A story about a bloke in California

From the Genius that is John Nicholson of Football365.

This is a story about a man I met in California this summer. He's a great bloke. He's not really called George. I thought his story was symbolic.

George was shocked to get the news. He always thought it'd be the drink and drugs that killed him. He was only 49, it didn't seem fair.

He considered himself in his prime. He was making great money doing A & R for a major record company. He lived in a big house off Laurel Canyon in LA, got as much action as his not-inconsiderable libido could handle and drove around town in a metallic gold Merc convertible.
He was the man, but soon apparently he was going to be the dead man. What a bitch.
The doctor had given him a 30/70 chance of surviving his prostate cancer. He didn't like the odds, George had never been any good at gambling. So he had the operation and the chemo and lost his hair and three stone in weight and waited. He briefly considered praying for his life but couldn't bring himself to stoop so low as to get religion. After all he reasoned, if there was a God, he'd clearly got it in for him already by giving him the cancer in the first place, so what would be the point?

He went to see his physician...

"There's good news and bad news" he said.

"Gimme the good news," said George, hoping that it would be good enough to ease the pain of the bad news.

"Well the good news is that you are not going to die."

"That is f***in' good news," said George.

"The bad news is that you can't have kids."

That's the bad news? He didn't want to have kids anyway. Screaming little poo machines. He hated them.

"Hey Doc, that's okay with me. I'm happy to be shootin' blanks."

"Ah...no you misunderstand me. I mean you will not be able to physically procreate."

George frowned trying to work out what the guy was actually saying...

"You mean I won't be able to get wood?" he said, never one for euphemisms.

"Exactly. It's quite common after an operation on your prostate."

This was bad news. Really freakin' bad. Jesus H.C. how was he gonna live without his endorphin rush? Even cocaine wasn't as good as sex.

"...but I may be able to help you" said the doctor, pulling out a leaflet from his draw. "You can get one of these fitted."

George looked at the brochure. It was full of diagrams. It looked complicated but apparently involved putting a small metal rod in his dick in some way.

"What's this shit?" he said.

"It's a penis pump. We can get it fitted in you, so that every time you need an erection, you flip a valve and attach a can of compressed air and....well...you inflate yourself. You can then perform as normal. It's very successful. Once you're done you flip the valve and let the air out."

George stared incredulously at him.

"You're kidding me man. No-one blows their dick up like a party balloon. You just can't do that."
"I can assure you it's very possible and works very well," said the doctor. "You just have a small metal valve fitted in a fold of skin under your scrotum."

"Get out of here. I'm not going have some kind of robot schlong."

George went away and put a lot of thought about whether he wanted a mechanical cock installed. It was the only option he had if he wanted sex again but how the hell did you explain it to women?

"Yeah you're beautiful...just a minute while I inflate my cock babe."

It wasn't exactly romantic. He could see women running away screaming as he produced his can of compressed air. It was weird - even for LA.

He went home, watched porn and tried to beat nature. But he couldn't. He was as soft as a marshmallow. He had to face up to the truth. As tough as it was.

'What the hell' he thought. He had nothing to lose and he had always liked to be different and take chances. So he had the device fitted.

And it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to him. While some ladies found it a bit weird, most thought it an excellent contraption. He could be as hard as he wanted for as long as he wanted at any time he wanted. It was 100% guaranteed. The only time he had any problems was when a woman being a bit too vigorous popped the cap off his valve and deflated him half-way through. There was a hissing sound followed by a rapid detumessence.
The very thing that he thought would kill him had in fact turned out to be a blessing in disguise after he faced up to the realities.

And I thought of George when I was watching Arsenal's limp performance in losing to Bayern so badly this week. Like George they've got to face up to realities and like George they need to be able to perform when the big occasion demands, and not just when you're playing Crystal Palace.
The truly flaccid nature of their performance in Germany should tell them something. They need help. Wenger clearly has not got the answers to their European problems. He can't make them perform adequately. If he could, he would, but he rarely can. Perhaps Wenger could bring in an assistant with a track record of European success. It's clearly an art he doesn't possess so why not get help?

The players may be psychologically inhibited now and that also makes them unable to rise to the occasion.

So they need the football equivalent of a penis pump. Something to get them up for the big occasion. Something to make them hard, because right now they're unable to perform adequately and there's something a bit embarrassing about it.