Prior to yesterday's fixture between Arsenal and Aston Villa “Football” Club (why do the Football Association not compel them to inscribe those inverted commas on their official stationery?), I prepared, as is my wont, a formal message of condolence to the vanquished opposition, to be distributed by hand as the defeated herd shambled away from the stadium, or, for the benefit of the many West Midlanders who either will not or cannot read, orated aloud by town criers hired at my own expense.
“Now see here, you rank, bested rabble. Once again, you have been defeated (insert large number here)-nil by your footballing, social and genetic superiors, Arsenal. However, do not be too downcast. Do not snivel to excess at this setback. Do not pick disconsolately at the open sores spotted about your persons due to poor diet and ill breeding. Yes, you were trounced. Yes, you were exposed as the Troglodytes of the Turf that you undoubtedly are. Yes, we could have brought on our girls' under 11 side in the second half and you would not have made up the shortfall in goals. But, as you trudge back home, by bus, by cart, on foot, think upon this. Your chaps did as well as could be expected of them, given who and what you are. It can be said of them that they did not prostrate themselves in a weeping huddle in their own penalty box as they might have done. They toiled, albeit amusingly ineptly and to absolutely no avail.
“And so, let the word be spread from district to district, from hovel to hovel, in the West Midlands; “bah eeckers lahk, we's done tha's best and thart's abewte as mooch as tha's can expict.” As you tread the cobbles on Monday morning to the mill, or the dog slaughterhouse, or wherever it is you people work, enveloped in the murky, brown cloud of your collective body odour that is your element, take a little cheer that there was very little your team could have done for themselves; they did all that permanently defeated men can do, and that is, be defeated.”
However, due to a bizarre concatenation of refereeing decisions, shabbily un-Corinthian play on the part of the Aston Villa team and sheer, frozen astonishment on the part of Arsenal at the impertinence of their opponents that, astoundingly, Villa emerged as utterly inferior in every key respect (grooming, deportment, deference) save the trifling, technical matter of number of goals scored. Such things do not happen. A blue moon, yes, very occasionally. This match took place under the baleful, wintry glare of a claret and blue moon. Unthinkable.
There are those who will bellow coarse ululations not heard since the Barbarians by brute force poured through the gates of Rome, who will regard this as some sort of victory. One would hope that if there are sensible Aston Villa fans, they will recognise that this match was an offence against geometry itself. The base cannot, by Pythagoran decree, be set above the apex. Do so, and all is lost.
I trust that they join me in pressing for the fixture be replayed, preferably this time without the unwelcome participation of the Aston Villa team, so that a result can be effected which is more appropriate and preserves both the tone and the integrity of the Sciences.
There are, equally, those who will have their explanations for this baffling, unfathomable result, without doubt and by some considerable distance the most shocking ever registered in the history of the game of association football. Some will dare to suggest that it is in some way the fault of Niklas Bendter - that here is a player who, quite fucking frankly, couldn't pour piss out of a fucking boot if the instructions were on the fucking heel. That is to misunderstand our enigmatic Dane. For the more sensitive and cultivated of Arsenal fans recognise and savour his performances for what they are; playings of Hamlet, in all his fascinating hesitations and fatal ponderings, realised in the medium of football. The goalposts are but his proscenium arch. Alas, poor Carrick!
No; this result represents a crossroads on humanity's continuing journey to Civilisation, one at which all of those with the future of the species at heart should take pause and ponder. My politics could best be described as radical Socialist -none has cried louder the immortal words “Liberté, egalité, fraternité, than myself. I dream of, and yearn for, the emancipation of the common man. However, Aston Villa's behaviour yestreen obliges men of taste and reflection to wonder whether there is a counterbalancing, and sacred duty on the part of the common man, the unwashed man, once freed, not to abuse his his newfound liberties and forget his place. Aston Villa proved unwarrantably derelict in this regard. Which is why, after many oysters and much agonising, I have come to the reluctant conclusion that the only solution to this crisis is a military one. Our air force must be mobilised, their bomb bays loaded to the hilt. It will be necessary to destroy Birmingham in order to save it.
