Fantastical news has reached Crab Football that Nicolas Anelka’s debut memoir ‘It’s not me. It’s everyone else’ has bombed horrendously in the monthly book charts, with one literary analyst even declaring it was even being outsold 10:1 by Katie Price’s new autobiography “Touch Me Where I Wee.”
So for those of you unwilling to fork out £12.99 on this weighty tome fear not. As Crab Football has secured a second excerpt from this incendiary read. Enjoy.
Part Deux:-
“The night after the Vieira incident I didn’t sleep a wink, my slumber was disturbed by a reoccurring nightmare where I was playing swing ball with Patrick Vieira and Claude Makelele – it was horrendous – my face was the ball and the racquets were their meat mallets. My head was going left and right like a spectator at Wimbledon. My two brothers, Pierre and Jean Luc, instinctively could tell I was restless, mainly because they sleep at the foot of my bed.
‘What is troubling you brother?’ Enquired Pierre as I slipped into my silk dressing gown at 6am.
“I have come to a decision,” I said slowly, as this was a decision not to be taken lightly, “that we must leave Arsenal. Pack up the houses, we’re leaving.”
Both of my brothers were in shock, they couldn’t believe that I was seriously considering leaving everything behind me but they understood that Highbury, with one swing of Patrick’s mighty penis, had been transformed from a place of warmth and comfort to a theatre of nightmares.
I put on my gold track suit with matching baseball cap and left the house at 6:30am for the training ground, I knew Wenger would be there, no doubt scrutinizing the DVD of yesterday’s match or laboriously pouring through stats on the game.
If I was to confront him I would do it before the other players arrived. Man to man.
However despite my brave words when I arrived at Wenger’s door I nearly walked away. I won’t lie. The enormity of the situation was suddenly realised and I was racked with self-doubt, an emotion I was not familiar with, damn you Vieira! Look what you have done to me!
But as I stood there, fighting my indecision, I heard Arsene’s voice emanating from within his office.
“Are you going to stand there all day Nicolas?”
Arsene always knows.
When I entered the room Wenger was there, as I expected, going through his spreadsheets. He didn’t even look at me, just motioned to a seat opposite as if I was expected! If I was perplexed before entering the office I was now utterly thrown.
I searched for the words to broach the subject of the penis slapping incident but they would not come, suddenly in his presence I felt like a petulant school child before a head master. He just sat there reading his documents, waiting patiently.
After a few moments silence I just took my cap off to show Wenger. On my forehead was an angry welt the size of fist in the shape of a bell end.
I had a splitting headache.
“Whoaaaaa.” Said Wenger under his breath, finally putting his statistics to one side to observe Vieira’s handiwork. He scanned my head for another second before reaching for his intercom button, “Pat, can you come to my office immediately.”
Now I know what you are thinking and in my panicked state I jumped to the very same conclusion, why would Wenger call Patrick into his office? Was he here already? Had he been waiting for me? Could I escape out of the window? Could I use Wenger’s stapler as a rudimentary weapon to protect myself? If I could staple it to his inner thigh I may stand a chance… As I sat there trying not to curl one out and hatching a combat strategy it never occurred to me that Wenger had called for Pat Rice, our assistant manager.
When Pat walked in my relief was palpable.
“What can I do for you Arsene….. HOLY SHIT LOOK AT THAT!”
Pat looked from my forehead to Wenger, from Wenger to my forehead, rubbed his eyes and looked again. He was incredulous.
“No way,” said Pat.
“Yes way,” said Arsene.
“I’ll get Lewin,” Pat replied, disappearing again. This was a good sign I thought. Not only was Pat Rice shocked by what he’d seen but had also suggested that Gary Lewin, our physio, was needed. A doctor would be good. I could after all be potentially brain damaged.
Now up until this point I had been determined to hand in my transfer request, to be rid of Arsenal and their bully boy tactics, but deep down inside I hoped Wenger would rectify the situation, would scold Vieira publically for his actions, maybe even fine him for his atrocious penile attack… Inside of me was a small voice hoping that something positive could be salvaged from this situation.
I couldn’t be more wrong.
Seconds later Pat returned with Gary Lewin but I could not detect any sympathy or concern on their faces. Both of them looked determined and focused.
“How do you want to play this Arsene?” asked Gary.
“Hmmmmmm,” replied the professor, “you two pin him down and I’ll take the photos. GO!”
What followed was the final nail in the coffin. One moment I was on the seat and the next Gary and Pat had me in a head lock. It took a moment for me to realise that Arsene had produced a polaroid camera out of the ether.
“Pin board! Pin board!” Chanted Pat and Gary as Arsene pinned the photos up above his desk. Howling like a hyena when he observed the photographic evidence of Vieira’s damage.
“What a legend!” Roared Wenger, high fiving his accomplices, “that lad is a monster!”
I eventually staggered out of Arsene’s office twenty minutes later with the sound of high fiving still ringing in my ears. My favourite track suit was ripped and my self esteem was in tatters. Not only had I been ritually humiliated by the man I trusted the most but they’d also given me an atomic wedgey. You know the one – when they put the elastic of your underpants over your ears. I was in a world of pain. And the less said about he tea bagging the better.
That was the last I ever saw of our London Colney training ground, I didn’t even go back to get the framed photos of myself from my locker. When I got home I was not stunned to find that a letter had been posted through my door addressed to me. Inside was a one way ticket to Madrid.
The coward wouldn’t even tell me to my face.
“What does this mean?” asked Pierre, concern etched on his face.
“That you’re flying luggage,” I said, slapping him once for his stupidity.
“Thank you Nicolas.”
So in the space of two horrific days, I, Nicolas Anelka, the greatest natural footballer of my generation, was cast from the doors of Highbury like a stray dog. After everything I had given Arsenal and the committment I had shown I expected more. However this sorry episode had taught me a valuable lesson, that the only person I could trust was myself….
Copyright 2009 Crab Football. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. This is fictional.
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