We have been here before, and before, and before and before and before. For the fifth season on the bounce, we have both excited and then exited Europe. Which begs the question: If one walks into the same door four times in a row, unless it is for a wager, would one not perhaps choose a different route to the dining room the fifth time around? If one gives oneself a blast of shot to the face from one’s Purdey four times on the bounce, would it not be sensible to point the gun toward some grouse, rather than at one’s face? But that, perhaps, would not be The Arsenal Way.
The only succour is whilst we, deep down, expected this, our friends at FC Chelsea 2003 and the Abu Dhabi Vulgarians are feeling their respective European bootings much more keenly. Imagine gleefully spending somebody else’s fortune on your ghastly footballing enterprises only for your players – some of whom are receiving one million of your English Guineas per month – to look like they might be able to ‘mix it up’ with the Ryman North. The utter horror! I can assure you that Signore Mourinho’s press conference, where through teeth as tightly clamped as a nun’s legs on a prison visit, he concedes that Paris St. Germain were the better side.
Over the two legs, Woolwich were dead even with our tax-avoiding chums. It was the confounded ‘away goals’ rule, more of which later, which did for us. Losing this match in such a manner, having been so confoundedly poor in the first leg, and making Monaco look like that other great Casino town, Wigan, in the second, is so comically Arsenalistic, they may as well compile a commemorative Champions’ League poster for sale in the Arsenal Emporium with “WE’LL BUGGER IT UP, DON’T YOU WORRY” over a photograph of Mr. Windsor looking concerned.
For what it is worth, and it is worth very little, Woolwich were superb on the night. Facing Europe’s most efficiently defensive team – France’s Stoke City, if you will, Mr. Orwell, the wraith, probed and prodded pass after pass like a little sabre-wielding infantryman. A smattering of early chances fell to Woolwich: A noggin-bobbler from Goring-Hildred just smooched the upright. Mr. Kurzawa denied a Cousins spats-scuffer. Costerley hit the topgallant*.
Finally, just before oranges, Goring-Hildred, that magnificent, handsome, majestic, tumescent Brigadier was found by a wonderful Gentleman’s Favour from the excellent and eager Welé. Initially he was rebuffed by the Monaco glove butler Mr. Subasic but had the wherewithal to guide the rebound high into the Uffizi Ceiling**. Arsenal and Welé sniffed the fox, and with a hearty SOHO! SOHO! Welé attempted one fro’ the edge of the Box only to be blocked by Mr. Abdennour, who appeared to be sunbathing at the time.
And then, the agony. Would it have been kinder if Abdoulaye Ramsara, the Senegal Sir, had not scored a goal with just eleven sphincter-twitching moments remaining. I think we knew then that we had merely pushed the stiletto a little deeper between our ribs and that shortly we would stumble to the dust. When the final whistle blew, we all realised that we had effectively been knocked out by Dickens’ waif Tiny Tim two weeks ago.
To make it worse I put 10,000 Guineas on red at the casino later that evening. With precisely the same outcome as the foot-ball match.
A word then on the away goals rule. I vote that this anachronism should go the same way as the Enormous Goals Rule of 1927, whereby the goals were widened by three feet every ten minutes until we had a winner; the Low Goals Rule of 1884, which stated that if the goal was found to be lower than 6 feet from the ground then the groundsman was thrashed just before kick off; and the Yorkshire Goals Rule of 1903 whereby all Yorkshire clubs felt that they were a cut above everyone else and that therefore their goals should count twice.
Could we also draw a veil over Mr. Orwell’s rare lapse of reason when swapping shirts AT HALF TIME with Mr. Kondogbia? As all proper fellows know, the only things to be swapped with your opponent at oranges are punches. We know that he reads this organ and should feel ashamed that this unspeakably traitorous act has tarnished an otherwise splendid performance.
