OCCUPIED COUNTRY

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I must confess there's some hyperbole spouted about this affy's United v Arsenal match. 'Game of the season', 'Premiership decider' and even 'Game of the decade'. I bet Andy and Alan are on tenterhooks waiting for the kick off. Youngest the traitor has gone to Old Trafford with a realistic outlook on the outcome. As far as he's concerned win, lose or draw United are not the team they were and Ferguson is certainly not the manager he was.

When were we last allowed a glimpse of Fergie admitting he was wrong? But suddenly there he is trying to justify some of his weird signings (Bellion fer Christ's sake) by confessing he has been picking the wrong team. Hmmmmmm Djemba-Djemba? Kleberson? Miller? Ricardo? Howard? Etc etc. When he does buy quality (Rooney, Smith, Saha) e plays them all over the shop. Last week against Birmingham he played Saha and later Rooney on the left wing. By the latter stages of the match he was that desperate to score he had Van Nistelrooy, Rooney, Saha, Smith, Ronanldo and Scholes all on the pitch at the same time. An embarrassment of riches?

Wenger on the other hand - when he does dive into the transfer market - tends to snap up players with no previous reputation who then become integral parts of the Arsenal team. I can only point to his purchase of Francis Jeffers as a recent mistake.

Having said that I've got a feeling the 50 premier games unbeaten record won't be reached. I reckon United are going to defy the form books and pull something out of the pan. We'll see. I'm off to the pub to cheer on Arsenal and wind up the local armchair fans who've 'supported-the Reds-all-their-lives-and-have-the-replica-shirts-and-United-duvet-covers-to-prove-it'.

With a bit of luck City might get something from Newcastle as well.

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Dearest has proclaimed a need for something to talk to and stroke during the long winter evenings.

"You could always stroke me" I replied with a salacious undercurrent.

No dice. It was a precursor to the periodic 'I want a dog' debate that, in the past I have been able to win via references to dog shit on the carpet, walkies in the pissing down rain, odd smells, stolen food and embarrassing crotch incidents.

But this time she'd done some research and all my well-rehearsed arguments dissipated like mist from the morning sun. It's a well-trained guide dog for the blind she wants. One of those that doesn't quite make the grade when it comes to stopping their charges from walking in front of juggernauts, but are well able to control their bladders and bowels to the extent that you can tell them when and where they go for crap.

"Great", I said, "I'll tell it to do it in next door's garden - result!"

So the bottom line is: Dearest applied for one of these outcasts and has passed the stringent home visit/interview. We are on the list and the new arrival could turn up next week, next year or the next decade. We have to be 'matched' with our perfect companion you see.

So that'll be me taking it walkies in the pissing down rain then. Ah well.