Resigned. Fired. Gone. Whatever. Yes, Arsene Wenger leaves Arsenal at the end of the season – that’s the latest news from London Colney. The long wait is over. Finally. Mama has given a signal.
Whoah! We can now watch football again.
With us, he leaves memories. The memorable quotes. The transformation. The sleek football. The training methods. The diet regime. The 5-1 away against Inter Milan. The 3-1 win against Juventus. The 4-2 against Liverpool. The duels with Fergie. The catfights with Mourinho. The cheekiness. The stubbornness. The innocent water bottles tortured from the touchline. The bad signings. More transformation (the bad one). The 8-2 reverse at United. Everything.
We are now ready for the transition. They’ll mock us, the naysayers. A season or two, and we’ll find our feet again. Henry, Arteta, Vieira, Simone, Jardim. Anyone. Someone with an ounce of a football brain. Anyone that is not Brendan Rogers, Mourinho, Moyes or Sam Allardyce. Anyone decent enough. Maybe Maurizio Sarri. Or Eusebio Di Francesco. Or Zidane (allow me to dream, people. With Wenger gone, anything is possible).
"This is one of the most difficult days we’ve ever had in all our years in Sport blah blah blah […]" – Stan Kroenke. He’s lied. What’s difficult about letting go of an abusive partner – Breaking the news, perhaps? Maybe he’s been practicing how to say: "au revoir" and make it sound like an all-expenses-paid holiday trip to Ibiza.
I feel more excited than a juvenile on a typical 1990s Christmas day. More elated than Piers Morgan will ever be. I am in the mood for a #WengerResignationParty. Invites, anyone? We’ll foot the bill.