Before Woolwich headed into this set of New Year’s fixtures, there was one phrase, repeated endlessly, to the point where it began to obganiate. It was along the lines of: “The question is: January will be a testing time for Arsenal. Will they still be title contenders at the end of it?” To which, now that January is all but through, Arsenal can answer: “Please can I go to the lavatory, Sir?”
To The Emirates then, and to a game so predictable it was as if we were 60,000 Mr William Murrays, sent to report upon the emergence or not of a member of the Sciuridae family named Phillip, who shall determine the weather conditions for the coming weeks. Traditionally, in the North American hamlet of Gobbler’s Knob, if this marmot sees his shadow and returns to his burrow, the Colonials shall have six more weeks of winter. If he does not see his shadow, spring shall soon be with the Yankees.
On this occasion, a rodent did appear from his hole, and not only predicted a bitter, extended winter for Arsenal fans, but defecated on everybody’s pates whilst performing a tap dance. This appalling creature’s name was Mr. Diego Costa, and we have been here many times before.
This awful individual makes Monsieur Drogba look like the Dalai Lama. His record against Arsenal is now: Played three, won three, red cards for Arsenal, three, murderous thoughts about Diego Costa in the heads of Arsenal fans, 578,017,865 and counting. Mr. Costa is such a malevolent force in modern football that he is absolutely perfect for Chelsea Football Club. The two could not be better matched. Simply put, Costa is a cheat, Chelsea are cheats. Costa is a wrong ‘un, Chelsea are the living embodiment of wrong’unerry.
Costa’s crime this time was not as blatant as his provocations of Mr. Pallister, and yet when Lord Peregrine wafted a foot toward him, grazing nary a leg hair, he went down as if shot by sniper fire. How we wished that was the case at the time. Meatlocker was sent for an early game of canasta. The following tactical adjustment was somewhat gin-ridden, with Mr. Windsor taking off the Brigadier, a curious move that resulted in Mr. Orwell as Arsenal’s most advanced player.
Sure enough, just five minutes later, who scores the winning goal? That mammering brazen-faced dewberry Mr. Costa. Do we know what condition caused his features to be condensed into the very centre of his hideous visage? He looks like he has been drawn through a jam jar at high speed. Something I would very much like to subject him to.
Costa, despite obviously being a drooling moron off the pitch, is ‘football clever’. He does not commit a great deal of fouls, but when he does, they are more focussed and impactful than other players. He has the third highest number of yellows since 2014, behind only those vicious footpads Cattermole and Colback. And he has a cracking 36% more yellow cards than any other striker. More of his fouls result in a yellow than any other striker. He has never been sent off for Chelsea, but the statistics do not lie. He is a clever, dirty player. Far cleverer than any of our players on this occasion. We knew that a burglar was coming to steal our candlesticks, and instead of waiting in the dark with a twelve-gauge shotgun, we slumbered upstairs with our earmuffs on.
Woolwich have now gone nine hours and 32 minutes without a top division goal against Chelsea. These hagseeds in blue are unbeaten in their last nine games against us. This has to cease.
