Toon Insert A Tazar Up The Arsenal

I spent much of the weekend struggling to resist the temptation to gloat over Spurs defeat at Goodison, for fear of tempting fate. But with seemingly little tread left on the three wheels of the wobbly White Hart Lane wagon and with the auld enemy leaving the door wide agape, for the Gunners to be able to whittle a massive ten point gap right back down to one (all within the space of a sensational 16 days), I strolled around to the ground last night after a gorgeous, sun-soaked Spring day in the capital, increasingly convinced that Pardew’s Barcodes were bound to rain on our parade. I was pessimistically predicting that it wouldn’t be completely out of character for us to fall flat on our Arse as we attempted to cross the threshold into a fantasy land that was less credulous than Narnia only a few short weeks back.

Pardew does appear blessed with the ability to galvanize his troops, but Tiote & co. set about putting a muscular spoke in the Gunners’ engine, with such physical intent that they forgot to play football. Yet where we’ve been bullied out of our rhythm in the past and wilted under similar pressure, there are promising signs of hardier Arsenal perennials amongst this season’s crop, in the likes of Walcott and Rosicky rediscovering a willingness to resist all efforts to steal their sunlight.

However, as evidenced by the electrifying response, both on and off the pitch, in some respects, it was probably fortunate that Ben Arfa found the back of the net with the Toon’s solitary moment of fluid football. It was as if a Tazar had been inserted up the Arsenal.

I’ve been touting my own “Pay him what he wants” version of the Van Persie “scores when he wants” ditty. Yet in spite of Robin’s almost instantaneous rejoinder, by his own stratospheric standards, this was a decidedly bad day at the office. The longer the Geordies resisted the fairly relentless, second-half waves of red & white pressure, the more I began to fear yet another "coulda, woulda, shoulda" conclusion.

However as we wallowed in the post-match euphoria of Tommie Vermaelen’s tremendous last gasp triumph, it was my neighbour who pointed out that if one didn’t know any better, you might conclude that the denouement of this campaign had been specifically designed to “pump up the volume” at what was previously our far too passive new home.

All too often in the six seasons since the move, I’ve had cause to complain about the sterile atmosphere and our theatre-like audience’s inability to influence games, in the manner that we’re accustomed to at more fervent grounds. How gratifying it is that in the space of the past three matches, the Grove seems to have suddenly found it’s voice. Quite apart from refusing to accept a draw, with the crowd’s contribution in roaring the team on to this victory and the North Bank successfully sucking the ball into the back of the net, I’m convinced we had a definite influence on the addition of those five vital minutes of injury time, with our relentless and somewhat OTT objections to Krul eeking out the clock with every goalkick.

I had some sympathy for the likes of Ben Arfa and Cabaye, as they spent the second half, watching the ball sailing over their heads for the few brief moments that the visitors retained possession. With Pardew paying such devoted homage to the Harry Bassett school of percentage foot(head!)ball, in the end it was poetic justice that our panache won the day. Not to mention being one in the eye for so many of the Emirates’ premature evacuators. I had a couple of irritating tourists sitting on the other side of me, yapping the entire game through. I couldn’t help but feel that in their unfathomable efforts to beat the queues at the station, they’d got exactly what they deserved, by missing out on such a magical climax.

Meanwhile I couldn’t help but spare a thought for all my mortified Spurs mates, watching with their fingers prematurely poised on the text message “send” button, counting their cockerels as the 90 minutes came and went. They should take comfort in the fact that there’s likely to be plenty of twists & turns still to come in such a topsy-turvy season.

Don’t ask me how, but having miraculously managed to gain a foothold on 3rd place (with the likes of Santos, Diaby and Wilshere still waiting in the wings), the big question now is that with little else to fight for, can we continue to maintain the same focus and intensity, for the sort of positive sprint-finish that can truly provide Van Persie with sufficient promise for his future?

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Mind That Gap!

