Arsene in the Sky with Diamonds

As Arsene slowly worked his way through the mazy corridors of the Emirates, freshly back from the game, he could muse on a strong day’s work against Fulham. It was, he thought, a little bit good, non? His side had purred to victory against the mighty Cottagers, he had finally silenced his doubters; he was right, as he had always known he was. Yet as he took his seat in the boardroom his was met with stony faces all around. Kroenke, Gazidis and Usmanov met his gaze sheepishly; an elephant hung in the room. “Arsene”, stammered Stan, “we need to talk. One victory doesn’t make a season, we still must strengthen”. Arsene, as was his apt, looked perplexed. “What are you saying Stanley? My boys were a little bit perfect. They have the quality non?” he said, as Carl Jenkinson tripped over a step outside the window. “Yes, but Arsene, we need a defensive midfielder, we need steel at the back”. Wenger paused to fill his small glass with absinthe, and as he drained it a thin smile crossed his Gallic lips. “Say no more monsieur, we will make an offer for Cabaye in the morning. 10 million and un, of course”. Stan glanced at Ivan, who took up the theme with desperation in his voice. “No Arsene, we don’t need any more mercurial attacking midfielders, we need a centre back, a leader”. Wenger looked quizzically at his chairman, before reclining in his seat with a knowing nod. “I see. Gourcuff it is”. Silence hung in the air. At last, Usmanov chimed up in what I can only assume are heavy Uzbeki tones. “Arsene you are not listening. We have plenty of inconsistent forwards, we need a goalkeeper, we need structure.” Wenger put down his glass and looked straight into Usmanov’s eyes. “Gentlemen, I hear you. We must change, that I now understand. Get me Perez on the phone, I’ll make a derisory offer for Di Maria right this second”. No-one spoke as Arsene zipped up his puffy coat and strode out of the door, doubling back on himself when he realised he had gone the wrong way.

Football, bloody hell.

Someone asked me recently what my life philosophy was. The temptation was to cite Dre: I’m simply representing all the gangsters across the World. Instead, after some thought, I said that I’d prefer to follow the advice Paul gave to Jude, “it’s a fool who plays it cool, by making his World a little colder”. I soon realised, however, that this is quite the opposite of how I live my life. Of course, my friends would interject, I have no problem not being cool, my penchant for 80s music and University Challenge putting paid to any hopes of have of being street. I do, however, have a tendency to be disaffected to the point of aloofness. It is a trend that has only increased with my latest life malaise, an existential crisis born from my newly single, newly graduated and newly impoverished status. My angst has only made me more hollow; my World is certainly a little colder. In light of this realisation I have mused long and hard on a way out of my downward spiral. A job has escaped my clutches, and I don’t fancy my chances of picking up a girlfriend in the apocalyptic nightclubs of Oxford. Instead, I have decided I must follow the words I stumbled across. I must not play it cool. I must come out and finally say what I have realised in my sleepless summer nights. I know what is missing from my life. Or rather, I know what my life is. It is a ball game, the most beautiful one of all.