0-0 at Old Trafford

So we drew 0-0, and Man Utd won the title. It's not the end of the world. There are worse things that could've happened. In January we were 5th and a game away from being 6th. We were out-played by Everton, and we were shambolic. In May, we're 4th and although we haven't won anything, at least we've achieved the minimum of the Champions League. There are worse things in the world. 

Take me for example. I'm sitting in a cafe off Hay Street and I'm homeless, friendless and  taking advantage of free wifi. Don't know why the hell I'm here, don't know what the hell possessed me to come over to Perth. Just wanted a change, and here I am. In hindsight, it's really quite baffling. 

But on the bright side, at least my mind's off Arsenal's woes.

On a Friday

Round and round, up and down

Every day I make my way

Through the streets of your town

- The Go-Betweens, Streets Of Your Town

When you put too much faith in your football team, and then your football team disappoints you, to whom do you turn? It's a question I've been asking myself for a few days. Normally, I trawl the internet for something optimistic about the Arsenal, to allow myself the luxury of believing again. But I'm starting to wonder whether that's healthy. 

A fellow can go mad refreshing newsnow. 

I bought another copy of Fever Pitch earlier today. In one way, it's comforting to realise that Arsenal have disappointed many, many people in the past, and that my situation isn't unique. Many people have lived through the lean periods and come out stronger on the other side. Some have even written award-wining books about the experience. 

Maybe I should go on a shopping binge. I mean, people have told me that materialistic excess can fill the deep parts of your soul, much like alcohol, drugs and charismatic political figures. I could start by ordering an Arsenal stubby holder off the internet....

I'm depressed as shit, but I suppose I'll pick myself up for the Chelsea match. After all, every day, up and down, I make my way through the streets of Islington. Figuratively speaking, of course. 

Random musings

"It's only worth doing if it's challenging."

- Claire, from a while back

It's the lull before the storm, and we're all getting a bit anxious about the match on Wednesday. Gibbs is a promising left back, but you wonder if he can do the business against Ronaldo. Djourou should be back in centreback, and hopefully Silvestre is back on the physio table where he belongs. We've a bunch of paper tigers at the back, and we're hoping Man Utd don't realise it.

Kolo Toure made the observation that no one expected the Arsenal to be in the semi-final of the Champions League. He's got a point - during January, we were in freefall and doubting if we'd qualify for the Champions League. And now, we're 4th in the Premier League and we've made the semi-finals of both the FA Cup and the Champions League. That's a remarkable achievement when you consider it was done with a shallow, callow squad that wallowed in self-pitying mediocrity for half a season.

However, when you step back and reflect on the season, you're left wondering at what might've been: IF we'd bought replacements for Flamini and Hleb; IF we'd bought Arshavin at the beginning of the year instead of midway through; IF we'd bought ready-made players instead of ill-prepared kids the backbone of our side. It gives you a headache if you think about it long enough. The bones of a dominant team are present, we just need some more quality signings to flesh it out. But Arsene Wenger likes to do things the hard way.

After all, it's only worth doing if it's challenging.

It's something that Claire said that night in Dubrovnik. And every now and then, when I'm sunk in the humdrum of everyday life, it hits me square in the face. She was right. There's very little point in staying in your comfort zone. It's only when you're extend yourself that you realise who you are. It's only then that you become alive. 

I'm stuck in the middle of something at the moment, and it's tearing me apart. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I feel nauseous and I've a slight migraine above my left temple. It's much like the symptoms I get after a bucketful of KFC. And it's much like the symptoms I get just before a big game. I'm not sure what's the cause. It could be stress. It could be indigestion. But it could also be the start of something big.

If we topple Man Utd, if we front up to Barcelona in the Champions League final, how great would it be to realise we'd done it with a bunch of kids that everyone had written off just four months previous? It'll be a vindication of everything Wenger's said these past few years. It'll be so sweet. 

It reminds me of something Kennedy once said:

"We choose to go to the moon. We chose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organise and measure the best of hour energies and kills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too. "

Okay, it's just Man Utd, not a man on the moon, but still.... c'mon Arsenal.

Coming Home

So little time

Try to understand that I'm

Trying to make a move just to stay in the game

I try to stay awake just remember my name

But everybody's changing 

And I don't feel the same

- Keane, Everybody's Changing

It's the 23rd of February, and in a couple of hours I'm going to board a plane back home. Six months away, and with a passport full of stamps and something nasty incubating in my lungs, I'm finally going home. 

