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.

I wrote once that Wenger had failed to adapt, that his pursuit of success was at odds with his refusal to change stuttering tactics. I suggested, labouring a Les Miserables metaphor to breaking point, that life had killed the dream he dreamed; reality crushing his ideal of flowing football on a shoestring. I realise now that I was wrong. Wenger’s dream is not crushed, he will never be broken. He has apparently given up on conventional success in pursuit of his Moby Dick of perfect attacking football. He cares not for defending, for the fans, for structure. Instead he desires simply beauty, raising a nonchalant Gallic middle finger to his doubters as he conjures, albeit only occasionally, a perfect attacking maelstrom. I love Arsene Wenger. In a culture of success, of money, of instant gratification, he stands alone as a dreamer. What is not to love about that?

Of course, he does not achieve quite this perfection as often as he would hope. His players abandon him; tired of being locked in an avant garde play in Shoreditch they have left him in droves to the glamour, glitz and gold of conventional Hollywood, chasing the box office rather than the acclaim. Yet Arsenal alone, certainly in the league and perhaps in the World, can still create football which takes the breath away. At their best they resemble a squadron of Red Arrows shooting across an otherwise grey sky. Barcelona match their intricacy and United their pace, but only Arsenal combine both virtues into their death defying routine; weaving at breakneck speed, drawing gasps from spectators who look through their fingers, scarcely daring to believe that such movement is possible. Sometimes it is not. Sometimes Theo Walcott will splutter into a tailspin, careering into Lukas Podolski in a ball of flames as Giroud ejects somewhere near the halfway line. But sometimes it does work, and for this Arsene deserves all the praise in the World. We are the Trequartistas: our bio explicitly states our love for mercurial beauty over machine-like consistency. It is easy when you are not an Arsenal fan, but there is something wonderful about having Wenger’s team still battling in the league against all the odds. They are a reminder of what our sport can be at its best; an almost flagrant disregard for results in the face of an altogether higher ideal. If I were an Arsenal fan I would hate it, but I’m not. Thank God.

So as Wenger croons at his piano, imploring us to imagine no defending (it’s easy if you try), take a step back from the realities of football and instead admire the man. He will probably never win another league, and possibly never even another trophy. He will besmirch his name in the eyes of supporters who rightly demand success over sumptuous play with no end result. Yet I like the idea that he simply doesn’t care; that he will sign Cabaye and fuck the World if they disagree with him. I like the idea that there is more to football than winning, at least for a couple more years in North London. Arsene, unlike Lennon, imagines only possession; that is his religion. Some people will say he is a dreamer, but he is definitely not the only one. Once a week I get to watch Arsenal as I did today, and, amidst screaming at Jenkinson and Szczesny, share briefly the dream of a madman, the likes of whom we will never see again.