Air Wars, Long Throws and a Point That Keeps Us Top

There are draws that feel like defeats.

There are draws that feel like warnings.

And then there are draws that quietly move you four points clear at the top of the table.

This one sits somewhere in the middle.

At the Gtech Community Stadium, we were held 1–1 by Brentford — a ground where very few leave with all three points — but after Manchester City trimmed our lead the night before, this was always going to be tense, attritional and unpleasant.

And it was.

Stale First Half: A Game of Shadows

You could feel the anxiety. League leaders on a four-game winning run. Brentford beaten just twice at home all season. Two systems cancelling each other out.

The first 45 minutes were less chess match, more arm wrestle.

Our best "chance" was Gabriel accidentally shoulder-barging a corner toward goal. That tells you everything. The only shot on target of the half came courtesy of a David Raya mishap — a misjudged roll-out that nearly turned into catastrophe before he redeemed himself with a point-blank save.

Four total shots in the half. Second-lowest first-half tally in the league this season.

The Gtech was simmering, not boiling.

A Moment of Quality

Mikel Arteta blinked first. Martin Ødegaard on. Control restored. Slightly.

Then, just past the hour mark, we finally produced something that resembled champions.

Piero Hincapié recycled a half-cleared throw, shaped his body, and delivered a wicked curling cross. And there was Noni Madueke — hanging, pausing, defying gravity — to glance a header into the far corner.

His 15th Premier League goal. His third header. Our first shot on target.

Clinical. Efficient. Ruthless.

Top-of-the-table stuff.

The Long Throw That Wouldn't Die

And yet.

You don't come to Brentford and escape the long throw. It's like tax. Inevitable.

Michael Kayode hurled one into orbit. Sepp van den Berg flicked it on. Keane Lewis-Potter attacked it like a man diving into the Channel.

1–1.

It was Brentford's fourth goal from a throw-in situation this season. The league has now seen 30 goals from throw-ins — the most in 15 years. Football, apparently, has returned to Stoke 2009.

We knew it was coming. We still couldn't stop it.

Chaos, Almost Glory

From there, the game opened up.

Thiago Silva nearly punished us. Cristhian Mosquera made a recovery tackle worthy of a mural. Silva then skied a sitter in stoppage time.

And then we had our moment.

Gyökeres fed Timber. Timber squared. Gabriel Martinelli — one-on-one, golden opportunity, script written.

Caoimhín Kelleher stuck out an arm and swatted the fairytale away.

You could almost hear the collective intake of breath from north London.

Perspective (Deep Breath)

Let's zoom out.

• 17 times we've scored first this season.
• Only twice have we failed to win.
• Brentford have lost just twice in 11 at home.
• We're four points clear.

This wasn't a collapse.

It wasn't a wobble.

It was a difficult away ground behaving exactly as advertised.

Yes, we should defend throw-ins better. Yes, Martinelli buries that nine times out of ten. Yes, I'd prefer we didn't wait until the 61st minute for a shot on target.

But title races are not won by vibes. They're won by accumulation.

And we accumulated.

What's Next

Now it's rotation and focus.

• FA Cup vs Wigan Athletic at the Emirates Stadium.
• League trip to Wolverhampton Wanderers.
• Then the small matter of a trip to Tottenham Hotspur in the second north London derby of the season.

Four points clear. February looming. The air getting thinner.

If this is what an "off day" looks like, I'll take it.

We march on.

NINE POINTS CLEAR - FINISH LINE NEARER🔴⚪️

Four wins on the spin. Nine points clear overnight. Another clean sheet chalked up like it was routine. Arsenal did the job on Sunderland, but only after being made to work for it.

The first 40 minutes were tight, competitive and just awkward enough to remind us this wasn't going to be a stroll. Sunderland didn't park the bus, didn't roll over, and for a while they matched us stride for stride. We nearly nicked it inside 30 seconds — Trossard wriggling free on the byline, Havertz rising unmarked — but the header drifted wide and the tone was set: chances would need to be earned.

Rice fizzed one just past the post, Madueke caused chaos, and Havertz put his body on the line at the other end to snuff out Brobbey. Still, it felt like the game needed something.

Step forward, Martin Zubimendi.

Late in the half, Trossard rolled it into his path and the Spaniard did the rest — a low, vicious drive that kissed the wet turf, clipped the inside of the post and finally cracked the game open. It was crisp, controlled, and absolutely ruthless. Five league goals already. For a midfielder. That's not normal.

There was nearly more before the break — Jesus ruled marginally off after rounding the keeper, Havertz curling just over — but the real statement was still to come.

