Always did have his feet on the ground...

Quick sketch in illustrator.

Brgkmp

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British Trophy Success Infograph

POO-WATCH

Arsenal and a nod to Crichton

This scene is inspired by a passage from Michael Crichtons 'Jurassic Park'. The passage was vividly brought to the screen by Steven Spielberg in the film of the same name.

The majestic figure of the Emirates stadium reared up into the night as the ever present drum of thunder circled it like a hungry predator.

A cacophony of whimpers tore upwards into the midnight gloom. Primal guttural fear. The Arsenal football squad stood there. In matching red uniforms they gripped their rifles that reassuring bit tighter. Trees swept in the brewing storm like macabre mutant feather dusters. Rain spat itself on all and sundry, a tingling, cold slap as remembrance.

From between the trees emerged a heavy duty forklift. It’s spotlights, burning starkly fluorescent, lasered off, ever thickening, into the night at unsettling angles. A piercing mechanic whine flew from the hidden depths of its engine, like a curse flying forth from a freshly opened Egyptian tomb. Pat Rice sat behind the wheel, a grim, determined look on his face.

Worried eyes looked on as the forklifts cargo settled to a halt on the pristine concrete. Now that Rices role in proceedings was over, he leapt from the vehicle, turned on his heel and sprinted off into the night. As he ran, his hard hat toppled from his head and clattered to the ground, an Arsenal FC logo emblazoned across it as it rolled to a dismal stop in a grimy London puddle.

The cargo was a reinforced steel structure in the style of a truck trailer. Horizontal slats stroked around its form at a height of six feet. For all the tension this box created, it emmanated a constant silence.

A uniformed Francesc Fabregas stepped forward from the group. He turned his head and gazed up to a large window near the top of the stadium. A fork of lightning ruptured the blackness and momentarily a cross armed figure was silhouetted behind the glass. The figure seemed to nod. Cesc knew what he had to do. He took a deep breath and signalled to four more men.

Gael Clichy, Abou Diaby, Jack Wilshere and Manuel Almunia reluctantly shouldered their rifles, positioned themselves at each corner of the container and heaved it forward along two runners that led to a specialised entrance cut deep into the stadium wall. As the end of the container slotted into the wall Diaby jumped away in fear. His soul was unsettled, like the surface of a lake when a pebble is thrown in, rings of disquiet grew larger and larger, echoing forever. His eyes had met with something through that slat. When he looked upon it, pure malevolence looked back.

The wind howled and whipped at everything with stinging rain as its weapon of choice. Thunder rolled through the night sky like a titanic wave pumelling along a cliff face, shaking the earth to its core.

Cesc signalled to Clichy to climb on top of the steel structure. He shut his eyes, blessed himself and then proceeded to climb the ladder set onto the side. Once on top he grabbed the handle that would pull the front side upward letting its cargo free. Before he did, he looked to the rest of the squad. His eyes settled on Andriy Arshavin, who nodded solemnly. Clichy raised the door.

There was a thunderous movement inside the container. Three thuds toward the open end. A heavy impact. The container was forced backwards on its runners by about three feet. The open end was completely exposed now, a gaping maw, ready to suck in whoever was unluckiest.

Manuel Almunia had had a good start to the day. He had risen early, checked news from home in Spain on his laptop while he ate some wholegrain toast with red onion and Portugese sardines. Driving into training he had gotten nearly all green lights. Never in his darkest most unrelenting nightmares would he have thought that night he would be the one nearest the container. Maybe humans aren’t wired to conjure thoughts that depressing.

As Manuel Almunias terror struck frame was dragged through the gap between the container and the wall, Cesc Fabregas’ heart sank to what seemed like the bottom of all existence. Nevetheless he rallied the squad. They surrounded the three available sides and pointed their rifles through the slats. The muzzle flashes lit up the container like a gunpowder strobe light. These flashes jarred the players vision. The sounds of Almunia screaming were scars indelibly etched into their collective conscience. Cesc could see tears streaming down Samir Nasris face as he repeatedly shot his rifle through that little space. Shooting and weeping. A shell of a man. Almunias screams gave way to a stomach sickening meaty crack.

