Draw helps Man U clinch third Premier League title in a row [SI]

Apparently, Kenyans take English soccer very seriously. Twenty-nine-year-old Suleiman Omondi was found hanging in his home in Nairobi, just hours after watching Arsenal's 3-1 defeat in the Champions League semis. Gunners manager Arsene Wenger called it one of the most disappointing nights of his career, but I guess Omondi took it a little more personally than that. Or he placed his bet with the wrong bookie.

He took some drinks and broke down in tears within the final minutes of the match," a fellow bar patron, who asked not to be named, told Reuters....

Bar attendants said they had to intervene after Omondi lunged at a man who suggested Arsenal would not recover from conceding two early goals. They also lost the first leg 1-0.

So from one sports fan to many others I say ... um ... don't do that.

Kenyan Arsenal fan hangs himself after Man Utd defeat [Reuters]
Kenyan Fan Commits Suicide After Arsenal's Champions League Defeat [Goal.com]

Other televised matches of interest...

EPL - West Brom vs. Manchester City in progress on Setanta

Serie A - Torino vs. Napoli in progress on FSC

La Liga - Mallorca vs. Sevilla at 11 am on GolTV

La Liga - Villarreal vs. Barcelona at 1 pm on GolTV
(We'll just call it the co-game of the day).

Serie A - AC Milan vs. Udinese at 2:30 on FSC

Ligue 1 - Monaco vs. Bordeaux at 2:55 on Setanta

Enjoy all of today's matches, and as always, follow along with the action in the comments.

The two best pieces of advice I ever got both came from the father of one of my best friends back in hight school. First, no matter how fucked up you get the night before, never miss class; second always under-promise and over-deliver. It's not quite Teen Wolf quality stuff, but the guy married money and never worked a day in his life, so how he had any insight into how the world really worked I haven't a clue. Still, I sailed through college (a couple of times) just by showing up and since then have worked to keep the bar low so that I rarely disappoint. It hasn't made me a billionaire or anything, but I've also never suffered the threat of physical violence for lying about my capabilities. So that's maybe a push.

It's also what has made Arsenal's shitty form of late so strangely liberating. Entering yesterday's match-up at Stamford Bridge, the Gunners were 1-3-1 in their last five league matches and failed even to score in the last two. Some bad off-season player-personnel decisions, a couple of key injuries, and a mentally unstable captain apparently are all it takes for the wheels to come completely off. On the upside, I was so emotionally disinterested that when Johan Djourou knocked in an own goal to put Chelsea up 1-0 at the 30 minute mark, it didn't really bother me. I had already mentally penciled in another Arsenal loss, so there was no possible downside to the outcome. Diminished expectations rule.

Then in a five minute span Robin Van Pirsie scored twice—and, yes, that first one was a complete gift as no part of his body (or shadow) was even close to being onside—as Arsenal went up 2-1 and went from maybe stealing a point to walking out with all three. And it fucked everything because now a win is possible and I'm no longer blissfully detached. How people with a heart condition watch the last 10 minutes of a soccer match is beyond me. If we really want to control health costs in America, all we have to do is figure out how to make old people really care about soccer.

Anyway, Arsenal held on and looked surprisingly competent doing it. If I were an optimist, I'd think the club had a stellar November. They beat United and Chelsea and qualified for the knock out stages of the Champions League. Of course that's conveniently forgetting the bad losses to Stoke, Villa, and Citeh. The truth is Arsenal caught a break by playing Chelsea. Lesser teams that come out to beat up Arsenal, find that, with the exception of Samir Nasri, they are kind of a bunch of pussies. Teams that come out to play futból find themselves with some work to do. And Phil Scolari, to his credit, came out to play football. It led to a scintillating first 45, but it also eventually led to the two Arsenal scores.

The other truth is that the win doesn't legitimately put Arsenal back in the title race. If Liverpool win today, the Gunners are again 10 points back and already have two more losses than they did all of last season. And there's a good reason they won't challenge for the title: they are not that good, at least not relative to the title contenders of the recent past. Sometimes explanations really are that obvious.

Arsenal used to run out Thierry Henry and Dennis Bergkamp. Now it's Adebayor and Robin Van Persie. Quality players, but not in the same league. Come on, Niklas Bendtner was Arsenal's late tactical sub Sunday. When your third best striker looks like a lesbian, you're not winning the Prem. I'm no metaphysician, but I'm pretty sure that's an immutable law of the universe. Now, I just have to convince myself that I really believe all of this so that I can have my lowered expectations back.

Teen Wolf - Memorable Quotes [imdb.com]
Arsenal Stun Chelsea {Reuturs UK]

Michael Bertin writes regularly about soccer for Deadspin.

There's only one person to blame for ruining Arsenal's 2-1 victory over United on Saturday: Wolfgang Puck. The catering arm of his food empire served the conference I was at last Thursday, the pains in my stomach a couple of hours after lunch blossomed into a wonderful case of full blown food poisoning sometime while I should have been asleep. I don't know if you've ever had serious food poisoning. I hadn't. I always thought it was just a euphemism for "pussy." No. Well into day three, I wanted someone to kill me just so I could get some sleep. I involuntarily tried to do it myself by not eating. Even water tasted funny. The one thing you need to survive, because you're body is dehydrating, and it tastes fucking weird. How is that possible? It's water. It's refreshing. So instead of being at a local, with my mouth under an open tap so I could make lifelong friends with complete strangers, I had the shakes, the chills—underrated band, by the way—the sweats, cycling fevers, a space heater, and, thankfully, a pretty good pirated stream of the match coming from Greece. I also had the run to the bathroom down to about seven steps. No Linda Cohn, no figs, just the exploding diarrhea.

That's where I was when Samir Nasri scored the Gunners' first goal in the 22nd minute. And that's where I was when Nasri scored his second goal in the 48th. For something that was going so well, this was kind of going shitty. I did get to see Rafael do the seemingly inevitable and turn the six fucking minutes of stoppage time—an amount that can only be described as Tratfordian—into a marathon of anxiety. I swear to God, I've worked off a large chunk of my stint in purgatory just having to watch the closing minutes of Arsenal matches this season; and I don't even believe in God. I did consider running to the toilet just to see if I could cause Nasri to score again, but hey, apparently I'm in this for the masochism.

