Wenger Diaries (Part 1): A Golden Goat

Posted on October 2nd, by invinciblog in General, Wenger Diaries. No Comments

SATURDAY – September 28, 2012


18h00 – Finally got home. Those post-match conferences are terrible when you lose. Especially at home. Especially to Chelsea. It's always doom and gloom anyway but the British press love to pour salt into my wound. Cretins.

Speaking of cretins… Shaking Di Matteo's hand after the match was so difficult. I just wanted to poke my fingers into his puffy little tortoise eyes. He is so smug and slimy. In the tunnel before the game started, he asked me if I'd found one of his Champions League Cup cuff links. WTF?! Said he had lost one – thought he might have dropped it in my office. Before I could say anything, he oozed off to annoy Terry and Lampard. They ignored him completely, but he still stood there nodding with that stupid grin on his face. He reminds me of someone: I think it's that dog in the Garfield comics. I don't like him. I don't trust him. Looks like he's got a stocking over his head. Like a bank robber.

Apparently Spurs beat United at Old Trafford, despite an added 9 minutes. That makes me want to laugh and vomit at the same time. Well, if THEY can do it, anyone can.

Stan called me in the limo on the way home. He never said anything, but I know it was him. It was a US number. Only other number I know from the US is Titi, but Titi only calls on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. (Oh, Titi. I miss you…)

18h30 – I'm not even having dinner. Taking a Vicodin and going straight to bed. Want this shit-awful day to be over. Two missed calls. Both from Koz.

19h30 – Can't remember if I took a Vicodin. So taking another one just in case. G'night.


Eeyore Torres

Eeyore Torres

SUNDAY – September 29, 2012


18h00 – Awake! Sweating like a cochon. Still tired. Slept like a baby last night. (Woke up every two hours, crying.) The nightmares started the minute I fell asleep. The blue donkey from Winnie le Pooh chased me up a tree. Except it had the face of that tranny Torres. And the Samsung logo on its chest. I asked Per if he'd help me down, but he said why don't I ask Koz, since he's my favorite. Then he lurched off, with his head in the clouds, raining.

Next thing I was in a swamp. I think it was in the Deep South. Not Brighton… Kentucky. There was that banjo music from Deliverance playing in the background. A handful of toothless John Terrys were slamming their faces into the mud and coming up with frogs, which they tossed up in the air, and then swallowed whole. Disturbing.

Bouldie was there too. He drifted by in a dugout. He was sticking…what are those things? footballs? no… skulls? skulls! yes… sticking skulls on the top of stakes and repeating something under his breath: “The horror, the horror…

A snake swam up to me. Then it turned into Darren Dein – but he was dressed like one of those dirty old men that hang around parks near schools. He said something about a sucker. Then he flashed open his trench coat and in his pockets were little miniature Samis and Robins. They were baring their big, yellow teeth and whinnying like horses – but with those high, chipmunky voices you get when you suck on a helium balloon. It was awful.

Those are just the bits I remember.

19h00 – The cook prepared frogs legs for dinner to cheer me up, but they're making my stomach turn. Just going to have toast. And maybe a Vicodin Martini. (They always take the edge off, I find).

Six missed calls and three VMs. All from Koz. I can't deal with him now.

Annie rented a DVD. A George Clooney flick: something about goats. That should take my mind off things.

23h30 – I think I fell asleep on the couch. Don't remember much about the movie… Oh, wait: someone running into a wall. On purpose.

Merde. Losing takes it out of me: the older I get, the more. Still can't believe that smug prick, Di Matturtle. Got a good mind to call him and tell him where he can shove his bloody Champions League cufflinks…

Bedtime. This weekend is over, thank God. Goodnight, Titi, wherever you are…


MONDAY – September 30, 2012


05h30 – I remember dreaming about Kolo Touré. And dieting pills. And testifying before the doping commission. Weird. Haven't thought about that forever…

Then suddenly I was at the entrance to a cave. Inside the cave there was a treasure chest overflowing with silverware. All the cups were there: the giant fugly League Cup, with its huge handles sticking out like Christian Bale's old ears. The miserable, frilly little COCUP. The Champions League Cup was there, full of cufflinks. Cufflinks?! WTF! And the World Cup thrust victoriously from the centre, like a massive gold-veined dildo fist.

Guarding the entrance to the cave were four identical Ivanoviches wearing David Luiz/ Shirley Temple wigs. They were linked palm to shoulder like a row of butch Can-Can dancers, or a super-poncey foosball rack. Hard as I tried to get past them, they just body-checked me, while Alisher Usmanov looked on, belching, like Jabba The Hutt. I could hear Titi's voice coming from inside the cave, saying, “Ze force, Ars, Ze force…

Then a goat came up to me, covered in golden fur. He stuck out his tongue, which was a bright blue. On it was a red and white pill. I reached for it…

That's when I woke up.

07h30 – I can't help but think that this dream is somehow the answer to Arsenal's current problems… In the same way that those semi-erotic Manga dreams I had in the early 90s helped me revolutionize the Beautiful Game. There's something in there…

If I can just figure out what it is…



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