What a curious week. As summer enters its Rooney period – that is not as good as it once was, and now bloated and ageing, with everyone wishing it would just put itself out of its misery soon – thoughts turn to the feverish pagan festival of Transferia, which is upon us in just over a week.
Transferia is an ancient feast, once symbolised by young men flying through the sky and transported by chariot to new tribes for the exchange of gold coin. And now, with the imbibement of Jamaica Rum and the excellent microdoses of LSD supplied by a kindly friend, it once again takes on this feverish, primal excitement. Please do join me upon the Twitter for the bacchanalia of Transfer Deadline Day.
I have briefly assessed Woolwich’s alleged transfer targets below.
Hefty old-fashioned number 9 currently playing for Real Margate. We have apparently made a 48 million guinea bid for him, according to Rodney Marsh, a man who is barely able to dress himself.
Currently playing for Port Vale St Germain.
Cork man Peter-Eric plays football for Borussia Dartford.
Gregory is a defensive midfielder for Scunthorpe United.
This arrogant and flamboyant striker is a team-mate of Edward Cavanagh at Port Vale St Germain.
Striker for Bayern Macclesfield.
In the meantime, we have a few crumbs of news from the cattle trade that is August in British Football. Consider mercurial double-jointed rubber limbed junior wizard Mr. Gordon Sanderson. He is to be exiled to north of Hadrian’s Wall, to Glasgow of all places. Nobody is quite sure whom he has offended to be handed down this punishment but we know it must have been damned serious. Transportation to Scotchland is reserved for only the most serious offences such as Arson of Her Majesty’s Shipyards, Sedition, High Treason and wearing pink football boots. We only hope that it is one of the three former and not the latter. Football boots were always black, should only be black, and will remain as black until the earth is dragged into its fiery heat-death in the heart of the sun.
Consider also wing-wizard Arthur Wellesley-Silver, the 10th Duke of Wellington, whose four year quest for the correct papers, similar to that of the search for the one ring by that Stoke fan, Gollum, in those potboilers by Tolkien, ended happily in April. His reward? To be sent to BOLTON for the season. So sad when a 22-year-old is forced into retirement from professional football. His governor there is to be Mr. Lennon, who illuminated the world of football with this incisive and thought-provoking Cloughian remark: “We think he is a good player and will make us better.”
Matched almost by that of Mr. McCarthy of Ipswich, a man whose head is three foot high and a mere five inches wide. “I think he’s going to play for Arsenal,” says the great Suffolk Sage, of the Arsenal Player Ashley Maitland-Niles.
To Selhurst Park then, and to the fine-ribanded fellows of Crystal Palace. Always willing to oblige with a 2-1 scoreline, as in our last three matches agin them, and they normally allow Brigadier Goring-Hildred to pop one in the bag as they did on this occasion.
Alec Whizzbang Saunders began irritating and terrifying the locals from the first peep of the silver snail. He had three shots blocked before finding the effervescent Orwell, who fired over the portside artillery with The Brigadier firing it in from a beautifully controlled Deckchair*. Harry the Helmet’s positioning could have been better for their equaliser and we’ll put these jittery performances down to not having to work with racists every day, but he does need to pull his socks up.
No matter though, as that man Saunders leapt like a superpowered sprat onto a pinpoint cross from Harry Bell for a noggin-bobbler that was helpfully herded into the Palace goal by Damian Delaney.
Always good so start with a win. And so to The Emirates, where the mugsmashers and their attendant uncouth hordes of tragedians shall descend, momentarily lowering house prices, although not to the levels of Liverpool itself, where a whole terraced street can be purchased for the cost of a mid-range Aston Martin. We pray for their humiliation.
Until next week, fine fellows.
* A goal scored when floating through the air in a reclined position as if at the seaside.