Psychic Predicts Arsenal's End To The Season

Good evening. I am still Jokman, your faithful ever-trying wordsmith. Today however, there is a massive difference. No, it’s not because I’m currently wearing my wife’s underwear. No, I took a class last week, fronted by none other than Scouse Spirit-botherer himself, Derek Acorah. I was anxious, you see. The Cup Semi (ha!), even the match Vs the Hammers, had taken it’s toll. I can’t rest knowing so much hangs on the next 4 games.

So, to the aforementioned class. It was held at the local Working Mens Club, Derek has fallen on hard times it seems. The twinkle-eared slime-cunt himself proclaims on the flyer that he can help me ”link up with the spirit plane and they can answer all lifes questions“. To cut a long story short, the room was filled with a musty smell and questions regarding lots of people with old names. Derek, ever the showman, took it all in his stride, resplendent in the finest white blazer from Matalan. Eventually we came to the lesson regarding linking in to the spirit world.  To say I was shocked was a lie (I’m obviously fabricating all of this sh!t in a vain attempt to make this interesting), but I’m now channeling the psyche of Bullsh*t Merchant Mystic Meg.

Our first conversation didn’t go too well.  I dived straight in with questions about Arsenal, she wanted verbal foreplay, small-talk.  Normally I pride myself on my social sparring, but I was given the equivalent of an astral middle finger. 

Here we are though, I’m currently hooked up to her Megness as I type, so please do forgive the odd grammatical error, she’s not exactly a whizz on the keyboard (cu^t). Steady Meggy. I hasten to add she’s got a mouth like a toilet on a flight to Adelaide. Anywho, we’ve been chatting and she’s given me the lowdown on what will happen, blow by blow, over the last few games of the season. I won't go game by game, but I’ll attempt to read her notes.  Her handwriting ain’t worth a sh!t. (C*ntBurger).  Sorry Meg.

Our next match Vs Newcastle. 

We will win this. The Toon will field John Carver as an emergency CF as PieceofP*ss Cisse is injured and Ameobi is shadowing as a flagpole. We win 4-1, with Olly showboating a little towards the end, attempting to slide his ever-ready tongue into a female fan in the front row. This sparks a melee, with Spartan Warrior Flamini receiving a straight red for dismembering Hatem Ben Arfa, who to be fair to him, was doing a dot-to-dot in the centre circle. A couple of Toon players also see red, as well as Pardew, who, upon seeing the scuffle on TV from his hotel, hails a cab to the stadium, barges in in full Roman Soldier regalia and punches who he thinks is The Ox. It wasn’t. It was Gibbs. The Ox also gets his marching orders, as the ref mistook him for Gibbs, who eye-gouged Coloccini.  John Carver scores a late consolation by headbutting Szczesny while he had both hands on the ball and then shoving him into the goal.  The ref didn’t see it. 

The game Vs WBA ends up with 3pts, but we lose 3 players to injury, adding to the missing ranks from the previous game. BFG, due to playing 89 games, simply downs tools after speaking to the Union and demands that after every game he should get a BunderEgg (the Deutsche version of a KinderEgg) and a massage from a German girl in lederhosen. As he goes to the sideline to discuss this, due to continued exertion, his hammy pops. Verminator slots in alongside Kos but it’s raining heavily and this plays havoc with his circuitry, frazzing his CPU and causing him to revert to Latino mode, a la Spanish Buzz Lightyear. He flamencos off the pitch. We see out the match with 10 men until Sanogo, making a small cameo, gambles through on goal, like Early Forrest Gump with the calipers still on. He suddenly stops, rips off his top to reveal a Royal Mail sigil emblazoned on his vest. He screams, ”This is my true calling!!” Before running off to his postvan with Jess the Cat. 

Down to the bare bones, we travel to the Canaries home ground, Carrow Road, with the hosts already relegated due to, in part, Fulhams and Sunderlands resurgence and Delia Smith leaving and taking her cash with her due to being embroiled in a "Coke swapped with Icing Sugar" scandal. We again take maximum points, helped by woeful defending and Rambo once more performing heroics. He grabs two goals, assists another for the now injured Podolski, before then succumbing to injury himself.  It’s later revealed that his bloodlust for victory caused him to forget that he earlier broke his ribcage in a collision with Arteta's hair. Arteta is now ruled out amongst the others due to shame for having a hair out of place. 

