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]

Ronaldinho, Lionel Messi, Deco, Samuel Eto'o ... and Thierry Henry. I know who I'm playing with on FIFA 2008. It's not just that they're all good, but they all play so ... pretty. For the sake of my own television viewing ability, is there any way we can get them into the Premiership?

In other soccer action this weekend, the United States men's national team takes on Mexico tomorrow. On the line are the 2007 Gold Cup, an invitation to the 2009 Confederations Cup, and, I believe, Texas. It's an intense rivalry, the US vs. Mexico ... we sort of don't like them, and they hate us like we raped their sister.

For a seriously in-depth preview, visit That's On Point. They like our chances.

Au revoire, TH14 [That's On Point]
Goodbye Thierry, now let's move on. [Arseblog]
Tri, Tri again [That's On Point]

Because if the Bears had reacted to their Super Bowl loss the way the Czech Republic team reacted to their Euro 2008 qualifying loss, we'd have a sex boat-esque story on our hands.

Arsenal star Tomas Rosicky and five of his Czech Republic team-mates landed the whole squad a 25,000 fine from the Czech FA after spending a night in a hotel with six prostitutes. A female Czech journalist broke the story after she had visited the hotel room herself as an autograph hunter. Players 'drank and hugged prostitutes' while she spoke to Jan Polak at the room door.

Rosicky apologised for his actions at a press conference. He said: 'We have been correctly punished. We are very sorry.' However, he said he had a 'clear conscience' when asked about the presence of the prostitutes.

As well he should! All he did was drink and "hug" some prostitutes. Sometimes, after a devastating loss, all you need is a long, hot, sweaty, depraved hug. Particularly when your teammates are in the room; it's kind of like a collective cleansing.

Vice Captain Rosicky Earns 25,000 fine [SoccerNet]

Listen, I shaved my head. I got a tattoo on my neck. And I checked myself into rehab. And then out. And then back in. Oh, and I also took an umbrella and smashed Will Leitch's car window — but that was just for fun.

It's been a tough couple of weeks. What's a man to do when the team he loves more than life itself kicks him in the sack three times in 11 days? In my case, I drank. I drank in the morning. I drank in the afternoon. I drank until I could blot out the image of Arsenal being dumped from the Carling Cup, the FA Cup and the Champions League in approximately the amount of time it takes Fabregas, Baptista and Hleb to pull the trigger in front of goal. Last I checked, they weren't awarding style points for completing 17 one-touch passes inside the box. Maybe Arsenal's new motto could be: Where All The Pretty Passes Go To Die.

To which I say: Fuck the Beautiful Game, how about sticking the ball in the net once in a while? And I don't care if sound like Kornheiser, only with less hair. Thankfully, I still have my mustache, which is, of course, where all my strength derives from, so I blog on in the faint hope that I will be spared the ultimate indignity: Chelsea winning all the competitions that Arsenal has been knocked out of.

(more lunacy after the jump)

It just so happens that yesterday my loathing for The Special One and his overpaid vermin was put to the maximum test. Chelsea was playing Tottenham in the FA Cup quarterfinals, and no self-respecting Arsenal fan can root for Spurs without burning in Gooner hell. So I decided to appeal to a higher soccer authority, and I don't mean Sepp Blatter. "Please God, " I implored, "if Chelsea lose, I will never again shout 'Stand Up If You Hate The Scum' at an Arsenal-Spurs game."

But God, like Martin Jol, works in strange ways. For 70 minutes yesterday, He kept up his end of the deal. Chelsea were down 3-1, Drogba was limping, Essian was limping, and Mourinho was going all Matterazzi, shouting "son of a whore" at the ref. If ever there was an excuse to order a round for the Deadspin Drunkathlon regulars at Kinsale, this was it.

"Beers all around, " I said giddily to Caroline the bartender as Mid-table Mikey pumped his fist and sang "There's only one Dimitar Berbatov."

