Up For Grabs Now

Has anybody noticed how quickly the name ‘Emirates’ has become totally acceptable? I remember all those doubters demanding that Arsenal fans gang up and insist on the rather more awkward Ashburton Grove. It probably has something to do with ‘Emirates’ not being an very recognisable brand name – more the name of a country. It would be worse were it ‘The Durex Ultra Arena’ or the ‘Mothercare Bowl’, or ‘White Hart Lane’. Emirates is neutral, and not unpleasant to the tongue. Ho hum.

You can ponder that to your heart’s content. Rather more pressing is Bolton’s visit tomorrow night, which will give us the chance of going 2^nd again, one point behind Chelsea. Not many would have given us that when we were overwhelmed by the ghastliness of Didier Drogba last month, and it’s great that we’re so competitive. No chicken counting yet, mind. He’s off to the ACN to ply his brand of muscular offensiveness over there for a bit. It’s a massive blow for them: twattishness is to the operation of that team like petrol to a large, dreadful car, and Didier is like a big fat girlie-haired tank full of the stuff. I’d be extremely surprised if they got through without dropping some points – all that matters is that we capitalise.

We’re not without our own absences – notably Alex Song, who provided a timely reminder of his excellence with a granite performance against West Ham, which should certainly have earned him man of the match had it not been for Ramsay’s  He provokes such confusing sensations, does Song. I spent so long mocking him at every opportunity through the medium of sarcastic praise that now he’s become a Talismanic Cog™ I’ve become all conflicted. He’ll be missed, and with Cesc’s injury proving troublesome there will be high expectations of Diaby and Ramsay. Ramsay I’m hopeful for, Diaby fingers crossed.

If the predicted sub-zero temperatures materialise then the Bolton fans will suddenly feel at home, like the zombies from 28 Days Later in the dark, and the Emirates will be transformed from a hospitable place with a handful of moronic Northerners terrified and cowering from the level of civilisation into an inhospitable Artic place filled with semi-naked moronic Northerners imbued with the confidence of the frostbitten mind. The midfield, in particular, will have to have their angry faces on, particularly if Arshavin’s dodginess is as bad as some fear – he and Big Tom are the only ones really cut out for the cold.

On the plus side, Bolton are unsettled and leak goals like Tiger Woods leaks credibility, and are at present staring longingly at the non-relegation part of the league like Alex Ferguson watching a video of himself when he was younger, before he was transformed into a barmy time-denier who spends his Sunday evenings wandering around complaining that the hilariously benevolent five minutes of injury time was not enough for his team of crack idiotic millionaires to score an equaliser against the Most Unpleasant Side In History.

Sorry for being so intermittent of late. Both Grabs and myself have been indulging our other scribbly personae – mine to forge a living, his to – well I’ve no idea really. But something. We’re back in force for the new year – Gingers For Limpar and others can rest easy.

Come on you reds.

 With just one more game (tonight’s) left for Arsenal to play before 2010, it’s a good time to reflect on a remarkable decade in the history of Arsenal FC. And what better way than with a meaningless cyber-gong show.

Sepp Blatter is having his hair done, and Charlize Theron had her contract cancelled at the last minute for reasons which – like everything she would have said – aren’t worth repeating, so I, Grabs, am your host for today’s merriment.  There’s loads of awards to be dished out  so let’s get cracking.

**The Bob Wilson Golden Fist for Goalkeeping**

We began the decade with legendary ‘tache and ponytail exponent David Seaman making saves like this, and we’ve ended it with Spanish English Spanish waiter goalkeeper Manuel Almunia. Almunia is much-maligned. Personally I don’t think he’s that bad, and he certainly doesn’t get the credit that he’s deserved for his best performances.

But the Golden Fist is won by the man who complained bitterly that Almunia only started playing football aged 30. Mad, (often) bad, and always apoplectic with rage, Jens Lehmann is football’s nutty answer to Rasputin. Earlier this month Jens took a piss behind an advertising hoarding and stole a fan’s glasses. His time at Arsenal wasn’t without its moments of mania either, but he was magnificent as the Invincible goalkeeper and saved the penalty which put us into the European Cup Final. Ended his career at Arsenal by sulking in a fashion so immature that I actually found something rather magnificent about it.

