Compared to Leeds United's glorious 6–0 demolition job over Everton, Arthur was even more delighted by something else—namely, the spectacular failures of two direct rivals.
Arsenal? Lost 2–3 at home to West Ham. Yep. At home. The Emirates crowd was so silent by the end you could hear someone unzip a coat in Row Z. And Liverpool? They could only manage a 1–1 draw against Birmingham—also at home. The kind of result that makes your manager stare off into the distance and reconsider all his life choices.
Arthur practically skipped down the hallway when he saw the scores.
"Four-point lead now," he muttered gleefully to himself, grinning like a man who just found out the boss was sick and the office was closed. "A four-point cushion. That's not just a lead, that's a mattress. I can sleep on that."
It was early February, and the season was entering its most chaotic stretch. Across Europe, clubs were locked in title races, relegation fights, and Champions League tension. But when Arthur sat down and looked at his February schedule… he blinked. Then blinked again. Then cackled.
"For the first time in my life," he whispered, holding up the fixture list like it was a winning lottery ticket, "I actually want to hug someone from the English FA. What the hell is happening?"
Leeds United's February? Absolutely beautiful. One second-leg League Cup match against Arsenal—already halfway done with a first-leg lead—and only three Premier League matches.
No FA Cup. No midweek insanity. No travel across Europe to chase a ball around a frozen field.
But the real cherry on top?
The big one. That spicy, potentially title-deciding match against Liverpool was scheduled three days before Liverpool's Champions League match in Portugal.
Arthur could've kissed whoever scheduled it.
"Benítez is going to be in trouble," Arthur muttered, grinning like a villain plotting world domination. "If he goes full strength against us, he'll be playing his B-team in Europe. If he saves players for Portugal, we steamroll him. Either way—we win."
He leaned back in his office chair, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it owed him a thank-you note.
"February," he whispered, "I love you already."
***
On the first weekend of February, Leeds United marched into the Macron Stadium for their 25th Premier League match of the season—a frosty away day against Bolton Wanderers. The mood was a mix of business and unfinished business. Last month, these two sides clashed in the League Cup, and Alonso had absolutely terrorized Bolton's midfield like a bearded wizard in boots. So naturally, Big Sam Allardyce came into this one with a grudge the size of his coat.
Before the match, Arthur noticed Bolton's manager pacing the touchline like a man planning a siege. Word had it he'd spent all week hammering into his players one golden rule: "Don't let them play through the middle. Don't let that bearded Spaniard hurt us again." To be fair, they listened. For once.
From kickoff, Leeds' usual tiki-taka through the middle was as effective as trying to vacuum a carpet with a hairdryer. Every time Modric or Alonso touched the ball, three Bolton players closed in like loan collectors. Arthur stood on the sideline muttering sarcastically, "Oh, wonderful. It's like watching two squirrels fight inside a shoebox."
Despite having most of the ball, Leeds couldn't carve out anything clear in the first half. Passes went sideways, shots were blocked, and Bolton's defenders were throwing themselves in front of everything like they were reenacting scenes from Braveheart. As the halftime whistle blew, the score was still 0–0, and Arthur's face was the picture of someone who'd just found out the coffee machine was broken.
Inside the dressing room, Arthur didn't scream—he sighed. Then he spun around to face the team. "Alright," he said flatly. "Plan B: let's burn the wings."
Out went Rivaldo and Camoranesi, who had both looked like they were still on airplane mode. In came Ribery and Falcao, the latter just returning from injury. Arthur gave Bale a nod too. "You've got one job. Run like someone's chasing you with a chainsaw."
The second half started, and Arthur's tactical tweak worked like magic. Suddenly, Leeds were flying down the flanks. Ribery zipped past defenders like a caffeinated mosquito, while Bale on the other side was basically committing arson with every run. Crosses rained in, defenders panicked, and Arthur grinned on the touchline thinking, This is more like it.
Just when it felt like a goal was inevitable, disaster struck.
In the 57th minute, Gerard Piqué—who up until now had been quietly solid—decided to go full kamikaze and lunged in from behind with a reckless tackle. The Bolton player rolled, the fans screamed, and the referee didn't even hesitate. Red card. Straight off. Piqué walked off with the grace of someone who knew he'd just killed the vibe.
