CHAOS. The place where I wander in the confusion that is the side effect of heavy medication seems to have been renamed. Mugdock is now Mugstock, at least to the writer of a diversion sign on an approaching road.
I feared this marvellous spot north of Milngavie had been renamed in honour of its most faithful walker. "I am not worthy", I cried as a guddle of walkers gathered on the hills. No one disagreed. Though many found an urgent need to make a call on their mobile phone.
Ah, Mugstock in Milngavie. Could it be the first intimation of a music festival coming to the area? Will the people of advanced years who largely use the area be invited for one last recreation of their more vigorous years? With a Demis Roussos tribute band? With a designated smoking area for the hash users? With announcements from the stage akin to the ‘bad acid’ warning from the original Woodstock? Something like: “We have received information about dodgy drugs. Be careful with that high blood pressure medication. It’s your own trip but, hey, be advised.”
But I believe Mugstock is a more fitting name for a convention of football fans, particularly those who adhere to the notion that Arsene Wenger will win the title for Arsenal this season. The opening day of the English Premier League brings a level of hype akin to an announcement that Elvis lives and has recruited Lord Lucan, Charles Manson and a singing unicorn as his backing band.
The delusion surrounding the EPL is such that one wonders if its devotees have indulged in "bad acid", and that of the car battery variety. But the EPL has its realities and a frenetic summer has made them extraordinarily obvious.
It has the most money in the world. It has some of the best players. It has many of the best managers. It also has the most press conferences and this can even impact on the Olympics. There is a theory that the rain that caused the cancellation of the rowing in Rio the other day was caused by the sudden deforestation of the Amazon to provide newsprint for the signing of Paul Pogba.
It is not Monsieur Pogba but Mr Zlatan Ibrahimovic and his manager, King Jose of Mourinho, who provide the lesson for today. It is one that many Arsenal fans have learned in the hardest of ways and may be instructive for anyone desirous of playing or managing at the top level.
Zlatan was asked after scoring the winner in the Community Shield what it all meant to him. This seasonal opener at Wembley routinely provides memories so hazy that one could be forgiven for believing they were all played on grass . . . or some such other mellow-inducing substance. Zlatan, though, chose the chat on the park to state he had now won 31 trophies and was looking forward to adding more at Manchester United.
A simple message, delivered with all the force of a Peter Lorimer volley on the day Oor Peter raided Popeye’s spinach stash.
His manager was, predictably, no more diffident. Asked for his ambitions for the season, he replied: “To win every game.” There was no muttering about qualifying for the Champions League in fourth place being a success, no reflecting on the relative mess of inheriting a team that was as balanced as a hippy on the baddest of trips and no call for patience. He knows the score. And that this score must always be favour of United.
His players have reacted with some energy. The old-timers at Old Trafford – Wayne Rooney, Michael Carrick et al – have joined in the chorus of hallelujah. The Messiah has arrived, the promised land of the title awaits and there is life after Louis van Gaal.
All this optimism may, of course, perish on the altar of realism. There is Pep at City, Conte at Chelsea and even Jurgen at Liverpool. They are all sending out similar messages. They are all preparing for a good trip. Except old Arsene who is warning of the "bad acid". Qualification for the Champions League would be a success, the prices for players are too high, he needs a centre half, he needs a striker . . . the full chorus of an Arsenal pre-season has been rehearsed and sung loudly.
The press regularly portray him as a hero standing against the prevailing orthodoxy of excess, a Don Quixote tilting against a tank with a stick of liquorice. He is, of course, an operator who satisfies the board with a regular profit. He is also a perennial loser, at least in title terms. Arsenal have not won the league since 2004 and the triumph of Leicester City last year was the most painful. It showed Wenger could not prosper even when his greatest, richest rivals were stumbling about like a drug-addled roadie on a bouncy castle.
His most-quoted message this pre-season was not a call to arms at the Gunners but a lament that he was “scared” of retirement. The EPL will be won on the pitch, not in the press conference; but belief will precede any triumph.
But In matters of faith and will Arsene seems as lame as me after a Mugdock walk. It is enough to make one pray for the venerable manager. And for motorised scooters at Mugstock.
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