An Arsenal Fan in Valencia After Shambles in Birmingham

Saturday's result is the kind of result that makes your stomach turn—that semi-nauseating, quite painful sensation in the pit of your stomach.

It's the feeling you get after you´ve eaten some expired eggs, moldy bread, or old chicken fillets.

You know you have to puke. You know it's the only way you are going to feel better.

But you hold it in as long as you can hoping that your body will make some sort of miraculous recovery and you can avoid hugging the toilet seat in a pool of sweat for 30 minutes later that evening.

That's how I felt anyway.

I didn't see the match—I was paintballing.

Seventeen of us went for Indian food later that night, enjoying ourselves thoroughly.

I made the mistake of asking my iPhone-equipped friend how Arsenal got on against the Brummies.

"1-1!" he shouts from the opposite end of the Beauty and the Beast-esque table. It's smug enough and loud enough to make me believe he's trying to rile me up in front of my mates.

Especially when he says that United and Chelsea have won by a combined 10 goals. What a wind-up merchant. Alright, alright, very funny. Now tell me the real scores.

Chelsea 7—A.Villa 1

United 4—Bolton 0

Birmingham 1—Arsenal 1

[Sic] off. Stomach turning ensues.

Smokes are had outside.

Alone. Very, very, very alone.

It's Arsenal Adam time: I'm having a little depression party and I'm the only one whose invited.

Those Gaelic footballers wouldn't have understood anyway. You see I happen to be the only Arsenal fan in all of Valencia since our English bar closed down so it's a very lonely world out here for those in white sleeves with red torsos.

Perhaps that's why I started blogging, but that's neither here nor there.

Of course, when I returned home Sunday morning at 6 a.m. completely locked and in need of rest after four hours of sleep the best thing to do was to turn on the laptop and watch some Arsenal highlights.

What a shite goal to concede.

Holy hell.

A clearance after terrible defense on a long ball deflects off someone's chest at the goalie who, once again, makes a mess of it, and it loops into our net.

IN INJURY TIME! TO DENY US 2 POINTS!

Bollocks.

I shut off my computer using the power button, as I couldn't be arsed (pun unintentional) to wait for my Mac to close down the pages of football porn I had on.

A nasty click and I'm left in silence.

Only my thoughts to keep me company.

My mind was racing, the cuss words spilling out at a perverted pace. And, sadly, there was nobody to swear too. Luckily I was sufficiently steamed to keep myself company with my C words and F bombs.

I think the title is beyond us now.

Perhaps if we were four points behind one team we could make it work, but being four or more behind two teams and expecting them both to drop points is asking a lot of the football gods.

So everyone get out your football bible, your football Ganesh, or get your football mat pointed towards football Mecca and pray.

Pray United and Chelsea draw.

Pray United lose to Tottenham for the first time in 3000 years.

Pray Jack Wilshire scores a hat-trick at Stamford Bridge to let the Wanderers beat the Chavs at home.

But for now, just Pray Cesc is fit for Barca, and Henry is willing to play in goals for the Catalans.

That's the kind of stuff that really makes your stomach feel nice and pretty.

UptheArse.