Apologists for The Dudley Dickhead have this week suggested that he has been treated appallingly by the new owners, but let no-one be under any illusion that he would have jumped ship as soon as a better offer came along. Presumably, it was only a matter of time before Real Madrid and Inter Milan triggered the most brutal bidding war of the modern football era, leaving him free to leave ‘The likes of Blackburn’ far behind him. Allardyce’s vast ego would have prevented him from remaining loyal in the face of an offer from a perceived ‘bigger club’, and his £1.5 million pay-off should keep him in KFC Buckets for at least a fortnight.

The only difficulty engendered by the sacking is the minor issue of who we should have as manager. Alarmingly, the chicken farmers appear to favour Steve Kean, the man that very few Rovers fans could have identified from a line-up of mediocre football coaches. That he has no managerial experience and was also part of Allardyce’s apparently unsuitable backroom staff seems to have been ignored. Talk of Maradona, whilst amusing for the rest of the football world, led to cold chills amongst the faithful, although not as much as reports from one bookmaker, who continue to offer an astonishing 34-1 for Paul Ince to reclaim the throne.

Unfortunately, yesterday’s game did little to offer hope to the frozen hoards who struggled through the ice and snow to watch a game devoid of any quality. The primary details were the scoreline and injuries to Roberts and Jones, the latter sounding more serious with every report. It’s too early to decide whether Steve Kean will produce the combination of decent play and solid results that were the hallmark of the Hughes era. Let’s hope that by the time his abilities are exposed as limited, we aren’t too far in the mire.

As for Big Sam, try not to shed too many tears. The reputation of our club has been diminished by his appalling approach to the game, not to mention his ludicrous delusions of grandeur. If you have a life that is so empty, so lonely, that you need to cherish the memory of a man who makes Bernard Manning seem like Vanessa Hudgens, then follow @thebig_sam on Twitter, and see him as others do. For the rest of us, there is light at the end of the tunnel, and not a moment too soon.

Further evidence is provided by a friend who chose, inexplicably, to live in South Bermondsey. He reported that upon enjoying a pint in a local watering hole he was fortunate enough to meet the chair of the Millwall Supporters Club. Noting with surprise that this position was occupied by a thirty-something female he attempted to engage in a discussion regarding gender roles in working class communities. Alarmingly, the woman responded by revealing a mouth completely devoid of dentition, and so, suffering flashbacks to sixth-form nightmares of Macbeth’s three witches, he was forced to fold his Guardian Media Supplement and run to the hills. With characters such as these representing, few clubs have managed to sustain a level of universal hatred as successfully as Millwall. Thanks to Sam Allardyce, Rovers are now beginning to challenge their position as everyone’s least favourite team.

Following the recent Fulham game, in which El-Hadji Diouf contributed to a route-one Rovers goal by pushing Mark Schwarzer to the floor, the media went into anti-Rovers overdrive. Callers to 6-0-6 were seething – how could such brazen cheating and long ball thuggery be justified they squawked? Luckily, Alan Green was on hand to enlighten a desperate nation. He blamed Allardyce for this negativity, proceeding to comment that he disliked ‘everything Blackburn Rovers stand for’. Having deconstructed the entire concept of ‘Blackburn Rovers’, he went further. Allardyce was ‘arrogant’ he proclaimed, revealing a combination of understated hypocrisy not seen since Stalin labelled Hitler as ‘tetchy’. The newspapers also put the boot in, variously describing the home side’s tactics as ‘lumpen’, ‘unimaginative’ and ‘horrible’. Thankfully, and in contrast to the Millwall fans, many Rovers fans are becoming hugely dissatisfied with Big Sam’s approach to the game and the negative effect it is having on the club’s image.