The Cup Final, Meg enlightens me, is everything we could hope for. We triumph in the Wembley sunshine. Our 292 fans who were able to get tickets witnessed a Cup miracle. So did the 60000 strong crowd watching it on the screens at The Emirates. Before the game, a huge group of fans protest at the ticket allocations, whilst amateur Referees, fans of Everton, Fulham et al, the nominees of Top Butcher in Windlesham 2014 and the Cast of Cats all swan idly by to take their place inside the stadium. I’m not bitter in the slightest. 

Due to the sheer amount of injuries and suspensions, Arsene is forced to field Zelalem, Olsson, Hayden, Toral, Ormonde-Ottewill and a host of other youngsters.  The only senior players to appear were a hastily-registered Steve Bould, Diaby, (who appeared in the last 3 mins of the Norwich game and broke a toe) and Sagna, who in recent tests with scientists, has been proven to be indestructible after his recovery from two broken legs. 

Set the scene. 94th minute. The youngsters gamely tried to unlock a congested Hull backline (and I’m not talking about Steve Bruces’ blood pressure…….BOOM!), but their legs tire, their youthful exuberance is on the wane after over an hour and a half of putting balls into the box that simply rebound off of Tum Huddlestones ample paunch.  They have run out of ideas. Up steps Abou Diaby. A personal favourite of mine on a more serious note, if you’ve read my earlier blog entries. After 93 minutes of being given a man-marking job on Huddlestone and then realising Big Tommy has a turning circle of Ann Widdecombe with arthritis in her neck, he’s still fresh. A last minute corner, delivered by Bouldy. Diaby, with a late surge into the box, bullets a header past John Ruddy. Pure vocal eruption. You can hear The Emirates from Wembley. The fatcats drop their avocados from their sandwiches. The WAGS drop their curlers. Arsenal WIN THE CUP. 

Sagna lifts the Cup. Cue the tickertape parade and the newspapers, taking a pause from their daisychaining over the Scousers League success, devote the back page to headlines of ”Plucky Hull thwarted by THEM" and ”Tigers victory denied by lucky Arsenal“. Diaby, the next day, does a 4-page interview with The Sun, then reveals that he was behind the shocking injury record at our club. Left with years of untouched weekly wages, he uses this to pay off the physios and masseurs to over-exert his team-mates. His raison-d’etre? After spending so long on the road to recovery, on the physios bench, he developed an addiction to baking. He started to bake in his recovery time and started a small cupcake business.  He needed unpaid help to stir the mixtures, so helped the players get injured so they could whip the mix whilst they received massages.  (I realise this is convoluted and tenuous, so I’d like to hear your own version of why Diaby wanted everyone injured, winner gets namechecked in the next blog, oooh). Arsene goes mental at this, but has grown attached to the overgrown lump, so just claims to be ”Littlebit perturbed, but Abou is a good boy“.

So there you have it. That panel at The Emirates next to the 2005 F.A Cup will be filled. My time with Meg grows misty and short, much like my hairline. She bids sayonara, but says not to forget to check the biscuit barrel in the cupboard, it holds a lost family heirloom. F*ck off Meg.

In all seriousness, even if my previous offer of a private dance with tassels for Final tickets doesn’t entice anyone, I would sacrifice what is left of my hair to see us lift silverware. All the gubbins I’ve typed above is just a futile effort to instill good vibes and take my mind off the worry. I’ll try to enjoy it. I’m off now, I need to find Derek to ask how to switch this ability to speak with the spirit plane off. Raoul Moat is coming through, asking if I’ve got some chicken and a blanket. What a c*nt, he thinks I’m Gazza.

@jokmanAFCTell us what you think! If you agree, or have a different view, please leave a comment in the comments section or why not write a response or your own article on YouWrite?

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