“Now see here, you rank, bested rabble. Once again, you have been defeated (insert large number here)-nil by your footballing, social and genetic superiors, Arsenal. However, do not be too downcast. Do not snivel to excess at this setback. Do not pick disconsolately at the open sores spotted about your persons due to poor diet and ill breeding. Yes, you were trounced. Yes, you were exposed as the Troglodytes of the Turf that you undoubtedly are. Yes, we could have brought on our girls' under 11 side in the second half and you would not have made up the shortfall in goals. But, as you trudge back home, by bus, by cart, on foot, think upon this. Your chaps did as well as could be expected of them, given who and what you are. It can be said of them that they did not prostrate themselves in a weeping huddle in their own penalty box as they might have done. They toiled, albeit amusingly ineptly and to absolutely no avail.
“And so, let the word be spread from district to district, from hovel to hovel, in the West Midlands; “bah eeckers lahk, we's done tha's best and thart's abewte as mooch as tha's can expict.” As you tread the cobbles on Monday morning to the mill, or the dog slaughterhouse, or wherever it is you people work, enveloped in the murky, brown cloud of your collective body odour that is your element, take a little cheer that there was very little your team could have done for themselves; they did all that permanently defeated men can do, and that is, be defeated.”
However, due to a bizarre concatenation of refereeing decisions, shabbily un-Corinthian play on the part of the Aston Villa team and sheer, frozen astonishment on the part of Arsenal at the impertinence of their opponents that, astoundingly, Villa emerged as utterly inferior in every key respect (grooming, deportment, deference) save the trifling, technical matter of number of goals scored. Such things do not happen. A blue moon, yes, very occasionally. This match took place under the baleful, wintry glare of a claret and blue moon. Unthinkable.
There are those who will bellow coarse ululations not heard since the Barbarians by brute force poured through the gates of Rome, who will regard this as some sort of victory. One would hope that if there are sensible Aston Villa fans, they will recognise that this match was an offence against geometry itself. The base cannot, by Pythagoran decree, be set above the apex. Do so, and all is lost.
I trust that they join me in pressing for the fixture be replayed, preferably this time without the unwelcome participation of the Aston Villa team, so that a result can be effected which is more appropriate and preserves both the tone and the integrity of the Sciences.
There are, equally, those who will have their explanations for this baffling, unfathomable result, without doubt and by some considerable distance the most shocking ever registered in the history of the game of association football. Some will dare to suggest that it is in some way the fault of Niklas Bendter - that here is a player who, quite fucking frankly, couldn't pour piss out of a fucking boot if the instructions were on the fucking heel. That is to misunderstand our enigmatic Dane. For the more sensitive and cultivated of Arsenal fans recognise and savour his performances for what they are; playings of Hamlet, in all his fascinating hesitations and fatal ponderings, realised in the medium of football. The goalposts are but his proscenium arch. Alas, poor Carrick!
No; this result represents a crossroads on humanity's continuing journey to Civilisation, one at which all of those with the future of the species at heart should take pause and ponder. My politics could best be described as radical Socialist -none has cried louder the immortal words “Liberté, egalité, fraternité, than myself. I dream of, and yearn for, the emancipation of the common man. However, Aston Villa's behaviour yestreen obliges men of taste and reflection to wonder whether there is a counterbalancing, and sacred duty on the part of the common man, the unwashed man, once freed, not to abuse his his newfound liberties and forget his place. Aston Villa proved unwarrantably derelict in this regard. Which is why, after many oysters and much agonising, I have come to the reluctant conclusion that the only solution to this crisis is a military one. Our air force must be mobilised, their bomb bays loaded to the hilt. It will be necessary to destroy Birmingham in order to save it.
Comment