And so to the visit of the awful, déclassé, mercenary Abu Dhabi Vulgarians. On one side, a team conjured from nothing and given the tin of an entire country. On the other, The Arsenal, doing things the Arsenal way. Who would have posited that a team of Woolwich’s fiscal steadfastness would be the underdog against a team who back in 2006 conjured a vast home crowd of 7,960 Stockport dwellers?
I say “conjured from nothing,” but I am exaggerating for effect. The sturdy base upon which this modern Manchester City was built, the foundations of this newly powerful club, were of course laid by Stuart Pearce, managerial giant, a cerebral man despite appearing like a confused Barbary ape. Who can forget his deathless 2006 squad, with the likes of Michael Ball, Djamei Abdouri, Darius Vassell, Sun Jihai, Ishmael Miller and of course, the violent, sorry, I mean ‘enthusiastic’, Ben Thatcher? Names that surely rank alongside the greats of European football. We would not be seeing the likes of Negredo and Toure if Mr. Pearce had not performed almost a kind of alchemy, fashioning a club who strode majestically on to 14th place that year, only exiting the League Cup to the mighty Chesterfield in front of that aforementioned mass of 8,000.
The Manchester City of today surely stand on the shoulders of giants. This is something that should be acknowledged by a large bronze statue at the City of Manchester Stadium of nylon-clad Stuart Pearce, looking puzzled, on his haunches, while behind him Michael Ball warms up and Ben Thatcher does some elbow-stretching exercises. They could not, of course, include the obscure young master Daniel Sturridge. Nobody knows of his whereabouts these days. The last I heard he was to be found in the company of unseemly racists elsewhere in the North West. A cautionary tale.
And so it was intensely pleasurable to hold the buggers to a draw. Considering The Sextuple Unpleasantness a matter of days before, where Woolwich miserably capitulated to the National Front’s sporting wing, this was a really wonderful result, and one which performs the task of a couple of fingers of a nice single malt – it steadies the nerves.
I was up in the air in one of my spitfires during the match. As you can see left, I was delighted when Mr. Flame’s goal bobbled the onion bag. I can’t think of a player I like more than Berkshire’s own ‘The Tibia Troubler’ Mr. Flame and his parrot. The only thing missing was a parrot-touching incident immediately following it.
On the downside, Mr. Ponsonby does need to pull his bloody finger out down that flank. We were overrun down there like we were in 1916 France. Pouring down that wing they were, time and time again, like cockroaches on Wayne Rooney’s leftovers. Actually scratch that – we all know there is no such thing at Maison Rooney. Monsieur Gibbois does have that Gallic lack of positional awareness at times, and does need – if not a minder – then certainly someone to push attackers firmly in the chest and ask them to leave it. And the bloody Brigadier’s Hail Mary attempt from halfway did have a touch of desperation about it. Don’t try that one. Just concentrate on playing with your back to goal and muscling off defenders, there’s a good chap.
We note that Chelsea’s supporters revealed their true colours this week on their visit to Paris, being racists, making Nazi salutes and generally making Parisians lives a misery. We hear that the order for mayhem was given by their Obersrtleutnant, Mr. Terry, who was himself planning to take the city and be paraded through the streets of Paris whilst standing up in the back of an open-top Mercedes. This sort of nonsense comes as no surprise of course. Chelsea and their audience of hooting, pot-bellied pea-brains have long been associated with the far right. Mr. Mosley, the enemy within, was a well-known Chelsea fan and before he decided on black as the hue for his fascist movement his horrible band were known as ‘The Blueshirts’. The Nazi salutes seen on the terraces of Stamford Bridge in the eighties and now this vile display in Paris are just par for the course.
The best indicator of future behaviour is past behaviour, and no amount of plundered petrochemical wealth can change the Chelsea fan. He is what he shall always be. Chelsea have always wanted to be the new Liverpool and now they have adopted the proud badge of the Scouser, poor behaviour abroad. As Arsenal fans, we should protect ourselves from other people’s bad manners by a conspicuous display of our own good ones.
And finally, god bless them, Tottenham Hotspur of Middlesex have announced that their new stadium will be ready for 2017. It looks nothing like The Emirates of course, no no no, heaven forfend. No, the Sol Campbell Memorial Stadium, known colloquially as The Ermirates, is very much their own. Rumours that they are to have a Cock End, with a rendering of their mascot, the cock, atop it, and a North Wank, where all the biggest wankers sit, are as yet unsubstantiated.
I’m off to the boozer, as it is Friday, and that is why we have boozers. Mine is a G & T, if you don’t mind, as spring has sprung. Toodle pip!
