Another shitty night in the Ukraine – we should be used to it... still – 1-1 is a result as far as I'm concerned and it was all the better for Gallas to score the goal to get us a point in the final few minutes. How many times has he done that for us? Captain fucking fantastic leads by example yet again! He's getting on a bit, in footballing terms, so to be there for us right up to the whistle is a testament to his dedication and fitness... still, some fans will never be happy and no doubt they will blame him and Sagna for the penalty that went against us.
Why is it always the black players that get judged the harshest... and celebrated the most?
The penalty was utter bollocks and I got the impression that the game was distinctly dodgy... not that I saw that much as the stream I got was fairly unreliable – but I saw enough. Walcott got mugged a number of times and at least one of them deserved a straight red – this was not a 50/50 'for the ball' incident – it was studs up and for the legs... which is the other side of the coin for the international performance he put in against Croatia. Those Ukraine boys don't give a fuck if they ruin Mr Golden Bollocks or what The Sun might print about them after the fact... and with the blind eye of the ref they proceded to beat him like a ginger step-child.
My question is who and why? Cantalejo has some history of awarding dodgy penalties – like when he put Italy through in the World Cup against Hiddink's Australian side... mind you – he also sent off Materazzi earlier in that match for no good reason; making them play with 10 men for half the game before their next fixture... against the Ukraine – oh... hang on a minute?!
...Nahhh...
He also, as I recall, fucked over England against Russia in the Euro qualifiers... well – him and Owen.
...Hmmm...
Whoooo – sorry, I was off on one there, besides – our equaliser was probably offside... but then he blew up two minutes early when they were deflated and we in the ascendancy with a fitness advantage – I'm confused... maybe he's not 'on the take' and really is just a shit referee!? It's a long shot - I know.
With all that travelling, being kicked and running about to scrape a result – I wouldn't be looking forward to facing Bolton at the weekend if I were one of the lads... shit as Bolton may be – they could certainly get something out of it if they take the game to us and 'get in our faces' from the off.
:-\
In other news It may come as a surprise to learn that Stan Kroenke is now on the board and Peter Lawwell (formerly of Celtic) has taken over the position that Dein used to hold? You knew that already right? No? Hmmm... this is news isn't it? I mean - shit is going down and strange bedfellows are being made in order prevent the hostile takeover from Usmanov... anything?
You don't wonder why the fat cunt doesn't just go and buy Newcastle and do us all a favour at all... ever?
Kroenke can fuck off an all.
Ahem - please allow me to introduce myself as it's probably about time and I realise that I often give off the impression to you northern shit-kickers that I'm a soft southern wanker...
I am Dogface – my heritage is varied... I am English, yes; and a southerner – I was born in Essex. My mother was born and bred in Bolton – her mother, Liverpool and her father Irish/Liverpool import. My mother never supported a football team, but my nan, on my mothers side, backed Liverpool all the way. My granddad, also maternal, supported Bolton Wanderers as it was his local team after jacking in the Merchant Navy to settle down with my nan... he was nearly killed in the Bolton stadium disaster – he said he felt the crowd swaying – it didn't feel safe so he got out to get a pie - right after that shit hit the fan and a load of Bolton fans where he was standing got crushed to death.
My colleague dhjackel, who is proper pig-tickling Irish, reckons that Liverpool/Irish are a bunch of gypo's and all the decent ones settled in Manchester... I'll take his word for it.
I have no religion... although my mother remarried a first generation Irish/Welsh Catholic after my father left - and he made minor efforts to introduce us to idolatry until my father got wind of it and had one of his rare moments of 'input' as to our upbringing... maybe it's harsh on my father as, to be fair, when he did put his foot down it was because he cared... and, when she knew she was right, my mother was a woman whose opinion was impossible to sway.
His, my step fathers, family never really liked us... well – his father to be precise... and his sister and many brothers (Mary, Jim, Amon, Paddy and John) towed the line to varying degrees... although they were alright (Jim once bought us Wrexham FC shirts for Christmas to make sure we were 'brought up right') - families are complex things. My mother picked up on it more than us and resented them, and him, on our behalf. He was a violent man by all accounts and beat his wife and kids until he was too ill to move from his armchair. I'll always remember their house with him in his chair next to the telly – it was full of pictures of the pope, plug-in glowing sacred heart Mary pictures and these crucifix things made out of what looked like dried grass... they also had a big scary black dog called Sam – but we got on just fine as I'd take him for walks and let him piss where he liked...
