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Perhaps I was wrong about Robert Pires. Perhaps it was a little unfair to suggest the bizarrely bearded Gaul threw somewhat less than body and soul behind the Gooner cause. Perhaps Bob is busting a gut, straining every sinew, giving it 110 percent. Perhaps he's just not good enough. Perhaps he's not the only one.

The wretched Munich surrender surely explodes the remaining myths about this Arsenal side. Ignoring the diverting sideshow that sees them hammer hapless Premiership fodder at will - though only at the comfort of Highbury, with it's unblemished surface and heated dressing room floors (oh, yes) - the class of 2001 have failed all this term's big tests.

Chased down an Elland Road alley and beaten by O'Leary's boot boy babies, capitulation to the tidily-marshalled pedestrians from Anfield, humiliation at the Picturehouse of Nightmares, and now a whimperless submission before a Bavarian bore-squad.

And yet we Gooners are amazed at each successive farrago. Every time the Wenger Boys come up short there is wailing and gnashing and wringing of hands. Fair cop, I hold my own hands up as a ringmaster of recrimination.

But why the misguided expectations? Why do we expect the Arse to sweep all before them despite every evidence that the bigger hurdles now consistently prove a leap too far? I reckon Gooners still think we're looking at the double side of three years ago. That irresistible fusion of Graham's stubborn defensive legacy and Le Prof's Franco-Dutch attacking juggernaut. The side that not only overhauled Manchester United in terms of league position, but established physical and psychological supremacy in one-to-one combat with the red scourge.

Sadly that side is no more. The passing of years and the exchange of cash has seen every department of that remarkable unit compromised beyond recognition.

Dick Turpin in the goal has reached and passed the summit of his form. 

Three of the rearguard bedrock remain, but they are peerless now only in terms of a spirit that's ever more unique. 

The man-mountain in the middle still pumps the team's heartbeat but Vieira is left alone now to carry the fight. He and Petit were tag-team gladiators pummelling lightweight foes like Butt and Scholes to their knees. Until Manu is properly replaced, Vieira cannot always be expected to work a second shift.

Elsewhere in the team, the quality deficit is every bit as tangible. Sadly Bergkamp cannot do it any more and Kanu's skills deserve either a warmer stage or a circus big top. Parlour is still Parlour, and Freddie is more Parlour than the Parlours themselves. 

Only in Henry has improvement been achieved. And while the Prince of Paris lends more imagination and a considerably better attitude than the departed Anelka, it could be argued that the power of the original Nasty Nic was more likely to beat a path to away day goals.

And then we come back to Pires. No doubt a player of style and - let's concede - substance. At the same time, a player kept out of the National set-up by that unlikeliest of wingers, Dugarry. In many ways Overmars was the man who won the double for Arsenal. The vital winning goals were often his and the constant threat of his pace forced opponent's strategic hand. Pires may sometimes bring his own gifts to the Arsenal party but it doesn’t seem he can be expected to emulate probably the best wide player in the world.

So why should we be too critical of the Arsenal? A team clearly needing surgery has dragged itself within earshot of two victory parades. And compared to the much lauded but detestable rabble from Leeds, we've spent a fraction of their high-profile outlays, yet have comfortably exceeded their achievements. The mystery man from Brazil, Edu waits in the wings and the best crop of youth players in England impatiently want a turn.

So let's concede for now that the current team is not exactly chocolate and be pleasantly surprised if they manage to sneak some consolation sweeties from this season's trophy larder.