And so, my fine younglings, we are reaching a very Arsenalistic period of the season. In the orchard of Arsenal, once plumptious apples are in danger of turning brown. Where all was verdant, autumn has set in. We have been defeated, shipping six goals, at Abu Dhabi Vulgarians stadium, The Shitty Hat.
Moreover, our young French blade Monsieur Wilshère has been unjustly reprimanded by the F.A. (which stands for ‘F**k Arsenal’) merely for exhibiting the corrected digital gesture, as recommended by Confrontations and Skirmishes with Uncouth and Vile Enemies in Foreign Parts, the handbook for much of Great Britain’s empire-building wars of the 19th century.
France, of course, despite having no real reputation as a world power, did indeed engage in a small number of overseas expeditions, so the young man may well be familiar with this excellent warfare manual which was translated into French. Chapter Three, Page 157 reads: “When the enemy howls with fierce anger, and their words are indecipherable, we must assume that they are cursing your family and the English Queen. The correct gesture, which signifies that their entire village engage in copulation with their own mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, and that indeed each of those relatives is cuckolding them with their own grandparents, is the raised middle finger. Employ when maximum offence and irritation is to be caused.”
My response to the Mancunian defeat, apart from the indiscriminate traditional slaughtering of 50 village folk in a specially constructed cauldron of doom, is to tell Manchester City to bugger off, in fifty-two ways, one for each week of the year.
MANCHESTER CITY CAN BUGGER OFF IN FIFTY-TWO WAYS
- Bugger off completely and utterly, and when you get there, bugger off a bit more.
- Bugger off back to the third division.
- Bugger off with your despicable glory hunting acolytes.
- Bugger off and take your kin Chelsea with you.
- Bugger off with your unearned riches.
- Bugger off with your inept employee Mr. Garry Cook.
- Bugger off with your ‘Hello to all our new supporters!’ leaflet.
- Bugger off with your horrible little Gael Clichy.
- Bugger off with your double-chinned psychopath Samir Nasri.
- Bugger off back to Stockport.
- Bugger off with your specious fair play avoiding ‘sponsorship deal’.
- Bugger off with your Noel Gallagher.
- Bugger off with your Liam Gallagher.
- Bugger off with your Curly Watts.
- Bugger off with your Poznan.
- Bugger off with your South Korean twelve year old hordes.
- Bugger off on a horse.
- Bugger off down a one way street.
- Bugger off with your offensive notion that you are ‘City’. There are plenty of cities.
- Bugger off with your athletics stadium.
- Bugger off with a billiard cue up your nostril.
- Bugger off with your dark satanic mills.
- Bugger off with all your best pals and stay there.
- Bugger off on a Penny Farthing.
- Bugger off in pants of mustard.
- Bugger off whilst beating yourself over the head with a toffee hammer.
- Bugger off with some barbed wire down your pants.
- Bugger off with a heated curling iron up your Shaun Goater.
- Bugger off with Shaun Goater.
- Bugger off with your rain.
- Bugger off into a large bonfire.
- Bugger off with a dose of arsenic in your hip flask.
- Bugger off with a shower of night soil raining down on you.
- Bugger off with a fishfork.
- Bugger off on an Aeroflot plane.
- Bugger off on a wild walrus.
- Bugger off on a child’s scooter.
- Bugger off with your ghastly mercenaries.
- Bugger off with your overrated Colin Bell.
- Bugger off with your horrible criminal Billy Meredith.
- Bugger off with your silly little Franny Lee.
- Bugger off down a sewer.
- Bugger off with a sign that says ‘EVERYONE HATES US’.
- Bugger off to Timbuktu.
- Bugger off across the channel in a leaky canoe.
- Bugger off into a vat of boiling cheese.
- Bugger off with a tapeworm.
- Bugger off with your odd wing psycho Mike Summerbee.
- Bugger off to a very cold place.
- Bugger off to some soft sand at low tide.
- Bugger off up a chimney.
- Just bugger off.
That feels CONSIDERABLY better.
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ARSENAL FANS FROM TOTTENHAM
In a delightful gesture of goodwill from Spurs, they have donated a wonderful gift in the form of the removal of Mr. Villas-Boas, that squatting spiv, has joined the likes of Francis, Hughton, Gross, Pleat, Graham, Pleat, Hoddle, Pleat, Santini, Jol, Ramos and Redknapp in the lilywhite comedy throne.
Anyone who has the temerity to suggest that the atmosphere at Quiet Hart Lane should be improved has one foot out of the door already, especially as the club are doing so much to prevent that happening. They have a weak and pallid atmosphere, punctured only by outbursts of racist chanting, and that is the way they like it. At the time of writing, Herr de Boer has turned down Middlesex’s fourth biggest club, despite the prospect of working with Jermain Defoe and Michael Dawson. Mr. Sherwood, a Gooner, is doing an really splendid job so far, ensuring that Spurs exit the League Cup in the most painful way possible; having taken the lead in the second grudgiest grudge match on their grudge list.
It really is quite a spectacle up there. I have taken to keeping a newspaper clippings file of their woes, which I have the butler read to me over kippers if I feel the need for a tonic first thing in the morning. I can recommend it. Mercifully, with literacy rates what they are in Riotville, their fans are spared the worst of it. Up there in Middlesex the stinking, huddled Tottenham masses crowd round their oracle, Tiny Nell, who recites what she heard about the club with her ear pressed to the windows of the nice houses up the road. Which seems kinder, somehow, for the turmoil may be too much to bear, and before we know it, their own town will be up in flames again. With some luck, this will happen before Christmas, providing those of us in London with a delightfully festive flickering display of light, miles away out there in the home counties.
THE FOUR HORSEFIXTURES OF THE ARSEPOCALYPSE
We are entering what is variously known as The Insanity Basement, The Padded Cell, The Garden of Preposterousness, the Bathroom of Brouhaha, aka, the Christmas Period, where we face foes that shall be henceforth known as the Four Horsefixtures of the Arsepocalypse. Bear with me.
Arsenal v Chelsea, Christmas Eve Eve, Monday 23rd December.
On the white horse, conquest. Because no other option is acceptable against these cads and their leader, our nemesis, Fu Mourchu. The rabble from out west, FC Chelsea 2003, must be defeated.
West Ham v Arsenal, Boxing Day, Thursday 26th December.
On the red horse, West Ham represent war. Because of what Adolf did in World War II, when the Queen Mum, gawd bless her, she used to work behind the bar in the Blind Beggar and run up my old Aunty Lil a pair of bloomers on her day off, etc.
Newcastle v Arsenal, New Year’s Eve Eve Eve, Sunday 29th December.
On the black and white striped frightened horse (a zebra), whom shall be wearing protective headgear, is famine. They represent famine, for only extreme hunger can be the root cause of the vast corpulent tattooed bellies of these odd Scottish creatures. They must be defeated at the Sports Direct Theatre of Fatties.
Arsenal v Cardiff, New Year’s Day, Wednesday January 1st.
And on the pale horse, Mr Vincent’s Redbreasts, in their traditional scarlet attire, on the pale horse, representing death. For our season will be kicking the bucket if we have not gleaned nine or so points from the previous three games. By ten to five in the afternoon we shall know more of what we are to become.