**The Martin Keown Boot for Proudest Defensive Warrior**

For a team which attacks with such abandon, we haven’t let in as many goals as you’d think. Always surprisngly tight-fisted in the league, in 2005/6 a defence comprising Eboue, Toure, Senderos and Flamini went on a defensive run unsurpassed in Champions League history that took us all the way to the final in Paris.

Pipping Toure to the Keown Boot is the man who returned with a goal in that final, Sol Campbell, Tottenham’s greatest ever player. The strange nature of his exit from the club shouldn’t obscure just what a rock he was for the championship wins in 2002 and 2004. We can only hope that with the arrival of Vermaelen we have finally found a successor.

**The Grimandi Gong for Midfield Endeavour**

Arsene knows a good midfielder when he sees one, and he’s seen a few. Robert Pires was the best player in the world for most of 2001/2 and was pretty handy after that too, Freddie Ljungberg was a dream of a footballer until he was knackered by injuries, and Cesc Fabregas, the latest true talisman of the club, has deserved much more success than he’s had.  The next decade should be his; the one past belonged to Patrick Vieira.

**The Bastin Prize for Goalscoring**

Thierry Henry

**The Dennis Bergkamp Award for Genius**

Thierry Henry. Highly commended: Dennis Bergkamp

**The Invincibles Award for Best XI**

Lehmann; Clichy, Campbell, Toure, Sagna; Pires, Vieira, Fabregas, Ljungberg; Bergkamp, Henry

**The Dennis Bergkamp Award for Best Goal**

1. Ljungberg vs Juventus

2. Bergkamp vs Newcastle

3. Henry vs Man Utd

**The Vic Akers Award for Manager of the Decade**

… is Vic Akers! No it’s not, it’s obviously Mr Wenger. Recently the subject of not inconsiderable amounts of thoughtless, vulgar criticism from the press and then from certain bleating fans who don’t know their Arsenal from their – ahem – elbow, the decade saw Arsene Wenger bring Arsenal two Premiership titles, two European finals, three FA Cups, one of the worlds’ greatest modern stadiums, some of the best players of this or any other era, a world-famous style of play and a decade of uninterrupted Champions League football. Mr Wenger, we salute you.

**The Professor’s Cup for Best Buy**

There’ve been a few. Buying Campbell for £0.00 was a tidy bit of business and Kolo Toure was pretty reasonable at £150k. The fact that nobody thought Van Persie worth more than the £2.75m we paid for him is pretty baffling too, but the best buy has to be Fabregas, who joined up with an alarming mullet and the number 57. I have no idea what we’d pay for him now.

**Wengerballs: Quotes of the Decade**

1. ‘I tried to watch the Tottenham match on television yesterday. But I fell asleep.’ – Arsene Wenger

2. ‘Sometimes in football you have to score goals.’ – Thierry Henry

3. ‘I am still hopeful that we can go through a season unbeaten’ – Arsene Wenger, 28 September 2002. Haha what a numpty, let’s make a t-shirt comparing the modern era’s great football visionary with the Iraqi Minister of Information. Haha. Oh.

**The Adebayaward for Bastardliness**

A hotly contested field this, with Phil Brown, Roy Keane, Ruud van Nistelrooy and assorted other dreadful people not even making the top three. There isn’t even a place for the violent madcap Togonian himself.

Third prize goes to Wayne Rooney. If he ended our first unbeaten run with a brilliant goal for Everton, he ended Invincibles’ streak with an atrocious dive over Campbell which cost us that run and the 2005 league title, and for which he should never be forgiven.

In second, because he doesn’t deserve to win anything, is Ashley Cole.

But the Adebayaward goes to a man from whom we have heard exactly nothing, but who has been more ruinous to Arsenal’s success than any other. If Roman Abramovich hadn’t shown up, the second half of the decade would have been a hell of a lot better for Arsenal. We’d have won the 2004 quarter final against Chelsea and surely gone on to win the Big Cup. Rumour has it we were on the verge of signing Terry and Lampard just days before Roman’s helicopter touched down. Players with Arsenal written all over them – Essien, Wright-Phillips, Cech, [whisper it] Drogba – might have been signed and chances are we wouldn’t have Manchester City to worry about either. We are tremendously lucky to have Arsene Wenger; it’s just infuriating that he’s up against billionaire owners who make the sport a nonsense.

