I 8-2 inform you but...

Arsene, Arsene, Arse....

What the hell is going on? That’s the first time he’s ever selected a first XI using a tombola. I’m not sure what the team instructions were either... Let’s keep it shite for the first hour? Go out and depress yourself? It struck me that while United played a fluid 4-4-2, Arsenal played a 0-10-0 with everyone in the hole.
Wenger had his head in his hands before the game started.

Seriously though, I’ve never seen owt like it. You might say the senior players never really came out of their shells at Old Trafford. Of course invertebrates live in shells and this was as spineless a performance as you are likely to see from any team this season.

Arsenal’s great strength – passing, moving, creating – the chief architects of this at present are Arshavin and Rosicky. Like a stampede of horses being fronted by a couple of fat, gelded Shetland ponies.

Andriy and Tomas take a break during training

I’m just guessing that they sit around at training until Pat Rice looks over at ‘em and then they hurriedly break into a bout of gentle trotting til he buggers off again.

Arch victim of Sunday’s debacle was the lad Carl Jenkinson. He’s 19, and looks like he’s been left at Paddington station with a note a round his neck, bless ‘im. Walcott railed at him at one point, which must’ve made buoyed him up. After all there’s not enough space in the universe for what Theo doesn’t know about defending (witness the trip on Evra).

At least Jenkinson was trying, mind, until he became the third straight red card for Arsenal in the Premier League. Each one of them was making their full debut, I believe. Which suggests that the wearing of an Arsenal shirt involves some sort of Faustian pact in which you have to surrender 90% of your brain function.

There was a mitigating circumstance (not, mind you, the one about our boys being tired after midweek – Arsene goes to that option faster that an Allardycean centre-back goes to hitting it long).

No there were eight players out – or eleven depending on who’s doing the maths. Of those the big miss was Vermaelan, the only tent-peg in Wenger’s wind-blown canvass of a defence. Even the Belgian couldn’t have covered for the dithering of Djourou. He’s got all the strength and positional sense of a fledgling sparrow that’s fallen out of the nest.

Van Persie tried to look forward to the next game – home to Swansea, which has banana skin written all over it – and said the team gave of their maximum. Really? That’s the best they could do? Jeez, that might even call an audible ripple of discontent at the Emirates Library.

There was no Song, Wilshere and Gervinho; and Sagna, Gibbs and even Squillaci might’ve helped. But United don’t have Ferdinand, Vidic or Rafael available either. It just so happens that Ferguson has bought replacements – and good ones at that. And that is why this sorry drubbing leaves you pointing the finger at Monsieur Obstinate.



His squad has no depth, except in the matter of tiny midfield tippy-tappers. He’s had the whole summer to line up his targets in central defence, central midfield, centre forward... and he’s signed the Ivorian with the head of a river dolphin and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain who sounds for all the world like one of them promising English sprinters who turns to shite when he hits his twentieth birthday.

The good news is that Wenger has signed a South Korean who was very much on Fulham’s radar a couple of seasons ago. That’s where he’s at now, picking up Fulham rejects. South Korea must be the most recreational of countries – there’s Parks bleeding everywhere.

So, three days to get back on the trail of some decent players. Somehow you’ll be surprised if he manages to muscle Cahill or Samba over to the Emirates, whereas you just know Harry Redknapp’s going to be standing in front of the press on Thursday morning conjuring footballers out of every box, top hat and sleeve while Kevin Bond plays his Debbie McGee.

Not that Spurs haven’t got a worry or two. Two thumping defeats from Manchester outfits and Harry’s been bleating like a forlorn lambkin about all the transfer speculation surrounding Modric and Crouch. My heart bleeds, H. And Spurs being such a poverty-stricken club n all.

Daniel Levy appears to be the only person left in the country who thinks Modric is going nowhere. £40 million quid you’d get for him, Dan. It’s not like the money’d be wasted, is it? I mean you haven’t got Wenger for a manager.

Still while we crow about North London’s plight – HA! – it all means that the Manchester stronghold on English football has grown all the tighter. Those of us expecting Dzeko to turn from Ugly Duckling into Ugly Duck have been rudely surprised. Mancini’s got that side by the scruff of its neck and in Aguero, Silva and Nasri he’s got a little triangle of delight to rival any that you might have come across while late-night googling.

Meanwhile, Fergie’s latest vibrant rebirth, with Rooney very much at the delivery end, is a joy to behold. I’m not entirely sure about the success of the Wazza barnet, mind you. It still looks like a child has filled in the gaps with a felt-tip to me.

You can't help feeling if a comb-over was good enough for Sir Bobby then... respect the traditions, Wayne

It’s true to say that City’s success is built on obscene wealth while Fergie’s success is built on perceptive purchases and a canny youth squad. Oh, and obscene wealth.

Only Dalglish’s Liverpool threaten the Mancunian dominance, and even then that’s as a nettle threatens a carthorse. It could be a long few years for the ABM brigade.

Oh and re Usain Bolt’s false start and how we might have to change the rules... Bollocks, Mr KFC knew what the rules were and he fucked up. End of. Unless we want to give him his gold medal BEFORE the final and treat the race as his coronation.

