Since we last spoke there has been a growing acceptance of the intellection that The Arsenal are looking like a proper team this season. We shall come to the glorious,1-0 victory, so rousingly hailed in the famous collective shanty over Borussia Dartford in a moment, but let us pause to take a breath and think about the position in which we find ourselves.
There. Nice, isn’t it.
SCOUSERS SLAIN
A thoroughly entrancing match-up this Saturday last, when Woolwich Arsenal entertained the most popular team in Scandinavia, Liverpool FC 1991. It was of course the realisation of a lifelong dream for one lucky little boy; for some time now he has fantasised about striding ‘pon the hallowed turf of The Pompirates. Yes, for little Luis Suarez, aged, what, ten? Twelve? It was a dream come true. Very kindhearted of Mr. Rodgers to extend the role of mascot into that of live bystander, but you could see the joy on his funny little face whenever his heroes came close to him. And I swear on the King’s life that when we scored, he did a little jump of joy.
We do love to play Liverpool. Who can forget that night back in ’89, and this classic wireless commentary:
Woolwich Arsenal come galloping forward now like the household cavalry, in what must indubitably be their final thrust. A splendid ball by Mr. Dixon, Woolwich’s scouse-hating Mancunian, finding Alan ‘Alan Smith Smudger’ Smith, the Worcester Wizard. MR. THOMAS… Like a norse berserker through the middle of the park… Mr. Thomas… Arsenal’s iron is in the fire now… His monocle’s popped out, not to worry… MISTER THOOOMMMMAAAAS….
Splendiferous stuff. One also delighted in the traditional Arsenal v Liverpool scoreline: 2-0. And what a treat they both were. First, St. John Cousins, known as ‘hand feet’ to the faithful, performed a feat of reaction, precision and opportunism. Deliberately noggin-bobbling onto the right hand post – both to clear the goal and also just for fun – he then followed up with an unerring strike as sweet as a brandy and Benedictine. An ambrosial and toothsome goal from our final third octopus.
Equally as pleasing, in this season of connoisseurs’ goals, was the Ramsara Rocket in the second half. Collecting a polite and typically accurate ball from Mr. Orwell, whose mutton chops are catching on amongst the menfolk of north London. This ball was of course no ordinary ball: it was The Mesmertron. The Mesmsertron, as we all know, is an Orwell speciality. It is an orphic through-ball that baffles and delights. Leaving Liverpool’s defenders hypnotised like stunned oxen awaiting the final blade, Mr. Ramsara allowed the ball to bounce once, twice, three times, before stroking her home to make it two nil.
HONOURS EVEN AGAINST THE HUN
A tremendous and stouthearted victory over Borussia Dartford followed this Wednesday last. A team who at first professed, under the guidance of the dubiously tanned Herr Klopp to be something called a ‘heavy metal’ band, which Herr Klopp deemed to be superior to the classical music of Arsenal. Perhaps he should have drawn a more potent analogy, and one which a greater number of people would understand, such as BVB are like Wagner, Arsenal are like Elgar.
It turns out that BVB are less Metallica and more Spinal Tap. Whatever that means. Herr Lewandowski did very little apart from miss chances and cheat, and their glove butler Herr Weidenfeller, whose name roughly translates as ‘Tiny Todger’, assaulted Mr. Costerley with a most ferocious and ungentlemanly charge, with no earthly intention of playing the ball. Shades of Schumacher on Battiston there – and yet no foul was given by the grossly incompetent undertaker’s assistant. In reality the ball should have been placed on Nelson’s eye for a spot kick. We were treated to the spectacle of Mr. Costerley, with the courage and fortitude of Mr. Copping of this parish these eighty years past, unable to continue. Luckily his twin brother Lionel was on the bench and came sprinting on a few moments later.
Another observation is that Nicholas Blackwater, the Camden Cockroach, appears to be evolving into cricketing legend W.G. Grace. We have seen over these past weeks his extraordinary hairstyle and unshorn chin, and indeed his expanding girth. He is quite the fatty boom-boom. He may be only a few cream teas away from this.
He would of course require an emergency trip to the barber to attain this level of elegance. There are only three people who have ever walked this earth who could wear a beard; George V, W.G. Grace, and David Levy’s wife Tracy, god bless her cloven hoofs.
And there we shall leave it for another week. Our critics, the cadaver Mr. Hansen, the unsettling peroxide man-girl Mr. Fowler, Mr. Michael ‘Pinocchio’ Owen, Shiny crotch Shearer, Piers Morgan et al, are fast running out of teams who will ‘test’ us. We shall know even more after Sunday’s sojourn to the Glazerdome. I await that fixture with keen interest.
Up the Arsenal!
