Up For Grabs Now

Squillaci wo-oh. Squillaci, wo-oh
In such sweet rhymes our defenders sometimes go

Willy Gallas fucked off at long long last
Thinking we’d forget his cuntishnesses past

On Sa’day we looked alright at the back
But Blackpool were a pile of tangeriney cack

Who knows what further citrus gags await
Though zesty I fear they might start to grate

Squillaci is a silly-sounding name
But though funny, that line’s no real shame

He has so far plied his happy trade
In Seville, source of wondrous Marmalade

Their famous Barber I presume is known to him
He lacks a single hair ‘pon his Gallic chin

He must Pollyfilla our defensive cracks
Against Drogba make no ill-conceivéd hacks

Welcome, new Gooner Saint Sébastien
We beg no tantrums against Birmingham

Try a bit and you’ll try more than him before
And Harry Redknapp’s mother is a whore.

Dear Hotspur, T
This must be
The apogee
Of your attempts to avenge Sol Campbell.

It ranks with the triumphant parading
Of Rohan Ricketts.

Oh, Rohan Ricketts!

Why do you now trade your sorry ply at
Moldovan Intertoto Cup outsiders FC Dacia Chişinău?
Was it because you went to Tottenham?

If Gallas wants some Ricketts, he can have them:
Dennis, God, the real red 10,
Knows ‘Cappy’ (sometime ‘Crappy’)
Has had every other injury besides.

Besides which, he wasn’t nice to Kolo,

And now he’ll limp beside Trauma King and Surgery Woodgate.

He wasn’t a good defender
And when he used to score
With his famous penis
(Deft from corners sometimes)
It somehow felt just slightly not as good
As every other time that Arsenal score.

The fanshare scheme (recently announced)
Grants fans the chance to purchase up to 12% of the club
This is more than a ninth,
But less than an eighth.

It is good news for fans of sharing
Shares in fans remain unaffected

Lady Nina Bracewell-Smith has no interest
Alisher Usmanov,
interestingly
Has too much.

Stan Kroenke is interested in lip hair.
But disinterested about splitting hairs
Over club shares. Which is interesting.
A share is just a hunny
Usmanov’s just a cunny

Mr Gazidis
I hope that you read this

(For)

I don’t mean to be demeaning,
But I”m a fan of your scheming.

Joe Cole, oh. Oh, Joe Cole.
Joe Cole – you looked reasonably lively.
Joe Cole – you were sent off for a tackle
That was suspicious, described as
‘Uncharacteristic’ by many.

Like the suicide of Dr David Kelly.

Unlike him, Joe Cole, you were going to sign for us,
But instead you went northwest: home of signers-on.
But not coal.
That, as everyone knows, is from Newcastle.
Which is why you should never take coal there.
It is futile.
Much like trying to persuade Arsene Wenger that,
Manuel Almunia is not a goalkeeper of sufficient calibre
To start games for a team with title ambitions.

We hoped for a reign of terror
But all we got was a Reina error

And one-one, and no-one won

It will do, for now

But soon we will need more than homophones.

Good to meet you, Mr L. Koscielny,

Wafted in from far-off Lorient for an undiscloséd fee.

With your spiky Franco-Polish hairstyle

And your lithe Franco-Polish physique

I hope you won’t be as grumpy as our entirely French former skipper,

Or as guff as our entirely French former Silvestre.

Your red shirt will be the number six.

Oh virtuous digit of noble Adams!

Oh lofty figure of brave Mercer!

When that sixth shirt has worn your elbows in

And when at last you move among yesterday’s wearers of that splendid six:

What shall they say of you then, Mr L. Koscielny?

Other notable Franco-Poles include Roman Polanski,

Alleged child-rapist and definite film-maker.

Well, I don’t want to see any funny business from you and Tom,

The new core of our once invertebrate rearguard.

Let’s hold just one small hope today:

That you’re a more successful Franco-Polish combination

Than the ill-starred military alliance active between those nations

From 1921 to 1940.

Oh, with what language shall we speak of you in years ahead,

Mr L. Koscielny, our latest number six?

