Mathieu Flamini: Arsenal's little general is back

Many reasons have been given for our resurgent form and subsequent return to the pinnacle of the Premiership. I personally have written of a few. The messianic presence of The Umlauted One, our titanic back unit which have considered a meagre amount ( if it weren’t for the City game and some shocking decisions it would’ve been less ) have also been cited as Lego bricks which have culminated in the most epic Lego structure in recent memory. There is another reason however. One which sloped off to the historic lands of Italy under a cloud of questions and acerbic opinion from fans, only to return to a wall of doubt and challenges. Only a certain type of man could return from whence he came, face criticism head on and snarl equally hostile, letting his passion and skill quash the critique and morph it into adulation. This man, Gooners, is Mathieu Flamini.

Let me set a scene with my verbosity. It’s the lull in proceedings between seasons. We have just rubbed spurs’ noses in their own defecation once more with Koscielnys’ goal grabbing our rightful place among the elite and casting our lowly neighbours back down to squalor and filth, forcing them to scratch out a life amongst the also-rans and forgotten dreams. The shadows beckoned once more for the orc-whores, whilst we rightfully were jubilant that we had again earned a place in the higher echelons of club football. Gooners were celebrating because, not only had we preverbially given the bottom feeders from the Lane another rough-house anal-exam, we had also finished above them with what I think was one of the weakest squads since the days of Bruce Rioch.

Don’t go getting sand in your vagina, I recognised the talent we had at our disposal, but the timing of last season was too early. Our BFG hadn’t formed the telepathic link with Kos’ which is now evident. Rambo hadn’t quite had enough games to fully show what he is capable of. Jack needed another year, more games, ditto The Ox. Also a few others were too soon out of the womb and the medical lamp was burning their eyes. In flashes we showed the ignorant masses what was coming, but it was too soon. So to still finish in the Top4, to still finish above many teams treating currency like it’s Cha-cha-cha-cha…….Charmin was huge testament to the knowledge, the Greatness that is Wenger.

Once the season had ended and the players set off to sunnier climes to sun their tired, weary limbs, on social networks, the topic, almost as soon as the final whistle blew at St James Park, had switched to transfers. The ITK’s crawled out of their mould-ridden apertures, seeking nourishment via RT’s and follower counts. The Alphas of the group, after taking part in furious co-masturbation, set about befouling our TL’s because even if you don’t follow them yourselves, their foul, odious trail left a wake across the beautiful tundra that is Twitter.

Names, like rotten carcasses were left as signs, markers, to others. They have the knowledge as they have a cousin who has a best mate who works in the petrol station just a mile from Colney and the staff always use it and M’Vila came in and bought some skittles. Now not everyone who was unfortunate enough to fall foul of these soulless creatures were naive enough to believe these signs. No. Some acted as heroic Rangers, rounding up these cunt-burgers and leaving their own markers by way of RT’ing their inane faeces and showing the rest of us that, yes, these are lies, LIES I TELL YOU and YOU CAN HANDLE THE TRUTH!!! REMY, M’VILA, DI MARIA, HIGUAIN, VILLA, BENTEKE, WANYAMA, JOVETIC, RODE, N’KOULOU, KAKA, they are all plausible but they are not currently at our medical facility signing papers!

They are just rumours thought up by some acne-ridden loner who only has a WOW account and a family bag of pickled onion Monster Munch for company. They don’t know diddly. My point being is that no-one really knew who we were getting, but the savvy among us knew that the preverbial iron chains reigning us in had been broken, the sounds eminating from the Board were that the beautiful home that now housed us was no longer an anchor to our luxury liner, we could now sail the seven seas without hindrance. We could SPEND. Shit I forgot Bernard. BERNARD.

Anywho, weeks went passed like playing ‘ Spot the Personality ‘ at a Chelsea awards Dinner. Once more, never heeding the lessons that have been dealt to them, not ever looking at their scar-peppered selves and registering our dominance, the bedraggled masses from the Lane emerged from their pits, brazenly displaying their new shiny wares, proclaiming that these ” new shinies ” were the crystal to their faulty lightsabers, now they could cut a swathe through our ranks. They were mighty fucking expensive crystals. Now restrain your giggles, please, I know looking back on it now renders us all into fits of hilarity, but at the time, we were slightly worried. The gap between us was miniscule. Not in class mind, that’s a fucking chasm, but in League Position. With these new recruits, even if a couple of them flopped like Hefner without his Lil’ blue pills, then another would step up.

Arsene must’ve sensed our alarm, as he then moved to allay our fears. Don’t worry, loyal legions, for in answer to the filthy lucre being spent by all and sundry, we have bolstered our team. BEHOLD, THE POSTMAN and A RETURNING UTILITY MAN!!!!!!

Cue tumbleweed. I can say, with no hint of smugness ( actually, I’m very smug about it ), that I was one of the few who didn’t greet Flaminis’ recurrence with disdain or mild curiosity. I think you’ll find in the photos section of my profile there is a screenshot with evidence of the fact. Yes, that means I’m the next Wenger. In all seriousness though, with our 2 free transfers generating less enthusiasm than a Gary Glitter slumber party, we didn’t have much to cheer about. The media and social networks were awash with shouts to bin our talismanic chief, to spend some farking money, look how much your rivals are spending, this is surely the end for Arsenal, mid-table obscurity beckons, it’s the end, Broken Cannon images aplenty, W’UR AAAWWWWLLLL DOOOOOOMMMMMMEEED.

Özils arrival was preceded by awareness that this time, the much-fabled ‘Lesser-Spotted Chequebook’ would be making an appearance. This sent the ITK’s into a spunk-induced froth, but all the while Wenger maintained his cheeky grin, which indicated that a magic trick proportional to pulling SUBO out of a hat was imminent.

Now I’m not going to go over Özils signing in too much detail, mainly because I’m planning to write about the whole saga soon, but needless to say, his arrival was like a shot in the arm to our beleaguered troops, a tonic from a travelling show that promised vitality, heath, vigour and a shitload of success.

Whilst any Gooner knows and realises the value of The Umlauted One’s arrival to these shores, the match against the Shadow Lurkers early in the season highlighted to us the importance that Flamini carried. He didn’t even start the match, he was a sub but came on in the 1st half through injury to I think it was Jack.

It takes a special sort of man to immediately come onto a pitch, or any new situation really, and start barking orders like a raging despot. As soon as his wee legs trotted onto the turf, he was waving his arms, he was pointing, gesticulating wildly, shouting at anyone who had the misfortune to tread into his zone of fear. He was a Little General and I happen to think he is just what we need.

I remember his first spell. His engine was tremendous. He never stopped running. Age hasn’t had the front to approach him. He still prowls every blade of grass. He memorably was part of the makeshift backline that set a record for the most amount of time between conceded goals in the CL and took us to the final. The building blocks were there but his time at the San Siro, the stomping grounds of many great defensive-minded player, has ingrained in him a sense of dynamic tactics, an awareness of what needs to be done at that time, to preserve status. It’s no coincidence to see how many games he’s started, to spell out that he’s an integral part of our team.

What a fearsome competitor he is, what a lionheart. Even sleeves are too frightened to encroach on his territory. I remember in my younger years at school, awaiting the height spurt that would never arrive, my Headmaster said, “Geed gear comes fae wee bouk son”. A rough translation from my native brogue is “good things come in small packages”. I think that pretty much sums up our brave, tough, unheralded summer arrival. Our Little General.