Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring. The gentle drum of groaning bellies rose and fell against the bursting jackets of five Premiership managers, weary from the hours of banqueting. Sleeping off the last drops of expensive liqueur, their eyes lay dormant, defeated by the stinging clouds of Cuban cigar smoke and the subtle crack of dwindling firewood lapped at their gluttonous, over indulgent bodies. Beneath the table, fifteen mice scavenged at the morsels that fell from the dribbling mouths while occasionally, one or two would dare to creep onto the cloth and nibble at the ravaged carcass of the festive bird.Something caused Fergie to stir in his coma. Slowly rising above him was a ghostly form that transposed from red devil to the unmistakable figure of Matt Busby. Fergie pushed back in his seat, his eyes transfixed on the image that hovered above him.
“Of Christmas’s past and present we know
The glories we shared before I had to go
The leagues that we won and the cups that we lifted
Immortal, I thought, ‘til my soul left and drifted.
It’s the Christmas’s that shall yet come to be
That brings you this warning so listen to me.
What thrills us this season? There’s no silverware.
Yes, I see for a time that the cabinet’s bare.
The truth has come home and the money has flown
To foreign shores, true colours they’ve shown.
The money you made has been swept out to sea
And the vultures below you are gathering for thee.”
As Busby faded, a new vision roused Wenger from his slumber. The legend of Herbert Chapman stood before him, his gait bent by years of disillusion.
“Your obsession with ‘pretty’ is small consolation
When we wait ‘one more year’ for that standing ovation.
Should more glamour lead you to join foreign dreams
Then what would remain of our once cultured teams.
So choke if you will on your seasonal fare
And no satisfaction will you find there.
Your recipe spicy, ingredients gel
But the sauce lacks consistency, no victory to tell.
You can count your successes on profit and loss
But the cardinal sin is no silver to hoist.
Blinkered and sworn to see nothing again
A repetitive tale of continuous pain.”
The spectre dispersed in an instant and the sharp, piercing tones of Bill Shankly shook Rafa in his seat.
“I see your excuses; all lost in translation
Well, here are some ‘facts’ for your edification.
‘Second is nowhere’ we said to our team
‘Fourth for Rafalution’ is merely a dream.
No money to spend under ailing resources
Around us, once smitten, our enemy forces.
Dragged back by delusion, no future to speak
Our assets grow weary as glory they seek.
Torres a scouser? I’ve heard that before
But sooner or later he’ll look to the door.
The choices are yours and by them you must stand
But no divine right will win you this hand.”
With Shankly dissolved, a younger, fresher vision of Matthew Harding appeared, jolting the rested Ancelotti into life.
“Look around at this feast and take heed of these tales
For the pot starts to dwindle and rivals raise sails.
Our team is no younger, fresh blood’s what we need
But to weave them together is challenge indeed.
The harsh expectation soon drags you to drown.
While your game wilts and struggles your guardian frowns.
Distracted from folly to sunnier climes
The death knell rings out with its unearthly chimes.
Slaughtered by pride with its cold, callous face
And your mercenaries find foreign fields to grace.”
Mancini, the newest member of this elite society, had been awake through it all. His time had come and the once proud Peter Swales stood before him, holding out his hands as if to shake the hapless Italian.
“We nearly touched glory, the suffering gone
But the greed and the gluttony is our new song.
Would you darken our door had we held to our passion
In the heart of our city, away from the fashion?
The money that brought you will swallow you whole
As the club slips from dignity into a hole.
In Italy, leave your bags, no need to pack
For sooner than later you will be gone back.
How many souls must we clinically smite?
Forgoing, for glory, the things that are right?
What you leave behind will be distant as skies
The club of our dreams now diseased and despised. ”
As the terrified men sat, digesting the fear that etched across their brows, they knew that they had all heard what had to be told. And it was this truth that laboured their shaken minds and savaged thoughts. What were they to do? Was it too late? And who were the vultures and the enemy forces that sought to drag them down?
At their feet, fifteen mice continued to feed. Some were stronger and more skilled than others. They had grown, bloated by the waste and greed of their masters. Fifteen mice had suffered and were driven to grow. Fifteen mice were to avenge their lot and to take their masters seats.
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