This summer: lamenting the boring transfer saga
This summer: lamenting the boring transfer saga
They say the mark of a good story is one that leaves you wanting more. It abandons you as you slouch on your uncle’s rocking chair, frothing at the mouth like a well-made milkshake. In Hollywood, legions of screenwriters aim for this one stylised, and yet unique cessation to each episode, each series. Then, there is that week-long wait before the tale is resurrected, unless, of course, you are at the season’s end. Life is stagnant, at that point; more activity could be found at the local mosquitoes’ breeding grounds. Why? You couldn’t possibly go out with that inhumane thread of drool dangling over your chin, could you? What would your boss think? Or, rather more importantly, the pretty girl at the desk four rows away from you - what would she think when you walk into the office with a stalactite casually acting as a makeshift beard?!
So there is a pause. The earth stops rotating on its axis, and in the palm of the Almighty, not only does the regimen that our solar system follows cease to be in motion, but the universe as a whole loses all form of kinetic energy.
That is the tale of the undying transfer saga. It is needlessly elongated, like a seventh film in the Star Wars franchise, brought back to life after a spell of abeyance. Summers should be spent face-down on the beach, Coronas in hand and uncapped once the ritualistic clinking for good health has been done away with. With each sip, memories of those olives you accumulated the previous night should dissipate. With each sip, the ladies you undressed in your hotel suite begin to appear as nameless angels from a distant dream. Instead, summers are spent as is customary for those enshrined in the technological age. F5 is not Ferrari’s newest car model aimed at garnering more market share, it is hope for a new season, arrived in the shape of a mere website.
We approach the end of July, and still, those boring stories will not go away. Stability will not be had when the Zutons “You Will, You Won’t” is the only tune your speakers seem to blare as you read through the latest on Francesc Fabregas potential move to Barcelona, or Carlos Tévez protracted voyage to the southern American continent.
In this age, all we are interested in are answers. We desire results, above anything else. Slouched on that rocking chair, watching precisely nothing manifest in our world of football, apart from the ultimately meaningless pre-season dalliances, is like owning the latest turbo-charged coupé but having to snail your way through the streets of London. We learn to lament the disgusting pace of life, like a parent during the first six months of his newborn’s infant life.
There is only so much foreplay we can endure to keep our tongues wagging. Where is the climax to this painfully verbose transfer window?
