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Sleeve-gate.

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I like the tradition. I think its great. Not that I'd want it at Everton but I think proper football clubs should all have little traditions and superstitions, even silly ones. Adds mystique.
He should just wear a long-sleeve top and roll up the sleeves. Or ask Captain to wear short-sleeves.
 
It made it into the Guardian Fiver.


Opposition fans and every single anti-Arsenal hack have been carrying acorns, cutting their hair during storms and searching fields for four-leaf clovers and finally their hard work has paid off. A bit later than expected the Annual Arsenal Crisis has arrived: sleevegate. Or as some of you wags that are smarter, funnier and better looking than the Fiver have dubbed it, Mathieu Flamini's right to bare arms.
In case you haven't heard, let your friendly, neighbourhood tea-timely email fill in the blanks. Arsenal is a club of traditions. Like the tradition of moving from south London to north London. Or like the tradition of moving from Highbury to the Emirates. Or like the tradition of saying that they will not be selling their best players to their rivals. Or like the tradition that sees them banging on about their "socialist" wage structure right before they decide to pay Mesut Özil's weekly salary. Or like the tradition of playing pretty-boy football, winning nothing and yet moralising to the rest about how effing and jeffing great your club is. Yes, Arsenal is a club of traditions. But there is one tradition that is more sacred to club than all those other traditions that they cherish more than life itself: the captain must decide what length of sleeves the players wear for each match. That is crucial. Without that the club and the team are nothing.
But naughty, naughty Flamini likes nothing more than to break a rule or two and over the last few games he has decided to take a scissors to this ritual as well as to the long sleeves his captain has chosen to wear – "I've been playing at the top level for 10 years. I like to wear short sleeves, that's what I like to do," he rebelled, before sweeping his hair back, slinging on his heavy boots and hopping on the back of his custom-made chopper, a women dressed in a black leather jacket with three Guns N' Roses badges sown into the lapels and a skull with sharp-toothed serpents coming out of the eye sockets etched on to the back in rabbit blood behind him.
Arsène Wenger is none too happy with this. The Flamini thing that is, not the jacket. He has never seen the jacket. He wants down with this sort of thing. Again, the Flamini thing, not the jacket. After Arsenal walked away with a win over Marseille that was as comfortable as a pair of house slippers pilfered from a certain five-star hotel in the centre of Brussels, the Arsenal manager erupted: "I do not like that and he will not do that again. I was surprised he did that; we don't want that."
By venting his spleen in public, Wenger risks upsetting Flamini and the happiness of a squad that is top of the Premier League. But then again, perhaps that's part of his grand plan: after all throwing away the title is very much a part of Arsenal's tradition.
 
WA Toffee said:
It made it into the Guardian Fiver.


Opposition fans and every single anti-Arsenal hack have been carrying acorns, cutting their hair during storms and searching fields for four-leaf clovers and finally their hard work has paid off. A bit later than expected the Annual Arsenal Crisis has arrived: sleevegate. Or as some of you wags that are smarter, funnier and better looking than the Fiver have dubbed it, Mathieu Flamini's right to bare arms.
In case you haven't heard, let your friendly, neighbourhood tea-timely email fill in the blanks. Arsenal is a club of traditions. Like the tradition of moving from south London to north London. Or like the tradition of moving from Highbury to the Emirates. Or like the tradition of saying that they will not be selling their best players to their rivals. Or like the tradition that sees them banging on about their "socialist" wage structure right before they decide to pay Mesut Özil's weekly salary. Or like the tradition of playing pretty-boy football, winning nothing and yet moralising to the rest about how effing and jeffing great your club is. Yes, Arsenal is a club of traditions. But there is one tradition that is more sacred to club than all those other traditions that they cherish more than life itself: the captain must decide what length of sleeves the players wear for each match. That is crucial. Without that the club and the team are nothing.
But naughty, naughty Flamini likes nothing more than to break a rule or two and over the last few games he has decided to take a scissors to this ritual as well as to the long sleeves his captain has chosen to wear – "I've been playing at the top level for 10 years. I like to wear short sleeves, that's what I like to do," he rebelled, before sweeping his hair back, slinging on his heavy boots and hopping on the back of his custom-made chopper, a women dressed in a black leather jacket with three Guns N' Roses badges sown into the lapels and a skull with sharp-toothed serpents coming out of the eye sockets etched on to the back in rabbit blood behind him.
Arsène Wenger is none too happy with this. The Flamini thing that is, not the jacket. He has never seen the jacket. He wants down with this sort of thing. Again, the Flamini thing, not the jacket. After Arsenal walked away with a win over Marseille that was as comfortable as a pair of house slippers pilfered from a certain five-star hotel in the centre of Brussels, the Arsenal manager erupted: "I do not like that and he will not do that again. I was surprised he did that; we don't want that."
By venting his spleen in public, Wenger risks upsetting Flamini and the happiness of a squad that is top of the Premier League. But then again, perhaps that's part of his grand plan: after all throwing away the title is very much a part of Arsenal's tradition.
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Fantastic
 

As stupid as it sounds this type of thing can effect their performance. H eshould let them play in what their most comfortable in. Unless it's the wives suzzies
 

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