Wenger from Ipanema

Am I the only one heartened by seeing Wenger on a beach having fun?

Everyone else is having fun. From my sofa, far from Ipanema, I am having the best fun since Italia ’90. Back then, a flawed but eminently watchable England side made it all the way to the semi-finals – our only visit there since 1966. Or was it 1066? I always get confused by the sixty-sixes. One thing I can say for sure is that we were managed by the Duke of Normandy and that someone got a nasty eye injury.

The football’s been exciting, the backdrops eye-watering (though not because of a Norman arrow), the fans passionate, the sun shiny. It’s been superb. And if I could put my finger on one thing that makes it so different, it’s the fans. Its location means that – unlike normally – most of the fans are South American. Argentinians are trucking over the border in their hundreds of thousands, there are Chileans, Colombians, Costa Ricans, Mexicans everywhere. The grounds are full. Everyone’s sitting together, no hint of the need for segregation. How nice that’s been.

Anyway, back to Wenger. He’s been spotted emerging from the water Baywatch style, rugged in a 64-year-old kind of way, he’s played beach football (or is it volleyball, I don’t know – when you grow up going to beaches lashed by high winds and icy cold, you mostly cower behind hastily erected windbreaks). He’s doing his telly, he seems relaxed and he seems like he’s having a bit of a break from being harangued by us.

He deserves it, to be honest.

That said, Arsene – ha, you knew there’d be a ‘but’, didn’t you – I do have one question. I speak as a married man when I ask you – how have you pulled this one out the bag? Are Mrs Wenger and the family with you? I hope they are, shopping hard in Rio or lolling about with you on Ipanema, because if Mrs Wenger’s in England waiting for you to get back, I sense that your section on her football offsetting spreadsheet will be be severely in deficit.

I can picture it now. Old Arsene will stroll through the door whenever he deigns to return from Brazil, all sun-tanned and happy, perhaps whistling, and with nothing more to do than to dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s on some faxes to kick off an epic signing spree.

But Mrs Wenger’s there, bags packed and a taxi revving in the drive ready to take them on their summer holiday to Majorca for two weeks.

“Get in Arsene, we’re going to be late”.

“But Cherie, I have little bit transfer niggles…”

“Not now mon chou-fleur. I’ve been sitting her for a month waiting for you to get back. We’re off on our holiday”.

Arsene looks at his watch. It’s the 15th of July. He’ll be back by 1st August, no later.

“Very well Cherie, let’s go”.

Wenger draws his Nokia 6230 from the pocket of his baggy shorts. He scrolls down the menu to Dick Law.

“Dick, are you there? I have little bit time niggle. We have still month before the end of the transfer window. Remember Ozil? Yes yes, let’s wait and do it like that again. Au revoir. Ciao-ciao”.