First of all, a very MUNDIAL Christmas to you and yours. Did you enjoy part one of Joel Golby's festive epic yesterday? If you missed it, you can catch up here. Part two is even better, so slink away from the family and treat yourself to a good old scroll on the most wonderful day of the year. Cheers.
MIKEL ARTETA
Right, time to do this. A £600 bottle of red wine sits in a decanter on the kitchen island. This is the final piece of the puzzle. Pep loves passing: Mikel loves passing. Pep loves wide-gauge knits with the arms pushed up: Mikel loves wide-gauge knits with the arms rolled up. Pep loves red wine: Mikel—ah. He can’t bring himself to do it. It’s rancid. Why’s it so dry? And so vinegary? People drink this, yeah? And they like it? What’s wrong with water? He takes another sharp sip. Revolting. Down the sink it goes. The house is silent, and everyone has gone to bed. There’s no live football happening on the entire planet right now, so there is nothing for Mikel Arteta to watch. He goes to the master bathroom and gets out the Braun. It buzzes in his hands. Click. He holds it to his perfect hairline and sobs. This will be worth it. This means more.
IRAOLA
His sister’s husband is here, and he’s going on and on and on, as always. Andoni holds his wine glass tight. His wife clasps his thigh. Stay calm, she murmurs. It’s not worth it. Léonardo owns a construction business in Zaragoza. They just broke ground on the site for a skyscraper worth four, maybe five bill. “Plus, we own all the blocks of flats in the surrounding area,” he’s saying, louder now. “I know the local politician… and yeah, he greased us some wheels.” They’re flying business to Dubai tomorrow, where he’s meeting with the guy who built that palm tree-shaped island. Two teen boys stare disinterestedly at their new iPhones. Diamonds twinkle at his sister’s ears. Those Iraola family teeth, long replaced with neat, white veneers. “What is it you do again, Andoni?” he asks. “You still doing that ah—what is it?”
I beat Manchester United with a team led by Dominic Solanke, you piece of human shit. I turned Marcus Tavernier into a Premier League player. I bought Patrick Kluivert’s son. Andoni stays quiet. He can feel his face gone puce. “Andoni, we need more milk,” his wife tells him knowingly. “Could you drive to Waitrose and get us some more?” He sits outside the shuttered supermarket and punches the steering wheel until his knuckles hurt.
There’s no live football happening on the entire planet right now, so there is nothing for Mikel Arteta to watch
DAVID MOYES
Boxing Day. Arsenal at the Emirates. David drove himself down just to get out of that fucking house. Too much noise, too hot. Plus, he can claim back his mileage. Thermos of coffee and a leftover sandwich. “Make sure you leave turkey for leftovers,’ he said yesterday, forking three slices onto everyone’s plate. “We only got a small bird this year.” Ate his lunch in silence, on a tray on his lap, watching a repeat of The Chase while everyone else pulled crackers at the table. “Hope you’re not going to that kitchen for more turkey,” he seethed at his son. “Just a glass of water, Dad.” Fucking better be. Clingfilmed sandwich in the glove compartment. He sees the player-coach pull into the car park. Jarred Bowen jumps out in claret-and-blue Santa hat, brand new Chanel love bracelet glimmering on his wrist. Prat. He takes a bite of sandwich. Dry as ash.
