Last week, it was all about the general rot that is Emmanuel Eboue. Here's the recap: snot bubble, proud face of Arsenal, wish he were dead.

 

Then we went to Bolton, and I had to take a deep breath after watching what the side looked like without him. With Sagna injured and Toure slotted over, AW apparently decided that now would be a great time to rest Eboue and start Hleb on the right. And fucking Diaby and his one-footed show on the left. And we looked a bit rubbish without Eboue, didn't we? And we looked a hell of a lot more rubbish when fucking Diaby and his one-footed show committed a Taylor-esque horror tackle resulting in a well-deserved red card.

 

So, you figure this means that I'm going to extol Eboue and rip into Diaby? Nope. I still want Eboue gone, but a week without him reminds us why Wenger loves him so much. He CAN cross, the miserable fucker. He adds some steel down the right that was missing every time Hleb overlapped into the middle. He does have awareness of how the ref is calling the match, and defensively he is pretty friggin' solid.

 

So I'm a little more clear-headed about Eboue. And I also realize that whether we like it or not, he's probably not going anywhere.

 

Which leaves us with Diaby. Well, truth is I don't care about Diaby. I don't think Diaby has a future at Arsenal and until I see some indication that he might be sticking around, I'm not going to allow him to sap and impurify my precious bodily fluids.

 

No, the thing that really got me angry this weekend was me. I am so outraged at the glory that is me, I can barely look at me without punching me.

 

First of all, I took absolutely no pleasure in this win. I thought that while we played well, we were lucky. We didn't look like a winning side. We didn't act like a team with pride. I know that sounds crazy when you look at the result, but I can't help but feel it. And I get angry at myself because I know I have got to be smoking crack. Have I turned into a Liverpool supporter in that I can only derive pleasure from a team that sucks?

 

The second thing that made me angry was my ongoing shit attitude regarding our plastics. I had a better week, but I really have to get over this. Except for exactly three guys at the bog end, our plastics aren't plastics. Most of them aren't even newbies. Just because they don't hang with us at our end of the bar, I'm a complete cock about and to them. To everyone down at the bog end, except for the three idiots and their hangers-on, I'm sorry; I'm a dick.

 

But the third reason I'm angry at myself, the thing that's preventing me from sleeping at night, the thing that will likely make me do a Frankie Five Angels on myself, is that I got groped by one of the Villa boys and didn't do anything other than yelp like a schoolgirl. That's right, people--I was bad-touched.

 

I actually did some research. The average incidence of sexual offense in the UK is .9 per 1000 people. In Birmingham, it's almost twice as much. And now the perverts are exporting their immorality to our proud nation of clean-living puritans in general, and to my broad shoulders, in particular.

 

Now, to be really honest, I was mocking the fat Brummie bastards at the time I was shoulder-groped, so it might have been an attempted physical assault. I suppose the fact that I can't tell whether he was trying to hurt me or seduce me is an issue in and of itself. You expect to have to watch your butt, literally, when the Chelsea boys are around, but those flat-accented nicey-nice Ozzy-lovers from the midlands? They're supposed to be mild and harmless, perennial lag-behinds and second-city-ers. For example, who's Birmingham's proudest native son? Neville "Peace in our Times, Czechoslovakia say Hi to Your Nazi Overlords" Chamberlain. And we--which is to say stupid, dumbass ME!!!!--is letting these perverted, shoulder-rubbing Cadbury-makers get away with spreading their mental weakness without answer. I don't know what I should have done, but I should have at least said something. So here goes:

 

"Excuse me, Overweight Brummie Appeasement Chimp, I do not know you, so please respect the fact that in this proud country, we do not touch people in that way until we've bought them dinner and a latte. And if you were in fact trying to hurt me, all you had to do was suggest that my jeans make my ass look fat."

 

I feel so dirty. I can't believe that with all the badass United, Chelsea and West Ham supporters, I let myself be humiliated by a brummie. God, I'm a girl.

 

Okay, TJ. Deeeeeeeep breath.