Sunderland came out swinging after the restart. Talbi tested Raya, Saliba hacked clear, Gabriel timed a challenge to perfection. This wasn't done yet. It needed a killer.

Enter Viktor Gyokeres.

Fresh off the bench, the Swede wasted no time. Havertz linked it, Gyokeres bullied his marker and smashed low inside the near post. Game over? Not quite — but it felt inevitable from there.

Eze went close, Sunderland chased shadows, and deep into injury time Gyokeres delivered the final blow, sliding in Martinelli's pass on the break to make it 3–0 and take his season tally to 13. Clinical. Relentless. Proper centre-forward stuff.

Another clean sheet — our 21st in all competitions, already more than last season managed in total. Control, depth, ruthlessness. All present.

Next up? A trip to west London on Thursday, then back home to the Emirates for FA Cup business.

This machine just keeps rolling.

Curse of the Ex Ends Blues

There are wins, and then there are statements. On a sodden night in north London, Arsenal did the sensible thing, the patient thing, and then—right at the death—the cruel thing. Kai Havertz, once of this parish in blue, rolled the ball around Robert Sánchez and rolled us straight to Wembley. One chance. One touch. One German shrug. Carabao Cup final booked. Aggregate: 4–2. Chelsea: packed up and sent home.

We came into the second leg with a cushion built on first-leg graft—Gyökeres, White, Zubimendi doing the damage—and with it the quiet confidence of a side that knows when not to blink. The night itself offered precious little glamour. Rain lashed the Emirates, the game crawled, and the tie simmered. That suited us just fine.

Cagey half, sharp nerves

The opening exchanges had the feel of a semi-final that knew its own weight. Few risks, fewer chances. Chelsea—burned but not beaten—prodded first through Liam Delap, scuffing wide on a slick surface. We answered in phases: corners, pressure, a moment of chaos.

Eberechi Eze picked out Piero Hincapié on the edge, the Ecuadorian's left foot crackled, and Sánchez beat it away theatrically. Gabriel pounced but the touch ran away. Close. So close.

There were warning signs the other way, too. Martinelli latched onto a long ball, shook Malo Gusto, turned—only for the recovery tackle to nick the moment away. At the other end, Enzo Fernández tried his luck from range and found Kepa standing firm. Two shots on target in a half that felt like a chess problem played in the rain.

No way through

The second half began with a scramble—Delap stabbing just wide after a corner melee—and then settled back into trench warfare. Madueke threatened without end product, crosses swallowed by blue shirts. Chelsea threw on Cole Palmer and Estevão, later Alejandro Garnacho, searching for the spark that would crack the tie.

We answered with control. Declan Rice stitched the middle together; Zubimendi kept finding angles; Gabriel rose and rose only to find Cucurella blocking the path. Time ticked. Tension climbed. The kind of night where one mistake decides everything.

Kai with the dagger

As the rain thickened, Chelsea committed bodies. Palmer's free-kick smacked the wall; Fofana nodded wide. Six minutes went up. Then—finally—space.

We nicked it. Trossard slid it. Rice squared it. And Havertz did what strikers do when the world slows: rounded the keeper and passed it into inevitability. Former club? Former noise. Wembley beckoned.

It finished 1–0 on the night, and with it a first Carabao Cup final in eight years. Not loud. Not flashy. Just ruthless.

What's next

We dust ourselves off and get back to league business in N5, hosting Sunderland on Saturday, February 7 (3pm UK). Then it's a short hop to west London for Brentford at the Gtech on Thursday, February 12 (8pm UK).

But for now? Enjoy the rain-soaked grin. Enjoy the dagger. Wembley awaits—and we got there the hard way.

Zinchen-Gone!

ZINCHENKO MOVES ON — THANK YOU, ALEX

Another chapter closes quietly in north London, as Oleksandr Zinchenko heads to Ajax on a permanent deal.

The Ukraine international's season-long loan at Nottingham Forest has been brought to an end by mutual consent, clearing the path for a move to the Netherlands and a fresh start in the Eredivisie. No drama. No saga. Just a clean break and a respectful goodbye.

Zinchenko arrived from Manchester City in the summer of 2022 with a Champions League medal collection, a point to prove, and an instant aura of authority. He gave us exactly that — 91 appearances across three seasons, a league title in the first, leadership in the dressing room, and no shortage of personality on the pitch.

At his best, Zinchenko embodied Arteta's obsession with control: stepping into midfield, demanding the ball, and trying to impose order on chaos. Sometimes it worked beautifully. Sometimes it didn't. But you could never accuse him of hiding.

