retired_bbcarr

"He's just not up to the job at this level."

"The team look totally devoid of ideas. That's got to be the fault of the manager."

"Selling Mutu will come back to bite us, Beckett's left us without a top class frontline. He's got to take the blame for our lack of goals."

Just a selection of the comments posted on the BBC's messageboard regarding our start to the season. It seemed that the fans were far from impressed with the start we'd made, but what was perhaps a little more surprising to me was that, after they had bitched and moaned for years about young British managers not getting the chance at top clubs, the media it appeared were willing to give me no time to settle in despite Arsenal's gamble on me. A bottle of whisky became a regular order from room service.

I was cheered slightly by the news that Thierry Henry had recovered from the injury he picked up in Turkey and was fit enough to claim a starting place for the return match against Ferencváros. The boys, for their part, had taken a lot of the criticism personally as well, and were determined to go out and put on a good show. Leading by two from the away leg, there was really no need for us to attack, but we felt the fans needed to see is, and by the twentieth minute, Cesc Fabregas had bagged himself a double - the second admittedly benfiting from a wicked deflection - and we were cruising towards the group stage. The final goal of the tie game just a minute before half time, Kevin Kuranyi played Henry clear and the French legend slid his shot under Lengyel to give us a five goal aggregate lead.

It was Thierry's last involvement in the match, he had picked up a groin strain in the early moments - it wasn't too difficult to summise that I had rushed him back into the side too quickly - and initial reports suggested that he would be out for another two weeks. The group draw gave us more to smile about, however, as we avoided all of the big guns and were charged with getting past Monaco, Benfica and Olympiakos if we wanted a place in the knockout phase.

My first Monday night game in charge of Arsenal came against Newcastle in our next league outing, and I was determined for more success after Toon boss Berti Vogts was none too complimentary in his pre-match press conference, stating that he doubted if we could put together a strong title challenge, that I had a lot to prove at this level and that his Newcastle side shouldn't have too much to worry about in coming to the Emirates Stadium.

For the first half, it looked like Bertu was right though, and a few smug German glances were shot in my direction. Newcastle coped with everything we had to throw at them and in turn looked far more threatening when they broke than we had ever managed. The half time team talk was one of panic on my bwhalf, I hated to think what awaited me in the papers the next day if we failed to win again, but thankfully I was spared finding out. With just over twenty mintues remaining, a Newcastle clearance failed to reach the edge of the penalty area. Deisler forced the ball goalward, and two further ricochets in the ensuing scramble saw the ball come to Freddie Ljungberg, the Swede reacting quickly to toe-poke it past Shay Given for the opening goal.

Newcastle pressed forward in search of the equaliser they fully deserved, but in doing so gave us far more space behind them, and nine minutes later we had the game clincher, Diesler playing the ball for Kuranyi to latch onto and flash his shot beyond Given.

retired_bbcarr

August 2007 Results

(Premiership unless otherwise stated)


Ferencváros 0 - 2 Arsenal (Champions League 3rd Qualifying Round, 1st Leg)
(Lupoli 25"; Smith 82")

Middlesbrough 1 - 1 Arsenal
(Lupoli 3"; Upson pen 82")

Arsenal 0 - 0 Bolton

Arsenal 3 - 0 Ferencváros (Champions League 3rd Qualifying Round, 2nd Leg)
(Fabregas 12", 18"; Henry 44")

Arsenal 2 - 0 Newcastle
(Ljungberg 69"; Kuranyi 78")

retired_bbcarr

Deadline day at the end of August saw us splash more cash than anyone else in the league, Hatem Ben Arfa joining from Lyon for a tasty £14,000,000. The 20 year old winger-come-striker was yet to be capped for the French national side, though he had made twelve appearances for the U-21 outfit, but still listed our very own Thierry Henry amongst his idols, I was simply desperate in my hope that playing alongside the Highbury legend would bring out the best in the youngster.

Despite Ljungberg, Kuranyi and Vieirinha having suffered knocks on international duty which ruled them out, Ben Arfa was only amongst the substitutes for the trip to face Aston Villa. In truth, by the half hour I was wishing I’d started with him as he certainly wouldn’t have been worse than the attacking options we had out on the field. The Frenchman did eventually get on, in the seventy-fifth minute he replaced Arturo Lupoli, and in just four minutes he had latched onto a superb through ball by Cesc Fabregas and rounded Thomas Sørensen in the Villa goal to break the deadlock. How happy I would have been had we managed to hold onto that lead. Instead, three minutes from time we fell asleep as Gustavo Varela’s free kick floated its way into the penalty area, going untouched by all and finding the bottom corner of the net. It was a cruel blow and only added voice to those who felt I was just not good enough for this level.

They weren’t silenced much by our Champions League trip to Monaco. Though we took the lead in fifteen minutes, Thierry Henry stealing the ball off goalkeeper Flavio Roma and walking it into the net, Sébastien Squillaci levelled matters before the break and, to be honest, the second half saw the home side far more likely to steal the points than we.

