When Woody met Santi…. and the rest of them

As the dust settled on the results last Sunday; with images of our
lads celebrating and Gareth Bale with his whingey face put on as he openly rang
his agent on the pitch of Shite Hart Lane in front of his chimp-wanking
support, I was lucky enough to have a couple of days off work, and I wanted to
put them to good use.

So I headed for England. Colney to be precise, as I’d been told that
the morning after the celebrations, and before the holidays that the whole
squad would assemble for a light breakfast (hangover cure), a teamtalk,
goodbye’s for the summer and goodbye’s forever in some cases.

So I got my ass over there, in my full journalist attire, hoping to
grab a quick word with some of the players, before they disappeared for a month
or so, only to be seen if their girfriends/wives got their baps out on holidays
and they end up plastered all over the pages of The Sun. (and every mechanic’s
garage wall in the country).

Now, surprisingly, there wasn’t many people gathered at Colney, so I
felt if ever there was a chance of a few moments with the players that it would
be today. So Arsenal being Arsenal, classy as always, the players stopped to
chat (well most of them, some were incapable of chat, as they’re not used to
drinking), even though they were obviously keen to get away on their holidays,
but they stopped, graciously and as I said already classy. Now as they were
going on holidays and probably sick of football at this stage I wouldn’t talk
football. Instead I wanted to ask them, what young men with so much money do during
their summer holidays but also, seeing as that my head had already been filled
with so much transfer bullshit, I’d ask if they’d any players they’d like to
see join up and why. Here are some of the replies….

First out was little Santi. I say “Hola amigo, how are you?” etc and
he just kicks into a  full on/full speed
Spanish conversation. Needless to say I hadn’t a fucking bull’s notion what he
was saying, and I think he knew it, but he just kept smiling and talking (the
cheeky pup). When out of the blue, Mikel Arteta came
along. Like a true captain he’s on the scene to help out, as if every player
has a “bat signal” like an “Arteta signal” that they send out when in trouble.
So Arteta duly translated for me.

ME: “So Santi, what will you do for your summer

Santi:Well I
like to go home to Spain, totally relax and unwind. I forget that I’m a pro
footballer, just be a normal person for a month, no worrying about doing
interviews, or dressing up for the media/press, etc. So I even ditch my best
hoodies and t-shirts, and just go round in flip-flops with my belly out. I’ll
drink litres and litres of Rioja and eat my own body weight in Iberico ham,
cheese and olives, until I get so fat that I can’t see my little feet”

ME:  “Nice, well
enjoy! Oh and is there anyone you’d like the club to sign?”

Santi:  “Hmmm, probably
Wayne Rooney. Then the gaffer mightn’t notice how fat I am when I get back. Or
maybe even that Tony Pulis chap, I’d say he can get great caps and hoodies for

ME: “Sure while we have you here Mikel, what are
your plans for the holidays?”

Arteta: “Well I might go to Paris or Milan or somewhere
like that, they’ve got some of the best hair salons in the world you know. And
I will probably append a lot of time scratching my balls, I do that a lot you
know.” (I frantically scoured the internet, Google, etc. looking for pictures
of Arteta’s ball groping, but I couldn’t find any photos, but take it from me,
he never leaves himself alone).

So off they go, the glorious Spanish contingent. Wow what a buzz.  Wait!  Here’s
Bacary Sagna!

ME:  “Bacary, a
quick question. What will you be doing for your summer holidays?”

Sagna: “Well I’m going to pack a small back containing
enough food and water for a month and I’m going to climb head-first into Ludivine,
and I’m not getting out of there until July. She’s warmer and wetter than any
beach in Barbados, believe me. You’ve seen her right?”

Damn right Bac damn right, nobody could blame you for choosing that
destination mate.

Now, plodding along it’s The BFG, Per looking fresh.

ME: “Per, what will you be doing for your summer

PER:  “Who do
you work for? What paper?”

ME:  “Oh no
Per, I’m doing this for a blog as a fan, I’m not a journalist.”

PER: “Oh Ok, I’ll tell you the truth then. If you
worked for The Sun or The Mirror, I would’ve told you that I was going to New
Zealand to race dwarves for the summer, because that’s what they’d print anyway
regardless of what I’d tell them. Anyway, myself and my wife like to go to
mountainous countries, like Austria or France or even at home in Germany. She
gets a place up in the hills and I stay down in the valley. It’s ideal, it’s
the only time during the year that I don’t hurt myself while giving her oral se….
I’ve said too much. Danke.”

ME: “Oooh thank you Per, that’s very honest, and one
more thing, as your one of the senior members of the squad, is there anyone
that you’d like the club to sign while your away?”

PER: “Hmmm Dean Whitehead.”

ME: “Hahaha, no offence, but WHAT?”

PER: “Yes, then my wife could use his chin to either
sit or stand on, and make it easier for me to perform oral s… oops! Did it
again, danke.”

Wow, Per, such a down to earth and honest guy, and so cute too, he’s
like a cute little squishy amphibian.  Awww.

Then there’s a commotion, noises and banging doors, people scurrying
to get out of the way of… something…. HA HA it’s Tomas Rosicky, looking like
he’s kicked off his holidays earlier than everyone else. He comes flying
towards me, not in a straight line, more like a bee-line or a ballerina doing
their thing, floating towards me with eyes that look like they’re big enough to
have their own weather systems.

ME:  “Tommy,
Tommy, sorry a quick little word please?”

Rosicky: “Yes. Jet.”