This was exemplified by the anguished female BRFC fan who phoned into The Alan Green Show reporting feelings of shame and embarrassment. After a Sunday morning spent in sackcloth and ashes, she decided to cheer herself up with a visit to Tesco. Unfortunately she soon saw a fellow shopper wearing a Rovers shirt and her emotions became overwhelming. “I just felt sorry for her Alan, I wanted to tell her that it’ll be ok, he won’t be in charge forever”. She continued to inform The Most Knowledgeable Football Journalist In BritainTM that she could no longer bear to watch this horror every Saturday, and that she wasn’t going to visit Ewood again until the tactics were revised or Allardyce was given the boot. As I sat listening at home, I wanted her to stand at the top of the fruit and veg aisle, loudspeaker in hand, urging the Sunday shoppers to begin the revolution right there and then. They could march on Ewood, armed with weapons fashioned from pineapples and the lids from sardine cans. The boardroom would be broken into, Allardyce would be hauled from office and executed in The Aqueduct car park, and we could install Simon Garner as military dictator.

So with the threat of revolution pending, did Pol Potterdyce adopt a new approach for yesterday’s game? No. Perhaps comforted by being the guest of a team with a similar ethos, he changed nothing. The ball spent long periods in the air, with Mame Diouf chasing lost causes until he could no longer be bothered, which was after about 5 minutes. Stoke scored though Walters after direct play and lackadaisical defending, and the game was lost. The Dictator immediately attacked his defenders, blaming them for the defeat, in the manner of a leader who realises that he no longer has the support of the army and his time in office has expired. All that remains now is for him to flee under cover of darkness to Madrid, and to live the rest of his days in exile within the safe haven of the People’s Republic of Bernabau. For an increasing number of Rovers fans, the coup cannot come quickly enough.

The problems began during the approach to the stadium, where Rovers fans were herded down a tight alleyway like a bunch of itinerant cattle soon to be slaughtered. The whole proceedings were reminiscent of the scene in The Football Factory where the away fans are ambushed behind a row of terraced houses. Thankfully, Danny Dyer wasn’t there to have a right proper tear up in a proper naughty manor, so things remained relatively calm. Once we had extricated ourselves from the ever-narrowing ginnel, and with only a few dead, we proceeded to Bloomfield Rd where the madness continued. The stewards were friendly enough and jovially advised us to sit where we liked, as it was unreserved seating. This was in direct contradiction to the ticket stubs, which clearly stated a row and seat number in the traditional fashion. Nonetheless, seats were taken at random, an acoustic guitar was strummed, and a fan went and placed a flower in the barrel of a policeman’s Tazer. This spirit of free love lasted until 1455, whereupon approximately 1,000 Rovers fans arrived tired and emotional and demanded to have access to their pre-determined seats. Sensing that Glastonbury was about to turn into Riotstock, the PA announcer desperately tried to restore calm by ordering everyone to abandon the unreserved seating policy and to go to their designated seats. The onlooking Blackpool fans were then treated the bizarre sight of 1,800 football fans playing musical chairs whilst drunk. Nikola Kalinic ran over to help but was flagged offside and so had to retreat. That he managed this before the game had even kicked off is testament to his natural ability to get himself in such positions. Morten Gamst Pedersen was sent over the top in his place but also had to abandon his mission, as a seagull had shit on his head again. Allardyce merely daydreamed of the San Siro.

Civil disobedience threatened to recur once again as rumours of cholera began to spread. Eventually, the police CS gassed everyone into quiet submission, and so the game could begin. Rovers scored first, in a way, as Adam inexplicably nodded past his own ‘keeper. I assumed he’d been watching the Jason Roberts Guide to Finishing, and couldn’t help himself. The Seasiders equalised five minutes from time as Givet didn’t attempt any form of defence, and shrugged Gallicly as Philips struck into the far corner. Against all odds, Emerton hit a weak shot into the far corner on 95 minutes to send the demoralised East Lancastrians into rapture. Unfortunately, many of their number had made their way down to the front of the concourse, sensing another bore-draw and the chance of a quick getaway. Bert’s thunderbolt triggered more congested chaos, and at one point a steward was forced to grab a youth in a headlock to prevent further disruption. This did little to calm matters, and a pitch invasion was only prevented by the quick thinking of a police constable, who opened fire on the crowd with light cannon.

So with the threat of terrorist attacks and bigoted pensioners at an all time high, it’s unsurprising that Blackpool has been shunned by our dear leaders and their security teams. Although the major cities have a dearth of ‘Kiss Me Quick’ hats and urine-soaked war memorials they do offer a safer environment for all concerned. After yesterday’s shenanigans it won’t be too great a loss if the Seasiders’ inevitable relegation prevents us from another visit next season. And at least Morten won’t have to spend all afternoon avoiding seagulls.