When I started this trip, I had a loose idea of where I wanted to be at the end of it. I won't elaborate upon it, because it's basically a pile of fantasy built on cotton-candy, but suffice to say it didn't go according to plan. Not that that's a bad thing, mind you. John Lennon sang that life is what happens to you when you're busy making plans, and that's basically the way it goes. Things always get more interesting when you take the scenic route. 

But the end of the trip is staring me in the face right now. I can feel its eyes upon mine and its whiskers tickling my cheeks and I can smell its foul, fetid breath fogging up my glasses. It's here, travelling beside me, waiting to escort me back home. 

In another two hours, I'll be on that plane and in another nine, I'll be home. And then it's back to reality. Back to angst and toil and the blunt edge of hopelessness. Back to that gnawing doubt that the clock's ticking away and that everything's passing me by. And a part of me is reluctant to get back into it, because I know how much effort it'll take to couple myself back to the system, to get back on my little hamster wheel and run, run, run. 

And that part wishes that that ticket to Melbourne could be fudged to read Mumbai, or Madrid, or Montreal, or Montevideo....

It probably sounds a bit ungrateful, I know. 

My Madeleine Moments

"And as soon as I had recognised the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me... the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea."

- Remembrance of Things Past, Marcel Proust

I took a walk through Leicester Square this afternoon. 

The sky was bluish, the sun was kind of shining, and it wasn't raining or snowing or sleeting. It was actually kind of pleasant walking through the twisting, winding streets, with all those bars and pubs and restaurants lining the footpaths. I think it's my favourite little bit of London, that bit between Leicester Square and Covent Garden, with Trafalgar Square to the south and the Five Points to the east. 

Nice to have seen it one last time. 

It's my last full day in London, and it's pretty much the end of my trip. Just a stop-over in Hong Kong left, and then I'm back to Melbourne and back to reality. I've an old job to slunk back to, and an old rut waiting for me back home. 

It's not without a fair bit of trepidation that I'm going back. I'm not ecstatically happy at the moment, but I'm pretty much content. Six months on, and I'm relatively sane. And I've discovered that of all the things worth valuing, sanity is probably up there alongside allegiance to a beautiful football club and a facebook account. And since Arsenal's in the shits at the moment, and I've never bothered with facebook, I should treasure my sanity all the more. 

I've been thinking about why I'm writing this in a blog. 

Partly, it's because I've a relentless monologue in my mind that needs some kind of release. Partly, it's for my brother, who reads it now and then and probably wants to know where I've been; and I suppose, for him, this blog is a bit like to those "Hi Mum!" signs you occasionally see at sporting events. But mostly, it's for those times in the future when I need a reminder of what it felt like when, for six months, I put aside everything and just lived.

It's my little bit of madeleine dipped in tea, I suppose. 

End of the line

The train slips gently out of the station. A tiny, almost imperceptible bump, an we're away. It gains a bit of speed as we pass through the suburbs of Paris, and now that we're in open countryside, we're hammering down the line. It's got to be at least 300 kilometres from Paris to Calais, but we're going to do it in under two hours. 

I gave my guidebook away this morning to James, the Irish guy from Wrexford. He's just starting out, and I'm finishing up. It feels nice to give it away. It's letting go of a little bit of the past. That book's been with me for six months now, and it's all I've breathed at times. I've traced the legs of my trip on the maps, and I've poured over the historical overviews to refresh my memory of things past.

But it's over now. My time's up, and it's better to let it go. If I'd kept it, it'll be up on the shelf in a month's time, and won't budge from that spot until I feel like a bit of dusting. It'll be nice to think that James will get some use out of it, and pass it on to the next guy when he's finished with it. 

James seems a bit lost, to tell the truth. He tells me that he's sick of Ireland, and he's going to stay away until the thought of returning home doesn't fill him with revulsion. He's after an experience that's so completely different to his way of life that he'll have a renewed appreciation for al those things he's taken for granted. 

I suppose we're all looking for the same thing. A lot of the people I've met have the same disaffection for the life they lead, and want something else. And they're all wandering around, trying to find it. 

Like Taylor, who followed his girlfriend to Spain and ended up running a hostel. I wonder if, when he's having a drink on the balcony and watching the sun bounce off the Alhamra, he marvels about how the steps from Iowa to Granada. 

Like David, the itinerant English sketch artist, is wandering around southern Spain until he doesn't feel like he has to anymore. He gave up his corporate job a few years back, and he's saving up for another pilgrimage to Santiago. He calls himself the lost photographer, and he always says that when he finds out where he is, he'll stop and stay. 

Like Jiat, the reluctant Korean conscript, who's probably in the Baltic states by now. He's planning one big trip across the Trans-Siberian railway before he starts his compulsory two year stint in the army. He's shit-scared of the neo-Nazis in Moscow, but he's even more scared of his future back home. 

