‘Good’ afternoon.
There have been many puzzling weeks in the history of Arsenal. There was the week that the first team were all given amphetamines before a match against West Ham. There was any week with Henry Norris, which involved dealings that today would no doubt be referred to as something-gate; bus money gate, kicking Spurs out of the First Division-gate, chauffeur-gate and so on. Then there was last week. Has there ever been a more Woolwich week than this week? Have we reached the zenith of Arsenalism?
We now know, because it has been brazenly admitted by Mr. Windsor, that Welé, our talismanic Brazilian, has suffered such severe knee-knack that the tried and tested Woolwich remedies of deep heat, bandages, and a weekly smacking with a rubber hammer have failed. He went under the knife and is out for up to three months, in Arsenal years this equates to the rest of the season. Which means that the decision to not buy another striker with our money all the more baffling.
The manager has stated that he is happy with his current strikeforce of Goring Hildred (gets a lot of grief but is fairly solid, if a touch inconsistent and is occasionally injured), Fenton (runs fast, bothers deer, not really a striker), Whizzbang Saunders (dynamic from the flanks, turns defenders’ white shorts brown very quickly), Joel Campbell (who knows?), and that’s that.
In the long list of Arsenal innovations (shirt numbers, floodlights, European competitions, the WM formation) we can add a new one: The Invisible 9.
This player is so stealthy around the opponent’s box that he arrived at the club with not a bugger noticing his arrival. He wears all black, including a balaclava, threw a grappling hook over the walls of London Colney and made his way past the state of the art security before taking out a guard with a karate chop as favoured by the Japanese, making his way to Mr. Windsor’s secret lair, dancing his way across the lake of crocodiles, before writing his own contract, signing it, extracting £30 million from the firm grasp of our bankers, printed his own match-day shirt and began training with the first team. His name? Luke De Otherwaye.
Mr. Merson the Person, fine sporter of one of the worst haircuts known to humanity, was full of righteous fury this week. He pointed out that Arsenal’s money is not the manager’s money, it is the fans’ money. He is quite correct. Some of it may even be left over from that day in 1997 when the manager sold him to that godforsaken chemical dump Middlesbrough for having the right foot of our lord God grafted onto that chap who plays centre half for your local pub.
Meanwhile, with lack of goals being one of the main factors in losing football matches – we managed to squeak past the Southern Scotland Humbugs last week, but only just. Arseblog’s favourite striker, Owen Gole, struck again. We were even playing against ten men following ‘Mauler’ Mitrovic’s vile rake on Mr. Cockleton. Now in times past, there would have been quite the robust response to this aggression.
Now I do not condone physical violence on opponents unless it is John Terry, when I advocate the use of small arms, but Wilf Copping would have ensured the occurrence of multiple fractures on the Serb. Probably before the foul itself, such was his fondness for a touch of Prevenge. Similarly Mr. Vieira would have had a little word, either before or after. Admirable, one supposes, that Woolwich kept their nerve despite extreme provocation, but one did pine for a sturdy reducer on the vile peasant.
Out next challenge is on September 12th, when the Flintstokes visit The Emirates and their fans get confused by indoor sanitation and trains that run underground like cave dragons. We shall make merry with them.
Until next time –
The Gent
