Once upon an exceedingly cold Christmas Eve, Ebeneezer
Wenger sat in his counting house poring over his ledgers. Skeletal, he sat, enveloped in his voluminous
black jacket, squinting myopically at the jumble of figures that danced
hypnotically betwixt and between the columns, entranced by the ballet of profit
and loss. Occasionally the intricate
sums would refuse to balance and he would rise exasperated from his humble
stool and stand with arms spread wide apart berating the 4th
official who would pointedly ignore him or on occasion nod and point vaguely
towards the pitch, an act which did nothing to lessen Wenger’s worsening humour,
and served only to force him to sit back down in a belligerent huff.
In the cavernous fireplace a solitary lump of coal spat and
hissed, forlornly throwing its meagre warmth into the room. Ebeneezer blew on his hands and wiped away a
bead of moisture from the end of his prodigious frozen nose. The office would have been slightly the
warmer if Wenger hadn’t insisted on keeping the door open to keep a beady eye
on his young clerk, Walcott, who would intermittently rise from his desk, to
vigourously stamp his feet and flap his arms in a vain attempt to keep
warm. An act that would prompt Ebeneezer
to give out a derisory snort. His perverse
pleasure was however short-lived when the outer doors were flung open and his
assistant, the bold Stephen, strode in with a confident and happy gait.
“Season’s greetings, “he declared “and a very Merry
Christmas to you all”
“Bah” muttered Wenger “humbug!”
“Oh come now Sir,” said Stephen “Surely you cannot begrudge
us even this harmless frivolity in these harsh times?”
“I would rather, Sir” declared Wenger sternly, “that you
focussed your spirits on the efficacy’s of zonal marking, or persuading young
Walcott to sign da ting, endeavours which I might remind you that I pay you
for, rather than this feeble attempt at seasonal bonhomie.”
On hearing his name mentioned, Walcott seemed to shrink
himself into his desk as if willing it to swallow him up. Stephen however was apoplectic.
“Might I respectfully remind you Sir” he shouted, “that it
was not me that signed Djourou or Squillacchi, I can only work with the tools
that I’m provided”
“And might I remind you Sir, that when people speak of the
legendary back four, they invariably speak of Anthony Adams and Martin Keown,
you Sir, are an afterthought!”
At this, the bold Stephen spun on his heels and stormed from
the office, indignant. Wenger permitted
himself a sly chuckle, and with added fervour returned to his books. His happy concentration was short lived as
there came a feeble tapping at his open door.
Exasperated, Wenger looked up to see a little orphan boy from the parish
that he knew quite well.
At this juncture it is worth while describing this poor
urchin for he truly represents every vestige of human misery that it is
possible to imagine. He was so thin that
the light seemed to shine right through his frail body that was shrouded in
rags. His left leg was hideously twisted
and deformed and he held himself upright on a pair of crude crutches that
seemed to be welded to his emaciated frame. Huge piercing eyes peered bulbously from his
wasted face and it was into these eyes that Wenger now unwaveringly stared, as
he addressed the child thus,
“Yes, what is it Tiny Abou Diaby?”
“B-b-begging your pardon Sir”, the waif stammered, “but I
seem to have picked up a bit of an ankle knock and I may be out for up to three
weeks!”
“Oh for fucks sake”, replied Wenger, “I have told you before
Tiny Abou Diaby I am not running a charity here. I expect you to come in tomorrow to clean the
others boots, do not disappoint by saying you are otherwise engaged!”
“B-b-but ‘tis Christmas Sir!”
“Humbug!”Wenger roared, “Humbug, humbug, out out out!”
The rest of the day passed, uneventful, until at 9 O clock,
Wenger was woken from a daydream by the sound of Walcott clearing his throat as
he stood, supplicant in front of his desk.
“Well” Wenger said “Did you sign da ting?”
“No Sir!” Walcott replied, “But I pray you hear me out, I
have been your clerk for several years now, and I feel I have executed my
duties to the best of my abilities, I do not ask for much sir, except an extra
sixpence a year and the opportunity to play up front on my own, I cannot see
Sir why you would deny me this.”
“Walcott,” replied Wenger,”I have no doubt but that you are
one of the best clerks I have ever had. Your
bookkeeping skills are excellent, you have very good penmanship and you will
always get us a goal when we have the game won anyway. But sixpence, take
thruppence and sign da ting!”
“I respectfully decline Sir,” replied Walcott testily, “I
have had an offer from a firm in Liverpool, and while they may be a much
smaller company with a very small accounts department and only in the Europa
league, I feel they offer me what I want and for the sake of thruppence I shall
take their offer and wish you a Happy Christmas and Goodbye!”
“Humbug!” said Wenger.
And so Ebeneezer Wenger locked up the Emirates and walked
home through the freezing London night back to his empty house. After a miserly supper of a tepid thin gruel
he sat with a cup of warm punch in his tattered dressing gown and nodded off
into a fitful doze. Then, as the mantle
clock struck midnight, he was roughly shaken from his slumber and on opening
his eyes was confronted by the eerie spectacle of Herbert Chapman’s ghost.....
..To be continued.
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