The Handball and a C that needs to STFU

France v Republic of Ireland.



The scandal that is Thierry Henry handling the effing ball is in full swing and I, for one, actually saw the shit LIVE, so there. I felt it was a grave injustice, but nothing is predictble in football, and who knows what would have happened if the goal had been disallowed. Unlike most of the ruckus and vomitus being spewed, it would NOT have assured the Republic of Ireland their passage to the World Cup. It would have simply led to more extra time and then inevitably the coin flip that is the penalty shoot-out. That goal only denied the Irish an opportunity, which I suppose is all they wanted anyway.

It is a shame though. I invested time and emotion into the Boys in Green and what a way to have the 'dream' shattered... and by (in my fucking opinion) the Best Arsenal Player Ever. Wow. I don't know what to feel in truth. I agree somewhat with Thierry's half-arse explanation that it was the ref's call to make, but it's also HIS responsibility as a player to be honest and not effing CHEAT. It's kind of like that Eduardo fiasco from earlier in the season, and I'm finding it increasingly hard to defend their actions.

I do find another similarity in the embarassingly indignant reaction coming from all quarters at this point. There are C's who didn't even KNOW the play-off was being contested that are now contorting in outrage at the... goal... or the play... or the guy... he did something... he TOUCHED the ball, by God! It's really over the top. I admit, I was stunned into silence as the final whistle blew. I felt as though I'd witnessed something very wrong, but FFS, it wasn't a CRIME. Worse things happen in alleyways in this city on a nightly basis. But much like Eduardo's bullshit move, this 'thing' happened during the most interesting football match being played on a weeknight. That is, most eyes were upon it, and giving that the match had moved into extra time, I'm going on a limb somewhat in assuming that it was the only match being played ANYWHERE at that hour. With Ireland leading 1-nil and the teams even at a goal a piece on aggregate, well... it doesn't take much in the way of brain power to figure out that something special might be a-brewing, so why not have a look?

And then to see what? Thierry Henry cynically cheat. Cos fuck knows that's all he's now going to be remembered for. Just like Zidane's bizarre melt-down in extra time (again!) in the last World Cup final against Italy, his career is going to be narrowed down to a split second of carelessness. Yes, carelessness. Do I think he did it deliberately? How the hell should I know? I DO think it may have been down to fatigue more than anything else. Maybe he figured why not try it, it's so blatant, the ref HAS to call it. I don't know. I'm not defending him either, I'm just saying...

And as far as Irish justice minister Dermot Ahern is concerned, he who said, "we should put the powers that be in the cosy world of FIFA on the spot and demand a replay"... Seriously, fucking shameless opportunist... this man can kiss my ENTIRE ass.

Intense Tedium and Dodgy Vans

Oh no, not again.

I find myself saying this FAR too often nowadays. It's due to the neighbor and his severe lack of imagination. I mean, seriously, what the FUCK is it with the Doors? They were relevant 40 years ago but THIS guy is at it hammer and tongs with this shit. To make matters worse, it's only 4 songs he chooses from. It's disturbing. Now, I have to admit, I had my Doors phase a few years back. It was fueled by evenings (and sometimes afternoons) sipping gin. It all went down quite nicely to be honest. A gin buzz (ahem, or being well pissed on it) and Morrison's pretentious poetry went well hand in hand... really. But THIS shit?



'Roadhouse Blues', 'LA Woman', 'Break on Through to the Other Side', and of course, 'Light My Fire' are the tracks that make up the entire playlist. JAYSUS!! Over and over again. What a crap DJ. It's fine if you dig those songs, but SAVE them for a certain moment when you can really relish them and DON'T wear them out. Any person with ANY grey matter should be ill of those tunes by now. 'LA Woman' IS a brilliant track but not 5 or 6 times an evening. It becomes downright offensive... not to mention intensely tedious.

Ah, the hell with it...



Moving along...

Now, I've been belligerent at times with a reader of this blog on account of her decision to eat food from what I consider to be a highly dubious, and dare I say, 'dodgy' van. I could not FATHOM such a thing and was absolutely SCANDALIZED at such a brazen choice on her part. However, I'm one to talk, right? Since I've been here in the Biggest City in The World (tm), I've been eating at dodgy STANDS, FFS! Shit, the way I see it, at least that van has wheels to fuck off on in case the health inspectors pitch up!

Lila... The Legend.

Graceful. Radiant. Inspiring.



What more can I say? I can dig through a dictionary or a thesaurus, or both, and still not come up with the adequate terms to describe the experience of Lila Downs. I DID live it Saturday night however. What a performer. Never a dull moment. Sheer brilliance. What a voice. Powerful. Sentimental. Forceful. What range. She can make ANY song hers if she so pleases. And she does.

Much credit should go to her backing band. Her husband and all, what a sound it is that emanates from their souls. It was like gang busters when Lila took the stage to 'Black Magic Woman', the song that gives the current tour it's name. From the outset it was energy and emotion, and something intangible that few artists I've ever seen can manage. That feeling of immediate intimacy, Lila Downs pulls it off; makes you in the audience feel as if YOU are the most important element in the proceedings. She makes YOU feel like a star. Her smile reaches into you and shows you how much she LOVES what she's doing and that she's doing it for YOU.

She's only massive, innit. Truly well amazing.

I Dig Our Curtains

We had a nice weekend. We were up early on Saturday, spent the day with family and the night with fam and friends. A well-pissed welcome for yours truly. I don't even want to HARBOR a guess as to how many beers I swilled that night. We got home round 4.30 and all I can remember is getting into my PJs and into bed and it was lights fucking out. I don't even think we said 'good night'. Yun said the same thing happened to her. It was a long day.

We were drinking coffee in Tok's at noon Sunday then hit Soriana for a damn FAN cos I can't deal with non-circulating air, FFS! Heat I can take, stagnant air, no fucking chance. We finally got our awesome curtains up, curtains that were sewn and sorted by my suegra in what seemed like a matter of hours. It MUST be said, they ARE hands-down the classiest curtains in the building. I commented last night that we may not have the biggest apartment in the world, but it damn sure won't be short on style, dammit. Oh yes, we DO have taste. And I really can't wait to get the Frida portraits up.

The Roof and the Same Old Song...

I've been here for... 5 days. FIVE DAYS?! Holy Christ... I hadn't realized that. Oh well, it's probably best not to keep count. The apartment could use some help. It's roomy... if you're an effing parakeet. There's no place or space for me to go and brood. I guess I could go sit up on the roof with the gas tank, hold hands and watch the stars twinkle or something.

