Rovers 2 Arsenal 1: Rough wins do shake the Arsene duds in May.

So, in the end, all he wanted was a quick fumble in the bushes. Arsene Wenger’s flattery of last week has been replaced with caddish disregard, and we are left to pick up the pieces of yet another shattered relationship. To think we almost fell for it, almost asked him to meet the parents, almost began to yearn for romantic strolls along the sun-kissed beaches of the French Riviera. We were complimented on a successful season, for playing ‘good football’, and for keeping the likes of Manchester United, Liverpool and Chelsea at bay. Yet this evening, after we brought him to our home and entertained him during the first date of a heady love affair, he revealed himself to be the treacherous heartbreaker we secretly knew he had been all along.

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.

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