**The No Prizes Prize for Tottenham**

Had Spurs written all over it until their whole squad shat themselves. Then they re-bought Pascal Chimbonda, and hired and fired eight different managers.

The last ten years have seen St Totteringham’s Day arrive each year as dependably as Easter, Christmas and birthdays. We’ve seen 20 league encounters between the teams, in which Tottenham have emerged victorious exactly ZERO times.

When they finally won a trophy it was the ickle Carling Cup, and the exuberance of their celebrations was incredible. A trophy won in recent years by teams of the calibre of Blackburn, Leicester and Middlesbrough was welcomed into the eerie White Hart Lane trophy cabinet with the kind of scenes usually reserved for the end of global conflicts, a true reflection of Spurs current standing in the game.

Let’s hope the next ten years are as successful for Tiny Totts as the ten just passed.

If, as every blogger, hack and twitterer was insisting this morning, it was Cesc’s ‘cameo’ that saw off Villa yesterday(see also ‘SkySports-inspired vocabulary meltdown’), perhaps it’s worth asking who the lead actor was.

For me, it was Abou Diaby. The Big Guy. The Boss. The man we all expect will eventually play Will Smith in the story of his life. Winning headers here, coolly chesting the ball down there, and generally gambolling around the midfield without a care in the world, Diaby played brilliantly.

He tackled well, created yards of space for our forwards every time he surged forward and crowned his afternoon with a goal so chilled out that I half-expected him to slump to the floor in a deep and refreshing slumber just before he curled the ball gently round Friedel. He looked bewildered as he smiled gummily at the team-mates who surrounded him, like a man who had recently rolled out of bed.

Whatever, if he keeps that form up he’s going to be a major weapon. His style of play, positioning and passing choices are utterly baffling to opponents who seem to be too surprised at what he’s doing to offer much resistance.

He needs to stay fit, and he needs to stay focused. If he can do that, and if his progress isn’t interrupted too much by Song’s departure for Angola and the injuries to Denilson and Cesc, then we could see the emergence of a big league player this winter.

And with Song already a star man, should Diaby follow suit it’ll be yet another Wenger triumph – turning injury-prone catastrophe-merchants who most fans think are totally useless into top players. There’s no-one better than Wenger at this, and it’s just lovely to see the tabloid confusion which invariably accompanies these players’ change in fortunes.

Many apologies for the increasingly sporadic UpForGrabsNow output. I realise it’s been ages since my last much-derided piece on Eboue’s Hollywood potential. Neither Grabber nor I are really living very blog-friendly lifestyles just now, but we’ll try to post as often as we can until we’re back on an even keel.

And look out for the UpForGrabsNow Review of 2009 and a Review of the Decade, coming soon.

Seismic news today, as my favourite player Emmanuel Eboue announces his intention to become a Hollywood comedian once his playing days are over.

What’s that Grabber? You think he’s already a complete joke? Now, now, that’s unfair – though he’s certainly been a great actor for some time. Just ask Patrice Evra.

The news has been made yet more exciting by Eboue making it clear that he wants to be “The next Eddie Murphy”. It’s easy to laugh at this – it sounds totally implausible - but this is the man who last season became a regular starter in the Arsenal midfield.

And they said it was impossible when he played centre-mid against Fulham away and we got humped. They said that Eboue’s career as a midfielder would come to nothing.

It all adds to the impression that Emmanuel Eboue is the most determined man in the world.

He’s a poster-boy for the fantasy of globalised capitalism. Like Will Smith in The Pursuit of Happiness, Emmanuel Eboue lives, breathes and embodies the American dream. He might only be our second-choice right-back, but to the questionably-talented millions, Emmanuel Eboue shines brightly as a beacon of hope.

Personally, I’m just hoping Eboue is true to his word and emulates Eddie Murphy as closely as possible. I’ll be the first on Amazon’s pre-order list when the Beverly Hills Eboue series is released.