Hi folks,

I hate having to file my missive for the Examiner on a Monday, for publication on Wednesday, after tonight's game. Although in this particular instance, it doesn't really take the faculties of a seer to be able to predict the outcome.

I'd love to be able to believe a 4-0 win was possible this evening and obviously you never know, but ultimately if we're to seriously go for it in order to try and restore parity, it's hard to imagine that we're capable of keeping a clean sheet at the same time.

So as to avoid any disappointment, I'll be going this evening without any serious expectations, but no one will be happier to be going to bed with with egg on my face tonight

COYG

Bernard

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Arriving home at 1am after an exhausting night’s work last Friday, it seemed seriously bonkers and hardly a recipe for a relaxing weekend, to be setting my alarm for 4.30am, in order to be up in time to walk the dog, before a crack of dawn departure on the Travel Club coach to Anfield. Come the revolution, the tyrannical TV tail responsible for wagging the fixture schedule dog, without the slightest consideration for the travails of the travelling fan, will be first up against my wall!

I’ve no idea how the home side weren’t home & hosed by half-time and I spent the break wondering why on earth I’d bothered going to all that effort, when only three on our side seemed prepared to demonstrate similar commitment (and one of these being an inanimate object) with the fortitude shown by Van Persie, Sczczny and the woodwork!

Perhaps the dissipation of the buoyant mood, after our positively delicious Derby day elation, was partially due to the majority of our squad promptly disappearing off to all four corners of the planet. But it was incredibly frustrating to witness quite how often we were undone early on, by a Liverpool side that seemed so much more “up for it” than us.

I’d dragged my aching bones out of my pit at such an ungodly hour in expectation of the reward of witnessing an Arsenal side fired up by the faint glimmer of renewed hope, following the crest-fallen misery of our recent disappointments. Instead of which we were second best all over the park; that is apart from the all-important business of scoring and preventing goals. Despite the fact that Luis Suarez danced his way through our defence at will, like a dose of Epsom Salts, the Scousers only managed to take the lead courtesy of the hapless intervention of Laurent Koscielny.

Nevertheless, for all my exasperation with the apparent return of a team of timorous impostors, after last week’s brief interlude against Spurs, I ended up departing Anfield feeling more than a little abashed at being unable to contain the broadest of grins, as a result of Robin’s late, late “smash & grab”. Ninety minutes worth of frustration evaporated in this one instant of exquisite footballing artistry.

This and the resulting eight minutes of injury-time euphoria, along with the brief exchange of mutual admiration at the final whistle, suddenly made my personal sacrifice seem worthwhile, knowing there were plenty of sane Gooners who’d had the sense to avoid such a ludicrous expedition, but who would’ve now given anything to have been beside me, celebrating in the Anfield Road End.

Yet while our last gasp winner might have stolen all the glory, it didn’t mask the obvious deficiencies of a team, which was far too short on motivation for my liking. Hopefully this was due to the forthcoming distraction of our “Hail Mary” encounter with AC Milan, rather than heavy legs after their week of globe trotting (an excuse trotted out far too frequently for my liking!) because if fatigue was an issue on Saturday, they’re unlikely to feel refreshed forty-eight hours hence.

By now you’ll know whether the Gunners have managed to achieve a glorious exit from the European stage, restoring some much needed pride with a respectable second-leg result. I’d love to believe a miracle was possible; with an early-goal and a bit of good fortune, as we all know, the unexpected is the hallmark of the beautiful game. Yet it would require the sort of inspired performance, of the sort that up until now, sadly we’ve only managed to produce after going behind in games. Thus I can’t help but fear that our failure to find the net in Italy is likely to be punished by our inability to keep a clean sheet at home.

