Flirting With Carpet & Arresting Our Beloved Club...

Let’s be honest, there isn’t really anything else I can write about is there, other than the semi……..hrmph.

I sit here, ensconced in sweat. It’s Monday, early evening and I’m typing after just finishing exercises that my lungs and heart, after a lifetime of smoking and a staple diet of battered Mars Bars and questionable sheep offal, are struggling to deal with. Much like Oscar Pistorius’ Defence Attorney. The strange thing is, if I rewind my mind to Saturday and the semi (Ha!) I was in exactly the same physical condition, minus the typing.

I was too busy intricately lacing my rosary beads around one hand and painting Henna tattoos that enhance luck on the other (I’m f**king talented with my hands). At one point in the game, I think it was about 10mins after conceding and watching another attack crash upon the jagged cliffs that were Crainey and Boyce (Marleeeene!!), I attempted to place my head inside the carpet. Seeing as I have a bald spot the size of a small principality, I thought carpet burn to the scalp would be the least of my worries. Besides, the carpet seemed warm and comforting, an arm wrapped around my disconsolate shoulder as my wracking sobs filled the empty room. Ah, carpet, you’ve always been a good friend, let me escalate this friendship by inserting my head into you. Obviously it didn’t work. One, I looked up after a minute of trying as The Ox went on a run in an attempt to crack open the World Class defensive unit that is Wigan. Two, the carpet shunned me. It won’t respond to texted offers of a quick Shake ‘N’ Vac either, the f**king harlot. 

At another point in the game, we started having a promising spell. It certainly wasn’t the 1st half. I thought to myself, the position I’m sitting in right now, with my hands under my thighs yet gripping my ankles as I sit cross-legged, must be karmically-correct. Sort of a Feng-shui, approved by the Universe sort of deal. I will sit like this and this scoreline will change in our favour. After five minutes of sitting like an amateur Dhalsim I realised that I’m a f**king idiot. A desperate idiot. That is a dangerous combination. 

When Per (who my love for has really escalated, to the levels where I would find out where he gets his hair cut and collect his hair clippings, thus completing my BFG shrine) scored the equalizer, it was one of the most cathartic moments I’ve experienced. My guttural screams, so primal, were so vociferous that my dog scarpered and my neighbour banged on the wall. I think, in the process, I broke a part of my throat. Whenever I get to a game, the day after my voice takes on a husky tint as it attempts to recover from the ravaging of singing ”We love you Arsenal, We do” repeatedly. It’s not very often I break my throat when at home. 

Then we come to the Penalties. Spot Kicks. The Lottery. Except it isn’t down to luck. It was pointed out by a greater mind than I that when it comes to PK’s, technique, coolness under pressure and a talent to perform under such rigours all add up to a winning combination. So true. If that was the case, why were 99% of us Gooners praying to whatever Holy Entity that seemed applicable (I uttered some swear words and a heartfelt ” F*CK*NG PLEASE”!!!! to the guy from the Scotch Porridge Oats ads). On paper, our squad of established internationals and thoroughbred Premier League stars should be able to flick it in the onion bag with one f**king testicle. Not until our diminutive Spaniard knocked in the decisive spot kick did I stop contorting myself or articulating expletive-laden prayer mantras. What followed was a thing of pure majesty. I double-fist pumped and let out a roar from the soles of my feet that blazed up through me until it blitzed through my cracked oesophagus. The noise, coupled with my broken voice, was loud enough to render all family members to hate me simultaneously. 

We’ve all witnessed titanic tussles, games that hung on a knife-edge, matches that had so much in the balance, really carried weight etc.  Every fan can tell you of an experience that runs in tandem with being put through the wringer by either incompetence from a former hero or an opponent that seems to have forged an alliance with the Lucky Charms Leprechaun prior to kick-off. I honestly can’t remember feeling so exhausted and rinsed by a game before. Also, imagine how the people lucky enough to be present at the match felt? They didn’t have the luxury of fondling carpet or practising f**king yoga. They had to either stand or sit and watch the drama unfold. I salute you for that and I hope the many tankards of ale you imbibed post-match healed the psychological wounds you suffered. I was at work the next day, starting early. I didn’t exactly win Communicator of the Year. I was a husk of a man. Is there justification to explain why this match raised so much merry hell? Why it left so many of us in a maelstrom of emotion? I was so elated by the progress to the Final, that is all that mattered ultimately. I was also the f**king Hulk, so enraged at points in the match, especially just after conceding. 

There are stock phrases that are synonymous with our club.  One of them is that ”We never do it the easy way“.  F*ck me, that phrase should have sponsored this game. I can honestly declare I didn’t enjoy the occasion, but the high points will stay with me for quite some time. 

How long did it take me to start worrying about the West Ham game? About half an hour. Our talismanic players looked shot, like they had just done the marathon with Michael Owen as a running partner, the boring shite. How would they recover from such a physical assault? I only watched the game and I struggled to climb stairs, never mind a high-intensity, pressure-laden football match. Time for ice-baths. Time for isotones, time to call Lance Armstrong, I’m sure he’s got some tips for recovery. Either way, with so many players currently playing Twister with our physio and regular massage-table barnicle Diaby, even putting out a competitive XI is going to require some wrangling. I’m putting out a shout for Akpom and Olsson, maybe even Eisfeld, but if our Little Mozart is back he would be the preferred option.  F*ck it, I’m off topic. I’m not here for tactics. 

I’ll wrap this up now as I think everyone has been put through enough trauma to last a thousand Eastenders Christmas Specials. I’ll leave you with this though.

Before doing my current job and previous job as a bailiff (I was the smallest in the UK I bet, with the biggest heed), I was a Copper. A Rozzer. The Filth, The Fuzz etc.  I obviously studied hard to get into that position and after the game and talking to some of you fine people on Twitter, I recalled a part of the Public Order Act from Year Nineteen Biscuit.  This is strange as I can only recall Arsenal results and random film quotes (WELCOME TO THE PARTY PAL!!!) normally, but this popped into my brain like a Catholic Priest into a Choirboy.  To contravene Sect.5 of the Public Order Act, you have to cause ” harassment, alarm, or distress”.  This would mean that Arsenal Football Club could hypothetically be arrested for causing hundreds of thousands of incidents of the contravention of Sect.5.  Book ‘em Danno. 

I’m off to shower and then stretch before the West Ham game. It’s another huge match, with so much riding on it.  No doubt I’ll be practising Yoga once more and attempting foreplay with our rug. Get the Polis on the blower love, I’m distressed already.

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