crap, then run up the field and put one past the sleeping Seaman. The old 9-0-0 Trojan Horse tactic.

Finally, Rice brought on someone a bit nippy: Paul Shaw. I like Shaw. He's quick and his crossing is light years better than Helder. Forget that his head looks like Nick Hornby and watch his feet. Immediately he got wide, crossed into a packed area and the Welsh statue, Hartson, finally got behind a good header and we were away. 1-0. Sunderland, like some unsure army, sent a few scouts into the Arsenal half, decided they didn't like it and scuttle back. We bring on Parlour, who comes off the bench, gets the ball on the right, wriggles behind the defence and blasts it in from the side. And yes, he meant it as a shot, not a cross. 2-0.

That's how it finished. Arsenal joint top of the table for the next 24 hours or so and the most tedious, frustrating game of the season. Sunderland didn't want to play and Arsenal seemed incapable. Wenger arrives on Monday, with his dietary ideas, his drinking ban and his philosophy about capitalism. Perhaps, for his first lesson he doesn't have to look further than using the toe of his boot.

Man of the Match: The two subs, Shaw and Parlour.