AFTER THE THRASHING – THE DRESSING ROOM
(Parental guidance advised – contains very strong language.)
After the thrashing, the hacks had gathered like hungry seagulls hovering around a trawler for scraps, awaiting Arsene Wenger’s press conference.
“We have the cunt now!”
“Backed right into a corner, mate!”
“No defending this one, can’t even mention mental strength, we’ll rip him apart.”
But Arsene didn’t appear. The dressing room doors remained firmly shut. They waited and waited, but nothing. “But Wenger always does his presser?”
“The fucker knows we have ‘im and he ain’t comin aat.”
“But how will we hang him?”
“Easy, hang him for not coming out, sorted.”
Where was he? Where are the players? Why the silence? This is so unlike him.
Let me take you into the dressing room and we’ll see, shall we. Jose Mourinho has all the rooms in Stamford Bridge both bugged and wired up for communication (for times when he’s banned to the stands), and I have a contact inside the Bridge, an Arsenal supporter, who needs the money, otherwise he wouldn’t face going to that horrible shithole everyday for work. My good friend has passed me a tape of what went on in the room on Saturday afternoon, and has revealed a side of Arsene Wenger that we have never seen before.
THE DRESSING ROOM –
A few have their heads hung in shame, questioning their performances and the performances of the others around them. Others are drained, because different to what a lot have said, they have worked their bollocks off. Others are having a laugh and a joke, gathered around Lukas Podolski’s phone while he tells jokes and juggles kittens dressed as various fruits (he’s quite the joker).
The door slowly opens. Arsene walks in, very quietly. Stands holding the door until silence has fallen around the room, and then…………….. BANG. He slams the door shut. (It even woke Abou Diaby up). He takes off his jacket, (luckily he didn’t have the long jacket on, would’ve taken forever), puts it onto a hanger, faces the wall and says nothing. Minutes pass, and not a sound. He then turns, opens the buttons on his shirt and rolls his sleeves right up as far as they can go, until all that can be seen are pulsing veins. The players are visibly nervous, as he is never like this, never. If things have gone badly in the past, he’s more inclined to come in silently, give everyone the eye, and walk out. Like when you come home expecting a bollocking from the wife, for her to ignore you or greet you with silence, it’s even more unnerving than the bollocking you expected.
AW – “Well done lads. Fucking well done. Of all the days you decided to take it handy, it was today, here, against that cunt. I stood by you lot, I put my reputation on the line, backing you lot, and you repay me this way? 1000 games, 1000 games, why do I bother? 1000 times I told you no matter what, don’t let them score first, a thousand times. Is it something I’ve done? Are we not treating you well enough? Aww, are you not getting enough money? Thanks, just fucking thank you.”
“All week I told you not to allow them make it be about me, a thousand games, or Mourinho, I said make them write headlines about you, yourselves for fuck sake. Jesus Christ, I can imagine the fucking headlines now. I thought of all games you’d give me 1000% in this my 1000th game, but fuck that, 1000th game apart, you were four points behind Chelsea, four fucking points, a game in hand, never mind me the 1000 games, surely you should be able to knuckle down for this game anyway, but no. Mental block, soft under belly, all the usual shite they spout and type, well you, all of you are making their words come true.
“What can I say. Olivier (Giroud), what’s your story? Wrecked? Up banging all night? How many, 1, 2, 3 at a time? Fill me in, I’m losing count. No? Nothing, no answer. Just sit there, saying nothing, doing nothing. Fucking sounds familiar. I should punish you, but how? Oh I’ve got it. Stand up….come on, come on, stand fucking up.” Giroud, slowly puts his towel to the side and gets to his feet. Wenger slowly claps, “Wow, well fucking done. Wasn’t that hard was it? Now see if you can actually stay standing for more than a minute without needing a sit down.”……….. I honestly think the only way I’ll get you to challenge fully for a ball is by drawing a set of nipples on it, “Funny, you’ve no problem getting your knob to stand up, and stay standing it seems.” There are a few sniggers from elsewhere in the room.
Wenger spins round in a split second, belying his age, like willo the wisp (has a bit of a Kenneth Williams beak on him actually), and fixes his stare on Kieran Gibbs. The smirk on his face disappears quickly too, but just not in time, Wenger had already spotted it.
AW – “Aww Kieran, poor little Kieran, oooh it wasn’t me, I didn’t do it, believe me you were getting hauled off before that Marriner cunt made a balls up. Oh I’m Kieran I’m so nice and young and sweet, butter wouldn’t melt. You reminded me of an old woman leaving her house, to go for a walk, and as you walked up the left wing, you realised ‘Oh Jesus, I left the heating on’, so you slowly turn and walk back, slowly, while looking into your handbag for your keys, meanwhile a big German thief named Andre Schurrle had got into your house and nicked your fucking Playstation, made a cup of tea and pissed in your trainers by the time you got back to the door.”
