So the silly season drew to a close last night with a flurry of quite spectacular transfers. January has always been an interesting time in football when the weather seems to grab hold over the limbs of players and the minds of managers and owners alike. These are so called knowledgeable business people making decisions on nothing but a whim, I saw more restraint on Kenilworth racetrack on Saturday come race 10. I fear the dark clouds that are currently looming over football. Clouds filled with greed, desperation and despair. We currently find ourselves in the eye of the storm but soon that will come to pass and the footballing landscape will be scattered with debris of once great empires and the shattered dreams of overnight sensations. No longer will there be cult heroes of the likes of Alan Shearer, Gianfranco Zola and Dennis Bergkamp. Oh no those days are gone. Nothing but a distant memory, like Liverpool’s last league title. Loyalty is not a word that you will find in the modern day footballers vocabulary. One such phrase that has become increasingly used in this Armageddon like landscape is that of the transfer request. It is a sure fire way to suck a little more life out of the club they “love”, but who cares, as long as they get they can get that new villa in the South of Spain and their gardener can afford that Range Rover Sport he’s always wanted. First Rooney, then Tevez, Torres, Adam and then Carrol, it seems players have finally started to outgrow their clubs. Like the Incredible Hulk and his clothes, they can only stretch so far before they begin to tear and show the green underbelly that lurks underneath. And like Hulk, they have become way to powerful for us mere mortals to control. I do have a few proposals that may act as an inoculation against this disease. Clubs must be prepared to fight dirty and hit these players where it hurts them most, their gold lined wallets. I propose that in order for you to hand in a transfer request and be sold the player should have to shell out the cash to pay for the rest of his contract. No longer will there be players requesting transfers two months after signing a new six year contract. Whip out that cheque book sunny boy if you wanna leave my club! Perhaps we can get back to a stage when contracts mean something, it’s a long shot but one worth taking.
So who is to blame for this predicament we find ourselves in? A certain amount of blame must be attached to the agents. In sport, those who can do, and those who can’t become an agent. These agents are often a relative to the player, an uncle, brother or a half-cousin twice removed just there to latch on and enjoy the ride. They are blood sucking leeches that look out for the biggest juiciest name to place their disease ridden gob onto and start sucking. For me, a large portion of the blame should be placed on the shoulders of a certain drug-smuggling, human trafficking, oligarch by the name of Roman Abramovich and that football. He may not have been the first person to attempt to buy a full trophy cabinet, changing badges but not history along the way. He did however do it in such a way that made the purists shiver in their boots, uniting them in a hatred of that blue swine that you will find in South West London. As of 23h00 GMT last night the second age of the Abramovich Empire has well and truly begun, I just hope for Chelsea’s sake that he gets his Champions League trophy before he grows bored and tosses them away like the plaything that they are. Expect more overnight supporters, sporting the name and number of their latest hero. I do warn you however this is a player that would soon enough throw his own mother under the hooves of some rampaging bovine on the streets of Pamplona than stand the thought of his child growing up in the squalor of a 10 million pound house.
Well with January now well and truly over, we can look forward to Super 15 rugby played in sweltering heat where players will become catatonic before the first half is up. Expect a droll start to the competition, one that no amount of local derbies could sort out. And of course a Sub-Continental World Cup. Expect a borathon in the first month, apart from the “shock” loss of Pakistan to Canada coupled with perhaps a couple death threats on their players for not bowling a no-ball on the right delivery. Who would’ve thought that you’d find a Pakistan cricketer with more morals than a Premier League footballer?
Before I go, I must say I’m looking forward to seeing how these overpriced prima donnas perform when they slip on their new kits and proceed to kiss the badge until it’s either changed by the clubs new multi-billionaire owner or replaced by another team who’s willing to mortgage their stadium to pay a few weeks wages. I give it a month before the press starts labelling them as flops. To you Fernando, I hope it all goes swimmingly. What’s the saying again? I hope you break a leg.
Yours truly
Commodore Vegas
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