I feel it is necessary to issue this personal statement in response to press and internet reports over the last five days. Prior to Saturday’s match I was interviewed by a journalist who asked me if I had ‘found my level’ at Blackburn Wanderers FC. I admit that I was a little upset to be asked such a stupid question, but I’ve always enjoyed a good relationship with the press and so I humbly gave the following answer:

“I’m not suited to Bolton or Blackburn, I would be more suited to Internazionale or Real Madrid. It wouldn’t be a problem to me to go and manage those clubs because I would win the double or the league every time”.

Let me clarify my comments. Some people have interpreted them to mean that I think I am too good for the likes of Bolton and Blackburn. Clearly, this is not the case. There can be no doubt that my words demonstrate my long-term commitment to Blackburn, and emphasise my pride at having the opportunity to manage such a fantastic football club.

Secondly, some so-called ‘experts’ have suggested that my comment implies that I feel I am more suited to Internazionale or Real Madrid, and that it wouldn’t be a problem to me to go and manage those clubs because I would win the double or the league every time. I am unsure as to how the media could draw these conclusions. Patently, my thoughts only serve to highlight how desperate I am to stay at Blackburn and take them to the higher enchelonts of the Premier League and that my abilities are perfectly suited to this task. That my words have been twisted by the pundits to imply that my ego is so out of control that I believe I could win the championship in any country I work in for the rest of my life is a sad reflection on contemporary society.

With this in mind, I would like to put on record my sympathy for the Pakistan Cricket Board chairman Ijaz Butt. He too has been a victim of a media witch-hunt following a recent one-day international, when he said that:

“There is loud and clear talk in bookie circles that some English players were paid enormous amounts of money to lose. No wonder there was total collapse of the English side”.

Subsequent reports tried to trick cricket fans into believing that he felt that some English players were paid enormous amounts of money to lose, and that it was no wonder there was total collapse of the English side. When comments are taken out of context in this way, it is very unhelpful, and it has made him appear as if he is trying to deflect attention away from the allegations made against his players.

Similarly, when my comments are taken out of context in this way, it is very unhelpful, and they have made me appear as if I am trying to deflect attention away from the fact that my only managerial silverware is a Division Three championship medal from thirteen years ago and coming second in the Carling Cup Final. The allegation that I am doing this to hoodwink my way to the England job is obviously untrue.

I also want to reassure the Blackburn fans that they need not worry about me leaving the club. I can confirm to them that in the absence of any offer from a bigger club or England I will continue to be 110% committed to their club, and will continue to build a team who entertain with dazzling panache by kicking the ball longer, higher and harder than any other team in Premier League history. I will never resort to the kind of pacy, slick passing game relied upon by the less sophisticated teams, and am certain that last season’s wonderful achievements of coming tenth and beating Burnley twice can be repeated (apart from the Burnley bit).

I hope this statement has clarified my position. I hope that further comments I may make will not be taken out of context to allege that I am an egomaniac who is desperate to manage a better team than Blackburn like Internazionale, Real Madrid or England. This is definitely NOT the case as everyone now sees and believes.

Sam Allardycio Allardyce

Dear Señor Florentino Perez,

Bonjour and hasta la vista, I am sure that I need not introduce myself to you, given my international reputation as a football manager of the highest quality, but I shall nonetheless. I am Mr Sam Allardyce, currently manager of Blackburn Rovers FC in a pointless corner of the world known as East Lancashire. They used to have loads of cotton mills and that, but now they make money by selling fake crystal meth or stealing sheep. The weather is always terrible, and the staple Balti pies are made from recycled hot dogs and Bovril. Their only contributions to the cultural world are Jim Bowen’s casual racism and Diana Vickers. The football club somehow managed to become Premier League champions in 1995 but went on to appoint a series of managers who were much worse than me, and so they found themselves in the relegation zone in 2008. Luckily they realised that I was a football genius and so begged me to come and run the team. Since then I’ve saved them from relegation by signing a spitting, drink-driving wife-beater and a selection of centre forwards whose only attributes are that they are massive and don’t mind chasing inaccurate long balls from the defenders. Last season I led them to a triumphant top-ten finish, and they beat Burnley twice. Anyway, I’m sick of this horrible place and have been desperately looking for a way out since they told me that I can’t sign Kevin Davies. I note that you are currently languishing in second place in La Liga, and so I intend to save you from the perils of the useless and overrated Mourinho by offering my services as your new manager.