This city is massive and I mean in size, not necessarily in coolness. In fact I've found very little in the way of coolnes as yet. Like today... I have never heard so much shit music during the course of one afternoon in my entire LIFE! And this wasn't in my house either, it was coming from the neighbors downstairs. The tunes in my place were OK. They would probably grade higher, but I'm gonna swear AGAIN... If I hear this Manoo Chow one more time I honestly think I'm going to heave lunch and likely internal organs from a great height, well, the 3rd floor balcony anyway. Fucking hell, REALLY... Can one person fool so any others with what to me, the untrained ear, sounds like the same fucking song over and over again?*



*Disclaimer- I actually used to dig it too!

'Last' things and reminiscing with Christy Moore...

As I've been feeling no pressure about the Big Shift, I've had time to look around and take in the last of whatever I'm doing. I had the last haircut yesterday and I'll have the last dump tomorrow or so. I'll watch my last sporting event tonight and watch my last nasty unhealthy shit-dose of cable news at some point. And of course I'm referring to the Fox News shite. I WILL miss Maddow and them though, gotta admit that.

It's a rainy day in DeepSouth, and just TOO perfectly dramatic for reminiscing and all sorts of similar time-wasting endeavors. If it was a film, it'd be considered time-worn and overdone. Then I've got Christy Moore singing about 'Veronica' over here. Bloody hell, if I had a bottle of Jameson I'd fucking well miss my flight, drowned in memories that'd been dug up in my well-pissed state..... oh yes, I'd have a fuck of a time making my flight... TOMORROW!!

She's only brilliant...

A day and change before Big Flight and I'm not at all nervous. I've been contemplating all the things I may miss from round here, but it's more a case of 'I can't wait to effing get there and get on with my LIFE!'. Now, I don't want to turn this blog into some painful, clichéd, contrite, and ultimately annoying meditation on my relationship (though that would likely be an improvement compared to the shite I've been smearing the walls with recently), but it has to be mentioned: The lack of nerves or apprehension is because I'm going to be in the best of company. Ever.

Yunuen's only been brilliant the last few weeks, and all under an acute amount of pressure. Sorting a place to live was not as easy at it sounds, and it was weighing on the two of us. Once the place had been accounted for, it was amazing to see the clouds that had been gathering just roll the fuck away. She gets top marks for the patience it took. These are things I will express to her personally though, and not here for all to see. Of course, one peek at a couple of social networking site pages would provide SO much well-intentioned and borderline over-the-top sap, you'd be forgiven for developing nausea within 4 to 5 seconds. Record time, no doubt. But, as I told her the other night- I don't give a toss. I don't seek approval from anyone else. Everything I say is for her and her only. Nuff said.

Memorable Lines (squeezed out)

So I heard that there's going to be an 'A Team' movie. That's right. An adaptation of the 80s 'action' series for the big screen to be seen by thousands (if not millions) of sheep eager to enjoy bowel-convulsing explosions, insipid and unbelievable car chases, and less than witty one-liners disguised as dialogue to be utilized by the unoriginal lemmings who piece together trailers for this dreck in order to close out said trailer with a 'memorable line'. Something in the way of a sincerely delivered-'Let's do dis.' or a gleeful-'You got that right!' I mean, really, if I'M making these up off the cuff what the hell does that tell you about the tw@ts that actually get PAID to squeeze this sort of feces out? Am I saying I could do better? No. But at least I'd be fucking original.

So, basically, fuck Hollywood for this sort of thing. I don't get it, seriously. Remakes of half-ass 80s TV shows? Constant sequels to films I never had the slightest desire to see in the first place? What the HELL?

My theory, and it may fall into the conspiracy category, is that they don't feel like paying for any original ideas. The concepts, characters, and storylines from all these TV programs are on hand so they don't have to spend a dime for the rights to any of them, so there... Now we get the same shit over and over again. It's the cinematic equivalent to Friday fucking fish sticks in elementary school.

Now, apparently, I won't have to hold my breath in anticipation of 'Growing Pains: The Movie'.

Jaysus.

More Cheating Bastards... and Home.

Holy Christ, what a week THAT was.

Yes, Eduardo dived, he's a cheating bastard. No, he doesn't deserve the 2 match ban. Yes, he's gone down in my estimation. I don't give a toss about his FORMERLY broken leg. He sure seems to be healthy enough to fall over in mock agony then bury a spot kick directly afterwards. Yes, I do believe he's healed.



Yes, Rooney dived, he's a cheating bastard. No, this is not news. No, I don't think there's some anti-Arsenal conspiracy. No, I don't think anyone anywhere has the idea that 'helping' Manchester United win matches benefits anyone anwhere else. It's simply a case of shite referees. That's something ELSE that's nothing new. I don't even want to think about it anymore. I have a couple weeks before the whole Man City thing comes up and I want to save sufficient amounts of venom for Adebayor. Enough football for now.

My BFS is only a few weeks away and I'm anxious to get going already. I look forward to adding more to this blog once I get settled in and begin my life anew over on foreign shores. (Yeah, I know, it's not REALLY 'foreign shores', but it sounds effing dramatic) I think this horseshit I dish out will shift in scope as well. It'll be less Arsenal and Arctic Monkeys and more... hmmm... more... mmm.... about... uh.... my actual fucking LIFE! I'll be in the biggest city in the whole wide world, so I'm sure there'll be something more interesting to write about than... 'It was hot today. It didn't rain. It was humid. It'll be the same tomorrow. When do the Cowboys play?' Bloody hell. I love Texas, but lately it's been a tad tedious to say the least. We shall see.



Home sweet home.

Snarky Smelly 13 Year Olds

I just picked up the new Arctic Monkeys CD (IOMI passim... some shit about music to get well pissed to) called 'Humbug', and I'm well chuffed. I have it here in hand and I'm like some old bastard who can't let go of relics or the past. I have the excitement of expectation as I look at the cover and gaze at the titles of the songs. I've heard one of the tracks, so I KINDA know what to expect, but I've purposefully maintained a healthy level of ignorance in order to enjoy this on the first listen as if it's something absolutely brand new, which it is and should be.

That is one of life's pleasures that seems to be fading. That feeling you get when you see or hear something for the first time. Nowadays, we have the ability to get our hands on shit before the completed article is even finished, which is all fine and dandy but I prefer the anticipation as opposed to the all-too-common instant gratification aspect of whatever the hell century and day and age we're in currently. I'm wholly unimpressed with the fact that some snarky, smelly 13 year old has probably been listening to this album repeatedly since mid-May. I'm honoring the bloody artists by waiting until THEY effing well feel it's ready to be released, thank you very much. Cranky old bastard? I might be.