The man knows no limits. How long before he wins an Oscar? And how long, more importantly, before we finally get to see him deployed as a lone striker?

It has been, friends, literally weeks since I (grabber) have posted. I am sorry for this. I had a conversation in the Duchess of Kent with a friend of my dad’s who said that he’d said there was someone in his office who said she read our blog. Since this was the first real-life fan I’d heard of, I was so amazed I nearly drowned in my leffe, and was so startled that I haven’t dared post since, for fear that my waffle might rebound into reality.

Quite a lot has happened since then. We beat Birmingham (yay), we drew with AZ Alkmaar(mmm), we drew with West Ham (grr) and we beat Spurs easily (hahaha). Van Persie’s been good. So has Cesc. Ho hum. We’re ahead of where we were last year. We’re Islington Shuffling less than is usual, except for typical culprit Abou Diaby. Actually on the subject of him – and regular readers will be aware of my strongly-felt prejudices in this area – did anybody see in the newspapers Abou Diaby ‘promising to curb his attacking instinct?’ What? Quoi? His ‘attacking instinct’ is totally irrelevant. It’s like Tom Vermaelen saying “I need to curb my urge to collect cashmere-lined antelope-leather driving gloves” – sure, I think we’d all sleep a bit easier at night, but it’s not going to affect his play one way or the other.

What Diaby needs to curb, put simply, is his shit instinct; the force in his soul which causes him to flatter to deceive season after season. I’ve seen little this season to disprove my previous thought about the man, which is that just before Eboue had his brain wiped, Men In Black-style, of his knowledge of What Arsene Did Last Summer, he whispered to Abou Diaby What Arsene Did Last Summer, meaning that the continuous tradition of players who have known What Arsene Did Last Summer remains unbroken. If readers are bored before the match, why not consider who was the first ever player to know what Arsene Did Last Summer – Remi Garde? Is it possible that we had players who knew What Arsene Did Last Summer even before Arsene joined the club? If this were the case I would nominate John Jensen and pineapple-headed attacking midfield legend Chris Kiwomya.

But that’s just my theory.

In other news myself and some chums attended a screening of “The Gooner Review” the other day, in aid of charity. I went because the film had been well-reviewed on other sites, and also because I like Arsenal. I hate to put the boot in, but rarely have I been so pleased that my money is going to charity. The film was, bluntly, terrible. I feel bad writing this – not nice to put fellow Gooners down, but this is a commercial venture and it’s not up to scratch. Its aim was to present an honest fans’ appraisal of last season, dealing with the lows as well as the highs. This is a noble aim, and for the first ten minutes the charity screening was hilarious – Paul Kaye, who appears as the presenter in the film, introduced it live to the cinema and got the crowd singing some excellent long-forgotten chants – anyone remember “You’re Sylvain… you probably think this song is about you…”

The film then lurched into a “top 10” rundown of moments from our season, as described by a variety of luminaries. There was not a single bit of football shown – we were told that the licensers had refused permission without reason shortly before the screening. But without any football the ‘talking heads’ had to be even stronger, and they were weak beforehand. The ubiquitous Nick Hornby and Amy Lawrence were wheeled out to not say very much, and were joined by a bizarre menagerie of random blokes (guitarists from local bands? ‘Arsenal fan’) and deeply minor celebrities (the percussionist from ‘M People’, anyone?). This would have been fine, had they anything interesting to say, but in the main they didn’t, instead spouting inane clichés about Arsenal’s youth policy, the effect of Arshavin etc. It was like being in a pub full of slightly old boring drunk men after an Arsenal match, when you yourself are completely sober, and have somewhere else to be. The production was clunky, and the video seemed to have been edited who had little experience making, or indeed watching, films. Again I can’t emphasise how guilty I feel about this, but without the football, and some quality insight, I can’t understand why you would part with your hard-earned lucre in a recession to do it. Sorry, Gooner review. I truly wish you better luck next season – it’s a great idea, but this version wasn’t up to it.

Right. Off to the Emirates now. I am taking a friend who trades derivatives at RBS. Can you think of a worse job title this year?

