Money Can't Buy My Love....But They Could At Least Make The Effort!

Stuck in traffic on a depressingly dreary Friday, it was hard to believe it was only the day before that we’d been watching the Champions League draw, plotted up in the Venice sunshine, fantasizing about further European glory. I was thinking I’d have been better off staying in Italy. After Sunday’s shellacking, I really wish I had!

I’m not sure I’d have bothered stumping up for an overnight trip to Udine, until I discovered it was only an hour and a half away from Venice. I couldn’t resist a first ever opportunity to wallow in the shimmering splendour of this pearl of the Adriatic (albeit a little wiffy in 38˚ heat).

I thought I’d be joining many other Gooners who wouldn't want to miss out on what might prove to be our last Champions League jolly for some time – I’m not sure many of us would’ve fancied following the Gunners around the graveyards of Europe in the Europa Cup. But bizarrely, virtually all of the few hundred Arsenal fans at the Stadio Fruili on Wednesday night had crossed the nearby border, coming from Slovenia, Croatia and Serbia.

Assuming this horde of East Europeans Gooners found their way home in their drunken stupor, I imagine they must’ve been hiding behind their sofas come Sunday, as their hero, Woijech Sczczny, endured the most traumatic afternoon of his short career. I knew I should’ve remained holed up behind mine, when I couldn’t find anyone to accompany me on a masochistic trip to Manchester.

I must admit I was sorely tempted to stop indoors, rather than suffer more ignominy at Old Trafford. But after five fruitless years you feel obliged to keep going, for fear the Gunners might perform when least expected. Yet in the absence of Vermaelen, it was obvious the game was up, when I had to check if I’d heard correctly, as Coquelin & Traore were announced in the starting line-up. It must be time to throw the towel in, when one starts pining over the loss of Eboué & Denilson!

Sure Arsène had the excuse that our side was so severely depleted by injuries and suspensions, while others were understandably jaded, after competing in the stifling heat in midweek. But our squad was always going to be stretched at some point during the season and perhaps we should be grateful that it’s gossamer like lack of depth has been so blatantly exposed, while there’s still a day or two left to try and address the situation.

It felt to me as if Wenger had already written Sunday’s match off before it started and if we’d come away with a more creditable defeat, our obdurate manager might’ve been able to continue to kid himself that his invisible suit of armour hadn’t lost all of it’s lustre. But with that 8-2 humiliation, Arsène left Old Trafford with nowhere to hide his manifest embarrassment.

I only hope his sacrificial lambs to the slaughter don’t end up with permanent, career wrecking, psychological scars à la Stepanovs as not all of them were at fault for our impotence in the face of Man Utd’s relentless onslaught. This was all the more galling because apart from Rooney’s scintillating form and Ashley Young’s two stunning strikes, this was far from Utd's most formidable display.

You certainly can’t afford to look the rare gift-horse in the face of a Howard Webb penalty against Man U on their patch and Van Persie’s head dropped after his disappointing spot-kick. As the Gunners trudged off 3-1 down at the break, you just couldn’t imagine anyone in the Arsenal dressing-room with the force of personality to inspire the Gunners to raise their game.

For my money this has long been le Gaffer’s most grievous blind-spot; Arsène’s failure to appreciate the crucial value of those qualities in a footballer that simply cannot be measured on a statistical spreadsheet. We’ve seen countless examples that demonstrate team-mates don’t necessarily need to love one another, but a squad simply can’t survive without the leadership qualities capable of inspiring the sort of common bond, which equips them to fight for the greater good.

However there was little evidence of this on Sunday, when the likes of Arshavin, Rosicky and Chamakh turned tail and ran for cover after the final whistle, without the slightest acknowledgement to the loyal suckers for punishment in our corner of the ground, who’d sung ourselves hoarse, with an unabated reaffirmation of our love of the Arsenal for almost the entire second-half.

If the Arsenal is indeed the model for how a well run "football club” should operate, rather than just a going concern, it’s unfathomable that we should be left with £70 mill in the bank, fighting over the last turkey on the shelf. I’m not so naïve as to believe these modern day mercenaries will ever share our intensity of feeling for the club, but there has to be some semblance of a unity of purpose.

In this time of desperation, it doesn’t really matter who Wenger drafts in. Unless he focuses on unearthing that intangible iron-will, strength of character (over quantifiable talent) that can be the catalyst to bond the disparate individuals, at the end of the day the Gunners will continue to be on hiding to nothing.

In offering those of us who travelled the token sop of a free match ticket, the club should be aware that money can’t buy our love. Perhaps it would be better spent on a punt at the vertebrae needed to provide us with a bit of backbone?
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