Hi folks
We can't really justify the expense of any of the European away matches but old habits die hard and so I was sat in front of the TV last Thursday, my fingers poised over the laptop, ready for the frantic keyboard pressing session necessary to try and suss out the cheap flights between when the draw was made and the actual dates of the games announced an hour or so later.
We've already seen us play Ajax in Amsterdam and Switzerland has a reputation for being a fairly pricy place to visit, although I would have quite liked to visit the Wankdorf Stadium to watch the match against FC Thun. But I'd decided that we couldn't really afford the cost of schlepping to the opening group games, that was until Sparta Prague came out of the hat.
Having missed out on the match there last time we played and with Prague having a reputation as such an interesting city, I thought I would at least check out our options (as I did with the other two destinations). Once I'd found 50 quid return flights with Easyjet, it wasn't long before I'd changed my mind
I was thinking that having schlepped all over Europe these past few seasons, following the Arsenal's unsuccessful exploits in the Champions League, the laws of Sod and Murphy were bound to prevail, in as much as the first season I stopped travelling to the away matches (and with the Arsenal pretty much already written off by most of the pundits) this was bound to guarantee our success
So if we should fail miserably again, you now know you can blame my irresponsible spontaneity, in deciding to go to Prague. Meanwhile, we nearly didn't make it. I sat here hitting the "refresh" button on my broswer a couple of times every minute, waiting for the actual dates of the games to be announced, as experience has proved that they invariably appear online first.
In the end I got up to make something to eat, believing that the act of leaving the computer and being distracted by satisfying my belly, might instigate the announcement. But it appears that the "refresh" button on my browser wasn't doing the job and I was more than a little surprised to receive a text message from a pal who was interested in travelling as well.
The fact that he was assuming I'd already know the dates was bad news, as it meant that the info must have been available for more than a couple of minutes. So by the time I struggled to hit the "confirm" button on the Easyjet website, without transferring the remains of half my sandwich from my buttery fingers to the keyboard, the fifty pounders had long since been snapped up, I assume by Gooners who'd been quicker of the mark (I am sure Easyjet must have about twenty different price levels on each plane, with only a few seats available at each!). The total inclusive price had already doubled and at just over a ton for each of us, my mate decided it was no longer such a cheap outing and I was grateful that at least one of us was being sensible.
So having already hung up on the phone to him, after deciding that we wouldn't bother going, I glanced at the pages of notes I'd scribbled during my fairly pointless search and recalled that I'd also seen some flights offered by Czech airlines. Despite the fact that they took off from the conveniently located Stansted, I'd dismissed them previously because they were pricier than Easyjet, but when I went back to the web site and re-checked, they still had availability at 80 quid.
When I phoned my mate back, it seems the 20 quid difference was just enough to swing the deal and suddenly the three of us were off to Prague again. I hurriedly dug out the plastic, praying I'd be able to make the booking in time before my reservation timed-out and tapped in all the relevant details. However in the instant I hit the confirm button, I noticed on the screen that I'd entered the name on the card with a "u" at the end instead of a "y". But it was too late to do anything and for a minute or so I sat here cursing my impatient failure to check the details first. I was panicking that the incorrect spelling would mean that the booking wouldn't be accepted and in the time it was going to take to repeat the entire booking, the cheap seats were bound to disappear.
Mercifully the Czech Airlines computer didn't baulk at my bad spelling and I breathed a huge sigh of relief to finally see the confirmation page. Unbelievably, I became so engrossed in sorting out this trip that I completely forgot about the Test match and after the flights were confirmed, I spent the next few hours pouring over web sites offering accommodation in Prague. It wasn't until after the close of play that I suddenly realised I missed all the exciting opening day action from Trent Bridge.
Come Friday we were sitting having our regular Friday night dinner round at my Ma's house (the one night a week I am guaranteed a bit of protein and some respite from Ro's veggy preferences) and I announced that we were off to Prague. It was only when I confirmed the dates out loud that Ro announced in horror that the 18th October was just about the due date for her second grandkid.
I was completely knackered by the time we returned home and I wasn't planning on even opening the laptop for fear of finding myself stuck in front of it for a few hours, when all I wanted was an early night. However I thought to myself that it might be best to fire off an e-mail to the airline, as if I was going to get any sympathy with regard to cancellation, or a name change, the sooner after making the booking, the better.
I was halfway through typing a few lines when my computer froze and when I rebooted I was mortified to see the dreaded question mark on my screen. On an Apple Mac, the question mark at start-up means it can't find the hard drive for some reason and computer aggro doesn't come much worse than this.
As a result I sat here until five in the morning, at one point terrified I'd lost everything, but never more grateful when I managed to sort it out (thanks to being able to use my iPod as the only thing I could find from which I could start-up the machine). So much for an early night. The again, it wasn't as if I needed to be in fine form the following dat, as I wasn't about to be joining in with "Glory, glory Tottenham Hotspur!"
Meanwhile any Gooners out there fancy seeing the Gunners play in Prague?
Peace & Love
Bernard
__________________________________________________________
Money Can't Buy Me Love
With the Scouser's playing the Abramovich B-team in the Super Mickey Mouse Cup in Monaco (for the unenlightened, the Russian mafioso's oil company, Sibneft, sponsors CSKA Moscow to the ‘small change’ tune of $18 mill!), the Gunners got a weekend off. So with no game between 24 Aug and 10 Sep what's a Gooner going to do for his footie fix, but go see how the other half live. To be honest if it wasn't Spurs v Chelsea, where I had a feint hope in our North London neighbours nicking some points off the Abaramovich all-stars, I might’ve struggled to drag myself away from the gripping Test match on TV. However wired for sound with my radio tuned to the amusing eccentricities of the institution that is Test Match Special, I had a relatively entertaining afternoon, watching one and listening to t'other.
Mind you if I had the misfortune to be a Chelsea fan, I certainly wouldn't have needed to count on my closest Spurs mate being away on his hols to secure a ticket. As far as I'm concerned, it sums up the Chelsea situation quite succinctly that apparently they were still selling their small allocation of tickets to the second biggest London derby of the season, last Wednesday at the West Brom match! And if I wanted to sum Spurs up I suppose I'd have to tell you about the traffic around White Hart Lane last week, as their fans queued to have their picture taken with the league table!
One of the rare pleasures of going to a game as a relative neutral party (shows how times have changed, 10 years ago I wouldn't have dreamt I'd be going to White Hart Lane to lend my support to Spurs!) is the strange sensation of being able to sit back and appreciate the footie, without all the angst which goes with kicking every ball in a game involving the Gunners. Although Saturday's game at the Lane wasn't exactly overflowing on the entertainment front. It's a shame because as both teams fired some tentative first few shots across the bows of the opposition in the first 20 there was a serious danger of a good game breaking out. That was until ref Rob Styles intervened, with a ridiculous sending off. Surely there should be some law to prevent pompous, limelight whores like Styles, spoiling a perfectly sporting football occasion for 36,000 paying punters?
There wasn't a dirty tackle worthy of the name and by dishing out 5 yellows and a red, it was Styles needless card waving which would've been culpable if this match had developed into a more fractious affair. Sure the Egyptian's challenge was a mite aggressive and some might say he lead with his elbow, But what's the worse that could've happened, a broken nose or a bonk on the head. Personally I'd prefer they left the beautiful game alone. But if the authorities are intent on stamping out anything, I would much rather see referees react to Drogba diving all over the penalty area, than the sort of manly assault by Mido, where there wasn't any intent to harm and which is merely a symptom of the sort of intensity which makes British football so much more enjoyable than some of the antiseptic fare seen on the continent, where raising a stiffy is seen as foul play! I wondered whether Styles had seen a replay of the incident at the break because he seemed to spend the entire second half making incorrect decisions in favour of Spurs, as some sort of paltry compensation
It was interesting seeing Carrick on Football Focus suggesting the current Spurs side believes they can beat anyone. If the Lilywhites were guilty of anything, it was that they showed Chelsea too much respect, even when it was 11 v 11. Although it's understandable considering the amount of quality throughout the Chelsea squad and as we all know, confidence is everything in football. While Chelsea were content to knock the ball about, patiently awaiting an opening, despite a decent atmosphere at White Hart Lane as a result of their optimistic start to the season, it felt is if there was an abiding mood of fatalism, where both fans (who haven't seen their team win against Chelsea in 18 years at White Hart Lane) and players alike were in fear of the crucial mistake which might gift the Blues a goal.
Then again if the Gunners deferred to the Blues ability by starting with a lone striker at the Bridge, then it's unlikely lesser opposition are going to be any more gung-ho.
However sadly I've seen Chelsea beat us twice and Spurs once in recent weeks and even without my "red currant" tinted specs, I have to tell you I'm glad that I get to be entertained by the Arsenal on a regular basis, rather than suffer the somewhat boring Blues. They say winning is everything but perhaps there's a good reason why the champions struggle to sell a couple of thousand seats to a game on the other side of the capital?
The consensus of opinion suggests that we'll struggle to unseat the current champions, but at least when the Arsenal are on fire, as we saw in the second half against Fulham, we play with a joie de vivre which is an absolute joy to watch. Whereas to my mind Mourinho now has so much ability at his disposal, that his side doesn't need to display their skills. They appear to be able to get away with playing a percentage game, where, with Drogba's speed and immense strength, they can simply keep hitting long balls, knowing that eventually one will pay off. What's more, even if their opponents manage to hold them at bay for the first-half, they then face the demoralising sight of £70 million quids worth of substitutes waiting their turn after the break. Although to my mind it seems somewhat criminal that Mourinho's many million pounds worth of midfield talent are all left suffering with neck ache, from watching the ball fly over their bonces for most of the match.
Down to ten men and conceding a goal just before the break, defeatist habits prevailed, as the bloke beside me suggested we might as well go home now. With little to lose, personally I would have preferred to see the Lilywhites throw caution to the wind in an effort to level the match. I guess Jol decided he'd rather try to keep the score respectable, than suffer a confidence shattering defeat. Although I sincerely hope that someone has the 'cahones' to really take this Chelsea team on sometime soon. Otherwise they’re likely to develop the same aura of invincibility they had last season, where squad rotation might be the only danger of disruption. We’d be left relying on disquiet in their dressing room, amongst those who are desperate to secure a highly-prized seat on a plane to Germany next summer.
Meanwhile as we departed White Hart Lane I made the preposterous suggestion that perhaps this one horse race should be handicapped (where on earth would they put the saddle weights?). At least this would give Mourinho a little more to think about. Despite his suggestions that the season is only just getting started, it would appear that the arrogant git is already in a sufficiently secure comfort zone after only the first few opening salvoes. With Bridge and Cesc the only Chelsea players not disappearing during the international break (perhaps joined by John Terry - I felt more than a little ashamed as the words left my mouth but when Terry went down injured I couldn't help myself from suggesting that I hoped it was nothing trivial!), their manager is away on his holyers.
Special my ass! Not that everyone else has the luxury of switching off during a sunshine break but they could all afford a ten day skive, if they had the millions at Mourinho's disposal, even Graham Souness! Although I can't imagine Arsène Wenger or many other Premiership managers wanting away from their footballing world, only two weeks into a new season.
