Will these fluffy poodles we breed ever show their teeth?

WE bumped into Frank McLintock outside our turnstile at Wembley on Sunday and I was hoping this might be a good omen. I jokingly suggested to our double winning skipper that “I wouldn’t mind having you in the middle of the park this afternoon”.

Little did I realise how prophetic this would prove to be. Instead of a steely leader of McLintock’s calibre, we had the far too lightweight likes of Thomas Rosicky farting around at the Gunners’ fulcrum.

I don’t really want to point the finger at our Czech midfielder. After all, it’s not his fault he’s not Cesc Fabregas. But without Fabregas’ finesse and with Rosicky’s frustrating tendency to hit the deck at the slightest touch, he certainly wouldn’t be my first choice to play at the heart of this immature Arsenal side, when we are crying out for the sort of effusive stand-firm leader who’s capable of galvanising the young Gunners.

It was absolutely gut-wrenching to be the architects of our own downfall, only moments away from an additional 30 minutes of football, which might well have allowed the Arsenal to impose our superior technical abilities as Birmingham began to flag.

While we Gooners are whingeing about several silverware starved seasons, our cup positively overfloweth compared to most Brum fans, who hadn’t seen their side win a trophy in their entire lifetimes.

As a result, everything about Sunday seemed to reflect a “Big Four” club that was perhaps just slightly more blasé about playing for the least illustrious of four potential tin pots this season, against a more modest Midlands outfit, who were hell bent on making the most of their best and perhaps solitary opportunity to bring home the shiny bacon.

I’d felt quite optimistic when I’d opened the curtains that morning, to reveal the bright blue sky of a crisp autumn morning. I thought that having the sun on their backs might suit the Arsenal’s pass masters, but as the day deteriorated into a grey wet drizzle, it occurred to me that the Midlanders might feel more at home in such muddy weather.

From the Gooners living in close proximity who rolled up an hour before KO, to the Blues fans who’d spent all day getting tanked up in honour of their “up for Cup” occasion. From the raggedy-arse Gunners who bowled up in their regular tracksuits, to the besuited Blues, in outfits that were doubtless made for their big day out. From the sight of a forlorn Fabregas and Walcott, nursing their frailties on the bench, to the likes of Roger Johnson and Liam Ridgewell who hadn’t trained all week but who turned out in spite of their niggles.

Not that it makes me feel any better, but I suppose there’s a certain justice that with nothing else to play for (as surely McCleish’s “kick it to the big fella” football won’t succeed more than once?) Birmingham’s journeymen prevailed over the Gunners’ precocious talents, who potentially still have several paths to glory. Bob Wilson swears that bitter taste of defeat to Swindon in ‘69 was the making of his double-winning team. If the sense of disappointment of Wenger’s side is indeed as deeply felt as that of their fans, then we can but hope that the weekend’s events will be the motivation, starting tonight and over the coming weeks, to prove that they are made of similar mettle?