The last two days have resembled less a serious attempt by the footballing world at a convincing series of events subject to such traditional vagaries as divine providence, chance, and Sod’s law, as a spectacular forty-eight hour long play staged across a series of venues and with a cast of hundreds of thousands, a play scripted and directed by an Arsenal fan as full of wit as he is empty of compassion.

First came the dismissal of Orange Brown. One of our most belligerent irritants has been banished from the Premiership into footballing oblivion. And all because of Nicklas Bendtner’s finishing ability.

‘Gardening leave’ is the most bizarre way I can think of of telling someone to bog off, but bog off Brown has.

And Brown’s afterlife? Not so much the little Match of the Day studio in the sky as a call centre somewhere nasty up north, I suspect.

The Lord Almighty? Former Arsenal goal-getter Henry

To their credit, Hull City will almost certainly now escape plunge deeper into the relegation mire after their cost-cutting appointment of Iain R. Dowie, a man whose middle initial stands for ‘Revival‘ ‘Relegation’.

Bye Hull! Brilliant.

And then, to cap it all, said Drogba gets sent off for almost no reason, the referee conned into punishing one disgusting Mourinho-schooled cheat by the shameless skullduggery of another, Thiago Motta.

Marvellous.

Where were your flip-flops tonight Didier?

Well, what a week it’s been.

Eurozone Goal-God-cum-Scandinavian-Rhinocerous-impersonator Nicklas Bendtner smashes three past Porto to launch us into the Champions League quarter finals, then nips one past big bald (bad) Boaz in minute 93 to send us joint top.

Two days earlier, Arsene Wenger described Emmanuel Eboue as ‘the complete player’ to the derision of absolutely no-one.

These are days of strange and wonderful events.

The shoe with which the British media and large sections of the Arsenal blogosphere (to their eternal shame) have spent the last year or two kicking this Arsenal side and Arsene for building it, is now not so much on the other foot as in the process of being gleefully jammed inch by inch down the throats of those who chose to doubt and snipe when they should have hoped and cheered.

Former call-centre middle manager Phil Brown could barely get his whimpering and garbled objections out on Match of the Day, and ought to be branded a moaner in precisely the fashion in which Wenger is every time he gives his opinion on a leading question. All the attention was rightly on how big a goal that could be for Arsenal come the season’s end. Wouldn’t it be nice if the point of which Bendtner deprived Orange Brown so late on turned out to be the margin by which the Premier League was finally rid of Hull City?

Eight games left for Arsenal and the expectation, however much we try to keep it under control, is pretty big right now. When you get into this position it’s misery or glory, no mediocre middle-ground. That in itself is a symptom of success.

If we don’t win the league now, then the very same pundits and bloggers who said Arsenal couldn’t even make the top four with this team will be writing the season off as a failure, even though Arsenal have mounted the title challenge they said would never possibly materialise.

We can win this league. Maybe with the relative run-ins of the top three we should now win it. But if we don’t, let’s hope the fans can at least retain the optimism and togetherness forged over recent weeks instead of indulging the panic-button-bashing tabloids.

Too sad to joke. Another bullying from Drogba and co and we’re nine points off the top.

It’d be tempting to join virtually all the other Arsenal bloggers in plunging headfirst into a shitscreen of negativity.

Some of them really enjoy this. Le Grumble, for example, who spent the whole summer whingeing their favourite gospel of mid-table doom, only to speedily revise their assessment as soon as we thumped Everton at Goodison on day one. From then on anything short of the treble was going to be a bloody let-down. They really get off at moments like this as it gives them the chance to crow their tabloid-addled populist told-you-so crap to anyone who’ll listen. There are a lot of ways to express thoughtless, witless bitterness – it’s just a shame these kind of people choose to blog about Arsenal rather than design tea-towels for the BNP or something.

Then there’s sites who take the chance to rip off red-top scare stories about Fabregas leaving, stories surpassed for their predictability only by Gael Clichy’s singular failure once again to challenge the attacker with the ball. Sigh.

Well there’ll be none of that here, thanks.

Out with the newspapers for a week and the rashes of negative Arsenal stories that will be filling them. Not interested. If this sounds blinkered, it’s cos I am. But then being blinkered is a bad thing only if what’s around you is worth looking at. Which the gleeful media hysteria which descends on any top 4 club that goes through a rough patch is not - witness the general amazement at Liverpool’s current league position just a week or so after most match reports on them read more like obituaries.

