It is, my friends, a very quiet Monday indeed. A routine, uneventful win over Sunderland does not provide much in the way of talking points, which is quite fine, unless you have to write a blog of some kind. So excuse me if I have to scour the bottom of the barrel today.
There’s a bit of talk about Theo Walcott and the World Cup, with England U21s set to name a squad for some game against some cunts that nobody cares about. If he’s named in that then it seems something about something and if not then maybe he’ll be named in Capello’s main squad whenever he gets around to it. This is football analysis at its most whatever, right?
Theo certainly showed some glimpses against Sunderland. His pace is absolutely frightening. Sadly, so is his final ball. It’s like if you went out, got really drunk, scored some chick in a nightclub and woke up the next morning being stared at lovingly by a woman who looks like Carlos Tevez. That’s how scary it is. For me that’s the part of his game that really needs the most work. We can get him in behind defenders, it’s what he does with it when he gets there that counts. Crossing practice, that’s what he needs. As to whether or not he goes to the World Cup, well I hope does, because the only way he’s getting into the England squad is if he’s playing well for Arsenal. He’s played very little this season and what we have seen from him has been disappointing, let’s hope a bit of a run in the team without injury will improve his game. The boss thinks he’s getting there, so let’s see.
Now, football, as we know, is a game which, for the most part, is populated by cunts. 99.9999% of them. It’s true. I worked this out in a scientific fashion. Firstly, I made the assumption that Arsenal and that all the other teams and players and fans are. As are most of the officials. Then, you have pundits and mouthpieces, and apart from the Arsenal friendly ones, all cunts. All of them. So, 99.9999% seems accurate, if you want pie charts and equations then I would suggest, despite your allegiance, you might be one of them. You just need to trust me on this. Of course there are varying levels of cuntitude and today one man, who has long been known as one of history’s greatest monsters, completely outdoes himself.
He manages to combine officialdom with punditry. Graham Poll. The headline in the Mail reads:
GRAHAM POLL: It’s about time Arsene Wenger took his red-tinted spectacles off
In his article he says that Arsene Wenger should stop being so biased when it comes to his own team. Er …who else can he biased towards, dope? Poll says it’s a bit much for Wenger to complain about the Porto goal in midweek yet he has nothing to say when our first goal against Sunderland was borderline offside and the second was a penalty which was somewhat dubious.
Now, before I go anywhere, let me say that I think Arsene’s complaints about the Porto goal were a bit much. We cocked it up more than the ref did. However, I do have to wonder about the intelligence of Graham Poll. In his article he says:
However, as both decisions [as mentioned above] went the Gunners’ way, Wenger appeared content with referee Steve Bennett.
Shock fucking horror. What sort of a window licking cretin is he? That, in case you hadn’t noticed, is a rhetorical question. The idea of the first goal being offside hasn’t been mentioned at all, as far as I can see, and the penalty might have been a bit on the soft side but after all the penalties we haven’t been given it went some way to making up for that. You know, the way decisions balance themselves out over the course of a season.
Yet in the interests of fairness Arsene Wenger should say something about Steve Bennett? You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Poll had little else to write about this week and dug out that old reliable about Arsene Wenger and his limited vision at times. Throw in the hilarious “I did not see it” line and you’re all set.
Let’s face it, as a ref Graham Poll was a giant, smeggy knob who loved the limelight and wanted to be the centre of attention at all times. He was to refereeing what Jar Jar Binks was to Star Wars. A big annoying cunt with a stupid voice and stupid head with a stupid mouth. As a columnist he’s in a battle with that other giant knob, Jeff Winter, to see who can be the most irritating, clueless, ex-referee wind up merchant twat, and I know it’s the Mail and I know I’m giving him the oxygen of publicity but I told you we’d be scraping the bottom this morning and here we are. The headline should read:
GRAHAM POLL: It’s about time someone called this cunt a cunt because he is a cunt. The cunt.
I remember many years ago playing Sunday League football which is the grumpiest football of all. Mostly because you have 22 lads stinking of last night’s hooch, hungover like fuck, and trying to run around a muddy quagmire in vain attempt to play something approaching football. One particular game the ref was a total bastard giving everything to the opposition which riled up one of our central midfielders who had a short fuse at the best of times. After another free kick had been cleared we clumped upfield to chase the long ball, the ref turned, the midfielder tapped his ankles and sent the ref face first into the mud.
“Sorry ref, accident!”, he said helping him back to his feet while we all broke our bollocks laughing. He didn’t even get a card. I think we lost about 3-0 but that was the moment of the match. It’s a shame nobody ever did that to Graham Poll. Except instead of tripping him up ‘accidentally’ they went back in time and placed him in a underwater cage in Vietnam like the Deer Hunter before forcing him to play Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun.
Hopefully tomorrow we’ll have some Arsenal stuff to talk about but I fear it’ll be a quiet few days without a midweek game. If it gets any quieter I may have to reach into my emergency blog reserves which include a 5 part short story entitled “The Cunt of Monte Carlo”, about a lanky Togonian footballer who becomes the most hated person on earth by just playing football in an objectionable manner. It’s quite the epic, let me tell you. Certainly better than my other attempt, 1984, in which we sign Tommy Caton, sell Lee Chapman and finish a poor 6th (but still above Sp*rs!).
Till tomorrow.
