One man team?

By Celine Dion
October 16 2011

I don’t like Sunday games. Especially the ones at 1.30.  One thirty on a Sunday is time to be eating a large Roast Chicken, or lying comatose on the sofa surrounded by your kids watching the Hollyoaks Omnibus. But we have to do our duty, so I set off at 1030 in good time for the game, it was a warm autumn day, and the birds were singing cheerily in the trees.

Sunderland is a team that I enjoy watching, they always bring a lot of fans down, perhaps the day would hold exciting possibilities. The first sign that it probably wouldn’t was when I arrived at the train station and discovered that trains were only going as far as Romford before depositing us on a bus service that, had I taken it, would have seen me arrive at the Emirates at about 4pm. I had checked the engineering works website, but obviously not carefully enough, as the pie faced woman in Billericay stations ticket office pointed out to me. Never mind. Thankfully at present I am on speaking terms with her, so a quick call to the wife, who was about to take the kids swimming, and I was getting a lift to Basildon, to use Essex’s other train line into London.  

A mere hour and a half after my setting out, 12pm, and I was on the slowest train known to man(or woman. Ed), travelling at a leisurely pace through the wilds of Upminster and Barking, to arrive sluggishly at Fenchurch Street at about 1245. Thoughts of a leisurely drink and perhaps a few calls to like minded persons were fast evaporating, but not to be disheartened. I was ready for anything, my internet phone thingy told me that on Sundays most useful tube lines are all cancelled, so having planned the next stage of my journey like Jack Bauer, I alighted from the train as soon as the doors opened, vaulted the ticket barriers, and sprinted out into the quiet City streets ,with the objective of  hailing a taxi.

After 10 minutes of wandering hopelessly through the Minories I found one, and leapt inside. Calculating that the quickest way to the ground might be via Kings Cross tube, I bade the taxi driver take me there, but as he drove me through the winding streets of London, I realised that we were at the Angel, so I jumped out, and leapt upon a bus. The bus wound slowly through the Islington roads, people got on and off, with little bags of Champagne and truffle oil, eventually, I gave up the entire idea of public transport and exited into the Holloway Road.

 A light jog through the park and a saunter through the winding domestic streets of Highbury and I finally reached the theatre of Disappointments at 13. 29. Wheezing through the turnstiles I decided that I certainly deserved a beer. What could possibly happen in the first couple of minutes of a football match, I reasoned with myself. The roar of the crowd as I took the first sip of overpriced frothy weak lager told me that not for the first time that day, I was wrong.

Deciding to take my seat in case I missed any other match day moments, I ventured out into the clock end lower. The crowd, as usual nowadays, was subdued, but for a couple of chaps who had clearly arrived with a lot more drinking time in hand than I had. When Arsenal get an early goal, there’s always something in the back of your mind that says ‘Getting goals are easy. See? Thats’ how easy, we’re going to win 10-0’. But harsh reality was restored little by little.

One man team?

Arteta and Rosicky, whilst looking every bit like competent and busy midfielders, don’t actually do anything. Whereas Fabregas and Nasri used to make quick, snap decisions and drive errors out of the other team, these chaps slow everything down to a leisurely pace just the way the other team like it. Gervinho, a dreamy, lackadaisical player, joins in, clearly in sympathy. Song had been taking passing tips from Aaron Ramsay and was spraying balls out of play wily-nily. Walcott jumps about like a greyhound itching to get out of the traps but never actually gets out of them.  Jenkinson is a scapegoat to many of us, but actually he was one of the better players today. Fast, wholehearted, and with a wicked low cross. Shame we don’t have anyone to get on the end of it.  There is only Arsenal player in the team in the minute, we are effectively a one man team. For how long, who knows.

It was no great surprise when Larsen scored the equaliser with a free kick. He looked decent, actually, as did Sessegnon. The fans tried to bait each other but it was pretty half hearted. They hadn’t bought many down, and we don’t have any decent baiters in the Clock End Lower.  The best song was my own, ‘Thank you very much for taking Bendnter, thank you very much, thank you very very very much’. Nobody else sang it.

I went for a beer.

Spot of bother

In the second half, the empty seat next to me was taken by a boisterous gentleman in a magnificent green coat, a friend of the people behind. As Arsenal experimented with a succession of truly horrendous free kicks, we placed bets upon where the next one might end up. Club level, top tier, Wengers’ bench and so on. I absent-mindedly picked a spot on my face, it started to bleed. The gentleman helpfully pointed out where to dab it.

Arsenal, going through the motions, but building up a head of steam against a team, a poor Sunderland side who were keener on collecting bookings than goals, started to gain the upper hand. Arshavin and Benayoun breathed life into the midfield. If you find yourself saying that Arshavin and Benayoun are breathing life into your midfield, then your midfield is shit. Nevertheless we got a free kick. I told the man in the green coat that Van Persie was going to stick it in the top right corner. He did. The man in the green coat dug his nails into my chest in our collective goal celebration. It hurt.

The game ended. I tried to ring people to see if they wanted a beer, but my phone wouldn’t work. It was time to go home really. In the tube, I asked some Sunderland fans what they thought of Bendtner. They quite liked him. ‘He isn’t good enough for your level ,mind’ they said, in their delicious accents. ‘Our level and your level are much the same nowadays’ I countered. There was a silence.  They knew I was right, but were too polite to say.

This is what we are looking at for the next few years my friends. Mediocrity. Turning up at the ground late. Missing goals, not seeing another one. You will look forward to each game as if something new and exciting will happen, you will hurry to the Emirates, hopes will be high, Van Persie might put us 1-0 up if he is still wearing the red and white, or snatch a winner, but reality will catch up with you in the end.

The Arsenal of today are pedestrian and will disappoint you, much like our lives will in fact.