The skies are uneasy as black thunder clouds float eerily by, with streaks of lightening illuminating their ethereal interiors towering hundreds of feet up into the darkness. Below the faint lights glow long into the night at Highbury House. We zoom in like a CIA satellite, to reveal humanoid shapes at desks with heads bent forward peering into incandescent glow of computer monitors. We see the heads in profile , and realise that gum is being chewed at a very rapid rate, for the muscles on their temples wax and wane like pumping hearts. The tension is high, the mood is silent, above their heads is a painting of Herbert Chapman…
This epic of the transfer saga for CF4 has been like a scripted soap opera. Stage Right, a young talented homesick lad has been kidnapped whilst still a child and was forced to work in a strange country. Having given his all and now a handsome proud man, there is the chance of a return to his spiritual home. But there is one snag! He cannot afford the ticket home. His current employers Arsenal, have ruled out giving him assistance, and his new prospective employers Barcelona want him oh so badly, but not bad enough to pay the full price of the ticket for the voyage. His new employers employ seven violinists to play a sad refrain with pictures of the lad close to tears. Surely this will make the hearts of his old employers break with mercy?
Barcelona plead that the lad wants to come back home and work for them, his parents feel the anguish of separation and the distress of the thought of him being held to ransom. Only bringing home a mere 10 million euros a season. His old employers Arsenal state that negotiations are underway but are the new employers even taking the matter seriously? Just then, people in the home town of CF4 take to the streets demanding his release and safe passage. “Shame on you Arsenal” they cry, but they do not direct their rage towards the Barcelona who can’t be arsed to pay the going rate, but instead blame Arsenal the wicked greedy people who won’t reduce the market price by 15 million Euros so that Barca can win the Fair play league.
Surely his old employers must feel ashamed that they will allow the lad to be released from his contract that has four years to go. Yep every trick in the book is used to exploit this Greek tragedy of a young man being ruthlessly held imprisoned against his will. But wait… could this lad help out by demanding his release himself? Of course he can, but thenhe would miss out on his final loyalty pay packet. He is reminded by Agent Representative after Agent representative that Arsenal are cruel selfish employers who have pots of money they need to show some compassion, for they too are going through hard times after all. “Remember that my Lamborghini Countach needs new tyres Cesc” they whisper into his ear.
Barcelona have one more card to play. They realise that time is running out for Arsenal and soon they will have to accept that a deal must be done before the “Ides of August”. If Barca can haggle, and waste time then perhaps the dream will come true, as Arsenal panic and reduce the price below that which Barca would have paid themselves. In a last bid to influence the hawks of Ashburton Grove, live TV pictures are broadcast across the Internet showing the streets of the Catalan capital. Where young barefoot children are walking the streets, with tears being shed in abundance. The camera pans to the nearby chapel where midnight vigils are being held, in there prayers are being said by every human being in a last ditch nationalistic attempt to break the deadlock.
Further down the road we see chickens having their heads cut off alongside pin pricked effigies of Arsene Wenger and Ivan Gazidis in bizarre voodoo rituals. The Spanish branch of the Hare Krishna movement dance past at that moment with their drums and cymbals beating out a rhythm that adds to the national state of meditation, bedecked in bright orange, their glistening torsos writhe in worship of this new messiah. The camera cuts away to a screen full of TV and radio stations which are giving hourly updates, and on CNN it says that the stock markets across the world have fallen 3% for fears that the deal might not yet be done.
As the world holds it’s breath, and as Basque mothers hold their babies close to their full bosoms. The stark realisation is beginning to dawn in Highbury House that the end of the modern world is drawing ever closer. A thin gaunt perfectly manicured hand reaches for an A4 piece of fax paper. On it in perfect Catalan, which the post Franco civil war libertarians would have been proud of, is the message.
Oi!, Josep Maria Bartomeu… Get your pulgar out of your Anus and give us Thiago and 40 million euros. quedo a la espera de su respuesta…! (I’m looking forward to hearing from you)
The fax is sent, and the perspiration is etched out on the back of the figure which is now revealed to be that of Arsene Wenger. The moisture causes the silk shirt to become see through and cling to the bony outline of his spine curved in nervousness. Meanwhile to counter Denilson’s assertion to Sky Sports News in Brazil that CF4 will stay, a blogger not too far away is already thinking of changing his Nom de Plume from FTK to RTK, Rocky the King. The lights grow dim as the satellite zooms out to blackness…
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