"Sorry, no can do," Caroline demurred, reminding us of the cruel New York State law that prohibits serving alcohol on Sunday til noon. "Besides there's still 20 minutes left." That's easy for Caroline to say. She's one of those smug ManU fans who know that no matter how crappy their beloved Reds may play this season, they can count on Lady Luck to pull out the game for them and blow the whole team afterwards. That — and the incandescent play of their Vogue model Christiano Ronaldo — is why they will be Prem champions despite Mourinho's pathetic bleating that there is still time for Chelsea to catch them. On the other hand, the Blues are still in the hunt for a trifecta of trophies — they've already won the Carling Cup and are in the last eight of the FA Cup and the Champions League — and Arsenal's season is over with two months remaining. Not that I'm bitter.

At any rate, with Berbatov's skill and Lennon's speed proving too much for Chelsea's Terry-less defense yesterday, what does Jol do? He takes off his two stars to rest them for Wednesday's UEFA Cup game and just like that, Tottenham becomes pedestrian in attack and jittery in defense. "Thank you Martin " says Deadspinner Steve Quattrocacchi, who, like his obvious idol Kevin Federline, has brought his six year old son Sam to the bar. Now I happen to like Q, but I can't say I'm sorry to see him to move to California next month. Having one less insufferable Chelsea fan in our midst can only make New York a better place. I mean, it's bad enough that Q has kitted out his son in that nauseating Chelsea blue; did he have to tattoo a 2006 Premiership Champions on his kid's ass?

When Lampard scrambled in his second goal to make it 3-2 , I turned to Mid-Table Mikey, who was finishing up the eggs he had all over his face, and said, "Cheer up, at least they're not singing anti-Semitic songs like the West Ham fans did last week."

"At this point," he replied, "if the ref would just blow his whistle to end the game, I won't care if the Spurs signed Hitler." Sure enough, the blitzkrieg continued, and in the 86th minute, Kalou lashed in the equalizer. To add insult to injury time, six-year-old Sam taunted 34-year-old Mid-Table Mikey with a spontaneous chant of " Chelsea rules, Tottenham drools."

As for me, I was pissed that Chelsea was still alive in the FA Cup, but the 3-3 draw meant I was off the hook with the Big Guy. In fact, I can't wait for Spurs-Arsenal on April 21 when I can once again bellow "Stand Up If You Hate The Scum."

• Manchester City 0-1 Wigan. City, meanwhile, continues to embarrass themselves every time they take the pitch. They haven't won a Premiership game since New Years Day, and apparently didn't feel motivated to do so today. They looked hungover today. Wigan moves ahead of them in the standings, and City's very much a candidate for relegation. They're fourth from the bottom, just six points clear of Charlton for the last spot.

• Arsenal 2-1 Reading. The good news for Arsenal is that they're just one point back of Liverpool in the standings now, with two games in hand. It's not a bad consolation after losing in the Carling Cup final, and then getting beaten in the FA Cup. Gilverto Silva (on a penalty) and Julio Baptista were your scorers.

• Portsmouth 0-1 Chelsea. There are still ten minutes or so left to play, but Chelsea leads on a 12-yard first-half strike from Didier Drogba.

It was a truly sickening moment, the kind that makes you avert your eyes from the screen and wish New York State laws didn't prohibit serving beer til noon on Sunday so you could at least cauterize the pain with alcohol.

I'm referring, of course, to the moment, during yesterday's Chelsea and Arsenal smackdown, when Cesc Fabregas was hit in the head by a flying wedge of celery. If you've never been beaned by a crisp stalk , I can tell you from experience — I was once on the losing end of an epic fraternity food fight — that it smarts. Maybe not as much as getting smashed in the face by the full force of Abou Diaby's boot, as John Terry learned yesterday, but enough to throw the young Spaniard off his rhythm — witness his weak-ass corner kick — and signal the end of Arsenal's dominance.

Now we know that in addition to being self-satisfied tarts, Chelsea fans are also a bunch of perverted vegans who rely on celery for their sexual potency . Or, as they so cleverly serenaded Fabregas while pelting him with leafy missiles in the 45th minute:

Celery, Celery,
If she don't come,
I'll tickle her bum,
With a lump of celery.

(more after the jump)

Up to that point, Chelsea's big, brutish first teamers had looked dazed and confused as Arsenal's fetuses (average age of midfield: 18) blew by them in a blur of one-touch passing and lightening movement off the ball. Who needed Henry, Rosicky and Gallas when you had Walcott, Diaby and Denilson playing with the nerveless insouciance of a pub team on a Sunday morning kickabout?

