I’ve been asked to put my thoughts down about transfer deadline blah. I’m confused by the whole thing. I mean back in the day you would read a bit of blurb on the back of the Express and Star. Now you get Tim Spiers and the other bloke splurting rumours, gifs, the whole fucking social media arsenal. We are smashed to shit by information and rumours, locations, instagram posts, messages, ‘In the Know’ accounts. Strange tanned fit looking geezers walking through town standing out from the chip shop pallor of the odd crackhead in CEX. What does Tim Nash say? What fucking Tim Nash there’s thousands of them on Twitter, which one do you trust? Do you even trust the real one?? Threats of violence, keyboard killers, fat Dads rolling around the car park of a shit pub because one of them slagged Dave Edwards off. Transfer deadline day is brilliant. It’s dynamic and strange, fucked up, waving pink dildos on national TV, interviewing fans that are obviously stoned or pissed, it’s novel and it’s cool because it’s a mental dysfunctional culture all of it’s own and you can be any fucking colour race or creed you want to be because Transfer deadline day is Primal Man day.
Players. Grinning lunatics on official photos. Dynamic stock photos. Some You tube videos. Smashing shots into bulging nets from 45 yards. Jinking past 10 players like some insane ballet dancer. The ball stuck to his foot. Names like Scrabble tiles nailed to a clowns forehead. Dyslexic nomenclature that reminds you of Bond film villains, places in Mongolia, places in Wales if it was in Russia and you had to read everything upside down. Fucking hell. Who? I hadn’t even heard of the teams they played for. Exotic. Compared to Sagbo, Holt and that other doughnut. Do we remember those transfer deadline days past when we were linked with Reginald Gonad from Hartlepool? Mathew Forehead from Scunthorpe? Steve Normal from Bury? Jesus Christ don’t I remember them all, and their faces melt into each other and it’s the same dense football face, you know he has a sleeve tattoo with his kids names or dead people, dead relatives, an Arabic poem about something Arabic. He grew a beard but he thought he looked stupid and he did. He listens to garage music like his mates and his football is as good as his persona. Insipid, uninspired like the plastering job he’ll be doing in 15 years time when the football money runs out.
What exotic lunatics we have mentioned with our team. I would write then down but the names are popping up and out of the golden spotlight as I speak. This is the last dance with Melissa Multipack as you gently lick the anchor tattoo on her neck and you struggle to get your arms around her waist. This is the struggle to get a player in, its the last gasp fuck in Jingles nightclub and your feet are sticking to the sugary alcohol floor and you taste roll up fags on her tongue. You want to get away with your self image as crooked and twisted as it is away from the transfer talk and back home where you could wake up in your own bed secure in the knowledge Wolves and Nuno and Mendes have done something. That management of things they do which seems simple to us but is as complex as an algorithmic progressive jazz album. How the fuck do they do it? I don’t know, it’s black magic. The phone calls to agents, clubs, the player wants to come but his girlfriend doesn’t. What are the add ons, the bonuses, the house, can she shop? I’m glad it’s them doing it but I don’t envy it.
But Transfer Deadline day is the car crash we can’t stop staring at. And the casualties are still rising as I type. Threat and argument. But humour too I suppose. Dwight Gayle is in Wolverhampton. He’s been spotted somewhere? Buying Lidl screwdriver sets? Solar Gnome lights? Walking out of Greggs? Asda? Schrodingers footballer, he’s in his quantum state right now training with Newcastle but in Compton and the narrative is twisting this way and that and I understand now
Social Media is a microcosm of madness where words become so powerful I suspect our brains aren’t geared up to process it. I suspect this causes a ‘blockage’ then this blockage continues to back up the whole system until the slightest wrong word or context changed becomes a declaration of war. Then more insults. The day is getting foggy and the troops are gathering, there’s a madness among them, because we need a striker. Quantum striker.
Whoever comes be it the exotic or the mundane. Let them look around at our ground, maybe have a walk around the museum too before they get their 200″ HD telly from PC world for their new pad. Maybe they will get a feeling for the history and the passion but more importantly I hope they realise they have one mission and that’s to score some fucking goals like they’re supposed to.
Jesus Christ Midfielder Nazareth Academicals
2 thoughts on “Schrodingers Footballer”
Whoever you are, you’ve got some serious writing talent. You are to literacy, what Peter Broadbent is to football. You bring back so many happy memories and make be lof.
I aim to please Mr Wolf I’m just a bloke on the Southbank/half time fag/few beers like everybody else
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