Now the question is- When do I listen to the CD? I'm going to be busy this evening broadcasting my radio show, then I have a load of things to do in preparation for the BFS. We shall see... I mean, I know good and damn well I'm going to like it. It may take a few listens to snuggle in with it, but it's the Arctic Monkeys, for fuck's sake. They're back with new material and more music to get well pissed to. Cheers, lads.

Lots of Goals and Cheating Bastards...

I haven't written here in ages. It's about time I got back into the swing of it. I'm going to need some outlet to maintain my sanity in a month or so in a major way, and though it doesn't seem feasible, it's about to happen. Details will be shared upon the BFS, or... the Big Fucking Shift. Anyway, it's boring, Sidney, really tedious and all, so fuck all that. I have Arsenal and Little League baseball to talk about.

Arsenal- 12 goals in 3 victorious matches so far. Better than I expected and it's obvious the young players (I HATE calling them 'young guns', can we get at least SOME semblance of originality? Even though I myself mentioned it) have matured to the point where they can make a serious title run or at least threaten to bring back a shiny object given for winning several important football matches back to... wherever they put that sort of shit at Arsenal Football Club. Do they take it back to the Emirates? I'm sure they do, but I doubt it actually STAYS there. Well, they're only brilliant aren't they? Absolute quality and I'm relieved, though my cynicism runs quite deep and I fret over the clichéd 'fast start' that may fizzle out. I really have deep qualms about, say, a day in March when all Gooners will look back on the season and wonder what the fuck went wrong. Half empty? Slightly. Though unlike CERTAIN miserable, ungrateful C's, I have complete faith in Mr Wenger.



Now onto Little League. I had the odd experience of actually watching one of these Little League World Series (LLWS) games the other evening. I remember a few years back I had taken advantage of the hype over a certain amazing pitcher from the Bronx Little League All-Stars (or whatever they were officially called) and made an evening out of every game he pitched, whether in the company of other burgeoning alkies or not. The kid was astounding, just a freak of nature, being so young and so damn good. Of course, his name was Danny Almonte and he was well over-age and playing for what amounted to cheating bastards. I wondered if it made him a cheating bastard as well. Well, that's another debate for 'Hardball', in between yammering over whether the president is a citizen or not. So, anyway, I was bamboozled like the rest of creation by this Almonte kid so I dropped watching the LLWS.

Fast foward to the other night and there I was. It was some squad from New York whose players mostly had last names ending in vowels and who looked vaguely Mediterranean. They were up against some team from the Pacific Northwest, whose players mostly looked like that foul-mouthed fucker from the original Bad News Bears film.



I think I watched one full inning.

I couldn't handle it. Now, in full disclosure, I like baseball though I would have qualified as 'rubbish' at it when I was these kid's ages. And hey, there's no shame in that. Shit. I think it would have been worse to have been a Legend and to have gone downhill directly after that. Cos that sure as shit happens! ANYway, I couldn't watch because it's impossible to get outraged by the proceedings. I couldn't say that the short-stop sucked because he made a bad throw, I mean, he's 12 years old! He's not making millions, right? So it stifles my inherent need to over-react to every move (good or bad) with unbridled fury. Now that I think about it, same goes for college sports. They're not getting paid (not supposed to be anyway) so what's the point of watching if you can't call someone a 'useless bastard'?

Channeling Behan... and Shocking Kisses.

Sometimes I even shock myself. There's little explanation to it and I'm past the point of trying to figure it out, but Thursday afternoon was a great case in point.

So, I piss off early from work. I try and figure out what I'm gonna do with a few spare hours, so of course, I think 'the bar'. Now, I haven't drank in about a month, which is a long time for me, seriously. I walk into this 'theme' pub which isn't theme pub I'm always talking about. I'm greeted by the waitress and some dude at the bar who introduces himself and has me sit by him. I'm only figuring to have maybe 2 pints of Guinness and watch the Manchester City match, right? Well, your man had OTHER plans. He insisted I sit there and get hammered with him at 1 in the afternoon. So... I did.

I drank about 6 or 7 pints and paid all of $5 since he insisted on buying all the rounds whilst unmercifully downing Michelobs. The owner of the place stood us a round as well somewhere in the middle of all that. I really didn't get hammered though. He sure as shit did though! He was stumbling all over the place by about 4pm.

During the proceedings, I made the remark that I liked to write, so I was tasked to write a piece... and I obliged, feeling like Brendan Behan or something, head down, scribbling lines at the bar with a lovely pint of Guinness in front of me. The bartender was truly impressed with the shite I eventually produced and I have to admit, it wasn't half bad considering the constant repetitious chattering of my patron sitting next to me, going on and on about high school days... reminding me FAR too much of Al Bundy. I mean, fuckin' hell... I HATED high school and here he was acting as if it was the highlight of his life, which sadly, it probably was.

I find all that talk about 'when I played football in high school' just a bit sad. I don't mean to be judgemental either, but honestly, it bores fuck out of me. Was I a jock? No. And that's probably why I'm not interested. Still and all, I don't care to talk about ANYthing from those days. I found high school tedious and boring; a complete waste of time spent amongst wankers and awkward tossers. I wasn't cool or anything either by ANY stretch! I just didn't give a fuck. I did my own thing and that was that. I was always comfortable with the fact that it would one day end and mean fuck all in the whole scheme of things.

ANYway... Your man was showing a bit of concern for your humble ranconteur. He was worried if I'd had something to eat (I hadn't) and where I was going or what I was doing later. He asked me what 'we' were going to do next. Mmmm... I wasn't aware we were on a fucking date. I was there, 'I'm gonna hang out and have another pint here.' Well, I'll be damned if this bloke doesn't go and kiss me as he's leaving. Yeah. Read THAT again. I was reminded of that scene in 'American Beauty' where Lester is 'confronted' by the bad-ass Marine from next door in the garage during that rain storm. All afternoon I get to hear about how tough he is and how nobody is gonna mess with me... Mess with ME? There were like five other people there anyway and none of them seemed overly dangerous to me. So, he's playing up this protective role or something... maybe he's seen too many prison films... and I'm just nodding, lapping it up, cos after all, he IS buying the rounds, isn't he?! Then he goes and kisses me! On the cheek too, don't get the wrong idea here. So... if anyone has a clue what THAT was all about PLEASE let me know!

Regardless, I did enjoy writing at the bar with a pint as a companion. That was grand. I'll have to do that again sometime. Sans Al Bundy though, innit.

Palin and Mullets

Returning from a brief and very unhealthy lunch, I had the misfortune of ending up behind some jeep with not one, but TWO Sarah Palin/John McCain campaign stickers. What? You don't believe that there were/are stickers that basically have her name printed prominently? Moreso than McCain's? Well, feast your eyes on THIS...



