There are older and fouler things than foxes in the deep places of Leicestershire. To approach this journey like some Hobbit’s walking party would be folly. Alas, our riders were not on their guard. We swiftly took the bridge - the Alessar struck down the enemy’s fiendish outriders – but could not advance to the second hall.
From Falcao to ‘Welbz’. The saga that was Transfer Deadline Day had varying levels of misery for all Gooners. Some had the Samaritans on speed dial. Some were questioning whether we had the required depth to mount not only a title tilt but if we were going to let our customary Champions League slot slip. Some had buried their heads so deep in the sand that they could hear Earth’s molten core churn. The most revelatory though were – like myself – the staunch Wenger fans who couldn’t ignore what was perceived as negligence.
I don't hate a lot of things in the world. I save that dark, evil feeling for only the darkest and most evil things.
Among that list, sitting quite merrily at the top of it, is the absolute worst thing in the history of things. The infamous international break.