Friday, December 27, 2024

Arseblog: Tuesday 11th February 2003

february 11th

08.34 – So, I come out of the train station on Passeig de Grácia in Barcelona and I’m feeeling a bit thirsty. I decide to go into this nice little bar I know on Carrer D’Aragó for a coffee and a crossiant. I go in and I’m sitting at the bar, when I notice 3 blokes sitting at a table. They’re staring at me as if they know me. I look over and imagine my shock when I realise the 3 men are Dennis Bergkamp, Marc Overmars and Martin Keown.

Dennis says to me “Hey, you’re that bloke who writes Arseblog, aren’t you?”. “Yeeeees” I reply warily, not sure sure if he’s going to give me a hard time for being not nice to Pascal Cygan. “Greeeeaaaat” says Overmars, “I’ve always wanted to meet you …. you big bastard cunt”. The little fella then dissolves into peals of laughter. Martin Keown looks at him, then looks at me as if to say ‘What a fuckin’ twat’.

So we get to talking. Dennis is a wonderful chap, full of great stories. He and Keown are marvellous company. Witty, intelligent, captivating. Overmars just pipes up with the odd obscentity every now and again, and while for the most part it’s fairly irritating, his description of Christian Vieri as a “cheese knobbed cuntbubble” is quite amusing. We talk about the website, they have loads of questions for me, and we talk about the expenses involved in running the site. Dennis tells me all the Arsenal players love the site and Keown suggests they’ll have a whip around to raise some cash. Somehow they do this without leaving the table and present me with an envelope which must contain at least €25,000. I’m thinking ‘Wooooo’ and indeed ‘Hoooooo’. We drink some beer to celebrate. I’m rich, these dudes are my new friends. It’s all good.

As we’re talking and celebrating our new found friendship, Overmars insists on telling me the time. What do I care if it’s 7.45am? What does he mean it’s time to get up? I’m looking at him as if he’s insane. Why would I want him to put the kettle on, the poxy little hobbit? Dennis, Martin and Marc disappear. I’m awake. Without my envelope of €25,000. Bollocks. Cunt. Shit.

Stupid real life is so disppointing sometimes.

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