Song Hits Bongs

The plush grass carpet of Ashburton Grove has been cropped and trimmed for this week’s opener against Pompey, and there is still much to be known and much to be asked of the Arsenal. Of course, one could say the same of any club at such an early stage, and especially in this, what looks to be the most open of Premier League title chases in recent memory. But two wins from two played and eight goals scored to one conceded is at the very least encouraging. The one goal allowed was a poached effort by the familiar face of Louis Saha, who appears set on hiding from the ever-lurking plague of injury under cover of a copper-bleached head of hair. Maybe he should try in Fellaini’s afro,

 

As free-flowing and inventive a display the 6-1 thrashing of Everton at Goodison appeared to be, the Tofeemen were, to be fair, a shell of the normally resilient selves. Phil Jagielka watched in street clothes, and with every glaring look from David Moyes, Joleon Lescott and his hi-top fade looked like the kid who pissed the bed at a sleepover; sheepish, sulking, and desperately wanting to get the fuck out. An absolute Southwest Airlines commercial candidate. And of our 2-0 triumph at Parkhead, it was a professional if not fortunate display, and exactly the kind of win a champion caliber side must pull out.

 

An identical starting XI in both games, it has proven to be a potent group despite many key names being sold or lost to injury. And it sure is nice to see Alexandre Song bustling into challenges, stomping on the line between clumsy and clinical with half-baked aplomb. I am tempted even to dream he has become the cunning badass midfielder we all prayed would come to Arsenal this transfer window, even if he does look like he just finished smoking j’s with my brother in the garage. If only this were London and not Los Angeles. Pass that shit, Song.

 

As the minutes tick closer to this season’s first home fixture, a heatfelt highlight-reel runs through my mind of Pires and Bergkamp cruising through the park, or Henry scorching past players, the very soul of the Arsenal breathing with his every burst. Alas, the history, class, and romance of Highbury has been traded for the pomp and profit of the Emirates, and yet the Gunners fight on. With the other three lacking conviction, especially Manchester and their lovely loss to Burnley (eat it goofy smug Canadian asshole on Fox Soccer Report), I quote Arsene Wenger on my thoughts for this season: “I see Arsenal at the top, and the rest all chasing.” What do you know about the Arsenal?

That Tastes Classy!

While talks and tempers have momentarily cooled, what transpired within Gunner Nation at the conclusion of the 2008-09 season continues to leave a strange taste in my mouth.

What kind of taste, you ask? Certainly not the bile burp-up of the bulimic, nor the age-old liquor splurge of the man who just gave his first blowjob. No no, such reap-what-you-sow mouthfuls are reserved for the likes of those who berated Arsene Wenger at the end of the year shareholders meeting. Those are the flavors of the weak and scared, those better off just shutting their fucking mouths.

Yes, this was a long and trying season, beginning with the crisis of the captaincy, followed by the injury to our oh so fab cap'n spanish, and ending tantilizingly close to glory. Glory! An FA Cup and Champions League semi-final run, and yet we are a club in crisis?

Let's not forget, we are indeed a club, proudly holding off an uber-trendy takeover by outside investors such as Red and White Holdings. As West Ham and CB Holdings will tell you, naming the parent investment company after your colors does not mean you bleed them.

Our resliency in both tournaments was inspired and industrious, especially given the half-strength side we fielded through the entirety of the European knockout stages. While many felt we were "outclassed" by the Red Devil Ronaldos (wait, he's really gone? PINCH ME), shell-shocked seems the more appropriate term. The Kieran Gibbs slip in front of the Energizer Asian glaringly comes to mind.

As for our form in league, I think back to December, when early one morning at a San Francisco pub I hid behing a tall glass of Guiness and watched Manchester City carve us open. The bartender turned to me and blankly stated, "Arsenal are in a fight for fourth place." Correct as he may have been, it was never really believed to be our fate. This showed in the January signing of the mercurial Mad Russian Andrei Arshavin. Arsenal fans saw only a glimpse of what his little legs are capable of (4 at the KOP are you fucking serious?!@?), and his competitiveness seems only matched by his classy don't give a fuck attitude, demonstrated when he tried to wave away an incorrect penalty awarded to him against Portsmouth. A full-strength midfield comprised of he, Cesc, Nasri, and Theo will be...at the very least really really fast. Bolster the central defence in the summer (Enter:Arsene) and we are the most exciting team in the Barclay's Premier League and a real contender for the title. Yes, we've all heard this before, but it holds more true now than ever. Our youth is less youthful, they no longer fear the pain of an inevitable letdown because, well, we've felt two fairly sizeable letdowns over the past two seasons. Nothing more to fear. With half of Manchester United over the hump, and Ronaldo in Madrid, their grip on England will certainly diminish.

Hmm, that is strange, I taste the champagne toast to the new champions! Come on you Gunners!

drink your beer and swallow your pride

This morning started with runny eggs and fried bangers in the mouth, all washed down with a cool Newcastle brown as Arsenal ran rampantly past the Magpies by a score of 3-1. A toast to the Gunners' customary 3 scores at St. James with a bit of their own brew, and it couldn't have been much sweeter. 

The Great Dane Bendtner started the scoring, sticking that massive head of his onto an Arshavin cross, and the (sometimes) so smooth Vassiriki Diaby thundered in the winner after a series of passes that only Arsenal could call routine. Adding a frosted-tipped cherry to the top, Samir Nasri clinically fired another cracker into the corner to put Arsenal 3 points clear of Champions League-chasing competitors. 

Although many of the set pieces Arshavin has played have ended in the arms of the goalkeeper, his service to Bendtner early in the second half was sublime. Watching the Russian race around an English pitch every week, ignoring stitches and insufficient fitness, one truly begins to believe his move to North London is a dream. At Arsenal, his surprising combination of power and pace, albeit backed by a Nedvedesque bow legged stride, seems to be perfectly suited to Arsene Wenger's system, and his enthusiasm whilst going forward at odd angles has proven an excellent remedy to the Gunner's goal-scoring troubles. In terms of his near-summer moves, the greatest resemblance to Zenit he would have found at Barcelona may be the racist chants coming from the stands, and he simply has too much class to play for Spurs. Andrei Arshavin is indeed a Gunner. 

And speaking of Nicklas Bendtner, in the second half there existed a moment of Arsenal attack spearheaded by he and Robin Van Persie. The Dutchman controlled the ball just outside of the box, and to his left Bendtner ran in on goal completely unmarked. Van Persie hesitated, took a poor touch of the ball, and the moment was lost. The match commentators were shrewd to notice the occasion, and wondered whether Van Persie's decisions were driven by Bendtner's inability to finish with his feet. Whether it was a case of Van Persie just looking to add to his team-leading tally, a lack of confidence in his fellow forward, or merely a moment of madness, Bendtner's willingness to continually push forward and get himself into good attacking positions cannot be knocked, even if comparisons between Ricky Henderson's ego and his own seem more and more plausible. Arsenal fans can only hope he does not stand in front of a mirror wearing his pink vapors and nothing else,  shamelessly whispering "Nico is de best" over and over. 

As for Newcastle, Norman Hubbard made an excellent point last week when he suggested the Magpies may be rebranded as the Championship's biggest club. With Steven Taylor being named man of the match by the Newcastle fans, and most of their opportunities coming from corner kicks, they have for the moment lost the swagger and style necessary to be called Premier League.