Yeah!! That's what I'M talkin' about!! You betcha, doggone it! Wink, goddamn, wink. So, of course, you KNOW I had to pull up beside and see what kind of an effing idiot was so smitten with Wasilla's Very Own to the point of sporting TWO stickers on his jeep. And yes, I was DAMN sure it was a 'he'! Well, I'll let you guess what he looked like. I couldn't even be annoyed to tell you the truth. I just slightly shaked my head and said out loud, 'It fuckin' figures.' (I wonder what he'd say if he knew she was my girlfriend? Even though she's not that fly.)

Now, the guy HAS to be a wanker, innit? I mean, the McPalin campaign was dead in the water from the off and JAYSUS, they got their asses handed to them, didn't they? So why continue to drive around with such GARBAGE on your vehicle? Is this some sort of conservative 'keep the faith' type thing? You know, much like these guys that run around losing their hair on top, yet sport a ponytail, it's only a bit futile at this point. But then again, this is Texas, where dumbasses and mullets always seem to find a home, right? Right!

The Return of Eduardo

I'm really tempted to get all weepy and sentimental about the amazing return of Eduardo da Silva to the Arsenal squad after a year out of action on account of an horrific leg break, however, I'll leave that to others. I'll just hail the man's spirit. It was a lovely sight and one that really didn't surprise me all that much. He had shown exquisite quality in the few run outs he had gotten before the injury. His touch and pace were on full display and I, personally, felt that perhaps the most ominous obstacle he would enconter would be in the line of confidence. He appeared entirely unmoved and (here I go with the syrupy shite) it was an assertion of the human spirit. Ok, there, I'm done.

Seriously though, it was great to see him not only playing, but playing extremely well. He and Carlos Vela seemed to have developed a certain understanding and it'll be something to look out for in the remaining matches. The addition of Andrei Arshavin and the imminent return(s) of Cesc Fábregas, Theo Walcott, and Emmanuel Adebayor will mean Arsene Wenger may be spoiled for choice. I have several times resigned myself to the fact that we'll likely go trophyless this season and I HATE fluctuating expectations, especially after a Cup match against the likes of Cardiff City (no disrespect, but c'mon), though I have to say, I think we Gooners are in for some groovy times. And if nothing else, the rest of the season will provide some much-needed entertainment, which we've been sorely short on recently.

Valentine's Day? Sheeeeiiiit....

Thank fuck it's over with. Those were two unbearable days. And how is it that some people actually stretched this Valentine's horseshit over two days anyway? You know, there were some giving it on Friday, balloons crowding what little room they had left in their cars and such. Flowers and candy being handed out as if they were somehow deserved, and all because some fucking guys (and girls) buckled under the pressure of conforming. Yes, conforming. Cos it'd really be hell to pay if any of them missed it or forgot it. Or worse yet, chose to willfully ignore it.

I'm not bitter or anything, am I? I'm only being realistic. Now I'm a bit of a romantic bastard myself, kind of a sap actually, but some of these activities are well over the fucking top! One I can't bear is men recieving flowers. I would not stand for it. I'd be embarassed to fuck! I mean SERIOUSLY! I'd feel like a right tool walking around with a bouquet of fucking flowers! This apparently flatters some people. Again, I'm not opposed to the romance aspect, I'm not some cranky git that only feels negatively towards the day simply because I got to spend it dead alone! (Technically, I DO have a valentine, in fact, though it's a bit complicated. More on that in a minute) I just can't get my head around this shit sometimes.

So there I was, out at theme pub wanting to have a few pints before pissing off back home and who ALSO happens to be there? Well, the fucking Valentine's Day couples of course! They were mobbed up, weren't they? Really making their prescence felt. See, what happens is theme pub is also a restaurant on the other side of the bar so there was some spill over from the dining area. So I'm trying to sip a pint and chit chat idly as I usually do and all amidst these annoying balloons and cupids and goofy looking bastards who were making a really big deal out of the whole thing. Lucky I wasn't a bouncer cos I'da found ANY excuse to chuck 'em all out. This is a BAR, for fuck's sake!! How about a bit of decorum? Go engage in that shit elsewhere! Like a park or something...

So, I do have a 'valentine', though luckily for me, there is an enormous distance between us. In fact, she's in another country (even though the border with said country is about 12 miles from where I write, it's just that saying 'she's in another country' REALLY sounds dramatic, innit?). And I say 'luckily', cos if we were closer, I'd have damn sure been one of those sad, pathetic C's making way too big a deal about the whole matter! Yeah, I'm cynical to a point, ain't I? Vaguely hypocritical on the issue as well, but I'm only being honest!

She Truly Changed My Life.

I don't even remember how it happened.

How many times have those words been uttered in reference to what would become a life-altering experience? It's easy to see how the cliché could apply again, though the truth is that I truly don't remember how it went down. I had taken two weeks off in order to enjoy the 2002 edition of the FIFA World Cup live and direct from various cities in Japan and the Republic of Korea. It meant matches were on starting from 1am and ending around 6am. It was quite torturous to say the least. And then... I don't even remember how it happened.

I don't know if it was the video or the CD, but her art grabbed me in a way I had never been held onto before or since. It was Lauryn Hill's somewhat unfancied release, 'MTV Unplugged 2.0'. My life was changed with it, truly changed. altered beyond anything I'd imagined. It was the second track, 'Adam Lives in Theory' which woke me up to something, showed me something... There was an expression within that reached into me delicately, though with enough force to make me look at myself for the first time and face facts, face who I was.. As Lauryn said in the opening of the track, 'Fantasy is what people want, but reality is what they need.', as she announced her retirement from the fantasy part. So I was left to ponder.

Every song so full of art and expression. I was overwhelmed. Amidst the twirling streams of incense and slow drags on cannabis pleasantly stronger than I had initially assumed, I sat mesmerized and emotionally moved. Every song with melody that sent waves of sentiment through me... and I felt things slowly falling apart, crumbling even. This veneer was melting away in the middle of the night. One of aggression and stubbornness, of trying to appear as something I was not, at every juncture... it fell apart, exploded, blown to bits by the expression shared by a young sister armed solely with a guitar.



Who was I? I wasn't sure. Still ain't, if I'm being honest. I knew then, though, that I wasn't what I was acting as. My true self, whatever the hell that is, began to emerge. It wouldn't be until five years later that I would feel completely comfortable with it, but it did finally manifest itself during those darkened nights, lit only by the light of the small television on the floor and the orangeish light peeking in from the parking lot through the sliding doors.

