Yesterday I plonked my bum down in front of Sky Sports 1 and subjected myself to Arsenal's worst defeat since 1896. My great-grandmother was 10 in 1896: kinda puts things into perspective.
Given this little statistic, and the fact that I've cried at much narrower defeats before, it's a wonder that, as Young slid the final ball home deep into injury time, I happened to be bouncing about and laughing sadistically at our self-inflicted demise. I think that, as a Gooner, I've reached that place where reality blurs with poo and the only result is hysteria. It's a defence mechanism which kicks in after one's team concedes a sixth goal, and prevents an otherwise highly plausible suicide attempt.
The morning after always feels a bit like a hangover. You wake up, wonder where you are and whether what happened the day before was really real or just some freaky dream. (I dreamt that Robin van Persie moved into a hut made of straw, and he painted the roof orange. Significance, anyone?) You don't want to eat anything, and you avoid looking at yourself in the mirror through fear of what you might see. When the neighbour's dog starts barking, you scream in its general direction to fecking well shut the feck up, and then you hold yourself in agony, before finally collapsing in a heap on your bed again.
I didn't have a hangover this morning, though. Aside from the Robin-van-Persie-living-in-a-straw-hut-with-an-orange-painted-roof dream, there was nothing. I think the situation has become so surreal that it's impossible to feel the way that we felt last season, when we lost 3-2 at home to Tottenham, or when we lost out on the Carling Cup to Birmingham, or when we went from being four goals up at half-time to drawing 4-4 with Newcastle. This is a whole other kettle of fish. This is like when Godzilla is stampeding down the road and he stands on your car, grinding it into dust, but you just wipe your brow and say, "Phew! He didn't get me!" before returning your attention back to his massive dinosaur toe in your struggle to stay alive. Yesterday Godzilla stood on our car, and today we're all crowded behind some dustbin somewhere on a backroad, hoping he doesn't see us and decide we look tasty.
It's hard to really pinpoint where we went wrong, but if I had to, I'd point a big, fat arrow at 18th April 2007: the day David Dein left the club.
Things were obviously falling apart long before then - hence his departure - but I think that that was the day that something shifted in Arsenal F.C.. Dein was Mr Arsenal; insult his hair and call him Bum Face all you like, but you never doubted his intentions. Chelsea had been bought out by Roman Abramovich four years earlier and it was clear to see that football as we all knew it was evolving; when it came down to it, David Dein wanted to be the fish staggering out of the water on a pair of legs, and the rest of our shareholders chose to be, quite simply, a fish out of water.
It was easy enough to cover it up for awhile: blame the departure of Thierry Henry, pin it all on our new stadium and label it a 'transitional period'; who was to know that the 'transitional period' would last until 2011? But then other clubs began to catch on - the most notable change to occur at Manchester City - and you have to begin to question the machine to which your club belongs. You cannot compete with a club who can throw around £27m, £35m and an alleged fee of £47m for the signatures of Edin Džeko, Sergio Agüero and Carlos Tevez, respectively - especially not when your club's record signing is that of the signature of Andrey Arshavin for £15m. You cannot compete with a club whose players' salaries are so high that you lose decent, experienced players such as Toure, Clichy and Nasri to them. Big clubs do not sell their best players to their rivals. What the hell are we doing?
The only thing I can assume is that Arsenal F.C. no longer considers itself a big club. And why should it? We haven't won a trophy in six years. We spend the entire summer suggesting that we might sign Juan Mata, and then watch him turning up several weeks later at Stamford Bridge in a Chelsea shirt. We smother Cesc Fabregas in our love and adoration for eight years, and then we send him off back home to Barcelona with a packed lunchbox and a pat on the head, saying, "Thanks for the help, Cesc. It was good of you try" with a measley £30m in our (or Silent Stan's) back pocket. It wasn't unreasonable to think that that money might go back into the team, and that even if Arsene Wenger wasn't keen to line up a direct replacement (what with Wilshere and Ramsey breaking their way solidly into the first team) he might still see fit to strengthen the defence or get in a new striker to add some depth to the squad. But nothing has materialised. We have three days left in the transfer market, and we're still dabbling about on the 99p stall wondering if we can haggle a few teenagers for 98p.
I cannot blame Arsene Wenger for this. I may not necessarily be a proud member of AKB (Arsene Knows Best), but nor am I waving about any AMG (Arsene Must Go) banners, and I suggest that those who are find another banner with the name of the replacement manager they would bring in. We can only field the players we have, and we can only buy the players who want to come, who are prepared to stay and who we can afford. The fact that we agreed terms for Juan Mata but the money "didn't arrive" speaks volumes to me. Is there any money? In the past we have sold good players only after we have seen their best: Patrick Vieira, Thierry Henry, Robert Pires and Freddie Ljungberg all left long after their heyday. Now we appear to be prepared not only to sell our best players to our biggest rivals, but also to let them go for a pittance. Why do we need this money? Why are ticket prices being put up by 6%? Why are we charged £5 for a piece of bread and a bottle of water at halftime? Why does the club continuously host events like live screenings of away matches, stinging the fans with ridiculous entrance fees and the offer of a free pie just so that we can watch the team lose, again and again, in the same predictable, boring manner? Why is the board letting Arsene Wenger take the heat for it?
I have been asking myself these questions with increasing frequency and diminishing patience these last few years, and it's reached a point where we the fans need answers. The club (and by the club, I mean the shareholders and those who sit about in the directors box drinking champagne worth more than I earn in a week, whilst twiddling their moustaches and probably farting occasionally) owe it to us, and they especially owe it to the fans who turned up at Old Trafford yesterday, stayed till the very end and out-gloried "glory, glory Man United".
It is very easy to sing when you're winning, but the video above is testament to this brilliant club and its amazing fans. Let's not stop singing until they hear us.
We've had some wilderness years in the past and come through it. The politics in football may have changed, with rich bastards using the beautiful game as a new found toy, or a quick investment; but the love of a true fan doesn't. Sing louder and harder - 'we shall overcome', 'don't know where, don't know when' but we're Gooners till we die!
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