Murder On The Mourinho Express

Each letter was scribed on the finest parchment and despite being daubed using a fountain pen not one accidental blot spoiled what was the most elegant of handwriting. He had placed each epistle in a thick sheath and then delivered them in turn by hand in the wee hours. Every detail had been seen to. The invites were completed.

Now he waited......

2130 HOURS. SOMEWHERE IN RURAL ENGLAND

The house - or blight on the countryside as the locals called it - stood out from the rest of the idyllic setting. Surrounded by crops of thick shrubs and groupings of mighty oak trees its air of the modern threw up a vulgar middle finger to what lay here previously. Where before lay a behemoth of a Victorian pile, now only the facade of the antiquated remained. The front of the previous house which had been kept looked ill at ease being the face of such a building. Much like the skyscrapers that bullied the London skyline the new home was predominantly glass with metal framework. If knocking on the ancient doors you happened to take a step back - you would be of the opinion that the house had shed its skin. However, this abode did not have a reptilian nature. Unlike its owner.......

All guests had been ushered through the doors by an almost fossilized butler. He shuffled through what most would think of as a shrunken main entrance room given the house's size and were led to the left. Down through a narrow unspectacular hallway lined by oil paintings of tropical settings that wouldn't look out of place up on the gaudy walls of a sun-bed shop and eventually to a routine white, wooden door which opened out into one of the most gargantuan dining rooms you would ever be likely to see.

This is where the guests now resided - impatiently waiting for the opportunity to right some wrongs. The room was perfectly spherical and white alabaster walls were the owners choice to frame the room. Halfway up the wall abruptly ended and a large glass dome topped the walls. One ornate chandelier hung, sentry-like, from the centre of the glass-work. The light that emitted from this no-doubt ridiculously priced crystal light fitting filled every crevice in the room and also served to pave the way for inquisitive eyes to peer into the sky that cackled above them. It was rather breathtaking.

High-backed, green leather armchairs sporadically placed around the outer of the room and a table that could serve a hungry crowd sat in the centre acted as stations for where  - if the mood took you - you could look into the sky that loomed up high in a position of luxury and comfort. Nothing else littered the space which could have been used as an oratory. The guests grew listless as the lightning continued to splinter its white-hot dance across the heavens.

The sole door crept open. The staff member who had led ushered them into this room cracked a single, barked cough. The guests, which were five in number, all bolted upright. 

In walked a man entirely comfortable in his own skin and his surroundings. The man was dressed much like a person who had just been quaffing brandy whilst discussing hunting in a room lined with deer-heads. Adorned in tweed with leather patches in all the right places, he cradled a walnut pipe out of one corner of his mouth. The man was someone they all should know well. Despite the ridiculous outfit - the man was Arsène Wenger.

The guests were aghast at such a shock.  They expected a demanding Board Member, a bloated fat-cat who could be shrugged off or set at ease with a photograph and an autograph for the grandchildren. The Gaffer wouldn't be of the same ilk.

Arsène opens his mouth to speak.  It isn't his usual measured tones....

"THE POST-MORTEM STARTS HERE!" he booms with portent.  The reverie the guests were in (who were still standing) due to the shock of their Boss being the one who had just walked in was broken with Wenger's cry.

"I have invited you all to this house to finally get some answers. We try and we try to work out our problems on the training pitch. We talk and we talk about using our mental strength to overcome. We have hit a leetle roadblock."

The guests shifted uneasily.

"Against Chelsea, we passed well. We moved well. We defended well for the most part. But leetle-beet mental block defeated our aims. It happens every time we play them. I now want to get to the bottom of it and I believe the culprit of our failings - IS IN THIS ROOM TONIGHT!!!"