With Reyes on the bench and Kuranyi partnering Henry up front, there was no place for Ben Arfa in the squad for the visit of Crystal Palace, and neither was there for Vieirinha, Ljungberg returning from injury to take his place amongst the substitutes. It was, however, Henry who was to prove our game winner – as so often he had done for the club over the years – his twenty-third minute goal a top quality effort, taking a pass from Robert Pires and curling a shot into the corner of the net from fifteen yards. It was the only point of light in an otherwise dull game, but I was breathing a lot easier afterwards as we travelled three places up the table to fifth.

Mike..

Hey Terk, I'd kind of lost track on Whiskey & Women (as sad confession, but honest) mainly due to my drifiting away from actually reading stuff on here. Therefore I'm glad to have spotted this little gem starting up - good luck in North London, I guess it's just a shame that you got there three or four years before Ed Allen - I expect you'll have been sacked by the time his Spurs side can find its way into the Prem

retired_bbcarr

cheers flip, good to have you along and Stephen's start to life at a big club hasn't exactly gone to plan, we can only hope he turns it around

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Not even I can pretend that we deserved that, Andy. Blackburn were by far the better side, we just somehow hung on and stole it at the end.

Have you ever seen anyone have a better debut that Ivan Pelizzoli did tonight?

I’m not sure it’s possible to be better than Pelli was tonight. I’d lost count of the number of saves he’d made by about half an hour in. I’m not sure that Morten Pedersen will be his best friend, but I do think the Arsenal fans will take to him after a performance like that.

The fact that we had scored victory over Blackburn was simply incredible. The home side had twenty-seven shots on goal – nineteen of which were on target – to our three. Left winger Morten Gamst Pedersen was responsible for twelve of those shots, yet each and every one was battered away by our debutant Italian ‘keeper. Included only at the last minute when Rune Pedersen pulled up with a thigh injury, Pelizzoli proceeded to put in the kind of world class performance which is rarely seen, and it’s value soared even higher when, a minute into injury time at the end of the match, substitute Spaniard José Antonio Reyes jinked his way through the Blackburn defence before slotting his shot underneath home ‘keeper Jamal. If ever there was a game I had not deserved to win, this was it.

Our lacklustre attack against Blackburn was replicated three days later when we faced Southampton at the Emirates Stadium, luckily, however, they were just as poor and the goalless draw which was played out was about all that either team deserved.

We’re playing against nine men, for ****’s sake. What the **** is going on out there? You couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a ****ing banjo. My exasperation at half time against Olympiakos was, I felt, justified. We had been playing against nine men for twelve minutes after Antonis Nikopolidis had joined Giorgos Georgiadis in an early bath, but still we had looked entirely unlikely to break the deadlock, especially when Thierry Henry drilled his penalty a clear two feet wide of the post.

For the third consecutive game we looked utterly clueless in front of goal, and maybe it was just my paranoia, but I certainly felt an axe being sharpened above my neck. I doubt it was determination to spare me my job, however, which jolted the players into action in the second half, but whatever did it I was thankful for as Henry and Lupoli got us on the way to victory, added to by late goals from Deisler and Fabregas – marking his 100th game for the club – we had the sort of victory which the situation demanded, but which undoubtedly flattered us at the same time.

retired_brianrt

enjoyed part 1 immensely terk, hope this is just as good

retired_bbcarr

cheers, sherm

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“In the Premiership today, Everton scored the biggest result, coming from behind to beat Arsenal at Goodison Park. Thierry Henry had given the Gunners the perfect start with a sixth minute goal, but a hat-trick from former Liverpool striker Neil Mellor was enough to secure the points for the home side.”

Watching the Saturday night news after our early kick-off in Liverpool, I was flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment, quite plainly, at having been thoroughly beaten at the hands of mid-table Everton, but anger at the fact that my players had – either wilfully or just by sheer stupidity – abandoned the well thought out game plan roughly two seconds after Thierry gave us the lead and spent the rest of the game, even when we had fallen two goals behind, trying to see how many stupid little tricks they could manage before giving the ball away.

I had planned a night in front of the T.V. watching Match of the Day with a bottle of wine at hand to deflect Alan Hansen’s inevitable comments about our less than impressive defending, but I just couldn’t face it. I donned my jacket and headed for the pub, with a fat wallet and a need to forget, I should have seen where the night would take me.

--

“Oh, Jesus. Stephen? Stephen, what are you doing here?” I honestly had no idea whether I was awake or dreaming, all that was certain was that my mouth tasted like an ashtray and I couldn’t get my eyes to focus on anything.

“You look like ****.” So it wasn’t a dream then. “Have you been here all night?” Better than even chance. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” Figure that one out all by yourself, Sherlock? “Let’s get you inside.” Don’t think the gentlemen of the house would take too kindly to that. “He’s away for the week.” Bonus. “Forget about it.” Bugger.