Watching the Blues consistently bypass their midfield might be boring and predictable, compared to the Arsenal's attractive play, but I'll happily admit to being green with Gooner envy. Although not (yet!) so bitter and twisted that I'm unable to enjoy the latest ditty doing the rounds on the internet
(see: http://www.radioireland.ie/audio/giftjose.wma)
After sweating out the climax to another incredible Test Match on Sunday, I found myself engrossed in the opening round of Serie A (Football Italia has found its way on to Bravo this season). I imagine Patrick Vieira might well prosper amidst the 'slow, slow, quick' style of Italian footie, compared to the more exhausting pace of a relentless Premiership. However it was very hard to witness Paddy's imposing presence, directing midfield traffic for the old lady of Turin. One would expect him to look a little awkward, in bed with his new black & white striped sugar mummy. Instead of which I was like a jealous voyeur, watching an old flame’s calm, assured display in his Serie A debut, disappointed that he and his new teammates performed like long term bedfellows.
There are always empty spaces in the 70,000 seater Stadio Del Alpi. Although it was surprising to see such vast expanses of unsold seats for the Italian champions first home game. The 'tifosi' sounded in fine voice on TV, yet it was more interesting to note that amongst the many banners lauding the extremely popular likes of Del Piero, Nedved and Ibrahimovic, there wasn't a single sign proclaiming their love of their similarly prolific stars Trezeguet, Thuram, Emerson or Vieira! Who'd want to be a black player entertaining all the 'facisti' amongst these Italian fans?
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Trophies or Todgers? We’ll Be Running Around Chelsea With One Or T’Other Hanging Out
Hi folks
I meant to send this out yesterday but ended up wasting most of the day in a fruitless search for the car key. I was in a total panic because apart from not being able to use the car, with a game here tonight, it would have cost us a fifty pound parking ticket if the car wasn't moved in time.
After turning the flat upside down, all to no avail, I eventually gave up, deciding that I must have dropped the key when walking back from the car on Sunday evening, with my hands full of carrier bags, after stopping at the supermarket in my way back from Chelsea. How to cap a miserable weekend!!
I'd already spent time walking the dog up and down the street, peering in the gutter for the missing key and was just about to head off to my Ma's in Edgware to pick up a spare, wondering how we were going to find the spare key for the krooklock and how we were going to cope with the alarm (as there's no clicker gadget on the spare key), when I noticed something on the windscreen.
It turned out to be a note from a good samaritan neighbour, who had seen some kids hanging around the car and as a result, had noticed that the key was hanging out of the lock to the boot. A quick phone call to the number on the note and all our problems were solved (well actually they are still blowing each other up in Iraq and it doesn't sound like much fun in Israel, but at least I won't be getting a parking ticket tonight)
Mind you that wasn't then end of this particular story. Most of you will already know that with both cars registered to my Ma's address (as we've had two stolen from outside here and the insurance premium would be much higher), we don't have matchday parking permits for either vehicle. Up until last season I was able to move them just to the other side of Green Lanes, the borough of Hackney. That was until they introduced a resident's parking scheme over there. There remained one street over half a mile away on the other side of Clissold Park which didn't have resident's parking bays and this was our refuge last season.
However to my horror I discovered last night that this street has also been marked off with parking bays and so now we are well and truly buggered!! After driving around for about half an hour I eventually found a tiny side street, but as I parked the car and walked away I became terrified that it is private property and I might end up being clamped. And as I walked back to fetch the other car, I discovered a notice at the end of the street I was using last season which says that the parking scheme doesn't begin until 30th August.
So we have a short reprieve. Up until now I have been whinging that we have a game this evening and then no Arsenal matches until 10th September, but now I am over the moon as it gives me at least a couple of weeks to try and find a solution for the rest of the season to our parking problems. Although I still have to go back to retrieve the Peugeot from the side street and the way my luck's going recently, I won't be surprised to either find it clamped, or broken into!! No where did I put that number for the Samaritans :-)
Peace & love
Bernard
PS. Those of you on the Arsenal mailing list might have read my moans on there about the fact that season ticket holders in the Clock End are going to be moved to the other end of the new stadium, in order to save the club ALL the adminsitrative aggravation of having to move them for the half dozen (at most) cup games every season. As a result, not only will these poor buggers be left with choosing from all the inferior seats that remain after everyone else has had their pick, but it also means that the area behind the goal in the new stadium will only be for general sale seats, which could be handing a substantial advantage (for a number of reasons) to our visitors
Also I was advised that the famous Clock from the Clock End is going to end up over the entrance to the Club Level seating at the new stadium, which seems somewhat criminal that such a historical landmark is going to be restricted to the privileged few. I've been assured by someone who works for the club, marketing the new stadium, that this is not the case and that they are hoping it might be some sort of meeting point but at the moment they still have to surmount a health and safety issue. It remains to be seen if this is the case, but I am saving all these whinges about our marvellous new stadium for another piece
_________________________________________________
Trophies or Todgers? We’ll Be Running Around Chelsea
With One Or T’Other Hanging Out
The great thing about football is that the Arsenal will be preparing to play Fulham by the time these words appear in the Arena on Wednesday. With a bit of luck, we’ll get last weekend's game right out of our system by sticking it to the Cottagers.
When we walked out of Stamford Bridge on Sunday, Spurs were top of the table (the sort of aberration which is an infallible reminder why we never used to have league tables for the first few games of the season), we'd just been beaten by the Blues and if that wasn't depressing enough, on route home I turned on the radio in the car to hear Alan Green droning on during some sort of Ryan Giggs review, just as he was describing the climax of Man Utd's astonishing European Cup comeback. Oh the ignominy of it all! Needless to say I couldn't hit the off switch quick enough.
On meeting my mate Nell after the match to give him a lift back to home turf, my first words were "When does the transfer window close?" But I wouldn't go holding your breath if you're hoping that in the meantime our manager is off on yet another Mission Impossible to unearth a young unknown prodigy for peanuts. After losing out on Baptista, not for the first time Arsène is being accused of not having a Plan B, as it would seem that he was totally focused on signing the Brazilian this summer, without a single 'maybe' as a possible back-up.
Even after an indelible dose of reality, when he was forced to throw Flamini into the fray to counter Mourinho's 70 million quid's worth of fresh legs, Wenger was still singing from the same song sheet. Don't get me wrong, I remain convinced that on our day this rip-roaring Gunners side can be a tour de force against any team. Although everywhere I turn, we are being told that the loss of a talismanic behemoth like Paddy must take its toll. And yet we coped quite admirably with our former captain playing well below par for much of the past couple of seasons. So perhaps it’ll be the psychological significance of our former captain forsaking the Arsenal for Juve which might prove to be a problem, not his physical absence. What’s more it might not be just the players who are mourning his loss.
Every time Arsène is interviewed he takes great pains to try to persuade us that he has total confidence in his current squad's ability to compete for the title. It's as if merely by intoning this mantra enough times, Wenger feels it’ll work its magic. However the more frequently I hear it, the more I wonder if he's actually trying to convince himself. Moreover to date our manager doesn’t appear to have been successful in selling this particular pup to his players.
In the past Paul Merson's inarticulate explanation of Arsène's secret, was his ability to instil "unbelievable belief" in his players". Yet he hardly sent out the right signals on Sunday, starting with Henry as a solitary striker. I’m old enough and ugly enough to take an Arsenal defeat on the chin. It was the timid manner of our demise that I found so depressing. Especially when seen through my redcurrant specs, where, despite Chelsea creating the best chances, I thought our 50 per cent of possession was far more entertaining fare.
I guess Blues fans were just grateful for their first win in 20 league games over the last decade. But after spending SO much money, one might've thought them capable of a little more, than merely winning ugly. Then it seems that there are some incumbents at the Bridge who definitely don't deserve to be entertained. I can't possibly imagine returning for the first home game subsequent to securing their only title in half a century, only to dish out so much stick to Drogba, that their striker felt obliged to dedicate his goal to this barmy Blue backbiter?
Most often you hear the "wooooh....hoof" chant when the opposition keeper takes a goal-kick. I am not sure a fifty yard diagonal ball from Del Horno right onto Robben's big toe actually counts as a hoof. But there was a period during the first-half when we were singing "wooooh...." ad infinitum, as Chelsea passed the ball across the back. Doubtless it was my imagination, but it was as if we were daring them to hit it long and the Blues were retaining possession just to spite us. Eventually I turned to the adjacent stranger and suggested that if we weren't careful, we'd force them into actually playing some footie!
All the pundits seem to suggest that the Arsenal lacked penetration and that our opponents are finding it easier to snuff out our attacking threat. Truth is that in recent matches we've played to Chelsea strengths, trying to plough our way through the most impenetrable area of the pitch. Not that the home side's unadventurous approach afforded us much opportunity to play to our strengths, but Kolo's single charge forwards aside, I can't recall a counter-attack which didn't include a sideways or backwards pass, or that crucial moment's hesitation which allowed them sufficient time to get everyone back behind the ball.
However to maintain the momentum of this sort of move, two or three midfielders are required to bomb forward into the area. But on the rare occasions we made any inroads, Henry or Van Persie was left waiting for an RSVP to their invitation to join them. Come the final whistle the two teams were only separated by the fact that we couldn't force their central defence into any errors, while left to deal with Drogba alone, Senderos' lapse in concentration saw the ball bobbling in off the striker's shin.
Meeting so early in the season, neither team wanted to risk losing this game and most Gooners would have gladly settled for a point long before the goal. Personally I felt that we blew it big time by arriving at the Bridge with such limited ambitions. Instead of loosening the bolts to the wheels of Mourinho's bandwagon (after Wigan, Carvalho and Robben handed over the wheel-brace) and attempting to expose the cracks which might give everyone else a glimmer of hope, we've tightened the nuts and restored their sense of superiority. Although with Lampard looking a little less ravenous, Robben and Duff both relatively ineffective and Joe Cole not even warming the bench at the start to a World Cup season, I've yet to be convinced Chelsea is quite the happy camp it was. In all of the marvellous 500 matches we've enjoyed under the management of Arsène, he's never seen fit to publicly tear strips off a player, as Mourinho did with Carvalho in his matchday programme notes.
So I've checked to ensure I still have the number stored but while there's still hope the Samaritans won't be hearing from me. The worst thing on Sunday was the temptation to walk out with 10 still to go. Time was when this gallant Gooner would wait until the last for the fat lady.
I felt sorry for Thierry. It was as if the responsibility for stemming the tide of Abramovich's millions rested squarely on his shoulders and they'd begun to buckle before the afternoon was out. Not only has he virtually carried the club for the past couple of seasons, now we are expecting him to lift his teammates as well. Watching him standing forlornly on the halfway line, somewhat detached from the others was as convincing an argument as I've seen of our need for a captain at the heart of this Arsenal side, whose unshakeable belief can inspire the likes of Titi to keep me glued to my seat with an eternal glimmer of hope for a last gasp goal.
It was a hollow victory but at least we gave a good account of ourselves off the pitch. Mourinho appears to have made a bit of a ricket. Apparently he didn't enjoy the away fans directly behind him, having a dig everytime he stepped out of the dugout. As a result, instead of spreading us thinly along the length of the East Lower, where songs fade a long time before those at either end join in, away fans are now amassed in Chelsea's Shed End behind the goal. It was the loudest we've been at Chelsea and we didn't hear a peep from the home fans until they took the lead. You know you've got a big problem with the atmosphere when we Gooners start singing "worst support we've ever seen!"
Unlike the streaker who appeared for the second successive week, to prance around the Bridge with his todger hanging out, our song for the day was "We'll be running round Chelsea with out trophies hanging out, we've got 11 more than you". I might've had the best view at the Bridge since they were really sh*t and we stood on their vast empty terraces lighting fires to stay warm, but it's nearly as long since I last witnessed an Arsenal performance where we looked less like winning.
