Sol Campbell and Philippe Senderos in 'Centre-Back Idol'

(Sketch)

Bracing against the icy breeze, Arsene surveyed his young charges as they ran a lap of the pitch.

Armand Traore and Bakary Sagna were leading the pack, Eduardo and Carlos Vela weren't far off, and the midfielders and centre-backs were clustered behind. Abou Diaby was lumbering his way through, accidentally clipping the backs of his teammates' heels and propelling them sideways. The procession was followed by Mikael Silvestre and Philippe Senderos, each labouring with every step and puffing with exhaustion.

The French full-backs came to a halt in front of Wenger, engaging in a comical battle of slaps and knee-blocks as they fought to stand closer to their manager. The rest of the team gradually gathered around Arsene, hands behind their heads as they quickly regained their breath.

Wenger clapped his hands and shouted out to his players. "Tres bien. Now, I think today, if we -"

He emitted a hoarse yell as he was suddenly sent flying backwards. Philippe Senderos, the last to arrive, had skidded across the ice and failed to stop in time, lunging feet first into his manager.

The rest of the squad covered their mouths and tried to keep a straight face, but a collective, muffled laugh escaped their woolen gloves. Wenger tried in vain to stand up, his spindly legs scrabbling about on the ice in the manner of a lanky dog on a frozen pond. Senderos grabbed his manager by the hand and dragged him forcefully to his feet.

"Thankyou, Philippe," Wenger sighed in frustration. "You need to be more -"

He was winded as Senderos tried to clean the mud off his jacket.

"Philippe... stop..."

The Swiss obliged and stepped back, his eyebrows raised submissively and his mouth drooping in an anxious frown. His manager was doubled over, gasping for breath - the training ground fell silent.

"Philippe, you're trying my patience," Wenger boomed. "Go on, get out of the way. Try to be more careful."

Senderos turned and joined his teammates, his head lowered and his shoulders hunched.

"Right, let's get on with some drills. Pat, have you got the -"

"Morning everyone!"

Wenger closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his patience circling the drain. He turned to see Sol Campbell jogging enthusiastically towards him, dressed in his 03-04 home strip and carrying a bundle of newspapers.

"Yes, hello Sol, you're just in time. Pat, have you -"

"Wow, there sure is some interesting stuff in the papers today. For instance, if you look at the Mirror" - he raised the page to Arsene's face, the manager recoiling from the garish print and mindless speculation - "they seem to think I'll be signing up this month!" He laughed uproariously. "I guess I've still got it in me!"

Wenger cast an uneasy glance at Pat Rice, who was grimacing at the former Gunner. Emmanuel Eboue quietly stepped behind Diaby, avoiding eye contact with his old teammate, while Gallas bore the look of a man coming face-to-face with his wife's ex-husband.

"Okay, Sol, but let's not have that get in the way of today's session," Wenger responded, his words slow and calculated.

"There's more!" Campbell shouted, a frenzied look in his widening eyes. "The Times seem to think so, even the Telegraph and the Guardian!" He laid the papers out neatly on the grass, pointing to articles already doused with highlighter ink. "You should read them!"

"Sol, I don't think -"

"You... should read them." Campbell was deadly serious now, appearing more menacing as he stood tall and peered round at the young squad. He briefly caught the eye of Senderos; the young Swiss hurriedly looked away, visibly intimidated.

"Maybe later," Wenger replied. "Pat and the others will run you all through some drills while I go have a look at the Under-18s. I'll be back to watch the practice match later." With that, he briskly crossed the training pitch and disappeared through the gate separating the first team squad from the reserve and youth teams.

The team spent a couple of hours going through various drills. The physios stood at the side of the pitch, waiting for the daily spree of injuries, this time taking Tomas Rosicky, Theo Walcott, Eduardo, and Abou Diaby away for treatment; William Gallas, however, fought them off despite seemingly breaking his ankle, insisting that he would complete the session.

