Written by Double98
Is everyone delighted with the return of the King?…
Do you remember?
I was sitting in a pub having drinks when at about 8 in the evening, Sky Sports News started breaking the news despite the loud music and merriment all around me, I had to read the yellow marquee banner announcement – He had joined Barcelona for £16.8 Million.
The last to know and of course I had to find out from somebody else.
Except, that’s not quite right, I mean it’s not like it wasn’t obvious. It’s not like every football journalist, commentator and blogger hadn’t announced it as a done deal. It’s not like I didn’t see it coming either, in all the little ways, I mean he ponced around for his last 6 months and wouldn’t perform for me because of some vague, possibly feigned injuries, he pouted and gesticulated at every pass that made him run. He looked at the grass instead of in my eye. He specifically wouldn’t come out and say directly that he was staying.
I found text messages on his phone.
Or maybe it was in the national press.
They were from Xavi and Iniesta. They were pornographic and talked about how they’d make him come. To Barca.
Barca people were flying in every day to try and get Arsène to open his door. Arsène was inside, hiding behind the couch. His fingers plugged his ears and his Arsenal Centurions dvd was playing on full volume.
But then he saw it was actually his protégé that stood outside. The “quite-decent” winger he had plucked from an old Italian lady who didn’t know what to do with him. He had taken him from a bit part role with Juventus and had groomed and crafted him into the most audacious and brilliant goal scoring machine that had ever cast a shadow over English football. That’s who was now knocking on his door.
His message was brutal, the delivery was kind.
“I am bigger than Arsenal” he said, “I need a club that matches my ambition.”
He had manufactured a move to Barseholeona. It was bargain basement. The money he left us with would have barely bought a Darren Bent and a new set of footballs.
When I read that scrolling banner on sky sports news, I felt like Coleen Rooney at an old folk’s home, cast aside and unable to compete for man I love.
Oh sure, he said all the right things, the things you want to believe but never want to hear. He said how he was an Arsenal Fan, A Gooner, and he always would be. There was always a place for us in his heart. One day he would come back and we would be together forever.
It wasn’t me it was him.
I moved on, after a while and in a fashion. First there was the Spanish boy. He talked about love and loyalty. He whispered ambition in my ear and for a short period everything clicked. He showed me moves that would make a matador blush. He even had his own television special, you know. But he was too young and didn’t know the power of the words he used. Then his phone would get the occasional text message that he wouldn’t comment on and before you knew it Xavi and Iniesta where taking dirty things in his ear.
So he left, but he was no king.
Suddenly I found myself drawn to a sickly limping chap that had been sent to us from Holland for long term rehabilitation. To be blunt, he looked great but kept having breakdowns. He spent a lot of time convalescing and getting better from his glass shins and chocolate leg syndrome.
I nursed him back to health. Tweet by tweet, song by song, prayer by prayer and he repaid me with solidity and consistency.
He hasn’t heard from Xavi or Iniesta yet. His DNA is pure chocolate so maybe we are safe.
And now. . . . . . . . . . . . .
And now he’s back from outer space, he just walked right in with that strange beard upon his face.
I don’t know what he expects; I mean I should ignore him. After all I am happy with Robin, he treats me well and I am not sure how it will be to have them both under the same roof for 2 months.
Maybe I should be strong and let him know in no uncertain terms that he can’t just walk in the door as if nothing happened.
But then again the heart does sing a little at the prospect.
Thierry Henry. Home.