And so, as the Premier League exhales its final breath and the curtain begins its slow descent, the tale of this season is nearly told. Titles all but etched, fates at the foot of the table sealed, the conversation begins to meander—as it always does at this time—towards tomorrow. To what’s next. To the reshaping, the reimagining, the rebirth of teams not merely resting, but rebuilding.
Across the land, the gossip pages begin to fill. Of squads in need of polish. Of others crying out for surgery. Some will make do with tweaks, a dab of paint here, a tightening of bolts there. But for others, the hammer and chisel beckon.
Arsenal, sit somewhere in between. A midfielder. A striker. Perhaps a winger with mischief in his boots. That, one suspects, is the shopping list.
Kieran Tierney—once our Tesco carrier bag carrying warrior—is poised to return to his first love, Celtic. Jorginho, sights firmly set on a return to Brazil, likely to let his contract wind gently down. And Zinchenko, for all his technique and nouse, may find himself the odd full-back out in a squad swelling with youthful thrust. The emergence of Myles Lewis-Skelly has not gone unnoticed. Arsenal’s conveyor belt churns ever onward. Fabio Vieira? A misstep. An idea that never quite bore fruit. One expects him to return, and then to move on. The fit never snug. The feeling never mutual.
But the name that lingers, the name that lands not with a thud but with a tremor, is that of Thomas Partey.
To let him leave? To walk away unheralded into the dusk? That would be a risk wrapped in regret.
Yes, the injuries. Yes, the age. Yes, the wage packet that causes even the bean counters to wince. But when he plays… oh, when he plays! The midfield becomes a landscape he governs like a seasoned general. In the great battles—the ones sung about and replayed in sepia—he has stood tall. Think of Real Madrid. Two legs. A titanic tie. And in its heart, Partey was its pulse.
Now the rumour mill roars, and the name “Zubimendi” emerges from the Spanish mist. A fee whispered to be just over £50 million. The kind of move that steadies a ship. That softens the blow. That replenishes the stockpile. But let’s not pretend: Partey is not a man you replace. He is a man you miss.
Talks, we hear, are ongoing. Both club and player open to the idea of an extension. And surely—surely—that is the prudent path. Because for all his absences, when the sun shines and the stakes rise, Thomas Partey plays. And Arsenal win.
Losing Jorginho? Palatable. He brings calm, yes. He brings intelligence, guile, and a certain softness in possession. But that, with Zubimendi perhaps soon to don red and Mikel Merino back in midfield, his absence and be covered. Odegaard and Rice—already locked and loaded. Partey, though, is the pivot. The axis. The guardian at the gate.
So the midfield takes shape. Slowly. Sharply.
And while all eyes watch the Zubimendi domino wobble and tip, another truth is irrefutable: Arsenal must sign a striker. To fail to do so? Biblical. A misjudgement of near-mythic proportions. To walk another window without a No.9 would be to flirt not just with disappointment—but with disaster.
And so the great striker search continues, as it always does in this part of North London, in this era of yearning. The Gunners seek a goalscorer—a figurehead, a finisher, a footballing final act. And from the gallery of Europe’s forward elite, the names emerge like smoke signals over distant hills.
Watkins. Šeško. Osimhen. Isak.
Each one a tantalising prospect. Each one a dream of what could be. Each one poised to become the man, the frontman, the goalscoring Messiah that this beautiful Arsenal symphony so desperately craves.
And yet, as the stars swirl and the scouts scribble, my instinct whispers a different name—a little softer, a little cheaper, but no less significant. Viktor Gyökeres. Sporting’s Swedish spearhead. Affordable. Available. Attainable.
And yet… is “attainable” the ambition?
For in this modern footballing maze of Financial Fair Play and sustainability’s cold arithmetic, we walk a tightrope of calculation. There is a price tag not only in pounds and pence, but in promise. In proof.
And that is where Alexander Isak lingers in the mind. A known quantity. A proven predator. Already stalking Premier League defences like a ghost in the gloom. Should the stars align—should we be able to make it work—then surely, surely he is the one.
I found myself watching Jean-Philippe Mateta last week, his Palace shirt clinging, his presence unmistakable. And a thought lingered: when did we, as a sport, become so enamoured with potential?
Chelsea have spent a fortune assembling tomorrow. Spurs too. Manchester United… well, they’ve thrown bags of money into the void, and hoped that promise might bloom into pedigree. But history tells a different story. It tells us that the clubs who have won—truly won—are those who went out and bought now.
Manchester City do not buy dreams. They buy definition. They buy De Bruyne. Rodri. Haaland. Ready-made men. Champions-in-waiting.
And even Arsenal—paid £100 million for Declan Rice. Scoffed at, mocked even. But here is a man who arrived not with potential, but with pedigree. Premier League tested. England capped. A player not to be developed, but to be deployed.
Do not misunderstand me—when the model works, it works like alchemy.
There is a certain genius in the art of unearthing. Of spotting, amidst the rough, a glint of diamond. Of whispering belief into the ear of promise and watching it blossom into brilliance. At Arsenal we know this. We know the music.
We remember. Anelka, once a boy with a dream and lightning in his boots. Vieira, a mystery from Milan who would come to define an era. And in that golden age of Wenger, there was a treasure trove—an entire vault of potential turned profit, of youth turned glory.
Even now, echoes of that philosophy resonate. Martinelli, plucked from obscurity with samba in his stride and fury in his finish. William Saliba, raw and remote upon arrival, now granite at the back—carved from patience and potential.
So yes, the model can work. Of course it can. Football is not always for the cautious—it is for the brave. There must always be gambles, always some faith in tomorrow. For no club—not even the kings of the coffers—can afford to assemble a team of guaranteed greatness in a single summer.
But there comes a point—and we are at that point—when the margins are no longer broad strokes, but brushwork. When the canvas is nearly complete, and all that remains are the finishing touches. Not revolution, but refinement. Not overhaul, but orchestration.
And that is where we are. This Arsenal side—our Arsenal—is no longer in construction. It is on the cusp. It is aching for completion.
And so when we speak of a striker, we do not speak of rotation. We do not speak of depth. We speak of definition. We speak of a figure to stand at the tip of this beautifully crafted spear and drive it through the heart of a title race.
This is not the place to count pennies. Not here. Not now.
For history teaches us that no elite club—none—hesitates when it comes to the front man. When it comes to the one who leads the line, who bears the weight, who must be the difference between the dream and the delivery.
So let us not be timid. Let us not tinker.
Let us go big. Let us go bold. Let us sign the striker who will end this long, longing vigil. The striker who will take this glorious project and make it champions.
The moment is here. The margins are tight. The opportunity is rare.
And Arsenal… Arsenal must rise.
And with this in mind as the debate unfolds: do you roll the dice on £60 million worth of possibility—on Šeško, or Gyökeres, or the next great untested titan from across the sea? Or do you double down? Do you go all-in on certainty, and spend £100+ million not on a theory, but on a fact?
Because buying a striker is not science. It is theatre. It is chaos. It is heartache, more often than not. For every Haaland, a Højlund. We at Arsenal know this pain—ask Nicolas Pépé.
You never buy certainty. But you can mitigate doubt.
And that’s why Alexander Isak tempts me so. For all his price, for all the financial fretting, he brings a comfort. A composure. He has danced this Premier League dance, and he has danced it well.
He doesn’t arrive with question marks. He arrives with goals.
And in a league this fierce, this frenzied, this unforgiving—goals are not luxury. They are life.
So yes, give me Šeško if you must. Tempt me with Osimhen. But for my money, for my Arsenal… give me Isak.
Give me goals. Give me now.
Victoria Concordia Crescit