The Jobcentre Beckons For Flamini & Arteta

The exterior of the building was as abject as the interior. A squat, dumpy looking two-storey with nothing in particular to draw any attention to it. The main entrance was the only detachment from the mundane, with double automatic doors which opened without effort.   Inside the building, as soon as you passed the double-door threshold, the room opened out. Filling the cavernous space were so many identical pine desks and lumbar support office chairs. It was as if Ikea had made a nest. The walls were a shade of beige which trapped sunlight and smothered it in boredom.

Make no mistake, this was the place that dreams go to die.

Today was a day much like all others. A weekday, and such, the usual throng of people were here. The desks were for one purpose, to find employment. Sat on one side was the person whose sole raison d'etre was to find employment for the person sat on the other side of the desk in a far more rigid and unsympathetic chair.

It wasn't just the desks and chairs that suffered from a lack of diversity. The people who were employed in this office space all seemed to have the same bland taste. From neutral colour cardigans to novelty mugs emblazoned with zany slogans such as "You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps", this workspace would either allow you to concentrate fully, or completely suffocate any motivation. This was a job centre.

This jobcentre was different to most though. It didn't find work for the public. Oh no. This job centre was for unemployed footballers or ex-pros.

The queue inside had not abated since the doors first opened at nine in the morning. The line was peppered with the illustrious, a who's who of football and an anorak's dream. Tony Cascarino, Alan Curbishley, Danny Higginbotham, Tony Adams, Nigel Winterburn, Jamie Redknapp, and so many more.

Outside, many more were queuing to get inside for an appointment. Jermaine Jenas was being restrained by the security detail who had refused to believe he was an ex-footballer despite his vehement protestations and aggressive brandishing of his 21 England caps. Robbie Savage used this distraction to swiftly pass the burly failed coppers and enter the building. Sadly for Phil Neville, Savage's breezy encroachment had left lingering floral scents from his pound-shop shampoo which alerted the nearest guard and he too found himself blocked from entering the facilities on the charge of "not really being a footballer and only playing on account of his brother".

All who had finished their career and now found monetary sustenance through punditry came here. This job centre made connections to the media world and whenever clichéd sound-bites were required, this job centre always had the man for the job.

At one desk, one of the many cardigan clad advisors was just finishing up with a client. This client was Michael Owen. The advisor was trying to appease Owen after yet another fruitless search.

"Mr Owen, I share your frustrations. It is just that after a whole season of your banal punditry on BT Sport and your blind observations, the other TV channels won't touch you."

Michael threw his arms up in indignation.

"I'm Michael Owen though! I was a football player! France '98! England! Other assorted things that happened in my career! "

The assistant continued.

"It isn't just TV either. The radio channels haven't taken up on your offer to appear as a pundit, and the newspapers haven't got back to me on a regular column. It could be worse though Mr Owen, you still have your horses."

Michael looked at the assistant and then huffed his way to the exit, stopping only momentarily to lash himself with a riding crop and neigh exuberantly.

All of a sudden, the brightest light shone from the automatic double doors. Too bright to gaze upon directly, although it was clear that it was originating from outside. It was also heading into the building.

The light was unbearable, but all of a sudden, a split second before it engulfed everything in the room, it extinguished. At the source of this luminescence was a certain Mikel Arteta. The Spaniard was impeccably dressed as ever, and his hair was a thing of beauty. The light? His ridiculously white teeth resplendent in an engaging smile.

All of the inhabitants of the room were in awe at this spectacular man. He strode with purpose to the assistant who had just finished with Michael Owen. He sat down at her desk and the people in the queue made no attempt to pull up Arteta on his queueing error. They simply basked in his ambience.