I'll Slay That Dragon Tomorrow, said George

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!