da brdice： This was my last stand. Antonio Conte lay mortally wounded to my left but still the onslaught continued.
da aposte e ganhe： A helicopter whirled overhead and from the cockpit emerged Arsene Wenger brandishing a pipe bomb. The smirk upon his face seemed to suggest “my shrewd navigation of the transfer market coupled with an assured adherence to a structured youth policy will at last, finally bare fruit” or “I’m about to chuck this pipe bomb at you” – certainly one of the two.
I ducked for cover behind an abandoned military-grade transporter vehicle, which shielded me from the explosion. Suddenly, an impressive head of hair reared itself from behind a stack of barrels baring toxic symbols. It was Poch. Poch with a machine gun! He started firing wildly and every bit as laissez-faire as the midfield role he so effectively affords Dele Alli these days.
I am hit and before I can reach my medical pack another shot is fired but from a different vantage point. As I buckle to the deck like Danny Ings I catch a glimpse of this secondary adversary and see that it is Pep Guardiola; cashmere scarf blowing in the residual wind caused by Arsene’s chopper.
I writhe about on the dusty floor – as fragile and vulnerable as my Liverpool back four – desperately looking for a weapon, all too aware that in order to attack, no amount of Southampton-poached midfielders can save me in this moment.
Then I spot it, an M9 rocket launcher lying next to the charred corpse of Ronald Koeman. As I clamber towards it I begin to muse over what my post-fire catchphrase should be before settling upon “I prefer heavy metal… actually.”
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Then, as I get within touching distance of the bazooka a figure emerges from the shadows and stamps his heavy booted foot upon the piece of arms. He slowly picks it up and points it towards my face. “Jurgen, Jurgen, Jurgen.” he tuts “You should know by now that I am not a specialist in failure. I am a special three… two… one.”
My final thoughts should be of my darling Ulla but instead all I can think is “damn, that’s good” – alluding to comments he previously made to the press about Arsene Wenger and marrying it up with his signature POS. Genius.
My world is about to red for the second time since my 2015 meeting with Ian Ayre in a Bootle branch of Pret-A-Manger. Without warning, a croaky voice announces itself from the mist and Antonio Conte emerges before delivering a fatal blow to my nemesis’s heart. I couldn’t quite make out what Antonio said because his English can be described as fractured at best and he has an irritating habit of talking very quietly.
Either way, I’m sure it was oscar-worthy. It was Jose Mourinho by the way.
***
Hold the back page, dear reader, and take a moment to seek refreshments, for what just set your pulses racing was actually what is known as ‘artistic license.’
It may shock you that, contrary to a bloody and hellish battlefield, the aforementioned events took place in a humble Liverpudlian arcade on a video game known as Time Crisis 2 and the characters portrayed within were merely manifestations of my own psyche.
Antonio Conte travelled up to meet me for an intense brunch, over which we talked tactics, artisan wines and the season finale of Sherlock. He suggested we visit the arcade to blow off some steam afterwards. Talking shop with my rivals is a practice I have come to embrace, especially with Antonio, whom I foolishly mistook for the sole gatekeeper of my title hopes.
However, it has become painfully obvious that the Premier League is no longer a two horse race. Antonio tells me he is out of pound coins for the machine so we leave, reflecting upon the task ahead. New challengers have emerged but instead of faceless henchmen with guns, they are wily tacticians, armed with experience and in-form strikers. I am sure Antonio’s boys will aid mine along the way, as will I.
However, neither of us can escape the fact that come January 31st, we will have to turn our plastic guns upon each other. Until then, it’s time for our cheese sampling taster session.
We meander down the promenade and lock horns over gentleman’s hair grooming.
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