The rest of the morning passed much as one would expect, initial sympathy and concern turning into anger and disgust that I had gotten myself into such a state. At more than one point Hannah suggested that I needed to seek help, if she knew how heavily I’d been drinking since coming to London, I suspect it would have been far more than a suggestion. Eventually, after as much black coffee as my stomach could handle, she drove me home, a journey long enough for a final lecture and she left with a promise to return during the week, just to make sure I was doing OK.

retired_bbcarr

“Stephen, let me in. You can’t hide forever. Come on. Just let me in.” I had no intention of seeing anyone. As Hannah was yelling at my window, I had my head buried underneath my pillows, occasionally appearing into daylight to steal another swig from the vodka bottle. Two days after my world had come crashing down around me, I was still in the same clothes and smelling like I’d been in them for two weeks. I hadn’t eaten, but had drunk three or four times my own body weight, as far as I was concerned I would continue doing so until it killed me.

The crisis had begun on the Tuesday night. Twenty four hours before facing Chelsea at the Emirates Stadium, a quiet night in the local pub had turned into an all night drinking session which, lo and behold, was splashed across the morning papers. My whisky soaked face, arm round some guy in an Arsenal shirt, grinning inanely for a picture which made it to every media outlet in the country within hours.

Stumbling into work the following morning, I was called into a board meeting. I struggled to keep my eyes open as they probed and pressed for the reasons behind my actions, I managed to placate them enough to hold off on the trigger for now with a story about a bereavement in the family which I had not taken well. I assured them it was a one off thing, I would take part in any sort of anti-drinking promotions they wanted, yes I was fit to take control of the match that evening.

Of course, I was far from fit enough to take control of such a crucial match, but I feared the consequences if, following my exploits in the papers, I failed to turn up in the dugout to see us take on Chelsea. Mind still clouded come the evening, however, I was entirely unable to get my instructions across to the players, and by the twentieth minute of the match, we had suffered at the hands of a Gilardinho hat-trick. John Terry compounded my misery with a fourth in the second half, though by that time I was just angry with everyone and everything.

The club should have kept me well away from the press after the game, the last thing that should have happened was me being presented to the cameras to talk to the watching world. In the end I didn’t get through one question, let alone one interview, asked if the events of the previous twenty-four hours, coupled with two humiliating defeats on the field, proved that I was not up to managing at this level of the game, I shoved the cameraman into the wall and stormed off down the tunnel. I didn’t wait around long enough to see what the board had to say, and was home before I could embarrass myself further.

--

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I have a short statement to read, I will not be taking questions. An emergency board meeting was called for nine o’clock this morning to discuss the much publicised events of the past forty-eight hours. The actions of head coach Stephen Beckett can in no way be condoned, and given their serious nature it was the unanimous decision of the board that his contract with the football club be terminated with immediate effect on the grounds of gross misconduct. An announcement on caretaker duties for this weekend’s fixture will be made later this afternoon, I have nothing further to add at this time.”

Peter Hill-Wood had phoned me twenty minutes before he stepped into the press room and delivered his statement, though I can hardly say I was surprised. I made no plea for my job, I knew I had to go, indeed I had little interest in returning to the game in any form; all that seemed important to me was seeing the bottom of the bottle.

--

“Holy ****, Stephen. Open the window.” I had finally relented and let Hannah in, she had made it clear that she wasn’t going anywhere until I did. She quickly poured anything alcoholic she could find down the sink and fixed many a pot of black coffee and some toast.

“Seriously, Stephen, you need to get some help. I know some people, I can get you in. Ninety days and you’ll come out the other side clean. You can start again, do whatever you want.” I stayed silent throughout, knowing she was right. Ninety days in the Priory hardly sounded like fun, but it was what I needed. Time away from everyone. Time away from everything.

Mike..

'Heat' and 'Kitchen' ?

Me thinks Mr Beckett's star was rising too quickly

retired_bbcarr

a little to big for his boots I think, flippers

---------------------------------------------

It was a bitingly cold day as I stepped into Richmond Park. Ninety days had passed since my career had gone spiralling downwards, and it was safe to say that I felt quite considerably better than I had in a long time. Finding a quiet café, a sat down to read the paper; one thing I had done during my time away was cut myself off from the outside world entirely and I was eager to discover what had been going on in the arena of my former employment.

From what I could gather, Spaniard Joaquin Caparros had taken over the mess I had left at the Emirates Stadium and managed to guide Arsenal to a clear lead at the top of the table whilst Nottingham Forest were suffering badly, only fifteen points on the board and still having hired no one to replace me.

--

“I think I need to get away. I know I’m just being paranoid but I feel like everyone’s watching me, waiting for me to do something stupid.”

“I’ve got a nice little place in the south of France. Lovely little town called Pau. You can use it for a while if you like.”

“Does Andy have anything to saw about you being so nice to me?”

“Not if he knows what’s good for him. Look, I’ll come out with you for a few days, help you settle in. You can stay for as long as you need.”

“That sounds like exactly what I need.”

--

Hannah hadn’t been kidding when she described it as a lovely little town. A population just shy of eighty thousand with a castle at its very centre, it was a beautiful place. A few days of pottering about doing very little of anything at all had, however, let me know just how much I was missing football. Going back to England though, no matter how tempting it was to apply for the Forest job and try to wrest them from the dirt, was simply not an option. I had to look elsewhere.