As we say on Teesside 'Hard fucking cheese, you dopey bastard.'

Arsene's Goners?

Watching Arsenal thus far is like looking at a mantelpiece at a country manor. Every time Lord Wenger comes down for tiffin, another sterling silver candlestick has gone missing.

"Mon Dieu! Ou est tout le monde?"

The fledgling season has only one talking point thus far. Well you could bang on about Manchester City’s bright start, but why the fuck bother? A brain-damaged monkey knows that eventually the spending will reach a tipping point whereby there are so many decent players in the City squad that they simply can’t help winning the tile.

Mancini’s doing no one any favours by not picking Bonkertelli to start. Dzeko seems to be following the Drogba route to football stardom. One terrible lumbering season followed by a revelatory second effort – he looks as if he’s swapped his feet with Rodney Marsh’s at the moment. And Aguero looks very good indeed. But there’s summat rotten about the state of the Premier League when they can afford to keep Tevez, brooding like a betrayed Spaghetti Western extra, on the bench and still pay him a four-bed terrace in Hull a week.

Oh and there’s also Bill Kenwright, the Oliver Twist of the division, who can’t have any more from the banks to buy anyone. Everton’ll be all right but only cos Moyes works wonders. I bet if he has to paint a door at home he can do two coats using the contents of one tester pot.

But the travails of Arsenal are the real story. The team aren’t playing any differently, i.e, they keep it very well. But do we really want four midfielders who’ve been cloned from Tomas Rosicky? Van Persie is wafting around up front like a schoolgirl in a ballet class, primarily cos Arsenal have forgotten how to create chances.

The only plus so far is the proof of Vermaelen’s value to a back four that played like a bunch of revolving doors last season. That also suggests that Wenger doesn’t have to take a spotter’s guide with him when he goes looking for centre-backs.

Of course things could not have started much worse for Le Prof. Three suspicions already, the last for the comically-named Frimpong – which appropriately enough already sounds like some sort of fashionable and stupid haircut. Me I wouldn’t let the player on that pitch until he’s taken the gaffa tape off.

Here's Frimpong before his mates played that nasty stag night trick on his bonce

For all that the Frimp is a proper holding midfielder, but as with many of Arsene’s recent selections for that position, tackles like Paul Scholes in a blindfold. His second effort, in which he tried single-handedly to answer Liverpool fans’ dreams and transfer Lucas to somewhere in mainland Europe, was deserving of a straight red.

Nasri’s move to guess where is back on, and at Eastlands he can enjoy rubbing shoulders with the likes of several other millionaires who are content in these times of austerity to warm their arses on a subs bench and do half the work of a proper footballer for five times the pay. You can’t blame him, really.

So Arsenal’s cupboard is looking a tad bare, but there is £35 million to spend on someone and about nine days to throw it around. The Wenger wish-list is like one of them long lists that book prizes start off with. Latest front-runners are a bloke called Yann M’Vila and the lad from Lille who’s named after the serpent that hissed in Eve’s ear – the Eden Hazard.

A partner for Vermaelen should be top priority too and frankly it’s no good Arsene frantically rubbing the top of his head like a cold turkeying junkie, he should’ve bagged Gary Cahill already – and long before Cesc finally went home.

Perhaps this is where Wenger’s been least able to get his head around the new world order. Even Fergie didn’t faff about in the transfer market, such is the draw of the Abu Dhabi dirham. The Emirates is decorated by the shirts of greats that have gone before but the chances of Wenger bagging a so-called marquee signing are nil. In fact the possibility of him getting a beach-tent signing aren’t great.

And while we can indulge in a bit of schadenfraude at the Frenchman’s expense – and even that is difficult to maintain when the poor man looks as forlorn as a rain-drenched kitten – Arsenal’s difficulty in keeping hold of its players is a sign of a deeper malaise.

Wenger’s managed to keep a wage structure of sorts in place, and therefore attracted players who can by and large respect that sort of a thing. He’s had to let go of those that find £55k a week an insult, of course, but then if their sole motivation is money do you really want them hanging around? (It’s the same with them bankers we were told would leave the country if we hit them with a one-off tax on their bonuses – tax ‘em and wave the bastards off at the airport, say I).

Wenger is still a believer in bringing players through the youth system, Frimpong being the latest example. I think this is partly Wenger’s preciousness over the way his side must be schooled, but there’s summat endearingly old-fashioned and honourable about it, too.

And when you look over to Nasri’s next home you see a club that survived on a top-class youth squad now entirely overlooking such resources in favour of the latest arrival on the gravy train (one Pullman carriage each, all magnificently appointed with chunks of bling).

We keep hearing about the Chelsea kids too, McEachran especially, but he’s bench dressing still.
Here's Josh McEachran eager to get on the pitch and run rings round the opposition.

The only plus about Everton’s plight is that we get a 17-year old making a debut and looking tip-top from the start. That simply won’t happen at Chelsea or Citeh.

So I hope Wenger can keep 11 players on the pitch and find a way to turn it round, but if even Arsenal can’t find players who want to stay there, lack of trophies notwithstanding, then the Premier League is truly in the Age of Preposterity.

