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Premier League Diary, Week 7 - Is Arsenal winning a sign of End Times?

“Gentlemen, ladies, thank you for coming.”

There was a rustle of nods around the table, as hooded figures acknowledged one another. Had those dark, red-lined hoods been thrown back, you’d have recognised some of the the faces from the television, from the newspapers. A prime minister here, a chancellor there, a couple of presidents and secretaries of state. Even one or two royal faces. And then you’d wonder about the other faces, bland and interchangeable, nobodies among the somebodies. But it wouldn’t take you long to notice that those powerful and world-bestriding somebodies were careful, respectful, even humble in front of these nobodies, and you’d realise that these were nobodies by choice, these were the nobodies behind the somebodies, the invisible powers that guide the world.
The hoods, though, were up, and the faces were drawn in shadow.

“I know you’re all worried. We’re worried too. But nevertheless, it has happened, and we need to decide if it means what we all hope it doesn’t."

More nodding.

"Number Seven, you were there. How did it happen? How did Arsenal beat Chelsea?”

Number Seven leant forward, face obscured.

“Thank you. My friends, I regret to inform you that Arsenal beat Chelsea by … playing well.”

There was a worried murmur around the table.

“I’m afraid so. They played quick, imaginative football in a confident fashion. They were slick and stylish in attack and, most worryingly of all, composed and assertive in defence. Nobody got sent off, nobody scored an own goal, and nobody fell over at a crucial-yet-hilarious moment. It was an extremely impressive performance.”

An appalled hush took hold of the room. Eventually, a thin voice piped up from the other side of the table.

“Was it Chelsea’s fault?”

“Yes … to a certain extent. Gary Cahill is quite clearly a former defender, a broken thing, a terrible warning, an avatar of obsolescence, a twisted knot of incompetence, a shattered heart, a parched lake, an impacted tooth, a shambling parody of himself. Branislav Ivanovic isn’t much better. And the team as a whole basically doesn’t work: two games in a row, now, they’ve been trying to play the football of a much faster team, and have been punished for their presumption.”

“At least that’s something.”

“It is. And yet, is it enough? Because we saw all of that last season, yet they beat Arsenal, home and away, the first time under a manager they hated and the second time under novelty owl-cushion Guus Hiddink, who was only there because somebody has to host press conferences.”

Another voice broke in from across the table.

“We’ve had this before, right? Once in 2010, once in 2011 –”

“True. And we decided at the time that we could safely ignore those results as consequences of, respectively, Carlo Ancelotti’s tenure coming to an end and Andre Villas-Boas making a series of laughably poor decisions. This, however, may be different.”

“Are we saying that Arsenal are actually … good?"

There was laughter from one or two hoods, but it was tinged with fear, and died quickly.

"We are.”

No laughter this time. Number Seven let the silence sit heavy for a few long seconds, before continuing.

“At least, they may be. They were actually good last season, if you recall, until they weren’t any more. But this season, they look like they’ve stopped messing about. They’re no longer pretending that Theo Walcott might be a striker, they’ve bought a decent-looking defender, they’ve bounced Jack Wilshere out of the club. We need to take this seriously.”

“Thank you, Number Seven,” said the chair.

“You know what we have to do now, brothers and sisters. We have a pattern, and we have to act. Between Arsenal beating Chelsea, the strange weather patterns and those backwards-flying birds we had reported last week, it may just be the time. Tell your agents … tell them the truth. Tell them it’s happened. And tell them the world might be ending.”