Yet with Spurs losing to Man Utd and Chelsea losing yet another manager, it feels somewhat churlish of me to be moaning after pretty much the perfect weekend. Few could’ve imagined the ten-point gulf between us and Tottenham would be eroded so quickly, to the point where we now have our neighbours squarely sighted in the crosshairs. So even if a Champions League quarterfinal should prove a fantasy too far, considering our token North London crown was previously such an unlikely prospect, I’ll gladly settle for a supremely satisfying St. Totteringham’s day.

Final whistle celebrations

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Definitely one for the masochists amongst us.....!

After finishing an exhausting get-out for the ballet at Tate Britain (schlepping steel-decking!) and then not arriving home until 1am, it seemed stark raving bonkers to be up at 4.30, in time to walk the dog and head off to the Grove for the 6.15am Travel Club coach to Merseyside.

I hate early KOs at the best of times, since the Gunners never seem to start playing until after half-time and these matches are too early for folks to get sufficiently lubricated to produce a decent atmosphere. But after dragging my aching bones out of my pit after only a couple of hours kip, I can't help but feel that Come The Revolution, those TV tossers responsible for this sort of bonkers scheduling (as ever, with absolutely no consideration for genuine fans) will be first up against my wall!

Meanwhile, in light of the sort of sacrifices necessary for us to be there - security had to lock up at the Tate before we'd quite finished last night and so I've had to pass on a day's wages at double-bubble, just for turning up for 30 minutes more "tidging" this morning :-( - I sincerely hope that the Arsenal that turns up at Anfield at high-noon is the same scintillating team we watched last weekend and not the bunch of impostors responsible for the disappointingly mediocre fare that we've endured for the majority of this season. Aside from the fact that I'm going to feel seriously pissed off, having made all this effort, only to see Suarez, Carroll & co. run amok, if we don't do ourselves justice against the Mickey Mousers, it will leave us wide open to arguments that last week's wonderful result was a fluke.

Besides which, absolutely the last thing I want is to give my Spurs mates the satisfaction of believing that the Derby win was our Cup Final, as after being ten points behind, with a result on Merseyside and a win for Man Utd on Sunday, it's all up for grabs

COYG
Bernard

Here Comes The Sun?

Arsène Wenger looked like death warmed up, sitting on the bench on Sunday. This might have only been due to a bug, but he couldn’t have possibly wished for a more rejuvenating tonic, as the Arsenal conjured up the sort of panacea of a performance that dragged Gooners everywhere back from the brink of despair.

For the best part of half a century, our dominance over Spurs has been such that our neighbours have rarely ever rolled up at our place feeling quite so bullish. After witnessing the complete disintegration of our season during our past two woeful displays, I’m sure I wasn’t alone in dreading that Sunday’s Derby might prove to be the perfunctory nail in the coffin of our North London supremacy.

As it turned out, we couldn’t have wished for a more timely and poignant reminder of the beautiful game’s seemingly infinite capacity to burst even the most inflated bubble. Having proved himself too cute for the terrier like clutches of HM’s tax inspectors, Teflon Harry must’ve thought he was untouchable. Then when least expected, our flu-ridden French bulldog bares his teeth and sinks them into the hallowed backside of England’s crown prince-in-waiting.

I’m doing my utmost not to go overboard (although this hasn’t stopped me from dispatching wholesale text messages to my Spurs pals at 50 minutes past every hour “just to remind you that it’s nearly 5-2”), because we now need to go to Anfield this weekend and prove that we’ve not been left clinging to our Derby Day rapture, as an anomalous life-raft of scintillating euphoria, amidst an ocean of otherwise disappointing dross thus far. This might’ve been the case, if we’d merely snatched a narrow-margin triumph against Spurs.

Yet in the manner in which we turned this game on its head, by recouping a two goal deficit in five unforgettable minutes of football before the break and then going on to dominate the second-half, with a display that was reminiscent of Wenger-ball at its best (from the Arsenal’s worst ever eleven, according to Roy Keane’s not so humble opinion!), inflicting the sort of arrant defeat that left the auld enemy trudging off the park, dazed and bewildered (believe me they weren’t the only ones!), I can’t help but hope this will prove to be a landmark demolition that will result in a lingering psychological impact on both sides.