What you won’t find in any newspaper is perspective. Here’s some. This may well be a world exclusive:

Every pundit and his dog said Arsenal wouldn’t finish top 4 this season. ‘Spurs have spent a bit of money’, they said. ‘City look good after buying a list of players voted for by Match! magazine readers’, they may have added, scratching their chubby gut. Our last two defeats have been bitterly disappointing, but our whole season so far might be best dramatised by a short play in which Fabregas and Vermaelen, supervised by Wenger, patiently ram the pre-season nonsense back down the throats of the experts (and the brainless bloggers who believed them) piece by stupid piece.

Third place is pretty good. I’m not against marquee signings. I really enjoy shirt-holding-up ceremonies, especially if the player holding up the shirt then puts the shirt on and scores a sackful of goals. It’s frustrating to feel so close to success and that the reluctance to spend the money that is (?) available is costing us championships. But that just emphasises how good the team must already be. Without spending the money. 

With a remaining set of fixtures that look easier than a pun about John Terry’s heading ability, we will make up ground on the top two, hopefully starting with Liverpool on Wednesday, who at least carry none of the attacking menace of United or Chelsea.

Hope that soothed somewhat. Chin up. Oh, and think about Alex Song. He’s so good, isn’t he?

A lot has been said and will be said about the result on Sunday, but now that some of the dust has settled I feel a bit more comfortable talking about it. On the walk (which feels longer every time you do it – weird) from Highbury and Islington to the Emirates I was saying, in a rather un-fanatical way, that I’d be happy with a point. Obviously we always want the Arsenal to urinate on United from a great height, but realistically it’s not always possible, and with the results as they’ve been this season the way we’ll win the league is by taking three points from all of the crap sides rather than duffing the big boys. Leagues are really won in this way – by consistently beating the mediocre sides – winning twice rather than drawing against crap teams is worth more than losing to one of the big sides, though the latter will invariably get the profile.

As it happened, we lost. In the event it looked comfortable for them, and we were certainly ragged at times – particularly when our heads dropped just before and after half time, but I don’t think the game was a foregone conclusion. We weren’t nearly as bad as some of the newspapers would have you believe. Arshavin had a couple of great chances at the start, and if those had crept just the other side of the post the game would have looked very different. It galls losing to a side with an entirely ginger backbone: Brown, Scholes, and Rooney, and particularly one which considers Jonny Evans to be a first-team centre back, but you must remember that this is Manchester United we’re talking about. Even the apparently rather successful advent of 3-D coverage doesn’t begin to approach the hideousness of seeing Wayne Rooney close-up. Marking him must be quite the most onerously disgusting task this side of mythology. It was also a bit unreasonable for Nani to suddenly decide that he can play football, having spent most of this season wandering around like a hapless extra in some disastrous Iberian soap opera.

Song, Fabregas, Arshavin, Vermaelen looked good. Que sorpresa. Others looked a bit off. Nasri and Clichy looked hopelessly weak – the former particularly is really not progressing as you’d have hoped from a man who arrived under the ‘New Zidane’ banner beloved of those whom the gods wish to destroy. He’s got a nice touch, but he neither imposes himself physically on games or mazily dribbles his way through them. One hopes that as our midfield makes its Singer Sargeant esque return from the Triage tent the competition for places will make him pull his socks up. I have fewer fears for Clichy – he just needs a run of games.

A note on John Terry: ha ha ha. I hate international football (particularly England) so I couldn’t really give a hoot either way, but I would say that the real question is surely whether the pleasure one derives from knowing that Wayne Bridge has been cuckolded is greater or less than the misery of John Terry sleeping with a lithe French underwear model(among others) It’s tough, but I think that the fact his liaisons varieux have come to such epic grief compromises them enough that we can celebrate. Well done John! Great cuckolding! Great morale! Great leadership! On which note, do we know yet whether he prefers to lead from the front or the back?

That’s your lot for now, and our hopes for a quick recovery against the Blue lot. It won’t be easy, but don’t despair. Remember last season how we pulled off all those great results when we were against it? Yes. There you go. Soothing. And if not, Liverpool are as self-doubting at the moment as Terry’s PR guy, so that’ll be fine.

What do you reckon?