Questions remain after Wigan jaunt

AS WE headed north, amidst the drizzle of a miserable Easter Saturday morning, my suggestion from the back of the motor that the weather was likely to improve, was greeted with cynicism by my fellow Gooners up front. Wigan is a hop and a skip from Manchester and as we all know “it always rains in Manchester”.

However as I awoke from a snooze, to find we were motoring past Stoke’s Britannia Stadium, it was all bright sunshine. With my radio tuned to the coverage of the emotional scenes at Anfield’s early kick-off, it was as though the sun itself had doffed its hat, in remembrance of that fateful day.

Without the hyperbole that followed Hillsborough, we might’ve witnessed a more gradual, benign transformation, something along the lines of the Bundesliga, where standing terraces aren’t seen as exclusive domain of the devil’s spawn. The terraces were not responsible for all those deaths and some will argue it’s no less dangerous to force fans who insist on standing, into the cramped confines of certain all-seater stadia.

By contrast, we Gooners are fortunate to have a wonderful, purpose-built new ground. Yet those of us who were weaned at Highbury continue to grieve our recent loss, as our intimate place of worship has been replaced by an antiseptic glass and concrete cathedral.

Arriving in Wigan, I’m sure I wasn’t the only Gooner to smirk at the not-very-old, nor particularly permanent sign, welcoming us to “the home of Premiership Football”. Kieran Gibbs must’ve seen a sign welcoming him to the home of Rugby League, judging by the way in which he wrestled Valencia to the ground before half-time. Only the width of the woodwork and Wiley’s benevolence prevented us going in at the break with a two-goal deficit and down to 10 men, following as lackadaisical a first half as we’ve endured all season.

Perhaps Wigan weren’t expecting such a healthy Gooner turnout, but with programmes sold out and with queues so long for the local delicacies, there was little to distract me from wondering what on earth I was doing there. You know it’s been a poor performance when, after travelling that far, the more gluttonous of the Gooner clan are prepared to miss 15 minutes of the second half queuing for a pie!

But at such games I’m reminded of the diversity of the Gooner diaspora nowadays. As I came away from the JJB (or the DW as it will soon be known, a testament to the largesse of the Lactics egotistical chairman?), I overheard the 4-1 scoreline described as a decidedly flattering result for the Gunners, in broad Lancashire accents. It was only as I turned to concur with the yokels by way of consolation, that I was forced to choke on my “you” and turn it into a “we” as I realised I was surrounded by red and white.

If you’ve seen the highlights, you might think this was a positive performance, leading into a week which could make or break our season. But for those present there was plenty of cause for concern, as we were unsettled by a Wigan side all over us, like a rash, until they ran out of steam in the last half hour.

I had to marvel at the pundits who made Fabregas man of the match. He might have conjured up a couple of killer passes when we began to run riot, but he was out of sorts until then, growing increasingly petulant over Wigan’s close attentions. Strangely enough this game offered more questions than answers, as it was only when Wenger withdrew the worst of a lamentable five-man midfield (Denilson) and reverted to 4-4-2 we began to make hay in the Wigan sunshine.

Nevertheless, there were enough concerns about the “last man standing gets his kit on”, nature of our patched up defence, to know the 1-1 draw in Spain could prove fatal, should it result in a deluded attempt to grind out a 0-0 tonight.

Should we fail against Villarreal, I’m not sure it will be worth us bothering to turn up at Wembley three days later. But if we win, I fancy we’ll float on a tide of euphoria to the FA Cup Final.

There’s no middle ground at this crucial stage of the season.