It was a barmy afternoon all round. According to the “where there’s blame, there’s a claim” maxim, I should be suing my missus’ airline. After her plane was delayed, I didn’t arrive back from collecting Róna at the airport until 6am on Sunday. Having ‘slept out’ assorted alarms, I think it must’ve been the helicopters hovering overhead, which eventually dragged me back from the arms of Morpheus, to my horror, only five minutes before kick-off. Rather than missing half an hour of the match while dashing around to the ground, I decided to watch the first-half on the box and barrel around there at the break.

But with it being that bit further to walk to the new stadium, I needed to be out the door as the whistle blew. As a result, when Sagna struck, believing this to be the last significant action before the break, I turned the volume on the TV up and dived into the karsey, to relieve the call of nature that had been ‘on hold’ for the entire first-half. Needless to say, I came running back out with my kecks around my ankles, just in time to hear Gary Neville’s dumbfounded “wow” response to Van Persie’s peach of an equalizer.

Having restored the status quo, it crossed my mind momentarily that I might do better to stop at home. But boy am I glad that I braved any fear of tempting fate. Naturally, in light of what subsequently transpired, there were plenty of wags in my vicinity petitioning me to turn up at half-time for every match. But then I suppose my impact on Sunday’s proceedings is no less credulous, than the team of impostors we’ve been watching all season, suddenly turning into the genuine article!

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Good to know we're taking Sunday's game seriously!

Hi folks

Will the lads be busy tomorrow working out how to crowd out Modric and Bale on Sunday? It seems, to the contrary for the likes of Song, Sagna, Oxlade-Chamberlain and Sczczny, as they'll be busy filming a car TV ad with the ballet dancers from our company!

I told the lads I work with to make sure they tape the lino down properly, or else as usual our lot will be blaming the playing surface. And I sure hope they prove more entertaining in tutus and tights, than they've been in footie boots of late. I've warned the dancers, in case our woeful form is catching (not to mention the plague of injuries)

Meanwhile I neglected to post out Monday's pieces, so here's my tuppence (more like fifty guineas!) worth of whinging

Come on you Gunners
Big Love
Bernard

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After umpteen years, my Spurs pals have been reveling in their opportunity to return the compliment, with their teasing invitations to the Arsenal’s premature end of season party. My somewhat implausible rejoinder has been to suggest that the catastrophe of our last couple of results was all part of a masterplan, to lull our North London neighbours into a false sense of security.

If Wenger can somehow wangle a result against Spurs at the weekend it would indeed be some compensation for the ignominy of our mauling in Milan and for lying down like lambs at the Stadium of Light. Or more’s the point, it would at least avoid the unthinkable prospect of having to come to terms with a Derby day defeat, which added to our current state of despair, is likely to leave most Gooners feeling like the end our Arsenal world is all too nigh.

Nevertheless, while a respectable result against the auld enemy on Sunday might redress the balance of most Gooner minds, it certainly won’t mask the fact that our current squad appears to be a million miles further from its intended destination, than we’ve been at any point over the past six success-starved seasons.

We actually contemplated making our exit before the final bell in Milan (if it had been a boxing match a sympathetic ref would’ve stepped in to end our suffering long before!), if only to avoid the insult of having hypothermia added to our humiliating injury, while enduring our interminable and entirely unnecessary detention long after the final whistle. The only Milanese likely to have wanted to give us a good kicking were the Inter tifosi who’d been hoping we’d trounce their rivals, rather than gifting AC with a confidence boosting rout.

The main reason we lingered to the bitter end was because we feared winding our way down the never-ending spiral walkways of the turret in our corner of the ground, only to find ourselves held back at the bottom. So as I sat with my head in my hands, amidst the sub-zero thin air at the summit of an empty San Siro (save for a couple of thousand masochistic Gooners), I pondered upon the excuses Arsène might be making to explain away our abysmal display.

