Aww, all this winning has made Twitter a bit boring; No, moody, actually. Everything is going so well that the slightest little thing sets people off, like a starting gun bang, or the hare flying past, and the traps pop open and out flies the crap.
It’s even beyond moody at times. It’s almost bi-polar or schizophrenic, all ups and downs. From the highs of another win, and probably another master-class from front to back, (they’re becoming quite frequent) to the moaning and rage over the slightest little things. And it’s getting me down, I must admit. So much so, that there’ll be none of my usual babbling, trippy nonsense this week.
From the highs of a win, to the loss (unexpected almost, unexplained definitely) at Manchester United, to the lows of the fighting over whether Wayne Rooney’s, Wes Brown’s, Kevin Mirallas’ were red cards – full on arguments. Not only have we got Twitter managerista’s but we have a similar union of refs on here now too.
From the highs of coming back with a solid win over third-place Southampton, to the lows of a full-on argument about the fact that Olivier Giroud only has a left foot, shown in full after he followed up the lost cause, to grab the ball off Artur Boruc, and pop it into the net….with his left foot….SHOCK HORROR! Like what the fuck is the difference, Jaysus he’s doing a great job, he’s just scored the opener…celebrate? “Like fuck I will….I’m going to air my grievance publicly that I have with OG’s left-footedness.” I kid you not, this happened. FFS. As I tweeted at the time, “I couldn’t give a fuck if Giroud had no legs, or hopped around like the Knight in “The Monty Python and the Holy Grail”, as long as he keeps doing what he’s doing, and we’re winning.
From the highs of another win in Europe, cementing our place at the head of the group of death, and witnessing the proper return to form of Jackie Wilshere, oh the joys. To the lows of a two-day row about Mathieu Flamini’s sleeves, or lack of.
Now I understand the point on tradition, of course I do, and I think he should follow it like everyone else does, like the guy on minimum wage, who’s told he has to wear a uniform, he mightn’t like it, but he’ll do it, but I mean, two days of arguments, come on people.
Maybe it’s Flamini’s own version of The Haka. Maybe he wants to show, that on a cold night as the rest on the pitch roll on two or three layers and a pair of Versace gloves, he’s standing out saying “f***ing wimps, it’s a grand auld night for a game of ball, now bring it. You might wanna kick and bully the rest of my team, but you aren’t doing it to me.”
So I don’t care if Giroud’s no-footed, hopping around like a Monty Python Knight, and Flamini’s got no sleeves, we’re winning, playing well, and winning.
From the highs of our players slowly coming back, Theo Walcott first, soon to be followed by Lukas Podolski and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain to the lows of Nicklas Bendtner being…. Well, being Nicklas Bendtner, kicking in the door of a local gym, and some other tabloid quotes that I won’t give them any credit for possibly making up.
It’s a shame the fucker couldn’t lift his leg that high against United at Old Trafford, then we would’ve left with a draw and sure we’d have paid his bail for him. Oh and Arsene Wenger, still can’t close his zip.
So I don’t care if Giroud is a no-footed hoppy Knight, Flamini has got no sleeves, Bendtner can’t hit a barn/gym door, and Arsene can’t do a zip, because we’re winning, we’re flying, and we’re a third of the way through the season. As Freddie Mercury would say, “Don’t stop me now, I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball.” A ball indeedy Freddy.
Throw in the cracks, and squeaks and rumblings of the new strikers, we should/are/will/will never/should never/should/can’t ever sign lists appearing, warming up for January Sales.
From the highs of Tottenham Hotspur getting demolished, obliterated, smashed for six, and closely followed by a late equaliser for Cardiff City against Man Utd, to the lows of the fan falling off the stand in Amsterdam, and every fucker and his Auntie trying to Tweet the goriest close up photos that they could possibly find, to the workers dying while making the stadium in Brazil, to the saddest of the lot, the story breaking about Pat Rice’s new fight against cancer.
So you see why I’m low, and my comedic rambling powers are at an all-time low, but I’m going to spend the next week trying to use the Kryptonite recipe needed to fight off these Twitter blues –
1) Spend less time on Twitter.
2) Read more of Dennis Bergkamp’s book (Which by the way this piece was meant to be about before I went off on a tangent, haha)
3) Carry this photo with me everywhere.
Yip, that should do it.
Until the future folks, cheer the fuck up, we’re flying.