We've given up Rona's away ticket scheme membership and it was weird going to a game at the Bridge without the missus. After suffering one of the worst views in the Premiership for so many years, Murphy's Law ensured that she missed out on the first decent pitch in the corner of the upper tier. Although she wasn't nearly so annoyed as the horrified bloke beside me whose hand I grabbed for, every time our goal was threatened. Mind you if we’d have won and his mitts weren’t quite so clammy, I might've accepted his invitation for a second date!!
I meant to send this out yesterday but ended up wasting most of the day in a fruitless search for the car key. I was in a total panic because apart from not being able to use the car, with a game here tonight, it would have cost us a fifty pound parking ticket if the car wasn't moved in time.
After turning the flat upside down, all to no avail, I eventually gave up, deciding that I must have dropped the key when walking back from the car on Sunday evening, with my hands full of carrier bags, after stopping at the supermarket in my way back from Chelsea. How to cap a miserable weekend!!
I'd already spent time walking the dog up and down the street, peering in the gutter for the missing key and was just about to head off to my Ma's in Edgware to pick up a spare, wondering how we were going to find the spare key for the krooklock and how we were going to cope with the alarm (as there's no clicker gadget on the spare key), when I noticed something on the windscreen.
It turned out to be a note from a good samaritan neighbour, who had seen some kids hanging around the car and as a result, had noticed that the key was hanging out of the lock to the boot. A quick phone call to the number on the note and all our problems were solved (well actually they are still blowing each other up in Iraq and it doesn't sound like much fun in Israel, but at least I won't be getting a parking ticket tonight)
Mind you that wasn't then end of this particular story. Most of you will already know that with both cars registered to my Ma's address (as we've had two stolen from outside here and the insurance premium would be much higher), we don't have matchday parking permits for either vehicle. Up until last season I was able to move them just to the other side of Green Lanes, the borough of Hackney. That was until they introduced a resident's parking scheme over there. There remained one street over half a mile away on the other side of Clissold Park which didn't have resident's parking bays and this was our refuge last season.
However to my horror I discovered last night that this street has also been marked off with parking bays and so now we are well and truly buggered!! After driving around for about half an hour I eventually found a tiny side street, but as I parked the car and walked away I became terrified that it is private property and I might end up being clamped. And as I walked back to fetch the other car, I discovered a notice at the end of the street I was using last season which says that the parking scheme doesn't begin until 30th August.
So we have a short reprieve. Up until now I have been whinging that we have a game this evening and then no Arsenal matches until 10th September, but now I am over the moon as it gives me at least a couple of weeks to try and find a solution for the rest of the season to our parking problems. Although I still have to go back to retrieve the Peugeot from the side street and the way my luck's going recently, I won't be surprised to either find it clamped, or broken into!! No where did I put that number for the Samaritans :-)
Peace & love
Bernard
PS. Those of you on the Arsenal mailing list might have read my moans on there about the fact that season ticket holders in the Clock End are going to be moved to the other end of the new stadium, in order to save the club ALL the adminsitrative aggravation of having to move them for the half dozen (at most) cup games every season. As a result, not only will these poor buggers be left with choosing from all the inferior seats that remain after everyone else has had their pick, but it also means that the area behind the goal in the new stadium will only be for general sale seats, which could be handing a substantial advantage (for a number of reasons) to our visitors
Also I was advised that the famous Clock from the Clock End is going to end up over the entrance to the Club Level seating at the new stadium, which seems somewhat criminal that such a historical landmark is going to be restricted to the privileged few. I've been assured by someone who works for the club, marketing the new stadium, that this is not the case and that they are hoping it might be some sort of meeting point but at the moment they still have to surmount a health and safety issue. It remains to be seen if this is the case, but I am saving all these whinges about our marvellous new stadium for another piece
_________________________________________________
Trophies or Todgers? We’ll Be Running Around Chelsea
With One Or T’Other Hanging Out
The great thing about football is that the Arsenal will be preparing to play Fulham by the time these words appear in the Arena on Wednesday. With a bit of luck, we’ll get last weekend's game right out of our system by sticking it to the Cottagers.
When we walked out of Stamford Bridge on Sunday, Spurs were top of the table (the sort of aberration which is an infallible reminder why we never used to have league tables for the first few games of the season), we'd just been beaten by the Blues and if that wasn't depressing enough, on route home I turned on the radio in the car to hear Alan Green droning on during some sort of Ryan Giggs review, just as he was describing the climax of Man Utd's astonishing European Cup comeback. Oh the ignominy of it all! Needless to say I couldn't hit the off switch quick enough.
On meeting my mate Nell after the match to give him a lift back to home turf, my first words were "When does the transfer window close?" But I wouldn't go holding your breath if you're hoping that in the meantime our manager is off on yet another Mission Impossible to unearth a young unknown prodigy for peanuts. After losing out on Baptista, not for the first time Arsène is being accused of not having a Plan B, as it would seem that he was totally focused on signing the Brazilian this summer, without a single 'maybe' as a possible back-up.
Even after an indelible dose of reality, when he was forced to throw Flamini into the fray to counter Mourinho's 70 million quid's worth of fresh legs, Wenger was still singing from the same song sheet. Don't get me wrong, I remain convinced that on our day this rip-roaring Gunners side can be a tour de force against any team. Although everywhere I turn, we are being told that the loss of a talismanic behemoth like Paddy must take its toll. And yet we coped quite admirably with our former captain playing well below par for much of the past couple of seasons. So perhaps it’ll be the psychological significance of our former captain forsaking the Arsenal for Juve which might prove to be a problem, not his physical absence. What’s more it might not be just the players who are mourning his loss.
Every time Arsène is interviewed he takes great pains to try to persuade us that he has total confidence in his current squad's ability to compete for the title. It's as if merely by intoning this mantra enough times, Wenger feels it’ll work its magic. However the more frequently I hear it, the more I wonder if he's actually trying to convince himself. Moreover to date our manager doesn’t appear to have been successful in selling this particular pup to his players.
In the past Paul Merson's inarticulate explanation of Arsène's secret, was his ability to instil "unbelievable belief" in his players". Yet he hardly sent out the right signals on Sunday, starting with Henry as a solitary striker. I’m old enough and ugly enough to take an Arsenal defeat on the chin. It was the timid manner of our demise that I found so depressing. Especially when seen through my redcurrant specs, where, despite Chelsea creating the best chances, I thought our 50 per cent of possession was far more entertaining fare.
I guess Blues fans were just grateful for their first win in 20 league games over the last decade. But after spending SO much money, one might've thought them capable of a little more, than merely winning ugly. Then it seems that there are some incumbents at the Bridge who definitely don't deserve to be entertained. I can't possibly imagine returning for the first home game subsequent to securing their only title in half a century, only to dish out so much stick to Drogba, that their striker felt obliged to dedicate his goal to this barmy Blue backbiter?
Most often you hear the "wooooh....hoof" chant when the opposition keeper takes a goal-kick. I am not sure a fifty yard diagonal ball from Del Horno right onto Robben's big toe actually counts as a hoof. But there was a period during the first-half when we were singing "wooooh...." ad infinitum, as Chelsea passed the ball across the back. Doubtless it was my imagination, but it was as if we were daring them to hit it long and the Blues were retaining possession just to spite us. Eventually I turned to the adjacent stranger and suggested that if we weren't careful, we'd force them into actually playing some footie!
All the pundits seem to suggest that the Arsenal lacked penetration and that our opponents are finding it easier to snuff out our attacking threat. Truth is that in recent matches we've played to Chelsea strengths, trying to plough our way through the most impenetrable area of the pitch. Not that the home side's unadventurous approach afforded us much opportunity to play to our strengths, but Kolo's single charge forwards aside, I can't recall a counter-attack which didn't include a sideways or backwards pass, or that crucial moment's hesitation which allowed them sufficient time to get everyone back behind the ball.
However to maintain the momentum of this sort of move, two or three midfielders are required to bomb forward into the area. But on the rare occasions we made any inroads, Henry or Van Persie was left waiting for an RSVP to their invitation to join them. Come the final whistle the two teams were only separated by the fact that we couldn't force their central defence into any errors, while left to deal with Drogba alone, Senderos' lapse in concentration saw the ball bobbling in off the striker's shin.
Meeting so early in the season, neither team wanted to risk losing this game and most Gooners would have gladly settled for a point long before the goal. Personally I felt that we blew it big time by arriving at the Bridge with such limited ambitions. Instead of loosening the bolts to the wheels of Mourinho's bandwagon (after Wigan, Carvalho and Robben handed over the wheel-brace) and attempting to expose the cracks which might give everyone else a glimmer of hope, we've tightened the nuts and restored their sense of superiority. Although with Lampard looking a little less ravenous, Robben and Duff both relatively ineffective and Joe Cole not even warming the bench at the start to a World Cup season, I've yet to be convinced Chelsea is quite the happy camp it was. In all of the marvellous 500 matches we've enjoyed under the management of Arsène, he's never seen fit to publicly tear strips off a player, as Mourinho did with Carvalho in his matchday programme notes.
So I've checked to ensure I still have the number stored but while there's still hope the Samaritans won't be hearing from me. The worst thing on Sunday was the temptation to walk out with 10 still to go. Time was when this gallant Gooner would wait until the last for the fat lady.
I felt sorry for Thierry. It was as if the responsibility for stemming the tide of Abramovich's millions rested squarely on his shoulders and they'd begun to buckle before the afternoon was out. Not only has he virtually carried the club for the past couple of seasons, now we are expecting him to lift his teammates as well. Watching him standing forlornly on the halfway line, somewhat detached from the others was as convincing an argument as I've seen of our need for a captain at the heart of this Arsenal side, whose unshakeable belief can inspire the likes of Titi to keep me glued to my seat with an eternal glimmer of hope for a last gasp goal.
It was a hollow victory but at least we gave a good account of ourselves off the pitch. Mourinho appears to have made a bit of a ricket. Apparently he didn't enjoy the away fans directly behind him, having a dig everytime he stepped out of the dugout. As a result, instead of spreading us thinly along the length of the East Lower, where songs fade a long time before those at either end join in, away fans are now amassed in Chelsea's Shed End behind the goal. It was the loudest we've been at Chelsea and we didn't hear a peep from the home fans until they took the lead. You know you've got a big problem with the atmosphere when we Gooners start singing "worst support we've ever seen!"
Unlike the streaker who appeared for the second successive week, to prance around the Bridge with his todger hanging out, our song for the day was "We'll be running round Chelsea with out trophies hanging out, we've got 11 more than you". I might've had the best view at the Bridge since they were really sh*t and we stood on their vast empty terraces lighting fires to stay warm, but it's nearly as long since I last witnessed an Arsenal performance where we looked less like winning.
We've given up Rona's away ticket scheme membership and it was weird going to a game at the Bridge without the missus. After suffering one of the worst views in the Premiership for so many years, Murphy's Law ensured that she missed out on the first decent pitch in the corner of the upper tier. Although she wasn't nearly so annoyed as the horrified bloke beside me whose hand I grabbed for, every time our goal was threatened. Mind you if we’d have won and his mitts weren’t quite so clammy, I might've accepted his invitation for a second date!!