Arthur rubbed his temples. "Lovely. One man down, and thirty minutes to go."
He glanced down his bench, sighed again, and made a reluctant move—off came Berbatov, on came David Silva. Kompany would have to man the fort alone at the back while Silva added legs in midfield. "Let's not die stupid," Arthur muttered.
Bolton, sensing blood, swarmed. They threw everything forward: crosses, long shots, even a few prayer hands. But Leeds held on. Schmeichel, bless him, was everywhere—snatching crosses, punching away headers, and catching shots that seemed allergic to the corners of the net. Every Bolton attempt went straight at him, as if their players had collectively taken a vow to make his gloves warm, not dirty.
Sam Allardyce, meanwhile, was losing it on the sidelines. He waved his arms, screamed at his forwards, kicked a water bottle, and at one point looked like he might actually explode into his own jacket.
Then, as the clock ticked into the dying seconds, came the twist.
Bolton took a corner. The delivery was high and hopeful, but Schmeichel rose like a Danish eagle and plucked it out of the sky with both hands. No panic. No problem. And then he did something brilliant—he launched a counterattack with one massive throw.
The ball soared down the field and landed right at Bale's feet.
Cue turbo mode.
Bale took off like a greyhound chasing dinner. Past one defender. Past another. The grass flew beneath him as the crowd gasped. And then it was just him and the keeper. No tricks. No hesitation. He slotted it low and calm into the bottom corner.
One-nil. Game over.
Arthur punched the air, turned to his staff, and deadpanned, "Easy win. Totally under control."
Back in the dressing room, the players celebrated, and Arthur leaned back with a smirk. "Piqué almost ruined it," he said. "But it's fine. It builds character."
As the team packed up, news filtered in—Arsenal had beaten Birmingham in their game. Great. Just what Arthur needed. He stared at the scoreline, sighed once more, and muttered, "Can't they just take a day off?"
While most of the country was buzzing about Leeds United's dramatic late win over Bolton, the real spotlight this round wasn't at the Macron Stadium—or even on Arsenal. No, all eyes were glued to Stamford Bridge, where Chelsea, the league leaders, were about to lock horns with Liverpool in a top-of-the-table clash. The pundits were drooling, the fans were howling, and somewhere in a quiet room, Arthur sat with a cup of tea, feet up, watching the chaos unfold on television with the smug satisfaction of a man who'd already done his job for the weekend.
The game? Oh, it went exactly how everyone (except Liverpool fans) predicted.
Chelsea were brutal. Ruthless. Like a team that had eaten three raw steaks before kickoff. Didier Drogba, in particular, played like he was personally offended by the concept of Liverpool defending. He tore through their backline like a lawnmower through dry grass. Before the 70-minute mark, Chelsea had already put two goals on the board. It wasn't just clinical—it was almost rude.
Rafa Benítez stood on the sideline looking like a man who'd forgotten his umbrella in a thunderstorm. Hands in his pockets. Staring blankly. Hoping someone would unplug the stadium and call it a night.
But just when he thought the day couldn't get any worse—bam—83rd minute disaster.
Deisler, who'd been one of the only Liverpool players running around like he actually wanted to be there, decided to stop Frank Lampard by grabbing his shirt like a desperate bargain hunter at a Black Friday sale. The referee didn't blink. Second yellow. Red card. Off you go.
The camera zoomed in on Benítez's face, and the man looked like he'd just tasted milk that expired last month. Not only was he losing the game—now he'd be without Deisler for the next match. And that match just so happened to be against Leeds United.
Watching from his living room, Arthur leaned forward, nearly spilling his tea. "Oh no," he said with a smirk. "Whatever will they do without their precious Deisler?"
To be fair, the red card might've hurt Benítez more than the two goals. Because as soon as the final whistle blew, and the score read 2-0 to Chelsea, the consequences hit him like a cold slap to the face. Liverpool were sliding—fast.
With that loss, Liverpool slipped down the table, overtaken by a late-surging Blackburn side. And suddenly, the gap between them and Leeds United stretched to seven points. Seven! That's not a gap anymore—that's a canyon. A yawning chasm of missed chances, bad defending, and now a suspended midfielder.