Let me begin by outlining the highlights from my glittering CV. After a distinguished playing career at the likes of Huddersfield Town, Limerick and Tampa Bay Rowdies, I was appointed manager of Notts County and led them to the Division 3 title after only one season in charge. Realising that I was too good for them, I went to Bolton Wanderers and earned ‘legendary’ status by coming second in the Carling Cup Final and once qualifying for the UEFA Cup. I felt that I wanted more job security and so moved to Newcastle United where I was unfairly dismissed because they wouldn’t let me sign Kevin Davies. I had won the hearts of the famous Geordie fans though, and they will always look back on my time there with fond memories, certain that I would have won the league with more quality signings such as David Rozehnal and Claudio Cacapa. I’m sure you’ll agree that this pedigree makes me unsuitable for such a lowly job as Blackburn Wanderers manager, and that my brand of direct football could save Reel Madrid from obscurity.

In England, I was the first manager to use sports psychologists and ProZone, which transformed Kevin Davies from a big lump of turgid DNA waste into the sophisticated striker of today. I also patented a cunning style of play which everyone says is brilliant. I don’t want to give too much away (I know that the pathetic ‘Special One’ will steal anyone’s tactics in his efforts to win trophies), and it’s hard to describe such an intricate, complex style of play in a few words, but it involves smashing the ball as long and as high as possible into the opposition’s box and hoping that my 6’7” centre half gets his head on it. In our match against Fulham on Saturday this worked particularly well, although I had to tell the wife-beater I signed to push their goalkeeper out of the way, as he was taller than most. Unfortunately, Fulham tried to play football on the floor and were passing and moving quickly. I wouldn’t call this approach ‘cheating’ as such, but it’s not really how the game should be played. All the journalists and pundits agreed that we don’t want to see this style of football in the Premier League and that their equaliser was ill-deserved. We were unlucky to come away with a draw, and it was the referee’s fault that we created nothing in the second half.

I’m sure that you are sick and tired of the likes of Mourinho, Capello, Hiddink and del Bosque continually touting themselves as top quality managers who’ve won championships and European Cups, and are keen to recruit someone who made the likes of Per Frandsen and Stelios Giannakopolous into world-class players of international fame. Everyone thinks that I should have got the England job, but whilst the FA continues to tolerate Capello I am free to take control of Real, and turn them into a successful team. I am happy to sign a ten-year contract for only £150,000 per week, and my only demand is that I must be allowed to sign Kevin Davies and El Hadji Diouf (we can sell Kaka and Ronaldo to fund the transfers – my son can handle all the paperwork). The poor quality of the balti pies in Lancashire has warped the minds of the Blackburn fans to the point where they would happily let Mourinho take over their team, rather than have the best manager in Europe (i.e me) in charge, so a swap deal would be the perfect solution for everyone.

I’m sure that you won’t want to let such a fantastic opportunity pass you by, and I hope my modesty doesn’t hide the fact that a lot of people say I’m the greatest manager of the modern era.

Yours sincerely,

Sam Allardycio

In contrast, the modern game has created a barrier between player and supporter, where the only opportunities to meet our heroes are at carefully managed post-match corporate events. Only fifteen years ago it was possible to drive down to Brockhall to watch the Champions of England at a midweek training session, and to fill the autograph book and photo album with souvenirs. Now, the security guards and fences suggest that the latest G6 conference is being held there, with Sam Allardyce offering advice to Barack Obama on how to drive through health care reform against a wave of Republican opposition. Perhaps with this in mind, Morten Gamst Pedersen has torn down these barriers by creating the astonishing document of banality that is www.gamsten.com.

