TheNamelessThing.com

Writing about football has a seriously limited shelf-life; the issues are long repeated, the sad memories, the disasters, the acts of riotous casual hooliganism. All are abysmal but familiarly, contemptuously, boring upon repeated scrutiny. Whatever happened to being happy just to watch a game without it being a metaphor for the unscrupulousness of modern footy clubs and their gargoyle owners? You can't just watch a match anymore without moaning about Glazer or Hicks or some other gargoyle to prove you know what's really going on these days. But you're Lord Ian Hough! I hear you shout, how can that be? I am indeed the Lord, if you are a cockroach, and I'll tell you how that can be, child, I'll tell you right here:

People are spoiled and they act like babies, and cos they live in utter shitholes in shitty little cities that purport to be cosmopolitan, they think it's OK. But it ain't, it's embarrassing to hell, it is. Take Manchester for instance, the place was always crammed with great heads but I now realise that it was just the heads I knew - the rest were all like sheepshaggers and lord realmers who knew nowt but chips butties and scran-diggin' melodies issuin' from't' wireless on a cold and lonely night. Yesterday we wiped the boards with the Arsenal, the Woolwich Gunners of Olde London Towneshippe. Quite how we annihilated them so effectively I don't know, but one thing I do know; Nani was everywhere, swooping from corner to corner, diagonally, in defence, in attack, piling it through the midfield like a lumberjack on payday, sending balls off to Rooney and Saha, and interacting with the other red men like a whirlwind. So much so that gobshite Gallas felt fit to foul, and Nani the Wonderhorse was booked for his troubles! But Fletcher the Scottish unicorn flew in on winged heels and secured us the proper humiliating scoreline of four to zilchmans. Fletcher, the lad with the jutting brow and eagle eye, he of the dark blue ground and a criss-cross stripe, the young barbarian from the valleys of gold and silver.
But what of the man Wenger and his whingeing fits, his benchmark grimaces and fist-clenching gallic impotence? Did he seem annoyed yesterday? Strangely not really - at least not as much as he has done in matches past, both against United and others, notably West Ham. I understand Arsene was quite beside himself later in the day, and offered a number of opinions to the media, none of which remotely interest me, unless of course they involve him breaking down in tears and screaming for his mama. But no, Whinger is a man, and as such does not indulge in such public displays of weakness. He reserves them for the titillation of his closed doors, behind which the gnashing of French teeth and the shrieking of his pets can be quite worrying, according to neighbours in his North London slum.

4-0 was the margin, and it was a right royal seeing-to we gave to the Gunners. And Liverpool were ejected from the quagmire, by Barnsley, who outplayed them - well, their goalie did anyway - and left the Kop walking alone, home, dejected. All in all a quite delectable Saturday.