The first tumbleweeds of summer are blowing gently across the boughs. The nation’s football stadia entertain an eerie silence and the journalists have started to slowly creep above the parapets, sharpening their bayoneted pens and preparing themselves to fill our footballing no man’s land with three months of unremitting shit.
It’s quiet, man, like John Wayne in Ireland. Still a few rumblings and grumblings regarding transfers with Nicklas Bendtner’s agent and father (who is also his mother in a hilarious real life version of Cartman), speaking about how much his son is worth. He says: One hundred million crowns! I’m