I hope this is a long and painful death for that "club". It is about time. Is Pat Rice still working?
The grim ghoulish walking skeleton of Le Professeur Wenger stopped striding forwards and hesitated. He thought he knew the way forward, but... was it left or right? He paused, drew a breath, then walked forwards again, pretending to know the way. Inside he felt awful. Something was wrong. He didn't want to show signs of confusion, a lack of certainty, but he was lost. He started to walk a bit slower, searching for a clue. He'd walked along here before, but things looked different this time. He felt cold, a chill wind blowing the 2004 Championship confetti into the gutter.
Underneath his club coat and hat, his skin bore a grey pallor, there was a whiff of decay, a man who hadn't thought to wash for a few months. He shortened his stride as he got to the end of Seven Sisters Road. Was it left or right? He paused and turned left, he had always loved the left side, a touch of magic, some je ne sais quoi, some va va voom. As he walked, he felt a bit of pride return, he knew what he was doing. He knew the way. And yet... that nagging feeling that he was wrong. That stench of dirt rising from deep inside his zipper. He hadn't washed for months, hadn't eaten, hadn't opened his curtains, but he had studied the videos, oh yes. He knew what the problem was. Spirit. What he needed was a dash of Eric Dier and a splash of Dele Alli.
A sudden, harsh, hacking cough barks from his mouth and a tooth flies forwards, bouncing off the tarmac. Oh well, there are still a few left. It doesn't matter any more, all he needs is a couple of players with esprit. Still he walks forwards, trying to look confident, aware that eyes are upon him now, a gathering of interest from the sides.
As he walks, he sees the old rusty hulk of White Hart Lane in the distance. He knows that he can buy what he needs there, he knows they need him more than he needs them. He is from the legendary Champions. But what is this new shadow behind White Hart Lane? This hulking great building? Surely they can't be... building a stadium larger than ours? Than mine? Surely this can't be?
As he gets closer, cold realisation sinks in. He is wrong. He is 90s man. His time has gone. His club has been surpassed. He is finished. Finally. Pointless. What can he do? For a moment he considers walking over to the Olympic Stadium to steal some star talent. But who? Mark Noble? Pah. He shuffles back home, reeling from the shock. He can't go on. He must unzip this coat one final time.