Monday, August 15, 2005
The Song Remains The Same
Hi folks
Ro and I spent much of half-time on Sunday debating how groundsman Steve Braddock had managed to produce the "Highbury 1913-2006" pattern on our pristine playing surface in front of each of the four terraces
Watching on TV prior to heading around to Highbury, I mistakenly assumed it was merely a screen effect, produced by Sky's techno wallahs. So it was a pleasant surprise to discover it was in fact the real thing when I arrived at the ground
Since it was the same colour as one of the four shades of green which makes up the plaid pattern of the squares on the pristine pitch (which I've always assumed was merely a result of the direction in which the grass is mown), Rona reckoned it was done with some sort of stencil. However I would have thought this would merely be demolished by the mower.
At least it gave me something to contemplate other than the uninspiring football played on a sumptuous surface that deserved better, not to mention my own self-conscious appearance. I've spent the past few days doing a passable impersonation of The Pogues Shane McGowan, after one of my two top front teeth fell out last week. Since both have been crowned, I wasn't too concerned until I discovered, to my horror, that most of the peg had come away inside it.
If there'd been any more than the tiny protruding piece of rapidly decaying tooth remaining, I might have tried to get away with super gluing it back, in an effort to avoid the dreaded dentist (as there can be few more cowardly folk than me when it comes to the dreaded dentist's chair). I actually dug out one of those emergency dental kits which had been collecting dust here for decades and attempted to reattach it. But it was never going to hold
So I was forced to bite the bullet (or more accurately "suck"). Pending going back to the dentis for some impressions, he tried to stick the crown back temporarily, but advised me it might not last and inevitably on Sunday morning I ended up spitting it out with a mouthful of sarnie. To be honest it was probably the best thing because otherwise I might have kidded myself I could get away without going back again. What's more, it's amazing the importance of this one tooth, as without it I struggle with any word with an "F' in it and have to try to avoid dribbling every drink down my front.
So considering the pressure put on the tooth when I'm able to say my "Fs" with it in and the amount of times I had cause to curse Robert Pires' ineffective efforts on Sunday (albeit whilst still attempting in vain to encourage him out loud with a steady stream of "Allez Roberts"), doubtless I'd have ended up losing the tooth for good, spitting it out whilst venting my frustrations with some choice invective :-)
Meanwhile I've been a little concerned since my ticket for next weekend's big game at the Bridge turned up (unlike our box of Arsenal membership goodies which have apparently already arrived elsewhere!). For years now away fans have had one of the worst and most expensive views in the Premiership with our allocation in the East Lower - which is particularly bad when everyone stands up, as I believe the shallow angle of incline results from them having merely plonked seats on what was once a standing terrace. And while everyone else I've spoken to appears to be sitting in the usual area, it's beginning to feel as if I'm the only Gooner with a seat behind the goal in the Shed End
It's hardly likely but it wouldn't be much fun turning up to find I'm sat on my tod surrounded by Blues' fans!! Obviously the media will be hyping up this clash of the titans to the hilt. But coming so early in the season, I suspect this match might well prove to be a massive anti-climax. My main fear is that both teams will be desperate to avoid defeat and an early points disadvantage and in so doing they might both be a little too keen to settle for the honours even outcome of a draw.
However I am of the opinion that we might well need to gain an advantage over the Blues, because while our defence might be prone to the sort of lapses in concentration which could cost us occasional points, unless Chelsea's woeful performance against Wigan is a true reflection of their form, rather than merely a first match of the season reminder of the focus required to win every week, we might be waiting for match after disappointing match, in hope of another equally dire display from them?
In the meantime whilst I'm waiting for this weekend's ensuing battle, if there are any green fingered Gooners out there (of the gardening variety rather than any wise arse bogey men :-) with any plausible explanations for creating this effect on the pitch, please feel free to put us out of our ignorant misery
Come on you Gunners
Bernard
______________________________________
The Song Remains The Same
I don't doubt that I've delivered the same opening sentiment at the start of several seasons. I sincerely hope you don't tire of it because it deserves repeating and unlike many other of life's pleasures, this one doesn't diminish with the passing of time. Having hauled my far too rapidly aging frame up several flights of Highbury's West Upper staircase, to the concourse where fans are supplied with refreshments and somewhere to relieve oneself of the same (in fact if it wasn't for the revenue the club might just as well dump one in t'other and do away with us middle men), I steel myself for the assault on the last few stairs, before reaching the bulkhead. As with the first home game of every other season before, on stepping out on to the terrace, I never fail to be blown away by the breathtaking vista of 35,000 Gooners surrounding the snooker baize like perfection of the luscious green playing surface.
Even after all these years, the hairs on the back of my neck still stand to attention in eager anticipation of the ensuing excitement. Sentimental old sop that I am, I lingered for a few moments on Sunday, soaking up the magical assault on my senses, only too aware of the poignancy of the occasion, as I drank in every last drop of that heavenly first day thrill, for the very last time at our ancestral Highbury home.
With Thierry Henry needing to hit the back of the net only four more times to nab Wrighty's all-time goal scoring record, hopefully there will be more than a few 'firsts' this term. Nevertheless in truth we’re facing an entire season of 'lasts', with the club giving each home game a theme, in an effort to ensure that each of our 19 opponents final matches at The Home of Football is as memorable as possible. Funnily enough it was Rona who twigged first when the familiar refrain of "You'll never play here again" rang out from the North Bank. I know there’s the customary trouble and strife in Toon Town, but surely the Gooners singing behind the goal were watching a different game, since the Geordies were coping far to well to be written off so soon as relegation fodder. I felt a tad foolish when my missus pointed out that we'd be repeating this particular tune all season long, as none of our guests are likely to play at Highbury ever again.
Sunday’s theme was 'Player's Day', but starting the season as I left off, it was always unlikely that we were going to arrive in time to catch the pre-match parade of former Arsenal heroes. Still we might've had a better chance of making it, if it wasn't for the ridiculous KO time of 1.30pm. I was only just getting used to the Sky dictated 2pm and 4.05 starts on Sundays. Their absolute sovereignty over the TV schedules ensures we Gooners don't see a good old-fashioned 3pm game on a Saturday until end October! In fact this backslapping Gooner love-in proved to be a blessing. It was only as the noise of the North Bank came wafting through our open windows, as they paid their respects to the stars of yesteryear, that the penny dropped and it dawned on me that I might've been wrong to assume a 2pm KO.
Mind you I probably would've struggled to recognise many of them, bereft of trademark barnets' which had long since seen their last comb-over and carrying the sort of poundage that might be more suited to the rugby scrum. However I was pleased to hear that the likes of Manu Petit made the effort to pay homage to Highbury (although in these perfidious times one can't help but wonder if all these ex-pros turned up gratis?)
Meanwhile in all the media (inc. our matchday programme) everyone continues to obsess about the absence of Manu's midfield partner. Ró wasn't particularly enamoured with Arsène's programme notes. Perhaps the inference in French wouldn't be the same. Yet she hardly thought he set the right tone with his opening remark "This is the first time I've started a season at Arsenal without Patrick Vieira"
There isn't a player on this planet capable of replacing our former captain at his formidable best. But with Paddy having performed well below par for the past two seasons, we've grown used to coping without the talismanic Frenchman's more influential displays. Consequently, Wenger would appear to affirm that it is possibly the detrimental psychological effect of Paddy's departure which might prove to be most problematic.
Wenger's woes don't end there. Some would contend that our manager faces his stiffest test in the near future, as he is tasked with recreating another team in his image, capable of challenging Mourinho's 'loadsamoney' Chelsea. There's no suspicion that Wenger's ship is sinking, but I believe we might see a mini-exodus of "show me the money" rats following Vieira, in search of a more buoyant vessel, before we reach the promised land of our magnificent new stadium - Pires, Campbell and Cole being my prime suspects.
As a result I can appreciate Arsène wanting to re-establish an air of security, by appointing a loyal and supremely respected star as his new lieutenant. If the post hadn't become available quite so prematurely, I'd have favoured Senderos. I believe it's preferable to have a captain at the back, who's far more capable of appreciating the performance levels of his team when they’re all playing in front of him. The Swiss youngster undoubtedly has the required character traits and I'd be surprised if he doesn't inherit the captain's armband at some point in his Arsenal career.
Early birds on Sunday saw Titi receive another Golden Shoe as the continent's joint top scorer (remarkably in the company of the same Diego 'Forlorn' who was surplus to requirements at Utd), proudly displaying both golden boots as the first ever player to top the European scoring charts in consecutive seasons. Some would contend that the Arsenal are so dependent on Henry that we are basically a one-man band. Aside from the fact that Titi plays with his back to his team mates for much of the match, isn't it enough that he already has the responsibility of winning the vast majority of the Gunner's games, often almost single-handed. I find myself drawing an analogy with cricket, where assorted England batsmen have suffered a drastic loss of form the instant they've been appointed captain. Personally I would prefer for Titi to have no such distractions from getting on and doing what he does best.
If I'm uncertain about Arsène's choice for the armband, I was downright disturbed on Sunday to see him persist with a decidedly insouciant Pires in the centre of the park, subsequent to the substitutions. Sadly it could be said that this tactic worked a treat, whereas in truth it was the arrival of the energetic Hleb and Van Persie who actually made their presence felt.
It will take a couple more performances for me to get my own footballing routine down pat. I forgot my binoculars on Sunday and it spoke volumes that these weren't necessary for me to instinctively suss that it was our more sinner, than sinned against Swede who'd earned us the penalty. Nevertheless the 2-0 scoreline wasn't half as harsh on Newcastle as Chelsea's 93rd minute winner against Wigan. What's more if ref Steve Bennett hadn't condemned us to a Toon display which was understandably lacking in ambition, as a result of the rash sending-off, we might have witnessed far more of the sort wonderful counter-attacking football seen in the build up to the 2nd goal.
Along with the Toon Army japesters, I imagine there's also a Dutch lass somewhere wondering "Hey Van Persie, I wanna knoooow, why you're not in jail?" Mercifully our lad's legal wrangles don't appear to be damaging his concentration unduly, which might either be interpreted as a clear conscience, or alternatively he's just grateful to get involved in the game, because it's the only means of escaping his guilt! Mind you it's rich to hear the Toon army teasing, when their team is replete with its own share of 'roasters' and assorted miscreants.
After the sending off saw all the life squeezed out of this encounter, up until the 80th minute goal it was possibly the bare faced/arsed cheeks of a streaker who provided the most entertaining moments. He had a great 'craic' parading up and down the pitch, performing the extremely painful looking splits for our pleasure, whilst hundreds of stewards and coppers merely stood watching on from the sidelines. After he'd eventually had enough, he was led away, hiding his embarrassment with his cap. I’m not sure this streakers’s badly-fitting outfit was worse than our German keeper's bright orange costume. According to a pundit on the radio, Lehmann looked like he'd been 'Tangoed'!
The subsequent Chelsea performance suggests I’m not alone in lacking match practice. I will reserve judgement until they encounter another unfancied team, before daring to suggest that they might be wanting for the work-rate and commitment that was the basis for much their success. If this isn't the case then their woeful performance against Wigan could well prove the perfect kick up the backside that might unfortunately ensure we face a close fought battle with the Blues at the Bridge this weekend. Moreover (if at all possible), I might be bemoaning the fact that they didn't drop a couple of points even more, if we should find ourselves approaching Xmas with our main competition coming no closer to an equally dodgy outing. Hopefully this match might act as the inspiration for every team who might previously have considered a meeting with Chelsea as mission impossible.
