The Arsenal and Bolton Players in 'A Snow Day at the Emirates'

(Sketch)

Arsene looked out the window, casting a thoughtful eye over the sheet of snow covering the pitch. He gazed up at the grey sky, which was by now haemorrhaging snowflakes the size of golf balls. Where in God's name was the groundsman?

"We have to cancel the Bolton game," he decided. "My players cannot work in these conditions."

The players babbled excitedly. Denilson and Diaby looked at each other and breathed a sigh of relief - by the time the match was replayed, Fabregas would be back to help them out.

Wenger stared out the window, wondering how this would affect the fixture list. Would he have to chastise the Premier League again for their thoughtless scheduling?

No sooner had he decided he'd try the groundsman's mobile one more time, than he felt a dainty tug on his jacket. He turned around to see nothing behind him; curiously, he looked down, to see a bashful Andrei Arshavin gazing at the floor and twisting the ball of his foot into the carpet in uncertainty.

"Mister Wengerski, it is so long since I have enjoyed a proper winter, and it brings fond memories of Mother Russia and my people. If the game is cancelled, does this mean... does this mean I could go and play in the snow?"

"Oh, Andrei," Arsene chuckled, as one of the world's greatest attackers lifted his head in childlike hope, his eyes wide and glistening with innocence. He ruffled the Russian's fluffy hair. "Of course you can."

"Thankyou Mister Wengerski, thankyou!" Andrei beamed, reaching up and hugging Arsene's knees. "Your kindness will not be forgotten!" And with that, he waddled eagerly for the door. "Come, comrades, join me for frivolity in the snow!"

There arose a collective cheer, and the players all bundled through the door, the little Russian tumbling in their wake. Arsene chuckled and shook his head. 'Those rascals,' he thought to himself, as he clasped his hands behind his back and turned back towards the window.

He felt a hurried tap on his shoulder. Again, he turned around, this time to come face-to-face with young Philippe Senderos, who was pressed well into the boundaries of Arsene's personal space.

"Yes, Philippe?" Arsene enquired, taking a small step backwards.

The distressed Senderos frowned and pointed to his feet. Arsene looked down to see the 6 foot 3 inch defender's toes wiggling in his mismatched socks, and a pair of snowboots in his hands.

"Philippe," Arsene sighed. He rolled his eyes and took the snowboots. "You really shouldn't need my help anymore, you're nearly 25."

He shoved the snowboots onto their owner's elephantine feet, as Senderos watched silently in childish intrigue. "There you are, now go join the others."

Senderos smiled appreciatively and lumbered out of the room.

The players frolicked in the snow for the rest of the afternoon. Almunia was bombarded with snowballs by the youngsters, trying to catch them in the hope of returning fire, but to no avail. Diaby built a fort on his own and spent the entirety of the afternoon watching out for invaders through a small peep hole. Gallas got tired and headed for the changing rooms, but Wilshere and Eastmond scurried after him, begging for him to come back and play, until he gave in and returned to the pitch.

Rosicky and Nasri spent several hours hiding in the stands and pelting passersby with snow, ducking behind the seats and giggling. They went a tad too far and annoyed Vermaelen, who followed their hushed laughter and dragged them from their hiding place by the scruff of their necks, took them to the changing room, and left them hanging by their hoods from their respective pegs. They spent a short time hanging and swaying limply, until Senderos overheard them whistling and enthusiastically calling his name, and bounded to the rescue.

The sun descended over a pleasant scene at the Emirates, as Wenger watched from the directors’ box with paternal pride. It disappeared over the West stand, and the pitch was briefly plunged into darkness, before the orange glare of the floodlights poured out over the disturbed blanket of sparkling snow.

All of a sudden, an icy wind swept through the stadium. The youngsters fearfully clung to Gallas for protection and warmth, as the Frenchman sniffed the air and suspiciously scanned the stands. Diaby's eyes disappeared from the window of his fort; Denilson and Nasri leapt behind the advertising hoardings for cover.

The earth rumbled, and a monotonous, repetitive thud rhythmically shook the stadium.

'Zut,' Wenger thought to himself, watching anxiously from the safety of the box. 'I forgot to tell Bolton the game was off.'

The eighteen-strong Bolton squad emerged from the tunnel, towering over the trembling Arsenal players. Cahill, Muamba and Knight glared menacingly at the youngsters clutched to Gallas' legs. Wilshere simply screamed and sprinted towards Owen Coyle, but it was too late - he was one of them now, and the wonderkid no longer had a loan at Burnley to save him.

The two squads stared at each other in silence. The atmosphere was tense, the air ice cold.

Vermaelen made his way through his teammates, and stood directly in front of Bolton, his arms by his sides and his expression resolute. The rest of the squad watched him in admiration, but they remained gripped by fear. The Bolton players continued to stare, steam billowing from their nostrils, the silence unbroken.

All of a sudden, a compact snowball whizzed through the air and shattered across the face of Jussi Jaaskelainen. Everyone turned to see a regretful Andrei Arshavin, his hand still poised in the air, watching Jaaskelainen angrily wipe the snow from his face.

Another snowball flew across the pitch, this time striking the face of Ivan Klasnic; it was Samir Nasri, who had boldly stepped to Arshavin's side.

Without a moment's hesitation, the Arsenal players rallied around their attacking midfielders, assailing the Bolton players with round after round of snowballs and propelling them back towards the tunnel. Predictably, their opponents simply gathered in front of Jaaskelainen, recoiling against the snow and concentrating solely on shielding their goalkeeper. Kevin Davies stepped forward momentarily, cocking his arm and taking aim; but he was instantly struck by a fresh round of snowballs and scarpered back towards his teammates. Bolton retreated to the tunnel and clambered up the stairs, snowballs still exploding against the backs of their heads; Wenger dashed to the windows overlooking the plaza, just in time to see them piling back onto their coach, which was already in motion. Johan Elmander squeezed through the doors just in time, and the coach accelerated towards the Holloway Road and disappeared over the horizon.

All of Bolton's eighteen players had fallen, and not a single Arsenal player had been hit. Wenger rushed down to the pitch and congratulated his team, while the dozens of injured players applauded from the stands. They celebrated in the players' lounge, where they drank and made merry, before staggering back to their homes and retiring for the night, content after a wonderful day at the Emirates.

And when the match was replayed, the score was again 18-0.