Chaos and Cacophony from a Jumped-Up Country Boy

Friday, June 22, 2007

Crushed...And Then Some

He's gone. After a prolonged ego-waltz that eventually became as boring as it was drawn out, Henry has left Arsenal. And in doing so, he has broken hearts. Many, many hearts. On levels that I've yet to explore.

It's been a while since I posted, but this has crushed me. Any adult with any degree of education, in my opinion, will eventually become a cynic. Yet what makes the veil of cynicism all the more dignified is the occasional ray of hope and light that we allow to shine through. And for most of this century, Henry was a ray of elegant beauty and honour that I clung to however the winds of life blew. The pace, the vision, the sheer single-minded arrogance of a lion with a gazelle in his sights. The embarrasment he visited on Jamie Carragher on more than one occasion is probably enough to damn him for all eternity. Beauty, nay art, encapsulated in 6ft2 of Gallic genius. For almost a decade, he led us all on a merry sporting dance. And now he's taking it on tour. To Barcelona. Where his ego will mingle with many others.

When I look at a brilliant painting, like Hopper's Nighthawks, or listen to something as awe inspiring as Closing Time by Leonard Cohen, I'm struck by the achievement of perfection, of wholeness. I felt exactly the same last January when Henry began and ended a move against Blackburn that transcended the muddy Lancastrian awfulness of Jack Walker's dirty steelwork funded stadium and ascended to the vaunted platform of high art. Swaggering down the left flank, mesmerising the Blackburn defence, he swapped inch-perfect passes with Fabregas and sailed the ball past a helpless Brad Freidel from an angle that had the mathematicians reaching for their theodolites. It blew me away. Like his goal against United at Highbury. Like his hat-trick against Inter Milan. Like 99% of his 226 goals for the Gunners. Henry was an artist who splattered the canvas with works of genius that will be talked about in a hundred year's time. And he will continue to prosper wherever he goes. Part of me wishes him well in his future endeavours.

But most of me wonders where the famed Henry loyalty has gone. After the rigmarole of last year, it is a devastating blow that it was all figure skating, it was all an elongated flamenco manoeuvre. Like the cutest maiden at the crossroads in 1940s Ireland, after rejecting even the most ardous admirer again and again, Henry eventually showed his true colours; the colours of a cold, merciless, reptilian siren, ready willing and able to sell himself to the highest bidder. And that sickens me.

Of course Dein leaving had an impact. Of course he was disconcerted at the lack of silverware. But what of loyalty? What of his self-appointed role as the Good Shepherd, leading Arsenal's tender spring lambs through the dark night of transition that benighted Wenger and his team this season? All horseshit. I'm weary enough to see the Premiership, and indeed world football for what it is; a power-hungry, ego-fuelled corporate behemoth that takes no prisoners and treats the loyal fan with the same disdain afforded to a ten dollar Malaysian ladyboy by a Japanese businessman. But deep down, I honestly believed Henry to be different. But he wasn't. And he isn't. And that, my dear reader, is very troubling.

Yes, these are the ravings of a wizened old hag who's lost her favourite piece of jewellery. Yes there isn't an iota of objectivity in the words that have preceded these. Henry left because he knows Arsenal won't be a force for at least another season. But by his leaving, he has put Wenger's project on hold. Fabregas will now have one eye on the exit. Gallas will become even more disinterested. And who are we left with? Adebayor. The man who has made a name for himself as a calamity in front of goal, with a first touch that makes David fucking Connolly snigger. And crucially, the only team, Reading and Man U aside, hewn out of a desire to play football as it should be played, i.e., Brazil circa 1970, will become the laughing stock of Britain once more, a force once to be reckoned with, but now nothing but an interesting side show that can knock lumps out of Wigan but can only watch in silence as Bolton continue to know lumps out of them. While this is a terrible day for Gooners, its as bad a day for anyone who loves football on these here isles.

Fuck him. Why couldn't he have just stayed put?