Following the defeat to Manchester United, my dad and I engaged in our usual post-game analysis phone conversation. He was fuming, deriding us for not taking something from the game having made so many chances, whilst at the same time making stupid errors at the back.
He was right, but for some reason I was weirdly ok. I felt we’d played, first ten minutes aside, pretty well, coming up against the best goalkeeper in the world, who happened to be in his most inspired form. Looking at the fixtures, I felt as if we’d move on, dispatching of poor Southampton and West Ham sides with relative ease.
What I forgot was that this is a poor Arsenal side. The two league games which have followed have simply seen us toil, boring everyone watching into submission. This is our identity now; playing narrow, within the width of the box, passing the ball aimlessly across its line. West Ham defended in large numbers, challenging us to break them down but we had no answer. At the back, we were so sloppy that Marko Arnautovic caused us problems all night, with the opposition having undoubtedly the games best chances.