Come on you reds.

So. Another FREE VIDEO on Arsenal.com of the lads in training. We’ve seen this before. And we dealt with it. Not many blogs saw the importance of that footage, but we did, and we shared it with you.

That video was all about an uplifting guitar score which ultimately drove our gigantic Togonian from the club. It offered clues as to the real reason behind his heinous attack on Van Persie’s face. And it instilled, in all of us, a new optimism.

So what to make of this afternoon’s effort?

Well, there has certainly been a seismic shift. Gone and forgotten is the kind of formulaic guitar nonsense that did for Adebayor. But that hasn’t meant a return to Ade’s favoured Togonian hip-hop about shopping. Anything Togonian is clearly musica non grata when it comes to the Colney playlist.

Instead, the players have started training to a bizarre, grungy, grimy sort of electro. Still pretty teenage, and so a good reflection of the fact that most of our bench look like they were born under a Labour government, but funkier, slicker and less objectionable than the sort of puff Arsene made the players jog about to earlier in the season.

As for the training itself, cause for concern, I think. Of course, no-one will admit to a crumb of complacency as we anticipate the visit of Alkmaar tomorrow. But you have to say that a preparation which mostly involves a circle of players giggling in bibs as Emmanuel Eboue does keep-uppies with his backside does suggest a certain laxity may have crept in.

Kieran Gibbs looked baffled about all this, and must have been wondering what Fabio Capello would think if he saw the footage of Eboue and Song doing some kind of synchronised walking. Bad news for any World Cup dream to be associated with such behaviour.

And Boro Primorac looked absolutely furious throughout. And he appeared to be in charge of the whole sorry charade.

Certainly, Wenger wasn’t supervising anyone – he was off in a lonely corner of the pitch all by himself, engaged in a weird Sisyphean passing contest with the metal fence, something I’m sure we’ve all done, but which gets really annoying after a while when you realise that the fence absorbs most of the impact of the ball and it never really comes back to you as you want it to.

BREAKING NEWS: Beneath a picture of Abou Diaby rubbing his face with his shoulder, Arsene has compared his lanky but unpopular enforcer with a magnet.

This, he says, is why he is so attracted to the opposition goal (mostly made of air) and why he frequently appears to have no idea what’s going on, and why he’s never in the right place. All the other players have sat-nav. Diaby still uses a retro compass and a map Gilles Grimandi lent him a while back, but he’s magnetic, or the goal is, and so he’s permanently scrambled.

No idea what to do. Not the foggiest. Definitely not defend.

Arsene has explained that whereas most of us have even less idea of Diaby’s position on the pitch than the man himself, this is merely an interim period before he establishes himself as a fully fledged attacking midfielder. Or as a thoroughbred defensive midfielder. Or something.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Not long to go now.

Tiny Totts are coming to the Emirates. Let’s hope we can dish out a long overdue pasting to make their Week of Hubris appear even sillier than it already does.

First there was the release of pictures of their new stadium, White Elephant Lane (aka Emirates Lite, Diet Ashburton, Theatre of Squirms). Paid for God only knows how by this puny minnow of the Premiership era, Tiny Totts deserve a healthy dollop of rack and ruin if they ever actually build it. Where does their money come from?

Then came Spurs’ bench-warmer and former Liverpool bench-warmer Robbie Keane claiming that Spurs had more strength in depth than Arsenal. I took this to mean that he is still bitter about never having made it as an elite player and being condemned to spend the best days of his career at a third rate club with no serious European aspirations. Certainly, there’s no way he can seriously be claiming that Spurs have better players than we do. Cos that’s just daft, plainly. Hasn’t he ever seen Arshavin play? Perhaps the wee Russian can show him a thing or two this afternoon.

And now Crazy Harry doesn’t fancy us. Which is fine. We don’t fancy you either you slack-jowled, watery-eyed, club-bankrupting, West Ham-relegating nobarse. He thinks we’re soft-centred and he might have a point. But let’s hope today Vermaelen headers the fuck out of anything that gets anywhere near our box.

In short, Spurs are feeling a lot better about themselves than they usually do, and it is incumbent upon Arsenal to return them to their natural state as the snivelling, bitter joke-club we know and hate.

