III.

Toastmaster

Awful hours had passed and the men
were properly hot now. Dogs at dinner.
As Rafa separated his final petit four, Sir Alex stood,
the champion and therefore: the toastmaster.
We are gathered here today to remind ourselves of our obligations.
At United, we all know that obligation: dominance.
17 titles now, one away from your fucking perch Rafa.
This season we are changing nothing.
This season we are doing nothing different.
And it will be enough – your Mersey Reds will be nowhere.
The London Reds will be nowhere.
The Frenchman dabbed a serviette to the corners of his mouth.
Even with your Russian, Jose, and his billions, and his favours —
your London Blues will be nowhere.
There was flint and kindling in the Portuguese' glare.
It will be more than enough.
But, as is the generosity in which these proceedings habitually take place,
here, in my fucking domain .........
as is the generosity in which these proceedings take place,
I speak the customary words
and invite the remaining Big Four to say their piece.
The Frenchman spoke, crooking a finger,
then Mourinho, and then it was Rafa's turn.
He pushed his chair back,
smoothed his cummerbund
and rose to address these dogs, these Gods.