I’m sad today. The match against Portugal didn’t solve anything. We’ve tied Sven up and Didier is in charge in the meantime. But something occurred in the changing room that I didn’t anticipate – and I haven’t mentioned it to anyone since. I found a note addressed to me in my training bag: it was from William.
Everywhere I turn I see the face of an enemy staring at me. The output is never understood by the actor; only the method is clear. So I continue to play to a blind audience. These fools…it’s pathetic. I’m desensitised. They train because they think it will make them better. Better at what? Football is an illusion. And to get better at an illusion is to continually poke the eye of a blind man and expect him to see. No, training is only conditioning. It is conditioning us to the whims of a dictator, to the ideals of personal and imaginative limitations, and I will not allow it. Conditioning is suffocating. And suffocating is death. I don’t want to die yet. There’s still so much to see: Buxton in the summertime to search for the box Andy Dufresne left buried under dirt and stones. And Denzel in a West End musical biopic of my life…yes, there’s so much left to see.
I find this ritual a bore: all of this training, communicating, eating, and sleeping – it’s all overrated. It’s suffocating. A postman only needs his letters. A philosopher only needs his mind. I only need a blank canvas and three colours to communicate my message to the masses. But Arsene expects my mural to be finished with only a brush and no paints. And Raymond, well, he cuts my hands off and blindfolds me with my obtuse compatriots to substitute as stunted senses. Franck is the stupidest person I have ever come across in my entire life. Yesterday I asked him of the implications of identifying with Milton’s Satan instead of God and he answered me by lighting three matches using only his left retina. How can I work in these conditions?
The only solace I find is that my importance isn’t lost with people like you and everyone else at Arsenal. I’m indispensable. Each of those players looks to me as their leader; sometimes even a father. I remember after the match against Birmingham how Gael and Theo began to look at me differently. They couldn’t approach me anymore…they were in awe of me. They respected me even more than before. In fact, the whole team couldn’t make eye contact with me, or talk to me, for 7 months after the incident. Even Arsene took me aside – awestruck – and asked if I could relinquish the Captaincy. I understood why: I had been elevated above the standards of these young men and they couldn’t relate to me as an equal. If there’s one thing I learned from The Dark Knight it’s that, sometimes, not being the hero is the most heroic of actions.
Uruguay did not test us French. Sometimes in matches I let the ball drift over my head when I can easily clear it just to see what happens. Chaos is the brother of a thinking man. As far as I’m concerned France defeated Uruguay. The score hardly matters. Goals are just clowns without makeup – they’re inconsequential; fodder for those who haven’t got an imagination. I feel sorry for all of these people who come to packed stadia just to see me do something I hate. I would be happiest if no one came to watch…if the people had all realised they have a better way to spend their Sunday afternoons. Loving their wives perhaps. Writing their memoirs maybe. Or just building a house. I would be happiest playing football in an empty stadium, alone. Because, as Nietzsche said, ‘those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’ I have always danced and I have never heard any music.
I have no idea how he found my bag. Why me? It must have been that stupid screenplay fiasco! I will need to warn security at the hotel about him. This is just like what happened with Kolo – I better not tell him that Willie’s back.
[Please note that this is a spoof series and doesn’t represent the genuine views of Emmanuel Eboue or William Gallas]
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