So, there you go, Unai Emery is the new gaffer. And in true Fred Moffatt style, announced it in a short-lived webpage on his official site.
Presumably, someone at Arsenal told him that the club like to do the announcing on dot com as they would with a new player. As with the arrival of a new player, everyone knows the signing is made weeks before it appears on dot com. In fairness to the club, all manner of PR photos and interviews must be conducted for our consumption.
And as I write this, the club announces his appointment. Memo to self; get up earlier.
It was a day of bizarre claims. Emery, we were told, doesn’t speak English; how on earth can he communicate with the players? The better question is if he doesn’t speak English, what language was the interview conducted in? Was it English and he sat with an interpreter? He must be impressive if he did that and still got the job.
Maybe it was a 1980s throwback? Back when the British government’s idea of dealing with terrorists was to use voiceover artists so we couldn’t hear the real terrorists speak on television. It was a bizarre policy and one which left us begging for the voiceover artists to return when we heard Gerry Adams real voice in later life.
Who would Emery be voiced by? Benedict Cumberbatch? Tom Hiddleston? That pair are everywhere at the moment, to the extent that spell-checker just corrected me over the latter’s surname.
Joe Pasquale fits the bill although no-one would take his explanation of Mustafi’s comedy defending seriously. Maybe that’s the answer in that instance.
Liam Neeson? Understand this, if you disrespect me on Twitter, I will come and I will find you and I will kill you.
Samuel L Jackson in full-on Pulp Fiction mode would be ideal, I think, in this social media age. Oh, so now you want a selfie with me, motherf*cker?
I’m warming to this task…
Welcome to Arsenal, Mr Emery. Good luck with your reign and may the football gods be with you.
Craving Recognition for Everything They Do
While I have time for the trivialities around the appointment, the great and good do not. They want to know why the recruitment process was a “shambles”. That “shambles” defined as “why didn’t the club tell me what was going on?”
The hacks led the charge, willingly followed by those who find equilibrium too dull. Unless rant mode is fully engaged, they aren’t interested; “if you can’t rant, life ain’t worth living” is the motto tattooed on their necks. And misspelt; it isn’t authentic if the grammar is correct.
A genuine disconnect occurred between the club and media, much to the latter’s disgust because they need the inside information for sales, ego and kudos; not necessarily in that order, either. There’s no egg on their faces; it’s a battery-farm. For people used to throwing barbs around, they do possess remarkably thin skin and fragile egos.
Puma’s designers need to be made of stronger stuff. Nursing is a difficult job. Researching a cure for cancer is a difficult job. Teaching 16-year-old children about Milton’s Paradise Lost is a difficult job. Or am I confusing the latter with a dull job? I’m not sure.
Designing an Arsenal shirt is not a difficult job. The core parameters are clear: red body with white sleeves, alternate collar and cuffs. Understandably, I consider that a simple task. How wrong can you be?
Arsenal made a crucial error of omission and because of that, we are landed with a horror show of a kit. Sponsors and manufacturer logos turn it into a cycling shirt with the introduction of abysmal shirt sleeve advertising. We get ‘Visit Rwanda’, presumably because ‘Angry Birds’ or ‘Stella Wifebeater’ weren’t available.
Take Heed, Ivan
Suffice to say, it’s another home kit I won’t be buying for me nor will I purchase it for the kids either. This is the last kit under the current Puma deal. It’s a design which precludes them from ever being kit provider again. No, Ivan, it genuinely does.
It deserves to bomb in retail sales but being football supporters, there will be ‘brand loyalty’ and shift bucketloads. Can’t wait to see the away kit…