After the final whistle, I did the only reasonable thing. I went and dry heaved. I don't know if it was from the tainted chicken or from the stress of watching Wenger again make time-wasting substitutions that were destined to backfire and almost did when Kolo Toure opted yet again not take the ball to the corner flag to kill some clock.

Happy as I was that Arsenal hung on, kind of bummed I was so sick. Not because I couldn't enjoy the match—and it was fucking excellent fútbol from both sides—but because I couldn't enjoy it with other people. Doesn't matter if it's with strangers at kick off—and I'll be the first to admit that a disproportionate number of American Arsenal fans have a "He was such a quiet neighbor" look about them—watching sports is a little like sex. It's a lot less satisfying when you do it alone.

For all the positives to take away as an Arsenal fan—shit, we beat United with Nicklas Bendtner as our only healthy striker—the best harbinger out of this might actually belong to United. In fact the Mancs should be ecstatic about the loss (and this little bit of tid is just for commenter Wandering Bear). This is only the third time under Fergie that United failed to pick up at least one victory in any of its trips to the other three of the so-called Big 4. The previous two times they failed, they won the league.

So, yeah, I'd still put money on it coming down to Chelsea and United for the EPL (suck it, Barclays), but at least a Champions League run seems a little more of a possibility. And I'd trade being club champions of England for being club champions of Europe. Who wouldn't? Save maybe a Tottenham fan, because, well, that option isn't ever available to them (how's the European NIT going, kids?). Hey, I'm still weak. Cheap shots are all I have the strength for.

But the irony wasn't lost on me that food poisoning was fucking up my enjoyment of Arsenal's biggest win since maybe the 2-0 victory at Milan last March. Revenge is a dish best served undercooked.

Arsenal Defeats Manchester United [International Herald Tribune]
Spurs Dealt Devastating Blow by Food Poisoning [Telegraph.co.uk]

Other televised matches of interest...

EPL - West Ham vs Everton at 10 am on Setanta

EPL - Sunderland vs. Portsmouth at 10 am on FSC

Bundesliga - Hamburger vs Borussia Dortmund at 11:30 on GolTV

EPL - Liverpool vs. West Brom at 12:30 on FSC

La Liga - Real Madrid vs Malaga at 2:00 pm on GolTV

Serie A - Bologna vs. Roma at 2:30 on FSC

La Liga - Barcelona vs Valladolid at 4:00 pm on GolTV

Enjoy the action and follow along in the comment section all day long.

Michael Bertin writes regularly about soccer for Deadspin

So I was Superman for Halloween. And, once in costume, I had this great idea, I would start flying from east to west really, really fast. That would reverse the spin of the Earth and time would start moving backwards. I'd go until Wednesday—right about the 86th minute of the Arsenal v. Tottenham match where Setanta showed Harry Redknapp sunk into his chair as he looked at the clock and the scoreboard and realized he'd just inherited the captaincy of the Andrea Doria—and warn Arsene Wenger of the collapse equally spectacular and improbable about to befall the Gunners. He'd make the necessary defensive adjustments, the natural order would be maintained and, most importantly, I wouldn't have had a good third of my soul permanently crushed (it's okay, wasn't using it anyway). There was just one tiny flaw with the plan.

Once at the Emirates, how was I going to get near enough to Wenger without security thinking I was a crazy person in Underoos shouting nonesense to a genius (or "genius") trying to methodically kill off the dying moments of an unblowable 4-2 89th minute lead?

Fuck me. I wasn't even Superman. I was Zero. And Zero can't go back in time. Zero can't do shit. I'd almost wished I were a Phillies fan on Wednesday if only so I could find out if it's possible to go from the absolute bottom of sports fandom to the peak in about eight hours time, or if those two things even out and leave you in some agreeable middle, like you're on Paxil.

As bad as Wednesday's collapse was, I couldn't tell you if Arsenal's Saturday loss to Stoke was worse because, well, I slept through it. First, uh, it was the morning after Halloween. Second, there was no need. Arsenal couldn't possibly drop more points to a team that earned promotion this season. Have I said, "Fuck me" yet? I'm going to go ahead and guess that it was indeed worse. At half Saturday, the Gunners had 72% of the possession and were still trailing because they couldn't defend a fucking throw in. At least Arsenal hung on to a point against Spurs.

It's not all bad. The Gunners are top of a table, just not the one you want to be leading (I wonder what the tie breaker with West Ham is). Also impressive is Wenger going from "maybe they can win the league" to "maybe he's no longer the right manager" in just one week. That's got to be some kind of a record.

Looking at the actual table it seems like order is already in place. After 11 matches the so-called Big 4 are sitting top four. But at some point, it's no longer "still early" and you know what your team is. Arsenal isn't competing for the title this year, they'll have to fight to hang on to a Champions League spot. The backline is shit and, until Saturday, they'd been captained by a crazy person. Probably knew that in August. Can't deny it anymore in November. And out of a possible 12 points to bottom-halfers and recently-promoted Tottenham, Fulham, Stoke, and Hull, the Gunners salvaged a single point. You can't do that and challenge for the league.

I'm pretty sure that was one of the points I was making last week and Liverpool fans got their panties in a wad (a couple of them anyway). Then the Reds went out lost to a side currently occupying a relegation spot and promptly fell out of first (but hey, midweek you lowered the bar for leaving it late until only the 73rd minute... Bwa ha ha, God, it's almost too easy). Yeah, there is still a long way to go. And Liverpool is only in second on goal difference but you don't get those points back, and with one exception Chelsea is cruising against the lesser sides and, with Ronaldo back healthy, United is methodically moving up the table.

