You can’t put a price on spirit

FROM the sound of the Blues fans in the corner of Highbury on Saturday, the Beatles were way off the mark when they said ‘Money can’t buy me love’.

Abramovich’s couple of hundred million quid has bewitched the Kings Road crooners to the point where they are so full of Roman’s romeo spirit that they were after enquiring “Shall we buy a ground for you!”

The amazing Chelsea experiment has ensured an array of endless, albeit interesting conjecture. But perhaps the most moot point is exactly when will it dawn on Siberia’s wealthiest son that he cannot simply buy his way to the championship which his new team have struggled to achieve for nearly half a century.

Following an interminable international break, I was truly thrilled to be returning to Highbury for such a mouthwatering match.

Although my excitement was tempered with trepidation at the thought that Arsene’s undefeated run against the Blues must eventually end and, believe me when I tell you, that I would have gladly given up many of the victories against the Pensioners from the recent past to guarantee success on Saturday.

The three points might prove just as crucial as any others but there were far greater implications to the outcome of this match.

With Chelsea undefeated to date in domestic competition, it was down to the Arsenal to prove a point for the Premiership and everyone who values the principles of team spirit on which this great game was based.

Jack Walker might have similarly pursued a Premiership title for his beloved Blackburn on a scale which I imagine must have been modest by comparison to the Russian’s millions.

But he was British and had been spunking his money in vain for years, so no-one really blinked, I assume apart from his heirs, when they saw their inheritance squandered on the likes of Shearer.

Whereas there is something rather obscene about the Russian’s ostentatious arrival on the football scene. Sure I am jealous. I don’t think there’s a fan of any club who hasn’t dreamt of such a wealthy sugar-daddy fulfilling their wildest fantasies.

Abramovich’s arrival has provided an ironic contrast in an era of such severe austerity. Heaven only knows how many clubs would be going to the wall now after billions of pounds worth of injudicious ‘keeping up with the Jones’’ spending, if he’d bought Chelsea a few years ago.

However, if Chelsea’s unabated expenditure proves one thing, it is quite what a miracle Wenger and other Premiership managers like Bruce, Strachan and Souness have achieved on a shoestring by comparison.

No doubt, they are envious of Ranieri’s ability to purchase any player he pleases. Yet the Italian appears to be not the only person in the Chelsea camp who is not overly enamoured with their Russian revolution.

From the boorish Ken Bates, to their BNP bovver boys, I have always hated everything about Chelsea, but it’s difficult to dislike the endearing Ranieri who comes across as a charming man every time he’s on TV.

Most manager’s tell us that they are in their element when the whistle blows, when all the increasingly impinging nightmares of the periphery of their position evaporate and they can do the job they are paid for.

On Saturday, Ranieiri’s resistible force met the immovable object. Our inscrutable Arsene was as usual the epitome of equanimity, sitting stoically in his dugout seat, rarely jumping up to remonstrate about a dubious decision.

While Ranieri kept catching my eye as he appeared to patrol the perimeter of his permitted technical area in a highly agitated state for the entire ninety. It was exhausting just watching him mentally kick every ball and make every challenge.

It was Damien Duff who I expected to be their most dangerous threat down the flanks. I was dumbfounded, albeit delighted that Duff’s creative spark was completely cancelled out in the cramped conditions in the centre of the park. I just don’t understand paying £17 million for a world class winger, only to play him out of position.

Chelsea are brim full of talent evident in the quality of Crespo’s strike, which might maintain their challenge. Yet assorted wayward passes were evidence that they are still some way from having the understanding of a team. In this respect I am glad we’ve played them early in the season.

However, lost somewhere amidst all the ballyhoo about their keeper’s blunder, the sleaze pandering schlemiels of the press have patently failed to portray a one-sided second-half which confirms you can’t turn a collection of talented individuals into a team overnight.

Even another spending spree in the January sales won’t buy them the sort of ‘hearts of oak’ obduracy of a squad prepared to roll up their sleeves at the sight of a substitute like Kanu, who saved our bacon with a hat-trick against the Blues four years back.

At the end of the day, resentment of Chelsea’s fortunate circumstances will be the fuel that inspires each of their opponents to dig that bit deeper, ensuring their ultimate downfall. My own resentment to do my bit on Saturday had me hoarse before half-time.

There is a certain etiquette expected of away fans when seated in enemy territory. Yet at Highbury they are no less noisy than their regrettably reticent neighbours. However, I rejoice at the fact that we are all able to enjoy the spectacle without segregation, like civilised human beings.

Nevertheless, while it is expected that they will react to their team scoring a goal, it is impolite to be too exuberant.

I wouldn’t dream of dissing the home fans in most grounds around the country unless I had a death wish and it drives me potty on the odd occasion when someone takes advantage of the fact that they are surrounded by a passive ‘prawn sandwich’ brigade who aren’t about to stick one on them.

It wasn’t just me who thought the cavorting Blues fan celebrating Crespo’s strike right in front of us was somewhat OTT though Cudicini’s gift-wrapped winner wiped the smile off his face.