As far as a reaction to the ennui of the Essien saga is concerned, I find myself turning once again to my best “Am I bovvered?� Catherine Tate impersonation. In my humble opinion Mourinho's team must soon reach the stage where he can't possibly improve the quality and is only adding quantity to an overstuffed squad. The Blues might’ve appeared a little hungrier than us in the first-half at Cardiff, benefiting from the competition for places. Yet I'm convinced their squad must soon reach a pivotal point and as their bench-warming bums begin to suffer from splinters, surely the law of diminishing returns must apply. In a World Cup year where the cream of the crop will be desperate to secure a once in a lifetime opportunity, some of bigger egos in their squad are bound to become dissatisfied with the selection policy. Mourinho might well struggle to stop the spanner of this disgruntlement from undoing all his work developing a winning mentality in the Chelsea camp.
Ro and I spent much of half-time on Sunday debating how groundsman Steve Braddock had managed to produce the "Highbury 1913-2006" pattern on our pristine playing surface in front of each of the four terraces
Watching on TV prior to heading around to Highbury, I mistakenly assumed it was merely a screen effect, produced by Sky's techno wallahs. So it was a pleasant surprise to discover it was in fact the real thing when I arrived at the ground
Since it was the same colour as one of the four shades of green which makes up the plaid pattern of the squares on the pristine pitch (which I've always assumed was merely a result of the direction in which the grass is mown), Rona reckoned it was done with some sort of stencil. However I would have thought this would merely be demolished by the mower.
At least it gave me something to contemplate other than the uninspiring football played on a sumptuous surface that deserved better, not to mention my own self-conscious appearance. I've spent the past few days doing a passable impersonation of The Pogues Shane McGowan, after one of my two top front teeth fell out last week. Since both have been crowned, I wasn't too concerned until I discovered, to my horror, that most of the peg had come away inside it.
If there'd been any more than the tiny protruding piece of rapidly decaying tooth remaining, I might have tried to get away with super gluing it back, in an effort to avoid the dreaded dentist (as there can be few more cowardly folk than me when it comes to the dreaded dentist's chair). I actually dug out one of those emergency dental kits which had been collecting dust here for decades and attempted to reattach it. But it was never going to hold
So I was forced to bite the bullet (or more accurately "suck"). Pending going back to the dentis for some impressions, he tried to stick the crown back temporarily, but advised me it might not last and inevitably on Sunday morning I ended up spitting it out with a mouthful of sarnie. To be honest it was probably the best thing because otherwise I might have kidded myself I could get away without going back again. What's more, it's amazing the importance of this one tooth, as without it I struggle with any word with an "F' in it and have to try to avoid dribbling every drink down my front.
So considering the pressure put on the tooth when I'm able to say my "Fs" with it in and the amount of times I had cause to curse Robert Pires' ineffective efforts on Sunday (albeit whilst still attempting in vain to encourage him out loud with a steady stream of "Allez Roberts"), doubtless I'd have ended up losing the tooth for good, spitting it out whilst venting my frustrations with some choice invective :-)
Meanwhile I've been a little concerned since my ticket for next weekend's big game at the Bridge turned up (unlike our box of Arsenal membership goodies which have apparently already arrived elsewhere!). For years now away fans have had one of the worst and most expensive views in the Premiership with our allocation in the East Lower - which is particularly bad when everyone stands up, as I believe the shallow angle of incline results from them having merely plonked seats on what was once a standing terrace. And while everyone else I've spoken to appears to be sitting in the usual area, it's beginning to feel as if I'm the only Gooner with a seat behind the goal in the Shed End
It's hardly likely but it wouldn't be much fun turning up to find I'm sat on my tod surrounded by Blues' fans!! Obviously the media will be hyping up this clash of the titans to the hilt. But coming so early in the season, I suspect this match might well prove to be a massive anti-climax. My main fear is that both teams will be desperate to avoid defeat and an early points disadvantage and in so doing they might both be a little too keen to settle for the honours even outcome of a draw.
However I am of the opinion that we might well need to gain an advantage over the Blues, because while our defence might be prone to the sort of lapses in concentration which could cost us occasional points, unless Chelsea's woeful performance against Wigan is a true reflection of their form, rather than merely a first match of the season reminder of the focus required to win every week, we might be waiting for match after disappointing match, in hope of another equally dire display from them?
In the meantime whilst I'm waiting for this weekend's ensuing battle, if there are any green fingered Gooners out there (of the gardening variety rather than any wise arse bogey men :-) with any plausible explanations for creating this effect on the pitch, please feel free to put us out of our ignorant misery
Come on you Gunners
Bernard
______________________________________
The Song Remains The Same
I don't doubt that I've delivered the same opening sentiment at the start of several seasons. I sincerely hope you don't tire of it because it deserves repeating and unlike many other of life's pleasures, this one doesn't diminish with the passing of time. Having hauled my far too rapidly aging frame up several flights of Highbury's West Upper staircase, to the concourse where fans are supplied with refreshments and somewhere to relieve oneself of the same (in fact if it wasn't for the revenue the club might just as well dump one in t'other and do away with us middle men), I steel myself for the assault on the last few stairs, before reaching the bulkhead. As with the first home game of every other season before, on stepping out on to the terrace, I never fail to be blown away by the breathtaking vista of 35,000 Gooners surrounding the snooker baize like perfection of the luscious green playing surface.
Even after all these years, the hairs on the back of my neck still stand to attention in eager anticipation of the ensuing excitement. Sentimental old sop that I am, I lingered for a few moments on Sunday, soaking up the magical assault on my senses, only too aware of the poignancy of the occasion, as I drank in every last drop of that heavenly first day thrill, for the very last time at our ancestral Highbury home.
With Thierry Henry needing to hit the back of the net only four more times to nab Wrighty's all-time goal scoring record, hopefully there will be more than a few 'firsts' this term. Nevertheless in truth we’re facing an entire season of 'lasts', with the club giving each home game a theme, in an effort to ensure that each of our 19 opponents final matches at The Home of Football is as memorable as possible. Funnily enough it was Rona who twigged first when the familiar refrain of "You'll never play here again" rang out from the North Bank. I know there’s the customary trouble and strife in Toon Town, but surely the Gooners singing behind the goal were watching a different game, since the Geordies were coping far to well to be written off so soon as relegation fodder. I felt a tad foolish when my missus pointed out that we'd be repeating this particular tune all season long, as none of our guests are likely to play at Highbury ever again.
Sunday’s theme was 'Player's Day', but starting the season as I left off, it was always unlikely that we were going to arrive in time to catch the pre-match parade of former Arsenal heroes. Still we might've had a better chance of making it, if it wasn't for the ridiculous KO time of 1.30pm. I was only just getting used to the Sky dictated 2pm and 4.05 starts on Sundays. Their absolute sovereignty over the TV schedules ensures we Gooners don't see a good old-fashioned 3pm game on a Saturday until end October! In fact this backslapping Gooner love-in proved to be a blessing. It was only as the noise of the North Bank came wafting through our open windows, as they paid their respects to the stars of yesteryear, that the penny dropped and it dawned on me that I might've been wrong to assume a 2pm KO.
Mind you I probably would've struggled to recognise many of them, bereft of trademark barnets' which had long since seen their last comb-over and carrying the sort of poundage that might be more suited to the rugby scrum. However I was pleased to hear that the likes of Manu Petit made the effort to pay homage to Highbury (although in these perfidious times one can't help but wonder if all these ex-pros turned up gratis?)
Meanwhile in all the media (inc. our matchday programme) everyone continues to obsess about the absence of Manu's midfield partner. Ró wasn't particularly enamoured with Arsène's programme notes. Perhaps the inference in French wouldn't be the same. Yet she hardly thought he set the right tone with his opening remark "This is the first time I've started a season at Arsenal without Patrick Vieira"
There isn't a player on this planet capable of replacing our former captain at his formidable best. But with Paddy having performed well below par for the past two seasons, we've grown used to coping without the talismanic Frenchman's more influential displays. Consequently, Wenger would appear to affirm that it is possibly the detrimental psychological effect of Paddy's departure which might prove to be most problematic.
Wenger's woes don't end there. Some would contend that our manager faces his stiffest test in the near future, as he is tasked with recreating another team in his image, capable of challenging Mourinho's 'loadsamoney' Chelsea. There's no suspicion that Wenger's ship is sinking, but I believe we might see a mini-exodus of "show me the money" rats following Vieira, in search of a more buoyant vessel, before we reach the promised land of our magnificent new stadium - Pires, Campbell and Cole being my prime suspects.
As a result I can appreciate Arsène wanting to re-establish an air of security, by appointing a loyal and supremely respected star as his new lieutenant. If the post hadn't become available quite so prematurely, I'd have favoured Senderos. I believe it's preferable to have a captain at the back, who's far more capable of appreciating the performance levels of his team when they’re all playing in front of him. The Swiss youngster undoubtedly has the required character traits and I'd be surprised if he doesn't inherit the captain's armband at some point in his Arsenal career.
Early birds on Sunday saw Titi receive another Golden Shoe as the continent's joint top scorer (remarkably in the company of the same Diego 'Forlorn' who was surplus to requirements at Utd), proudly displaying both golden boots as the first ever player to top the European scoring charts in consecutive seasons. Some would contend that the Arsenal are so dependent on Henry that we are basically a one-man band. Aside from the fact that Titi plays with his back to his team mates for much of the match, isn't it enough that he already has the responsibility of winning the vast majority of the Gunner's games, often almost single-handed. I find myself drawing an analogy with cricket, where assorted England batsmen have suffered a drastic loss of form the instant they've been appointed captain. Personally I would prefer for Titi to have no such distractions from getting on and doing what he does best.
If I'm uncertain about Arsène's choice for the armband, I was downright disturbed on Sunday to see him persist with a decidedly insouciant Pires in the centre of the park, subsequent to the substitutions. Sadly it could be said that this tactic worked a treat, whereas in truth it was the arrival of the energetic Hleb and Van Persie who actually made their presence felt.
It will take a couple more performances for me to get my own footballing routine down pat. I forgot my binoculars on Sunday and it spoke volumes that these weren't necessary for me to instinctively suss that it was our more sinner, than sinned against Swede who'd earned us the penalty. Nevertheless the 2-0 scoreline wasn't half as harsh on Newcastle as Chelsea's 93rd minute winner against Wigan. What's more if ref Steve Bennett hadn't condemned us to a Toon display which was understandably lacking in ambition, as a result of the rash sending-off, we might have witnessed far more of the sort wonderful counter-attacking football seen in the build up to the 2nd goal.
Along with the Toon Army japesters, I imagine there's also a Dutch lass somewhere wondering "Hey Van Persie, I wanna knoooow, why you're not in jail?" Mercifully our lad's legal wrangles don't appear to be damaging his concentration unduly, which might either be interpreted as a clear conscience, or alternatively he's just grateful to get involved in the game, because it's the only means of escaping his guilt! Mind you it's rich to hear the Toon army teasing, when their team is replete with its own share of 'roasters' and assorted miscreants.
After the sending off saw all the life squeezed out of this encounter, up until the 80th minute goal it was possibly the bare faced/arsed cheeks of a streaker who provided the most entertaining moments. He had a great 'craic' parading up and down the pitch, performing the extremely painful looking splits for our pleasure, whilst hundreds of stewards and coppers merely stood watching on from the sidelines. After he'd eventually had enough, he was led away, hiding his embarrassment with his cap. I’m not sure this streakers’s badly-fitting outfit was worse than our German keeper's bright orange costume. According to a pundit on the radio, Lehmann looked like he'd been 'Tangoed'!