Walcott, in particular, seemed hellbent on using the Carling Cup stage to prove that he is not Aaron Lennon Lite. The most hyped teenager in English football has struggled to live up to the massive expectations of his inclusion in the World Cup squad, but yesterday, at least for the first half, he looked every bit the potential star Wenger promises he will be. Whooshing down the right flank, he ran onto a clever thru ball from Diaby and cooly placed it under the onrushing Cech to give Arsenal a 1-0 lead in the 11th minute. At that moment, it was entirely possible that Wenger had replaced Mourinho as the smuggest man on the planet. Hey, Jose, shove that up your Armani coat, s'il vous plait.

Oh, how easy it was to fantasize then — especially if you were in a Vicodin-induced fog like I was from recent knee surgery — that the baby Gunners, with Fabregas and Diaby bossing Lampard and Ballack in midfield and Terry laboring to keep up with Walcott and Alidiere, would be lifting the first of many trophies in their inexorable march to world domination. The problem was, Arsenal, for all their pace and skill, had no one to cope with Drogba.

Forget Christiano Ronaldo; there is no better player in the EPL this season than the Ivorian hit man, and once he got a half-step on his marker, the hulking Swiss defender Senderos, you knew he would equalize. It was his 27th goal in all competitions, and Chelsea would be Bolton without him. Realizing Arsenal's kiddie corps was not about to genuflect in front of all his glamorous millionaires even with the game deadlocked at 1-1, Mourinho brought on Robben after the break. It is one of the great mysteries of the soccer universe that the Special One persists in leaving the souped up Dutch attacker out of his starting lineup because the Blues roar to life whenever he's marauding down the flank. All of a sudden, the young Gunners were chasing the game and flailing around in defense. That led to the horrific sight of Diaby, trying desperately to clear a corner, accidentally mistaking Terry's face for the ball, as Captain Courageous stooped to head goalward.

I have never been in a bar in which you could hear a Irish sausage drop but that's how eerily silent it was at Kinsale when Terry was stretchered off unconscious in a neck brace and oxygen tent. The boisterous, packed crowd was equally divided between Chelsea and Arsenal fans, but in this scary moment, everyone froze, chastened by the memory of Cech's skull fracture earlier this season. It was only when it was announced that the Lazerus-like Terry had regained consciousness on the way to the ambulance that I thought "Wait a minute, isn't this the same John Terry who on Thursday had suffered an ankle injury that was going to keep him out for six weeks and here he is playing three DAYS later? Who's to say he won't be back for the last twenty minutes?"

Not that Chelsea needed him. They had Drogba, and in the 85th minute, he sent Chelsea into the lead and Senderos into therapy by outjumping the hapless defender to glance in Robben's perfectly weighted cross. Rattled first by the flying vegetables, then traumatized by thinking they had caused a grave injury to a great player, the young Gunners finally acted their age in the frantic closing minutes and lost both their cool and the game. The 14-player brawl in stoppage time, reminiscent of the Knicks-Nuggets melee, was simply a reflection of their frustration, and though it was Toure and Adebayour who were sent off, it was Fabregas who played the Nate Robinson role and had to be hauled away in a half-nelson to keep from going after Lampard.

Standing toe-to-toe with the England midfielder who he had undressed for much of the game, you could almost read his lips: "You won the game, you fat shit, but the future is ours"

"You fancy one, mate?" It was noon on Sunday, and I was on the tube to Arsenal station (how cool to root for a team with its own subway stop!) when the fetid breath of the bloke in the hooded Arsenal sweatshirt next to me wafted up into my face.

"One what?" I replied, not sure exactly what I was being offered. A knuckle sandwich? A hummer? A ticket to Jade Goody's address on racism before the House of Lords?

That's when he reached into his backpack and took out a ... six pack of Stella.

Did I miss something, or can you brazenly drink beer on subways all around the world except in our benighted little country? Or is it just on big game days?

At any rate, I accepted the gracious gift from my fellow Gooner and we clinked cans. "Here's to Arsenal," I toasted. "Fookin' ManU," my new friend added. "What a bunch of shite."

It was at that moment, as I brought the Stella to my lips and wallowed in the shared vitriol toward our most bitter rival — note I didn't say "hated", a designation I reserve for Mourinho's overpriced tarts — that I asked myself the question: Could life get any better?

