Murder On The Mourinho Express

As if nature had an eye for timing - thunder rolled across the sky and boomed onto the glass dome which served as a giant drum. The bass generated from the blast sent a raft of ringing into everyone's ears.

The guests were now looking from one to another. They started to realise this night wasn't going to be an evening wining and dining and keeping the money-men happy. A finger needed to be pointed and if it landed on them - the repercussions would be irreversible.

Mesut Ozil - the club's record signing. 

Alexis Sanchez - the supposed herald of a new dawn.

Steve Bould - rescuer of a flailing defence.

Mathieu Flamini - midfield terrier.

Per Mertesacker - defensive titan.

"Gentlemen, this ends here. Mesut. I will start with you".

The mercurial playmaker's infamously protruding eyes seemed to sweat. He started to sit down on one of the green chairs and immediately stood up again - as if unsure of his approach. Arsène began his deducting.

"Please Mesut, sit. Now, you signed with us because you feel invested in the story I am writing. You felt that the direction that I am taking the club and the trust I place in you will enable you to become a better player and that success lights our path. It is no shock to everyone that confidence has sometimes been a leetle-beet of an issue, but we kept plugging away. Then the World Cup came and you showed your versatility and usefulness. I thought I could employ you in the same fashion. But no. You couldn't replicate it for me on the left could you? No matter. I put you back in the centre for Villa and you showed everyone what you could do. Against Chelsea however - you didn't perform in contrast to our opponents star player did you? He changed the game for them........."

Arsène simply broke off mid-flow.  Mesut - still standing but unsure of his stance - was still unsure of whether the blame would fall at his feet. Wenger had now turned his icy gaze upon another though......

"Alexis. Poster boy for Chile on the world stage. Top performer for Barcelona. Impressive stats. You had it all. You joined us and you have given EVERYTHING on the pitch. You have toiled. You and your pulled up shorts have run miles to show the fans that you will leave nothing on the pitch. Despite this though, I have found it hard to incorporate you into the team. I have had to tinker. I have had to change, to mould. The start of the season is not the ideal time to do this but I have to play you. What do I do? You played against Chelsea didn't you......."

Once more, mid-diatribe, Arsène cut short. The exasperation levels had reached fever pitch. Eyes darting betwixt each other, trickles of sweat foraging down brows. Tonight would bring answers - but with a price.

"Sir Steve, a true Arsenal man". Bould seemed to be the only one of the party to have kept his composure. A man with an impeccable record for the club and a renowned steel to his demeanour, surely if anyone would see through this fateful night it would be he?

"You have been an invaluable ally in times of duress and attack from outside sources. You have been a soundboard to my ideas and a critique when I'm led astray. When Pat left, you filled a void and you did it well. You know however, that your raison d'etre was to work on the defence. Has your vision worked? Has your experience seeped into our players? Have you failed?"

Steve Bould's famous steely glaze slipped a little at such brazen questioning. One eye flickered intermittently, his hands clenched into fists that had sent fear into Premiership centre-forwards for an era. He was rattled.....

"Per, Mathieu. You have both performed admirably for me when called upon. Per, your partnership with Laurent was the cornerstone of last season. Yet questions still remain over you. Specifically your lack of mobility. For 70 minutes you displayed why you won over 100 caps for Germany. You shackled the in-form striker of the League in that time. Did you do EVERYTHING in your power to stop him though? Did the second goal fall on your shoulders as much as Laurent's? "

"Mathieu. You left us when we needed you most. It took every drop of your fighting spirit upon your return to win us all over. You exhibited great mental strength. The position you play in is under great scrutiny and yet, I still play you despite your recent mistakes. The spotlight is shining upon you Mathieu."

Per and Mathieu, Little and Large, looked at each other. Like a tree and a potted fern, they were both borne ultimately from the same seed but lacked the matching physical attributes. They both shared the same thought at this time. Fear.

Arsène began to pace around the large centrepiece table, with a peculiar gait. He supped at his pipe but no smoke wafted from it. He was ruminating. Lost in thought. Whilst Wenger was cut adrift on the Thought-Yacht - his charges scratched at non-existent itches and distractedly attempted to put themselves at ease. 

Arsène stopped dead in his tracks and swivelled on a sixpence to face them. The moment was upon them.

He clapped his hands and the walking archaeology dig shuffled into the room with a silver platter. Atop the platter was a decanter filled with what appeared to be brandy. He lumbered with these objects to each guest - miraculously not dropping anything - and poured them each a measure. He handed Arsène the final glass and poured the last drops. Then, without a word, he left the room. 

Brandishing the crystal glass, Wenger began what felt like his conclusions. Every person in the room aside from the Boss felt everything constrict. 

"There are cases for each of you and points that had to be addressed. We each have our own cross to bear but it is how we adapt and fight with these burdens that makes a man. Mental strength and spirit make up so much of the ingredients of a top, top player. Do you think you have evidenced this?" 

The question was rhetorical yet seemed to be aimed at them all simultaneously. It hang in the air like a fugue. Arsène gave the question its moment and then continued.

"So, who is to blame for such a performance? For us to once more dominate possession but have no end product? For us to quell a potent threat for so long only for it to rip us open when we least expect it? Well, gentlemen, the answer is........."