I don't know. Nigel's somewhere in Syria by now. Dylan's back in Alberta, enduring sub zero temperatures and planning his next trip abroad. Michael's back in Adelaide, preparing to go back to uni, and Mil and Sally are back in Melbourne enduring the heatwave.

I wonder if anyone ever finds what they're looking for. 

My three month anniversary

"I'm leaving tonight. I'm going off to Europe for six months. It's starting to shit me off. I'm starting to realise that it's a really, really long time and it's a lot of money. But still - it's something I've got to do. I'm going to go mad, otherwise."

- Me, three months ago. Yes, I'm quoting myself. 

It's raining in Istanbul. 

It's remarkable because, before today, I never would have thought that it rained here. Every day I've experienced in Istanbul had previously been golden and sunny and warm. It's partly why I like it here so much. And I genuinely like it here. Istanbul represents the halfway point in my trip in so many ways. It's nice to sit here on the edge of Europe and contemplate everything I seen, and everything I've yet to see. 

The header might've given it away but, it's my three month anniversary today. My halfway point - geographically, chronologically and probably financially, too. 

The quote above was lifted from my final post in Melbourne. I can still remember writing it - I really was shitting myself thinking with worry, thinking about all the things that could go wrong and hoping about all the things that could go right. It seems like such a long time ago, but it really wasn't. Three months is the time it takes to find an Australian Idol. It's half a football season. And yet, it's also half a world away. And it feels like a lifetime ago. 

I've got a map of Europe in my office (and I hope it's still there). In the weeks before I left, I traced out various routes and itineraries, popping post-it notes over places I wanted to see. I envisaged doing a big circle around Europe, starting in London and going as far east as Istanbul before heading back to London. It's strange much it's gone to plan. Kind of sad, really. I thought I would've been side-tracked more often. 

It's not what I expected - it's a lot easier and a lot more comfortable than I thought it would be. My relative wealth has insulated me from the real hardships that long-term travellers go through, and my natural sense of caution has always kept me within sight of the beaten track. I'm at least five years too late for the prom, so to speak. 

It's been worth it, though. Most of it's mundane and rather boring. You can get bogged down with transport and accommodation and trying to find enough to eat without straining your nominal budget. And you quickly settle in an everyday routine that innures you from everything that happens around you. But then, something rubs you differently, and it hits you that you're in Europe, and you're in this places that you've spent such a long time thinking about. 

And that makes it all worthwhile. 

Still, I can't help thinking about where I'll be in three months' time. When I left Melbourne, I was an absolute quivering mess. I just wanted six months off to clear my head. And now that my head's vacuously empty, I'm started to look ahead. I don't want to, mind you. I've still three months to go, and I'd like to enjoy that time without having the worries of everyday life crowding my vistas. 

In my last Melbourne post, I wrote: 

Best just to go with the flow and trust that it'll turn good eventually. Yes, you can cater for every contingency and plan everything to the last second, but where's the fun in that?

I should take that to heart. It is me, after all. 

P.S. And here's something cool that Jim Schembri wrote in The Age. 

At Loose Ends

And so, Sally can wait

She knows it's too late as she's walking on by

Her soul slides away

But don't look back in anger

I heard you say

- Don't Look Back In Anger, Oasis

I was tossing up between "Don't Look Back In Anger" and "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" for the quote. I punted on the former because I've a sneaky suspicion that I've already used the latter. Both great Mancunian bands, by the way. 

Anyway, this one's all whiny introspection. 

I'm at loose ends at the moment. It's been about a month, and all the hostels, cities, museums, galleries, shopping malls, supermarkets, pubs, trains, trams and buses are starting to blur together. I'm at the stage when I wake up in the morning, and I wonder "why bother?".

It's the transience that's getting to me, I suppose. When you're travelling, everything is temporary. You have single serve jam, single serve tea and coffee, single serve microwave dinners and single serve friends. You meet and greet, wheel and deal, and the next morning, it's like nothing's different. It's like someone's reset the board while you've been sleeping, and it's a brand new game every day.

After a while, it gets a bit much. 

I used to daydream about this when I was younger. I used to daydream about just running away and getting lost in a place where there's no one around. I was fascinated by the 3-second memory of goldfish, and how every swim around the tank is like a brand new world. Though it would've been a really cool way to live - to have no memory and to experience everything as if for the first time. 

It's not what I expected, but that's cool. I think it's really what I need at this stage of my life. Love that line - her soul slides away - by the way. I need to do a bit more of that kind of stuff - letting things go, letting things be, letting things just slide away. Nothing I can do by dwelling on things, so what's the freaking point? 

