The Independent London Newspaper
17th October 2018

Who would you rather lose to: Wolves or Liverpool’s Lucas?

    SO what did Arsene Wenger say in the dressing room at Anfield on Sunday afternoon, when the team was in need of an angry rant to inspire them to what turned out to be a famous, glorious win against Liverpool.
    “What the hell is going on out there boys,” he might have said, but in French. “Everybody beats Liverpool – how come not us? I might as well have kept Francis Jeffers than put you lot in the team.
    “Come on, Liverpool are Europa League, they haven’t won the English league in 20 years, since Hansen was playing. Are you really saying to the world today that you are happy to be beaten by this lot. By Lucas? Lucas? By fudging Lucas?”
    “When you play rubbish like this, you make me feel like everything I do is one big irrelevance, like I’m some sort of gibbering football version of Louis Walsh who has inexplicably been given too many promotions. You make me feel like I should be collecting cones on the training pitch. Heck, on the motorway even. Any job would be better than watching you lot stumble around failing to beat Lucas. Lucas. Jeeez. You are going to be beaten by Lucas.
    “If that’s the case you are not fit to wear the Arsenal shirt. You are bound to draw in the cold at Burnley on Wednesday – so get out there and win this. We need the points.” Something like that?

    OH it’s snowing! Amazing! Oh, Spurs lost at home to Wolves. Rubbish. The result at the weekend has eclipsed the wonders of Christmas; it has numbed me to the annual pleasures.
    The numerous terrible playlists we happily accept for two weeks only, the splendid work of Wham, the yearly realisation that mulled wine isn’t necessarily alcoholic and the inevitable descent that is the office party.
    All these flash before my eyes, as does the dream that one year Spurs will be in the top four. 
    My mum asked me what I wanted for Christmas (sensible, I thought) and I said I didn’t know, but now I do. I want us to beat Wolves for eternity, so that all my Christmases henceforth are the joyous explosions of cheesy carols and Kingdom of Leather adverts that they used to be.
    I want Harry Redknapp to get out of that ridiculously over-the-top throne he sits in and start shouting, screaming like that scary looking grey chap who manages those kids down the road. If that’s what it takes to beat Wolves that’s what we need. The idea of being outwitted by Mick McCarthy seems humiliating.
    I can only hope this was a freak occurrence, like Theo Walcott playing well!
    Come on Harry, crack that whip.

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