Commentators immediately started murmuring about Liverpool dropping out of the top-four race. The headlines the next day were merciless. "Liverpool Crumble at the Bridge," one paper screamed. Another simply went with, "Mind the Gap."
Meanwhile, Benítez had more than just the Premier League to worry about. The Champions League was right around the corner, and his squad was suddenly looking more fragile than a wine glass in a blender. The fixture list was unforgiving, the players were exhausted, and his playmaker had just gotten himself banned for being handsy with Lampard.
Arthur, naturally, was delighted.
He knew exactly what this meant.
Benítez would now have to make a decision: go all in against Leeds United in the league and risk burnout in Europe—or rotate his squad and try to save face in the Champions League. Either way, Leeds were the problem now. The obstacle. The banana peel on the marble floor of Liverpool's ambitions.
Back in his office, Arthur casually circled the date of the Leeds vs. Liverpool match on the wall calendar. "Perfect," he muttered. "Let's see what you pick, Rafa."
And with that, he leaned back, hands behind his head, and smiled. Sometimes, you don't have to win every round yourself. Sometimes, you just have to sit back and watch your rivals trip over their own shoelaces.
***
Three days later, Leeds United marched into Highbury for their League Cup semifinal second leg against Arsenal. As soon as Arthur saw the Gunners' starting lineup, he nearly burst out laughing right there on the touchline.
"Bless you, Wenger," Arthur muttered under his breath, squinting at the Arsenal team sheet like it was a half-finished crossword puzzle. "Same as last time. Full-on backup brigade."
It was déjà vu. Arsène Wenger, clearly more concerned about his looming Champions League clash with Real Madrid, had once again wheeled out his squad's B-team. A bunch of promising but visibly nervous young lads, probably still figuring out which way to warm up. Wenger, under far more pressure than even Benítez, had effectively said, "League Cup? Nah. Not this year."
Arthur nodded in approval. "Man's got his priorities straight," he muttered to his assistant, casually zipping up his jacket. "Let's not make this harder than it needs to be."
And Arthur meant it. Leeds took the lead in the first half with a routine goal—nothing flashy, just a clean, well-worked move that left Arsenal's stand-in keeper staring into space like he'd seen a ghost. After that, Arthur looked at his bench, shrugged, and decided to return the favour. Out of sheer respect—or tactical politeness, really—he made three changes at halftime, yanking all his starting midfielders like he was giving them an early weekend.
The second half? A gentle jog in the park.
Arsenal huffed and puffed, but it was all very academic. No one on their side really seemed to believe a comeback was possible. The tempo dropped, the passes got lazier, and even the fans stopped yelling around the 70th minute. Arthur spent the last twenty minutes chatting with his coaching staff about dinner plans and what colour suit he should wear to the final.
Final whistle. 0–1 on the night, 0–2 on aggregate. Leeds United were heading to the League Cup final.
Their opponent? Manchester United. Because of course it was.
Arthur barely had time to polish his boots before the next test arrived. After three short days of rest in Leeds, Liverpool came knocking. Benítez and his boys turned up at Elland Road, but with a squad that screamed, "Please don't injure us before Tuesday."
Thanks to his red card in the Chelsea match, Deisler didn't even bother boarding the team bus. He stayed home with his feet up, probably watching soap operas and drinking tea.
Benítez, clearly focused on Liverpool's Champions League game in Portugal three days later, didn't go full strength either. No full-blown tactical warfare here. The Liverpool starting XI was a mix of regulars and second-stringers, thrown together like a makeshift playlist. The clearest sign of Benítez's caution? Giorgio Chiellini, Liverpool's newest bulldozer of a centre-back, didn't start. The Italian had been eager to face his old teammates after his winter move from Leeds, but Benítez left him out of the squad entirely—likely to avoid turning the game into a soap opera subplot.
Arthur raised an eyebrow when he saw the Liverpool squad list.
"No Deisler. No Chiellini. Rafa's playing the long game," he murmured. Then, louder, to his staff: "Let's not be polite this time."
Elland Road was buzzing. Fans sensed the hesitation from the visitors, and the atmosphere turned electric. They wanted blood, or at least a nice, satisfying 2–0.
Arthur gave a quick pre-match talk that sounded more like a motivational stand-up routine.