'Freedom Time'. She said it was time to 'Get free, be who you're supposed to be'. I took it as a personal challenge and let nature takes it's course. Hair stopped being cut, only to grow curly, mad locked, and as a statement of some sort of growth. Tears came flowing freely and seeds were planted that would later bear fruit. Those tears were washing away every rusted and rotted bit of self-repression that I had held in me, they were cleansing me from within. They came in a torrent with various feelings that I had held inside; it was elation, sadness, bittersweet memories, and the daunting prospect of what was to come. And it was a solitary act of course. Nobody was able to spend those late nights watching football and/or sipping cans whilst having Lauryn do her thing, which was shaking false foundations I had set up for myself.

Loneliness was indeed a factor. I felt alone during that spell, even when surrounded by friends. Her words became company. Her voice was comforting. What she was speaking of went straight to my consciousness like nothing before. I was sincerely moved. She asked, 'Why don't you rebel?'. I had no answer. None. I felt empty, yet fulfilled. She said that 'a crew doesn't validate you.', and it hit me. Hard. I decided I could walk alone and be me. Be who I am, who I'm supposed to be. Free.

Then we found peace of mind in nine minutes of emotion.

A soaring love song about someone insecure and immature, sounding like someone I knew well. As I write this now, it remains as moving to me as when I first heard it. It still applies. I was never quite sure who she was singing of, whether it was a man she loved or... God.... as the lyrics seem to shift into something frankly incredible halfway through as she beseeches the listener to 'free your mind'. It crashed over me. It was truly a life-altering moment.

'What a joy it is to be alive. To get another chance. Everyday's another chance to get it right this time.'

My thoughts... I'm not that bad. I'm not like that. I don't need to behave in this manner. I can be who I am and if I have to walk alone, I will. I don't need validation. I don't need acceptance. I don't have to prove myself to anyone. That's who I am. Those who know me will know. Those that don't take the time, well, they won't, and I'm not ever going to be bothered. I have love to share, loads of it in fact. That's who I am. I have my very own thoughts, ideas, and views, and while I know most folks won't understand them or care, it's not going to stop me from being who I am. I am an individual. I am unique. That's who I am. I am holy and profane. I am logical and irrational. I am not a bad person as I look from the outside in. I am a gentle soul. That's all. That's all I've ever been. That is who I am.

And THAT was the very first chain I broke in my own personal endeavor to get free. It's an ongoing process for sure. It's never ending as far as I can see. However, I will ALWAYS acknowledge the profound influence that Lauryn Hill's words, music, and attitude had on me during quiet solitary summer nights drenched in canned lager and spent in deep, honest self-reflection.

She truly changed my life.

Phony Pints....

So there I go again, right? Standing a pint of the finest stout made in the whole wide world apparently. Only the pint is being pulled in deep south Texas, where memories fade into long-necks of pale piss-water that astoundingly passes for beer. It's a shambles, of course, but I like, no, I LOVE, my Guinness. There's nothing quite as beautiful in this world than the sensation that comes from holding a lovely topped-off pint of properly pulled Guinness. Oh... it IS a moment for me. One I've taken time to appreciate, even whilst being three fucking sheets, leaning shamelessly on a bar in a hotel in Killarney at 2am. It's sooo inspiring.



Right... So I'm at 'theme pub' and I'm not about to mention names, but you can imagine, innit? And I order the shit, cos... well... I LIKE it, even if they DON'T know how to pull a proper pint. No matter. I withstand the practice and don't say a word. Why? Because I'm a classy guy, alright? What the fuck can I DO? Tell him/her, 'Nah, mate, ya not pourin' that roite.' Ain't gonna happen... and why NOT?? Because they won't give a shit. Seriously, they won't. It's ALL beer to them. They don't give a fuck. So I have to take it and be vaguely merry.

I once mentioned, to some sad cow with the big blonde Texas hair that was tending bar one afternoon, that I had recently returned from Eire and would like a drop of the old water from the River Liffey to remind me of the pleasant hours I'd spent well pissed on the Emerald Isle. So, what does she say? Or ASK actually? She's there, 'What were YOU doing there?' Like I didn't belong. And sheepishly, I could only muster the 'Culture and Music' explanation... as if this moron would understand that shit ANYway. Then to add insult to injury, she had no clue as to how to pull a fucking pint! And again, me, being a class act (sometimes to my own detriment), I said fuck all and had to drink that horrid, sloppy bullshit.

The fucking nerve...

And I go through that everytime I step to 'theme pub'. I'm forced to swill shite pints (that aren't proper imperial pints ANYway) and smile. Sometimes I wonder why they can't find this video and learn from it... It's ONLY the two-part pour, ya bastards. The two-part pour!



Maybe I'll stick to lager next time, eh?

Ha! Like fuck.

Andrei and the Arctic Monkeys...

So we/they/Arsenal signed Andrei Arshavin... FINALLY. Enough of that, FFS. Now I'm anxious to see him play. All along I was sceptical of him, but now since we set a record transfer fee bringing this fucking guy in, I reckon Wenger must have a high opinion of him. And I, like any halfway decent member of any devoted cult worth his or her salt, truly believe that 'Arsene Knows', as the slogan goes. So, so much for that.

Something Else Entirely...
'Music to Get Well Pissed To'

Now, I wanna begin a new feature which I likely will never follow up further than the submission for today. No matter, I just wanted to wax poetic about the Arctic Monkeys and this is just an effing excuse to do so. The feature is called 'Music to Get Well Pissed To'... and the first entry is the, erm, Arctic Monkeys (somewhat redundantly).

Seriously, when I heard these kids a little over a year ago, I truly wondered how in the hell I had ever lived without them. I don't wanna sound like some breathless groupie, but... fuck it, I will. They're only brilliant. Their sound is massive, they're absolute sonic gang-busters. It's the sort of thing that rock n' roll is supposed to be about (and something I've noticed missing from some of these so-called rock bands); a wall of guitar chords and insistent pounding drums. And here's the key: they deftly drop the volume when necessary and THAT'S when the pure quality of the band comes shining through.

Admittedly, I don't know what I've missed lately as far as rock bands go, as I decided a few years back to remain blissfully ignorant after growing weary of square-looking geeks and/or horrorshow rejects posing as 'rock stars'. The former clones looking suspiciously and annoyingly like frat boy bar-room bands and the latter like something I'd honestly be embarassed as fuck to let my mum know I liked, SO, it wouldn't shock me if someone could show me exactly WHO the Monkeys might be aping (no pun intended...really, seriously... that just HAPPENED). I'm sure they've been influenced by someone or another, though I don't reckon they're properly ripping anyone off.


ANYway...

