Stewart Robson has launched an astonishing broadside at himself, claiming that he’s ‘destined to fail’, unless he gets some new material.
The former Arsenal and West Ham man has become widely known for his abrasive point of view when it comes to Arsene Wenger, with recent outbursts suggesting the Frenchman will simply waste Arsenal’s transfer funds.
Robson, now the go-to guy for Wenger criticism, lives in a small workman’s hut outside the Emirates Stadium, sharing the space with a small stray dog he mistreats and calls ‘Wengy’.
Robson spoke exclusively to Arseblog News, and seems aware he’s carving a niche it may be difficult to get out of.
“It struck me the other day,” he said, “when I was accusing a man who has a 30 year career in top flight management, who has won the double twice and guided a team through a season unbeaten, of not being able to coach players or have any idea what tactics were, that I might need a new schtick.
“What if I get typecast as the bitter old grump who only has one thing to say and goes on and on and on about it until people are sick of it?
“What if, by bleating like a sullen crank, any validity to some of the points I make is totally lost? I think I’ve got to change the record, but nobody has records any more, do they? And I’m such a Luddite I don’t know how to change the MP FREE or whatever it is the kids play.”
Robson appears on many broadcasting entities, such as TalkSport, TalkSpite, Kill Wenger FM, Zonal Barking – the blog for angry tacticians, and BBC World (available in 3* hotels across most of south-east Asia).
“I’ve got to find new stuff to say,” he said, revealing he’d be hiring US comedian Carlos Mencia to boost his portfolio of bitterness.
“To be honest though, I’m even boring the tits off myself at this point. Over the last few years some of the opinions that I’ve said were going to be world class haven’t ended up like that.
“I’ve regressed under myself.”
And with that he took himself back into his hut to drink tea from a horribly stained mug, nibbling all the while on a packet of stale Garibaldis, waiting for the next chance to criticise Wenger.
Or, who knows, himself.