Arsene Wenger’s Master Plan

Welcome to strange bOUnce, Bill Blakeston.

Arsène placed a hand on the young scout’s shoulder and peered at the bank of screens before them, his beady Alsatian eyes scrunched with concentration.

“An overall of eighty-seven on FIFA after three seasons, you say?” he purred into the ear of the scout, who shivered.

“Yes sir. And a crossing stat in the lower nineties. Just think, if we could only get Robin to start heading the ball…”

Slowly, surely, Arsène’s cracked lips contorted themselves into a twisted rendition of a smile. Seeing the effect his report had wrought upon his master, the scout shivered again. He was petrified of Wenger — they all were, this select group of talent spotters, academy reconnoitres and wonderkid sleuths whom he had assembled to systematically scour the world for football’s juvenile phenomena.

Arsène leant in closer still, until his shrivelled flute of a nose was in danger of putting out the scout’s eye. The scout wrinkled his own nose, a small rubbery affair, for his master’s breath was rank with the smell of the iodine supplements that he was constantly popping to repress memories of The Obafemi Moment.

“What is your registration, squire?”

The scout’s eyes streamed as wave after wave of his master’s stench engulfed him. There was a hint of garlic there too. His mid-morning snack, no doubt.

“SB1LW, sir.”

It was the tag given to him on day one of his training in Bergkamp house at the Scoutinarium, and the only name he’d known since.

Arsène’s leer grew, evidently pleased by the response. His exposed teeth were a sickly ochre. He straightened up and, tail-coats flapping, turned to his second in command.

“Monsieur Djourou! Promote this man!”

The nervous looking sidekick, who had stood silently in his master’s shadow throughout the encounter, suddenly jerked into life. He regarded SB1LW coolly.

“This man, sir?”

He sounded unsure, and with good reason. This was the fifth promotion Arsène had authorised that season, and they were yet to reach the January transfer window.

The previous promotions had turned out to be a quartet of duds, all still wet behind the ears and not at all experienced in their calling. Following their boss’s techniques to the very last detail and displaying not one ounce of their own initiative, they had unearthed a collection of obscure Armenian wingers and gangly Levantine strikers – all ‘gems’ who turned out to be no more than fool’s gold.

“Yes him, you imbecile!”

“But sir…” Johan quaked. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, steeling himself. When he was composed enough, he stepped forward with feigned confidence, took his master by the arm and lead him to a table heaped with charts, diagrams and Pro Evo manuals. He stabbed a manicured finger down on a coffee stained graph.

“We have plenty of flair players already, not to mention ones with high crossing stats…”

Arsène looked nonplussed.

Determined to make his point this time though, Johan refused to give up. He clicked his fingers at a passing clerk, who scurried off, then returned with a sheath of newly printed reports. Each piece of paper was emblazoned with the gawping motif of the Gunnersaurus Rex.

With the evidence now at hand to support his reasoning, Johan grew in confidence. “Look. What we have in tricks and flair, sir, we lack in bravery, in tackling! According to the latest Football Manager stats, we haven’t a single player with a leadership value of over ten–”

Arsène struck him a stunning blow with the back of his hand. Glossy papers billowed into the air like a flock of geese.

“SILENCE!” he roared, spraying his dazed second in command with iodine-scented spittle. Flattening his hair with the palm of his hand and rubbing his lips dry with the other, Arsène quickly regained his composure. His voice was now barely more than a whisper, his tone dangerously calm. “You have consulted Football Manager? What was it, perhaps you were not aware that we simply do not tolerate that United propaganda at the Arsenal? Tackling indeed…”

He placed a bony, delicate hand on Johan’s shoulder, but his words still betrayed his animosity. “You know, Johan, a company works best when everyone does what they are paid to do. Am I paying you to play that… filth, or am I paying you to do my bidding?”

All eyes were on Johan now, who did not dare respond. A mousy haired youth who went by the registration number SH3CDM, secretly infatuated with M. Djourou since his induction, wept silently into a pain au chocolat.

Arsène turned to face his scouts; his subjects. He raised his arms in what he imagined was a spectacular manner. The sweat patches certainly were.

“Let this be a lesson to you all, my children!”

He took a step forward, into the centre of the room. Some plucky light technician trained a spotlight on him.

“Here at Arsenal we do not believe in tackling, in aggression — in any semblance of defence. We exist only to attack! To play hundreds of sumptuous, kaleidoscopic passes, to make endless mazy runs into the final third of the pitch only to be tackled at the last — that is the Arsenal way!”

He was pacing furiously now, pausing only to snatch SH3CDM’s pastry. When he crammed it into his mouth his jowls became flecked with chocolate.

Johan hadn’t moved a muscle. His cheek was still smarting and there were tears in his umber eyes. Oh, how he missed Switzerland now, with its rolling hills, alive with the sound of music; its chocolate; its lenient tax laws… He didn’t belong here, he knew that now.

When he spoke his voice cracked with emotion.

“Master Wenger.”

His boss wheeled to face him, eyes blazing, wrinkled face flushed.

“What? What is it, foolish child? Do you propose we sign an experienced player? A player with some grit and determination? I knew it. No more Match of the Day either, let that be decreed from this day, too.”

The clerk from before scuttled off, official Arsenal pen in hand and worried expression on his face. They were running out of room on the Constitution.

Arsène wasn’t finished. “No, I will not have those Alans try to run my club from the comfort of their… Manchester studio.” The M Word was forced out between gritted teeth. “What else would you suggest, Monsieur Pundit? A central defender with an injury record that does not rival Evel Knievel’s, perhaps?”

There was a ripple of nervous laughter amongst the assembled scouts and talent spotters, who appreciated their boss’s dark humour.

Johan cut through the giggles. “I resign.”

A stunned silence fell.

Even Arsène seemed taken aback. “You… I… what…?”

The tall, grey haired man deflated before Johan’s eyes, his anger evaporated, his groove-ridden face now a rubbery, haggard mask.

“You heard me, Arsène, I resign. It can’t go on like this. Your over-reliance on flair, on passing, on movement… it’s destroying the club.”

Head bowed, Arsène took a long, slow step towards his terrified sidekick.

When he looked up, though, another of his hideous leers had formed, and his eyes danced like a flame once more.

“My dear Johan. Whatever did you think I was trying to do?”

Bill Blakeston reveals his secrets at East Face/Brain Dead? and can be heckled on twitter @Blexxxston