Alex Turner's lyrics are absolutely fantastic. His dry wit and keen observations are like nothing else I've heard in recent years. He actually SAYS something without sounding pretentious. Ah, it's a working class dream, innit? He paints beautiful pictures of being out on the piss, makes the mundane seem glorious, and his rhyme schemes are impeccable, which is something I truly admire and haven't noticed being practiced lately outside of highly skilled emcees. It's seemingly lost on rock bands nowadays.

THEN you have Turner's vocals, which are outstanding. His light sarcasm is balanced by a lack of over-the-top sneering in his delivery, that is, he sounds thoroughly genuine, unlike the suburban whinge mob that dare to call themselves 'punk' that I've had the utter displeasure of listening to. And of course, Turner is true to his home turf, Sheffield, and actually sings in that Yorkshire accent, though I'm sure he has little choice, as he'd likely take a caning from his local loyal fans if he didn't.

Still and all... Arctic Monkeys- Best Band in the World. End of story.
And of course, GREAT music to get well pissed to!

Yes! No! Maybe! Oh... Fuck it.

So it's on, then it's off, then maybe, then probably not, then it's 'Hell yes', then it's 'I think not'. Seriously, this Andrei Arshavin business has become a practice eerily similiar to my (admittedly rare) experiences of dating women. Yes, I have, in fact, done such a thing, in my youth, don't act shocked. It's tediously ambiguous behaviour shrouded in vague statements, misleading remarks and gross misunderstandings that are then spoken of at loud volume to looks of horror (or at least regret) by one or both parties involved. Fucking mental, it is.

I watched a bit of Sky Sports News earlier and learnt quite descriptively that he, Andrei Arshavin, had grabbed hold of his pair and coughed for the know-it-alls at Arsenal's training facility. All was deemed well enough, so it was that Arshavin was now a Gunner, once and for all. I was pleased though I haven't been a big fan of this daily 'he said, he said, they said' coyness being played out by all sides. I honestly didn't give a shit if he joined or not. However, upon hearing that he basically had, well... I have to admit, I was a bit chuffed.

Well, within minutes the news came through that the deal was suddenly off. Ha! I shoulda known. I should have recognized that move from that one time I wasted money and time with an 'actress' named Dawn. Yeah, it was the same move. Believe me.

There's a certain sticking point... Well, I don't mean to be so descriptive as to seem blatantly obscene, but come fucking on! Get on with it! Enough teasing! Apparently Zenit want money out of Arshavin. What?! Yeah... HE has to pay to get out of his deal or maybe because Arsenal doesn't fancy paying a certain amount or something of that nature. And wouldn't I have loved to have that option with Dawnie?

Well, regardless, I'm gonna have a go at Arshavin just because... well... because I can't find a picture of the Zenit St Petersburg board.


Ok, so I hope one of Andrei's terms isn't the insistence on having the number 10 shirt. Bloody fucking hell... that particular piece of clothing only belongs to William Gallas, doesn't it?!

So it just brings to mind a serious contemplation- I wonder if perhaps borrowing someone else's knickers woulda led that Dawn to perform any better or...

Yeah, as you can tell, I'm having a mare of a day.

Mick McCarthy: Legend.

Wolverhamption Wanderers conceded an own-goal barely two minutes into their top of the table clash with Reading on Tuesday. Wolves manager Mick McCarthy was asked for his thoughts concerning the incident, after eventually losing the match 1 goal to nil. His response?

"Fooking abysmal, that was what I fooking thought of it. C'mon, let's get to it, I'm trying my best here. What did I make of it? I thought it was the best bit of fooking football I've seen in a long time. Do me a favour. It was a crap start to a game. There you have it, can you print all that? Fooking rubbish, absolute tosh. Drivel. Shite. Bullshit. That's what I thought of it. Did that help? I'm quite pleased, apart from the fact that's given them the poxy result, I'm fooking livid about it - of course I am. So, there you have it"

I don't give a toss what Roy Keane scribbled on the bathroom wall, Mick McCarthy is a legend.

Interesting Photo...

Not that I'm overly shocked or anything but still, this is an interesting photograph. A bloke I look up to apparently listening to my main writing influence. How cool is that? Well, probably MASSIVELY uncool if you happen to be some rightwing reactionary fascistic jackboot bastard... Then again, you'd have no business peering at this page then, would ya?

ANYway, I'm going to 'revisit' Highway 61 myself right now and have it reinforced to me that 'the sun's not yellow, it's chicken'. Cheers.

Sugar Dilutes a Storm... and some other bollocks.

What an evening. Just a load of bollocks and lairy behaviour. And of course, I wouldn't have had it any other way. I've little patience for anything else these days.

The fight. It was a farce. There WAS no fight. It was Shane Mosley battering Antonio Margarito into submission. Well impressive, that was. Shocking the world and me along with it. Good for Shane too. Regardless of his so-called 'troubles' out of the ring (and by the way, which fighter doesn't have any?) he's been a class act all the way through. He's won battles with grace and took his losses like a man. Massive respect to Shane Mosley.



I just got home and seen that News of the World is reporting that Arsenal are preparing to 'make a raid' on Micah Richards, he of Man City. Now, I don't know when the hell football clubs became marauding gangs of bandits, but I gotta say....(long pause) Micah Richards! Fuckin' hell! I've only been wishing they'd made that move two years ago! Hopefully that will put all this Arshavin tedium to rest, but fuck knows I'm not trusting News of the World. Still and all, it'd be brilliant... Micah Richards. He could play centre-half or a holding mid-field position. OR he could free up Kolo Touré for similar shifts. Micah Richards... I'm chuffed at the prospect!

ANYway, the rest of the evening/night was the same time-honored tradition of getting well pissed. One day it's bound to get unbearably boring, isn't it? We shall see...

Arshavin? My Arse.

So in 24 hours (or less), we Gooners will be able to let out an elongated breath as this Andrei Arshavin ordeal comes to an end. And seriously, that's all I want at this point, for this horsepiss tedious drama to end.

Do I care whether Zenit St Petersburg takes the £15 million Arsenal's offered for this bloke? Not in the least. In fact, I'd prefer if they saved that money. I honestly don't think he's worth even HALF that amount. £15 mil for a 27 year old who's played his entire career in Russia? I think fucking not. If he was that good he'd have been at Arsenal 8 years ago. End of.

I don't think it's gonna happen. He's not gonna be transferred and I don't give a toss. I think the squad is coming together, showing a grim determination in the face of adversity as they have the last two matches... They're growing and Arsene knows, Arsene Wenger knows. That's why he spent the early part of the week bigging up 8 year old Aaron Ramsey, saying how far ahead of normal progression he is. Oh, and we'll be getting Eduardo back from that horrid leg-break as well.