At least I know what the future probably looks like. It's a three team race for the league. Not only is yours (that is, mine) not one of them, it'll take some doing just to live up to the "Thirdsenal" moniker earned in the current trophyless streak going on in North London. And even with a few other cups still there for the taking, without a serious righting—hey, the Stockholm, while scathed, didn't sink—and quick, it might be another season where Arsenal wins zero.

My Hero, Zero [YouTube]
Altidore Scores His First Goal for Villarreal[New York Times]

Michael Bertin writes regularly about soccer for Deadspin

Thanks to Jesus, I watched a total of about 35 minutes of soccer this weekend. Okay, it's partially my fault. I was traveling and just assumed Indiana had the modern amenities of the developed world. But the friend I was staying with didn't have Fox Soccer Channel in his cable package. That left me staring at a soccernet gamecast screen for minutes at a time Saturday morning. It's kind of like jacking it. Sure, it's a small relief to rescue the point, but for masturbation the vicarious stimulation comes from moving pictures of naked people having sex, which is infinitely more satisfying than waiting for a little pale blue dot to start blinking on your computer screen (which, mercifully, it did in the third minute of second-half stoppage time thanks to Cesc Fabregas). Maybe the shame you feel when you get caught doing it is all the two things really share.

For Sunday, I found a local Irish pub that had a Setanta sticker in the window and a sign claiming that they showed "Soccer, Rugby, and Hurling." Hurling? No shit. The Irish really had made drinking into a sport. Anyway, in hindsight I'm pretty sure the word "live" was nowhere on that sign.

You can't sell booze in Indiana on Sunday. This is largely for religious reasons, and it is absolutely fucking stupid. Actually to say it's generically religious and not specifically Christian is silly. The only other days you can't buy alcohol in Indiana are Christmas, Easter, and election day, which is surprising because A) if Jesus really had a problem with drinking, he would have turned wine into water and B) I didn't realize we let Hoosiers vote. But come Rosh Hashanah, you can buy all the Manischewitz wine you like. This might be the real reason rednecks hate Jews.

The primary upshots of some ridiculous laws to appease a guy who has been dead 2000 years is that Indiana sends piles of tax dollars into neighboring states once every seven days and I can't watch live fútbol. Yes, places with an on-site license (bars, restaurants, etc.) can sell alcohol, they just can't do it before 10:30. Even then I couldn't find anyone actually opening until 11:00. So, when I got to the previously-referenced Irish pub, they had just one TV in the place, I had to ask them to turn it to FSC, and it was already after half of the Liverpool v. Manchester City match.

The silver lining? It was about the most entertaining 35 minutes of soccer I've seen in a while. And that had less to do with Liverpool's improbable rally from an 0-2 halftime deficit at the (Middle) Eastlands than it did with the running commentary from the old guys siting at the end of the bar. They were able to decipher what the "Man" in Man City stood for, but after that, their grasp of the beautiful game was Buck Laughlin-esque. Examples:

Old Guy 1: "How did that guy know to let the ball go through?"
Old Guy 2: "They got voice commands they use."

Old Guy 1: "What happened to that guy?"
Old Guy 2: "If you accumulate so many red cards, you get kicked out of the game." (Technically not incorrect, it's just that you only have to accumulate all of one red card to get sent off.)

Old Guy 1: "They make substitutions on the fly, don't they?"
Old Guy 2: "Yeah, it's like hockey."

This last one was my favorite as it occurred maybe 2 minutes after a dead ball in which Liverpool had made two changes and City one.

Okay, it's unfair to bag solely on Indiana for their antiquated liquor laws. Most states lean toward the backwardly Puritanical when it comes to Sundays and booze. But in many of those places bars still open up early enough to accommodate soccer watchers. They serve them breakfast and bide time until the clocks say it's okay to open up the taps. The problem is, outside of the major metropolitan areas, there's just not a critical mass of demand to make it worthwhile financially. Similarly, I'm not making fun of two old people for being Midwest simpletons and not knowing much about the sport. It was that they didn't know much but spoke about the game as if they were experts that made them such entertaining jackasses.

As much as I'd like to, I can't really blame Jesus for the fact that, even with all of the strides the sport has made in this country—and ratings for the last World Cup, Euro, and Champions League final all exceeded expectations—as population density decreases, people in the US still literally don't know and don't care much about soccer.

Deadspin commenter tcw04 is taking us all to Vegas [Deadspin.com]
Arsenal Secure Late Point [Goal.com]
Goal of the weekend (skip to about the 3 minute mark) [YouTube.com]

Michael Bertin writes regularly about soccer for Deadspin.

A funny thing happened on the way to the San Siro. Actually, it wasn't funny at all, but with the Special One lining up his charges against the Boys from Brazil (Pato, Kaka, Ronaldinho), Milan v. Inter seemed the likely footy fodder for the week. Until 1:23 on Saturday when I got a text message that read: "And you're losing to something called Hull." It wasn't quite "I need to talk to you about my brother's cock picture" territory, but for simple improbability it was easily in the same area code.

First off, my buddy who sent the text watches about as much soccer as he watches gay porn, which is none. I'm guessing. I don't troll around his closets or his hard drives. How would he even know? Second, it's simply not possible for Arsenal to lose at home to a side that just won promotion to the EPL (suck it, Barclays) this season. Finally, I had flipped away from the game not seven minutes before to get up to speed on the early college football games. Arsenal had gone up 1-0 and were pounding the Tigers' box. A second was inevitable and Carolina v. Miami was getting watchable. Even with a backline that has been shakier at times than Michael J Fox after a weekend meth bender, there is no way the Gunners could have conceded two goals in that time. To Hull. At home. Shit, the last time Hull had beaten Arsenal (1915) the world didn't have pop-up toasters, traffic lights, or Communists.

Oops. Fuck. It was no fluke either. Almunia had no chance against Geovanni's strike from 30 (uniform notwithstanding that thing was awesome). And more shit defending on a set piece, a staple of the Gunners' San Andreas backline this season, meant a 2-1 loss and six points dropped between Hull and Fulham, two teams targeted for likely relegation before the season kicked.

