There is an expression, attributed to someone I cannot be bothered to identify, which asserts that things are never as good or as bad as you think they are. It is worth remembering this if you think things are really bad (Mr. S. Allardyce, for example) or really bally ripsnortingly good (Woolwich Arsenal Football Club).
In Mr Allardyce’s case, he will surely find gainful employ with one of the league’s lower placed clubs. Stoke, Sunderland, maybe perchance a return to ‘Fred’ West Ham United, Burnley or Hull. Make no mistake. He will be back. He’s “in foreign” at the moment but the cloying stench of the chip shop will draw him back. He’s like one of those unfortunate whales that wash up in unlikely places from time to time.
They lose their way, something goes wrong with their sonar or whatnot, then slop, the enormous beast ends up, literally a beached whale, surrounded by hordes of children holding their noses to suppress the stink. There is a sad newsreel as said sperm whale is hauled onto the back of a lorry and taken away for dissection, or to be rendered into lamp oil. You would get plenty of lamp oil from just one beached Allardyce. Yet it is not his time yet. He will roll his vast body back into the ocean and swim for familiar waters. My money is on Stoke.
Things are really bally ripsnortingly good at the moment at Arsenal. And nothing, surely nothing, can stop Arsenal from winning all competitions by some margin. Nothing at all. Nothing. And yet, as the man or woman says, things are never as good as you think they are. So absolutely nothing, apart from, perhaps, inexplicably dropping points to Burnley and Middlesbrough. Losing to Spurs. Pressing the self-destruct button for an entire wintery month. Allowing self-doubt to creep in across the team. Throwing away a two goal lead. A smattering of injuries. That sort of thing. But apart from that, we are golden. Get that trophy engraved forthwith!
Onto events of the last seven days, and a brace of deeply satisfying match-ups demonstrating the cause of Arsenalists’ ebullient mood. First, the visit of Mr. Abramovich’s Mercenaries. Since their invention in 2003, Chelsea have been tormentors in chief of Arsenal. It has been five years since we last had the whip hand over them, the dastardly, milk-livered mowarps. Those thuggish, blue-clad, onion-eyed scuts. Those football-ruining, rank, rump-fed measles. Well they were sent home with a flea in their ghastly ears on Saturday.
Mr. Windsor saw fit to retain Whizzbang Saunders in his striking role with The Bearded Brigadier on the bench. Mr. Elleray was allowed to spend some time with his pipe, and Mr. Shackleton and Mr. Perry both were in the rear stalls. For the Fulham Knuckleheads, Mr. Fabington, our very own Lord Haw-Haw, was in midfield, and heading up the attack was the worst human being to ever have lived, Diego Costa.
On eleven minutes, Gary Cahill’s superb through ball was pounced upon by livewire Saunders, before the man of the moment, Theodore Walcoué, who shall soon shed his Fenton moniker, made it two. And by snum, what a goal. Windsorball at its most delightful, as Chelsea were pulled hither and thither by Woolwich, before Mr. Webbley spotted Harry Bell, charging forward like a lurcher onto a hare, pinged a ball across to young Walcoué, this season’s revelation, who calmly popped it in past the hapless clown Courtois. What Chelsea could do with is a half-decent keeper. 2-0.
The third was almost as splendid as Melvin Orwell, the Wandsworth Wizard, made it three up before oranges; Orwell intercepted in the Arsenal half, and he dribbled forwards before ‘having at’ Chelsea’s comedians, who were furiously backpedalling, as if in a Buster Keaton movie. Who else but the fizzing Mr. Saunders made his way behind Laurel and Hardy, received the ball and returned the favour. Mr. Orwell met it on the volley, bounced it over their glove butler and destroying Chelsea’s spirit. The second half was more of the same complete dominance from Woolwich, and the scoreline flattered Chelsea in the end.
As if that wasn’t enough delight for one week, stap my vitals, we sent Basildon back to Essex. Much intrigue before the match; fraternal, in the case of Graham Shackleton, who faced his less skilful brother, Tarquin, and emotional in the case of former Basildon midfielder Malcolm Elleray.
The victory came courtesy of the Christ-like Theodore Walcoué. Last season he was crucified by the faithful after every performance, and this season he has risen. Literally, in the case of Basildon, as his first goal was a noggin-bobbler. The Gentleman’s Favour for both goals were supplied by none other than Whizzbang Saunders, indicating that the pair of them are forming quite the partnership. Jesus and Mary Magdalene, perhaps.
If it were not for glove butler/ miracle worker/ magician Tomas Vaclik the score would have been in double figures; Bell, Saunders and Mandeville were all thwarted, and Mr. Orwell could have bagged at least two for himself.
To Burnley then, on the Lord’s day. Nothing can go wrong. Nothing.
