Lowest ebb in theatre of screams

STUCK in traffic on a depressingly dreary Friday, it was hard to believe it was only the day before that we’d been watching the Champions League draw, plotted up in the Venice sunshine, fantasising about further European glory.

I was thinking I’d have been better off staying in Italy. After Sunday’s shellacking, I really wish I had.

I must admit I was sorely tempted to stop indoors, rather than suffer more ignominy at Old Trafford. But after five fruitless years you feel obliged to keep going, for fear the Gunners might perform when least expected.