On the positive side, there's no need to worry about a collapse in March. That's probably out of the way in September (Is this what it's like to be a Mets fan? God, who would choose this?). And I've probably placed out of Purgatory after watching the last 20 minutes of the match. That was maybe the biggest disaster I've ever seen that didn't star George Kennedy. Judging by his gestures, I'm pretty sure Arsene Wenger feels the same way. Let me translate his body language: "It's so beautiful, why doesn't it score?"

When Arsenal is clicking, the way they play, it really does look like art, like Coltrane and Miró on grass. But like art, it is also practically useless. Almost anyway. I suppose you could set fire to the Mona Lisa in a pinch if you needed a couple minutes of warmth. The fact is there is no correlation between aesthetics and goals. And that's the problem with being an Arsenal fan. You know that's true, but you still can't bring yourself to believe it. It's so pretty to look at—and it usually creates plenty of chances—it should produce more goals. It's doesn't but it should.

The manager thinks it too, which is why he often looks he's the oldest person yet to graduate from Special Ed. The worst part is that it works just enough to convince you that you're right to be delusional. Arsenal rolled out a squad of kids midweek (average age 19, oldest player 23) in a Carling Cup match against Sheffield United. They hung a six spot on them. It could have been 10.

Why wouldn't they do the same to Hull? How didn't they do the same to Hull? Arsenal could have been easily up 2-0 or better at the break. They weren't and they lost to a team managed by Eddie Izzard out of drag. And for the next 24 hours I felt like I had been kicked in the shin, nuts, face, and kidneys all at the same time (probably accentuated by the fact that almost every sports team I pull for lost this weekend... except USC, they can't lose enough) The sad fact is, though, that I'll be back next week, even though I was already plenty worried about going to Sunderland before Saturday's mini-catastrophe, and I'll still believe in Wenger because, well, because I'm a big pussy, which is why I work at Initech in the first place.

All the one touch passes through the midfield, all the movement into empty space your opponent didn't even know was there, all that beauty is effectively useless if you don't score. So, just a tip for the team when heading to the Stadium of Light next weekend: Somebody just fucking shoot the ball. Please.

Oh, and Milan beat Inter 1-0 on a first half header from Ronaldinho, which is only slightly more likely than Arsenal losing at home to Hull. Yet, both happened.

Arsene Wenger felt physically sick after watching Arsenal beaten by Hull [Telegraph.co.uk]
Milan 1-0 Inter [Goal.com]

David Hirshey Michael Bertin writes regularly for Deadspin about soccer.

Arsene Wenger would have made a good captain for the Titanic. That has less to do with any nautical skills that he may or may not have, than it does with hubris. This is an Arsenal side he has claimed in print has the ability to win the Prem this year. Then, in the second match of the campaign, Arsenal not only loses to a Fulham club that avoided relegation last season on goal difference alone, but looks bad doing it.

Here's how awful Arsenal's performance on Saturday was: It ruined this post. No really, it did.

I knew I had a busy weekend, and the slate of EPL games looked pretty chalk (oops). So I put together a few hundred words centered around England's fortunate mid-week draw against the Czech Republic and their impending World Cup qualification struggles. It had wit, geopolitics, subtle patriotism, and a Clash reference. It was pretty brilliant.

Just in case I don't get an excuse to break it out in the future, here's the gist: I don't fucking care. Really, why so much of the soccer discussion in this country is still focused on England's national team is beyond me. They aren't very good (Uruguay has more World Cups, folks) and, worse, they are boring. Plus, we stopped being their colonial toady a long time ago. Remember they were dicks about the taxation without representation scheme so we threw their tea into the water, then waited a couple of centuries before stealing the idea back as a revenue strategy for financing sports stadia.

Anyway, I couldn't reasonably take shots at Tottenham week 1—which, after the Sunderland loss (ha ha) clearly weren't cheap—then turn up today and not even address what happened at Fulham week 2. Okay, I could, but then I'd be a bigger dick than King George III only without the advantage of being dead so as to avoid all of this. No, it won't be all Arsenal every Monday but, like I said, I couldn't exactly hide from it this week.

So here goes: Arsenal were outplayed. It doesn't hurt to say it so much as hurt to have to acknowledge that they were somehow outplayed while maintaining about 70% of the possession. I don't even speak French and I could read Wenger's mind during those panicked second half sideline shots. "Merde."

They're thin at midfield. Everyone knows they're thin at midfield. It was pretty apparent after a subpar and nervous opening week win over West Brom they're thin at midfield. So what does Wenger do with two weeks left in the transfer window? Buy another midfielder? No, he starts Denilson, who proceeded to give away more balls than the Kick for Nick project (yeah, it's a clumsy analogy but I'm trying to be altruistic and, you know, grow as a person). For all of Wenger's talent-spotting abilities, he also manages to unearth the only Brazilians who suck at fútbol.

And it's not like there's a hedge here in that Fulham's victory is at least a victory for American soccer. Of the five Yanks on Fulham's squad last year, three are gone. Of the two remaining, one, Clint Dempsey, no longer starts, and the other, Eddie Johnson, has yet to make the game day roster. Clearly, if Roy Hodgson is allowed to continue managing at Craven Cottage, then the terrorists win.

So if week one was about tempering enthusiasm, after two weeks this much seems certain: there might be far fewer givens on the table this season. Something Aston Villa and Blackburn also learned on Saturday.

Thus far only Chelsea has gone out and won the matches on grass that they looked to win on paper. Unless Arsene buys someone substantial before the summer transfer window closes up this week—and that appears to be unlikely—he'll be rearranging the deck chairs until Fabregas (and Rosicky) gets healthy.

Okay, it might not be that bad, but Fulham? Really? Merde.

• Hull City FTW! Hull City made their debut in the top flight of English football in style with a 2-1 come from behind victory over a Fulham side that narrowly remained in the Premier League this season. It was a dream come true for the tiger striped supporters at KC Stadium who saw Caleb Folan come on in a tie game after the half to put the home side ahead for the historic win.

