Shhh! Ozil thinks it’s always like this.
Shhh! Ozil thinks it’s always like this.
So I sent in my idea to Arsenal via the dot com. You know the one. The one about rewarding a lucky fan once a month by letting him join the dressing room after the match, showers and all.
And fuck me! Guess what. They loved it. And they asked me to be the one to do a trial run!!
And guess which match it was?! This Norwich match. Bless my lucky stars!!
And what a match! What goals!!
So there we all are – me and the team in the dressing room. Some of us wearing towels around our waists and some of us were standing around completely starkers. Well, really it was just me wearing the towel. And it was just fantastic to be in the dressing room.
You can’t even imagine the atmosphere in there. It was electric. The boombox music blaring. The lads were singing “I Will Survive” till they went hoarse. We formed a Conga line around the dressing and through the showers. Brilliant!
It was ALL just sooooo fucking brilliant. The best hours of my life even comparing the birth of any of my children or any sexual experience I’ve had (yes, both of them), or John Terry falling on his snot in RvP’s wake. Absolutely fucking priceless. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
So, anyway, there we all were in the showers, pushing and shoving and horsing around. Giroud yanked my towel and started flicking everyone’s arse with it. What a card that fellow is.
But the really strange thing was…no Ozil. Hmmm?!
Then suddenly, Arsene walked into the dressing room, a big cheesy, happy grin across his face. He looked like the cat who caught the budgie.
“C’etait magnifique, mes amis. Absolutely superb quality and invention! Quite astounding football we played today.”
Just then he stopped dead in his tracks to take in the whole scene in front of him. It was pandemonium:
Ramsey had Jack in a headlock.
Arteta and Rosicky were in convulsions while taking it in turns to nutmeg a still concussed, double-visioned Flamini, with a rolled up sock. The poor bastard thought the match was still on.
“Arrêt!” Arsene shouted. “What are you thinking, you fools. Haven’t we talked about this?! Who let in the mime and the clowns?” asked Arsene. “Sorry boss,” answered Mertesacker.
“Poldolski. Put down that midget and get off the pony.”
“Aha, boss?” Offered Poldi.
“No! Lukas. Not “Aha.””
“Sorry, boss” came Poldi’s sheepish reply.
“Arrêt! Settle down you lot. Have we not talked about this?? Mesut will be back in the dressing room any moment. Remember! He doesn’t know that this was anything special today. He thinks it is always like this. The flicks, the wonder goals, the psychic understanding. That’s why he came here.
In fact, now that I am thinking about it, why DIDN’T you need Ozil when scoring the most spectacular goal in half a decade?”
“Errr, boss, you never did tell us what you said to Ozil on the phone famous call.”
“Okay, bien, mes amis. But keep this to yourself to yourself or I will chop your little balls off:
I called Mesut at Real. There was a lot of nice chat, all very polite. Then Mesut says to me “How are results going, Monsieur Wenger.” I gulped. So I told him the phone was breaking up and I hung up. But he called back immediately and asked me again. So I panicked. I asked him if he heard about the Villa match. He said he hadn’t, so I told him we massacred them 7-0. He was very impressed. He asked me where we were in the league. I gulped again. I told him we were top of the table. Then he asked how we’d done in recent years. I said we’d won quite a few trophies in the the last mumble mumble years but in the last couple of years we had been horribly unlucky. Injuries, Judases, etc.
But I told him we were playing miraculous football. Brilliant stuff, and if you took the best of Barca and Real and rolled it together, we’d beat them. Stuff them, in fact. Like we did when we beat Bayern 2-0 at the Allianz in the CL. That’s when I really got the feeling he was warming up to me. So, I got little bit carried away. I told him we had world class players all over the field:
A world class Spaniard who took the Prem by storm in his 1st year.
A Welsh Jesus who was the top midfielder in Europe.
An English Jesus who outplayed Barcelona’s midfield of Xavi and Iniesta in the Champions League.
A brilliant, swashbuckling centerback who put Messi in his pocket, right alongside RvP and a myriad of others.
Another Centerback with 100 caps for Germany.
A top class Spanish midfield anchor.
A French master of the dark midfield arts.
A striker who never took FIRST touches because he only ever takes one touch.
The greatest striker in the world as our backup striker.
The fastest forward on the planet with a finish to match.
The best Rightback in the Prem.
A future Worldclass Leftback, and by future, I mean within a year.
A goalkeeper of unlimited potential.
The Czech legend of Dortmund.
So, right now he doesn’t know any different. I told him once Cazorla was back, we’d blow this league apart. Recently this confused him since, as he pointed out last week, we already are.
And that’s why:
1. We’ve been teaching him dodgy English so he doesn’t understand anything. That’s why he always shouts “There are eels on my autobus” when he’s angry with the refs. And why he told that journo that “my wombat is constipated.”
2. We’ve been giving you guys German lessons so he gets lazy with his English
3. He’s never out of Per’s sight. The first thing he sees in the morning and last thing at night? Per. Intercepting all outside information.
4. We’ve got Agent Ludivine marking the girlfriend.
So, it is absolutely essential that we keep him in the dark, till I’ve thought of a way out of this. Or, of course, we could just try to keep playing world class football every week…
So, Shhh! Act casual. Stay cool. Just an average day at the office.
But bugger me, mes amis, that was some show you put on out there today. I think I might actually have undersold Mesut.