Gary Lineker gave his best Toby Jug smile to the camera.
“Well, Match of the Day fans, we have a special treat for you tonight. Our top
man, Donald Ente, was in the Emirates stadium to give us an exclusive
viewing of Arsene Wenger’s pre-match
team talk.” He turned to the big screen behind him. “I think you’ll be in for a
bit of a treat.”
Donald, wearing a large sheepskin coat and holding a microphone, appeared on the screen, standing with one hand on a grey door. He raised his
microphone to his lips.
“Good evening, viewers. I'm here in the Emirates stadium for
the pre-match Arsenal team-talk.” He pushed open the door and stepped into the
room beyond, revealing a number of Arsenal players stretched out on beds scattered
around various pieces of medical equipment. In the far corner of the room was a
very dusty wooden cabinet with the word “Trophy” scrawled in red felt pen on a
piece of paper attached to the front. A low mooing sound was emanating from
somewhere just off camera, and a Walcott-shaped blur crossed the screen before
disappearing into an unseen corridor. In the centre of the room stood a
pontificating Arsene Wenger with his back to the camera. Reluctant to cut him
off in mid-flow, Donald instead turned the microphone in his direction.
“You must all work together as a team! Remember, we must all
hang together, or assuredly, we shall all hang separately.”
“Franklin!” shouted out Arteta, and Wenger nodded. Donald
coughed politely and the Arsenal manager turned around, smiling. “Ah, Mr Ente! Do
come in!”
Donald shook his hand warmly, saying “Mr Wenger, I’d like to
ask you a couple of questions, if I may?”
Behind the manager, there was a clang of metal and a howl of
pain as Fabianski dropped his chamber pot on his foot. Wenger didn’t even
blink, but merely nodded politely.
“Well, Arsene, first off, you’ve hit a bit of a rough patch
recently, but some of your recent signings seem to have acclimatised well. Some
people are already calling Santi Cazorla your best player...”
Cazorla immediately sat up from his prone position on the
nearest bed and started shouting “I want a transfer! I want a transfer!” Wenger
shot him a glare and he sank back into bed, moaning softly. Donald seemed
slightly taken aback, but composed himself.
“Ok, well, next question. You seem to be finding goals hard
to come by at the moment but you’ve been impressive defensively. Would it be
fair to say that a big reason for that is the solidity of Thomas Vermaelen,
whom I understand is being looked at by Manchester City among oth...”
Before Donald could finish, Vermaelen leapt up and charged
towards the door; Donald managed to dodge out of the way before he was bowled
over by the defender’s headlong rush. Wenger just shook his head sadly but made
no move to stop the Belgian leaving. Again, Donald recovered.
“The young players in your team have come in for a lot of
criticism lately. How would you respond to that?”
“Young oxen newly yoked are beaten more, than oxen which
have drawn the plough before.”
“Ovid!” shouted Koscielny behind him, and Wenger smiled
again.
“Could I also ask, Mr
Wenger, why you have decided to hold your pre-match team talks in the treatment
room?”
“Well, the players seem more at home here,” Wenger replied.
“ And we believe in teamwork here. After all, no man is an island, entire of
itself.”
“Herbert!” piped up Podolski. Wenger whirled on him
furiously. “NO! It is Donne, imbecile! There is obviously a lot of work to do
to integrate you into this team!”
Donald once again
began to look flustered. “Do you think your insistence on teaching the players
literature rather than football skills could be a cause of your recent slump?”
“No. It is a philosophy that I will not change.”
“Just one last
question, Arsene. Should Giroud be doing that with the cow and the banjo?”
“Ah, do not worry, he has not hit it yet.” Wenger smiled sadly,
and the screen went black.
