THEY THINK IT’S ALL OVER: THE PREMIER LEAGUE AFTER BREXIT

They Think It’s All Over: The Premier League After Brexit
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THEY THINK IT’S ALL OVER: THE PREMIER LEAGUE AFTER BREXIT



Written by Jake Moss
16 Tuesday 16th May 2017

The year is 2019. Britain has left the EU on a wave of anti-European sentiment. Chaos reigns.

The streets are lined with Poundland bunting and awash with abandoned pork pies trodden under foot. Someone’s looted Patisserie Valerie. A relentless stream of tearful French exchange students have been blocked at Calais, never to see the Leicester Square M&M Store. There’s literally no-one left working at Pret A Manger. Everything is on fire.

Everything that is, except for Will Grigg.

Will Grigg’s once passionate fire is now but a glowing cinder, and he is ceremonially extinguished to mark the end of England’s greatest era of domestic football. Over the years, we’ve had the pleasure of watching a pantheon of legends from all over Europe, now solemnly waving the Premier League goodbye. Eric Cantona. Thierry Henry. Dennis Bergkamp. Moussa Sissoko.

The doors close firmly behind them, as Paul Nuttall bars and padlocks them shut. But what happens now in these uncertain times? For the love of God, what will happen to our glorious Premier League™ (sponsored by Cadbury’s)?!

The Ballad of Arsene Wenger

What of that bastion of footballing sophistication, Arsene Wenger? What of Le Professeur, the man who took English football out of the dark ages with his emphasis on intense training, possession football, and not having four pints and a naan bread before kick-off. With Arsene bravely persevering into his 23rd season of winning the FA Cup and scraping fourth place, an unease grips the Emirates. Nothing much new there, but this is different. This is Brexit country now.

The Arsenal fans have had enough. No more fannying about on the edge of the area for 90 minutes and then losing 1-0. No more poncy Tony & Guy haircuts. No more having a midfield with the structural integrity of a Kinder Bueno (brittle wafer-like wingers surrounding a soft praline centre-midfield). No sir-ee. Not in this land of hope and glory. Not in our bloody England. We didn’t give up the empire for Hector Bellerin’s top-knot. Wenger Out!

Wenger doesn’t know what to do. This time it’s for real. If he wants to make it back to Paris unharmed, he’ll need a distraction. A scapegoat to toss to the masses. But who embodies everything that Brexit Britain despises?

Continental style over good old-fashioned substance. The inability to put in a studs-up challenge if his life depended on it. A man who has all the languid flair in the world, but who knows nothing of the Wetherspoon’s Curry Club. Arsene Wenger wipes the sweat from his brow and a wide grin breaks out across his duck-like beak. He starts drafting a text to Mesut Ozil.

And so it goes. Ozil standing outside the station, waiting for Wenger, just as the text instructed. At that very moment, Arsene hops aboard the final Eurostar before nightfall - the last chopper out of King’s Cross St Pancras. For a moment, he looks back. Flames engulf the city. Ozil is desperately Instagramming his final moments, as his cultured left foot is torn from his body by an angry mob led by Claude from Arsenal Fan TV.

Wenger turns away. He orders a pain au chocolat. He smiles. Oh well. There’s always Paris Saint-Germain.

The Man with a Face Like Brexit

Foreign players have flooded out the country. Anyone who’s any good at football has left and all that remains is a hollow husk. There are seven decent players remaining and they run the league, crushing everyone before them. Dele Alli endlessly nutmegging Phil Bardsley every Saturday lunchtime for eternity.

Chelsea have lost their entire squad apart from Gary Cahill. They have no choice but to wheel back in the old club legend - the face of Brexit, John George Terry.

Terry chugs back on to the pitch yet again. Now with all the mobility of a walnut chest-of-drawers, he’s reduced to standing on the six-yard line and toppling in front of anything that comes his way, shoving his battered face in the way of the ball. A middle-aged racist man lying prone on the floor and shouting abuse at Troy Deeney. That’s all he is now - a fading force sticking desperately to what he knows, even though he no longer has the legs for it. John “Brexit” Terry - the face of the Premier League we voted for.

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