I don't know. All I really know is that I'm getting rather guilty that I'm exploiting the largess of the good people at the Apple Store. I think Mac people are the nicest people in the world. Should log off soon.

Going to Blackburn to watch the Arsenal. Oh we love you Arsenal, we do. 

Nothing to do with Arsenal

I'm back from Tintern Abbey, and currently cooling my heels in Chepstow. Welsh buses are even more infrequent than Melbourne ones. Still, it's a nice looking abbey and all. Framed with rain and mist and lush, forested hills, it looks suitably mournful.

There's an air of sadness around all these moldy ruins.

It's a bit to do with the impermanence of man and how all our works will one day lie forgotten in the ground. You walk through delicately carved archways and soaring gothic pillars, and you realise how much effort went into making these things last for all time. When you look at all the monuments and flagstones dedicated to past luminaries, you start to realise how little you really leave behind. There's nothing there but a name and a touching little epiphet.

It's a bit to do with the whole futility of Welsh nationalism, how they seem to shoot themselves in the foot all the time. I'm not really familiar with their history (it's mainly pieced from Lonely Planet guidebooks and plaques off moldy ruins), but it seems a history of division and discorded, and lots of noble dudes sucking up to more powerful England lords. Even all their transportation is focused west-east instead of north-south (due, historically, to shepherds leading their flock to richer English markets). All these buildings they've built are like a monument to their fruitless, ill-guided energies.

Then again, it also might be because of the bloody rain. It always makes me melacholy and introspective. It rains 90% of the time when I'm in Wales, and 100% of the time when I'm in a moldy ruin. Often, there's dazzling sunshine when I'm in a bus, but once I'm out, it starts again. I'd quite like Cardiff specifically, and Wales generally, if it wasn't the case. It's quite a pretty little place.

Anyway, I'm off to Oxford tomorrow. And the way things are, I probably won't blog for a while. I'm too cheap to pay £1 for 15 minutes of internet. It's too much for too little. Like Wenger, I don't care if it's the market price - I want to buy my time on my terms, or not at all.

There's not a lot going on, anyway. There's an internationl match tonight (I think). My prediction's that Walcott will get a game against Andorra and score a hattrick, play against Croatia and get two more, and have a host of tabloids complaining that Wenger's been holding this kid back. Or something like that.

Overpacked

"I want a small squad so the players are hungry for a position and everyone can be satisfied."

- something I think Wenger said once

I packed too much stuff - too many socks, too many jocks, too many shirts and pants and really naff things. Why the fuck did I think I'd need a book? I'm going to have to cart Cloudstreet with me for 6 months now. At about 1kg over 180 days, that's a cumulative load of 180kg.

I'm going to have to dump something. It's taken me a hour this morning to figure out how to fit everything in my bag. My bag groans every time I pack, and I'm fearful that one day it'll just give up. But I'm quite attached to stuff; it's nice to know you've got enough clothes to avoid laundry for a week.

I'm not sure where I read the above. Maybe I dreamt it. Maybe my subconscious made it up after weeks of trying to figure out why we haven't bought a replacement for Flamini yet. I don't know. It sounds like something Wenger would've said, at any rate.

Maybe Wenger doesn't like throwing out stuff as well. He wants a lean, lightweight bag so that he doesn't have to cart dead weight all over Europe for 6 months. He wants three pairs of socks and jocks, one pair of pants, two T-shirts and a toothbrush. Because nothing's worse than trying to stuff Tim Winton's masterpiece (and yes, it's one of the best in terms of Aus lit) between a pair of moldy underpants. That's just wrong.

But I hope Wenger realises that under packing is just as bad as over packing. A couple of days ago, Fulham pulled our pants down. And the whole world realised we were skimping on underwear. We can't let it happen again. A feisty defensive midfielder isn't a luxury item - it's a necessity. I read that Inler's about to be signed. Good.

I liked the Tower of London. It's a lot bigger than I thought, and a lot cushier. Apparently, Sir Thomas Moore had his family and his servants with him while he was incacerated for not allowing Henry VIII to split from the Catholics. And Sir Walter Raleigh had the time to write a history of the world. They were "political prisioners", and as such, were treated as gentlemen - or like Mafia bosses in American jails. Which just goes to show that there really is one rule for the rich and one for the poor. And the crown jewels were shiny.

I think I've exhausted most of central London. Maybe I'll do a palace or two. Or see the London Eye. Or take one of those London Walks that get promoted from every tout on the street. At the least, I should go and get breakfast.

It's all been quite good.

