There was a period in history when I used to do this all the time – bloggy blogging, I mean. Some might even have referred to me as reliable or prolific with whispered tongues, huddled around the respective camp fires of Arsenal discussion. Or perhaps, they thought of me as that lanky, Bristolian imbecile who rattled on incessantly about nothing in particular. Either way, I’ve not been seen upon the screens of your devices for quite some time. During that period, much has changed., ranging from my area of residence to my employment status and responsibilities. Both of which have contributed greatly to the lack of anything resembling a printed word popping up here.
But that, delicious readers, is set to change. I’m now settled and ready to park my backside back upon the proverbial horse of blogging, and, by the trident of Neptune himself; you’re in for a delight…
The one topic of note that’s caught the attention of yours truly the past couple of days is the treatment Mesut Ozil receives across the media.
For reasons unfathomable to myself, I like to listen to TalkSport during my daily commute. I don’t particularly like the station, nor do I have the stomach for it’s ‘lad’ culture and general neolithic attitude. Yet, I’ll always tune in, perhaps in a manner similar to passing a car crash on the motorway – you know you shouldn’t look, but something inexplicable inside compels you to do so. Point being; it’s one of the main places you’ll here complaints about his body language and attitude on the pitch.
Mostly, the bone of contention amongst some of the ‘personalities’ (I used that word as loosely as is possible) is Mesut isn’t the type to “go to war for the team” nor does he show the ‘passion” needed to guide a team to title glory. And it’s this opinion that riles me. Admittedly, the majority of what you hear on TalkSport is purposely inflammatory; radio presenters with little or no redeemable qualities and teetering on the precipice of being obsolete utilise striking opinion to get themselves noticed. Controversy, in this day and age, sells far quicker that being rational or thoughtful. I know all this when I listen, yet, being a touch hot-headed and silly, I allow it to irk the sh*t out of me. And it does so because it is a thoroughly idiotic opinion to have, whatever the reason for having it may be.
When we purchased Mesut Ozil, I thought to myself about what he’d bring to the team; guile, intelligence and the ability to create chances. That is what we paid the money for. At no point did I hope he’d become a modern day Terry Butcher and be seen upon the Emirates pitch, barking orders, flying into tackles and organising the midfield all whilst a rag stemmed the heavy flow of blood from his head. Simply, he isn’t that type of player, he never has been and he damn sure never will be. We didn’t buy him to do any of those things and it is, quite frankly, ludicrous to expect them of him.
He’s in the team to create chances for the team. That is what he does. Yes – his attempt to defend the cross which lead to Ashley Williams’ winner on Tuesday night was feeble. But what the f*ck do people expect? He isn’t a defender. He won’t be winning challenges in the box. It’s not what Mesut Ozil does. It’s not what David Silva does. It’s not what Neymar does. It’s not what Eden Hazard does. It’s not what Christiano Ronaldo does. I’m yet to see an example of journalists creating a storm of sh*t because one of the aforementioned hasn’t thundered into a 50/50 challenge in the centre circle then pumped their fist at the crowd.
But Mesut Ozil is an easy target for lazy radio personalities because he does carry that air of petulance about him. At times, I do wince when I see that unmistakable teenage shrug of dissatisfaction when a pass goes awry, but that initial pang of resentment disappears quickly as I immediately think, “That’s just who he is, and the guy is f*cking brilliant on the ball and with what he can do that I don’t especially care”. Neither should you.
That’s all for today, folks. Maybe you’ll leave me a comment in the handy section below. Maybe you won’t. I shall spend the next 7 hours eagerly refreshing the page to see what happens. The excitement may be too much to bare.
As always; thanks for reading, you beautiful bastards.