Team News: Wenger has been saying nothing on this. Which means we might see Cesc and Arshavin rested and Eboue and Diaby included in an otherwise unchanged team from midweek. Today could be the day we finally see Eboue deployed as a lone striker. And what a day that could be.

Excited as I am at that prospect, I would slightly rather we actually started Almunia-Sagna-Gallas-Vermaelen-Clichy-Song-Fabregas-Nasri-Arshavin-Bendtner-VanPersie, though I doubt Nasri will make it after just a single game back so I reckon Diaby could play there instead, though after mid-week Ramsey must be getting very close indeed.

Spurs are without Defoe (sore tummy), Modric (penis wound) and Aaron Lennon (existential crisis). They are also without a soul, a real trophy for about 40 years and any sense of pride/shame.

Today of all days I want no funny business, no nonsense and most definitely no mucking about from the lads. Search and destroy. Pass, move, shoot. This means the scoring of goals and the steely retention of winning margins right to the last. It means not tapping the ankles of known divers in the last minute, and it definitely doesn’t involve stumbling over the ball on halfway and conceding possession needlessly.

I’ve a feeling today will turn out well.

What’s that? Sorry I must have nodded off some time ago.

I now awake to find that the international break has passed off so far pretty much exactly as anybody with half a brain could have predicted. You can’t leave football alone without the Arsenal. Boring things happen.

A turgid defeat for already-qualified England in Ukraine shown only on the internet and in cinemas.

England getting duffed by Ukraine in a cinema. Truly the most soulless, shamelessly capitalist way of consuming football since ‘Goal 2′. Has the beautiful game really come to this?

Watching a slow-motion replay of Maradona launching himself skywards into the torrential Buenos Aires rain (and then turning himself into an amusing kind of blubbery man-sledge) I had to wonder how long it will be before the soul of the game in this country dries up completely.

Most predictable of all was the behaviour of Cheeky Burgerstain, now employed full-time by Barcelona to make bald statements of interest in Cesc Fabregas every single time Spain have a game, has shown himself to be a real professional.

He’s shown his job means much more to him than his credibility, trotting out the same old crap just 3 days after Cesc’s rapturous badge-snogathon, and any lingering sense of decency by continuing to publicly harass our captain while the young star is dealing with personal issues.

This guy is meant to be director of football at a club admired around the world, but he has turned himself into the executive equivalent of a fluffer.

It’s all very depressing.

The only bright spot is that my favourite international team, the Malawi Flames, look set to reach the African Cup of Nations for the first time in bloody ages. They need to make sure they match Guinea’s result in the Ivory Coast when they travel to Burkina Faso.

Do you see what happens to me when there’s no Arsenal?

So we won last night against West Brom thanks to a goal from Sanchez Watt, I said a goal from Sanchez Watt, what? A goal from Sanchez what what. Sanchez – what, has the man no surname, what? No, he’s Sanchez Watt. Ah, Sanchez Watt. Yes. What.

That’s quite enough of that, you might think. And you would be right. Carl Vela popped up for the second one, and that was game over. We were helped by the fact that Jerome Thomas got sent off. This is a nice, circular and almost poetic conclusion to a saga that has been ongoing.

Dedicated and keen-eyed supporters will remember Jerome Thomas as a striker at Arsenal way back in the day who after some early promise fell victim to Arsene’s policy of only having one striker with two first names. In one of our typically made-up exclusives, I can give you the full transcript of their final, fateful exchange:

AW: Ah, hello Jerome.

            JT: Sorry to bother, boss, just I’ve been hearing some rumours.

            AW: Ah yes?

            JT: Well it’s just some of the boys been saying you’re hiring a new striker with two first names.

            AW: Ah, oui. I was meaning to speak with you about this.

            JT: So it’s true?

            AW: A oui. Ah am afraid so.

            JT: But boss!

            AW: Eet is not your fault. Eet is just both of his first names are so very fine.

            JT: What are they?

            AW: Well one of his first names is Henry. And the first first name is Thierry. It is French for Thierry. You must agree it is a fine first name no?

