How Badly Do You Want It?

I’ve been dating a woman with a crystal clear reputation. She doesn’t drink or smoke. She is the antithesis of the promiscuous, orgasm seeking, post MTV woman. I have had a tremendous amount of patience with her. I have had even more patience with this Arsenal squad.

She could be easily swayed by her friends’ daily calls to “loosen up, Jane”. She does not stray. She is discipline and class personified!

I, on the other hand, smoke, drink, and practically live for my next piece. The only things that even come to close new pussy are Arsenal victories, oxygen, good food, and more Arsenal victories. Her parents were reluctant at first but I’ve won them over, even if just so.

After three dates of laughter, good food, long walks by the sea, and extreme sexual tension (mostly on my part), I’ve reset my strategy. Let’s be clear, it’s noble to entertain this woman purely on inoffensive, gentlemanly terms, but I suppress my animal instincts in the process. I want her g-string to go down the way Leeds United dropped down the divisions, and the sooner, the better!

By the fifth date, we’re four months deep and there’s still no sign of access to her front yard so I can stretch my legs a bit. By the fifth month, I’ve seen a glimmer of hope. She’s asked me to join her on a weekend outing. The first image that comes to mind is of her spread eagle like the left side of our defence waiting to be split in half by Johnny Member. I calm myself. I start to lower my expectations but quickly realize that now is definitely the time for heightened expectations.

I’ve earned this moment. I’ve been patient. A trophy is in sight.

The weekend affair was a let down. For all her beauty and splendor, she’s a sad roll in the sack. Maybe it’s down to inexperience. Maybe she’s just rusty and needs a run of games. Maybe she just looks better than she can ever live up to in sexual terms. I fear the worst but I remain hopeful. She’s not lived up to expectation but I’m willing to give her another go.

I tell you that sad tale my friends because I am desperate for an Arsenal victory Sunday. I need to smile again. I have believed as much as anyone has. I have examined bad results and poor performances as critically as my tiny brain can do. I’ve searched for reasons why we haven’t done better.

I have supported every Arsenal player because if you wear our colors, you represent the club I love. I want you to do well. I need you to do well. You must do well, even if just for the manager’s sake. He has trusted you.

I’ve reached the same point with this team as I have with Jane, where I feel no guilt in expecting a fantastic, convincing, and thoroughly gratifying result. I have precious little time and patience left with under-achievers like Samir Nasri and Thomas Rosicky. I’ve lost patience with so-called next great players like Theo Walcott – when was the last time you were the least bit of an offensive threat Theo? I’m finished with clowns like Manuel Almunia and Gael Clichy doing us more harm than good. I’d rather not see Armand Traore in an Arsenal uniform again if all he does is get worse as a player each time I think he’s improved. I’d rather call back Vito Mannone if Fabianski shits himself every time we call on him.

Earlier in the season, I expressed my expectations of certain players. While many of those expectations have not been fulfilled, I feel we still have a chance to do something special. I really believe that, as hard as it is to continue doing so. I believe because these are desperate times and the right reaction could spark an enthralling run-in. I believe because giving up is not an option. The players must live up to the challenge. Their careers depend on it. Wenger’s reputation depends on it. They owe him more than all the under-developed nations of the world combined owe the IMF.

They owe me more than Jane does.