1-0 to Fulham

"We lacked a bit more quality in our passing. We you look at the possession we had and what we did with it that is always a sign it is not only down power but vision and technical quality. That was not there today. I don’t know why. You have to credit to Fulham as well."

- Arsene Wenger, doing a passable impersonation of an ostrich

I'm not going to dwell on the unpleasantness of yesterday.

I like St Paul's at dusk. There's something quite meditative, sitting on the steps. Tourists walk up the steps and take photos. Business folk scurry past the statue. Double-decker buses and those black cabs hurtle down the road. The sun sets somewhere behind Fleet Street, and it's kind of poignant imaging the funeral processions of Nelson and Wellington as they were brought down that road to be interred.

Actually, I will say something about the match. What do we expect? We've lost our two midfielders, have two more who are injured, and one winger who's going to need time to adapt. We don't have the strength in depth to win games without our first team. But it's not the end of the world. We're still good enough to make the Top 4. Denilson and Walcott will get experience from this. Djourou should've been retained (we'll need him), but I'm not one Who Knows.

That said, we need someone like Alonso, Inler or Barry. Just someone who can get a beer without a driver's license. I hope we're getting him before Newcastle, because I'd like to see a functional Arsenal side.

Tower of London today.

A Town full of Cassiuses

Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights;
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

- William Shakespeare, Julius Caeser (1. 2. 192)

Things I've noted about London:

• Londoners seem quite thin. What is it about major metropolises that make its denizens so svelte? It's something I've observed in New York and Hong Kong as well. Is it the stress of the rat race? The expensive food? The constant walking? Or do places like this just attract thin people?
• Everyone seems to come from somewhere else. I get lonely by myself, and due to my lack of human contact, I've started chatting to random strangers. And I've only talked to one English person (a sweet old lady in front of Guild Hall). Everyone else seems German, French, Spanish, American, Scandanvian, or from some Eastern European country I've never heard of.
• If the above is valid, Arsenal really is a true representation of London, isn't it?
• It's easier (and cheaper) to buy a beer than it is to buy an apple. Around where I was staying, I circled for maybe twenty minutes before I found a Tesco that sold fresh fruit. I bumped into three, four pubs lining the road along St Paul's. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I'm worried about scurvy.
• The British Museum should return all its foreign exhibits. ASAP. There's something creepy about wandering around the Elgin Marbles, the gates of Nimrud and a chamber full of mummies, knowing that they'd all been blasted out of some forgotten city many, many years ago.

I've had time to think about the Silvestre deal. It's not that bad, especially since Traore's going out on loan. We've an experienced back-up to Clichy and Gallas now. At 31, he's old, but he won't get in the way of Traore or Nordtveit's development. And you can't go wrong with 750,000 pounds. It also means that Senderos is on his way out, and Djourou is probably going to become a defensive midfielder.

That said, it's a worry we're getting him instead of someone like Kompany (heading for Man City). This means we really didn't have enough money to buy two experienced players. I'm presuming we're still going to spend 10 million on a Inler-type DM. If you add up all the sums this year, we broke even. Despite what the board's saying, we ain't got the money in the till.

Anyway, it's been two and a half days, and I'm beginning to smell. I'm going to wrap it up. The stench isn't pleasant.My socks, in particular, offend me greatly. Think I'll take a shower after I finish this post.

Actually, I started smelling two and a half days ago, courtesy of a 36 hour plane trip in a stuffy cabin, but I did take a shower when I got off the plane. My current funk is all English. If you rub off a bit of my skin and put it under the microscope, you'll find sweat, dead skin cells and bits of central London. In a couple of minutes, it'll be the first time ever I'll get to scrape London off my skin.

Which has its own kind of beauty, methinks.

5 things so far

Making it quick:

1. St Paul's - Scrubbed up quite nicely. Wren did a good job with the dome; very big. Someone should think of putting an escalator to the winding hall.
2. Millennium Bridge - pretty. The underneath suspension thing is really quite cool.
3. Tate Modern - kind of disappointing. Not as comprehensive as the MoMA or the Guggenheim, and has the same stuff (sorry, it's not art if you can reproduce it and have it hanging in multiple galleries), but it looks really cool in a converted factory. Like a funky loft. But for some really, there are really, really good looking girls hanging out in modern art galleries. What the fuck is the connection between hot girls and modern, abstract art?
4. Globe Theatre - saw the Merry Wives of Windsor at the Globe. Awesome. Seriously.
5. And I've got the Arsenal tickets in my pocket right now. It might be just the jet lag, but I'm delirious. FC Twente, Newcastle - I can hardly wait.

Just one thing...

