One of England’s finest traditional Jazz bands, Mr. Coverdale and his White Snakes, used to frequent the concert halls of London town back in the twenties. Ah! Those were the days. Everyone properly attired in white tie and completely banjaxed to Hades on 100% pure cocaine. Wonderful days. Anyhow, Mr. Coverdale and his White Snakes banjo-driven inoffensive light-hearted semi-comedy jazz numbers would delight audiences of debutantes and footpads alike. Lords, ladies and lamplighters all would shake a tail feather to such musical delights as Is This Love, Reverend? And In the Still of the Night I hear Your Pekinese Whimper.
We used to love to foxtrot to numbers such as Here One Goes Again. And indeed it was this jaunty little number that I pointedly recalled following the unimaginably painful, foolhardy, sheep-biting and downright dismal performance this Wednesday last.
The lyrics are thus:
One knows not where one is going
But one certainly knows where one has been
Hanging on the promises
In songs of yesterday
And one has made up one’s mind
One is not wasting any more time
But here one goes again
Here one goes again
Although one keeps searching for an answer
One never seems to find what one is looking for
Oh Lord one prays
You give one strength to carry on
Because one knows what it means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams
And here one goes again on one’s own
Like a tramp one was born to walk alone
And one has made up one’s mind
One’s not wasting any more time
Etc.
Do you see how Mr. Coverdale seems to foreshadow the events of Wednesday? Here one goes again. Quarter-finalitis. Idiotica Nervosa. The Crumbles. Whatever you call it, it is a chronic condition. Every year, for what seems like one hundred years, we reach this stage of Big Cup and turn into the Keystone Cops.
Being drawn against Monaco was very much like being presented with a gift. A ceremonial sword, let us say. It is like taking that ceremonial sword and stabbing oneself several hundred times with it. Let us examine the manner of our humiliation at the hands of these tax-dodging ne-er do wells.
From the moment the undertaker’s assistant blew the silver snail we undertook the harum scarum swoopstake attacking which has been so pulse-quickening this season, with one crucial difference. We did it really badly. We misplaced more passes than a blind mountaineer. Not one player was to blame. They were uniformly terrible. Here are my marks.
Ramsden D
Bell C+
Meatlocker E (see me after class)
Costerley C
Gibbois C-
Cockleton C
Cousins C+
Saunders C
Orwell D+
Welé C
Goring-Hildred D- (see me)
I am not saying that we were naïve, but ten-year-old boys were plucking magical coins from behind the ears of our back four after the game. I am not saying we were gullible, but our centre-halves were sent off to buy a left-handed screwdriver and a tin of tartan paint by the tea-lady at half time. I am, in fact, saying both of those things.
The Brigadier, until this game which may have destroyed his confidence, was in the form of his life. He missed every single chance that fell to him. He went from Émile Zola to Emile Heskey within seconds of his studs touching the turf. The misses became almost worthy of applause for their creativity and it seems he completed the almost mythical special move ‘The Tarot’, which requires that a striker misses the goal with both feet, both knees, his head and his arse. Well played, Brigadier. Zounds, it was merciful relief when young Fenton came on for him later in the game.
Kondogbia struck seven minutes before oranges. The ball deflected off Meatlocker and past hapless Ramsden in Arsenal’s goal, but this was not to be Peregrine’s only error of the night.
Right on cue came whey-faced soul-sucking flapdragon Dimitar Berbatov to add a second. I do have some admiration for this elegant, calm player, who despite having played for two of the worst foot-balling clubs in the world still seems to find a reason to get up in the morning. He took advantage of Mr. Meatlocker’s blithering oaf-like defending, caught twixt twain minds, and deciding on neither.
Methinks we have a mountain to climb. The mountain in question is Arsenal Mountain, and we mountaineer on this mountain every year. We fall off Arsenal Mountain and perish in the cold. We endeavoured to make Arsenal Mountain a veritable Everest by losing our collective marbles by going for the equaliser following Oxlade-Chamberlain’s laser-guided missile. Soothly, chaps! Take the 1-2! What in heaven’s name were you thinking, you pigeon-eggs? You moldwarps! Pull yourselves together!
At least when we yede to Monaco solace can be found on the gaming tables, for I fear we shall not dash the cup of joy from their lips.
In these darkest times we can take succour in the fact that there is always Tottenham Hotspur and there is always Liverpool, who this week provided a double act worthy of Messrs. Laurel and Hardy.
Until next week, my downcast chums.
The Gent