• What the hell, Spurs? By most indications Tottenham Hotspur appeared poised to reclaim a spot in the top eight of English football after last season's disappointments, yet they've gotten off to another unfortunate start. While it's just a single match in a long season, a road loss to Middlesbrough is obviously not Juande Ramos had envisioned. Berbatov remained on the bench while awaiting his seemingly eminent transfer, leaving Darren Bent and the newly acquired stud Giovani Dos Santos to start up front for the Spurs. Wheater scored the first goal for Boro before former Spur Mido delivered the dagger in the game's waning minutes. Huth scored in injury time to make things look a bit better, but the Boro got the three points with a 2-1 win.

• Ince's debut went well. The match of the day went down between Everton and their guests, the Blackburn Rovers led by new manager Paul Ince. The former star of Manchester United and Liverpool had to have liked what he saw from his club during their dramatic 3-2 victory. David Dunn started the scoring early before Mikel Arteta equalized for Everton before the end of the half. The Blues went ahead behind Yakubu's goal in the second half, only to watch Roque Santa Cruz answer back a minute later. Andre Ooijer played the role of hero with his 90th minute goal that ensured victory for Ince's Rovers.

• Ah, fuck! I was all ready to put this post to bed when Liverpool had to go and ruin a perfectly good draw. Fernando Torres put the Reds ahead in the game's final ten minutes after 80 minutes of scoreless football at Sunderland's Stadium of Light. Bollocks!

Go ahead, bow down. Heel before Manchester United like you would a certain overdressed German guy with a pointy hat who's playing to a sold out Yankee Stadium this week. They deserve it. They stand on the cusp of pulling off an astonishing double championship, and they have done it with style and panache. So why am I not ready to genuflect?

Because for all the beautiful soccer they play, they are an ugly club, and I'm not even talking about the pitbull mugs of Rooney and Tevez. My bitterness doesn't even stem from the fact that United administered last rites yesterday to Arsenal's trophy-less season in a game that will be enshrined in the ManU-Arsenal pantheon right up there with the 1999 classic that saw Ryan Giggs slalom through the entire Gunner defense in the 109th minute and then display more chest hair than Robin and Venus Williams combined.

No, what makes United so unloveable to me is their relentless gamesmanship. Of course, like the rest of the planet, I'm in awe of Ronaldo's wondrous gifts, but I want to drown him in his own hair gel when he starts performing his Harlem Globetrotter tricks in the middle of a breakaway. I am impressed by the tactical genius and shopping talents of Sir Alex, and yet I pray his head will explode every time he unleashes one of his purple-faced rants at a referee.

All of ManU's best and worst traits were on abundant display yesterday at Old Trafford, as they opened up a six-point lead at the top of the Premier League and dared Chelsea to catch them. Even though Arsenal's season had essentially been buried alive at Anfield earlier in the week, the Gunners were determined to make this more than just another validation of United's majesty. They began as they did against Liverpool with Fabregas and Hleb threading the needle into the tiniest of spaces, only for Arsenal to waste chance after chance. In fact, had Adebayour not turned into some kind of U-11 girl in front of goal and rolled candy-ass shots into the grateful arms of Van der Saar instead of powering them past him like, say, Fernando Torres would have done, Arsenal might have been up by two or three goals at the half.

"I think when Adebayour cut his hair," Dublin Dave said, "he also cut his dick off." Dublin Dave is the leader of the Kinsale Reds, and even before the match you could tell he was nervous by the way his United scarf was wrapped around his neck like a noose. "I'm not feeling good today," said the normally ebullient Irishman. "I had a dream last night that Ronaldo broke his leg."

You can hardly blame him for his dark premonition, given that defenders are now starting to go on record that Ronaldo risks being Eduardoed if he continues to humiliate them. Just last week, Roma's David Pizarro accused the Portuguese showpony of doing "spiteful things" after the United midfielder had taunted the defender by bamboozling him with his repertoire of step-overs and backheels rather than simply taking the ball past him on the run. Yesterday it was Justin Hoyte's turn to be tormented late in the game, and the Arsenal defender responded by clattering Ronaldo to the ground. In other words, the message opponents are sending to Ronaldo is that they can deal with him beating them on the dribble, but if you rub their faces in it by stopping and performing your look-at-me-aren't-I-simply-amazing antics, prepare to eat some turf.

Still, there are times when you have to admire Ronaldo's sheer audacity. Yesterday, he had basically been kept in check during the first half by the heroic efforts of Clichy and Eboue, who tracked him tirelessly whenever he switched flanks. But after Gallas was whistled for a hand ball (sad to say, it was a legitimate call ) in the box, Ronaldo stepped up to take the penalty kick. And then he stopped mid-runup. And then he blasted the ball high to Lehmann's right for his 38th goal of the season. But wait. A ManU player, fooled by Ronaldo's stutter-step approach, had run into the box before the kick was taken, and the goal was disallowed. Ha!

Except that only made Ronaldo more determined to prove why he's the best player in the world. Without missing a beat, he nervelessly stepped up again. And stopped again. And scored again, this time with an inch-perfect kick inside the right post. It is a toss-up as to who Lehmann would rather have knee-capped at that moment: Almunia, the man who kept him on the bench for most of the season until an injury yesterday afforded the German a rare start in goal, or Ronaldo who TWICE beat him with the same infuriating technique. Can you imagine Chad Johnson walking backwards into the endzone after juking a cornerback? Oh wait, you can.

Anyway, with Lehmann talking scheiss at Ronaldo, not to mention his defenders and the ref, Ferguson sensed Arsenal's implosion and went for the throat by bringing on Tevez and Anderson. How incredible is it that Tevez, who is one of the key members of the world's no.1 team, Argentina, isn't a regular starter for ManU? That is down to United's depth, which Ferguson brilliantly provided in the offseason, when he added ol' Scarface as well as Anderson, Nani and Hargreaves. By contrast, Wenger brought in Eduardo and a box of croissants.

