As a gooner I sometimes find myself daydreaming about scoring in front of sixty thousand adoring fans, just like you. The other day I dreamt that I was a woman. More accurately I dreamt that I was a woman’s boob. And you were there. You were wearing a bonnet and a nappy and in your hand was a rattle. You were crying. Baby was hungry.
I asked you why you were so sad? You told me that despite managing to turn up for work every day last year, your club were only offering you a measly £150,000+ a week contract. I burp you and we both vomit. How could they insult you in this way? There there baby. You told me that the club who had made you their club captain were disrespecting you because they could not provide you with the silverware that you deserve. Poor booboo. You told me that they had only managed to qualify for the champions league fifteen years in a row. Someone like you deserves better. You told me that some of your friends had won shiny silver medals for all of their hard work, and you wanted one too. It’s not fair, poor baby. You told me that you couldn’t face the prospect of retiring in your mid thirties to any country in the world as a multi-millionaire, not without a shiny medal so that you could be just like your friends. I understand baby. Let it all out. You told me that some of your friends were getting paid more money than you because their clubs were owned by billionaires. I tell you there there, it’s okay baby. Who do Arsenal think they are? Trying to run a business like a business? You are best rid of them robby wobby. Have some more milk.
You told me that you walked past the job centre the other day, but only some of the people in the queue got down on their knees to worship you. Some people are just ignorant. You told me that some of those losers could not even afford to buy the new Arsenal home kit with your name on their back. We did have a laugh about that. You are such a funny boy. You told me how you spoke to the people in benefits line about how their beloved club had insulted you with a measly seven million a year contract, and upon hearing this you told me how they had all started crying. We all sympathise with you little one. Don’t cry. We all understand what your employers have put you through. You tell me that they made you work twenty hours a week sometimes, this made us both cry. How can they treat you like that? You tell me how over an eight year period you managed to turn up to work sixty three percent of the time, but this year you had managed to go to work every single day. And this is the way they repay you? Poor poor baby.
You tell me that you are worried that the Arsenal fans will dislike you if you leave, that they will no longer worship you. Poor baby. Why don’t you just tell everyone that it is not about the money? Why don’t you blame the club? The fans are stupid, they won’t realise. Your employers have done nothing for you. Say that Arsenal forced you to leave through their lack of ambition; that would be easier, wouldn’t it baby? There there. It doesn’t seem like the manager even cares about the club. He has done nothing in-terms of service to football. You don’t owe him anything. I tell you to take the money, cheapen the name of the club. Spit on the captains arm band and teach all of the young players who look up you that Arsenal are a spent force. They are nobody’s. You are the somebody. You stop crying. Baby has such a lovely smile.