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Naked mummies, other Egyptian malarkey, and oh, I don't know what's wrong with Arsenal
By Darshan Joshi, writing from Sydney
It is fair to say Arsenal are being unravelled.
The word ‘unravelled’ always brings me back to those Egyptian mummies. What if the hundreds of yards of linen used to wrap these Pharaohs of old acted as a way of preserving not just the bodies of these dead kings, but their lives? Imagine Akhenaten roaming the streets of New York, Tuthmosis swimming across the Thames, Tutankhamun climbing Mount Everest, announcing their plans to go after the woman of their pleasing. All it would take is one exceptionally curious archaeologist with cojones of steel to engage in a little unwrappin’, and bam!, our world is penetrated by a multitude of mummies with iPods whistling this kind of music in their ears, drinking out of Starbucks cups specially designed with hieroglyphics, sent down by Anubis and Ra and Horus et al, promising immortal life, plenty of sex, unflinching wealth and nice triangular towers.
Perhaps losing to Blackburn Rovers, then, was the best thing that could have happened to Arsenal. Now that they have been demummified, they look cadaverous. European football will feel the wrath of an uglier Bakary Sagna, a shorter Andrey Arshavin, and a skinnier Tomas Rosicky. A blinder Arsene Wenger. Doesn’t that frighten you? Arsenal are now a bunch of naked mummies. With emphasis on naked.