Comfortably the worst part about typing today’s entry is the sense of deja vu I have. When freakish results occur, banishing them as quickly as possible from memory is simple. After all, they’re just one of those things that happens. When an eye-gaugingly bloody awful performance away from home occurs 3 times within the same season, you have to start to ask questions.
Where did it all go wrong?
When you write an Arsenal blog you’re expected to have answers, or to “put a positive spin on what’s occurred”. In other instances, your followership gleefully click on the latest entry to read a lambasting of everything from the team to the manner in which biscuits were distributed as tea is served. I intend to do neither, mainly because gleaning any positives from that result is an impossibility and I’m far too tired of all the hatred and anger to contribute to any of it. All I can offer with any certainty is my feeling of dejection having watched what is unquestionably the worst Arsenal performance of my supporting life.
Each player on that field needs to examine himself mentally and ask why they were unable to raise their game on such a monumental occasion for a man the majority claim is like a father figure. To be that bad, that abject, on a day of rejoice, during a vitally important fixture is bad enough. To have done it 3 times now ranks somewhere entirely beyond my comprehension.
Questions will be asked and rightfully so. The impact that defeat could have in the long term doesn’t bare thinking about at this point. My emotions are in such a state of bewilderment that as I’m writing this I realise it probably doesn’t make a great deal of sense and is all over the place.
It’s hard to pick out any players for fault as all were woeful, but I have to mention Olivier Giroud. I’ve made no secret of my reason for defending him in the past when under fire, but today I would have to agree with the vast majority of assessments. He was sh*t. In fact, he was that sh*t that I think the sh*t he has been on occasions in the past was eaten by some sh*t and then that sh*t had a movement, creating more sh*t made from sh*t and that sh*t was the sh*t Olivier was on the day. He was sh*t’s sh*t.
This post may now just descend into me swearing.
F**k. C**k. P**s. F**k and f**kity c**t.
Truth is folks; I’m absolutely at a loss today for words. What do you say after that? Once again Arsenal have been found wanting when it mattered most. At this stage, it’s fair to say the league title is way beyond our grasp and we’re in for another season of nervously hoping we can secure 4th. Mercifully we do have the FA Cup semi-final to look forward to, but I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if we found ourselves 5-0 down to Wigan after 3 minutes with Arteta being sent off for a tackle Vieira made 10 years ago.
I was going to try a extract some positives but quickly realised that was an astonishingly stupid idea. It would be like running around Hollywood trying to convince studio executives making an upbeat musical interpretation of Hitler’s life entitled “It’s Poland Or Bust!” would be a huge box-office draw.
Instead, I think I’ll just bash my head against a wall until I’m unconscious and hope that the entirety of the game doesn’t play in my nightmares. It probably will. All that is left for me to do now is to offer an apology for the absurd and rambling nature of this post and point you toward the comments section; an area in which I’m sure there will be colourful language and all kinds of fury.
Tomorrow I’ll take some medication and return with something a little more informative. Consider what you have just read as an insight to the mood I’m in. Until then, and as always; thanks for reading, you beautiful bastards.
As I’m in such a sh*t mood and would like a little cheering up, here are some kittens. I like kittens, they make me smile.
Look at them. They’re adorable. They look so innocent and bereft of bitterness. I bet that one on the far left with the focused, coiled-spring look about him would do a job up front. I reckon he’d be excellent chasing balls of string passed over the defender’s shoulder. The one centrally looks hard as f**king nails. Perhaps a DM for next season?
Oh just f**k off…