So, do we really need a player who I've seen 3 times in my entire life? Of course, I'm not the one calling the shots in the boardroom. Shame, that. I'd have told the Zenit lads and Arshavin's agent to fuck right off to Spurs a month ago. Besides, do you think I really want to see THIS face in an Arsenal kit?


My short answer is- Hell fucking no.

The New PC and an Old Story.

I finally took the plunge recently and got hold of a new computer. I'm not going to go into nerdish details about which kind and other various technical terms, because, quite simply, I know fuck all about it. I'll just say this, it's fast and I haven't had any problems with it (so far). I haven't gone into massive strops or sat in a simmering homicidal rage as the machine crawled and sometimes froze while I was in the middle of something, whether important or not. No, that shit is over and done with... Miraculously, I might add.

That famous final metaphorical straw was the inability to listen to a radio broadcast over the 'internets'. It was truly beyond me that such a simple thing could prove to be so complicated and downright impossible. I took a few deep breaths and decided that THAT was that.

I harbored fantasies of destroying the old PC with my bare hands (and I still may do). I had that machine for almost 9 years and never once updated it. I know, I know, it's failure to perform menial tasks was likely my own damn fault. I'm fully aware of that. I don't give a toss though. It was time for a new piece of equipment... and soon to be known as a 'piece of shit', if it causes me ANY issues.

So, I'm looking forward to watching football matches and rugby union and maybe even a little cricket, so I can figure out WTF with THAT game. We shall see...

Silliness From a While Back

So, it was a Friday night. I was invited to this place by a pal whose cousin plays in a band who was 'opening' for some ska band that it was assumed I liked. I mean, they were Ok. I apprecicate a good effort no matter what, and they gave one. I wasn't about to buy anyone drinks though, you know?

Anyway, even though I've been accused of being a fashionista, and falsely, I might add, I'll still give a quick run-down of the gear (and this is all relevant to the point I'm gonna make, it's not just me being self-absorbed, well... not entirely). I was wearing -deep breath- an off white dress shirt, black slacks, and two-tone wing-tips... no homburg and no jacket cos it was well warm and humid here that night. Was I over-dressed? Very. I thought since it was a ska band that there would be this whole rude-boy vibe and all. No chance. I couldn't make out if it was goth or emo those in attendance were trying to emulate.

So, a couple of the ska band fellas came over to the bar, which I stayed close to since I was looking just a little bit out of place. I nod nicely and one kid says (and have you ever experienced such a thing?) 'Hey, I know you.' and for a fleeting moment it flashes through my head irrationally- 'I'm famous'. And then of course, it fades... and it's replaced by equally irrational suspicion.

So I'm there, 'Yeah?', and wondering, 'From where, you bastard?'. And he's there, 'Do you know Paul MUMBLE-JUMBLE?' (I say MUMBLE-JUMBLE cos he said some Eastern European name that I'd clearly NEVER heard before). Of course I have to say no, right? Then he asks if I used to be in SOMETHING Street Killers (SOMETHING, cos now I realize he has some speech impediment... and MUMBLE-JUMBLE might well have been a name like Jones or Smith for all I know). So, I'm thinking this is gang, yeah? Something Street Killers? And I realize it's a band...and THEN I realize he's genuinely hoping I was in the Something Street Killers.... and I say, 'Nah, bruv, not me.' And I wished I HAD played an instrument and only been in that band... cos he looked a little disappointed.

Mmmmmm... Well, point is, he likely wouldn't have mistaken me for someone else if I had been dressed like everyone else. Does that make ANY sense?

The Love of My Life.... A Long-Winded Analysis

So things were vaguely back to normal on the Arsenal front today. Back to league action, this time home to Bolton Wanderers, a club that a few years ago could raise my ire like no other, well... other than Man U, Chelsea, and of course, the scum (aka Tottenham Hotspur). I realized that no more do I harbor ill will towards the Trotters, and that the negativity stemmed from the presence of former manager Sam Allardyce, he of the headset and the 'innovative ideas' and the disgusting habit of smacking his chewing gum (with open mouth) for any available flavor that might be left over. Oh, he was/is a smug sort. Big Sam, or BS as I prefer to call him, was an annoying man, though much of the annoyance, for me, was due to the fact that he had a knack of making Arsenal look quite shite. If we had a bogey team, they were it.

Well, today was looking like more of the same. It was a twitchy affair and one in which I noticed the Arsenal finally looking like a team. They stayed patient and maintained focus and took the points late. Of course, Bolton had the bus and a jet airliner parked in front of goal and to exaggerate even more clichés, they had all 11, no 12... shit, they had the subs, the physio and yes, the tea lady all behind the ball. Ah, enough of those lame phrases! Even though I damn well used them, right?

Anyway, Bacary Sagna and Gael Clichy, who, by the way, are as fine a tandem of fullbacks to be found in the Prem, were firmly situated in the Bolton half throughout the first period... and on into the second period. It was striking. And of course, our fowards were not. Emmanuel Adebayor missed a sitter, or rather had one taken off his foot by a valiant Bolton defender and Robin van Persie struck the post. Kolo Touré had an effort from distance easily saved and things were looking rather bleak as we were ten minutes from the death and still stalled at nil-nil.

Nicklas Bendtner came on as a substitute and made an impression within seconds, rising high above the fray to nod a ball down, though right to Bolton keeper Jussi Jaskalainen's awaiting hands. (Obviously, I can't write about this bloke without mentioning his boots. This time the pink ones were stashed and he came out wearing a puke green pair. Thank you for the adjective, Renatta!.)



Another chance would come within minutes as a ball played deep into the area on the left by Clichy was met by van Persie who struck the ball first-touch, sending a low arching drive across the front of goal to the outstretched Bendtner who slid and met the ball firmly from about 3 yards out. It was a tight angle but Bendtner's aim was true and that was that. Three points in the bag after what was looking like another utterly dismaying performance.

Carlos Vela also came off the bench to provide some spark and it looks like he's developing nicely. The team seems to be gelling now. There really seems to be a certain cohesion. I considered whether many of the players, especially the younger ones, were getting carried away with the whole 'pretty football' thing. The idea of playing attractive football, which we all appreciate, might have been a sort of... added pressure. Like it's not enough to just win, you have to do it with style and perhaps when these players would find themselves against a club that was content to play for a scoreless draw and stifle proceedings, frustration would creep in, then desperation would set in as full-time approached. They seem patient now. There's a sense of determination in their demeanor, which is all the more striking as they displayed this with captain Cesc Fábregas out with injury. Oh, I still don't think we'll win the league, but this sure goes a long way to convincing me that we're on the right track for the future.

