For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 147
Limerence.
It's the third prettiest word in the English language (1st and 2nd being "cellar door" and "fucking"). It's caused by a chemical disturbance in your brain when you meet someone you like; it flushes your brain with vasopressin and dopes you up with dopamine, and you end up with vivid, dizzying highs and crushing lows. Some days, you're so flushed with it that you feel like you're bullet-proof. Other days, you're so drained you want to crawl up in a hole somewhere and die.
It's a bit like following Arsenal.
There's nothing now but a niggling little pain. I can look at the ladder without blubbering like an overweight infant. Last night, I could watch highlights of the Champions League semi-finals without rolling on the floor and throwing a tantrum. There's regret and longing and a sense that it'll never, ever happen. But there's also a feeling that all this crap is worth it, because when everything clicks, it's like walking in a Disney Technicolor feature with fluffy bunnies and puke-green grass and birds that tweet.
I learnt last night that we need a world-class keeper. Petr Cech is fucking brilliant - technically and positionally perfect. He kept Chelsea in the game. He wins games for Chelsea. He wins titles for Chelsea. He is a super, super player. And what are we stuck with? Alumnia. You realise that the greatest compliment Almunia's had this year is that he doesn't fuck up every game? Kind of depressing when you compare him with the best keeper in the world.
I don't have the heart to think about it, though; like I don't have the heart to contemplate the 25 million pound transfer kitty, the on-going saga about resigning Flamini, Hleb and Fabregas, or the distinct probability that I'll be mulling over another failed title challenge this same time next year.
Sometimes I think I hate Arsenal. And other times, I really do hate them. They contrive to make me love them, and believe in them, and then they crush my heart with the sort of clinical ruthlessness I wish they had in front of goal. You can't help but fall in love with a side that can beat beat Juve and Real Madrid on a Champions League run, and go 1-0 against mighty Barcelona. You can't help but love a side that plays football the way it's meant to be played. You open your heart up to those little buggers, and then they rip it out of you like the capricious, dillentente footballers they really are.
Fucking hell.
At the moment, there's nothing but a melancholic resignation; We're not going to win anything this year, and the way things are heading, it's unlikely we'll have the squad to win it next year. We will get better, we will improve. If we can keep Flamini, heal van Persie and teach Adebayor to shoot, we might even give it a firm shake. But we're still a world-class 'keeper and a brilliant striker short of ruling the English league.
Maybe Shakespeare was in a bad mood when he wrote Sonnet 147. Maybe he had a bit of chafing, or gout. I hear English people get gout a lot. Whatever. I'll end it with a bit of Doris Day; it probably would've been a better choice as a quote:
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
P.S. I realise I'm going over old ground, and no one really wants to hear my ranting, stream-of-consciousness posts about Arsenal. But there really is nothing to write about. Nothing interesting, at any rate.
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 147
Limerence.
It's the third prettiest word in the English language (1st and 2nd being "cellar door" and "fucking"). It's caused by a chemical disturbance in your brain when you meet someone you like; it flushes your brain with vasopressin and dopes you up with dopamine, and you end up with vivid, dizzying highs and crushing lows. Some days, you're so flushed with it that you feel like you're bullet-proof. Other days, you're so drained you want to crawl up in a hole somewhere and die.
It's a bit like following Arsenal.
There's nothing now but a niggling little pain. I can look at the ladder without blubbering like an overweight infant. Last night, I could watch highlights of the Champions League semi-finals without rolling on the floor and throwing a tantrum. There's regret and longing and a sense that it'll never, ever happen. But there's also a feeling that all this crap is worth it, because when everything clicks, it's like walking in a Disney Technicolor feature with fluffy bunnies and puke-green grass and birds that tweet.
I learnt last night that we need a world-class keeper. Petr Cech is fucking brilliant - technically and positionally perfect. He kept Chelsea in the game. He wins games for Chelsea. He wins titles for Chelsea. He is a super, super player. And what are we stuck with? Alumnia. You realise that the greatest compliment Almunia's had this year is that he doesn't fuck up every game? Kind of depressing when you compare him with the best keeper in the world.
I don't have the heart to think about it, though; like I don't have the heart to contemplate the 25 million pound transfer kitty, the on-going saga about resigning Flamini, Hleb and Fabregas, or the distinct probability that I'll be mulling over another failed title challenge this same time next year.
Sometimes I think I hate Arsenal. And other times, I really do hate them. They contrive to make me love them, and believe in them, and then they crush my heart with the sort of clinical ruthlessness I wish they had in front of goal. You can't help but fall in love with a side that can beat beat Juve and Real Madrid on a Champions League run, and go 1-0 against mighty Barcelona. You can't help but love a side that plays football the way it's meant to be played. You open your heart up to those little buggers, and then they rip it out of you like the capricious, dillentente footballers they really are.
Fucking hell.
At the moment, there's nothing but a melancholic resignation; We're not going to win anything this year, and the way things are heading, it's unlikely we'll have the squad to win it next year. We will get better, we will improve. If we can keep Flamini, heal van Persie and teach Adebayor to shoot, we might even give it a firm shake. But we're still a world-class 'keeper and a brilliant striker short of ruling the English league.
Maybe Shakespeare was in a bad mood when he wrote Sonnet 147. Maybe he had a bit of chafing, or gout. I hear English people get gout a lot. Whatever. I'll end it with a bit of Doris Day; it probably would've been a better choice as a quote:
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
P.S. I realise I'm going over old ground, and no one really wants to hear my ranting, stream-of-consciousness posts about Arsenal. But there really is nothing to write about. Nothing interesting, at any rate.
2 comments:
To get your blog to be read you need to be on Newsnow mate or some Internet News feed.
Yeah, I tried newsnow, but I think they're turned off by the title. There's a no profanity clause, or something. Thanks for the tip, though.
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