To his credit, for once Wenger labeled this woeful spade, a spade but I had to laugh at his analysis of us having only a 2 or 5 per cent chance of progressing to the quarterfinals, as if he’d plucked these precise statistics straight from an Excel spreadsheet. After Spurs lost 4-0 to Real, Redknapp wasn’t anything like so rational, when he suggested that if they scored a couple of quick goals in the return leg, anything could happen.

Although we came out of the traps against Sunderland like a team possessed, as if they’d been on the receiving end of a serious kick up the backside, the fire in our bellies was soon snuffed out. Personally I knew the game was up, when the first of three defensive reshuffles left us with Laurel & Hardy in situe at centre-back.

Encouraged by the media, there’s an increasing clamour coming from those Gooners who are growing ever more certain that Arsène’s past his sell-by date. Judging by our manager’s despondent mood in the post-match press conference, with project Wenger crumbling around his ears, their wishes might come to pass sooner than they think!

Meanwhile every time the Gunners hit the skids, the name of Usmanov raises its ugly head. There remain plenty of highly principled Arsenal fans who refuse to accept the prospect of the club selling its soul to someone who’s alleged to have sat at the devil’s right-hand. But such principles are costly in our morally bankrupt sport, especially when they involve the rejection of a high-roller who’s leapfrogged Abramovich into 2nd place in the Sunday Times rich list.

Rumours abound that Usmanov already has access to the shares necessary to take him past the 30 per cent threshold. And if he hasn’t, I’m sure the administrators at Rangers will be oblige, in their efforts to maximize the return on the Arsenal shares gifted to the ‘Gers by a quirk of history.

I’m certainly not an advocate for success at any cost. Such crucial defeats only feel quite so unacceptable because we were beaten by sides who simply wanted it more. But compared to not seeing hide nor hair of an absentee US landlord, who only appears interested in counting his shekels from the comfort of his Missouri mansion, at least the Uzbeki demonstrates a tangible attraction to the Arsenal, watching most matches from the exclusive environs of his plush “superbox”.Moreover, aside from any potential benefits from Usmanov’s deep pockets, his involvement might result in David Dein riding in on his red & white charger. With his oil-slick obsequiousness, I’m not exactly Dein’s no. 1 fan, but I don’t think it can be any coincidence that the silverware drought dates back to the day he was shown the door.

Many will argue that we’d now be playing at Wembley if Dein had his way. While this idea was abhorrent at the time (heaven forfend the thought of actually having to travel to get to home games!), where would the Gunners be now, without having been encumbered by the costs of our new stadium. What’s more, Highbury was my much adored second home, but as an anonymous punter in a far more sterile arena, I don’t feel anything like the same emotional attachment to the new gaff and in truth, I’m not really sure that playing at Wembley would’ve felt that much different.

It seems blindingly obvious that Wenger has becomes less effective since the demise of the chalk and cheese partnership with his old pal. Whatever his faults, as an Arsenal man, Dein was always willing to go the extra imprudent mile, for the pleasure of seeing a talented star perform in his beloved red & white and to further the Gunners’ cause; whereas with his “sustainable” mantra, Gazides and Wenger are like two-peas in an overly pragmatic pod, trying in vain to squeeze the barmy world of the beautiful game into an idealistic business model.

With Club Level renewals due next month, I have to wonder if those at the club are fully conversant with the potential consequences (on and off the pitch) of a continued slide towards mediocrity. With Wenger managing the minor miracle of maintaining our elevated status over 15 years of plenty, many will have never experienced a genuine period of famine. On the assumption that RVP is unlikely to want to continue keeping the entire club afloat, even if we should qualify for the Champions League (without improved prospects of ever actually picking up the big-eared prize), there’s a school of thought that suggests that it might not be in our best interest to scrape into 4th place. since this would only offer encouragement to maintain the current status-quo; when what’s really required is the sort of complete failure which might guarantee a rethink.