His CV beyond Arsenal speaks for itself. Youngest goalscorer in Ukraine's history at 19. Youngest captain at 24. Seventy-five international caps. Ukrainian Footballer of the Year. This was never a lightweight signing — and it wasn't a lightweight contribution either.

In truth, injuries and tactical evolution slowly nudged him out of the picture, and the Forest loan never quite felt like a long-term solution. Ajax, though? That feels right. A club that values intelligence on the ball, positional bravery, and leadership. If there's a place for Zinchenko to reboot, it's Amsterdam.

So, thanks for the memories, Alex. Thanks for the title season. Thanks for the fire, the shouts, the calm in possession — and even the occasional heart-in-mouth moment.

All the best to you and your family in the next chapter.

Once a Gunner. Always a Gunner. 🔴⚪️

Seventh Heaven In Elland Road Cauldron

SEVEN CLEAR, AND SINGING IN YORKSHIRE

Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,

Arsenal fire four and could have been double (Well, maybe not, but it rhymes!)

Seven points clear again. No drama, no wobble, no mercy. A slick, swaggering dismantling of Leeds United at Elland Road restored our cushion at the summit of the Premier League, and did it with the kind of authority that tells a chasing pack to stop checking the rear-view mirror.

This was supposed to be tricky. An in-form Leeds, beaten once in eleven, Elland Road rocking, narrative ready-made. Then came the gut-punch in the warm-up: Bukayo Saka pulling up, plans torn up before kick-off. Enter Noni Madueke. Exit doubt.

MADUEKE THE MAN

Thrown in cold, Madueke spent the opening twenty minutes getting his bearings while Leeds huffed and puffed. A speculative Ethan Ampadu effort flew over, a Martin Zubimendi grass-cutter skimmed the turf, and then—click—control.

On 27 minutes, Madueke made the moment. Declan Rice recycled a half-cleared corner, Madueke bought himself a yard on the right, and whipped in a cross begging to be attacked. Zubimendi obliged, ghosting in to glance a header past Karl Darlow. Silence fell. We'd arrived.

Eleven minutes later, Madueke turned the volume down again. A vicious, flat corner swung into the mixer, chaos ensued, and Darlow—clattering into Dominic Calvert-Lewin—could only watch the ball ricochet off the post and into his own net. Elland Road groaned. We grinned. Two-nil, and utterly deserved.

GYÖKERES KEEPS ROLLING

The second half began with intent. Viktor Gyökeres was a sliding block away from pulling the trigger five minutes after the restart, Jurrien Timber nodded the corner over, and Leeds' crowd tried to summon something—anything. David Raya remained largely untroubled.

Then, on 69 minutes, we iced it. Martin Ødegaard split the lines, Gabriel Martinelli roasted Pascal Struijk (twice), and the cross was perfect. Gyökeres bullied his way through and steered home from close range. Seven straight wins at Elland Road, stretching back 25 years. Tradition respected. Job done.

JESUS ADDS THE GLOSS

With the game safe, we went hunting. Gabriel Jesus—on for Gyökeres—went close, then closer, Darlow pulling off a sharp stop. Third time was the charm. Ødegaard again threaded the needle, Jesus held off Struijk, turned, and flashed a finish inside the post. Four in four against Leeds. Nearly five, too, but a looping header was hacked off the line.

Four goals. Clean control. Statement made.

FACTS THAT HIT HARD

• January 2026 has delivered away wins at Bournemouth, Portsmouth, Chelsea, Inter and Leeds—five away wins in a single month for just the second time in our history (last: April 2000, also featuring a 4–0 at Elland Road).
• We've now scored 4+ away goals at Leeds five times in the Premier League—joint-most any side has managed away to a single opponent.
• Leeds' five-game unbeaten home run? Ended. Just their second loss in eleven.
• Corners are our weapon: 14 goals from them, more than anyone. Headed goals? 10—level with Tottenham.
• Five own goals already this league season; only 2009/10 brought more.
• Gyökeres: four goals in six, now our outright top scorer with 11.
• Zubimendi: five goals this season—just one shy of his final two seasons at Real Sociedad combined.
• Declan Rice, aged 27y 17d, becomes the fifth-youngest to reach 300 Premier League appearances.

WHAT'S NEXT

Back to north London on Tuesday for the second leg of our Carabao Cup semi-final against Chelsea, holding a 3–2 lead. Saturday brings Sunderland to the Emirates in the league, before a Thursday night trip to Brentford.

Seven clear. Ruthless away. Title pace.

On we go.