Oh Football, What Have You Done?

On what seems to be an unfortunate day for financiers up and down the country Scheidt’s Footballing Miscellany’s own professional Magpie, Adam Clery takes personal umbrage at the death of the romance of football.

"Are Your Palms Itchy? That Means You're Going To Come Into Some Money"

Well, what the fuck happened there then?

I was pretty busy myself on transfer deadline day, locked away in a room in London, working away from the early morning until late at night. I spent the vast majority of the day blissfully unaware of the goings on back home in Newcastle. I wasn’t worried though, the night before I had seen reports of the club turning down an obscene amount of money from Tottenham Hotspur for our number 9. He didn’t want to go and we didn’t want to sell him. Simple enough.

However, as I dared to turn my phone on as I left work I was bombarded with various text messages and voicemails. I read through them backwards. Apparently we’d sold Andy Carroll to Liverpool, after we’d accepted a bid, after he’d handed in a transfer-request, after we’d turned down the same bid twice, after we’d said he categorically wasn’t for sale. Once I got my head around it, it was depressingly straight-forward..

But then there was the supposed texts between Andy Carroll and a journo called “Steve”. The gist of which being that as the day went on, Big Andy started to claim that the club were forcing him out, and that the transfer request was just a sham.

Booooo! Ashley, you greedy bastard, this was all your doing! Etc etc etc.

So here’s what really happened:

Liverpool threw STUPID money at Newcastle for a player who cost them absolutely nothing. A player who, a year ago, was playing second-fiddle to Marlon Harewood and Peter Lovenkrands. A player who cost the club absolutely nothing. A player who had yet to prove his maturity off the field. A player who is still incapable of restraining some of the more exuberant aspects of his lifestyle. Imagine you were running a business, and one that’s in the process of trying to balance its books, what would you do?

To Blame, Or Not To Blame?

Am I supposed to be angry that a selfish financier, made a selfish financial decision? Am I supposed to sympathise with a 22 year old lad who’s just quadrupled his £20,000 a week wage? If he didn’t want to go, he wouldn’t have agreed terms.

There’s no romance left in football I’m afraid, sorry, certainly not at the top level anyway. The badge-kissing, book-writing playboys we’ve so religiously spent our money on over the years have just been taking the proverbial, we’ve all been too stupid to notice.

I’m currently casting envious eyes at all my lower and non-league supporting chums. Imagine that, watching 11 blokes punt a ball around a field without having to listen to the PR, the spin, the lies and the excuses. Can you imagine what the Premier League would be like if Msrs. Torres, Rooney and Tevez had to work late at the factory, just so they had the flexi-time to get to training on Wednesday night? If they had to have a whip-round and a car wash to afford a bus down to their 1st round FA Cup tie.

Football’s greatest revolution of the last 20 years wasn’t the advent of Sky, the inclusion of sports sciences or the accessibility of the coverage. It’s been the way that the wool has so dramatically been pulled over the eyes of the fans. For every single footballer who’s been labelled a traitor, there’s hundred of thousands of fans who were stupid enough to actually be surprised by it. We’ve all been had folks, honest footballers are just Santa for over 16s.

You’ve let us down football, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to dwell on it. Reality beckons.

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