It’s hard to know what to pluck out of this Pandora’s box of pointlessness, so I’ll let Stig Einvik (described as Morten’s childhood friend) kick things off by outline our hero’s early days in the ‘About’ section:

“Three times a week he purposefully mowed the lawn to make it look like the grass he had seen at the great football stadiums on TV. At times he slept in his boots, gloves and kneepads as if wanting to stay close to the game at all times.”

Armed with this disturbing information about the young Morten I clicked the ‘Blog’ link with apprehension, concerned that further horrors lay within. I wasn’t sure what to expect but it certainly wasn’t this:

“I and the “bride” went to the deli to invest in a little chewing gum. On the way back to the hotel it was all good and the sun was smiling at us. Nothing bad could happen, or could it?? Yes it could, SHIT happened! A damn bird had a shit and it hit me right in the head. Bullseye and good freaking luck. I even think it must have had diarrhea, because it sprayed over my whole t-shirt too. But shit happens and some say that it means good luck, but I’m not sure if I want luck from flying shit ..:) Anyway, now I have to run to my meeting with Roger!

Have a shit free and a nice day”.

Encouraged by this faeces-based anecdote and suppressing concerns for Roger, spelling and grammar, I plunged further into the abyss. Presumably Morten believes that the next thing his followers want to think about after the excretory products of Norwegian birds is eating, so he helpfully provides a recipe for ‘chicken bacon dish with fresh vegetables’, encouraging the chef to ‘then fry the meat, in this case chicken and bacon’. Further culinary advice is provided in the form of a ‘Salmon Dinner’ recipe, in which strenuous efforts are made to emphasise the importance of removing ‘all the bones with a pincer’. In case of any confusion, a photograph of MGP doing so is provided to avoid the illiterate or puzzled from choking to death. With the confidence of a full stomach I delved deeper, learning that not only is Morten an accomplished chef, but he also enjoys jogging in hills, having his haircut and firing bizarre racist insults towards Swedish people:

“The difference between us and Sweden is that we’re not allowed any drugs and the sweds are not allowed sweets”.

Clearly such aggressive language and right-wing political comment makes MGP a target for inter-Scadinavian terrorist organisations. However, let your concern for his safety be restrained. Any possibility that Scandinavia may be plunged into a savage and bloody war as a result of his assassination is removed by his record of a recent Norwegian international match:

“This is Geir Ellefsen. He is chief of security and master of the universe, and he makes sure the hotell is free of terrorists and that the icelandic volcanos keeps still during our visit.”

There is, naturally, an accompanying photograph of Geir, who looks more like a pastry chef than Skeletor’s nemesis. It also seems unlikely that he could prevent Al-Qaeda from achieving their oft-stated mission of kidnapping John Arne Riise, thus gaining the upper hand in their battle against the heathens of the free world. How he manages to do all this whilst preventing the tectonic shift of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge is anyone’s guess. None of this provides enough reassurance for Lucy however, who posts a comment thus:

“hello you might think this is a weird question to ask but are you scared of anything sorry if its a weird question”.

No response is provided by the auteur, presumably because nothing does, as long as Geir is around.

So what have we learnt? We now know that MGP eats food, plays football, has a computer, and once got shat on by a gastroenteritic gull. Perhaps we should congratulate him on his efforts to bring the fans into his world, but we should also hope that his blog doesn’t trigger a wave of similar bandwidth-sapping drivel from his colleagues, bringing the internet to its knees amidst a frenzy of choking salmon-feasters and Finnish suicide bombers. I’m not sure I want to know why Michel Salgado holidays in his dead grandmother’s attic, nor does my life feel empty by being oblivious to Pascal Chimbonda’s opinion on crisps. Perhaps things were better the way they were, with the masses held at bay, ignorant of the wisdom of their footballing heroes. As Ronnie Clayton once said: “Jeg føler meg syk”.

