Thursday, January 20, 2022

Stupid sexy Flanders

So, do anything last night then?

Me and Mrs Blogs just had a quiet pint or two in the local, discussed the upcoming referendum in this country and the implications of same, then came home and had a toasted cheese sandwich. And apart from that nothing else happened. Nothing at all. Nothing at all. Nothing at all.

I’m led to believe that there may be some unhappy Sp*rs fans about the place this morning, for some reason or other, but I have to say I don’t understand how anybody could be happy by that. Surely the ideal time for Sp*rs fans to be unhappy would have been in mid-late August having lost in a Champions League qualifying round.

Anyway, touching on this further would require me to analyse the nothing at all that happened last night that I certainly didn’t see so I’m not going to. Suffice to say that for all the joy football can bring us (at least I think it can, it’s been a while now) it’s more capable of kicking you in the balls until you get sick out of your nose. And if your nostrils are filled with crusty vomit this morning, I know how you feel.

There really is very little going on this morning from an Arsenal point of view. Of course there’s a van Persie story, The Mirror reports that Anzhi Makhachkala are ready to offer Robin £300,000 a week to go and play in the Russian wilderness. I’d say this would never happen but at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw a story saying he’d take a pay cut to sign for Stoke so he could win the most fouliest team trophy or something.

Meanwhile, Nicklas Bendtner says he’s been drugged. No, not during games, but on nights out. He says of the time he was photographed with his pants half down stumbling out of a nightclub:

I was out with a friend and we were doing shots. When I woke up in my bath I was blank. I was told that I’d lain down and had to be retrieved from the water.

The club had been closed for an hour at the time and then someone obviously called the paparazzi. I was drugged, I think.

Erm, doing shots, followed by a blackout. It might be just me but I suspect, rather than the more sinister idea of someone dishing out the roofies, you were just fucking rat-arsed, Nick. And I love the way he says ‘When I woke up in my bath’ as if that was normal, rather than ‘And I woke up in my bath, for goodness sake’.

When I was about the same age Nick was when he had this escapade, my father tells a story of how he found me in the front garden late one night talking to a tree. All this time I thought it was because of all the booze I drank of my own volition, but obviously I was set upon by an evil druggerer who, for no particular reason, got me hepped up on goofballs. And I’m not even The Greatest Striker That Ever Lived.

For the stats fans among you, and there many, the main man 7amkickoff looks at goalies and keepers and net-minders and ball fisters over on Arseblog News. Some interesting stuff in there, go read.

And apart from that there’s very little to be going on with this Sunday. I would suggest that newspapers, TV and any website that isn’t 100% Arsenal (or 0% football) are best avoided today lest you come across something which makes you puke out of your nose. Nobody needs that.

Till tomorrow.

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