Christmas craziness is almost at an end. When the horrors finish, more of my time will be dedicated to blogging. It’s been a bloody nightmare these past few weeks. Take today for example. This post was written the night before, as you’re reading this I’m making the 160-mile round trip from Bristol to Swansea because the DVLA have seen fit to make me take a ridiculously pointless test on my car. After that, I’m working until 10pm. The chances to blog are few and far between, and days like today have been all too frequent.
In addition to all the working, I’ve had my podcast duties to attend to, and yesterday I finished recording the Goonerphere Christmas Special with Daniel Cowan. We’ve come up with some good stuff, and I hope you’ll have a listen.
Mercifully, I have an abundance of Twitter chums who like to pen articles, and my favourite recalcitrant little Scotsman, the wonderful Dyllan Munro, has taken a few minutes of his time to write me this beautiful little entry.
Enjoy, and make sure you follow Dyllan on Twitter.
The Death Of A Gooner
He sat there frantically pounding at his keyboard as the tears rolled off of his face. First he had had to endure the pounding humiliation of a defeat at Old Trafford and now this. He, blessed with superior tactical insight and an understanding of the game that we mortals couldn’t possibly comprehend, was forced to watch his beloved team succumb to the oil-powered, coverer of human rights violations that is Manchester City. How could he possibly accept that his team was plagued by an incompetent officiating team at the stadium with the best home record in the league? This wasn’t what he signed up for when Arsenal signed Özil…
Ever since he first watched the Gunners at Sunderland he felt an overwhelming sense of belonging he had not experienced at any other of the multitude of teams he had supported. The way Özil caressed the ball reminded him of the silky manner in which he slipped pills into unsuspecting girls drinks in nightclubs. He was enamoured with such an attacking team and was convinced the league title was a mere formality and that it may as well be awarded now. His choice of club for the season was further proven to be inspired as Arsenal swept away the might of Borussia Dortmund and Napoli.
A slight blip at West Brom & Chelsea was to be ignored as we were still riding high on our other victories and He was content to boast online how he had always supported “Wenga” and never doubted him. Goal after sublime goal was smashed into the opponent’s nets and the Arsenal juggernaut soldiered on. Then the first incident occurred. Arsenal’s plague ridden side were defeated at Manchester United and He was distraught. A team managed by David Moyes had overcome the giant of North London. He did all he could to remedy the situation including online vitriol and calls to various radio shows issuing decrees stating that we must buy to compete.
Inspired by his words the team responded and once again began winning and looked fully deserving of their place at the top of the Premier League table. A draw to Everton enraged him so much that he slaughtered the first child he saw. Then came that fateful afternoon at the Etihad. A poor defensive performance combined with refereeing ineptitude left Arsenal on the embarrassing side of a 6-3 result. That led to our protagonist’s current dilemma. Should he stay in this life supporting the Arsenal or should He do the unthinkable? Following news that Mertesacker had shouted at Özil he made his decision to end it all.
Out of his apartment shed he charged to buy the instrument of his demise. Through the sodden streets he ran and into the shop he dashed. He found what he had been searching for and took it to the counter to pay. As he looked at the item which would destroy this Gooner the cashier asked if he would like anything else. “Yes”, Our Hero demanded, “Put Terry on the back of it”. As he exited the shop he glanced at the shirt which now adorned his chest. He had stood by The Arsenal for as long as he could he reasoned, and swore a solemn vow never to return unless the club was celebrating the title in May.
As always: thanks for reading, you wee beautiful bastards.