Dave’s Ramblings – Arsenal

They call it silverware, which is technically true in the same way a chocolate coin is legal tender. Beneath the shiny wrapping it’s mostly plastic, held together with hope, sellotape, and a hurried splash of Airfix paint where the cracks were starting to show.

 

And yet, against all logic and basic self-preservation, here I am. At the EasyJet Stadium. Or Ryanair Park. Or whatever dodgy airline has stapled its name to the ground. Watching Chelsea when I could be at home, staring at a wall. Or watching paint dry. That’s just how much I love the champions of the world. 

 

An interesting, well perhaps not so interesting fact about this competition is that the Carabao Cup sponsorship began in 2017. It replaced the EFL Cup’s proud tradition of being named after whatever company had found some change down the back of the sofa.

 

The moment we emerged from the underground, I knew. Not in a mystical way, more in a “this is absolutely going to ruin my evening” way. It was raining. And not polite rain. Not, oh how quaint rain. This was aggressive, career ending rain. The kind that doesn’t just get you wet, it judges you for trying to stay dry. Add in a 15-minute walk to the EasyJet Stadium and my optimism packed its bags and caught the next tube home.

 

For reasons I still can’t explain, this filled me with dread. Sadly, that dread turned out to be less irrational fear and more reasonable foresight.

 

Let me be clear… this was not one of those end to end thrillers that neutrals love and pundits describe as breathless. It was the opposite of that. If this match had a pulse, doctors would’ve been gently shaking it, and then electric shocking it. Liam’s plan was obvious. Keep it tight, don’t concede, then unleash Cole and Estêvão like a footballing Godzilla. To be fair, he nailed the plan part. The execution… well not so much.

 

Now, in fairness, the Lego man has had over six years to assemble his perfect little plastic empire. Liam hasn’t even finished unpacking his office yet. One’s still trying to build the Millennium Falcon, the other’s still reading the instructions.

 

Yes, we lost. Yes, I’m disappointed. But I thought that we actually looked a lot better than we did in the first leg. I know that’s like saying this time the car crash was at a lower speed, but still, progress is progress. Let’s not forget, it was the first leg at the Bridge where we actually lost this tie.

 

I’m not going to do a minute by minute breakdown of the game, mainly because I value my sanity and yours. I’m also not going to list chances, because that would imply there were loads of them. There weren’t. Between both teams, there were about five shots on target and most of the night was spent watching men pass the ball sideways while the rain continued its personal vendetta against us.

 

All in all, wet, tense, mildly soul-destroying… but somehow still not the worst night I’ve had watching football. Which says a lot.

 

My takeaways…

 

Liam Delap. Liam. Delap. Please explain yourself. Slowly. With diagrams if possible.

 

I know he’s not a winger. I get that. I’m not asking for Arjen Robben levels of touchline magic. But surely, some vague acknowledgement of the wing’s existence wouldn’t have gone amiss? A jog near it. A glance. A postcard. Anything.

 

Maybe I’m being harsh. Actually, no, I am being harsh. But still. He didn’t even do a DeLap of the pitch. Not one. No lung busting run. No chaos. Just vibes. Mostly stationary vibes.

 

I’m no fan of Arsenal. In fact, I actively enjoy not being a fan of Arsenal. But credit where it’s due. They didn’t absolutely mug us off on ticket prices like we did to them at the Bridge.

 

For that alone, I feel obliged to offer a big, hearty, slightly uncomfortable well done. Not for the football, not for the atmosphere, not for anything that happened on the pitch, but for the rare act of restraint in modern football and not charging fans the GDP of a small nation to sit in the rain.

 

Why have Arsenal nicked Liverpool’s “Allez, Allez, Allez?” Is there a nationwide shortage of originality I wasn’t told about? Can they genuinely not come up with one song of their own? I know they aren’t the loudest crowd in the world, in fact I’ve heard more noise from red ants. But come on… at least try!

 

It only bugs me because we’ve been mugged off by this exact nonsense loads of times. You pour your heart into a chant, nurture it, watch it grow… and then six months later some other lot are singing it like they thought of it first.

 

You’d think the Arsenal ultras would be on this. They were out in force tonight. Terrifying stuff. Nothing strikes fear into the soul quite like a man in a Stone Island jacket delicately balancing a flat white and a French Fancy. Absolute hooliganism. One wrong move and someone’s oat milk goes everywhere.

 

A truly frightening firm. I barely made it out alive.

 

On the bright side, this result means we don’t have to spend six emotional hours trying to escape Wembley, slowly ageing while stuck in a crazy queue for the tube next to a man eating crisps too loudly.

 

And how about this, we get to visit Everton’s shiny new ground on a Saturday, like proper human beings, not on some cursed Tuesday night designed purely to test our will to live.

 

Okay, yes… I’m absolutely scraping the barrel here. The barrel is empty. I’ve fallen through the barrel. I’m now underneath it, digging with my hands. But listen, when results aren’t as you choose, you cling to logistics. Thats life. That’s Chelsea.

 

Onwards and upwards. UTC 💙