The subsequent Chelsea performance suggests I’m not alone in lacking match practice. I will reserve judgement until they encounter another unfancied team, before daring to suggest that they might be wanting for the work-rate and commitment that was the basis for much their success. If this isn't the case then their woeful performance against Wigan could well prove the perfect kick up the backside that might unfortunately ensure we face a close fought battle with the Blues at the Bridge this weekend. Moreover (if at all possible), I might be bemoaning the fact that they didn't drop a couple of points even more, if we should find ourselves approaching Xmas with our main competition coming no closer to an equally dodgy outing. Hopefully this match might act as the inspiration for every team who might previously have considered a meeting with Chelsea as mission impossible.
As far as a reaction to the ennui of the Essien saga is concerned, I find myself turning once again to my best “Am I bovvered?� Catherine Tate impersonation. In my humble opinion Mourinho's team must soon reach the stage where he can't possibly improve the quality and is only adding quantity to an overstuffed squad. The Blues might’ve appeared a little hungrier than us in the first-half at Cardiff, benefiting from the competition for places. Yet I'm convinced their squad must soon reach a pivotal point and as their bench-warming bums begin to suffer from splinters, surely the law of diminishing returns must apply. In a World Cup year where the cream of the crop will be desperate to secure a once in a lifetime opportunity, some of bigger egos in their squad are bound to become dissatisfied with the selection policy. Mourinho might well struggle to stop the spanner of this disgruntlement from undoing all his work developing a winning mentality in the Chelsea camp.
Monday, August 08, 2005
He Who Laughs Last….!
Hi folks
Whether you like it or not, I am back! Should you wish me to remove your address from my list, please feel free to let me know, I assure you I won't take offence
Subsequent to a call from The Irish Examiner at 11am last Monday, I actually wrote my first missive last week. Yet as a result it was written in such a rush that I really wanted to edit it at my leisure. However as ever, I didn't get around to doing this but rather than fill your in-box with what is basically old news (although I've never let that stop me before :-), I've joined the "blog" revolution (if a little tardily) and you are welcome to read my previous piece at:
http://thedogsbollock.blogspot.com
(if you scroll down you will find last week's ravings). Or alternatively for those of you without access to the web, or who want their own copy, you are more than welcome to get back to me and I will forward it to you.
Bearing in mind that I am writing for an Irish newspaper and the fact that I am limited to around a 1000 words (although again I've never let that stop me before), I haven't written about our journey to Cardiff below, as knowing full well the prejudices that prevail (and I'm not about to patronize you with a history lesson about the potato famine, suffice to say that any existing ill feeling is more than warranted) I didn't really think the readers over there would be particularly interested in hearing how we were driving down to Cardiff, glued to the Test Match Special radio commentary coming from Edgbaston, revelling in such a famous England victory over their Antipodean foe (and if some of you Gooners are similarly impervious to the bloody astonishing ending to events in Birmingham yesterday, might I suggest you scroll down to the beginning of the actual diary piece below)
I've never been a cricket fanatic but I very much enjoy whiling away the long football-less summer months, watching the cricket on the box, whilst listening to the LW radio transmission from those marvellous members of the TMS team. Commentating on the cricket over the radio is indeed an art form and while the game itself has become a lot quicker in recent years, with a lot less dead time between overs and balls, these chaps who make up one of the last remaining bastions of Britishness, deserve the utmost respect for their ability to broadcast for endless hours at a time, filling the airwaves with such ridiculous nonsense as their gratitude for the Madeira cake they've just received from Mrs Getalife in Godalming, or details of the double-decker bus passing along St. Johns Wood Road.
In fact there was a perfect example of this typically British idiosyncratic institution yesterday. As the test match between England and Australia balanced on a knife edge, with the Aussies astonishingly managing to cling on, coming ever closer to reaching and beating England's score, the Aussie commentators who share the airtime, broadcasting to all those down-under on ABC, must have bee laughing to themselves as one of them announced that the perennial Radio 4 'Shipping Forecast' would be delayed until the outcome of the match had been decided.
As if, with the game building to such an incredible climax, there was anyone listening who was actually interested in the wind speed at Doggerel Bank!!
I was convinced, as I assured Kev, my travelling partner, that the script for what many are already talking about as "the most exciting Test Match ever", had already been written. Considering Freddie Flintoff's amazing exploits with both bat and ball during the course of this match, I was absolutely certain that he was guaranteed to eventually win the game by taking the final wicket.
"Catches win matches" intoned Kev as poor Simon Jones failed to hang onto a difficult sounding catch which would have won the match. And with the tourists only needing a few more runs to take the match, he gave up the ghost at this point, whereas I was convinced Flintoff was still going to win it at the last gasp. But as Freddie finished his over without taking the final wicket and with Australia only requiring a handful of runs, I too conceded defeat. Kev reckoned afterwards that this was the turning point, because it wasn't until I finally accepted England weren't going to win that Harmessen went and bowled the ball we'd been waiting for all morning, with growing frustration.
Such was our excitement as Geraint Jones took the catch, with AustraLlia only needing two more runs, that I felt like that bloke in the car insurance ad. I wanted to pull over to the hard shoulder, so I could get out and dance a little jig of joy. It is not that the result means so much to me, but having watched the test match on the box the past couple of days and having got so caught up in the growing tension, as Australia came ever closer to achieving an improbably victory, you couldn't help but be affected by the drama of it all. I actually looked around us at the other cars on the motorway, thinking that with so many football fans travelling up to Cardiff, everyone would be listening to the commentary of this other grand sporting occasion. I was a little disappointed that there was no honking of horns, waving or shouting, when England eventually achieved success.
Both Kev and I had a little chuckle, as seconds after this incredible conclusion to the cricket, instead of an interview with the captain, or the man of the match, Radio 4 went straight to the delayed Shipping Forecast!
I am sure I could prattle on ad infinitum about this amazing Test Match but I wouldn't want to alienate all those who find cricket a confoundingly boring sport. What's more, with another three Tests to come, I guess I'll have plenty more opportunities to test your patience on this particular topic
Before I go, I completely forgot to mention one astonishing fact in my piece below. After arriving back home completely shattered on Sunday night following our tortuous trip back, I was so shattered that I laid down on the bed and simply conked out, fully dressed, until 10am, when I woke to discover with some dismay that I dribbled down one of my favourite Arsenal t-shirts. As a result I ended up writing my piece in a bit of a rush, worrying about being late for my deadline (so what else is new!).
I completely omitted to mention the outrageous coincidence which actually left me thinking that it was so bizarre that after that, there was no way we were going to be beat by Chelsea. Kev had arranged to meet up with some mates at Cardiff and despite some traffic on route, "the Fuhrer" - as his friends advised me is the moniker they've given him - had actually managed to get me out of the house early enough (with his threats that he would stop at home if we hadn't left by 9am) that we'd arrived in Cardiff and had parked up, not only in time to make kick-off, but with time to grab a swift half (or a cuppa in my case) at the pub. I am in trouble now, as Rona wants to know the secret of how Kev is capable of making sure I am not late!!
So, as you do, when we met up at the pub, tickets were produced to check how far from one another we would be seated. I'd bought our two tickets at the Box Office. I'd asked the bloke at the counter which tickets were avoilable and then phoned Rona to get her to check on the plan of the stadium, where exactly the available seats were. Having made my decision, I went back to the Box Office, but apparently the bloke had made a mistake and the tickets I wanted weren't actually available. So I took the cheapest on offer (only 15 quid, a couple of blocks nearer to the corner, thinking that there would be so many empty seats in our end of the ground, we would be able to mooch round to sit somewhere better.
However this didn't prove to be the case. Obviously our end wasn't full, but there were far more Gooners there than I, or anyone else I believe, expected. Our seats were perfectly adequate as you get a pretty good view wherever you sit in this stadium. Kev's mates had booked their tickets over the phone and it turned out that they were not only in the same price range, the same block, the same row but out of the 72,500 seats in the Millennium Stadium, our tickets were for the two seats directly next to their three!!
Perhaps we should all dash out and buy lottery tickets
Big Love
Bernard
______________________________________________________________________
He Who Laughs Last….!
If there was one thing Sunday's Community Shield proved, it was that while Roman Abramovich might be able to fritter away his millions chasing silverware, the one thing Chelsea can't buy is supporters. We Gooners might as well have season tickets, the amount of times we've schlepped down the M4 to Cardiff in recent times. So I was a bit concerned there might be an embarrassingly small turn out at our end of the Millennium Stadium on Sunday. Whereas I would have expected Chelsea fans to be travelling to Wales in their hordes, considering it was their first opportunity to celebrate their only title triumph in half a century.
There were odd empty spaces in the Arsenal end but there was nothing like the astonishing sight of the almost entirely deserted middle terrace behind the goal where the Blues fans were sat, or the huge swathes of empty seats elsewhere at that end of the ground. Considering Abramovich's generous nature (£23 million for Shaun Wright-Phillips!), one might have thought they would have given away all those spare tickets, rather than have us taunting this miserable turn-out with "are you Blackburn in disguise?".
As far as events on the pitch were concerned, the object of the exercise might be to win the game, but from what I could gather on leaving the ground after a single goal defeat, most Gooners were doing their best "am I bovvered?" Catherine Tate impersonations. First off, as far as omens go for the season ahead, winning this worthless bit of silverware could hardly count as auspicious, considering how unsuccessful previous winners have been in the subsequent campaign. Secondly we might have afforded the opposition two opportunities to take advantage of some slipshod defending, but I don't think there's any argument which of the two teams played the more entertaining football.
What's more if I travelled to the game with some trepidation that Chelsea's incessant spending was going to make it impossible for us to compete, such worries have since been assuaged by a performance on Sunday which suggests that there is still little to choose between these two sides. However it was obvious to me that Chelsea might have one important advantage over us. From the way the Blues set about hungrily hunting down the ball in twos and threes, it would appear that Mourinho's array of talented purchases have ensured that all his players are only too aware that they are playing for their places, Unfortunately Arsène doesn't have the luxury of equally competent players competing for every position on the park. As a result he is going to have to find some way of ensuring complacency doesn't raise its ugly head, amongst those who might believe their place on the teamsheet is a little too secure.
What's more, I have to give credit where its due. Despite all our trickery, Chelsea managed to produce a marvelously resolute defensive performance, to the extent that I recall Thierry Henry's tireless efforts only resulting in one single clear sight of the target. Consequently one can't help but wonder if Terry, Gallas and Makalele are capable of nullifying the threat of one of the greatest players on this planet, what hope is there of the likes of West Brown and Wigan scoring against them. In saying that, Chelsea's defensively minded players know full well that they need to be at the very top of their game to prevent themselves being outwitted by Henry. Whereas football wouldn't be nearly such thrilling fare, if it wasn't capable of throwing up such surprises, as those which might occur when a lapse of concentration allows the likes of Wigan the opportunity to embarrass their betters.
In all honesty I am far more optimistic now, than I was going into a game, where I expected a midfield of Pires and Flamini to be overrun by Lampard and co. Thankfully Arsène was able to abandon his experiment with Pires in the centre of the park. Instead the young Cesc Fabregas not only served up a reminder of his talented footballing brain, but also produced a combative performance, which suggests he is quite capable of making up for what he might lack in stature, with his commitment. The possibility that Pires might occupy a position which requires such industry and 'bottle' seemed so bizarre, that I am now wondering if it was merely a ruse by Wenger to make Robbie feel that he has a crucial role in our squad, rather than a peripheral one, thereby scratching his 'itchy feet' and hopefully putting his mind off the subject of the pots more cash which he might be proffered elsewhere?
