'8-2, eight bloody two' as Michael Palin almost said in Ripping Yarns (8-1).
The morning after Arsenal's worst defeat since 1896 was a sobering one.
The 8-2 capitulation at Old Trafford was slow-motion carnage or schadenfreude at its sweetest,
depending on your opinon of the Gunners and Mr Wenger.
Arsene Wenger's nil by mouth approach as Arsenal head towards major resection this summer has
dominated the discourse as signs point to a club heading towards dysfunctionality and descent into
gradual oblivion.
Paul Scholes writes that Utd's energies are now devoted to fending off Chelsea not Arsenal, Paul
Hayward opines Wenger's experiment is stuffed which only a £80m enema will relieve, Dominic
Fifield blames the club's refusal to go over £90,000 per week in salary for the mass desertion,
Phil McNulty believes Wenger faces his greatest challenge since he was blamed for the demise of
English football.
We have arrived at the stage of the summer where one begins to mentally tick off checkpoints for
the maddening methadone of pre season. In the last seven days, two of my traditional tick boxes
have been inked. The release of the season review DVD (bet this year's sold like hot cakes. Any
chance of a reduction if we only buy up to February?
You know those people who, some time in March, get a little newspaper piece about them? The ones
who live somewhere by the sea, or up a mountain, and say they can predict the long-term weather
because of the amount of moss on the trees or the number of donkeys that are born that year or by
the amount of pus that oozes from their canker sores?
Apologies for being two days behind a story once again but having given a great deal of time
during the season, I am trying to balance it during the summer. And while I do let a lot of rumours
and events go by without comment, this PR stunt from Alisher Usmanov is hard to ignore.
I don't want to repeat the comments as they've been all over the internet.
As a lifelong football fan who has watched the sport at almost every level of the game for the
last 40+ years, I have developed some dyed in the wool attitudes about many things, not least of
which is my utter contempt for the vast majority of the people who run our sport, from the owners
and directors of the clubs to the crooks and clowns who administrate our game.
A couple of stories today:
First, the Arsenal Supporters Trust met last night and voted unanimously to reject chairman of
the board Peter Hill-Wood's suggestion that Arsenal shareholders sell their shares to Kroenke. The
AST, which I believe holds 3 shares in its own name and manages dozens more under the fanshare
scheme, is not a major shareholder in terms of percentage of the club owned, but has been a very
active and passionate voice for Arsenal fans.
The dust is yet to settle after yesterday's big news. There's a lot of speculation, a lot of
rumour, but the bottom line is nobody knows anything for certain.
In my interview with the AST yesterday we hear that Kroenke will not saddle the club with the
debt of the purchase, the Guardian says he 'could'.
The inevitable is finally happening – a billionaire is buying Arsenal. Will it make Arsenal a
rich man's play thing? Will there be money available to the manager? Will Wenger have a sword
hanging over his head? Will the Gunners be laden with the burden of debt? Will Usmanov sell his
stake? What about the AST, Fanshare, and other minority shareholders?
Morning all, it seems odd that football should play second fiddle in today's blog considering we
just won our first game since 1875, but events at boardroom mean that's very much the case.
It is a hugely significant day in the history of Arsenal Football Club. Stan Kroenke has agreed
to purchase the shares of Danny Fiszman and Lady Nina Bracewell-Smith for £11,750 per share,
bringing his overall share holding to 62.
Good morning to you. While the other day I suggested this Interlull would be timely from an
Arsenal point of view, I did not realise how horrendous it would be in other ways.
Well, one other way in particular. You can't look at a sports section this morning without the
ghastly countenance of John Terry staring back at you.