You bet your Gooner ass it could. To be in Emirates Stadium when Henry headed the winner in the final minute of stoppage time was to witness an explosion of joy that even Dirk Diggler would have envied. The second the ball billowed the net, I was bearhugged by a large bald man, high-fived by a 13-year-old boy and kissed by a halfway decent-looking blonde whom I saved from certain death when, in her crazed exultation, she nearly did a triple gainer off the upper deck. Then came the ear-splitting chant that echoed around the stadium.

"Who are ya? Who are ya?," the fans taunted as United, which seven minutes earlier had the title by the balls, trudged off the pitch still atop the Prem but now looking warily over their shoulder at the three teams — Chelsea, Liverpool and You Know Who — perched below them. Yes, it's no fun anytime you do Chelsea a favor, but considering all the pain that has been inflicted on Mourinho lately, I didn't feel too bad that ManU's defeat kept them in the hunt. See, like the beer-proffering guy on the subway I believe that it's the small, unexpected gestures of generosity that make the world a better place.

(more after the jump)

Besides, who cares about the Special One's problems when I could take such fiendish delight in Sir Alex's discomfort. All that faux bonhomie Fergie spouted before the game about the deep respect he has for Wenger and Arsenal disappeared at the final whistle; he never broke stride or made eye contact when shaking the Frenchman's hand.

Even though the main antagonists who stoked the blood feud between these two football giants in recent years — Keane, Vieira, Van Nistelrooy — have moved on, make no mistake, this was no love-in at Emirates. The only differences between yesterday's match and the famous bustup in the tunnel at Old Trafford were: a) Arsenal won and b) Fergie ended up with egg, not pizza, on his puce-colored face.

Enmity aside, no two teams in the Premiership play more free-flowing, stylish, connect-the-dots soccer than ManU and Arsenal, and yet it took Rooney's goal — his first in eight matches — in the 53rd minute to bring the game to life. Up to that point, Arsenal was strangely subdued, with Henry alternately shrugging and whinging his way around the pitch. As if to remind him of his influence on the Gunners, the PA announcer welcomed the team back after halftime by bellowing, "Here come Thierry Henry's Arsenal!"

Monsieur Va Va Va Voom plays at his own regal pace, but after Rooney scored you sensed the old urgency returning. His clever dummy-jumping out of the way of Rosicky's killer cross-allowed Van Persie to sneak in at the far post and smash home the equalizer in the 83rd minute. Had the game ended then, I would happily have accepted the point and lifted several pints in honor of our gutty comeback. How sweet, though, that it didn't, and that Henry, unlike me, had a glorious last leap of faith in him.

That was one I most definitely fancied, mate.

I love how goalie Tim Howard just stands there, helpless, thinking to himself, "Well, if you're going to do that, I'm just screwed, aren't I?" I don't know why he was so surprised, though, it's not the first time Matt Taylor has done such a thing.

Also today, Chelsea salvaged a tie with Arsenal this morning, getting a 35-yard bomb from Michael Essien in the 84th minute. Chelsea's got a game in hand, but trails Manchester United by 8 points.

Matt Taylor - Holy fuck.... [Sports Frog]

• Chelsea 1-0 West Ham. Geremi scored from a free-kick 20 yards away for the only goal of this game; a goal that the Soccernet report describes as "delicious." I thought it was OK, but it lacked texture. The win for Chelsea keeps them just three points back of Manchester United at the top of the table.

• Arsenal 1-1 Newcastle. Hey, congratulations on that big tie, Newcastle. That pulls them just barely out of the relegation zone... at least for now. They're tied with Sheffield at 10 points, with Watford and Charlton below them with 9 and 8, respectively. Arsenal's still trying to get themselves back into the league race, but 9 points back of Chelsea and 12 back of Manchester United, these draws at home aren't going to do the trick.

English Premiership Scoreboard

• Arsenal 3-0 Watford. Arsenal is comfortably back to their ass-beating ways, stomping out Watford by a score of 3-0, marking the Gunners sixth straight win. Watford actually had their fair share of chances, but the only one they were able to put home was an own goal from Jordan Stewart. It was also the Premiership debut for young Theo Walcott, who looks like a really well-built 11-year-old. He slid into Robin van Persie's spot after his two-goal performance earlier in the week for England's under-21 team.

