New breed stray from Rocky road

I FULLY appreciate there can be no condoning Wayne Rooney’s outburst to the camera at Upton Park on Saturday because kids everywhere will doubtless end up imitating the angry little gurrier.

Nevertheless, I have to admit, what I wouldn’t give for just a soupçon of the same raging intensity from some of the Gunners.

More than likely it should be his manager apologising, as I can picture Ferguson, master manipulator, pulling his striker’s strings at half time, sending Rooney out after the break hell bent on sticking it to his detractors, thereby almost single-handedly salvaging United’s monopolisation of the table’s summit.

Considering it’s always felt such a fanciful proposition that a paper-thin Arsenal squad could bring home the Premiership bacon, it wasn’t so surprising to see the good ship Gooner holed below the waterline by Blackburn.

I had my feet up on the couch on Saturday morning, enjoying the coverage of the cricket World Cup final. In light of what transpired, I kind of wish I hadn’t bothered turning over to have my chain yanked, with hope springing eternal when the Hammers took a two-goal lead against Man Utd. But being all too familiar with their frailties — even the Irons fans would’ve bitten your hand off for a draw at that stage — what followed was inevitable.

After such a disappointing turn of events I half expected the game against Blackburn to be a point-dropping banana skin. But what really left me baffled was that we were once again the masters of our own misfortune and I must’ve been powered home by the steam venting through my lug holes, positively boiling over with Rooney-like indignation at Arsenal’s abject failure to throw the kitchen sink at Rovers. Ignoring the fact that we’ve stumbled our way through the season, we rocked up on Saturday nine wins away from this squad carving their names in Gooner hearts.

Saturday was also the 10th anniversary of Rocky Rocastle’s tragic departure from this mortal coil. Staring up at the banner hanging from Club Level to honour our heroic number seven, you couldn’t have wanted for a more stark reminder of the sort of match-winning personality that’s sorely missing in the current squad.

In comparison there is a complete lack of communication amongst our current squad and an absence of leadership. The not-so-golden silence is such that I’d even be grateful to have uber-lieutenant Lehmann out there barking orders from the back.

It’s scant solace to read in the programme that our new Club Level restaurants are up for some design awards when the money might’ve been better spent on preventing the implosion on the pitch.

If all else fails, at least I’ll be travelling north this weekend with the comfort of knowing that whatever transpires against the Tangerines, we intend to tarry for a few days to pleasure ourselves on Blackpool’s famous beach. Never mind the crowds at least I’ll be far from the maddening taunts of my Spurs mates.