Which almost happened today as it often does when we foolishly take a 1-nil lead. Have my Gooners not learned that they always play better when they start down by a goal? We love the comeback, and it’s far more satisfying than the 45 minutes of sheer terror which I endured today as The Boys in Red and White held off Chelsea despite making every effort to cause me violent spasms of frustration.
But enough of that. This isn’t about the game, but rather, the experience we cross-pond Arsenal fans have in our quest to witness the “beautiful game”. Today was actually a great example of the Nevada Smith Crowd's stalwart dedication to fighting both the morning and the winter’s worst onslaught
I got about four hours sleep. Booyah. The rude awakening was doubly cruel because I was mid-thrust in a fascinating dream where we drew Barca in Champions League. Ward secretly believes that were this to actually occur, Thierry Henry would rip open his shirt mid game revealing his old Dreamcast Jersey and stun the “Spanish Armada” with an own-goal defection in Arsene Wenger’s greatest act of substitution ever. This won’t happen. Sad.
I got four hours sleep.
It was cold. Marky didn’t want to get up. My typical battle cries from the night before of “We got to get there soooo early!” were followed by my even more typical failure to leave my home until all my fellow chums were at Nevada’s. Waiting in line. In the freezing rain.
Sorry guys. Thanks for saving me that spot.
It is worth pointing out that Ward, ever the master of clutch bar seating, found and secured the corner of the bar down at the far end which is as prime as seating gets. We set up next to a man who referred to RVP as “the white Pele”, a Portuguese fellow full of great stories and Chandler, the girl with the custom Wenger shirt, who I definitely slapped in the face while attempting a drunken high-five. Good Times.
Ward, Fan of the Match, handed me a free rogue beer and we got to work. The game was great. We won. It should have been 2-nil but I think the official was so stunned by Adebayor actually being onsides for once that he had to call a foul to stop play and fully comprehend the miracle. Also, you all should be filling out thank you cards to Manuel Almunia for saving all your collective lives several times. The next person I hear say “I’m still not sure about him” gets sent to the basement. No question.
One thing bothers me though. Ashley, Cashley, Trashley, Bangers and Mashley Cole. Yeah, he’s rubbish, and he punched my Spaniard, but let’s honor his choice to sell out by never giving him a second thought. Booing him is so classless. Calling him Cuntley isn’t even clever, and making gay jokes about him is just plain embarrassing (you know the song about men going to bed with Ashley). It amazes me that the people who spawned Oscar Wilde could be so homophobic, and more disturbingly, lacking in eloquence. On a hypocritical note, Martin Jol’s mother remains a whore; and I have no problem with that. Who is perfect anyway?
Also. I believe that one thing that defines the Nevada’s experience is that we have mutual respect for our foes. The Chelsea fans, bastards though they are with their 2 ½ songs, did a fine job of staying behind and singing for their team after a tough defeat. Hey, you watch futbol in a bar for a reason. If you win, you’re in a bar. If you lose, you're in a bar.
But as the wisest man I know said “none of this matters”, because Devo was actually at the game! No I don’t mean at Nevada’s. He was in England, in London, at the Emirates, with tickets he bought (read: murdered a man for) the night before! He and his faithful Margaret no doubt made sweet love somewhere in the upper deck that cold British afternoon, and good for them. Good on you Devo! I hope you sire a child tonight and his name is William, Manuel, or Arsene.
Blackburn on Tuesday. Carling Cup games are like watching the 2010-2011 season, when we are, apparently, also top of the league.
P.S. I had hoped that we would all get snowed into Nevada’s on this wintery day. We would be forced to eat those meat pies, huddle for warmth with and settle our differences with Chelsea fans, and listen to Jack’s tragic stories of why he can never return to his native England.
1 comment:
One thing.
Oscar Wilde was Irish.
Post a Comment