Why the fuck did we sign Mikael Silvestre? I don't log on for three days, and this is what I'm confronted with? Shit. I don't get it. I really don't. A 31 year old defender from Man Utd. What happened to getting a pugnacious DM? And why has Wenger suddenly started buying experienced French defenders from rival Premier League clubs? Is this our new thing? I want the trend to continue because it'll be cool to get Phillippe Mexes, but with my luck, we''ll get Sylvain Distin. I'm not familiar with Silvestre's work, but is he the shit-kicker we desperately need?

I'm off

I'm in the sky tonight
There I can keep by your side
Watching the wide world riot
And hiding out
I'll be coming home next year

- Foo Fighters, Next Year

I'm leaving tonight. I'm going off to Europe for six months. It's starting to shit me off. I'm starting to realise that it's a really, really long time and it's a lot of money. But still - it's something I've got to do. I'm going to go mad, otherwise. And there's no need to worry.

I haven't planned anything. I've got three nights accommodation in London, and a couple of Arsenal tickets. Picked up a Lonely Planet a couple of months back, and I've been pawing through that. Other than that, I'll make it up as I go. It's useless to plan for something this long. I might as well give up on the illusion of control.

Arsene Wenger's probably got the same idea. It's useless to plan. You can't prevent the accidents when they happen. Agents will sniff around for disenchanted players. Wages and transfer fees will rise. Sepp Blatter will make strange pronouncements about foreign quotas in a response to FIFA political machinations.

All you can really do is make sure the fundamentals are right - good youth players, a thorough scouting network, a recruiting philosophy based on technique and athleticism. And you've got to have belief that this will tide you over during the lean years, and it'll steer you back towards the years of plenty.

There's no need to worry, because you can't do anything about it. Flamini and Hleb left, but the process continues. We're younger and more callow, but that's okay. There's faith that the next crop will come good. Ramsey, Coquelin, Wilshire - these guys are good enough that they'll take over eventually.

Yes, we could buy a monster in centre-half, Akineef in goal, Villa, Silva and Alonso up the park. And yes, we could challenge for titles straightaway. But there'll be problems associated with those moves as well. Players won't adapt to England, they won't fit into the system, they'll plunge the club in debt. Problems will arise no matter what you do.

Best just to go with the flow and trust that it'll turn good eventually. Yes, you can cater for every contingency and plan everything to the last second, but where's the fun in that?

I, Sinhosa

I like to daydream.

Of all my recurrent fantasies, the most football-friendly one is one in which I was born fabulously talented, physically perfect, and Brazilian. I'd have grown up in the favelas of Rio, nurtured at Santos, and spotted by Wenger in the U-19 World Cup. I'd have the feet of Robinho, the explosive power of a young Ronaldo, the teeth of Ronaldinho and the bushy-browed bride of Kaka. Trust me, she's hot.

Career-wise, I'd be extremely well-paid by Arsenal. I'd play in the hole and play cute one-twos with Cesc, Nasri and Eduardo. I'd score twenty goals a season, provide the crucial assist in the Premiership winning match at Old Trafford, and score a hat-trick in the Champions League final. And in the off-season, I'd take great pleasure in telling Real Madrid's network of dodgy agents to "shove it" into a number of unsociable places.

My nickname would be Sinhosa.

It's from a site I stumbled across a few months ago on the Guadrian website. I linked it on the right as Brazil Name, but it does more than that. If you type in your name, you'll get a little Brazil shirt featuring your nickname and the No.10. And you can print it out.

I did that just now, and as a result, I've got a little cut-out "Sinhosa" shirt. I also had a spare passport photo lying around, which I've cut out and attached to the neck. I look quite nice in a Brazil shirt. I'm thinking of getting it laminated. Or blown up and made into wallpaper. It's something to think about on a cold Sunday afternoon.

In other news, Almunia thinks that Theo should become a bastard.

"The only thing Theo maybe has to improve is his character; he's a lovely guy on the pitch - I keep saying to him he has to become more nasty. After this he will be one of the best players in the Premier League."

I hope he doesn't follow that advice. He's such a nice boy.

In other, other news, I've joined a site called Soccer Fan Forums. It's quite wide-eyed and earnest, with none of the cynicism and loathing normally associated with my blog. I find it a quite refreshing read, especially after twenty-odd minutes of whiny, introspective blogmaking. Check it out.

An FM08 review of 2014

2013/2014 was a milestone year for Arsenal. We were undefeated in the season in all competitions. We won the quadruple. We were unbeaten in 100 league games. We swept the domestic awards, with Ben Arfa winning the Player's Award, Benzema the Footballer of the Year Award, and Wilshire winning the Young Player's Award.

And Kolo Toure turned 32.

