SCENE I. Stamford Bridge. Away Changing Room.
Alarum. Enter KING ARSÉNE, ALEXIS, KOSCIELNY, COQUELIN, and Players, with Beats by Dré.
Once more onto the pitch, dear friends, once more;
Or close the title race with our long-term injured.
In press there’s nothing so becomes a manager
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blasted ref’s whistle blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of Invincibles;
Lauren the sinews, summon up the Keown,
Disguise fair nature with Vieira-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a Thierry-ful aspect;
Let fly through the yardage of the box
Like our crest cannon; let the power o’erwhelm ’em
As fearfully as doth a galled marker
O’erhang and grasp strikers at corners’ take,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful forwards.
Now get the pass and stretch the defence wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every Gooner
To his full height. On, on, you noblest Arsenal,
Whose boots are fet from fathers of league wins!
Fathers that, like so many Jens Lehmanns,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And looked in the mirror for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your Mustafi; now attest
That this whom you call’d Fabregas did forget you.
Be copy now to men of twisted blood,
And teach them how to win. And you, good Theo-man,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your fastness; let us swear
That you are worth your speeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so meek and efface,
That hath not bad-ass cussness in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your Mesut, and with Lucas Perez
Cry ‘God for Wenger, Arsenal and Sanchez!’
Exeunt, alarum, as buzzer goes off