Hello and welcome to a brand new arse blog, arscast, right here on arseblog.com.

How are you?

Hope you well.

Thank you very much indeed, as always, for being here.

I want to start today with a big question, a very important question.

How the fuck are your hamstrings? Are they okay? You reckon you could play this weekend? Do you know

where your boots are? What? No, you left your boots in the cupboard underneath the stairs.

The last time you played, you put some newspaper in them and you forgot all about them and now,

God, that newspaper smell,

remember that? Boot leather, well, it's not like boot leather anymore. It's sort of like

the hide of a hippo, covered in dried out swamp mud. Well, that's your own fault. You're

going to have to get them on and you're going to have to score some goals for Arsenal this weekend

because, well, we need a centre forward because the last one we had is now, unfortunately, very injured.

Very, very injured indeed.

This was not the plan when we went to Dubai.

Plan was go and get some sunshine, some vitamin D.

Maybe, maybe endure a night in that fucking sprinkly salt meatwankers restaurant, giving you subpar rib-eye for sky-high prices.

That's the worst thing that was supposed to happen during this trip to Dubai.

Instead, Kai Havert picks up a hamstring, scare, and the scare turns out to be like 13-year-old me watching The Exorcist and not

sleeping for two nights. That's how fucked up that film got me, and that's kind of where we are

with Kai Haverts's hamstrings. Perhaps not with the old projectile vomiting and the head

swiveling around like a fucking owl. But still, a scary situation because it leaves us in very, very short supply with

...