There's only one person to blame for it...

So, I always wanted to write, right? I had the yearning to express, to tell a tale, and to grab someone's imagination like mine had been so many times as I'd read a book or a story.

When I was 12 or 13, I used to write little adventures that my best mate used to read. They were serialized accounts of Old West shenanigans. They were inspired by my afternoon routine of watching old re-runs of 'Kung Fu', and influenced by my having recently read 'Roots' by Alex Haley. The general theme was freedom, as I look back. It wasn't political though. Hell no. It was a very general sense of getting out and being free. Maybe it seeped into my political views later, but at the time it was all about the open range, jail breaks, and adventure.

Later, I tried to write mysteries or tension-filled thrillers but I never had the patience or discipline to see them through. Not to mention that I had no idea where any of these tales were going! I'd introduce characters and then grow bored of them sharpish.

About 2 years ago, 'he' seemed to seek me out. It was on one of those late nights which I returned from a session with just enough of a buzz that it was absolutely imperative I not waste it by going to sleep. I scoff at that idea. It's not on as far as I'M concerned. Sleep? I can do that on a night when I'm sober. So, there I was sipping a bottle of Ken, headphones on, wanting to ease into a mellow state.... and there 'he' was, introducing me to another avenue, another way, another manner of expression, free, like the themes I wrote of in my youth... yeah... Free... of restraint or rules or restrictions on what was possible. I could get my point across any way I felt. Felt. Feeling... It was about feeling, what one felt. For the first time in my life, I realized that writing, as I learnt it, was not something to be guided by some handbook on how to force out some dire and tedious research paper. Writing was, and always has been, expression. It is art. Bob Dylan convinced me that my writing could very well qualify me as an artist.

That was scary as hell too. I wasn't sure what to make of it all. The pretention in the mere idea was enough to make me wary... of myself. It took a few days, but one afternoon, I grabbed a pen and a notepad and started riffing. Iraq, Cheney, Bush, this, that, ambiguous references and things I wasn't even sure I knew of. I ripped off his style on that first piece, and I let myself go, let my ideas and thoughts run wild, just as he had once done. I felt my way through, and whilst the result was dodgy at best, it was a start.

See? I knew, and still know, fuck all about poetry. And I am NOT a poet by any stretch. I refuse to use that label for myself now, and I never will in future. However, it slowly dawned on me that a lot of the literary devices that I deeply appreciated, like metaphor and ESPECIALLY allegory, were all firm components of this poetry thing that I was cautiously flirting with. It was welcoming me after our informal introduction by Dylan. And I, being raised with impeccable manners and a subtle, natural hospitality, did my best to accomodate and further work with this new aspect of my life. It took me a while to embrace it, and even still, I do so warily. So whenever I write a piece based on poetic principles or some random expression vaguely resembling what some might loosely call poetry, there's only one person to blame for it...

This guy...

Rancid and Odalys... Two words only I could combine in one blog

Sometimes a day drifts by with no identity. I've had more than a few of those. When I'm toiling and swearing to myself, I notice the hours look blandly identical. I yearn for new pastures on which to graze lazily... and on which to drink heartily, of course. I can't avoid that as much as I try, FFS. Regardless, there are always moments aren't there? I had a few earlier...

I had a re-acquaintance with one of my favorite CDs of all fuckin' time, 'Let's Go' by the Bay Area-based neo-old school punk band Rancid. What a companion for cheap beer THAT material is! Each track two minutes of sheer adrenaline... and yet each track maintaining an identity, as I return to a theme! Pretty amazing stuff, really. In this day and age when half-ass bands with some guitars are passed off as 'edgy', it's nice to know that a band like Rancid are still out there.

And then I was inspired by the mere and very brief view of Odalys García. I don't mean to sound sexist, but she is seriously something to behold and to be holding... Oh. My. God. The dimensions of her build almost bring tears to my eyes. And I don't toss remarks like that around loosely either. She has EARNED those dizzy moments I experience when I happen to gaze upon her... I don't even know if it's sexual anymore. Well, I mean, it IS, but I'm well past having simple dirty thoughts, innit? I'm to the point where I'm in complete awe. I'm left with little else but the opportunity to admire. In short, I ONLY fancy her, don't I?!

I'd write songs for her...

Fuckin' hell... I got carried away.

Touré, Gallas, and Other Majorly Distressing Issues

The big news for me on the Arsenal front was the rumor running rampant that 'King' Kolo Touré submitted a transfer request that was subsequently denied by our (yes, OUR) chairman, Peter Hill-Wood (PHW). The story goes that Kolo can't stand William Gallas and that Gallas can't stand him. Fair enough. I don't expect them to hang out and smoke cigarrettes together behind the equipment shed at the training facility, so the fact that they openly despise one another doesn't bother me at all either. They can still work together towards a common goal, which should be winning matches in the service of Arsenal Football Club. However, the confusing bit holds that Gallas has been bitching to Arsene Wenger (our manager) and apparently has AW's ear. Now, THIS I don't believe. Or at least I don't WANT to believe it. It makes little sense, especially after AW recently stripped Gallas of the captainship (captainship? is that a word?). My club is turning into a soap opera... and a poor one at that.

In regards to Gallas, I have mixed feelings towards him... always have, in fact. I was chuffed when he joined in exchange for Ashley Cole and rallied behind him even as the scurrilous accusations from Chelsea contended that he (Gallas) had threatened to score own goals until he was transferred. It made Chelsea, as a club, go down even FURTHER in my estimation and as such, made me welcome Gallas defiantly. Oh sure, he went into a strop at Birmingham and his leadership qualities were dodgy at best, however, he DID have some fine moments and scored some major goals against the likes of Liverpool and Man U. Having said that, I don't think he should EVER have been made captain and said so at the time. The armband should have been handed to Gilberto after Thierry Henry's departure and I've been adamant about that.

In viewing the wider picture and not going into hysterics week in and week out, I have to admit that Gallas has taken more than his share of the blame for the club's misfortunes. He's become a convenient scapegoat in my opinion. Should he move on in the January transfer window though? That's probably the most important aspect of it all at this point in time, and I think that yes, he should.

It's also been reported that Wenger has been offered upwards of 25 million Euro (I can't find the effing symbol for that currency!) to manage that scummy club, Real Madrid. I don't see any sense in taking that post. I doubt he'll have the sort of clout that he wields, and deserves, at Arsenal, and they'll probably sack him after a year like they do with everyone they hire. It would be unthinkable for me to have to deal with him moving over to that particular club. Disappointing would only scratch the surface.