“Lukas, I’m surprised you haven’t got your phone out, recording me, putting me in a vine or something, taking a selfie with me in the background as you sport a baseball cap sideways. You would’ve had time to do it out there today. ‘Oh I’m Lukas, I ‘m the great finisher, I play for Germany’.. Yes, well, there’s more to the game than finishing my friend, and along came Marco Reus and took that place in the German team, he bothers to get involved in games Lukas, but not to worry, sure I’m sure you can get a cool tattoo or something that clicks with the fans and all will be \forgiven. Well that shit don’t work on me sunshine, not a fucking bit of it. No matter how many tours of London you do, no matter how many photo’s you tweet, I couldn’t give a fuck until you learn how to take a touch, and learn how to pass. Your attitude sickens me. You sicken me.”
“Ox! Ox! Where the fuck are ye? Gone missing again? Just because you had the hump that I didn’t pick you in nets, just because you should’ve been sent off, it doesn’t mean you stop playing. You’re a strong lad, so why can’t you stay on your feet. Is it the sponsorship, is it the money, ‘oh I must wear these boots, as they’re cool and funky and eye-catching, the kids will love ‘em and I’ll make loads of cash’, well next time, make sure there’s some fucking studs on ‘em. Have you been watching Giroud too long.
“My two Tommy’s, from opposite sides of the spectrum. Rosicky if I could clone you I would, you I can’t complain about. Verm, I just don’t know what to say. I know Christian Benteke and the rest of the Belgian forwards are struggling for form and goals, but that doesn’t mean you should try and stake your claim as the Belgian striker for the World Cup, when I ask you to play left back, or centre back. For fuck sake, the biggest clue is in the name Tommy centre BACK, BACK, BACK.”
“Mathieu , I apologise for not starting you, you probably have more fight in a drop of sweat than the rest combined. I’m leaning towards leaving this room and locking the door, and giving you permission to let off steam in any way you deem appropriate.
“What the fuck am I going to do with you lot. I don’t know. Take wages off you? – as if that bothers you. Double training sessions? – you’ll just do fuck all twice as often. I don’t know, I’ve fucking tried everything, covered you in trust and I just don’t know anymore.”
“First up, fucking social media, gone, good luck, goodnight Vienna. Banned from now, immediately. I don’t want to see or hear of one of you twitting or Faceburking or whatever the fuck it is. I MEAN IT. Jeysus, it’s come to the stage where I have to check Lukas and Olivier’s socks before they take to the pitch, in case they have Samsung Galaxy’s in their socks instead of shinpads.”
“I’m thinking of getting Sol and Martin Keown back to the training ground, starving them for 3 days and then letting them lose. Sounds weird to you? Well, I’m also considering strapping burgers or steaks to your backs and legs, and sending you out there, then you’ll be afraid of a three day hungry Keown and Sol, fucking speed you lot up a bit, and get you used to getting tackled too. Or maybe I’ll just spray some perfume onto you, rip the backs off you’re shorts and let Olivier loose. Then that won’t work, as that would be rewarding him, and fuck me, he doesn’t deserve it.”
“Six fucking 0, jeeeeesus, Six fucking 0……….I’m going to have this squirrel lipped fucker jumping onto his private jet from Texas, wanting to see me, and to explain how this has happened, worried about how it will affect the poxy franchise, I have to deal with that, me, none of you disasters, me goddamit, while you go off to the bank, collect you’re cash, pick up you’re golf clubs and piss the day away, I’m going to be up to my nads in explaintions, and grillings, again thank you very much. You pack of ungrateful fucks, you’re wearing The Arsenal jersey, never forget that. I could have been sitting on a bench in sunny Barcelona, enjoying the skills of Messi and Iniesta and co., instead I’m back here trying to improve a poxy Giroud and a short of confidence midget, and this is how you repay me and the club and the fans. Oh Jesus Christ, the poor fucking fans, did you hear them? We’re getting thumped. And they still stay and sing, and this is how you repay them……..”
“Just leave, get out, piss off, whatever, just get the fuck out of my vision, I need to think, and don’t touch that fucking bottle of red wine over there, or death will become you……Bouldie, get me Keown on the phone, pronto.”
Needless to say, the players gathered together their gear, popped on their poxy massive headphones and shuffled out quietly…….then later met for golf, taking selfies and laughing.