"Look, lads. They're holding back. Chiellini didn't even show up. I think Rafa's got one eye on Europe and the other on his holiday plans. This is ours to take—so let's not be shy, alright?"
Players nodded. Ribery cracked his knuckles. Berbatov grinned. Kompany stared into the middle distance like he was mentally preparing to body-check someone into another dimension.
And with that, Leeds took the pitch—ready to exploit every ounce of caution Liverpool dared to show.
As the old saying goes, "Kick 'em while they're down"—and Arthur took that proverb very, very seriously.
The moment the referee's whistle blew, Leeds United, under Arthur's grinning command, went into full siege mode against Liverpool. There was no talk of "supporting fellow English clubs in Europe" or "saving face for the league." Arthur wasn't here to help Benítez. He was here to bury him.
"Champions League glory?" Arthur scoffed to his assistant as they watched Liverpool's thin lineup jog nervously around the pitch. "Not my problem, mate."
The fans at Elland Road roared as Leeds launched attack after attack, pressing Liverpool so hard that even the stewards looked nervous.
By the 14th minute, the pressure finally cracked the visitors. Toure received the ball near the edge of the box and immediately turned into a battering ram, backing into Carragher like he was trying to push a wardrobe across a carpet. Carragher tugged and shoved, but Toure wasn't budging. With a perfectly timed nudge, he spun and slipped the ball to Alonso, who was tearing in like a freight train.
One touch, two steps, and then—bang.
Alonso let fly a screamer from just outside the D. The ball arrowed past Dudek like it had a grudge, and crashed into the top corner. Elland Road erupted.
But Alonso didn't celebrate. No fist-pumping, no sliding on his knees, no pointing to the heavens. Just a calm jog back to his own half, expression unreadable. After all, this was Liverpool—his old team. And Benítez? His old mentor. The man who'd brought him to England in the first place.
Arthur, meanwhile, had no such reservations.
He turned to the crowd, arms outstretched like a conductor. "That's how we do it!"
Liverpool, rattled but not yet broken, finally remembered they were supposed to be a football team and began to organize some attacks. Gerrard, still refusing to lie down quietly, unleashed two rocket shots from outside the box that had Schmeichel flapping at the air like a seagull in a wind tunnel. But both attempts were too central, and the Dane, despite a moment of panic, managed to punch them away.
The match rolled toward halftime with Liverpool trying to scrape their dignity together. Just before the whistle, Leeds struck again—this time with ruthless speed.
It began with a clearance from Silva in the penalty box, who booted the ball forward with all the grace of someone trying to get rid of a ticking bomb. Kuyt was just about to pounce when Alonso darted in, intercepted the ball like a magician, and booted it first-time into the open field.
Falcao had already anticipated it, slipping in front of Hyypiä with the instincts of a striker who knew exactly where to be before the pass was even made. He didn't mess around. One touch to control, then a clean square ball to Camoranesi, who was tearing down the right wing like a man with a personal vendetta against goalkeepers.
Dudek came rushing out. Camoranesi barely blinked. He chipped the ball delicately over the Polish keeper's head as if he were lobbing a marshmallow into a cup of cocoa.
2–0. And just like that, Camoranesi had his first goal in a Leeds shirt. He raised his arms in triumph, grinning like a man who'd just found twenty quid in an old coat pocket.
Arthur looked skyward, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Would you look at that," he chuckled. "Took him long enough."
When the second half began, Liverpool looked less like a football team and more like a group of interns being forced to finish someone else's presentation. Their spirit had flatlined. Gerrard tried barking orders. Benítez paced like a man considering switching careers.
By the 70th minute, it was over in all but name. Benítez threw in the towel—substituting out Gerrard and several of his starters to save what was left of their legs for the Champions League. Even Chiellini, still glued to the bench, just stared blankly at the pitch like he was trying to calculate the next train back to Merseyside.
Leeds eased off, happy to cruise. Arthur stood on the sidelines with his hands in his coat pockets, looking more like someone supervising a school trip than managing a Premier League match.
When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard still read 2–0. Leeds United had claimed another dominant win. Liverpool? They looked like they couldn't get out of Elland Road fast enough.
Arthur smirked, turning to his bench. "Nice and easy. On to the next game."