Fear breeds aggression – that’s a simple enough truism.We see it in nature, when an otherwise placid animal feels cornered and becomes dangerous. We see it in daily conversation, when the loser of an argument fears ridicule and so resorts to anger and insult. We see it in our schools, when the ‘intellectually intimidated’ band together as a street gang,and we saw it last week when a Bolton team, which had previously taken great strides to play flowing attractive football, resorted to over-the-top tackles and crude aggression.

Owen Coyle may have come out to the after-match interviews snapping and snarling and screaming injustice, but all but the most fervent Bolton fan and Sky Sports’ hack knew what he was thinking.

Coyle was ashamed, or he damn well should have been; ashamed of his capitulation to fear, ashamed of the abandonment of his lofty tactical principles, and ashamed of his team’s brutal ineptitude. His bare-faced show of post-match self-righteous indignation was a façade of sickening hypocrisy.

The reality is that Coyle saw a Blackpool team go to Wigan on the opening day of the season and win 4-0, then come to the Emirates the following week and lose 6-0. It frightened the life out of him. Far from being the Bolton fans cause of resentment, as both Coyle and the SKY Sports agitators had suggested, the match referee’s mental arthritis was in truth Bolton’s salvation.

Had the match been governed by anything other than appalling incompetence, Owen Coyle might well have found himself explaining three sending’s-off and a cricket score. But enough of Bolton; they always were yesterday’s men;we knew it, and now they know it.

As an aside… One of the most telling interviews I saw last week followed the appointment of Gerard Houllier to the post abandoned by the idiosyncratic Martin O’Neill. The interviewee was a slightly obtuse-looking, dyed-in-the-wool, Aston Villa fan, who, when asked if he approved of the appointment, nodded sagely and said ‘we needed a foreign manager’.

He was right. Houllier is a gentleman, and an ambassador for the game. He is a strategist, and a thinker, and he understands that teams at the highest levels of the game have evolved to become more strategically aware and technically advanced. Martin O’Neill, for all of his reputation, and for all of his bluster in last year’s fixture, was a boot it long,  high, and wide, old-school tactician, whose hysterical reaction to ArseneWenger’s innocuouscriticism spoke volumes for the inferiority complex lurking beneath the outraged purist.

And so to the Stadium of Light, a misnomer if ever I heard one, because if there ever was a more faithful and genuine football fan than a Sunderland fan I have yet to see one, and if ever a fan base deserved more than the frightened, stone-age thinking of the current Sunderland management, it is those fans who religiously support Steve Bruce and his tactical myopia.

Don’t allow this mild-mannered even-tempered media darling to fool you. Bruce talks of cleaning up the Sunderland act but he is in truth the quintessential English Manager, and his teams are the quintessential get in yer face, don’t let em breathe, if you can’t get the ball get the man,reform-school bullies. It was no accident that Bruce appointed Lee Cattermole to team captain.Cattermole personifies all that is archaic and crude in the Premier League, and Bruce knew precisely what he was doing.

When Bruce appeared before the cameras last week, in the wake of yet another Cattermole sending-off, and pleaded frustration and ambivalence, he wasn’t concerned about his captain’s general demeanour and reckless challenges. His primary concern was that his role model for the quintessential English game had been so easily and so frequently caught in blatant acts of thuggery.To stand before the cameras shaking his head and bleating about Cattermole’s recalcitrance dragged post-match interviewing from the perfunctory to the absurd.

So gird your loins my stalwart gooners, because after only four games Bruce is already staring into the abyss. So far this season the only Sunderland performance of any note whatsoever was a goal to nil victory at home against a ragged and unbalanced Manchester City. With his number-one battering-ram suspended, Bruce’s only hope against us lies in a general war of stop-em-playing attrition, with the outside possibility of the mercurial Bent or the incongruous Gyan (their only chink of light at the end of an otherwise dismal tunnel) nicking a result.

Bruce and Sunderland lie tenth, with five points on the board, which is not disastrous until you analyse the fixtures past and then study those to come. They have taken only two points from Birmingham, West Brom, and Wigan, and Bruce is understandably looking worried. His next four Premier League fixtures see him matched against three of the old ‘big four’ followed by a gruelling trip to take on Fat Sam’s sluggers in an X-rated encounter at Ewood Park Swamp.

If he’s not to see Sunderland in crisis, before October is out, Bruce has to start grinding out results, and that inevitably means Arsenal could be in for more than the usual dose of systematic fouling and unbridled aggression come five-thirty Saturday. And if we are not to see a repeat of our under-achievement of last year, we are going to need further liberal helpings of the same steel and resolve that put Fat Sam and Outraged Owen to the sword.

So, I trust, it will be.

Written by mikeB