A very queer thing happened this Sunday last. I was reclining in my wicker bath chair, in the normal manner for Arsenal away matches – that is with a large glass of gin laced with barbiturates to one side, and a trunk full of a cornucopia of illicit substances to the other (largely bought when such alms were available over the counter at one’s local chemist’s emporium) – and a pipe full of Dr. Robert’s Special Energising Tobacco Mix atop the cistern. The butler knows me too well, and had even provided a large zinc bucket, left over from the era of three day binges with my pals at my country pile in Whitstable, when one had to carry on the high jinx even in the face of hepatic failure indicated by chronic vomiting. Those were the days! Much like Arsenal’s form since January. So that queer thing was that Arsenal won a game of Association Foot-Ball with some ease. It was indeed the rummest of sensations. The gin was left (largely) untouched. The cornucopia unmolested. The pipe of wonder merely served to enliven and enhance the unfamiliar, calm emotions rather than to anaesthetise one’s senses, as has been necessitated by the Arsenal of 2013/14.
The Arsenal of 2013/14. Valiant, yet crippled, not figuratively but literally crippled, especially in the case of Mr. Abraham Dolby 3000, that mythical mid-fielder of yore, possessor of power, pace, agility, guile, half the world’s stocks of Lewin’s Patented Cortisone Knee Balm. At times this team has been majestic, with shades of some of Arsenal’s greatest sides. At times, they have played like The Dog and Duck’s Second XI the morning after a night on the sauce. Happily, they seem now to be if not quite up there in the pantheon, at least knocking on the tradesman’s entrance.
And so it was against the Tigers on Sunday. Managed by Mr. Steve Bruce. Now an elder statesman of the managerial realm, it is appropriate that he has come to resemble Mount Rushmore, albeit not the part of Mount Rushmore with the faces of the presidents carved upon it, he simply looks like a lump of rock. He set his team up not just, as you’d expect, to work on set-pieces, corners, and plenty of crosses, but to foul and frustrate, and they certainly did.
The opening exchanges were characterised by a number of robust challenges. I have to say it was something of a memory jogger to see poor bald Mr. Arkwright lose a tooth. Losing a tooth! Wonderful stuff. Reminds me of the game when Wilf Copping once ripped the actual jawbone from an Aston Villa forward back in 1935. Different times, and a different game, but the flying tooth was a pleasing echo from a more honest time.
Watching Mr. Orwell and Mr. Ramsara combine was at times like watching a kind of high-velocity ballet; what might have been had the Arsenal Medical Team’s range of remedies not been restricted to bloodletting, amputations with but henbane & hemlock juice to numb the pain, or compulsory vinegar clysters to cure all ills. We should keep the thrusting and deadly Mr. Ponsonby as far as possible from our leech-pushers.
THE UNCHOSEN ONE
Despite receiving unconditional support from players and fans, albeit of all the other clubs in the English League, Mr. Moyes was sadly stripped of his position this week. He was asked for his metaphorical badge and gun, and duly handed them over at a meeting with business genius Edward Woodward, a man who this summer masterminded paying out several million pounds more than they needed to on human corner flag Marouane Fellaini.
Moyes’ ten months in charge have provided much mirth to followers of football. His face often sported a grin like that seen on the faces of those poor unfortunates of the County Asylum, glimpsed on now frowned-upon sightseeing tours. Whither Moyes now? Perhaps… Dare we dream? To the White Hart Lane piss trough? That would be a move I think we could all support.
His successor, the priapic Mr. Ryan Giggs, the man who can end a family barbecue quicker than an unexpected rain shower, is to take over “until the end of the season”. Which is strange, because Manchester United’s season ended in December. Is there something going on that we don’t know about?
THE FEAST OF ST TOTTERINGHAM NEARS
This could happen upon the weekend. If Spurs lose to the Flintstokes on Saturday, Dear St. Tott shall walk among us once more. Next Friday will be my recollections of the creation myth of Saint Totteringham, a hapless monk, who was forever crying out “Next year! It shall be next year!”
Until next week dear fellows – Pip pip!
