The FA Cup - Where were you when....
Saturday was here before I knew it. I finished my last shift at work early and now had two weeks off which only helped lighten my mood. I got home and my dad and I made our way down to my brother and his friend. As soon as we entered a cold cider was thrust into my hand. Sounds heaven for a normal bloke, but you forget that my idea of a good time is a few hours on my PS3, followed by copious amounts of food and a game of football on the TV. I gamely downed the noxious mixture ( I'm a whisky man ), and proceeded to waltz around the table like I was Steve Davis in his pomp. I won and won well. This day was going against the grain, it was indeed, going rather swimmingly. The time for kickoff was here, the nadir for conversation was upon us. Well for me anyway. Conversation is a stranger to me during games unless it's shouting out obscenities in tandem. I do enjoy a good bellow. By this time others had joined the fray.
All family friends, all familiar with my booming voice. This was a bonus, as after 8 minutes my voice was shot. I'd thrown all the expletives I could at the TV, and some new strange concoctions as well ( thanks to Goonersphere Pod for stretching my filth vocabulary ). My brothers friend was a huge Hammers fan, so was neutral. His brother, who is a top fella away from football, is a massive chavski fan. As neutrals, they could enjoy the spectacle. Boy, did they enjoy it. mantel loved chowing down on my mental anguish. My head was in my hands, my hands were clutching my thin strands of hair atop my bonce. Fist shaking. Chair-stamping. arm-waving. They feasted upon my nerves and pain like it was the finest foie gras. If I was in their position, I would've done the same. At the time though, fuelled by a rare imbibement of alcohol and the painful score, I was on the ropes.
People who have read my blog regarding the Semi Vs Wigan will recall the antics I subject myself to during times of duress. This was twenty times as terrible. I couldn't sit still, like someone had said that my new room mate was Piers Morgan. Until Santi pulled that miraculous set-piece out, I was in tatters. My self-confidence ebbing away, I was considering turning around and throwing my chair at the pair of tittering fools who supported our London rivals. I didn't care that they extended their hospitality to me, I wanted to purge my pain.
Once we had pulled a goal back and got to H/T, I had a loo-break and several splashes of cold water. I had chosen the '89 jersey to wear, but it's material felt like it was designed to make animals indigenous to tropical settings sweat. I told myself that we were the Arsenal who had a team studded with the finest creative talent. I still prayed three times to Bergkamp though, pleading for an equaliser.
Kos, you beautiful Gallic bastard. When he turned home the loose ball in the 6yd box, I whirled round to the now giddy taunters, ripped my top from my gaudy white torso and threw it down on the floor like an American Football player who was in the endzone. I kissed them both with a mixture of joy and relief. Thank Dennis. You saved us from enduring another season of trpphy drought jibes. You rescued us from Jose Mourinho gifs popping up on twitter. I eventually, after doing a few laps of the pool table topless like a stripper on speed, donned my lucky jersey ( I had my Patrick Vieira socks on and my lucky Arsenal boxers for good measure ) and sat shakily back down.
