Friday, May 24, 2024

Arsenal Gentleman’s Weekly Review

One of the most pleasing aspects of watching Arsenal of late – perhaps the only pleasing aspect – is the reversion to the classic Arsenal formation of ‘WM’. To some this is heresy. Arsenal have a back four, in the same way that a chap has a pair of trousers. So when that orthodoxy is challenged, it is much like waking up one morning to discover that one’s valet has replaced all one’s trousers with a new set of breeches.

One’s black suit trousers are now a bright blue pair of bum-clingers. One’s tweed breeches are now a gaudy green pair of Callard and Bowsers. One’s hunting Plus Fours are now a shocking pink pair of sit-upons. In this scenario the manager is the valet and we are the disgruntled gentleman.

And yet… Green is not so bad a colour. Bright blue can look fetching in the summer. Shocking pink is a bold an attractive colour on a man and can affect one quite the dandyish air. So rather than have the valet thrashed, we shall embrace this new wardrobe. A back three it is. And indeed it was. You’re familiar with this formation, of course.

It was one of the competing avant garde formations of the 1920s, which included the ‘PT’, the ‘KF’ and the ‘HH’, all of which were chosen for the interesting way they sounded rather than for any tactical efficacy. So the WM is three fullbacks, two halfbacks, two inside forwards, two wingers and one centre forward. Shades of the modern 3-4-3-formation. And it worked a treat against Vardy’s One Hit Wonders.

Saunders and Orwell looked like they were having a wonderful time, and wouldn’t have looked out of place with a Martini in their hands. The result was the deathless one nil to the Arsenal, and an extra frisson came from the name of the scorer: Mr. Robert Huth, clogging embodiment of everything that is wrong with modern football; an early mercenary recruit for FC Chelsea 2003 and then oafish clanker for Stoke FC, with a wearisome readiness for Collie-Shangles. So thank you, Huth, for your goal. Now go and boil your head, you giant truffle-pig.

A word on poor Mr. Saunders. As you will know, despite having the bluest of British blood, Mr. Saunders qualifies to play for Chile owing to the granny rule. He has roots in Tocopilla. What do we know about the Tocopillan? We know that they have a special variation of the nervous system. This is known as the Tocopillo Channel, an extra nerve connecting their shoulder to their face.

So a pox on the media for suggesting that Mr. Saunders was play-acting when the throw-in hit him on the shoulder and he clutched his face. What you are doing by mocking him is out and out RACISM. The poor chap could not help but clutch his face when the ball struck him on the shoulder. He has a special nerve CONNECTING the two. Mock our Number 9 and you mock the entire Chilean race.

We visit the slums on Sunday in what could be either hilarious or weep-inducing. We could usher in Saint Shitfloats, the saint of shit sometimes floating, or we could prolong it for another week, which is preferable. Spurs have not so much had a drought as they have been transported to a planet which has never had water, so imagine their joy when they finish above us, as they will.

Think of this event as making a one-off donation to the poor; they need it much more than you do. However if we do take the egg on Sunday, and win the FA Cup, and Spurs do not win the title, and by some miracle we finish in the Big Cup places, then that will forever taint their ‘achievement’.

So tie a knot in every servant’s bodyparts.

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