When proud Empire Adventurer Sir Edmund Hillary, and his able assistant and rope carrier Mr. Norgay, reached the summit of Extended Britain’s highest mountain, Everest, the delight could not have been matched by the elation experienced by Arsenal’s fine players this weekend last when they vanquished not only England’s greatest team, but Europe’s, the world’s, and until they find a Martian version of Steven Gerrard, surely the galaxy’s greatest club.
Lest we forget, Liverpool Football Club are by some margin the most elegant, powerful and historical club in the history of football. Every year, senior figures from such lesser clubs as Real Madrid, Barcelona, Bayern Munich, Internazionale & Juventus all meet up in full Liverpool kit for what is known as the annual Homage to the Greatest Club the World Has Ever Known Supper, held in the Victim Suite at the Holiday Inn Express at Junction 4 on the M57 at Knowsley.
The key rule for the evening is that after every sentence each venerable speaker utters, as a kind of Amen, the speaker has to say Five Times, which is then repeated by the audience. Lucky guests hear such psalms as “We are here to pay homage to the world’s greatest club and its players such as Djimi Traore and Neil Ruddock. Five Times,” “Brendan Rodgers has a painting of his own face on display in his house. Five Times.” and “We burn shirts. Five Times,” “It is never ever our fault. Five Times,” “We give thanks and praise for Andy Caroll. Five Times,” before an effigy of Sammy Lee is ritually frottaged by the great and good of world football. Yet who could have foreseen that despite Liverpool winning 40 consecutive Premier League titles they would be humbled by little old Arsenal.
It was more than a touch agreeable to see their arse wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper and handed to them, whilst a brass band played the old Noel Coward classic ‘Here is your Arse, Scousers’ in an overwhelmingly delightful display last weekend. Has there ever been such a puking miscreant as Mr. Rodgers? Records suggest he is in his early forties and yet he looks at least twenty years older, perhaps even as old as Mr. Kanu. He is forever scribbling on his little pad like an inmate at the County Asylum. What did he write in his crayon on Saturday? “We are getting well beat” “This is bad” “There are three names in this envelope, and all of them are Brendan Rodgers.” Who knows? It was apparent that the fishified little toad was rendered completely insensible by the time the referee mercifully puffed on the silver snail to end Liverpool’s grating misery.
Three splendid European Coffin Nails* in eight wonderful minutes were supplied by Messrs Bell, Orwell and Saunders, but special mention should go to sleeper agent Kolo Toure, who assisted in all three. Poor Kolo. Once a rampaging, roaming centre half in the mould of the love child of The Incredible Hulk and a flamethrower, he is now reduced to supplying comedically puzzled facial expressions as proper footballers run around him.
The Chicken’s Entrails** were there for all to see as Mr. Cousins fizzed one towards Mr. Filet-Mignon in Liverpool’s goal, and a somewhat wayward Mr. Ramsara effort. But the first goal was a thing of classical beauty. Mr. Orwell, opting to play in white tie and tails, received the ball in the centre circle. He lit up a Boyard’s Caporal Ordinare, tipped his top hat to a filly in the West Upper, and sent one forward to our Senegal Sir, Mr. Ramsara, who spotted Harry Bell galloping upfield at the speed of the Flying Scotsman. Off the lad went, seemingly saluted by the Liverpool defence before switching to Flanders*** to plant one in the Scousers’ onion bag.
Number two was dispatched from a free kick by Mr. Orwell, who had invited a concert pianist onto the pitch to play some Chopin to accompany the strike. Over Smokers’ Corner**** it went for two nil. The third, from Whizzbang Saunders, slightly concerned me. I do not think Mr. Saunders has slept since his arrival at Woolwich, such is his desire to play football. They keep him chained up at London Colney, throwing him the odd Spurs Under 12 or some other kind of vermin to feast upon. I fear that when he finally sleeps, it shall be for some weeks. After Oranges***** Liverpool tried to get back in it and pulled one back from Nelson’s Eye****** but Goring-Hildred restored the Holy Trinity******* when he sprinted onto a return pass from Cousins, Jumped the Stile Into the Meadow******** and bent one round Liverpool’s Glove Butler*********.
And so to Burnley. I am reading that the mythical Abraham Dolby is available for the first time since 1984. As is Matthew Matthews, and Mr. Arkwright. Indeed, the only first team injury is Mr. Oxlade-Chamberlain, who wrenched a testicle at billiards last week. Truly, this season is quite the oddest in living memory.
Five Times.
* Three goals that end a club’s European ambitions
** An early goal attempt indicating a deep desire to win the match
*** One’s left foot. As opposed to Swann, one’s right
**** The Defensive Wall
***** Half time
****** The Penalty Spot
******* A three goal margin
******** To find space in an attacking move
********* Goalkeeper
