Dear Mr. Arnesen,
Is it ok if I call you Frank? I realise there was a different, much more important, Frank at Stamford Bridge, so it could be confusing to be called Frank, but that's what I'm going to call you*, so too bad. Anyway. Frank. I know you're lonely in Germany - there can't be much other reason for acquiring Jacopo Sala or Michael Mancienne (seriously, you're bringing them in to play football well I have some bad news for you) - but the solution is not to poach every Chelsea player who's ever spoken to you.
You have some friends now. Michael and Jacopo are nice enough guys. Jeffrey Bruma might come to visit as well. So really, there's no need to pick up anyone else from the organisation. Especially anyone named Josh McEachran. Because if you do, I am going to cry, and I'll forward you a new video of me crying every day for the rest of your life and that will be really really really god damn freaky**.
Anyway. You take good care of Jacopo. He's not very good; maybe you can fix him. Good luck to you there. But hands off the rest of our squad, eh?
PS: Jacopo Sala sounds like a bounty hunter from Star Wars, but doesn't come with a jet pack or flamethrower gloves. You may already know this.
*I'm doing this for timing reasons - whenever I write I sound out the word in my head as I'm typing, and 'Mr. Arnesen' takes too long.
**Originally my threat was going to be that I fly to central Africa, contract ebola, then fly to Hamburg, but I don't actually want to end up on any NSA watch lists.