"Sol Sol Wherever You May Be..."

Three days have passed since Black Sunday and it has taken me until this morning for it to fully sink in. I have exhibited all 7 stages of grief beginning with denial "That pitch was a disgrace, they'll replay it, surely???' and ultimately ending in acceptance - reciting over and over again the tired mantra of the Tottenham fan "There's always next year, there's always next year...". I have composed my thoughts and have forced myself to watch the game again. What I saw surprised me.

All this talk of us not turning up was brushed aside by our exhibition of total domination - corners, shots, passes, possession. I can still hear the barking of my moustached primary school football coach from the sidelines 'If you don't let them have the ball, they can't score!!'. Yes, they had a few breakaways but our pressure was constant and un-abating. The post match slating of Crouch (for which I have been guilty of in the past) seemed non-sensical to me. He should have made more of a couple of headers but he was hassled and marked effectively all game. His distribution and hold up play proved incredibly useful in the build up to attacks. Not only did he score the equaliser *Google searches 'how to make petrol bomb' followed by 'Alan Wiley referee address'* but he squeezed a tight header against the post and was only denied more goals by an excellent David James. Dawson's slip, Crouch's goal, the penalty that never was - all factors beyond our boys' control, the result of unavoidable errors or incompetent decision making.

The pitch was dreadful and whatever anyone says this favoured a weaker Pompey side, whose only apparent casualty was the far from clinical Dindane. Sometimes you have to sit back, stick one finger skywards and just curse the footballing Gods for their rampant antisemitism. We didn't lose because the players didn't care, we lost because somewhere in the grand scheme o thins we were meant to. With this in mind I was up bright and early; shaving off the facial hair borne from mourning and washing the salty tracks of tears from my cheeks. Its done.Over.Buried. THIS is where the season turns and the buzz of adrenaline is constant.Let's hope our boys feel the same...

I will keep my thoughts on the Arsenal match brief. We are still without Lennon and have now lost Palacios, who was unreal in the same fixture last season(the final factor in me crossing the Wiley family off my Christmas card list). No Jenas, no Woody, No Niko, with Charlie, King and Thudd all doubts - hardly the kind of news that inspires great confidence. Yet Arsenal aren't without injuries and we must hope Wilson's brother from another mother, Alex Song, is not present to toughen up Arsenal's soft centre. However, the main point of this article is a request to the fans. We all heard the atmosphere at Wembley, and credit where it is due to the Portsmouth fans, they are superb. It seems impossible to belief that level of support didn't have some part to play in Pompey's incredible sense of fight and energy. Our boys will be hurt after Sunday and our loud support should be a demonstration that we still believe - that the fans know they are capable.

More importantly I think the Arsenal players should be subjected to some of the roughest abuse of their lives. The North London derby at White Hart Lane prides itself on being the most hostile and emotionally charged fixture of the scum's calendar, we should do that tradition proud. The Arsenal team might have experience but they are still young and lacking the leadership of Fabregas. I chance the fierce atmosphere combined with the pressure of the title race have every chance of converting nerves into errors.

But please, I beg you, save your most potent vitriol for dear old Judas, marching back into the stadium where he made his name, cloaked in the red and white of shame and betrayal. I need not remind you of his behaviour, the money he cost the club, his abandonment of the fans who used to sing his name and his pig headed refusal to accept any fault. I ask you to leave your insults burnt into his conscience for eternity, not for our own sense of vindication, but because he is weak and he will crumble underneath it. Arsenal's defence can be unlocked without a ball even being kicked.

Audere est Facere - Never has a phrase been so poignant...

InArryWeTrust