So deep is United that Hargreaves, who starts for England, can barely get in a game at Old Trafford and lately has been in Ferguson's doghouse for turning up late to practice and team meetings. But given a chance to redeem himself yesterday, the Canadian-born midfielder showed all the guile and composure of his friend and countryman Steve Nash dishing a no-look behind the back pass in crunch time.

After a silly foul by Silva just outside the box, Ronaldo and Hargreaves stood equidistant from the ball. Surely, everyone in the stadium, including Lehmann, expected the Portuguese winger to take the free kick; he had scored some astonishing dead-ball goals this season. But it was Hargreaves who wrapped his foot around the ball like a certin Armani underwear model and sent it swerving over the wall (Damn you, Van Persie, for not jumping!) and into the lower left corner of the net.

Old Trafford erupted in song and Dublin Dave was kind enough to translate the lyrics .

"You hear that?" said Dublin Dave, now jumping up and down with his United brethren at Kinsale. "They're serenading you, Hirshey. 'you're gonna win fuck-all' 'you're gonna win fuck-all. ' "

True, we will win fuck-all, but at least we won't rub it in.

I blame myself. I fucked with my own mojo this week, and, in doing so, cursed Arsenal.

Sure, there are co-conspirators in the Gunners' epic collapse — Chris Douglas Roberts, Peter Frojdfeldt and a pub that shall remain nameless all come to mind — but mostly it's on me. Which is why I slouch before you today a broken man. Let me explain.

On Monday night I was one goddamn free throw away from winning $1,000 in my office NCAA pool and ready to spring for those Manolos that Leitch has had his eye on for months. (Ed. Note: Woo-hoo!) My delirium quickly turned to despair as CDR caused me to have CPR by clanging brick after brick in the final minutes of Memphis' epic collapse. In the end all that was left of my grand was the rubber band around the bankroll that I now plan to hang myself with.

At least I had the comfort of knowing that the pain of Memphis' clocktease would be eased the next day by Arsenal's triumphant passage into the semi-finals of the Champions League.

So seeing as this was the biggest game of Arsenal's season that had promised so much and delivered so little, what did I do to help the cause? I blew off the inebriated comfort of Kinsale for a pub closer to work, where I was told by my friend Bigus Dickus of Unprofessional Foul that the beers would flow as freely as Arsenal's attack. I should have realized right then that I was giving the finger to the Gods of Guinness and Footy.

"Your lot is going to score two goals," Bigus predicted, which, given that the last 132 games between Arsenal and Liverpool had ended in 1-1 draws, seemed hopeful. Then, chirping like the Norwich City dickus he is, he added "But you'll still lose on penalty kicks."

Close enough. Arsenal scored twice — the second goal resulting from an Maradona-esque 80-yard run by Walcott through four Liverpool defenders in the 83rd minute that had me high-fiving and hugging everyone in the pub — and it was a penalty kick that sealed the Gunners' sorry-ass fate. A penalty kick that could only have been called by a man named Peter Frojdfeldt, which my Swedish friends tell me translates into Blind Douchebag. Lest we forget, in Wednesday's first leg at the Emirates, Kuyt tugged Hleb backwards in the box and received only a wink from referee Pieter Vink, a fellow Dutchman.

Yesterday's call was, to my fair and balanced Gooner eye, nowhere near as egregious as last week's non-call. When Babel broke into the penalty area seconds after Wolcott's masterpiece, Toure was shoulder to shoulder with him and might have breathed on him, causing him to lose his balance. A bullshit foul with that much at stake.

Penalty or no, the truth is that a side that is on its way to the semifinals of the Champions League after 85 minutes and loses by two goals nine minutes later deserves to be eliminated. In other words, Arsenal are out of Europe, as well as excuses.

Arsene Wenger, which my French friends tell me translates to Cheap Douchebag, can rail all he wants about all those "dodgy refereeing decisions" that cost his team victory, but the fact remains that Arsenal wouldn't have been at the mercy of them had he opened his wallet. Yes, he's brilliant at spotting young raw talent and molding it in the Arsenal image, but at this level you also need depth and experience, which cost money.

Had Wenger not been so convinced of his own genius, maybe we wouldn't have ended up with a defense yesterday that consisted of Gael Clichy and The Three Statues. Say what you want about Senderos — and he's an ungainly Swiss twat who lost his mark on the first two goals — he's not the only one at fault. Gallas and Toure were routinely beaten for pace over the course of the Liverpool series and crapped their pants every time Torres ran at them. The Spaniard proved once again why, for my money, he's the most lethal finisher in the world when he swiveled around the ponderous Sendoros and lashed an unstoppable rocket into the top corner.

It should be noted that Wenger tried to woo Torres over the summer, but his counterpart Benitez was the one who was willing to pony up the shekels. Now, God willing, Torres will stick a fork in Chelsea in the next round, which I'll be watching at Kinsale, just so I don't fuck that up, too.

Believe me, I've learned my lesson. There I was yesterday, covering my eyes in shame as Gerrard lined up the penalty kick, when who should come skipping into the bar but Relegation Zone Mikey, which my American friends tell me roughly translates into Delusional Tottenham Douchebag.

As soon as the Gerrard's shot bulged the net, RZM launched into a taunting chant of "Your season's over, la la la la." Only not as clever as that.

As for me, at least I won five large (or as you know it, one whole
Lincoln) on Tennessee over Stamford.

What can I say? I drank the Haterade, going so far as to denounce a certain Israeli manager I call Average Grant as a disgrace to his religion for choosing Easter to rise from the dead. All I can say is: Would Sandy Koufax have played on such a holy day? Then I quaffed the bitter, screaming at a certain defender I call Cuntley Cole every time he touched the ball. "Even Eliot Spitzer didn't throw up on his whore, you whiny little bitch," I raged. I even made the ultimate sacrifice. I declined a free beer after Arsenal went up 1-0 so as not to jinx it.