His brother John had a story about a football riot he was involved in - in which he saw an opposing fan take a kicking from some hooligans. As he crawled off to seek medical attention he swiped his bloodied scarf as a souvenir and put it in pocket... he also took his own scarf off and hid it as lone fans wearing the wrong colours were taking beatings left right and centre... this was back in the hey day of soccer hooliganism. He later got cornered by a group of angry opposition fans demanding to know which team he supported – he said he supported their team and when asked to prove it he remembered the scarf... but forgot which pocket it was in. The story goes that he closed his eyes, took a guess, and to his relief - pulled out the bloodied souvenir – the hooligans slapped him on the back, apologised for the inconvenience as 'they had to check these things' and let him go.
Jim joined the police and was involved in policing the miners strike in the 80's... he can confirm that they were instructed to wind up the miners and cause trouble. He said he saw officers burning money in front of men who couldn't afford to feed their families – also he suspected that some of the police presence there at the time were undercover heavies...
Amon dreamed of becoming a paramilitary – as a child he taught me how to tie a hangman's noose; I named my pet hedgehog after him.
My step father was excommunicated after he married my divorced mother against the pope's wishes... I can't believe that the pope gave it much thought – eventually, after many letters to the Vatican they came round... but – it was too late for him, in terms of his faith, by then.
My mother and my step father since drifted apart and he now lives in Spain – we haven't spoken as my mother told him not to contact us when he left – and since then she has died. My mother was a very strong woman, the type who always knew best and was absolutely annoyingly right 99% of the time. She raised us, furthered her education and held down a job, as a single parent, before she met my step father... she taught us from an early age to hate Margret Thatcher and all she stood for - I used to tease her that she was a 'hard line liberal'... she became a councillor, championed the arts and held the position as head mistress of an under-privileged infants school – which she turned around to be one of the best schools in the borough. She said I had my granddads Irish temper and his ability to fix anything mechanical... she dealt with a lot of children from all over the world in her school and they all had their own particular genetic and cultural heritage to carry... but she managed to get them all singing together nevertheless... they wouldn't dare do otherwise!
My father came from god knows where (the coastal town that they forgot to close down) and his father... I don't know either as he died when my dad was 16. I do know he was a wing commander in the air force and involved in the Freemasons – luckily for my dad he wasn't the eldest son so it was never passed on to us. My dad was a biker and, by all accounts, never made plans to live past 40 – after surviving unscathed from numerous bike accidents he grew up and joined the council as a public health inspector and never took a backhander in his life... he has many stories to tell about east end gangsters, cash laundering curry houses and once he played rat-cricket when he fumigated a nest out the back of a Jamaican Pattie house – the boys in the shop came out with cricket bats and it was game on to whack the fleeing rats with England Vs West Indies – the West Indies won with 17 rats to 12.
My dad remarried a woman from Wales and had two more kids... originally she lived very near from where my step father came from in Wrexham – although when he met her she was living in East Ham. It's strange how things work out... they both live in the Isle of Man now and he has reacquainted himself with his love of motorcycles and lovingly restores them instead of tuning them to destruction and riding them through chip-shop windows and hedges. He never had much to do with football, he was always a rugby man and followed the Welsh all his life – frequently going on tour with the boyos... there are many stories to tell there too.
His mother, my grandmother is the mystery... she kept her history from us all as a shameful guarded secret. The latest theory is that she was an orphan imported during the rise of Nazi Germany... a charity case - possibly the unwanted bastard child of a Slavic/Judeo tryst. We shall never really know as she buried it too deeply... but the traces are there to see in all our faces and we as her decedents carry the secret, whatever it is, as a part of our genetic heritage. She was a very talented tennis player in her youth and eventually remarried a rich South African (old money), who hated South Africa, apartheid, his family and moved out to go on cruises live in the Isle of Man with my paternal gran... he too was of Irish decent and his family were one of the founders of Trinity College Dublin. I remember at his funeral one of his more odious nephews proclaiming, in regards to our 'breeding': "there goes another mongrel!"... sparking that cunt out there and then was no more than he deserved – but might have put a downer on the day - or raised a chuckle from the grave.
He cut them all out of 'the inheritance' and left them only a silver tea set and some family portraits... which they could only claim after my grandmother's death. He knew how to wind them up! He also left a substantial charity trust fund to promote rugby in the townships, build pitches and buy kit – that sort of thing.
After my gran died my dad polished the tea set on the inside so if they did ever raise a drink to him from it – it would leave a bitter taste in their mouths... he would have liked that I think.
So call me white, call me English, call me soft, call me southern... I honestly don't give a fuck.
I am DogFace, one of life's windblown apple trees, cross pollinated and sprouting here in London through no choice of my own - and for the purposes of this blog, I am Arsenal.