He's an old man now. He lost his first-team place this year to Mamadou Sakho. His pace is starting to go and he's made some terrible mistakes in defence. In the crunch games, I play Sakho and Richards because they're my two most reliable defenders. Kolo's still captain of the side, but he leads from the bench and Cesc Fabregas has become the de facto captain of the side. Kolo's got one more year left on his contract, and the sad thing is that I'm going to have to let him go.

Kolo Toure has been brilliant for Arsenal. He's captained us to 4 leagues, 4 Champions Leagues, and 3 or 4 domestic cups. He's tutored a whole heap of young defenders who've picked up on his loyalty and professionalism. He was a world-class defender in his time, and will always remain an Arsenal legend.

Anyway...

I've wasted so much time on Football Manager that it scares me (and yes, I have a problem). And over the years, I've thought a lot about the game. The most poignant thing about it is the speed with which a player ages. One minute, they're a promising 20 year old who's won a "Young Player of the Month" award. Seven hours later, they're a 31 year old veteran who's being moved on to Barcelona. It happens so quickly.

A life passes by in the blink of an eye. You've only got so much time to make an impression, and you've got to make it count. One day, you're a kid with the world at your feet. Then you get stuck into the world, and the next minute, you've reached the end of the line. You're 32, you're old, you've wasted your youth waiting for a future that never came.

In 2014, the World Cup will be held in Brazil.

In my FM08 game, I'm manager of Argentina. We've won the Copa America, we've won the Confederations Cup and we haven't lost a game in three years. I've found this great kid named Oscar Trejo who scores a goal a game. We're the raging favourites to win the World Cup.

In real life, I haven't got a fucking clue where I'll be in 2014.

Bad Reputation

"Suddenly I'm on the street
Seven years disappeared
Below my feet
Been breakin' down
Do you want me now? Do you want me now?"

- Freedy Johnson, Bad Reputation

This post is on memory.

Please allow me the liberty of going off on a tangent. There's scant news today (other than Barry and Arsharvin being linked to us - yawn), so I might as well. I've got to write about something, and this song's been on high rotation in my head for a couple of days now.

I really, really like this song. It hooks you from the first line "I know I've got a bad reputation, and I know it's not all talk, talk, talk", and there's this really easy, folksy melody to it. But what really gets to you is the chorus. There's a real poignancy to those lines, and it sinks deep into you and pulls at your heart strings.

It happens in an instant, doesn't it? You can spend years not thinking about something, and then something triggers your memory and it comes flooding back. All those thoughts and emotions and regrets that you've spent so long trying to bury, wash over you and you're back. Seven years disappear, and you're right back where you started from.

One of my favourite books is all about that. It starts off with a madeleine soaked in tea, and ends up... well, I not sure where it ends up - I gave up on A la recherche halfway through Sodom and Gomorrah, around when Monsieur de Charlus was trying to seduce our young Marcel. I figured that I was halfway through it, I had my exams to study for, and I was sick of lugging that thing to uni every day. Plus, the mental image of a fat, mustachioed french dude buggering the pastry chef made me a bit squirmish.

And there I went again - seven years disappeared, and I'm twenty again, pissed off at the world and trying to read Proust while hacking through my uni course. And you know, if I could, I'd tell my twenty year old self to cheer up, that life can sometimes be about beer and skittles, and that anyway, Proust is impossibly dense and not really that necessary. I really should've just put the book down and spent more time trying to talk to Olivia...

I would've turned out a lot happier.

Anyway, I'm thinking about the future, and wondering where I'll be seven years from now. When I was twenty, I figured I'd have it sorted out by twenty-seven. I've given up on that dream for now. I'm starting to realise that life isn't something to be figured out. Or at least, not by me.

And, you know, this song really sticks in my brain. I wonder, because in seven years' time she'll be twenty five, and things would seem different. Got to be different. I'll be in a different place. I'll have a different set of emotions. I'll look back on this time and wonder why the fuck I was ever so into this girl. But the scary thing is that if I bumped into her seven years later, in the words of Freedy Johnson:

Suddenly I'm in another place
Looking in the crowd I think I see your face
Been turning around
Do you want me now?
Do you want me now?

There She Goes

There she goes
There she goes again
Racing through my brain
And I just can't contain
This feeling that remains

- The La's, There She Goes Again

This is my ode to whiny introspection.

In seven weeks time, I'll be gone. I'll be in Europe. For six months. By myself. On my lonesome. With nothing to protect me except my native wit, animal cunning and a couple of credit cards.

