A couple of weeks back, shortly after humiliating myself in a media game with a group of football vloggers at London Colney, Arsenal’s North London training ground, I spotted a lonely man. Walking (staggering forlornly) back from the pitches, I passed what looked like a provincial leisure centre, but must have been Arsenal’s aquatic recovery complex. Peering through the glass, I saw Laurent Koscielny. Peering back, splishing about in a waist-deep pool. Alone, wet and sheepish.
Despite being club captain, a fan favourite and a grown man with a professional contract, Koscielny had decided he didn’t want to play for Arsenal anymore and was allegedly angling for a move back to his native France. When that move was finally green-lit last week – to Bordeaux, who finished 14th in Ligue 1 last season (pfft) – he appeared to double down on the sulk by filming a video in which he ripped off his old Arsenal shirt to reveal the new Bordeaux kit beneath.
Um, sorry Laurent, can I have a quick word?
Naturally, Arsenal fans went into meltdown. ‘Disrespectful’ Koscielny immediately became a villain of the lowest order. A rat and a snake, informed of his new status via a menagerie of emojis. Even David Seaman stopped chuckling endearingly for long enough to condemn the Frenchman’s actions. After almost a decade of good work, a legacy was dead before it even had time to gestate. Around Islington, the word ‘Koscielny’ is now nothing more than the prefix to a withering tut (and maybe the name of a cute little brasserie just off the Essex road). Laurent, all you wanted to do was go and play football somewhere else and be closer to your family (you bastard), how did you get it so wrong?
He should have taken a leaf out of the Carl Jenkinson playbook. Yes, you read that right. Carl Jenkinson, the plucky Arsenal right-back who somehow survived 14 transfer windows. Carl Jenkinson, the living embodiment of every football fan’s boyhood dream. Carl Jenkinson, the sickly prince of The Emirates that may have had the ear of the villagers but never the respect of the king. Shortly after his transfer to Championship side Nottingham Forest was announced last week, the 27-year-old took to social media to post a eulogy of devastating depth and sincerity.
Wow. Carl. Sweet, gangly Carl. If only your recovery from a failed counter attack was as good as your writing, we might not even be in this situation. But despite years of derision, Carl Jenkinson deserves our love, even if he hadn’t etched a poem directly onto the ventricles of a million Gooners. Here’s why:
The Banter
Jenko loves to banter, and he loves to say the word ‘banter’ when he banters. In one of those strange videos football clubs make to show the human side of their players, Jenko did a jokey Q&A with Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain. The Ox was asked who would play Jenko in a movie…
Ox: “I reckon JT. Justin Timberlake. He’d be able to pull you off ‘cos that’s the whole swag you go for.”
Jenko: JT would be able to pull me off. Did you hear that? Banter.”
The Glow-Up
One of the highlights of Arsenal’s recent pre-season tour was Jenko’s hair. For years he stuck rigidly to the humble footballer skin fade, but recently he grew the top out a bit, got a tan and let the beard bloom. He looks great. Women of Nottingham, ready yourselves.
The Realness
Jenko supports the troops. Jenko celebrates his parents’ wedding anniversary. Jenko catches big fish. Jenko has pot purri by the TV.
The Brevity
Jenko kept his farewell brief. He didn’t labour the point or over egg the goodbye pudding. Dare I say it, it was the perfect parting shot. Other, clumsier players recently proved that they simply don’t possess Jenko’s mastery of the bittersweet. Case in point: Eden Hazard’s PowerPoint presentation.
The Goal
Picture the scene: A Spring afternoon in Norfolk. Ten minutes previous, Aaron Ramsey had put Arsenal one-nil up against Norwich in the final game of the season with a trademark Ramsayan volley. Clean, crisp and fragrant. Now, Ozil lays it out wide to Gibbs who cuts it back into the box for Podolski. The German fluffs it, but who is quickest to the loose ball? Who else but Jenko? He nips in to squirt it goalward before the towering Norwich defence can lay claim, and the pace and irregular bobble of the strange shot leave keeper John Ruddy bamboozled. Two-nil Arsenal. Fourth place secure, Champions League football confirmed for another season. Thanks, Jenko.
But beyond the TV riches (and inevitable continental disappointment) the goal ensured, it led to a moment of sheer ecstasy. Jenko had scored in the Premier League for the team he had loved his entire life. A lifelong ambition realised by a toe poke. He celebrated alone with arms outstretched, eyes closed unbelieving, and a failed attempt at a knee slide at the end. It would be his only goal for the Gunners in the prem. Poetry. (Ignore the fact that he scored twice as many for London rivals West Ham whilst on loan.)
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