Driving With Uncle Wenger

I received this article from Celine Dion before the Newcastle game, I want to stress that, it was a day before. It was delayed because the author wanted to polish it up a bit. At half time today he was wondering if it would make sense. Unfortunately at 4:50pm it proved to be spot on. You can never accuse Celine of last gameitis.  Enjoy the ride, sorry read. Boris Mellor

Celine Dion writes:

I have a recurring dream, where I am in a car, being driven by someone else. Sometimes a family member, sometimes a friend. We start out normally enough, cruising sedately down the road, but sooner or later they become possessed by some kind of demon, and start to drive erratically, faster and faster, hunched over the steering wheel with a maniacal grimace, shouting and swearing at the passers-by.

Eventually my fear overcomes me and I leap from the vehicle, at which point I normally wake up. The subconscious origins of this dream are obvious enough, in normal waking life, I don’t actually drive. I am otherwise successful (relatively) but I don’t drive, I don’t like driving, I hope I will never have to drive.

Maybe, these nightmares stem from a real life situation etched deeply in my memory when, aged around 18, our friend Jason used to drive us to Arsenal down the M4. As Jason pushed his motor vehicle further and further past the 100mph mark, weaving in and out of the motorway traffic, even the hardiest passenger used to lean forward and suggest he er... ‘slowed down a bit’. To which Jason would invariably reply ‘F*ck off....’

Driving with Wenger

Now, dear reader, the rather basic imagery of this article might need some development, so let me bring the subject matter inevitably towards that issue so very dear to all our hearts, Arsenal FC. I believe I may have made a similar point many times before, so I don’t want to bore anyone, but once upon a time I would have considered Wenger a very careful and good driver. The sort to maintain impeccable road standards, wear a tidy pair of brown leather driving gloves, the sort to probably apply (successfully) to the ‘Advanced Motorists Association’, like my Dad.

Every season, for as far back as I can remember, we faithfully pack our suitcases and sandwiches and clamber into the back of our car, for another holiday trip with Uncle Wenger. We are trying to recapture the golden holidays of our youth, where the beaches were long and sandy the sun was high in the sky and summer seemed to last a thousand days. We chattered excitedly in the back seat; THIS year, THIS year, it’s bound to be as good as the ‘old days’, Uncle Wenger says so.

 He’s packed our luggage, filled the car with petrol, and packed some apples and sandwiches for the journey. Probably not as much petrol luggage and sandwiches as our neighbours, but hey, Uncle Wenger’s been doing these trips for a long time, he knows what he’s doing. Everything starts off nicely; we make ground quickly, even though we don’t have the best car. The loud mouth brash neighbours might be slightly ahead in their flashy vehicles, but we are all quietly confident that we will get there on time and in good shape.

 Then, a few knockbacks and perhaps a flat tyre or two, some years, even a few hours spent rather embarrassingly standing by the side of the motorway, a few angry words with our beloved Uncle, and its back on the road. Normally, we do arrive at our destination, although it’s a bit late and a lot of the other cars have arrived first. Never mind, we spend a passable holiday and return home with our faith in Uncle Wenger largely unshaken, with the exception of a few dissenting voices from the very back of the vehicle.

However, it’s a long time since Uncle Wenger gave us a really GOOD holiday. And his promises towards doing so grow more and more outlandish every year. Our car grows older and older and whilst some bits of it (mainly at the front) work very well indeed, with plenty of spare parts, some of the bits at the back are rather, er... cheap. With no spare parts at all. Never mind though, I am not a mechanic, so let’s just see how it goes. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.

You join me now dear reader, just after half way through this years’ journey. . To be fair, the trip this year has been largely better than most, give or take a bit of a traffic jam at West Bromwich and a prang on the Tottenham High Road. So we’ve all given him the benefit of the doubt. I have deliberately refrained from commenting until this point, just looking out of the window. Uncle Wenger keeps turning round from his steering wheel, and assuring us that this year’s holiday will be the best one ever.

 But he’s not looking at the road. We’ve got an easy run in to the coast Uncle Wenger, but the cars got bits hanging off it. And now, get this - we’ve just hurtled through the services without stopping to buy so much as a sausage roll, Uncle Wenger has dismissed our suggestions with a Gallic wave of the hand. Shopping in the motorway services, mid journey, he explains, angrily, is TOO EXPENSIVE. And anyway, that service station didn’t even look like it had anything in it.

We ask Uncle Wenger if he would like to give us a song. But he says no, he’s only got one, and he can’t find it. Couldn’t we have bought some more at the services, we ask?

Uncle Wenger ignores us.

Uncle Wenger turns round and assures us that we are in ‘great shape’, and throws us a few Murray Mints. Glancing out of the back window, I notice that one of the back wheels seems to be hanging off but Uncle Wenger doesn’t seem to care. Uncle Wenger has that maniacal glint in his eye.

‘Aren’t we trying to take in rather too many miles Uncle Wenger?’ we ask.
‘NO’ he shouts, angrily.

He puts his foot down and the car goes even faster.

‘We seem to be travelling through Newcastle Uncle Wenger, and several of our passengers are missing’, we plead.

‘Stop bloody moaning’ he shouts

Uncle Wenger is travelling at an unbelievable speed now, the car is rattling and spluttering. The passengers grip each other with fear. This was a holiday with such high expectations, such great potential, why won’t Uncle Wenger stop and at least give the car a polish and a quick service??

‘YOU ARE GOING TO RUN OUT OF PETROL’ I plead.

Uncle Wenger turns on me angrily, he has a feral look and there is a devilish red glint in his eye...‘IF YOU DONT TRUST ME, GET OUT OF THE CAR’ screams Uncle Wenger, his hands leaving the steering wheel altogether as he tries to grip me by the throat...

I leap from the car, and land battered and bruised on the motorway.

And then I wake up.

Thing is, when you get into Uncle Wengers’ car, as we all do every year, it doesn’t matter what you think, it doesn’t matter what suggestions you have, it doesn’t matter what you try and say to him. If you don’t like the way he drives it, you really can f*ck off. And despite our advancing years, despite the very clear possibility that this might be one of our last holidays, most are happy, no matter what the disappointments, to give Uncle Wenger yet another chance, again and again, because the truth is, we don’t have any other Uncles, or none that we trust at any rate.

 Who would want to holiday with anyone else, it’s always so exciting, Uncle Wenger of nowadays is a mad gambler, a chancer, taking crazy risks and careering wildly from side to side of the motorway. Sometimes he executes daring and brilliant moves, this year, more than most, but we all know that sometimes we come to a stuttering stop on the hard shoulder (who could forget last year’s visit to Spain).

Whether we end up upon the golden sands, or crashed into a tree, like most years, most of all, we all know, it’s either Uncle Wenger’s way, or the highway.