This article is a submission for the Arsenal Latest writing competition; to participate, please read the details here.

Written by Jason Phillips

The clock struck seven, alarm bells ringing as its receiver wriggled rigorously in the warm, protective bed. He battled the overwhelming urge to open his eyes, for he knew that the wrath of society’s gatekeepers would engulf his day from the first second.

Arsène Wenger sat upright at the side of his bed, his gaze magnetically attracted to a magic mirror on the wall. The diamond-encrusted piece had been witness to the ups, downs and everything else that fits in between during the past 17 years of his managerial career at Arsenal.

For a split-second, work thoughts were put to one side as he wondered what breakfast his heart would desire on this fine sunny day in London. Arsène walked down to the kitchen in silence, swiftly picking up the newspaper by the front door and sought to prepare the orange juice and toast that he particularly craved. Perching himself on a wooden bench in his garden, he took a sip of the drink as he flipped the daily paper to his much-loved back pages.

It took a matter of ten seconds to lose his appetite, the “sacre bleu” headline of WENGER OUT sharply curdling his stomach. The Frenchman stared for quite some time, but after much deliberation, stepped back inside and professionally disposed of the ignorant article.

Getting dressed was a more straightforward process, his folded training tracksuit already sitting with pride on his dresser. For the entire duration of his tenure, zipping up the smooth training jacket with the glowing crest of the Gunners gave him chills to the core. He had grown to not only embrace England and the club, but had a deep, underlying love that would never be extinguished - whatever the circumstances.

After refreshing, sorting and "au revoir(ing)" Arsène jumped into his car, hoping that his team would have as smooth a transition from third gear to fourth gear during tomorrow’s game, as he did turning into the dual carriageway towards London Colney. Minutes like hours passed, his daydreaming trance almost causing him to miss the left turn into the beautifully manufactured executive car park.

"Morning boss!"

Arsène gave a slight nod of the head as the disheartening sight of Abou Diaby hovered by his car. "Good morning," replied Arsène irritably, his rigid schedule being hampered by the now all too familiar sight of the injured player. He was fond of the rangy midfielder, but Le Professeur’s faith was now wavering dramatically.

Making his way into the main reception area, he glanced a sight of Kieran Gibbs on training pitch one. The boss had always been impressed with the left backs work rate, but this season he had stepped up to an entirely different level. What to do with Monreal... Losing his trail of thought once more, Arsène was met by Steve Bould, who proceeded to lead him towards the nemesis - the media.

Standing behind the misty glass doors, his assistant took the opportunity to brief the boss on the overnight developments at the club.

"Press are bigging up Benzema again. Williams won't go away. Ox out for 6 months is the general gist."

Arsène was apprehensive at the thought of having to answer another barrage of questions related to player transfers. He had made it adamantly clear that if anything happens, they would be the first to know. But it was another issue that concerned him.

"And my future?"

Bould looked at him with a distant grimace and a shrug. Arsène had grown to understand his English partners signals. It was getting to the boiling point.

With a brush of his hair and a clear of the throat, the pair preceded into the press conference room. *click* *snap* *MR WENGER! MR WENGER!* The frenzy that followed their entry set the tone for the rest of the interviewing session. Arsène sat down hurriedly, gulping down a vast amount of water while avoiding the eye contact of the bloodthirsty journalists in his vicinity.

John Cross of The Mirror was first to the microphone, giving the boss nowhere to hide. Before the question was even posed, a bead of sweat dripped down Arsène's forehead. His heart started to pound fast and hand instinctively tapped against the desk.

"Hello Arsène, can you give us an indication on the Luis Suarez saga.

Will you spend big money? Is there a chance of that one happening?"

The boss knew it was coming. He couldn't hide the truth again. Yes, the fans would be angry, but was it worth getting their hopes up? He so wanted to tell them the truth. Losing key players, European uncertainty and the trophy barren run had become obstacles in attracting the finest in Europe.

"No. Absolutely no chance."

Concise, to the point and the truth. One down, thought Arsène. Martin Samuel of The Daily Mail was ready to grill the Arsenal manager next.

"Mr. Wenger. No trophies since 2005, losing players left, right and centre. Will you walk away from Arsenal at the end of the season?"

With a stunned room of reporters visibly shocked at the magnitude of the question, Arsène’s mind raced rapidly. What would happen when he did indeed leave the club? Golf days with Sir Alex Ferguson? It was time to fight back.

"I have worked 17 years at this club. I have put my heart, my soul and faith into this team and I will be here to the end. I started this journey and now I will finish it. You have to remember we have quality players. I would like to see you run a football club for a day and answer your own questions. In regards to a new contract, I would not like to comment on speculation.”

He took a deep breath in, his legs quivering after releasing more rage then he had felt for a while. This summer was supposed to be different, yet he wasn’t the only one who felt he had copy and pasted his interview answers year after year. He knew exactly where this conference was going, deciding to cut it short after a few squad status answers, saving himself some well-earned dignity.

After wondering back into his office, hours passed as he sat making the all important calls to players, agents, clubs and manager’s, looking for that one “top, top, top quality” footballer, that would lead the team to league glory this year. One by one, doors were shutting fast, prices were inflating and diva antics exposed themselves rapidly.

Thierry Henry, maybe? No! He couldn’t keep going back. Time was running out fast and the fans were getting restless. Before he knew it, 5’oclock had come upon him and signalled that it was time to leave. Seeing off his coaching team and medical staff, he got back into the safety net of his car and headed towards the local Waitrose.

Maybe it was a result of the anxiety that being a high profile public figure brings to the table, but Arsène was conscious of the many looks and whispers surrounding him, as he picked up a tin of chopped mushrooms requested by his wife. As he used the self-checkout machine, the cowardly cry of, “spend some money,” startled the already tired Frenchman.

Contain it Arsène, he thought, speeding up the payment so that he could leave as quickly as possible. Criticism is part of any job, whoever you are. But abuse in your own boundaries - a step too far.

Now fighting back the watery eyes, Arsène drove home in a depressed daze, needing a deserved rest. After an excellent French fondue, he shuffled onto his armchair, turning on the TV to watch some competitive football. Manchester United were at home to West Ham. Within a few moments, the sight of Robin van Persie celebrating engulfed the screen, triggering the next channel button to have an early debut on the night. Barcelona vs. Athletic Bilbao. Cesc Fabregas hugged Lionel Messi after his fantastic through ball was chipped in by the world class Argentine. Maybe Italy would prove more fruitful tonight? Higuain’s stunning goal for Napoli answered otherwise.

Arsène switched off the TV, deciding that tonight would be an early night for him. Getting into bed, he opened his bedside draw to see a picture of him and Thierry Henry, standing together next to the Premier League trophy.  It was a moment he will never forget; he developed the boy to a man, to a player, to a winner. How long ago that moment felt now.

As he put the picture away and turned off the light, he started to dream. The colourful confetti, the silver silhouettes dancing into the night and the singing squad of champions. Then, a message appeared at the front of his mind.

FORM IS TEMPORARY, CLASS IS PERMANENT.

The clock struck seven, the alarm bells rang. Arsène rose from his bed and looked into the mirror. It was time to wake up…

Latest: