Avast, ye salt-crusted deck-scrubbers and league-watchers! Captain Iron Ink here, reporting from the crow’s nest with news that defies the very laws of the Seven Seas. It seems the Great Man-o’-War known as the Arsenal sailed into the murky bay of Sherwood’s Thicket—that god-forsaken port they call Nottingham Forest—only to find their cannons stuffed with wet seaweed and their aim as crooked as a peg-leg pirate in a gale. In a display of marksmanship that would make a blind cabin boy weep, the North London Gunners failed to find the back of the netting, settling for a scoreless stalemate that smelled worse than a week-old barracuda left in the sun.

Yet, by the dark sorcery of the Admiralty’s charts, these Gunners have actually extended their lead at the top of the Golden Table! Aye, you heard that right. While Captain Mikel’s crew was busy tripping over tree roots in the Forest, their primary rivals—the Blue Moon Marauders of Manchester and the Mersey Privateers—must have run their own sloops aground on some hidden reef. It is a strange day on the high seas when a ship can fail to fire a single killing blow and still find itself further ahead in the race for the Crown’s Plunder. The 'Invincibles' they are not, but the 'Fortunates'? Perhaps.

‘I’ve seen better shooting from a one-eyed squid with a hangover,’ barked Quartermaster Ødegaard after the final whistle, according to my spies on the dockside. ‘We had the wind in our sails and the Forest ruffians backed against the cliffs, yet we couldn't pierce their hull. It’s a disgrace to the Jolly Roger we fly.’ Even the High Lord of the Admiralty, the grizzled Lord Neville of Sky-Galleon, was heard muttering in the tavern that the Gunners look like they’ve run out of grog just as the treasure comes into view. ‘If they keep firing blanks like this,’ he growled into his ale, ‘the Blue Moon will catch them before they can say "Scupper me timbers!"’

The consequences of this scoreless voyage are ripples that turn into tidal waves across the league. The shipping lanes are now cluttered with nervous bettors and frantic bookmakers. If the Gunners can expand their territory while playing like a bunch of scurvy-ridden landlubbers, what happens when they finally dry their powder? The rest of the fleet is shivering in their boots, terrified that Arsenal is winning the war through sheer gravity rather than tactical brilliance. Every other captain in the Premier Waters is scratching their head, wondering how a team that forgot how to score can still be the kings of the ocean.

So, we look to the horizon. The Basque Admiral Mikel must find a way to sharpen his cutlasses before the next boarding action. The lead is wider, aye, but a ship with no teeth is eventually just a very large target for a hungry shark. We sail on toward the trophy room, but I warn ye—if the gunpowder stays damp, the Arsenal might find themselves walking the plank just as they reach the Golden Shore. Keep your eyes on the spyglass and your hand on your sword, for this season is more unpredictable than a kraken on rum!