Wenger returned in time for the practice match, bringing a couple of the youngsters over to make up the numbers. Most of the starting XI from the Everton match would play the back-ups, who would feature Campbell at centre-back and Mikael Silvestre on the left.

The game started smoothly enough, with Andrei Arshavin making it 1-0 and Manuel Almunia presumably pulling off several breath-taking saves to justify his starting place. Wenger kept an eye on the back-ups' central defence, wanting to determine Senderos' progress while gauging Campbell's performance.

The trouble started during the back-ups' first real spell of possession.

"Stop, stop, stop!" Wenger stepped onto the pitch, theatrically waving his arms in the air, ducking to avoid being hit in the face by Mark Randall's wayward pass. "This won't do. Philippe and Sol - Philippe, get your hands out of your shorts! The pair of you, what are you doing standing in your own half while the rest of the team is pushing forward?!"

Campbell stared back in disbelief, as Senderos turned to face in the other direction with his finger up his nose.

"Surely we should -" Campbell turned to Pat Rice for support, only to see the assistant manager frantically shaking his head and gesturing for the defender to stop talking.

Wenger was incensed. "What do you think this is, 2004?! You should be on the edge of the area, supporting the forwards!"

Campbell nodded, reminding himself that this was an opportunity to impress. "Okay, sorry." He jogged towards the penalty area, as Senderos ambled along directly behind him.

"That's better." Arsene stepped back off the pitch and returned the ball for Sagna to take the throw-in.

A few minutes later, the first team won a corner. Nasri placed the ball by the flag and stepped back, preparing to cross.

"Non, non!" Wenger cried, again walking onto the pitch. "Sol, what the hell are you doing?!"

Campbell was perplexed. The opposition was gawping at him in horror; William Gallas, who he was marking, was backing away with a look of disgust.

"What are you doing marking at a corner?! Look around, what are your teammates doing?"

Campbell looked around the penalty area, realising that not one of the back-ups was in sight. "What the -" He turned to face the goal, only to see the other nine outfield players bunched up on the goal-line, pressed as close to Lucasz Fabianski as was physically possible.

"You should be protecting the goal, ignore the other team! Pathetic!" Wenger stormed off the pitch, muttering French obscenities under his breath. The match continued.

About ten minutes later, the back-ups won a corner. The first-team, desperate to prevent a goal like the one they conceded against Everton the previous weekend, gathered together in front of Almunia, all keeping their eyes firmly fixed on the ball.

A sliced corner floated in, and the majority of the back-ups shrieked in terror and ran back towards their own half, their elbows over their heads. Only Campbell and Senderos remained; the former was waiting at the far post, the latter in an inconvenient position at the edge of the area. With time running out, Campbell saw his chance to shine and sprinted to meet the ball, which was on a trajectory towards the head of his Swiss teammate.

However, after running approximately ten feet, Campbell keeled over. He had overexerted himself, and his lungs were fighting for oxygen.

Senderos was watching with childlike curiosity, his hands inexplicably full of grass and his mouth surrounded by hints of mud. No sooner had he decided to go and help his colleague than the ball bounced off his head and looped into the far corner.

He stared spellbound as the net rippled, then grinned and clapped his hands enthusiastically. He jogged back to his half as the physios surrounded a gasping Sol Campbell.

"Sol, I think you should go home," Wenger asserted.

"Fine," Campbell wheezed. "I don't know what's happened to this defence, but I don't want to be a part of it. Anyway, there's no way you could've matched what I was earning at Notts County."

"Enlighten me," the Frenchman responded dryly.

"£420,000 a week." The defender shook the physios off and made his way back to the carpark, while the players looked on in astonishment.

Senderos smiled to himself and returned to his position as the first team prepared to kick off. However, the game was again held up by a familiar face dashing onto the pitch.

It was none other than Ashley Cole, who had somehow arrived from Chelsea's training ground within seconds.

"I heard something about £420,000 a week?"