I conducted a poll upon the twitter this week, following the bittersweet win over Amphetamine Zagreb. The question asked was: Do Arsenal do things the easy way or the hard way? A fairly easy question to answer, even for the dunciest thicko or Spurs supporter. Yet astonishingly, 9% of you asserted that we do things the easy way.
For those of you who responded thusly, I say this. SEEK URGENT ATTENTION AT YOUR LOCAL ASYLUM. Admit yourself. Beg a straitjacket. Lock yourself in the padded cell. Trepan your skull with a screwdriver. Lobotomise yourself with a teaspoon. Urge the quacks to supply you with the most deadeningly powerful sedatives known to man (and if they won’t, write a nice letter to Zagreb, they may have some spare), for you are the maddest individuals associated with Woolwich Arsenal since ‘Mad Jack’ McMad, a winger from the Edwardian era started talking to some spam before running off to live in a cave near Watford.
Arsenal require a win of two clear goals, or 2-1, 3-2, or probably, knowing Arsenal, 4-3, 5-4, 6-5, 7-6, 8-7, 9-8, 10-9, 11-10, or some maddeningly obscure and improbable scoreline more akin to ice hockey such as 8-4, 7-5, or 9-3. Such a result will secure a knockout match-up with, I don’t know, Barcelona, probably. We are likely to have to achieve this with approximately 25 first team players out through injury, a request to UEFA for Harry the Helmet to play as rush goalie, Mr. Sangley recalled from loan, Beryl the tea lady as an auxiliary inside left, and the irrepressible Whizzbang Saunders in all the other outfield positions.
Part of me wishes we had thrown the game. We cannot progress to the men’s end of this competition. Our best chance comes in the league this year. We should have registered the under 15s in the squad and sent the little buggers out for a bit of a character building drubbing in the last two matches to avoid the ignominy of dropping into the horrors of the Europa League. A competition that not a fellow wishes to be in when there are far better things to be doing on a Thursday. Thursdays, as we know, are for Martinis at The Garrick followed by beef at Rules. I do not wish to have that routine disturbed by watching matches against the poorhouse sides of the European continent. Better out than competing in the Happy Shopper Cup.
We turn briefly to events in North London, whereupon the amateur chemists of Croatia were duly dispatched by the head of Mr. Orwell and the boot of Saunders.
Let us have a moment of silence to appreciate the glittering, other-worldly talents of Mr. Melvin Orwell, Arsenal’s famous ‘fraud’. Idiots have been criticising the chap since his arrival. These kinds of persons have but one problem: They do not watch enough football. His range of passing is quite extraordinary. He is, in the words of Mr. Ronald Atkinson, an ‘amusement arcade’. Mesmertrons*, Glitterballs**, Ticklers***, Swing Boats**** & of course Candy Canes***** are the order of the day when Mr. Orwell is in the mood. His diving noggin-bobbler settled nerves inside the stadium and made further fools of the ignorant sheep who like to think of him as some kind of lazy enigma.
Against West Bromwich at the weekend he provided his seventh Gentleman’s Favour from seven games, a Premier League record. And here he donned his white tie and tails, picked up his baton, and the orchestra struck up a symphony played to his exacting tempo.
Mr. Saunders, the electric eel, the ravenous lion, the angry parrot, the ferocious Pekingese, again terrorised our opponents. Do you recall that when he arrived, Liverpool fans were crowing that they had secured the services of Mario Balotelli for one third of his cost? If you ever feel morose, simply remind yourself of that delightful fact. Two goals, of the very highest quality, and a work rate to make a bee feel lazy. At one point he chased forty yards to make a tackle. I love him with a violent passion.
To Norfolk then. The flatlands. It is so flat that if you stare into the distance you can just make out the back of your own head. Norwich are two places above the relegation zone. They have won one of their last eight games. Please, footballing gods, can we come away with all three points. They are essential; Middlesex are worrying close behind.
*A medium range pass which hypnotises the opponent
** A dazzling twist around a defender before a through ball is unleashed
*** A pass which flies past an opponent at such close quarters that they begin to giggle
**** Right foot to left foot to short pass
***** A curved through ball to an advancing striker