I suppose we can't really complain. After a pitiful performance against Man Utd in the FA Cup, we were fortunate to win the penalty shoot out which saw us coming away from Cardiff with the trophy. So we didn't have much right to whinge when the better team on the day weren't triumphant on Sunday. Exiting the Millennium, we took a nostalgic look back at the impressive scene of our almost annual encounters in recent years. FA Cup semis aside (and perhaps the final - as few seem to think Wembley will be ready in time), we might not be returning to Cardiff. I'm not sure I would've gone on Sunday if there wasn't a sufficient number of months between matches, for me to forget quite what a nightmare the journey can be. While I certainly won't miss all the aggravation on the M4 motorway, I'm sorry we might have seen the last of this superb stage for great sporting occasions. Not to mention the sunny disposition of our hospitable Welsh hosts.
With both sets of fans returning East towards London, the journey back was as bad as ever. It's ironic that after all this time, on perhaps our last trip to the Millennium, I've finally discovered a route whereby one can avoid the worst of the traffic. It might've meant driving 50 odd additional miles, but on a warm day, with all the car windows open, the scenic Welsh countryside was far more preferable to crawling along the motorway in the company of gloating Chelsea fans. It was 10pm by the time we approached the capital, exhausted after a trip of a couple of hours had turned into a 5-hour trek. However as I headed around the North Circular, the unmistakeable sight of Wembley stadium's arch dominating the skyline, signalled that we were nearly home. It was a very welcome reminder that the Arsenal's achievements in the future won't be accompanied with the prospect of such an arduous outing to Wales.
Now we’ve got the hors d’oeuvres out of the way, Sunday’s match has ensured that if I was at all anxious about my appetite before, I am now starving for the main course.
Whether you like it or not, I am back! Should you wish me to remove your address from my list, please feel free to let me know, I assure you I won't take offence
Subsequent to a call from The Irish Examiner at 11am last Monday, I actually wrote my first missive last week. Yet as a result it was written in such a rush that I really wanted to edit it at my leisure. However as ever, I didn't get around to doing this but rather than fill your in-box with what is basically old news (although I've never let that stop me before :-), I've joined the "blog" revolution (if a little tardily) and you are welcome to read my previous piece at:
http://thedogsbollock.blogspot.com
(if you scroll down you will find last week's ravings). Or alternatively for those of you without access to the web, or who want their own copy, you are more than welcome to get back to me and I will forward it to you.
Bearing in mind that I am writing for an Irish newspaper and the fact that I am limited to around a 1000 words (although again I've never let that stop me before), I haven't written about our journey to Cardiff below, as knowing full well the prejudices that prevail (and I'm not about to patronize you with a history lesson about the potato famine, suffice to say that any existing ill feeling is more than warranted) I didn't really think the readers over there would be particularly interested in hearing how we were driving down to Cardiff, glued to the Test Match Special radio commentary coming from Edgbaston, revelling in such a famous England victory over their Antipodean foe (and if some of you Gooners are similarly impervious to the bloody astonishing ending to events in Birmingham yesterday, might I suggest you scroll down to the beginning of the actual diary piece below)
I've never been a cricket fanatic but I very much enjoy whiling away the long football-less summer months, watching the cricket on the box, whilst listening to the LW radio transmission from those marvellous members of the TMS team. Commentating on the cricket over the radio is indeed an art form and while the game itself has become a lot quicker in recent years, with a lot less dead time between overs and balls, these chaps who make up one of the last remaining bastions of Britishness, deserve the utmost respect for their ability to broadcast for endless hours at a time, filling the airwaves with such ridiculous nonsense as their gratitude for the Madeira cake they've just received from Mrs Getalife in Godalming, or details of the double-decker bus passing along St. Johns Wood Road.
In fact there was a perfect example of this typically British idiosyncratic institution yesterday. As the test match between England and Australia balanced on a knife edge, with the Aussies astonishingly managing to cling on, coming ever closer to reaching and beating England's score, the Aussie commentators who share the airtime, broadcasting to all those down-under on ABC, must have bee laughing to themselves as one of them announced that the perennial Radio 4 'Shipping Forecast' would be delayed until the outcome of the match had been decided.
As if, with the game building to such an incredible climax, there was anyone listening who was actually interested in the wind speed at Doggerel Bank!!
I was convinced, as I assured Kev, my travelling partner, that the script for what many are already talking about as "the most exciting Test Match ever", had already been written. Considering Freddie Flintoff's amazing exploits with both bat and ball during the course of this match, I was absolutely certain that he was guaranteed to eventually win the game by taking the final wicket.
"Catches win matches" intoned Kev as poor Simon Jones failed to hang onto a difficult sounding catch which would have won the match. And with the tourists only needing a few more runs to take the match, he gave up the ghost at this point, whereas I was convinced Flintoff was still going to win it at the last gasp. But as Freddie finished his over without taking the final wicket and with Australia only requiring a handful of runs, I too conceded defeat. Kev reckoned afterwards that this was the turning point, because it wasn't until I finally accepted England weren't going to win that Harmessen went and bowled the ball we'd been waiting for all morning, with growing frustration.
Such was our excitement as Geraint Jones took the catch, with AustraLlia only needing two more runs, that I felt like that bloke in the car insurance ad. I wanted to pull over to the hard shoulder, so I could get out and dance a little jig of joy. It is not that the result means so much to me, but having watched the test match on the box the past couple of days and having got so caught up in the growing tension, as Australia came ever closer to achieving an improbably victory, you couldn't help but be affected by the drama of it all. I actually looked around us at the other cars on the motorway, thinking that with so many football fans travelling up to Cardiff, everyone would be listening to the commentary of this other grand sporting occasion. I was a little disappointed that there was no honking of horns, waving or shouting, when England eventually achieved success.
Both Kev and I had a little chuckle, as seconds after this incredible conclusion to the cricket, instead of an interview with the captain, or the man of the match, Radio 4 went straight to the delayed Shipping Forecast!
I am sure I could prattle on ad infinitum about this amazing Test Match but I wouldn't want to alienate all those who find cricket a confoundingly boring sport. What's more, with another three Tests to come, I guess I'll have plenty more opportunities to test your patience on this particular topic
Before I go, I completely forgot to mention one astonishing fact in my piece below. After arriving back home completely shattered on Sunday night following our tortuous trip back, I was so shattered that I laid down on the bed and simply conked out, fully dressed, until 10am, when I woke to discover with some dismay that I dribbled down one of my favourite Arsenal t-shirts. As a result I ended up writing my piece in a bit of a rush, worrying about being late for my deadline (so what else is new!).
I completely omitted to mention the outrageous coincidence which actually left me thinking that it was so bizarre that after that, there was no way we were going to be beat by Chelsea. Kev had arranged to meet up with some mates at Cardiff and despite some traffic on route, "the Fuhrer" - as his friends advised me is the moniker they've given him - had actually managed to get me out of the house early enough (with his threats that he would stop at home if we hadn't left by 9am) that we'd arrived in Cardiff and had parked up, not only in time to make kick-off, but with time to grab a swift half (or a cuppa in my case) at the pub. I am in trouble now, as Rona wants to know the secret of how Kev is capable of making sure I am not late!!
So, as you do, when we met up at the pub, tickets were produced to check how far from one another we would be seated. I'd bought our two tickets at the Box Office. I'd asked the bloke at the counter which tickets were avoilable and then phoned Rona to get her to check on the plan of the stadium, where exactly the available seats were. Having made my decision, I went back to the Box Office, but apparently the bloke had made a mistake and the tickets I wanted weren't actually available. So I took the cheapest on offer (only 15 quid, a couple of blocks nearer to the corner, thinking that there would be so many empty seats in our end of the ground, we would be able to mooch round to sit somewhere better.
However this didn't prove to be the case. Obviously our end wasn't full, but there were far more Gooners there than I, or anyone else I believe, expected. Our seats were perfectly adequate as you get a pretty good view wherever you sit in this stadium. Kev's mates had booked their tickets over the phone and it turned out that they were not only in the same price range, the same block, the same row but out of the 72,500 seats in the Millennium Stadium, our tickets were for the two seats directly next to their three!!
Perhaps we should all dash out and buy lottery tickets
Big Love
Bernard
______________________________________________________________________
He Who Laughs Last….!
If there was one thing Sunday's Community Shield proved, it was that while Roman Abramovich might be able to fritter away his millions chasing silverware, the one thing Chelsea can't buy is supporters. We Gooners might as well have season tickets, the amount of times we've schlepped down the M4 to Cardiff in recent times. So I was a bit concerned there might be an embarrassingly small turn out at our end of the Millennium Stadium on Sunday. Whereas I would have expected Chelsea fans to be travelling to Wales in their hordes, considering it was their first opportunity to celebrate their only title triumph in half a century.
There were odd empty spaces in the Arsenal end but there was nothing like the astonishing sight of the almost entirely deserted middle terrace behind the goal where the Blues fans were sat, or the huge swathes of empty seats elsewhere at that end of the ground. Considering Abramovich's generous nature (£23 million for Shaun Wright-Phillips!), one might have thought they would have given away all those spare tickets, rather than have us taunting this miserable turn-out with "are you Blackburn in disguise?".
As far as events on the pitch were concerned, the object of the exercise might be to win the game, but from what I could gather on leaving the ground after a single goal defeat, most Gooners were doing their best "am I bovvered?" Catherine Tate impersonations. First off, as far as omens go for the season ahead, winning this worthless bit of silverware could hardly count as auspicious, considering how unsuccessful previous winners have been in the subsequent campaign. Secondly we might have afforded the opposition two opportunities to take advantage of some slipshod defending, but I don't think there's any argument which of the two teams played the more entertaining football.
What's more if I travelled to the game with some trepidation that Chelsea's incessant spending was going to make it impossible for us to compete, such worries have since been assuaged by a performance on Sunday which suggests that there is still little to choose between these two sides. However it was obvious to me that Chelsea might have one important advantage over us. From the way the Blues set about hungrily hunting down the ball in twos and threes, it would appear that Mourinho's array of talented purchases have ensured that all his players are only too aware that they are playing for their places, Unfortunately Arsène doesn't have the luxury of equally competent players competing for every position on the park. As a result he is going to have to find some way of ensuring complacency doesn't raise its ugly head, amongst those who might believe their place on the teamsheet is a little too secure.
What's more, I have to give credit where its due. Despite all our trickery, Chelsea managed to produce a marvelously resolute defensive performance, to the extent that I recall Thierry Henry's tireless efforts only resulting in one single clear sight of the target. Consequently one can't help but wonder if Terry, Gallas and Makalele are capable of nullifying the threat of one of the greatest players on this planet, what hope is there of the likes of West Brown and Wigan scoring against them. In saying that, Chelsea's defensively minded players know full well that they need to be at the very top of their game to prevent themselves being outwitted by Henry. Whereas football wouldn't be nearly such thrilling fare, if it wasn't capable of throwing up such surprises, as those which might occur when a lapse of concentration allows the likes of Wigan the opportunity to embarrass their betters.
In all honesty I am far more optimistic now, than I was going into a game, where I expected a midfield of Pires and Flamini to be overrun by Lampard and co. Thankfully Arsène was able to abandon his experiment with Pires in the centre of the park. Instead the young Cesc Fabregas not only served up a reminder of his talented footballing brain, but also produced a combative performance, which suggests he is quite capable of making up for what he might lack in stature, with his commitment. The possibility that Pires might occupy a position which requires such industry and 'bottle' seemed so bizarre, that I am now wondering if it was merely a ruse by Wenger to make Robbie feel that he has a crucial role in our squad, rather than a peripheral one, thereby scratching his 'itchy feet' and hopefully putting his mind off the subject of the pots more cash which he might be proffered elsewhere?