I got the impression that for Nathan, his day trip outside the reassuring confines of the M25 was akin to David Cameron’s recent trip to Helmand Province – get in quickly, have your photo taken, clap a bit and then get the hell out of there before the locals find out who you are. If you really must stick around for a few hours then, for God’s sake, travel round in groups and don’t drink the water. You can guarantee that Nathan’s hero, the artisan Wenger, feels similarly ill at ease as he heads to the wild country, Arsenal’s fragility against the preponderance of physical teams in the dirty north being well documented. It’s not too hard to imagine Le Professeur in his bunker, deep within the bowels of The Emirates, consulting the Foreign and Commonwealth Travel Advice website prior to embarking on his latest trip. The lights are dimmed, a half-smoked Gauloise sits smouldering in the ashtray, the smell of garlic and ripe camembert are inescapable, and Pat Rice writhes around the floor dressed as a Moulin Rouge can-can girl:

‘Zut alors Patrice! It says ‘ere zat zere is a dangerous level of long ball activity by numerous bodies of ze Ewood militia. Zere are regular and sporadic outbreaks of forty-yard throw-ins into ze box, and a high likelihood of Van Persie being injured again by ze rebel forces of ze General Allardycé. Sacre bleu!’

On this occasion, he needn’t have worried. Arsenal started at a pace, attacking quickly through Walcott and Fabregas. The Spanish reserve midfielder faded quickly however, his only remaining contribution to the game being a wry grin as the Blackburn Enders informed him that he was supposed to be in Spain. Conversely, Walcott looked dangerous throughout, and capitalised on some lax defending by Givet to fire past Robinson into the far corner of the goal. To their credit, Rovers fought back strongly and were soon level. Samba showed his comfort on the ball by threading a clever pass to Diouf (the spitting, horrible one) who showed a rare desire to take on the full back and crossed low for his namesake to tap into an empty net. It was a deserved equaliser, and it was pleasing to see Rovers score through incisive passing and instinctive movement rather than the usual aerobatics.

The second half started slowly, but badly for the blue and white halves. There was brief chaos in the home team’s box before the ball found Arshavin, who picked his spot through a shambles of desperate defenders. Arsenal’s possession football began to dominate as their opponents were forced to chase the game, and neither team looked like adding to their tally. Van Persie was tackled and so was forced to halt play until he was taken off, his legs being frightfully delicate. Nonetheless, the white flag was hoisted as Diouf (not the one who racially abuses Scouse ball boys) was substituted for Stephen Nzonzi and Samba was forced up front to frighten Vermaelen. Many Rovers fans had spent pre-season fretting that we had no strikers – now that horror was made reality as the game ended with Blackburn fielding 1 goalkeeper, 6 defenders and 4 midfielders (essentially 3, as Dunn appeared to be as fit as a butchered dog).

So hopefully Nathan and Arsene managed to make it back to London without being kidnapped by the River Darwen branch of the Somalian pirates. Maybe the early kick-off and subsequent victory gave them the time and confidence to explore the local area. I like to think of them enjoying some brass band marches at King George’s Hall, munching on tripe butties at the market, supping Thwaites at The Acqueduct, and ordering tailor-made flat caps and britches at Greenwood’s. I suspect that they failed to indulge in such treats though, preferring the skinny-lattes and tamarind-scented emporia of Islington to the offal-based cookhouses of East Lancs. As for me, I’ll just trundle ‘ome on’t push iron, in’t pouring rain, ready for another day at work’ouse come Monday. ‘Appen mam’ll get some butter pie on’t stove for’t tea and it’ll be reet’o. As for’t Gooners, just wait till they go’t Blackpool, them sandy grounders’ll see em home wi’ a thick ear. Tarra!

The hors d’oeurves were served by Robin van Persie, a simple header on 13 minutes, after casual defending from the Rovers’ back four. The date seemed to be going badly, with awkward silences and a display of inelegant table manners from the home team’s midfield. However, as the wine began to flow, David Dunn was presented with the main course on a plate, and couldn’t miss at the back post. The spark returned and the two lovers teased and flirted. Rovers began to attack with pace, and created space behind the two Arsenal centre-halves, spurning chances and being caught offside with the usual regularity. As the match neared its climax, Chris Samba rose highest to delicately flick a Pedersen corner into the goal. Ewood erupted, sensing that for the first time in years, we were about to go all the way with a top four team. Eyelashes were batted and the petting threatened to become heavy as Silvestre and Campbell were booked. Wolf whistles were delivered by the crowd and the referee reciprocated, Robinson removed his gloves and threw them into the crowd; thankfully Dunn remained fully clothed.