Based on our current pitiful form, myself I can look no further ahead than a week of penance, in hope of earning sufficient credit for the gods to smile upon us come Sunday and a one-way plane ticket out of the country, in case they don’t!

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Tottenham Watching Eastenders...So Long As Harry Has Technical Assistance To Turn On His TV!

It’s barmy to think that it was only a couple of weeks back that we were contemplating the potentially catastrophic consequences of failing to finish in the top four and the tragi-comic, comedown of bromidic Thursday night football in the Europa League. In the absence of any silverware, Champions League qualification has come to be viewed as scant consolation, as we Gooners have grown accustomed to taking our seat at Europe’s top table for granted, following 14 consecutive seasons of our participation in this highly-prized pearl of club football.

Now here we are delighted to be flying off to a glamorous encounter in Milan (arctic weather permitting?), against the renowned Rossoneri, whilst sitting pretty in 4th place - albeit only by grace of having scored four more goals than the Blues - optimistically feeling as if we’re suddenly back in the Champions League frame.

As cock-a-hoop as we were to have seen Titi take a bow in his final Premiership curtain call, after a last-minute smash & grab on Wearside, there could be no denying that our elevated status is largely due to error-strewn efforts of the inconsistent sides around us. And as if we needed further reminding of the calibre of football required of a genuine form side, the Gunners were still removing their boots at the Stadium of Light when we received news of the slap in the face of Spurs’ quick-fire barrage against the Barcodes.

By contrast, it was hard to imagine where a goal was going to come from against Sunderland, up until Aaron Ramsey’s strike after 75 frustrating minutes. Even then, as his opportunistic effort pinballed between the posts, I was convinced the ball was going to bounce away from the goal and into Mignolet’s hands.

Van Persie’s peach of a goal against Man Utd was the only Gunners’ effort to make it into the Goal of the Month montage, shown on the box on Sunday night. Seeing us cut a swathe through Utd, moving the ball from one end of the pitch to the other in the blink of an eye with just three passes, only served to highlight why we’d struggled to break down the Black Cats. With the scintillating pace of Walcott and Oxlade-Chamberlain operating on the flanks, it shouldn't be beyond us to stretch any opposition, by getting them turned and running towards their own goal.

Yet with Martin O’Neill relying on the same XI who required extra-time to eject Boro from the FA Cup in midweek, instead of trying to run them ragged, we insisted on playing to their ‘park the bus’ strengths, with the sort of slow-tempo, predictable passing game, which all took place in front of the massed ranks of Sunderland’s defence, as we tried in vain to pass our way through the eye of this resolute needle.

O’Neill’s tactics were pragmatic and on another day McClean might’ve stolen all three points, as the Derry lad took advantage of Mertesacker’s mishap (on this cabbage patch of a pitch!). But defence against attack doesn’t exactly make for exhilarating entertainment and with this being our least impressive season during Arsène’s long tenure, these days I’m always surprised when opposition managers afford us the same level of respect that they might show to the Premiership’s form sides. While I’m sure Sunderland fans currently believe O’Neill walks on water, in their shoes I’d have been disappointed with the lack of ambition evident in the Black Cats apparent reluctance to take us on.

But then a more open game would’ve probably played into our hands and as we’ve witnessed with Man City in recent weeks, in the absence of the irresistible force that is Yaya Touré, opponents have largely managed to frustrate the title contenders with smothering tactics, getting about City’s creative sources in twos and threes and making up for any lack of class, with their work rate and commitment. However while City can invariably count on a selection of keys to eventually unlock the door in such circumstances, the Gunners are all too reliant on RVP, as our one and only master locksmith.

