Delay In Cesc Fabregas Deal Owing To Cesc Fabregas Growing A New Head

There has been too much uncertainty surrounding the Cesc Fabregas saga for too long now. One day you have Sandra Rossell’s menagerie proclaiming that their baby is powdered, dressed up and ready to serve at the hungry Camp Nou; and the next day you have the knights of North London tutting at Spain’s lack of dignity and refusing any sort of contact between the two clubs at all. Well, one thing BigFourZa doesn’t like is uncertainty, and so our Irreverent Reporter (IR)© sniffed the air for traces of truth like the bloodhound he is, sneezed furtively, and then sauntered off to uncover any shenanigans taking place.

I: La Masia Academy, Barcelona, Spain

Cesc walks in through the academy gates, a small smile on his face. He remembers his formative years with much fondness, the triangles of tiki-taka, breaking bread with Lionel Messi, Loretta the cafeteria lady-

“Hola Cesc!” Sandra Rossell calls out. He strides up to Cesc, hand outstretched and shamelessly beaming.

“Hola, Signor Rossell,” Cesc says politely. He reciprocates the handshake and cringes, Rossel’s hand feels like a dead, scaly salmon.

“So, all ready to join Barcelona, yes?”

Cesc looks around. He sees lots of youngsters in Blaugrana colours running with the ball, their rosy cheeks flushed. A few toddlers are practicing throwing marbles into the Champions League trophy.

“Yes,” he says. “Barca is my boyhood club, I have always dreamt of returning and playing here one day. If the transfer goes through, I’d be more than happy to come here.”

“Of course the transfer will go through,” Rossell says, patting his head as Cesc shivers in repulsion. “You just have to do your bit to make it work.”

“I’m sorry Signor Rossell, but I’m not going to force a transfer, I wo-“

“No, no. Nothing to unpleasant as that. It will just involve pushing some buttons,” Rossell says, his smirk still apparent.

“Buttons?”

“Si,” Rossell says, pushing a remote into Cesc’s hands. “You know Jon Toral and Hector Bellerin, yes? Your new Arsenal teammates? Go up to them when they’re at the Emirates; they will always be together as per instructions. Ask Bellerin to open his mouth, and then press the red button on your remote.”

“Wha-“

“And then you’ll need to vacate the premises within ten minutes. I’ve already mailed you a flight ticket, and saucy magazines to flip through during the journey. Godspeed, Cesc.”

“Umm, no, Signor Rossell. I’m not going to help blow up the Emirates,” Cesc said, aghast.

“We really need you here, Cesc,” David Villa says, caressing his left cheek.

“You’re the last strand in the grand Barcelona plan,” Andres Iniesta says, caressing his right cheek.

“We’ll be bench buddies, you and I,” Javier Mascherano says, stroking his left thigh.

“We’ll snack on Loretta the cafeteria lady’s late afternoon munchies again,” Gerard Pique says, stroking his right thigh.

“You complete me, Cesc,” Xavi Hernandez says, standing in front of Cesc and opening his lips in a hideous pout.

Cesc dislodges himself from all the stroking, caressing and pouting and hurriedly legs it for the exit. He glances back and sees the Barcelona first team trying to make a ‘YMCA’ style ‘SEXY CESCY’. He doesn’t look back again.

II: London Colney, England

Cesc walks in through the academy gates, a small smile on his face. He remembers making the step up from Spanish starlet to club talisman here, running rings around Vieira, many friendships, jumping on Arshavin’s stomach between training sessions-

“Cesc! Thank God you’re here,” Arsene Wenger says, scurrying forward and clasping his hand fervently.

“Arsene, I-“

“You see! I told you,” Arsene says, turning around and facing the rest of the Arsenal team. Cesc notices that they’re all carrying suitcases with them. “I told you Cesc would be staying with us next season. There’s no need for any panic. We’re set for next year. Have you seen Jon Toral and Hector Bellerin play, they’re really good-“

“Cesc,” Robin van Persie says, “are you staying next season?”

“Erm..I’m not blowing up the Emirates,” Cesc says.

Van Persie shakes his head and hands his Arsenal jersey in to Wenger. “An artist’s life for me, then.”

Other players soon follow suit, handing in their jerseys.

“Manchester City,” Clichy says.

“Drag queen finishing school,” Rosicky says.

“The highest bidder,” Nasri says.

“Borussia Dortmund, Sporting Lisbon, Benfica and the other 27 clubs who have bid for me,” Bendtner says.

“Zoo entertainer,” Gunnersaurus Rex says.

“Don’t worry boss, I’m staying,” Almunia says.

On hearing this, the rest of the team and most of the Reserve team troops out as well, leaving the forlorn figures of Arsene Wenger, Manuel Almunia and Cesc Fabregas in the middle of the pitch.

Wenger sighs but there’s steel in his eyes, “Don’t worry, Cesc. We’ll get through this. I’m going to build my entire team around you now. I have these insane kids in my colony; you should see their skillz. And we still have your two Barca mates.”

Cesc looks over at Jon Toral and Hector Bellerin, who stare back. Bellerin opens his mouth.

Cesc shakes his head and slowly trudges away, holding his head in his hands and moaning.

III: Cesc Fabregas’s Residence, Sometime In The Night

Our Irreverent Reporter (IR)© diligently follows Cesc all day and waits outside his apartment for any untoward signs. He hears screams of agony rent the air, bestial shouts that worry him. He weighs his options, and enters the vestibule of insanity Cesc’s home has become.

He knocks on Cesc’s bedroom, and a weird, echoey voice bids him to enter. He goes in to find a two-headed Cesc Fabregas sitting on the bed. The Irreverent Reporter (IR)© doesn’t break his stride, he’s seen many stranger things in his time. He flicks out his writing pad and gets straight down to the business of removing uncertainty from this transfer saga.

“Cesc, where will you be playing next season?” he says

“Arsenal,” says the left head.

“Barcelona,” says the right head.

The Irreverent Reporter (IR)© scratches his chin, this was something he hadn’t envisioned.

“Don’t listen to this muppet, I’m staying at Arsenal next season. Barcelona players are creepy and touch me weirdly; and I don’t want to be bench buddies with Javier Mascherano, he reminds me of a Mexican rapist,” the left head says.

“I would rather hobnob with Mascherano than give football tuitions to fifth graders, which is what Wenger will make me do,” the right head says. “The Arsenal trophy room will become a heritage site soon, and I don’t want to stick around that long.”

“Balls to you,” the left head says.

“Balls to you,” the right head says.

Both of them stick their tongues out and spray each other with spittle. A few seconds later, they let out a collective sigh and a drooping of shoulders is noticed.

“We have a slutty mother in Barcelona, and a beer-guzzling father in Arsenal. We wish we had better parents,” they say.

And THAT is what the truth is.

P.S: If you liked reading the above article and want to do me a favour, or if you’re a good Samaritan and want to do me a favour anyways, please please click on this link. Read the story if you’re jobless. But please ‘like’ it and comment if possible. I’m so so sorry, but it’s for a competition, and I’m from a third world country, and if I win, I can sell the winnings and buy myself some of Loretta the cafeteria lady’s late afternoon munchies. Don’t deny me my munchies.