Watching Arsenal so far this season has reminded me a bit of when I first watched Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation. To be honest, Coppola The Younger doesn't really float my boat in the way her old man knows how to. Yeah, I know it's a beautifully acted film, and it addresses loneliness and disenchantment, which is all well and good, but it plods along with all the excitement and verve of a snail on valium. People who've seen this film and spent the entire time waiting for something to happen, as I did, should know a thing or two about frustrating starts. As should Arsenal fans. The team's hit the ground anything but running with two defeats in the first four games, along with a gifted-by-the-ref win over Newcastle. This hasn't been good, particularly as Chequeski seem to have effortlessly carried last season's admittedly good form into this one, not to mention the fact that the Gods clearly favour the super-rich (how else do you explain the ball deflecting into the net off of a £24 million bag of cement?). So, at the time of writing, Arsenal sit 9 points off the top and it's not even nearly November, a time of year when early-season promise dissolves and Arsenal are, traditionally, crap.

Inevitably, this has led to many Gooners and sections of the media howling about the sale of Vieira, and the lack of a replacement signing (although rumours persist that Wenger's main target, Julio Baptista, could well be lining up in an Arsenal shirt at Ashburton Grove, once he's qualified for a Spanish passport at the Madrid Madhouse). To say that we are missing Vieira is too simplistic - after all, we were rubbish on plenty of occasions when he played last season. No, it's the same old problem that Arsenal have experienced for years, namely that there is no alternative strategy when the pretty passing fails to break down a half-decent defence. We've already seen this against Newcastle, Chelsea and Boro. Boro, for chrissake! How many more times can we expect to witness this between now and next May? And someone needs to explain to some of the boys that shooting from outside the box is allowed. In fact, it can even at times be more effective than playing 20 passes around the opposition's box until possession is lost. 
On a more positive note, Hleb looks to be a class player, while Reyes has been making the right noises about the club and will hopefully fulil his potential this season. The form of the Mad German has made the goalkeeping problem less of one, and, of course, this is the season when the likes of Fabregas, Van Persie and Senderos are scheduled to confirm their places as some of the best young players in Europe in their positions. Let's just hope Gilberto doesn't get injured.
And what of that hairiest of monkeys on Arsenal's back - the Champion's League? Following season upon season of disappointment, most Gooners seem to have lower expectations of European success than ever before. The win over Thun will have done little to erase that doubt. Although Arsenal will probably get knocked out in the second round as soon as they face someone half-decent, should Wenger pull off a miracle this season, it'd surely be the greatest achievement since. well, since Liverpool did it. However, as much as my heart wants to believe it could happen, my party-pooping brain says it won't. We're still too weak defensively, and defence seems to have been the key in recent seasons. But until we're knocked out, I'll keep on hoping, and when we do get knocked out, I'll hope for next season, and so on and so on, until we do finally win the damn thing. Because, one day, we will.

So: chav culture. How did that happen? I'm pretty sure that around a year ago the concept didn't exist and yet it seems to have reached complete saturation.

Chav has now been validated with its own entry in the illustrious pages of the Oxford English Dictionary and dominates the media. By no means restricted to the blanket coverage provided by the tabloid press and the glut of celebrity culture magazines such as Heat, Now and Closer, chav culture has received more than a nodding reference in the broadsheets, glossy style magazines and even been the topic of Julie Burchill's confused (or at least that's how it seemed to me) Channel 4 documentary. Was she hailing or disparaging the working classes of whom who she claims to be part?

Defined by a predilection for designer labels - particularly the ubiquitous Burberry check and the distinctive Gucci G - jewellery and general ostentation, the chav is now indigenous to practically every British town. Reactions to the rise of chav culture vary widely. Coleen MacLoughlin's appearance in a fashion shoot in the June issue of Vogue was met with applause and derision in almost equal measure.

Unofficial figurehead of chav culture, MacLoughlin has found fame as the shopaholic, labeladdicted girlfriend of England footballer Wayne Rooney and is frequently and savagely berated by the press. It's a savagery that seems bizarrely displaced, given that it's directed at a teenager whose only discernible crime is to have a disposable income unimaginable to most of us. (Still, she has to sleep with Wayne Rooney so there is a price for everything). The snide condescending comments are uncalled for. A touch of the green-eyed monster anyone? 

Anyway, the vanguard of the fashionable elite have moved the goalposts in recent months in a direct reaction to the rise of chav culture. As the currency of designer labels has been devalued, the cachet of anonymity has flourished. This new trend is blatantly apparent in the more directional lines and is in stark contrast with screamingly obvious labels - think Marc Jacobs rather than Louis Vuitton. Even perma-tanned Donatella Versace has toned down her new collection: a sure sign if ever there was one. Simultaneously, the rise of vintage clothes shops - which are rarely cheap - and boho chic shows how status, in some circles, is shifting away from the possession of designer labels and a towards a more electic look.

This currency of anonymity extends beyond clothes, as anyone will confirm who's tried to find Milk and Honey, style bar of the moment, in the heart of Soho or the new fantastically discreet Martin Margiela furniture store. Where will this all end? 

And how will I find anything?

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