I’d hoped Gervinho might return to lend some incisiveness to our attack, but after missing the penalty that cost Ivory Coast the African Cup of Nations, he’s hardly likely to be full of the joys of Spring. Meanwhile as big a deal as Milan might be (in case it should prove to be our Champions League swansong!), I’m sure I’m not alone with my concerns that Arsène might not view our encore at Wearside this weekend with equal significance. Surely it’s time for le Prof to set his own pragmatism aside, in an effort to end our trophy drought by going ‘eyeballs out’ for the one that’s closest to hand?
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One Snowfall Does Not St. Moritz Make...But It Put A Smile On This Yeti's Phizog

Having created enough chances to have buried the Trotters, during our opening barrage at Bolton, it was depressing to be thawing out, over the course of an arduous return trip from the Reebok, with only a point to show for our goalless efforts (when only three would’ve been good enough!). Perhaps the coach driver was having a laugh at our expense, with his choice of the movie ‘True Grit’ for the return trip.

There was little evidence of this, other than the stuff they spread on the roads in advance of the weekend white-out, as I rocked up to a seriously deflated Emirates on Saturday; where one sensed from the melancholy mood as if our season had slipped so far off the rails, that we Gooners were merely going through the motions from here on in. But then the heinous tragedy in Egypt put twenty-two men kicking a ball into comparatively trivial perspective.

Obviously the transport difficulties on Saturday that necessitated an early kick-off didn’t help, as lunchtime KOs at our gaff are notoriously even more library-like than usual. Then again, in light of the goal-fest that subsequently transpired, perhaps we should be petitioning London Transport to close the Victoria Line before every home match?

However, as we all know, the beautiful game’s greatest allure is its infinite capacity to confound and Saturday’s match proved to be perfectly timed ‘manna from heaven’. With Givet being sent-off, so soon after an impressively composed Oxlade-Chamberlain had put us 3-1 up, all within ten minutes of Pedersen’s precision set-piece equalizer, this seemed to knock the stuffing out of a Blackburn side that was short on sage & onion from the get go. But rarely in recent times have the Gunners managed to translate this sort of an advantage, into such an emphatic scoreline.

Sadly nowadays, not only do we seem to struggle to produce the fast-paced, precision football necessary to dominate possession, but during those periods when we are in control of games, we’re all too often guilty of failing to create sufficient momentum to press home our advantage. Therefore, even if there’s internal strife at Ewood Park that ensured Rovers weren’t really at the races, Saturday’s result proved a timely tonic.

With Walcott firing on all cylinders for once, seemingly feeding off the bristling energy of our latest young prodigy and with Theo and OC terrorizing the Rovers defence on opposite flanks, we witnessed our first glimpse of the sort of havoc these two speed-merchants are capable of wreaking, when in such fine form and operating in tandem (and where hopefully Gervinho’s imminent return might keep both of them on their toes?).

Doubtless perturbed by the problems with the tube, half of those present had already departed prior to the injury-time “after you Claude” courtesy between Henry and Van Persie, which eventually resulted in Titi putting the cherry on top with the last kick of the game, Yet judging by the way we went about the second-half with a “fill yer boots” zest, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was significant that Wenger chose to leave Arshavin sidelined for the entirety of this confidence restoring shindig.

Obviously one snowfall does not St. Moritz make, but having arrived at the ground 90 minutes earlier, pessimistically believing that our season was all over bar the shouting, it made a wonderfully pleasant change to be heading back around for some warming sustenance at Piebury Corner, suddenly believing again that anything is possible. The Gooner consensus seems to feel we should be focusing on a four-way battle for 4th place because of the potentially catastrophic ramifications of failing to secure a Champions League berth. But with the gap between us and Spurs back down to single figures (as I type) and with the comical distraction of Redknapp v The Revenue, I haven’t quite given up hope.

It will be a shame to poop Martin O’Neill’s party, but having finally exorcised the feelings of foreboding, whilst being deprived of all of our full-backs these past couple of months, after Saturday’s intravenous shot of enthusiasm, I can’t wait to head off to Wearside.

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