But I am only one man— and a barely sober one, at that—-and nothing I did yesterday at Kinsale Tavern could alter the depressing reality: Arsenal are out of the title race. There, I said it. (Are you happy now, Unsilent? The case of He'Brew beer I owe you is on its way with nine other plagues to follow in a few weeks.)

I'm told by the Dalai Leitch that bitterness and regret are soul-destroying emotions, but how else am I supposed to feel after watching Arsenal's Bear Stearns-like collapse over the last three weeks? From five points clear at the top to six points behind United (engrave the fuckin trophy already, Fergie, but make sure there's room for Steve Bennett's name on it), and here's the truly painful part: Arsenal is now a point behind Chelsea, and I have to endure the endless taunts of the Gooner haters like Q calling me an "obscure jazz-loving, chef salad-eating, Montrachet-swilling metrosexual." This must be what's like to be a Duke fan.

Honestly, it was barely a few days ago when the British tabloids were calling for Uncle Avram to be re-circumsized after his lack of tactical acumen was cruelly exposed by Spurs in their 4-4 thriller. Hell, even as late as the second half of yesterday's game, Chelsea's classy fans were chanting "He doesn't have a clue" and serenading him with "Jose Mour—in—ho, Jose Mour-in-ho." It was precisely because of my abiding faith in Grant 's incompetence that I had wagered my Chelsea mates $100 that Arsenal would crucify the Blues on Sunday and stay within spitting distance of United.

So you can imagine my shock when Grant outcoached Arsene Wenger, of all people. There, I said it, even if Wenger wouldn't. "It was big setback for us," is as close to a mea culpa as we'll ever get from the imperious Frenchman. A big setback? How about the worst stretch in 10 years, Monsieur Merde-for-Brains? How about draw, draw, draw, draw, defeat? How about fielding a team that looked so spent and shorn of inspiration that it's a wonder we were ever in the game, let alone up 1-0 and on the brink of snapping Chelsea's 77-game, four-year undefeated streak at Stamford Bridge?

But then Didier Drogba, who had been missing almost as long as little Madeleine McCann, showed up on Easter Sunday with two pieces of wood and nailed us to the cross. Hammered us with two goals within nine minutes, and that was that. Of course, you could ask why Gallas and Toure gave Drogba so much room that he could take the ball down in the box, wave to his future Barcelona employers in the stands and lash the ball past Almunia.

I suppose you could forgive the Arsenal centerbacks for ignoring the Ivorian hit man, given that he hasn't been the ruthless scoring machine under Grant that he had been with Mourinho in charge. That is, until yesterday, when he went positively medieval on the Gunners.

Still, if I'm going to bow down before other teams' Gods, I must pay respect to the real Messiah. Christiano Ronaldo scored his 34th goal of the season with a thumping header to crush the life out of Liverpool, which had defended bravely with 10 men after Bennett had sent off Javier Mascherano in the 43rd minute for his Cuntley Cole impersonation. Hellbent on imposing his authority on what figured to be a fractious match between two teams that don't like each other, the whistle-happy ref had booked the Argentine hard man for a late tackle in the tenth minute that hardly looked deserving of a yellow card. When Bennett made yet another dubious call, booking Fernando Torres for dissent after the Spanish striker had been scythed down, Mascherano sprinted 20 yards to express his displeasure to Bennett.

A more forgiving man might have ignored the meltdown, but after Cole dissed a referee earlier in the week in Chelsea's game with Spurs, Bennett felt he had no choice but to send Mascherano off. He left the pitch about as gracefully as Bobby Knight would have.

This is not to say that the result would have been different had Mascherano stayed on the field for 90 minutes. The Reds were already down 1-0 on a gift-wrapped goal that saw their keeper Pepe Reina look even less sure of himself than Anderson Cooper did trying to stop a Beckham free kick on "60 Minutes." Sitting next to me at Kinsale, my friend Lingering Bursitis let out a mournful cry.
"I've had better Sundays," said the long-suffering Scouser. Then Dublin Dave, who led Kinsale's ManU contingent in bellowing "Champ-iones" throughout the game, came over to LB and offered his smug condolences. "It could be worse," he said, gleefully handing him his new I-phone which displayed a headline from the always reliable British tabloid News of the World.

"Prem manager caught in bondage porn video," it screamed. The Spitzeresque story turned out to be about Derby manager Paul Jewell and a woman who wasn't his wife. Based on the photos I saw, he was doing to her what Chelsea did to Arsenal.

The Red Devils won the other monster match of the day between the big four by a score of 3-0. Liverpool is blowing opportunities all over the place blew an opportunity to lock up the fourth spot. Instead, Everton remains a threat to their hopes for European competition.

ON TO BASKETBALL!

Well, that settles it then. Arsenal' s wonder season is over, lost in the Oceanic 815 wreckage of its two colossal Cup defeats , first to Tottenham and now to Manchester United. There is nothing to live for and the only thing left to do is to off oneself, like, say, Owen Wilson. This way, if you survive, there's always that chance Sir Alex will invite you to United's victory orgy at Ronaldo's place

At least that's what you would have thought had you walked into Kinsale Tavern after Saturday's 4-0 Gooner humiliation. Everywhere you looked, there were ManU fans clinking their pints, singing their stupid songs and waving a fistful of $20s in the air (at last count Dubliner Dave had won $120, which covered nearly half his bar tab). But what was odd was that they were joined in their delirium by people who normally steal their hubcaps rather than cheer for them. Yes, so many Liverpool supporters were whooping it up with their hated Manchester rivals, there was barely enough space on Arsenal's grave for the Tottenham scum to dance their pathetic Carling Cup jig. Ah, nothing like a good Arsenal dickstomping to unite the world. Maybe the Shiites and Sunnis would like to join in.

Of course, only 90 minutes earlier those two-faced Scousers were on their own suicide watch, after losing to Plucky Little Barnsley at the death. Lingering Bursitis and his mates were so desperate to take their minds off their own sorry-ass debacle that they took comfort in standing shoulder to shoulder with the United mob and bellowing "Same Old Arsenal. Always Cheating" when Adebayour dove comically in the box.

