You must excuse last week’s sad omission; when one reaches my advanced years parts start to drop off, and you then have to capture an increasing amount of peasants for essential bodyparts. This is excessive inconvenient and expensive but it does mean one can continue to drink Gin and Dubonnet for breakfast.
Despite my advancing years I appear to be in a much better state of physical rigour than our part owner, Mr. Enos Stanley Kroenke. On the one hand, you look with envy at his immense fortune. Eight billion, if you will. As any chap worth his salt knows, anything over 50 million is just vulgar. You regard his gilded and unimaginably privileged life, his vast mansion and estate. And on the other, you notice his face, which looks like a two-year-old with motor co- ordination problems has made a model of Borat with pink modelling clay and grey wool. And you think, well, fair’s fair.
What did you make of this character when he purchased a majority shareholding in your club? Did you initially harbour a desire that he might emulate Chelsea’s approach, pouring billions and billions into the project of buying trophies? Did you imagine a kindly benefactor, who only wanted to win, win, win, with traditional Arsenal style? Did you envisage Arsenal’s elevation from – let’s be honest – Champions’ League bit-part players to actual, bona fide, Munchen style European Giant? Then you, Sir or Madam, are as much of a fool as I.
Let us examine his record in the North American Colonies. Although American sports are not recognised by the appropriate authorising British Empire Authority, and are therefore not official sports but unofficial pastimes, we begin to see an illuminating pattern. His Rapids are anything but, and are at the bottom of the Western Conference, whatever that might be. His Avalanche is burying only the hopes and dreams of its fans in Winter Hockey; they are also at the bottom of their division.
His Mens’ Netball team the Nuggets of Denver are ninth, just above some kind of hellish monstrosity of a team called ‘The New Orleans Pelicans.’ Last season his Rams of Los Angeles finished an Arsenalistic third out of fourth in their division. I have seen the ghost of Christmas future, dear reader, and it’s shaped like a miserable looking cheerleader dressed as a dinosaur, devouring our money until it is sated – which is never.
This last transfer window, a clown show for everyone else but the whole Mr. Stephen King IT horror clown show for Arsenal. Yes yes yes, we acquired Mr. Lakeshead. And very good I’m sure he shall be. But the general animal acre and husbandry of the cattle that are modern-day footballers at Arsenal leaves a great deal to be desired, and neglect of your livestock’s needs, especially your highly-geared, whippet quick number nine type of animal, results in that animal yearning for the grassy pastures beyond the gate of London Colney.
If I have mixed my metaphors into a enough of a disgusting cocktail, allow me strain the resultant refreshing drink into a Collins glass: Mr. Whizzbang Saunders and his inevitable move to Manchester City’s Vulgarians. It is going to happen. You know it. I know it. Mr. Windsor knows it. Yet one must feel sorry for Mr. Windsor in this matter; surely know in the last twenty months of his Arsenal career, he was damned if he sold him and damned if he didn’t. In the end he didn’t, setting fire to tens of millions of our pounds in the process, but at least we get to wait until next summer to see him pull on the vile sky-blue uniform of bounders.
We stuck a big ‘FOR SALE’ sign above the heads of Sesley, Goring-Hildred, Wilshere, Elleray, Gibbois, Kumar, Juarez and Chubby Atkins, with only Gibbois, Juarez and Sesley actually leaving. Although Mr. Windsor changed his mind on Mr. Kumar, and Mr. Perry was told to stay as it seemed Mr. Goring-Hildred was leaving but then he wasn’t. Mr. Masterson said he was going to leave, but then we failed to sign a replacement so he couldn’t. Then Mr. Windsor came on in a car which fell apart and threw a bucket of glitter over the audience.
I hope that’s clear. Until next week then. In the meantime, perhaps you’ll have six minutes to listen to my new Radiogram show, which can be found here.