• Wigan 1-3 Manchester United. At different points throughout today, Manchester United was losing to Wigan, and then held a three-point lead over Chelsea at the top of the Premiership standings... both of them managed to change. Wigan led the entire first half on a fourth-minute goal from Leighton Baines, but United came out in the second half and treated Wigan like Wisconsin's currently treating Minnesota. Ryan Giggs, who hadn't played in a month, made all the difference. And Chelsea went on to beat Reading in the late game, so they're again knotted at the top of the standings.

Other scores:

Reading 0-1 Chelsea
Portsmouth 2-0 West Ham
Middlesbrough 2-1 Everton
Manchester City 0-0 Sheffield United
Liverpool 1-1 Blackburn

• Arsenal 1-1 Middlesbrough. Did Arsenal hire Isiah Thomas at some point in the off-season? They continue their run towards the lower middle of the table, getting a draw with Middlesbrough today. The Gunners trailed for the entire game, some of it even when Middlesbrough was playing with 10 men, and they need a Thierry Henry penalty kick to save a tie for them. It is now officially Arsenal's worst start to a Premiership season.

• Chelsea 2-1 Charlton. And speaking of worst-ever starts to Premiership seasons... Hello, Charlton. Chelsea pushed them around the field in a 2-1 victory that wasn't as close as the score would indicate. It was Ashley Cole's debut, as he started his Chelsea career as a sub. Drogba and Carvalho were your goal scorers, and Frankie Lampard missed a penalty kick in the 84th minute.

• As Mike Cardillo at That's On Point noted, it was a nice day for Americans in the English Premier League. Brian McBride and Carlos Bocanegra scored clutch goals for Fulham in their win over Newcastle. And goalkeeper Brad Friedel stopped not one, but two, penalty kicks for Blackburn against Sheffield. If this keeps up, I'll be really really excited right before we get our asses kicked in the World Cup.

Elsewhere...

Bolton 1-0 Watford
Newcastle 1-2 Fulham
Portsmouth 1-0 Wigan
Sheffield United 0-0 Blackburn
Manchester United 1-0 Tottenham

Why can't the Premiership be more like MLS? I know what you're thinking: All those vodkas with Vicodin chasers that I frantically slammed down to cauterize the pain of Arsenal's latest limp-dick performance has made me delusional. What's next? Suggesting that Scarlett Johansson get a breast reduction?

At any rate, seized by an insomniac bout of soccer delirium, I happened to stumble upon three MLS games on Saturday — three more games, I might add, than I watched ALL last season — and thought perhaps that I was having some sort of late 70's Cosmos flashback. The games were ... how shall I put this ... mildly diverting but, most important, they featured goals, goals and more goals. The Red Bulls put six in the net in the second half alone against a 10-man Real Salt Lake team, most notably a reverse spin snap shot from hat-trick hero Edson Buddle that was more highlight-reel worthy than anything I witnessed in six hours of weekend Prem watching.

And that's saying something because two of the guys (Chelsea's Drogba and Everton's Johnson) on the Fantasy Football League team — yes, that's how sick I am — I co-manage with New Republic editor Frank Foer scored smokin' goals for Missing Foerskins United. Energized by the Red Bulls six-pack, I then caught Chivas USA's 3-2 win over the Houston Dynamo, a match that featured an electrifying four one-touch pass buildup culminating in a cracker of a goal by Ante Rasov. Then, just before passing out on my newly embroidered Dennis Bergkamp pillow, I watched Landon Donovan, slowly shucking off his heinous World Cup, do his best Ronaldo vs. Ghana imitation by juking D.C. United goalie Troy Perkins to the ground and sliding the ball into the empty net to seal the Galaxy's 5-2 win.

