Adebayor The Supreme descended from the heavens in a fiery golden chariot, accompanied by the sweetest of psalms sung by the celestial choir. As he lit up the sky, millions of people rushed out of their homes or places of work hoping to catch a glimpse, however brief, of the Magnificent One. Those lucky enough to be rewarded with such a vision, immediately offered thanks and lit extra votive candles to His image at their family Adebayor shrines. As the winged horses slowly brought the golden chariot to a stop at the Arsenal training facility at London Colney, two waiting attendants rushed up. One got down on all fours at the rear of the chariot, allowing himself to be used a step down for the Sacred One, while the other busied himself laying a sumptuous red carpet that would take the Exalted One to the newly-constructed Adebayor Wing.

‘You two be quicker about it tomorrow,’ the Omnipotent One sniffed. ‘I am Adebayor. I own this place.’ The two attendants cringed with fear. ‘Forgive us, Oh Mighty Lord,’ said one. ‘We were momentarily dazzled by your radiant halo.’

The Adebayor Wing was resplendent. Huge portraits of The Splendid One scoring goals and punching Arsenal players were placed amongst ceiling to floor banners that proclaimed incontrovertible truths: ‘Arsenal without Ade is like the world without the sun’ said one; ‘Mortals, fear the wrath of Adebayor!’ read another, while the largest declared: ‘Remember, fools, Adebayor is Arsenal!’

Various assembled minions prostrated themselves as soon as he walked in. Peter Hill-Wood was the first allowed to speak. ‘Your Royal Highness, Lord and Master of all He surveys, salutations from your humblest of servants.’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it - I’ve got newspapers to brag to and further conditions to demand, you know,’ replied The Wondrous One.

‘We await your thought of the day, Oh Jewel of Our Hearts’, said Lady Nina of the Night. ‘Ah, yes…the thought of the… erm, day. Yes. Er... If the game of football was… a woman, she… er… would be... erm... my woman.’

‘Oh, very profound your Magnificence!’ Gushed Hill-Wood. ‘We shall have that inscribed on the exterior of the Emira… - I mean the Adebayor stadium.’

‘Yes, see that you do,’ ordered Adebayor The Incomparable.

Just then, came a strange, almost ghost-like voice. ‘Ade… Ade!’ it began. The Magnificent One became confused, and then in a terrible comprehension, he realized he was being aroused from a dream.

‘Ade… Ade, wake up! It’s me, Vincenzo’ came the voice of his agent. ‘It’s terrible news! Terrible!’ He flustered. ‘What is?’ demanded Adebayor. ‘What is the bad news?’ ‘Diouf, Mido and Nugent are on the market. Interest in you from Milan has disappeared!’ ‘Damn!’ spat Adebayor. ‘What of Barcelona?’ ‘They don’t want you now that Dean Windass is also available.’ ‘Oh, well. At least I’ve got my legion of adoring fans. Those little people love singing me their special song.’

Sure enough, on a sultry August afternoon, Ashburton Grove resounded to the airs of Ade’s song. While he struggled manfully against a world class West Brom defence that was confidently keeping a clean sheet, the magical lyrics floated over the packed stadium:

“Adebayor, give him the ball and he will score…
Once, perhaps, out of four or five unmissable goal scoring opportunities and even then, it’s a bit iffy

Oh, Adebayor, give him the ball and he will score
Yeah, if the goal is the size of an aircraft hangar door”