‘Ok brain, whose bright idea was it to come home and drink rum in the garden to ensure you enjoyed the last of the heatwave?’
‘That would be you.’
‘But I am you.’
‘Correct.’
‘You bastard.’
‘You know me so well.’
*boilk*
I was out yesterday, eating delicious food, so I didn’t see the hysterical Chelsea Sp*rs nonsense in real time. To be fair, it’s probably something I would have chosen not to watch anyway unless there was the guarantee of a catastrophic localised weather event or some kind of sinkhole which would have consigned everybody in the stadium to the centre of the earth.
However, I have seen clips of the Tuchel versus Conte stuff, and I admit I enjoyed it. It’s a shame they were separated really. As much as the Italian is full of bravado, I have no doubt that his counterpart would have won the fight. If you told me this morning that Tuchel had consumed human flesh that he cooked himself after hunting somebody down in a bleak, barren forest, I wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. There is something not right beneath that awful cap he sports.
I also think in circumstances like this, referees and officials should just stand back and let everyone have at it. Players, coaches, medical staff, that awful red-faced bloke who stands in the Stamford Bridge tunnel, let them fight to the death, or at least to unconsciousness. Sure, it wouldn’t be exactly the kind of image that the Premier League’s marketing people would want to send, but I doubt anything would ever draw as many eyeballs.
A last minute goal is sporting entertainment, but only really of interest to one group of people, and who cares what Tottenham fans think? An epic brawl, with fists flying, punches being thrown, and unquestionably some biting, would make the news the world over. I’d also just like to see who would be the guys to lash in a few kicks when someone was on the ground. I mean, I know it would be Kane and Son, we all do, but real-time video footage would be glorious before they were sent to jail for CGBH (Cowardly Grievous Bodily Harm).
Anyway, from an Arsenal perspective both of these noxious entities dropping points is a good thing. It’s just unfortunate that they both can’t lose, and hopefully the enmity between the two sides festers throughout the season until they meet again in the Premier League – and hopefully both cup competitions (over multiple replays) – and we get to the point where the battleground scenario above becomes reality. I would actually pay Sky a bonus if it happened and we could watch it in 4k.
Yesterday’s blog was very much focused on how good we were against Leicester, so I didn’t really have the time or inclination to say much about Man Utd. This morning, however, I feel it would be remiss of me not to mention it. Let’s be honest, we know what it’s like to have a bad start to the season, and we even know what it’s like to lose away at Brentford. That said, we were missing key players because of Covid and weren’t permitted to postpone the game.
We lost 2-0.
They lost 4-0 with everybody, and let’s be clear about this, that is hilarious.
I know we have to think longer-term, we understand that losing the first two or even three games in a season isn’t a guarantee that things will be terrible for the entire campaign, but it’s also important that we live in the moment and enjoy things for what they are.
I watched Match of the Day the other night and the highlights of Brentford 4-0 Man Utd were up there with the greatest comedies I have ever seen. David de Gea’s weak hands; Cristiano Ronaldo’s anguished face as he looks at Harry Maguire and thinks ‘I’ve been in football a LONG time but how is this person even possible?!’; and their tiny centre-half that we were going to play as a left-back; it’s up there with Airplane, Hot Shots Part Deux and Young Frankenstein as the kind of thing that I could replay over and over again.
I think Eric ten Hag is a good manager, and he’s the kind of appointment Man Utd should make as they look to try and restore very former glories. However, putting him in charge without the right executive structure is a bit like hiring a builder to do up your house, but instead of bricks and mortar and other useful elements, you hand him some straw you’ve chewed into a pulp, three tons of desiccated hippo shite, and a rusted spatula – not to mention that his slab-headed labourers don’t know one end of a two-by-four from the other. Long may this cursed project continue.
Right, I have to leave it there for now. James and I recorded the Arsecast Extra for you yesterday, and if you haven’t had a chance to listen yet, all the links you need to do so are below. Have a good one.
