Week Twenty Seven – Post Apocalyptic Shit Sandwiches and the Real World
Did you miss me? I took a week off from writing last week, as I was too busy to do so, and it turned out to be not such a bad thing in the end.
As you know I try to be as positive and light-hearted as possible on most occasions, but I like to think I’m also realistic (I questioned Arsene Wenger after the Aston Villa game, remember!) and let’s face it, trying to be upbeat in any way after the debacle at Anfield would be like trying to smile while eating a shit sandwich which you’ve just spotted a pubic hair in.
It’s a weird feeling at the start of the week, I’m extremely pissed off with the result and performance at Anfield, but at the same time trying desperately not to get sucked into the shitstorm that goes with it.
It’s almost like I’m straddling two alternate realities…
Two Days After the Morning After
As I write, we are in the aftermath of the defeat at Anfield, a day before we host Manchester United, stuck in some post-apocalyptic limbo, populated by crazed lunatics stumbling around muttering things like “TV5 at DM…” or “Drop Özil…” while the survivors have been scattered to different corners of this nightmarish place, desperately clinging to our sanity by convincing ourselves there is a way out of this hell, all the while trying to avoid these crazed fiends, and their bloodlust which will only be satisfied by feasting upon our brains, until we are eventually one of them.
The unfollow button serves only as a temporary reprieve, as these creatures seem to appear up from anywhere, sometimes when you least expect.
Seriously though, I’m not going to sit here and insult your intelligence and sugar coat your shit sandwich, but that works both ways. Opinions are one thing, shit sandwiches are another, and I’m still trying to digest the last one without being force fed another, thanks. .
A Brief Glimpse of Hope….
Well, well, well. Maureen and his My Little Chelsea concede a late equaliser and suddenly we can go from being spanked 5-1 on Saturday, to defeating the reigning champions to go back to the top of the league on Wednesday.
Sounds a bit Craig David, that…
If this game was massive before, it is truly gargantuan now. I’m a believer that the best possible way to get over one bad defeat is to play another game as soon as possible, to prevent people going slightly mental, and give the ones worst affected something to focus on.
Like throwing a dead body into the middle of a horde of zombies.
There is a lot to be pissed off about at the moment, no doubt, but that’s what football matches are for. The fact that this one is against Man United might make that harder, granted – and I personally don’t go in for all that “if we can’t beat this United” bollocks, they have players that will always raise their game against us and a manager that, despite being more out of his depth than Harry Redknapp in a game of musical statues, will always try to stop us playing – but if we come through it unscathed it might just ease the pain, and keep the madness at bay a little longer. And, personally, by unscathed I mean not losing, although the bloodthirsty masses will no doubt disagree with that idea…
Arsenal 0 – Manchester United 0
The Morning After The Night Before That Was Three Days After the Morning After (I think)
It’s still looking bad out there, they are now baying for blood… “Fucking hell Girooooooud!!!!” they wail. “Artetaaaaaaaaa” they hiss.”We couldn’t beat thaaaaaaat United….how could we not beat thaaaaaaaat United??????!!!!” “Why no Poldiiiiiiiii??????????????!!!!!!!!!”
I’m afraid. I can see other survivors displaying early symptoms of whatever this thing is, usually sane people being dragged towards the darkness. I almost felt it within myself last night.
A familiar menace has now emerged from the depths of the sewer, and staggers among the suffering hordes, a Gin soaked, Alice band wearing monstrosity of a cunt. A cuntsrosity if you will.
Is there a cure? Could the magic of the FA Cup be the antidote?
A few have spoken of the mythical land of #TwitterOff, a place that can offer brief respite from the pain of the world we are currently stuck in, but I’m not sure this Utopian fantasy land even exists at the moment….
Back in the Real World – Part II
Two glaring misses from a striker who just simply wasn’t good enough last night, however harsh that may sound, there is no getting away from it.
At the other end, Olivier Giroud also missed a couple of sitters. Heh.
Post-match blame game was all about Giroud, Mikel Arteta, and Jack Wilshere, and as much as I like the Frenchman, and dislike a lot of the, in some cases, embarrassing constant criticism of him, there is no doubt that his finishing last night cost us. He looks absolutely fucked, to be honest, which is hardly surprising.
He will never be the sort of striker that makes runs in behind, he never was when he had his best spell earlier in the season. It’s not like he’s thinking to himself “I’ll wait until Mesut Ozil has the ball then do the opposite to what Twitter says I should do”.
