Mark Burman
Today my 10 year old declared he no longer believed in Santa Claus, had evidence in fact from an older boy that it was just a grown up put on. Well the debacle at Wembley last month was a little like that for me. A crushing moment of revelation that dispelled once and for all the romantic notion that the Arsenal side that currently manifest themselves on this planet can actually be trusted to win anything - ever.
Before I get branded a premature defeatist, and this team are nothing if not early adopters of such a mentality as we watch them feeling oh so sorry for themselves post CC, just recall all those other end of season collapses once their heads go.
They’ll win matches, they’ll win matches brilliantly at times but the suggestion that they can win a trophy, win a championship, actually win when they have no right to win, as if their very souls as footballers depend on it, is as likely as the other bloke in red and white dropping down the chimney.
That momentous Wembley ricket was the equivalent of a loved one doing something so foul and terrible in front of an assembled throng of astonished onlookers, that words failed you - shame settled like a damp cloud in NW London, and it ain’t budged as far as I can see.
Add the fickle finger of fate, otherwise known as not buying in January, to leave us with the worst of all possible CB and goalkeeper line-ups and another inglorious route to another empty-handed season is opened up.
Since Wembley the thought of even watching those serial f*** ups again has been almost too painful to bear. I got lucky and had to go abroad and used the time difference to avoid what may become our annual Spanish whupping.
Barca games have come to resemble those Pinata parties beloved by the 4x4 classes nowadays where kids gather round the donkey and smash it until it pours out sweets. That’s us that is, pummelled into delirium until we collapse into a shapeless mess pouring out gifts.
So, I didn’t see that episode or the expected draw against Sunderland but returned home to watch an extreme parody of how to lose to Man Utd: a weakened Utd side at that, but Ferguson did tactics and sat back and waited…..
Ferguson’s Utd are the dullest, most functional unit in living memory and yet he gets maximum bob out of players that would no doubt sink in the mire in our side. All we actually needed was to bring them back to our place but out they went dashing around like milling weaklings before the class bully laid us out with one punch. All that was left was to confirm their spectacular ability to feel sorry for themselves with some kind of dreadful loss or draw to West Brom. Even a dead octopus could have predicted that.
For the first time in 5 seasons we pursued all 4 trophies and did no better than when we didn’t bother with the domestic Cups. We found out that a second string side that included Rosicky, Diaby, Denilson, Chamakh, Bentdner and Gibbs performed with such alacrity so regularly that they stunk out the Champions League, FA Cup and Carling Cup. And Wenger backed them all the way.
On paper that lot actually seemed like strength in depth - on paper. At least he can generate some player sales from that little bunch but can he explain how Chamakh went from hard working, useful striker who led the line for the first half of the season to a goal shy, anonymous, clueless bloke in an Arsenal shirt in the second half?
Was it merely his nose out of joint because RVP finally found two half decent legs to stand on for more than three weeks or something deeper and weirder? Gibbs is so knacked from injuries that he can neither defend or know when to get forward and seems utterly lost.
Diaby whose pea brain finally rattled out of his ear after the Toon sending off, which was the biggest indicator this season that nish was more likely than glory. Rosicky, who has bossed precisely one game away to Leyton Orient, a draw. Big game Bendtner who might have unjustly robbed Barca of the spoils but failed.
The sheer vanity and stubbornness of a manager and board declining to buy a decent but pricy centre back in January was a gift wrapped hostage to fortune given TV5’s mysterious injury remained so. Why is it the only gamble this club takes is over not spending? Winning a trophy, winning the league - priceless and damn the temporary overdraft.
To be honest this team and all variations thereof have been soft in the head and heart since the Invincibles threw their pizza around at Old Trafford.
It’s a testament to Wenger that he’s built a side out of kids and sticky back plastic to achieve top four and CL qualification ever since but that’s it - there ain’t no glory beyond that and for Arsenal it’s not really enough is it - its just a teeny bit hollow. Buy into the shiny world of elite football in an elite stadium, just don’t expect more beyond thrills, spills and tears before the season’s end. It’s a business plan and that’s all it is and there is nothing more to learn about this team - it’s a bust and Santa Claus ain’t ever coming down the chimney either.
So my 10 year old won’t ever believe again, hasn’t seen us win a trophy either yet. Perhaps by the time he has a son of his own a reforged Arsenal will have found the way to win trophies again and make this lot a distant, underwhelming memory.
Hark is that the sound of my even more expensive season ticket renewal form flopping through the door?