And so, to the post-match analysis. With the date having gone so well, we expected the compliments to be given once more. And yet, disaster! Just as we were about to make arrangements for a second rendez-vous, the sweet sonnets of last week were replaced with the lascivious limericks of the boys’ toilets. We had bullied and we had bruised the delicate wallflower Fabianski, and our ‘good football’ was now described as foul play. It was all too obvious – the Gallic flattery had been a ruse to cause blue and white halved knickers to be dropped, allowing him to have his sordid way and notch up three more points on his bedpost. Now that the seduction had failed, and he realised we were an altogether classier proposition, he left, refusing to answer our calls and cavorting with a variety of cheap tarts. In any case, I don’t think he’s Big Sam’s type.

In 2005 Arsenal won the FA Cup with a victory over Manchester United at the Millennium Stadium. As Patrick Vieira knocked in the winning penalty, few would have thought that it would be Arsene Wenger’s last triumph for five years. Despite his well-documented inability to observe pitch-based events, he had managed to overcome his short-sight to see his team win three championships and three FA Cups in nine years. Over the past five years he has continued to receive plaudits for creating a team that plays with flair and purpose, but has also been criticised for failing to fill the Emirates’ shiny new trophy cabinet. Gallic grumblings of relatively low budgets and serious injury problems have been delivered in his defence, but many Arsenal supporters continue to wonder whether any other ‘top four’ team would retain the services of a manager who has failed to deliver success for half a decade.

The current Premier League season has been a typical example of Arsenal’s strengths and weaknesses. At the turn of the year their title bid appeared to be in rude health, but disappointing results against their rivals, not to mention an FA Cup knockout by Stoke City, have resulted in a season that is now officially fizzled. Monday’s game will be played in an atmosphere of apathy, as both teams have little to play for. Rovers are aiming for a top half finish, but a season of stability has already been achieved, and thoughts are turning to the next campaign. Arsenal must also look to next year, hoping that stylish play will finally be rewarded with silverware.

So take heart, Gordon. Arsene has also seen his stock fall since the glory days of 2005, but his position as leader does not seem threatened. The electorate may remember the success of times past, and decide to reward you with a mandate for the future. And, now that we know that you’re almost blind, if it does all goes wrong on Thursday at least you can just shrug indifferently and say you didn’t see it.

Fast forward 216 years and history has repeated itself. The marauding Mediterranean maestro Arteta, believing himself unfairly treated by Admiral Pedersen, introduced his finger into the Norwegian’s right eye, potentially blinding the ineffective Norwegian. Colleagues on the Blackburn End were heard to suggest that the loss of 3D vision would not make much difference to MGP’s general play, given his pre-existing inability to pass to a teammate. Amidst this fierce battle a game of football was played. Everton looked strong, and deserved their 1-0 half-time lead, Arteta stroking home a penalty after the other Admiral Nelsen had carelessly tripped him with a trailing leg. Rovers began the second half full of bluster, and were rewarded in style. Stephen Nzonzi, displaying a rare instinct to get forward, received a pass from Dunn and unleashed a piledriving right foot shot into the far corner of Howard’s net. Yakubu was introduced and scored immediately after more lax defending from Nelsen, who looks as if he is dreaming of lifting the World Cup on the 11th July.

Equally improbable was Roberts’ equaliser, a thumping, 25 yard first-time volley on the turn which nestled in the bottom corner of the Everton goal. Roberts has consistently demonstrated a desire to miss the target from inches, so this blast had the Blackburn End rubbing their eyes in disbelief. Sadly, the rapturous celebrations, and slightly incongruous half-hearted pitch invasion, were in vain. Cahill, quiet for most of the match, found himself one yard out in front of an empty net with seconds to spare. Seconds later, we were treated to his dismally mediocre goal celebration and the game was up.

As I was trudging back to the car through the backstreets of Ewood, despatches came through reporting that Norwich City had been promoted back to the Championship. I thought of Nelson looking down, albeit with limited vision, celebrating their success with Hardy and planning away trips to Scunthorpe, Doncaster and Burnley. Maybe he would have been better supporting Calvi FC instead.