Club Announces Rube Goldberg Emery. Plus Arsenal’s Coach Selection Process Exposed.

Breaking: How Rube Goldberg Became Arsenal Coach.

Surprised the Emirates Chiefs? Emery blew their goddamn tits off. Listen up…

Mikel Arteta headed out of the conference room pulling his packed travel case behind, a strange, tiny, furry hand stuck out through the gap between the zippers, seeming to wave as it bobbed.

After a tasteful pause, Ivan asked “OK then. Who’s up next?”

Raul Sanllehi looked up from his book (“DOF for Dummies”)

“It says here, Rube Goldberg,” Raul replied, the trace of a micro-smile disappearing quickly into the corners of his mouth.

“I HAFF NOT heard off HIM before AT ALL,” Sven Mislintat said with his usual arbitrary emphasis, then blew a puff of breath up to rustle his fringe.

Ivan scratched his chin. “Sounds very familiar. Isn’t that also the name of that fellow I wikipedia’d a few weeks ago who builds those fantastic, elaborate machiii…

Before he could get out his full question, the door swung open as a sleeved hand flung a fistful of sparkling dust onto the floor next to the podium. A puff of smoke and a flash of light and through the resulting cloud strode a handsome Latin gentleman, wearing a pristine black evening suit with white shirt sleeve cuffs that would not look out of place on a stage magician.

“Woah!” exclaimed Sven, gripping his chair and rolling back 5 feet to a safer distance.

Good hafternoon, LADIES…HAND…GENTLEMEN! said the mystery man, in a heavy Spanish accent.

“Welcome to da ha matinee,” as he bowed and swung one arm down so that is swung back up the other side and wrapped his waist.

Ivan and Sven looked at each other, befuddled.

“I am Unai.”

“Ahah!” cried out Sven. “I KNEW it!”

“But I haff manny nayeems: Unai when I play to hattack. Emery when I play to defend. Rube Goldberg when I tinker brilliantly with da tactical seeestems. And LaShondra when I cruise da night district.

“But today, standing before hayou…I ham…”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“…Rube Goldberg. Let Hoose Beeegeeen!”

In a dizzying flurry, Senor Goldberg rattled through a blur of tricks and illusions: rabbits disappeared, doves appeared, the Ace Of Spades was whipped out of Sven’s ass crack which only moments before Ivan had placed on the top of a deck of cards. And then the Arsenal Tea Lady was wheeled in, boxed up, and sawn in half. It should be noted to her great credit, by way of her screaming and flailing, she herself performed a passable impression of a woman being sawn in half, aided by special effects employing a minimum of 6 or 7 pints of blood spurting onto floor, ceiling and wall.

Raul looked on unflustered. Sven and Ivan, on the other hand, looked on in a state of utter shock.

Two medics no one had seen before, let alone called for, burst into the room, grabbed the illusionist boxes containing the two halves of the Tea Lady, and bolted out the door. The Senor’s commitment to the illusion remained total.

“And now for thee mayyyn eevent,” announced Senor Goldberg

“The VIDEO ANALASEEEEECE, he said practically shouting, OF YOUR TEEEEMS DEEEEEEFENCE.”

There was a drum roll from somewhere. Sven parted his fringe, looked above and behind to locate the percussionist, to no avail.

A massive projection screen descends from the ceiling.

“Holy smokes, “says Ivan. “I never knew we had one of those in this conference room.”

“Hayou do now, Meeestare Gazeeedeece, smiled Senor Rube Goldberg.

“Let oouss…BEEEHOLD.” he enjoined. “Your deeefence last hayear. It WAZZZZ a JOKE!!!! Ahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Hah! Haaaaaa!”

“Luke!” Senor Goldberg waved all eyes toward the screen.

(We cannot describe the full horror of the defensive shit show he selected. Suffice it to say that it was an exemplar of peak Arsenal defence, as if manned by 7 giraffes on roller skates: Sanchez spills the ball. Xhaka gimps to meet it too slowly, Ramsey sprints 50 yards forward into the opposition 6 yard box, Jack gets bowled over trying to buy a foul. Koscielny sprints towards the ball but pulls a hammie. Mustafi comes careening in with a sliding tackle to save the day. Unfortunately that day is tomorrow. Kolasinac swings at the loose ball and slices it with such ferocious power straight into the back-pedaling Ospina’s gut who is already positioned behind the goal-line before the ball plows him into the back of the net.)

Ivan, red-faced with embarrassment, clears his throat and asks haltingly, “So I’m guessing your point is you will need to replace every member of the defence including the keeper?”

Replace them? Good God NO! Hi want to commemorate dame! Cast statues of dose magnificent beasts in ha bronze outside of da ha hEmeerates. 

Luke! he says again, as he walks to a drawing board that no one remembered ever being on that wall.

Coloured chalks in hand, like Jackson Pollack on cocaine, he slashes and sketches until he has completed a remarkably detailed recreation of the play.

He turns to his audience: Heet eece breelliant, dett defying. Luke how haday draw de hahopposition on to dame. Deep-her and deep-her into dare hallf. Pooling de hahenemy towards dare goal. Pooling dame in like fools. ONWARED ONWARED ROAD DA 600 HOONDRED.

“But, errr, the opposition scored,” points out Ivan.

“PHEEELLLLLLEEESTINE !!!” Rube Goldberg hisses at Ivan, thrusting a chalk stick to within an inch of Ivan’s nose tip.

YOUR DEFENCE IS HAWHY HI CAME!!!

You know not what you look at. Eet’s mastareful. Brilliant. Tilling. Teetering between ha life and da dett. Like ha ha highwire hact soospended across de Grand Canhone while ha tornahdo blows true. Deece eece no haxheedent. Deece eece han hunfeeneeshed mastarepiece…

Hand yet…deece needs but da slight-hest of tacteecal tahweaks.

(OH fuck it. I’m exhausted. You can add your own crappy Spanish accent while you read!)

Senor Goldberg continued: Imagine if you will…we add a revolving bicycle wheel with an egg in a holder that dumps out on to a frying pan that flips the fried egg onto a plate that slides down a greased board knocking over a domino chain that triggers a mallet to swing down from the cross bar and smack Ospina on the back of the head so he falls forward spilling the ball to Bellerin who is now wide open due to the chaos. He lobs their shocked centerbacks who have their pants down THEREBY setting Aubameyang free to attack their goalkeeper, now RIPE for the slaughter.

There was an audible gasp from Gazidis and Mislintat. Leaping to their feet, they burst into spontaneous applause: Bravo, Maestro!! Bravissimo!!!  ENCORE!!!

“Sooooo, we wouldn’t need to sign anyone, you’re thinking?” Ivan clarified

“Not hawone. You DO NOT FOOK WIT PEAR-FECTION.”

Splendid, added Raul as the conversation subsided. Let me walk you out to your limousine Senor Emerrrr. I mean, Senor Rube.

And as the two turned through the door, Sven was pretty sure that he saw Raul slap Senor Goldberg on the arse.

Ivan wheeled around to Sven. “Now THAT’s what I call a fucking presentation!”

Sven peered through his fringe like an Old English Sheepdog. “I must say that Mikel Arteta was fun with all the glove puppets for his tactics demo. And I did get to work the Aubameyang and Mikhi ones.”

“But THAT Rube Goldberg thing nearly BLEW my goddamn tits off!”