Fool’s Rule Part 4: The Upside Of A Meltdown
Sometimes I think you have to march right in and demand your rights, even if you don't know what your rights are, or who the person is you're talking to. Then, on the way out, slam the door.
Yesterday I put on my pink polka dotted scarf and marched right up to Arsenal Towers. I told the official-looking guy in the uniform and hat at the front desk what a miserable wanker he was. And that he'd better get his act together, or else. I wanted to slam the door on the way out, but it was the revolving type. So I went through the only other door in the entrance hall and slammed that behind me. It was the janitor's closet. I waited a few minutes in the dark, then left. The man in the uniform smiled. I think he got my message.
A man doesn't automatically get my respect. He has to get down in the dirt and beg for it.
Sure, Arsene Wenger might have been managing clubs for 30 years. And sure, he might have won a whole bunch of trophies. And managed a team that went unbeaten for a whole season. And yes, he has a bunch of degrees. And speaks a gazillion languages. And goes to all the board meetings. And knows about the club finances. And knows which players are injured. And how much they're paid. And stuff like that. But I know what winning feels like. It feels bloody great. And he obviously doesn't because otherwise why would he always be trying to lose? Answer me that, hey? Hey?
If you think a weakness can be turned into a strength, I hate to tell you this, but that's another weakness.
Stop going around boasting that we are the best club to never win just because we don't spend so much. Soon we'll get used to not winning and then we'll not spend even more and then we'll have nothing to boast about. It's a slippery slope.
It makes me mad when people say I turned and ran like a scared rabbit. Maybe it was like an angry rabbit, who was going to fight in another fight, away from the first fight.
When I'm watching Arsenal games, sometimes during the break I'll pick the TV up off the floor, being very careful not to step on the broken glass from the beer bottles that I threw at Gervinho – (oh, no, wait! that glass is from the TV screen: the bottles didn't break) – and I'll say to myself, “Take a deep breath, Bat, I'm sure they'll be better next half.” But crap. There is no third half, is there..?
Love can sweep you off your feet and carry you along in a way you've never known before. But the ride always ends, and you end up feeling lonely and bitter. Wait. It's not love I'm describing. I'm thinking of a monorail.
No. Not a monorail. I'm thinking of Arsenal.
You know something that would really make me applaud? A guy gets stuck in quicksand, then sinks, then suddenly comes shooting out, riding on water skis! How do they do that?!
You know what would really impress me? Arsenal qualifying for the Champions League next year by doing a “Chelsea Reacharound” and winning it this year. With this crappy skunk-less team of ours. And maybe winning the CockUp and the FucKup while we're at it. And beating Spurs obviously. Mind you, a 23-game winning streak would be fun, too. And seeing how quickly those squeaky wheels stop squeaking.
Like jewels in a crown, the precious stones glittered in the queen's round metal hat.
You know… I was thinking about trophies. And, if I were to be really, really honest with you, I'd have to say all our squillions of trophies haven't made me happier. Not really. Otherwise I'd still be happy, right? I think trophies are maybe like bad crack cocaine. They're great right up until they get dropped under the wheels of the parade bus; or your teeth turn black and fall out. But when the elation wears off, you just feel angry and bitter and toothless and look for some old man to beat up so you can get your next fix.
Yup. Trophies are the devil's bollocks. Don't lick 'em. You might like it.
Whenever I need to “get away,'' I just get away in my mind. I go to my imaginary spot, where the beach is perfect and the water is perfect and the weather is perfect. The only bad thing there are the flies. They're terrible!
I'm imagining an Arsenal with a new owner, a new board, a new manager, and a lot less Squillacis. We're winning again, in our classic Invincibles replica kit. I always imagined how it must feel supporting a team in the Championship Division. Now I know. I want my Arsenal back.
I hope, when they die, cartoon characters have to answer for their sins.
I hope that when the fat lady has sung the season's finale, us Muppet Gooners won't look like real idiots. Firstly, the gloating. Secondly, Piers Tossfuck Morgan. Thirdly, having such a fancy stadium in the Championship Division would be a little embarrassing.
If there was a terrible storm outside, but somehow this dog lived through the storm, and he showed up at your door when the storm was finally over, I think a good name for him would be Carl.
I think a good name for him would be Arsenal.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm patriotic enough. Yes, I want to kill people, but on both sides.
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Once again, I am indebted to the foolish wisdom of Jack Handy, and his “Deep Thoughts”, which I have used with his permission. For more, click here.
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— invinciblog (@AFC_Invincibles) December 5, 2012