You couldn't really begrudge the United fans their giddiness. They had not only ass-raped their fiercest rivals in the FA Cup 4-0, they had trussed us up and put a ballgag in our mouth. (Forgive me, I've been reading the New York Post a little too much lately.) I mean, what could better than that? Uh, winning the league, perhaps.

Let's try to keep some perspective here, people. Arsenal sucked balls on Saturday, but last I
looked — which is roughly every thirty seconds — we're still five points clear at the top of the Prem and hosting Milan on Wednesday in the Champions League. Think of it like losing the ACC Tournament but ending up in the Final Four. That was the spin I was using with my Arsenal wingman Raj when things started to get ugly Saturday.

Raj is the former college linebacker who still looks like he could turn a bar into a parking lot at the slightest provocation. "This is the same shit we went through after the Spurs game," I reminded him, "and we didn't exactly fall apart, did we?" Unless, of course, your definition of falling apart is to win four straight games over respectable (OK, two wins were against Newscastle) Prem teams to vault over ManU into first place.

Raj was not assuaged. "I feel like hitting some motherfucker," he said, looking balefully in the direction of Relegation Zone Mikey singing "Arsene Wenger Is a Pedophile."

"Have another beer," I said, forgetting that it was barely 12:20 and he was on his fourth. "All this proves is that ManU's B team is better than our B team and that Wenger is saving our studs for Wednesday's Champions League match against Milan."

This is probably a good time to point out that Arsenal were missing a few key players Saturday — Clichy and Sagna on the flanks, Flamini in front of the back four, Adebayour spearheading the attack and Fabregas pulling the strings at midfield. Yes, I know that ManU was without Ronaldo, Tevez and Giggs, but United is so deep that they can throw on that little porn star Nani and the Scottish kipper Fletcher without losing their mojo. Arsenal, on the other hand, suffers a catastrophic drop-off when Wenger is forced to start his fetuses like Hoyte and Traore in defense. Nani turned Hoyte inside out more times than he did those hookers at Ronaldo's hot tub romp, and I never thought I'd live to see the day where the announcer in an Arsenal game utters the words "Darren Fletcher's on a hat trick."

Still, even with the weakened lineup — actually it turns out Fabregas did play according to the team sheet — and a waterlogged bog of a pitch, there are no excuses for Arsenal's limp-dick performance. Not that Wenger didn't do his best to find them amid the smoldering ruins of another Cup fiasco. Ever the gracious loser, the Frenchman went on and on about the field being a "disgrace," but how about Eboue's attempt to implant his foot into Evra's stomach. What would you call that, Monsieur? The ref called it a red card, reducing Arsenal to 10 men early in the second half. Had he seen Gallas poleax Nani minutes later, the Gunners would have finished with nine players on the field.

Not that it would have mattered. They were outshot 13-1, outcornered 7-0 and outthought for 90 minutes. Indeed, if Rooney had been at his predatory best instead of only scoring one of a half dozen gilt-edged chances, United might have hit double figures.

Did I mention we were five points clear at the top?

While the rest of the world was mourning Heath Ledger, the people in my shallow universe (almost all six of them) were offering their condolences for that other great loss yesterday. I speak, of course, of the 5-1 drubbing Arsenal's U-11 team took at the feet of their perennial butt boys, Spurs. Friends from all over the world (in other words London and Israel) wrote to commiserate about Arsenal being knocked out of the Carling Cup. How important is the Carling Cup, you ask? Let's get real for a second. It's not exactly the Nextel Cup or even the Stanley Cup. As far as I'm concerned, it's right above the Sippy Cup, which is probably why Arsene Wenger fielded his Diaper Dandys with a few senior players to babysit them.

After all, the Carling Cup is, at best, a fourth priority for Arsenal, behind the Prem, the FA Cup and the European Cup, none of which Spurs have to worry about. But let's give Spurs their due. They completely outplayed us and showed their true class by throwing crap at Fabregas (who certainly played like it!) and chanting "Arsene Wenger is a Pedophile".

Which brings me to the boys at Unprofessional Foul, who have shown their astonishing photoshop skills by making the debonair pedophile himself look like a certain mustachioed Jewish soccer pundit. No doubt, they had Shep Messing in mind. To them and to the rest of you Schadenfreudeans, enjoy your first meaningless victory in nine years.

The Stockpile Of Weapons 'n Ammo's most recent match was their first loss of the season, albeit in the Champions League and not the Premiership, at the hands of Sevilla. So you know Arsenal's gonna play all determined and pissed off today against Aston Villa, who will play determined and will likely piss before the game, so they don't have to pull a Bill Walker during a corner kick.

Kickoff for this game isn't until 12:15 EST, I believe (there are about three different times published out there, not including Wikipedia, who reports the start time is your mom), but I'm still tucking the soccer post all the way at the bottom because some of you scalawags just relish waking up on Saturdays and talking up a storm about that footie.

Aston Villa - Arsenal [Goal.com]

It should be a fantastic game, even if they both don't have flawless records. Comparatively, I can only speculate how hyped the Patriots-Colts game would be if one of the teams had a single loss. Preliminary abacus movements calculate that it would probably de-Peter-Kingify by 40 percent.

But Man U. and ... [pause, looks up abbreviation for the other team] A-Nal comprise a historically stronger rival than New England and Indianapolis. Wikipedia said so. And the two don't play again in league play until April 12, but by then we'll be within four years of Darren Daulton's doomsday prediction, so by then our mind will likely concern more important affairs.

So I don't know how you soccer fans here in the States can wake up at 8 a.m. on a Saturday and get jazzed up for a soccer game, let alone any game. But I know ya do. And if you need a prediction, I'll go with Manchester United 2-0, for the sole reason that they've had a longer break between games. I can sense many of you Rockies fans nodding in agreement.

Just kidding. I can't sense a thing — I'm asleep right now.

As Good As It Gets [Sky Sports]