And gone like a Tasmanian devil off into the distance whistling and
howling like a banshee.He was closely followed by his agent, Pavel Paska came
behind him carrying his suitcases, with a face like a parent that’s just lost
their child in Woolworth’s. He told me that Tommy’s holidays would involve
Bolivis/Colombia, a white horse, and saddlebags full of a similar coloured
powder. Surprise surprise – ‘Rock on Tommy’.

Aww I love that little Mozart, he’s got the bit of Rock n’ roll that
we need more of. So, now it’s gone quiet and I think most of the players have
already gone,(Well it wouldn’t be like Rosicky to leave a party last now would
it)  but there are still a few £200,000
cars around so I decided to hang around for a little longer just in case.

And it’s just as well that I did, for out comes Sir Szcz, chest puffed
out like an arrogant peacock, strutting over towards me like the king of
mankind (must’ve met Rosicky in the cubicles).

ME: “Woj, what will you be up to for your holidays

Szcz: “I’ll actually be staying at home in my house,
well in my garden to be more precise. I’ve built a room in the garden, it’s
kind of like one of those little snow-globe things you buy at Christmas, it’s
all glass on the outside, but it’s big enough for me, my huge seat, my massive
plasma and Xbox. The inside is actually made of mirrors. It means I can sit in
there all day, play some games,  get the
sunshine (through the glass), but also look at myself all day (mirrors), cos
I’m beautiful, ye know, well of course you know, you have eyes.”

ME: “Interesting! And would you like to see any
additions to the squad?”

Szcz: “Hmmm anyone really, bring ‘em on. They can sign
Cech, Courtois, Schmeichel and sure fuck it, bring in Dino Zoff if they want. I’m
better than all of them, it doesn’t worry me, better than anyone me”.

Confident, an understatement!

Finally last but not least, like a boyband coming through the doors,
it’s the English core – Jack, Theo and The Ox, brilliant stuff, I’ve been
hoping to meet these guys.

ME: “Alex, a quick word please. We’ve seen you’re
such a brilliant speaker, with such a level head, and we tend to forget that you’re
so young, how are you enjoying your time at Arsenal?”

The Ox: “On numerous differing occasions, a similar
illuminating question has been requested of me, of which the unfamiliar
recipient of said question requires me to divulge an unproportionate assessment
of………..” Yada Yada Yada!!  And so it went
on. I’d a very similar expression to when I was trying to figure out what Santi
was saying in Spanish (not a fucking clue). So I waited for the seven minutes
until he finished unleashing the Oxford dictionary, and finally got a chance to

ME : “Thanks for that Alex. So what will you be doing
on your holidays?”

The OX : (speedily clapping hands like a Duracell bunny
with ADHD.) Oooh I’m going to Pontins in Prestatyn in Wales, ooh ooh ooh I
can’t wait, I’m going to be in the crocodile club and go on boats and

He turns and skips away “clap handy’s, clap handy’s, ‘til daddy comes
home”.  Aww the age always comes out in
the end.

Then onto Theo.

ME: “Hey there Theo, how’s it going? Same question
for yourself. What will you be doing with your time off?”

Theo: “I don’t want to talk about that at the moment.
It’s between me, my agent and the club.”

ME: “FFS Theo, we’re not talking contracts here, it’s
just a question on your holidays”

Theo: “I know, and I understand how much it means to
people, and this is the reason why we don’t want to talk about it publicly, as,
as I’ve said already, my agent and the club are talking as we speak.”

ME: “Theo! Holidays? Or do ye know what forget it…


And finally last but not least, Jack.

ME: “Hi Jack, so what does a young pro
footballer/young dad do for his holidays?”

Jack: “I’m going nowhere, I’ve said it many times
before, I’m here to stay.”

ME: “Ha Ha, Jack I know that, but your holidays mate?
What will you do for your holidays?”

Jack: “I’ll stay here, I’ll stay here forever if I

ME:  (I give
up) “Great stuff Jack – enjoy.”

So there you go.. When Woody met Arsenal….

Disclaimer : 
The above conversations never happened, it’s all utter bullshit, made
up in my disturbed alcohol soaked brain. (Sure where would I get the money to
go to London on a Monday, I can’t even afford Monster Munch on a Monday ffs)
But then again the majority of stuff you’ll read on Twitter in the coming weeks
is bullshit (Transfers, ITK etc.), so at least I’ve tried to use my bullshit in
a jovial and hopefully entertaining way, and not a totally annoying and
frustrating waste of time. The never ending merry-go-round of allegedly’s,
supposedly’s, and sources close to the player shite. The never ending pictures
of players with photoshop’d Arsenal jersey’s on.

Well I for one shall wait until I see a signature : TRUST BALL POINT
OVER MEGABYTE,                       or
wait for a player to be either wearing or holding our Arsenal jersey before
I’ll give a shit, POLYESTER OVER PIXELS, thank you very much !

Finally I couldn’t leave without mentioning our old friend from “that
team of rugby players in the Potteries.” Yes poor Pulis got the boot, or in
Stoke’s case, he probably got the club foot..

I burst out laughing when I was reading my paper on Saturday to see a
headline –

Muahahahahahahaha… What a twonk of an offspring of a brother and sister that
man is. The article went on to say that he was “convinced he could have taken
the Potters to the next level.” The next level of what – fucking Candy Crush !

It went on further to say – “I’ve done a report for Peter (Coates –
owner) which took me six months to complete and three months to write.”

Well I contacted Stoke, knowing that they were obviously pissed off
with Pubis and asked if they could divulge exactly what his plan was. They sent
me this. It was found on his desk after he’d left the club.

Disclaimer : This too is bullshit, well the bit about me contacting
Peter Coates, the rest is pure hard driven fact, the man was an infectious boil
on the ass of football, and good riddens to him.

Until next time, keep the faith, #UTA.

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