Dear broken children of Woolwich,
How many times do we have to do this? You can't disappear for 12 months then reappear kitted out in clown costume and holding foam pie, posting gloating comments on the blog and expect us to not sit up and take notice of your laughable efforts. Here I am, pointing and laughing, what more can I do as you gave up all your other rights thanks to the worm like qualities you possess, incapable of straight up discussion unless you believe yourselves to be in a position that is protected from any come-backs, crawling out of the dirt and multiplying no matter how many times you get cut up. In fact you don't do straight up discussion full stop. You just shout sound-bites and la la la la las with fingers in ear-holes.
Graciousness is not a virtue you are blessed with is it? You lot are known to be the worst ilk of supporters in the country. You need to concentrate less on the gloating and more on how to support your own. You know what I'm referring to. Empty seats when it's not going your way. Bin bags. 'Manager Out' banners. Laughable really calling us deluded when the reality is you lot can't accept it. Free yourselves from the weighty prison of your over inflated egos. You think other clubs outside the collapsing Sky Sports Top Four era are of no consequence because they failed to suckle at one of the available t*ts on Murdochs bosom?
I keep telling you, I don't care for visiting Arsenal forums and blogs. I don't post on any rival forums or blogs. It's you lot that frequent this place, persistently letting us know you're out there. It's you telling us 'you don't care, it's no big deal' finishing above Spurs and yet you do nothing but talk it up and celebrate like a plucky team that done good changing your perceptions to suit the moment so you wont lose face. In hiding for over a year without your riotous banter, absent and lost and then we have the pleasure of your company again. Internet connection back up?
I remember the last viral attack from your hordes. Gloats about playing the Brummies at Wembley. A cup that traditionally meant nothing to you suddenly meant the world although you all played it cool and nonchalantly like it didn't actually matter. You lost that game. None of you could be found in the aftermath. I saw you on tv though, crying over that Mickey Mouse cup. Was the irony too much for you to share with us? Oh the lonely lonely nights.
You don't care about us? You care alright, you care. You care about us more than you care about yourself. Without us you have nothing. It's funny that - Chelsea, West Ham. They also have nothing to do with us geographically and yet they're forever humping our legs too. Seems for a club that nobody cares about everyone seems to care about making sure we know how much they don't care. Ooh, brain melt.
What's that? I'm doing the same now by obsessing about you, ranting away like a maniac punching the keyboard with rabid disdain? Not quite. I'm enjoying this. I'm enjoying proving my point. It's because I know you'll be back on this blog reading this because you wont be able to stay away, holding up your laminated cheat sheet of quick fire retorts, unable to stop yourself from posting a comment. You're reading this right now, aren't you? Tut tut, you lose. Go on, hit the comments.
So how brave of you to return and gloat. The same display of bravery we witness when you throw your dummy out the pram if things are not going well on the pitch. The same display of bravery it takes to purchase bin bags to cover empty seats where your equally brave brethren decide not to turn up altogether because...well, I don't know why exactly? Perhaps you all believe you're entitled to something because you simply believe you're entitled to it? From league titles to the Carling Cup to now finishing above Spurs. Have we caught up or have you fallen down? Who cares? No matter where you stand nobody can escape your stench. No one else in the country could give a **** about you so your desperation holds no bounds as you attempt to scratch your names in the Lilywhite surface.
We're accountable all of the time and not when we choose to be. Do we gloat? Don't all supporters gloat? But we're there to take it on the chin when thrown back at our face. It does however get tiresome if there's no one there to throw it back at again what with the constant sabbaticals you lot are inclined to taking. Mind the gap? Yep. Make sure you point us in the direction of the trophy cabinet where the 'Finishing above Tottenham' Cup will proudly sit. Once upon a time you had a bit more weight in your punch. All feels a little ticklish nowadays.
We're aspiring. You're perspiring.
We are reaching out. You are holding on.
Forever in your shadow? What shadow is that? The one casted down by your insecurities and necessity to validate your existence by crawling out of your swamp to beg for attention? You could win the title for 20 successive years and it still wouldn't make a blind bit of difference to anything. You're still a soulless, franchised entity of sh*t. You don't have an identity.
No, hold on, my mistake. You do have traditions and you do have an identity. It belongs to the man who turned up at your blank canvas of a club and proceeded to paint a self-portrait that covered every nuance of his mind creating clone hybrids from supporters to players. Arsenal is Arsene Wenger, Arsene Wenger is Arsenal. A fitting replacement for Nick Hornby and prior to that the ex-Tottenham player whose head sat pretty in your marble halls. You're not a football club, not really, you're just an extension of Wenger's ego. Which is illustrated by the characteristics and the non-existent personalities of the supporters; unimaginative, self-satisfying megalomaniacs in ghastly red who only care when they're winning, completely devoid of wearing ones heart on sleeve without prejudice and without shame. Your hearts sit in your inside pocket then get stapled on at appropriate moments when you like to show off, removed and taken out of sight when you don't want anyone to know what team you 'support'.
You're like nomadic ants, nesting under stones and logs and in cracks in rocks, all identical and unspectacular, all following each other without diversity and without soul. More specifically, you are the species of small ant, Temnothorax albipennis, which abandons established nests at the first sign of any threats. Running away to settle somewhere new, with one single queen laying the eggs with a workforce of non-breeding females leaving the nest to forage and collect building materials. You are ants. Living under rocks. A collective that do as they're told and told what to think.
What did you have before your queen? A clock and Liam Brady.
Not forgetting porn dealers, drunks, coke-heads, a bent manager, bland boring nondescript football, results counting more than entertainment. Does the past 10 or so years erase the previous 100 or so? Even your double side from the 70s is more famous for winning at White Hart Lane than it is for its brand of football and impact on the English game.
Don't pretend you don't know because you do. Deep deep down, you can see it. You know of your birthplace you know where you came from. You know you've gone out of existence and changed your name, more than once. You know you're a franchise, a business created from the death of another and squatting in north London purely for financial gain on a foundation of bribes, lies and fabrications. It's Gillespie Road. It's transparent. We can all see through the paint work. It was all done purely to take advantage of the masses of support available in that part of London. That part of London being the north part, although let's not pretend or forget your owner didn't first attempt to merge you with Fulham, at the time, a far bigger club with a far nicer stadium.
Think about that for a second. First choice, merger with Fulham. I can't be the only person laughing out loud. What's wrong with you? What's wrong with Woolwich? Are you ashamed of your own home? Why would you be so ashamed? What kind of **** is ashamed of their own personal history, their own home where they were born? Perhaps I'm being a little harsh, it's not your fault you're all broken. You're all dirty and broken.
Deep deep down, you're all so conflicted and confused which is why you struggle so much with the more emotive side of football. Because you know had that south London club not run away and aborted its dead foetus outside of SE18 you'd all be Spurs fans now.
You. Yes you.
No matter what you say, what you have to show, no one wants to be you. You're forever in your own shadow of self-hatred.