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I have just awoken from an absolutely crazy nightmare.
It starts, I am having dinner with Pep Guardiola and Mikel Arteta, at Salt Bae’s restaurant in London. We are exchanging tactical ideas.
But halfway through this dinner, I try to check my phone, because I had no update from my friend Ange Postecoglou, who was also meant to attend this dinner.
I spend minutes looking for it, not even focusing on the accent. Mikel says to me, “No, no… we speak about de phone later, eh? Now we are here, we enjoy de dinner… fully. Dis is de moment, yeah? You have to be present.”
I obey, as I do not want to kill the vibe.
Dinner goes on, we share some Sangria wine, eat steak. And of course, share tactical ideas.
The dinner comes to an end, and I offer to pay.
“No, no, no… you are our guest, my friend. I will not let you pay, eh. IMPOSSIBLE! Today, we take care of you, this is how we do, yeah?”, says Pep Guardiola.
But Arteta, he has his own idea “No, Josep… let him, eh. It is good for him. He will learn a lot from dis… you understand? Sometimes, you have to experience dese things, yeah?”
I oblige. I pay the bill for £1568.34, as it was all of our families enjoying the meal.
But I still do not have my phone, and I complain to the restaurant staff. They told me it is my problem.
Mikel Arteta offers to drive me to the police station, so I get into his Mercedes Benz GLE. I say my goodbyes to Pep Guardiola and his family, and go with Mikel.
He tells me “I need to get something at my place first, eh. Then we go. Everything step by step, yeah?”, with a bit of a laugh.
I am the passenger, so I can do nothing but agree.
We get to his house, he tells me “You can come with me, eh… while we wait. We are like family here, you understand? Always together, yeah?”
I feel flattered. He tells me I can look around, make myself at home, and tells me to check his office.
Pitch black. I go to turn on the light. The door locks.
A lightbulb shines. And a masked figure appears. The masked figure takes out his mask.
It is Ange Postecoglou. He says to me “You left your phone, mate”. And gives it back to me.
I ask him, “where were you, Ange? You missed our dinner! Why couldn’t you come?”
Out of nowhere, Mikel Arteta comes out. “No, no. Don’t worry about him, eh. We focus on us.”
“I cannot believe this, eh! I bring Ange, okay, yes, this is on me, I accept BUT YOU… you do nothing?!
He is in your pocket! IN YOUR POCKET! And you are just there… like this doing NOTHING?!
Where is the awareness? Where is the aggression?! You have to compete, even at the dinner table, eh! This is the standard!
I cannot come here, organise everything, trust the process… and then you allow a pickpocket in front of me?! No, this is too much!
You have to be sharper! You have to suffer! You have to feel it! Because this… this is not acceptable at this level, yeah?!”
He throws my phone on the floor out of anger. “You have to leave my house. Now. No more discussion. This is the decision. Because if we accept this… we accept everything. And I will not allow that, yeah?”
I leave. I am disgusted with myself. He has made me feel embarrassed. I could not even catch up with Ange, but why would Ange agree to this? I felt betrayed.
And then I woke up.
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