All this shows me how much we are missing Aaron Ramsey at the moment. Yes, we miss Theo a lot too, no doubt, but we coped without Theo earlier in the season, and a lot of Giroud’s game is about having runners, erm, running off of him.
A point I want to make regarding his finishing too, is that it was better when he looked a lot sharper at the start of the season. I think that gets overlooked a bit at the moment.
He’ll never be the best finisher in the world, I won’t deny that, but there is no doubting he’s looking knackered, and that we are suffering from a lack of options to give him a rest, or the boss’s lack of willingness to use alternative options to give him a rest.
I’ll leave it at that, as there are far more qualified experts to comment about that than me.
Speaking of which…
This is a Rant – Parental Advisory, Explicit Content
Anyway, we are a point off the top in mid-February. We are. We really fucking are. That isn’t me looking through my rose-tinted glasses or whatever we are calling it these days, it is FACT.
I honestly couldn’t give a flying fuck if you are sitting there waiting to tell me you were right, that we are going to fall away at the end of the season, same as always. And quite frankly, at the moment I couldn’t give a flying fuck if we do. Have a fucking day off and remember why it is you watch football in the first place for fucks sake.
Then, along comes Jose Mourinho, the dirty, smelly looking cunt, calling Arsene Wenger a “specialist in losing” or some shit like that, and I see some Arsenal fans agreeing with him?
If disagreeing with this horse shit is having a “rose tinted” view or whatever, then agreeing with it is surely looking at it with shit tinted spectacles that are made out of shit.
No matter how long we have gone without a trophy, this “loser” has given you an unbeaten season and some of the greatest players you have and ever will in your fucking lifetime.
He didn’t inherit Thierry Henry, he signed him and transformed him into the best and most unique player I have ever had the pleasure to watch in the flesh.
I’m not some Johnny Come Lately plastic fucking fan telling you that either. I’m as much “1886 not 1996” as you are.
You are entitled to your opinion, and I will never tell anyone how to support their club – yes, I know the last few sentences may seem to betray that statement, but I’m telling you how I feel, not how you should (there are so many levels of irony in that it can wait for another day). I don’t do it often if I can help it, I wouldn’t want to be one of those self-important blog wankers who force their opinions on you, and I wouldn’t want to upset people who spend more time criticising blog wankers than I do writing this self-important shit.
I keep hearing this “realism” crap as well, like having a little faith in the unknown is any worse than stressing over the hypothetical? If you were to open your fucking eyes for a minute you might actually see that they are both the same thing.
All the shit that has gone on in the last week has got me, personally, buzzing more and more for the FA Cup game against the media darlings, Liverpool.
I’m not stressing over what team we put out, and whether or not we are sacrificing our most realistic (or only(!)) chance of a trophy blah, blah, fucking blah, I am buzzing for the game.
Football, remember that? It’s 22 men on a green grassy thing, trying to kick the round bally thing into the netty thing.
That’s pretty much what all that surreal zombie bollocks I’ve been going on about has been leading to. (Eventually anyway, I would be lying if I said I knew where the fuck I was going with it all along – I only came up with it after watching The Walking Dead on Monday night).
Sometimes it’s so easy to find yourself submerged in this virtual world we live in as football fans nowadays (again, the irony is so ironic there it’s almost ironic and it’s for another day, that), so much so that you forget where that world ends, and the real one begins.
The flip side to that is that applying too much realism, or at least what you personally perceive as realism, to football is the minute you take the magic away from it.
I, personally, go into every single game thinking that Arsenal can win. If that means I’m a “deluded cunt” then call me Mr Darren Deludedcunt.
I’m not saying that makes me a better fan, or that it’s the way that you should look at it or blah, blah, fucking blah, it’s in my blood and it’s why I support Arsenal, and why as much as I hate what it has become, I still love football.
No amount of money, slippery oil barons or dirty, smelly, snidey, sneary, eye-gouging leaching whore cunts will ever take that away from me, or change the fact that it is still 11 men in red and white against 11 other cunts on a green grassy thing, trying to kick the round bally thing into the netty thing.
There’s your realism.
I’m writing this on the eve the Liverpool game, which I won’t be able to cover here, as I’ll be in the real world, enjoying the game, before, during and after.
So by the time you are reading this, we are either all either relieved, infected, hiding, or have made it to the mythical land of #TwitterOff.
Either way, I’ll speak to you next week, try not to be a zombie…
Up The Arsenal,