Dick Barton

The Premier League starts… with a whimper.

Thank Christ for Jabbering Joey Barton. It’s hard not to imagine him stepping out of a smashed shop window with a wide-screen telly in his mitts. Everything about the lad reeks of the kind of upbringing that would make an Old Etonian wince.

Of course Joey’s surprise appearance might be considered an attempt by the Geordies to put him in the shop window, but I don’t see anyone clambering over injured Malaysian students to get to the uppity Scouse muppet.

Incidentally, I don’t want to lace this whole blog with references to the lawless hoodied gits that rifled through the shops the other day, except to say that Cameron’s Big Society implied that communities be encouraged to ‘help themselves’ and this might have been misinterpreted.

Any road, it was good that the footy wasn’t postponed everywhere, even if that did allow Joey to do his ‘chippiest kid in the playground’ act.

‘Course Joey’s eloquent tweets seem to give the lie to his reputation of letting his feet do the talking, either with ball, or with the skull of someone who might not be to his liking. He’s got a bit of form with Arsenal following since Abou Diaby’s brainstorm last year when the big midfielder shook Barton around like a drinking straw, got sent off, and Newcastle grabbed an improbable 4-4.

Maybe that’s what was rankling with Alex Song when he used the lad’s calf as a doormat. While there’s a bit of you that, like the Cantona assault on a Palace fan way back when, says "‘kin right, son", there’s also that bit of you that thinks that there’s still a stampy, stropping underbelly to Arsenal that reflects the manager’s schoolgirl petulance.

And Gervinho hit the deck like an encyclopedia off a high shelf. I’m getting right miffed with the apologists that constantly suggest that cos ‘there’s contact’ a pen should be given. Depends on the contact, surely? Defenders will have to spend the whole season making sure that they cut any loose threads of their footy tops cos one waft of a tatty yarn is enough to bring a 6ft striker rocksliding to earth.

Barton was similarly outraged and grabbed Gervinho round the collar. While he was feeling around in his shorts for a cigar and a lighter the Ivorian managed to snake out the sort of slap that couldn’t have wafted the steam of a fresh cup of tea and, after a moment’s reflection, Barton turned into Rivaldo.

Plaintive cries of ‘He punched me, he punched me!’ followed. And Gervinho, forehead ballooning furiously over the tightest headband ever strapped round a human bonce, made a hasty exit. The twit.

Barton’s mark was made but at least contributed to the entertainment which is a damn sight more than the rest of his team-mates managed.

Pardew continued to be stout in his defence of the Shameless extra in the No.7 shirt, insisting that Barton wasn’t deserving of a red card. Then again Pards’s appearances on Match of the Day 2 have been strictly limited since he described a magnificent Michael Essien tackle by saying ‘He’s absolutely raped him,there.’

As Ken Clarke’ll tell you there are different levels of rape – apparently – but I still can’t think what Pardew thought he was saying. It was hard not to sympathise with Wenger’s assertion that the two tusslers should’ve got the same punishment, but maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if the Gooners hadn’t played with the usual clockwork passing patterns and yet finished with all the end-product of the post-Thatcher mining industry.

To be fair to Joey, which is a hard concept to embrace, he had a a top season for the Geordies last year and he is still a very decent midfielder. He’s a good passer, has a decent shot on him and rarely gets caught in possession – of the ball, anyway.

I have this horrible feeling that, given he’s more irritating than one of them tiny spiny fishes that swims up your cock in the River Amazon – and that he can more than string a sentence together – he’s being lined up by sports phone-ins and TV couches everywhere as the latest antagonist of the great British football fan.

In other words, stick him in crap clothes and a Kate Winslet wig and you’ve got Knobbie Savage. Or bring back that naff tash and you’ve got Gary Neville. And football needs its bruisers, its nutjobs, its preeners and primpers, its unhinged, one-eyed pillocks.

Still, it stirred up a weekend of timelessly pedestrian footy. United proved the value of having a goalscorer from the opposition, but didn’t look all that tasty. Rio, like some disobedient poodle, is back on the couch, Vidic is getting creakier too, and De Gea looks flakier than a Gregg’s sausage roll.

Torres looked lively but Chelsea still need an overhaul, the minnows did okay barring poor old QPR. And the worst aspect of the weekend’s games was the injury to Kieron Dyer. I mean I’ve never been a big fan of the lad but no one deserves his level of ill luck. By all accounts he’s been brilliant in training but put him on the pitch and his shins turn to celery.

Finally, the weekend was the crowning achievement of the England cricket team. That’s right, the ruthless oiled machine of the modern game is now England. Three cracking pacemen, a tidy old tweaker, a top six that could not only make a century but, in Cook’s case, bat for a century, and a keeper who counter-attacks like a bearded South African-English Gilchrist.

It’s just right pleasing really even if India’s bowling attack has all the edge of a chicken passanda. It’s only the silly old decent Englishman that wants Sachin to get that 100th hundred you know. Flower n Strauss don’t want the bloke getting so much as a sniff. Pitiless, they are. Isn’t it grand?