I'm alternating between excitement and nervousness, sleeplessness and sleepiness. Sometimes I'm scared because I'm struck by the thought that I haven't got a clue what I'm getting myself in for. Most of the time, I'm just really, really, really looking forward to it. It's something I've been dreaming about for ten years.

But then, you know... I look down the hallway and there she is. Racing through my brain. Pulsing through my veins. Blowing down my lane. And I just can't contain the feeling that remains.

Because when I leave, I know I'll never see her again.

On Animus

an·i·mus –noun
1. strong dislike or enmity; hostile attitude; animosity.
2. purpose; intention; animating spirit.
3. (in the psychology of C. G. Jung) the masculine principle, esp. as present in women (contrasted with anima).

- from dictionary.com

I learnt a new word last night: animus.

I learnt it while watching this TV show called Skins. Great show. All about hedonistic British kids with drug habits and protected sex. Good writing, good plotting and great character development.

And it's educational.

I've never heard of animus before. It's the inarticulate, primeval rage that drives us to succeed. It's the competitive edge that makes us want to win. It's that little voice in our heads that pushes us to risk everything we've got in order to win everything we've ever wanted. It's that breath of life that God imparted onto Adam.

It's the thing I've never had. Ever.

It's the thing I've been missing. It's the thing I've been lacking. It's the void in my psyche that other people have that I don't. When I'm slumped at my desk, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me, it's the deficit that's staring back at me.

Camus once said that the only philosophical question in life is etre, "to be". Everything else is just window-dressing. And really, what else motivates a life except one's animus? I need this relentless, remorseless rage. I need this driving force in my life. Now that I know I'm lacking it, I need to find it. What the fuck is my animus?

Who says you never learn anything from TV?

Anelka asks "what if"?

"Everyone makes mistakes in life and I can say that I made one in leaving Arsenal. That is because things have gone badly for me since then. But I could not know what the future held in store for me. I could have spent my entire career at Arsenal. I took decisions thinking I was doing the right thing. If I had my time again I would do things differently. I made my decisions thinking they were the right ones at the time."

- Nicolas Anelka on what might've been

I wasn't around when Anelka burst onto the scene. My first memory of Anelka was him scoring the winner for Real Madrid in the Champions League final (against Bayern Munich?), after he threw a massive hissy-fit the week before. So, I've no real connection with him from Arsenal. All I have are the vague recollections of gooners who value the past more than the present.

Still, a part of me thinks about what could've been if he hadn't left. We could've achieved so much more if we had a partnership like Henry-Anelka. It would've, could've, should've been amazing. When I think of the two on them together, it stirs uncomfortable feelings in my loins.

But it wasn't to be.

My nurse told me, on the day after, that "she'd be a good one to know in five years time". And, as much as I wanted to accept her sympathy, I shook my head. I have enough trouble keeping my mind on the present, let alone wishing for something in the distant future. What's done is done. Mistakes are made for a reason. We only live to fuck up, and the only reason we keep on living is to fuck it up until we get it right. And I fucked up royally.

What shits me off is that I genuinely do like her. My intentions were good; it's just that my execution was horrible. If I'd done it properly, I might've spent my life with her (although I doubt it). If I'd waited for the right time, if I'd waited for this obsession to subside, if I'd been a bit more rational and a bit less deranged...

But therein lies the pathway to madness.

A major part of growing up is accepting your failures and having the courage to try again. It's something I find really hard to do. Most times, I avoid the issue by not trying too hard. It's easier to take it if it didn't mean so much. But with her, I can't avoid the issue. She means so much to me, and I fucked up so badly.

But as Anelka said, you make your decisions based on your knowledge at the time. I did what I did, and I can't undo it. I've been told to just move on, let it die, let her slide away. There will be other girls and other chances, and maybe the next time, I won't act like a creepy, disturbed lunatic.

Which brings us to Anelka.

Think about it - he's reaching the end of his career and he's starting to realise what he gave up when he left the Arse. He's never going to be loved by anyone other than his family and friends. He'll never be welcomed back as a favourite son. He'll never have the camaraderie of a Premiership winning team. He'll never know that sense of belonging to a particular club. He'll always been known as a mercenary, a nomad, a pay-packet player.

I imagine that after the thrill of the game has died, after the lure of the money has been sated, after the fast-paced lifestyle has slowed down, it's the memories you carry that really count. And I imagine that Anelka's looked at his career and his accomplishments, and realised that he doesn't have any teammates to share his memories with.

Still, Anelka has time left. He's at a top, top club, and is surrounded by top players. He's still got a good three or four years left in him. It's not too late for him to make something of himself at Chelsea, to ingratiate himself at the club, to find that sense of belonging that he's lacked for so much of his career.

It's never too late, Nicky.