The view from behind the large pristine pane of glass was expansive. Mr. Wenger watched on as his only fit goalkeeper was torn from safety and disappeared into the steel container he himself had ordered. A bead of rain snaked its way haphazardly down the glass, illuminated by the errant flashes of gunfire that flew up from below. As Wenger bored of watching what seemed like a lightning storm confined to a 12 by 6 metal trailer below he tracked the raindrop with his hawk like attention. Something instantly jostled him from this hypnotic droplet. A projectile was coming directly for him, flying upward from the scene of chaos below. From amidst the rain, screams and gunfire it sailed and hit the pain of glass right in front of Wengers face.

Manuel Almunias dead eyes locked onto Wengers for a second and then his head fell silently away from the window, leaving nothing but a bloody residue as a clue to its presence. Arsene Wenger was unshaken, he stroked his chin. He was down a goalie, but he was up a, well he didn’t know quite how to categorize it, but he was up one Jens Lehmann. A slow grin spread across his face as shouts of ‘Shoot him! Shooooooot hiiiiiiiim!’ echoed up from below like puddle splashes trying to contend with a downpour.

Severe Drought in North London

Més que un Match

The one thing that was concrete amidst all the hype surrounding this fixture was this; the biggest scalp available in modern football was up for grabs. Could Arsenal win the struggle and impose their footballing artistry over that of Barcelonas?

An essential fact here was that Guardiola, shining managerial talent that he is, is still a rookie compared to the veteran that is Wenger. If the teams switched managers, how would Arsenals chances be viewed? I believe Barcelona would come out of that as supreme favourites.

Wenger has finally seemed to instil that gritty aspect into his squad. Jack Wilshere, the latest English Great Hope, came out speaking about being nasty before the game. Ominous news for Alex Fergsuon is that this Arsenal side might have finally developed that coveted ability to utilise mental strength in tandem with their natural instincts that is intrinsic to all truly indominatable athletes.

Most importantly for the standard bearers of the beautiful game in Britain was to ensure they stepped up and went toe to toe with their Catalan counterparts. If they did this, the match would take on a form in stark contrast to last years meeting where Barca controlled proceedings almost unchallenged.

Encouragingly from the start they used their hunger for respect across Europe to ignore their own for Guardiolas side. Possession was won back within sixteen seconds of kick off. Barcelonas main ability is retaining possession, second to this is pressure. As obvious as it may be, they operate with an attacking philosophy. Their tiki-taka method ensures close proximity traingles of passing which ultimately knit together to ensure gaps in the oposition for a killer ball, the likes of which their attacking players are adept at making with their eyes closed.

Tiki-Taka has many advantages. It is sublime to watch, it brings all players into play, it is great for developing technically proficient players, infact if I were to list the advantages I could write for hours. An aspect of it, if exploited in the right manner, that can be named a disadvantage is exactly the positioning of the players as they partake in their sumptuous passing triangles. Barca are far from a long ball team. The players are close to eachother, always making the angle for the next one touch pass. This leads to players bunching in places, which in turn leaves gaps elsewhere.

This tendency to open up just as many gaps in their own team as their opposition is usually left unexploited in La Liga. The pace of Walcott was seen as an almost specialised weapon with which to get through the gaps left in their high line. Add to those positional gaps the gaping one left by Puyols tendonitis and even more expectation fell onto Walcotts pace. Unsuprisingly Guardiola had identified this and Arsenal made no headway until Walcotts substitution for Nasri in the second half.

First Van Persie combined his recent scintilating form with Valdes obvious positional deficiencies. A tremendous volley from an acutely tight angle. Then Nasri was handed exactly the type of opportunity Walcott had been waiting for all night. He tore down the flank and waited until Arshavin was in sight. The magical Russian swept the ball into the net, aided by Valdes standing directly behind a defender therefore cutting off his line of vision. The Emirates erupted as a stadium of its majesty deserved.

Arsenal have their hands on the scalp, but the dirty work of removing it will take place in Camp Nou. If the nasty streak is indeed present then they won’t hesitate to tear it aloft and proclaim themselves as a force to be feared in European football.

Wengers Masterplan