            JT:  What’s wrong with Jerome? Jerome’s a nice first name.

            AW: A oui. But it eez not so French as Thierry.

            JT: Yes its. Jerome. It’s French.

            AW: A oui, but it does not sound so French like Thierry. Thierry is a lovely French first name. Henry is a lovely English first name. It is not your fault that Jerome and Thomas are not such nice first names. I am sorry. I really wanted you to be the striker with two first names, but Thierry and Henry are just much nicer first names. He sounds like an artiste, you sound like a, how you say, peinteir et decorateur…

            JT: mumbling bitterly, crying slightly – I’ll never forget this, boss. You’ve done me over here. I’ll get my revenge one day. Just you wait. In a future Carling Cup match I will slightly push a rising starlet of yours. Then you’ll be sorry!

            AW: Ah ha ha. Oh no, Jerome Thomas. I will not. For after this leetle push a revenge goal will be scored by your nemesis, a young striker with not two, not one, but zheroh first names! EE will be called Sanchez Watt, and of eem up and down the country will be said – Sanchez Watt? And ah will reply, a oui. Sanchez Watt – the bandit with no first names. You may interrogate a Mexican with him. The Mexican Inquistion…non. Actually non.

Nobody expects the Sanchez inquisition. 

Don’t forget you can still win one of five ‘Gaffer’ mugs from our friends down at Philosophy Football. Simply answer the following question – How many doubles have Arsenal won under Arsene Wenger? Answers with your personal details (specifically address/email) to admin@philosophyfootball.com by the end of September. 

Oh, what to make of it all? There was a time when I looked out for the Man Utd and Tottenham results and wanted them both to lose. It didn’t really matter who they were playing, except when they played each other when I generally hoped for a draw, injuries to key players and some long-term suspensions.

Yesterday Ashley Cole scored against Spurs. What was I meant to do?

It was the most emotionally confusing moment since a couple of hours earlier I found myself cheering Michael Owen’s winner for Man Utd. Then I saw the United fans celebrating and I stopped. Then I saw Mark Hughes’ face and I started all over again.

And what’s a Gooner to do when confronted with the spectacle of Craig Bellamy punching a United fan in the face? Whose side are we meant to be on?

Truly, Arsenal are a club surrounded by a wilderness of cunts.

Spurs and United are clubs with a long and despicable tradition of being cunts, whereas Ashley Cole may be the worst bloke alive, but he is only one bloke, not an entirely evil institution with a proven history of cuntishness – and City have only recently become complete cunts, though that doesn’t look like changing soon.

So yesterday was confusing. And there’ll be more like this to come with so many hateful clubs and individuals now in the mix, and that’s not even counting former footballer David Bentley.

My advice is to focus on the player/team that comes off worst, and to revel in their misery.

So don’t think about Cashley, think about Daniel Levy. Don’t think about United winning the Champs League, just remember John Terry making a tit of himself with the most important kick of his career.

In other news, Thomas Vermaelen’s goalscoring, fist-pumping, brave headering start in an Arsenal shirt has forced us to revise our previous comparisons – we now insist that Nemanja Vidic be referred to as ‘A Poor Man’s Thomas Vermaelen’ .

It has also strengthened the impression that new signings are always better than what we already have, not just because they’re new and shiny, but also because they’re better.

This impression only adds to the clamour for more spending, but we’d do well to remember that some signings are absolutely pants, and that Wenger’s recent purchasing of two players (for whom Man City would now almost certainly be prepared to pay £60-70m) for just £25m combined makes him a complete genius.

Signing players this good isn’t at all easy. And seeing as we’ve got very little cash, it’s just a good thing we’ve got the right man spending it.

Talking of Le Gaffer not being a mug, here’s a Gaffer mug. It is, as you might say, up for grabs now  (ahem) as part of our glamorous tryst with our friends at Philosophy Football.

To get your mits on Arsene’s mug simply answer the following question: how many domestic doubles have Arsenal won with Arsene in charge? Please email your answer with name and address to admin@philosophyfootball.com with ‘UpForGrabsNow Competition’ in the subject title. Entries close on the 30^th September.

Let's hope this isn't the only cup with Arsene written all over it this season