That's 18 goals in three games, compared to the six goals scored in the four Prem matches (Everton-Spurs; Man City-Arsenal; Wigan-Reading; Chelsea-Blackburn). This is not to suggest that the level of skill, speed or physical commitment in the MLS will ever be confused with the pulse-quickening blood and thunder of the Premiership; it's just that, call me crazy, I derive more enjoyment from seeing a well-taken goal than a well-executed cheap shot, which is a nice way of saying that Fox, Sky TV and ESPN — oh, how gleeful Mike and Mike must be to have a fresh new soccer atrocity to replace the Zidane head-butt — can now stop showing Ben Thatcher's EMD (Elbow of Mass Destruction) from 17 different angles as if it was filmed at the Texas Book Depository. I think we all get the point: Thatcher, the ManCity defender and former Welsh international, is a thug whose hit parade of cheap shots would make Marco Matterazzi envious. Yes, and we'll take your word for it, that he's a lovely lad off the pitch and never intended to hurt Portsmouth's Pablo Mendes when he sprinted 20 yards with his elbow raised like a baby seal club to smash into the Spaniard's cranium as Mendes was ... trying to save the ball from going OVER the touchline. Imagine what Thatcher might have done to him if he had, God forbid, been in a scoring position. "What do you have to do to get a red, kill someone?" asked Portsmouth manager Harry Redknapp rhetorically after the referee Dermot Gallagher failed to send Thatcher off for his assault.

The fact that Mendes was unconscious for several minutes and had to be rushed to the hospital for neurological supervision was understandably distracting and might have contributed to both teams' goal-scoring futility in their 0-0 draw. But what excuse do Arsenal and Tottenham have other than that their strikers seem to have left their predatory instincts in Germany (Henry) or in beautiful down Sofia (Dimitar Berbatov) .The Spurs shelled out almost $20 million to add the Bulgarian assassin to their sharpshooting tandem of Robbie Keane and Jermaine Defoe, and so far, in three games, he has produced one measly goal, which is certainly not what Bill Simmons had in mind when he anointed the Spurs as the team to fill the 30 year soccer hole in his heart since his beloved New England Tea Men folded. I feel Simmons' pain, having wagered my daughter's college tuition on Henry tearing up the Prem again after the disappointment of the World Cup final. But Henry looks like a man who hasn't yet come to grips that he passed up playing for the premier club in the world (Barcelona) to remain top Gunner on a team that has lost its swagger, not to mention its ability to bury mid-table opponents like ManCity with contemptuous ease. Do you realize that if the season ended today, Arsenal, like Pluto, would be relegated to a dwarf planet?

It's enough to make a man contemplate what had once been unfathomable: checking to see who Edson Buddle plays next.

Watford 1-2 Manchester United. The Red Devils continue their hot start, downing Watford today behind a Ryan Giggs game winner in the 52nd minute. United is now 3-0. The good news for Watford, though, is that they can spend their off-days working at McDonalds in those uniforms.

Tottenham 0-2 Everton. Despite Kevin Kilbane's ejection at the 32-minute mark for compiling two yellow cards, Everton hung on to spank Spurs, 2-0. The loss leaves Tottenham with just three points in their first three games, despite opening against Bolton, Sheffield United, and Everton. I'm glad I didn't go with them as my preferred team, especially since...

Manchester City 1-0 Arsenal. CITY! (clap, clap) CITY! (clap, clap). A Joey Barton penalty kick in the 41st minute held up for City against Arsenal, giving them the huge upset victory that makes me damn near giddy. Arsenal doubled City up in both shots and shots on goal, but sometimes, a team like City can win a game on just pure awesomeness.

Elsewhere...

Liverpool 2-1 West Ham
Charlton 2-0 Bolton
Wigan 1-0 Reading

Arsenal 1-1 Aston Villa. Theo Walcott has had just about enough of your snickering. He didn't once see the pitch at the World Cup, but he made his presence felt today with Arsenal, coming on in the second half and completely changing the game. He set up Gilberto Silva for a point-salvaging goal in their first game at their new crib. Despite giving up the late goal, it's still a pretty nice result for Villa.

Sheffield United 1-1 Liverpool. Arsenal wasn't the only high-profile club to get a late equalizer, as Liverpool scored scored on a 70th minute penalty kick after a controversial call. The ref ruled that Steven Gerrard was fouled in the box by Sheffield's Chris Morgan, but to be honest with you, I didn't see a whole lot of contact; it looked more to me like Gerrard picked up some diving pointers from the Portuguese in the World Cup. Of course, Liverpool's coach said the guy deserved to be ejected as well as given a penalty.