I suppose we can't really complain. After a pitiful performance against Man Utd in the FA Cup, we were fortunate to win the penalty shoot out which saw us coming away from Cardiff with the trophy. So we didn't have much right to whinge when the better team on the day weren't triumphant on Sunday. Exiting the Millennium, we took a nostalgic look back at the impressive scene of our almost annual encounters in recent years. FA Cup semis aside (and perhaps the final - as few seem to think Wembley will be ready in time), we might not be returning to Cardiff. I'm not sure I would've gone on Sunday if there wasn't a sufficient number of months between matches, for me to forget quite what a nightmare the journey can be. While I certainly won't miss all the aggravation on the M4 motorway, I'm sorry we might have seen the last of this superb stage for great sporting occasions. Not to mention the sunny disposition of our hospitable Welsh hosts.
With both sets of fans returning East towards London, the journey back was as bad as ever. It's ironic that after all this time, on perhaps our last trip to the Millennium, I've finally discovered a route whereby one can avoid the worst of the traffic. It might've meant driving 50 odd additional miles, but on a warm day, with all the car windows open, the scenic Welsh countryside was far more preferable to crawling along the motorway in the company of gloating Chelsea fans. It was 10pm by the time we approached the capital, exhausted after a trip of a couple of hours had turned into a 5-hour trek. However as I headed around the North Circular, the unmistakeable sight of Wembley stadium's arch dominating the skyline, signalled that we were nearly home. It was a very welcome reminder that the Arsenal's achievements in the future won't be accompanied with the prospect of such an arduous outing to Wales.
Now we’ve got the hors d’oeuvres out of the way, Sunday’s match has ensured that if I was at all anxious about my appetite before, I am now starving for the main course.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Never Mind The Width…..Feel The Quality
Having passed up my weekly Friday night feed at my Ma's in favour of watching the Ajax game live on Sky, I took the opportunity to nip out for some nosh at half-time. Thanks to the wonders of Sky plus I was able to pause the action. Yet I didn’t need to be watching to know the footie season is fast approaching, as I walked into the late night offie and straight into a conversation at the counter. In the shadow of the Home of Football, I didn’t need to be a seer to know the subject of the 4-5-1 numbers tripping off the assistant’s tongue. The only topic of conversation hereabouts, is how our manager intends to cope with the departure of our talismanic captain.
I've never yet made it to Austria for our annual pre-season outing, unable to justify the expense this summer, so soon after stumping up over 3.5 grand for our two season tickets - or more precisely my Premiership Barclaycard (and the absence of interest on season tickets), as it was only courtesy of this particular plastic that I was capable of conjuring up such a prodigious wedge.
Mercifully I managed to stave off the worst of the summer's withdrawal symptoms the other week, watching our annual encounter with Barnet. Although after an appetising hors d'oeuvres at Underhill it was frustrating to suffer a mere few seconds of our other three friendlies, served up on Sky Sport News. My online Gooner mates were kind enough to e-mail me the clips from AFCi, some of which I could actually play (thus preventing me from pulling out what remains of my own 'Barnet'!). But as a result of this tease, I was positively salivating in advance of the live transmission of our two games in the Amsterdam Tournament; effervescent with anticipation by the time Friday came along.
I'd warned my Ma earlier in the week that I'd be ducking Friday night dinner. Not that football is more important than family, but thankfully she understands. It's only a couple of months since the lads were cavorting around Cardiff with the FA Cup and the break between seasons seems to get shorter and shorter every year. What's more, with the Confederations Cup this summer and various other Mickey Mouse tournaments, as the men in suits attempt to milk the golden calf for all its worth, we've not exactly been starved of a beautiful game which is fast becoming a year round attraction. Still and all, I get entirely fed up with tepid summer months full of meaningless conjecture and barmy speculation, from journos tasked with filling blank pages from their acerbic imagination.
The possibility of a fair dinkum cricket team finally capable of doing battle for the Ashes with the Antipodeans provided a welcome diversion. Yet as far as the footie's concerned, I am now desperate for all the yammering to stop and the real action to start, in the hope that our feet might do all the talking. Especially after a summer of sod all retail therapy, where we've been left with nothing to brag about but a relatively unknown Bratwurst eater (Hleb). And after almost a decade of loyal service, interspersed with his almost annual summer curtain calls, our colossus of a captain eventually bids the Arsenal adieu; with the paltry consolation that Paddy is about the only multi-million pound player Mourinho hasn't been able to pounce on for Abramovich's plaything.
There's little to suggest this Arsenal side is any better equipped to spank Lampard and co. this season. But to be honest I think most Arsenal fans aren't too disappointed about Paddy's departure. After performing at some way short of 100% these past couple of seasons, few of us fancy watching Vieira going through the motions, marking time at Highbury in the style of Marcel Desailly, happy enough merely collecting his massive wage packet each week. Yet there's no denying we've just lost perhaps the most potent midfielder on the planet.
What's more rumours were rife that Robbie Pires wanted away as well. And my instincts suggest that Ashley Cole has agreed to keep his head down for another season, before an amicable parting of the ways next summer. When perhaps he'll be heading off with Sol Campbell for warmer climes (or more wonga!). With "the best left-back in the world" having little to prove and Sol's hefty frame failing far too frequently, it's hard to imagine our last bastion of Brits exactly bristling with hunger for the season ahead? However personally I'm much happier when the press (and everyone else) are writing the Arsenal off. What's more one has to count ones blessings as there are always those worse off than yourself, namely those fans of the 51st state of America.
In the current nervous climate, getting around the capital is an absolute nightmare, as each left parcel causes a tube line closure and gridlock ensues, with road blocks which result from every ring of the rozzers terrorist hotline. So with the risk of any ten minute trip becoming five hours of torture, I wasn't leaving the house after 1pm on Friday for fear of missing the early evening kick-off. I couldn't wait for the relief of putting an end to all this pessimistic ruminating and focusing on real footie.
Yet it wasn't the end to my frustrations. Perhaps Wenger fell asleep in the sun this summer and his perceptive footballing brain is suffering a little sun damage, I certainly hope our manager has some legitimate excuse. Only the demented would dream of playing Robert Pires in such a crucial midfield role. Even at his most motivated Pires is hardly capable of producing a committed Roy Keane type performance.
Nevertheless, no matter how livid I became watching Robbie loaf around the Amsterdam Arena, it was wonderful to be screaming at the TV again. Let battle commence. Hopefully we'll have Fabregas and Gilberto back in Cardiff this weekend, as I can’t wait to wipe the smug smile from Mourinho's mush. Although I'll gladly give Chelsea the Charity Shield, so long as we get the last laugh come May!
Having passed up my weekly Friday night feed at my Ma's in favour of watching the Ajax game live on Sky, I took the opportunity to nip out for some nosh at half-time. Thanks to the wonders of Sky plus I was able to pause the action. Yet I didn’t need to be watching to know the footie season is fast approaching, as I walked into the late night offie and straight into a conversation at the counter. In the shadow of the Home of Football, I didn’t need to be a seer to know the subject of the 4-5-1 numbers tripping off the assistant’s tongue. The only topic of conversation hereabouts, is how our manager intends to cope with the departure of our talismanic captain.
I've never yet made it to Austria for our annual pre-season outing, unable to justify the expense this summer, so soon after stumping up over 3.5 grand for our two season tickets - or more precisely my Premiership Barclaycard (and the absence of interest on season tickets), as it was only courtesy of this particular plastic that I was capable of conjuring up such a prodigious wedge.
Mercifully I managed to stave off the worst of the summer's withdrawal symptoms the other week, watching our annual encounter with Barnet. Although after an appetising hors d'oeuvres at Underhill it was frustrating to suffer a mere few seconds of our other three friendlies, served up on Sky Sport News. My online Gooner mates were kind enough to e-mail me the clips from AFCi, some of which I could actually play (thus preventing me from pulling out what remains of my own 'Barnet'!). But as a result of this tease, I was positively salivating in advance of the live transmission of our two games in the Amsterdam Tournament; effervescent with anticipation by the time Friday came along.
I'd warned my Ma earlier in the week that I'd be ducking Friday night dinner. Not that football is more important than family, but thankfully she understands. It's only a couple of months since the lads were cavorting around Cardiff with the FA Cup and the break between seasons seems to get shorter and shorter every year. What's more, with the Confederations Cup this summer and various other Mickey Mouse tournaments, as the men in suits attempt to milk the golden calf for all its worth, we've not exactly been starved of a beautiful game which is fast becoming a year round attraction. Still and all, I get entirely fed up with tepid summer months full of meaningless conjecture and barmy speculation, from journos tasked with filling blank pages from their acerbic imagination.
The possibility of a fair dinkum cricket team finally capable of doing battle for the Ashes with the Antipodeans provided a welcome diversion. Yet as far as the footie's concerned, I am now desperate for all the yammering to stop and the real action to start, in the hope that our feet might do all the talking. Especially after a summer of sod all retail therapy, where we've been left with nothing to brag about but a relatively unknown Bratwurst eater (Hleb). And after almost a decade of loyal service, interspersed with his almost annual summer curtain calls, our colossus of a captain eventually bids the Arsenal adieu; with the paltry consolation that Paddy is about the only multi-million pound player Mourinho hasn't been able to pounce on for Abramovich's plaything.
There's little to suggest this Arsenal side is any better equipped to spank Lampard and co. this season. But to be honest I think most Arsenal fans aren't too disappointed about Paddy's departure. After performing at some way short of 100% these past couple of seasons, few of us fancy watching Vieira going through the motions, marking time at Highbury in the style of Marcel Desailly, happy enough merely collecting his massive wage packet each week. Yet there's no denying we've just lost perhaps the most potent midfielder on the planet.
What's more rumours were rife that Robbie Pires wanted away as well. And my instincts suggest that Ashley Cole has agreed to keep his head down for another season, before an amicable parting of the ways next summer. When perhaps he'll be heading off with Sol Campbell for warmer climes (or more wonga!). With "the best left-back in the world" having little to prove and Sol's hefty frame failing far too frequently, it's hard to imagine our last bastion of Brits exactly bristling with hunger for the season ahead? However personally I'm much happier when the press (and everyone else) are writing the Arsenal off. What's more one has to count ones blessings as there are always those worse off than yourself, namely those fans of the 51st state of America.
In the current nervous climate, getting around the capital is an absolute nightmare, as each left parcel causes a tube line closure and gridlock ensues, with road blocks which result from every ring of the rozzers terrorist hotline. So with the risk of any ten minute trip becoming five hours of torture, I wasn't leaving the house after 1pm on Friday for fear of missing the early evening kick-off. I couldn't wait for the relief of putting an end to all this pessimistic ruminating and focusing on real footie.
Yet it wasn't the end to my frustrations. Perhaps Wenger fell asleep in the sun this summer and his perceptive footballing brain is suffering a little sun damage, I certainly hope our manager has some legitimate excuse. Only the demented would dream of playing Robert Pires in such a crucial midfield role. Even at his most motivated Pires is hardly capable of producing a committed Roy Keane type performance.
Nevertheless, no matter how livid I became watching Robbie loaf around the Amsterdam Arena, it was wonderful to be screaming at the TV again. Let battle commence. Hopefully we'll have Fabregas and Gilberto back in Cardiff this weekend, as I can’t wait to wipe the smug smile from Mourinho's mush. Although I'll gladly give Chelsea the Charity Shield, so long as we get the last laugh come May!
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