Elsewhere...

Everton 2-1 Watford
Newcastle 2-1 Wigan
Portsmouth 3-0 Blackburn
West Ham 3-1 Charlton
Bolton 2-0 Tottenham

Theirry Henry has a lot of love to give. Said Thierry Henry of his decision to stay with Arsenal for the rest of his career, "Of course money has contributed to a certain lifestyle for us and one day that will stop, but there's love, there's emotion, real emotion, real love." Wow. That guy really likes his team. It feels like there should be some sort of love song written about Henry and Arsenal. I think an 80s power ballad would work well.

Ukranian guy can't decide where to live with his hot wife. Andriy Shevchenko is set to make a decision soon on whether or not he'll return to AC Milan, or join Chelsea's empire of evil. Shevchenko, by the way, is married to the lady pictured to your right. Her name's Kristen Pazik, she's an American model, and you don't really have to search very hard on the internet to see her hooters.

Halifax 2-3 Hereford. I'm going to be honest with you, I don't even know what the hell league this was in. Judging from the second picture down in the news article, though, not a whole lot of people were too into it. It was a Conference play-off final somewhere, though, and Halifax is your proud winner.

• Manchester City 3-1 Manchester United. They call this rivalry the "Manchester Derby," but all morning on Fox Soccer Channel, they were pronouncing it "darby," which planted the song "Wishing Well" by Terence Trent D'Arby firmly in my head for the rest of the day. The Blues won behind a goal by Trevor Sinclair on a sweet little spin move, and then Robbie Fowler put them away with a late goal.

And in other soccer news, earlier this week Will told you about Chelsea midfielder Joe Cole getting his ass whooped over a girl (that link isn't safe for work, but it is spectacular). Well, thanks to Sherm for passing along the following note from the popbitch newsletter:

The real story of Joe Cole's bust-up at a Page 3 girl's house? We hear he was shagging topless model Keely over the sink in her bathroom when her boyfriend walked in. And Joe didn't so much "flee" through a window as "was propelled" through it.

The bathroom sink? Strictly a class move. See, soccer can be awesome.

The long running feud between Chelsea and Arsenal managers Jose Mourinho and Arsene Wenger has dropped from childishness into farce with the revelation that Mourinho didn't shake Wenger's hand after the match between the two sides on Sunday because Arsenal and Wenger did not acknowledge his Christmas card.

Earlier in the year Wenger and Mourinho had a big public spat. Mourinho said, "I think he is one of these people who is a voyeur. He likes to watch other people. There are some guys who, when they are at home, have a big telescope to see what happens in other families. He speaks, speaks, speaks about Chelsea." Wenger was furious and threatened to sue; Mourinho said in return he had a 120-page dossier of news reports to back up his claims (which, as many pointed out, makes him a voyeur of sorts, too).

Wenger decided against legal action, the row diffused, but the bad feeling lingered on. Mourinho, for his part, decided to apologize for the "voyeur" comment in a Christmas card, and then learned that a member of the Arsenal staff checked to see if he had actually written it. "It is believed" he tried to shake Wenger's hand before the match, but was snubbed, and that's why he just walked off at the end.

The media's the winner in all this: They get to say, "Grow up!" while secretly loving the easy story inches they're getting. Now I've bothered to type it all out I realize exactly how petty it is. The voyeur stuff was pretty good for a while; Mourinho has been a breath of fresh air when it comes to post-match comments (he once denounced the opposition thus: "They did not come to play football. We have a saying in my home country of Portugal — the team brought the bus and parked it in front of the goal. That's what happened today."). But this is all so ... tawdry. I mean, handshakes? Christmas fucking cards? Come on.

Humbug [UK Mirror]

So it took us a couple days, we apologize, to understand the importance of the groin injury to Arsenal striker Thierry Henry. (Henry is not either of the people pictured, because those people are happy, and people with groin injuries most certainly are not.) The Sports Frog is much better about soccer than we are — for now — so we'll trust the Frog's judgment that there's "misery at Highbury." And then we'll get back to the books and start studying. Hey, wait, look, Streetball is on! Crap!

Henry Injury Gives Arsenal More Worry [UK Telegraph]
Misery At Highbury [Sports Frog]
Streetball [ESPN]