A week has now passed since the transfer window closed, yet this is the first opportunity to discuss the Deadline Day deals because as we all know the north London clubs have special dispensation to complete their transfers whenever the fuck they want. Andrei Arse-shaving was finally signed 15 days after the window shut in January 2009. Lizardman was allowed to complete the deal so late as it took Zenit St Petersburg over a week to have even the slightest comprehension of the Arsenal offer. As the Lizardman is an economics professor he couldn’t justify a pure cash outlay for the curiously rosy cheeked Russian. So instead he offered £10m worth of premium bonds, 3300 lottery scratch cards, one signed photo of Martin Keown (bottomless) and a dozen sleeping bags. A lot of those words have no direct translation and so Zenit thought they were getting an imitation James Bond, a pottery barn credit card, Macaulay Culkin off Home Alone and a dozen weeping hags.
Arry was allowed to sign Rafael van der Shart because he promised UEFA there would be “a little something for ‘er indoors” when the deal eventually finalised. True to his word Arry let Fanny Blatter (Sepp’s wife) have full use of Jamie Redknapp and Frank Lampard for a weekend. It worked out well for Fanny; she let Jamie give her an anal bleaching followed by an intensive rimming session. Frank was allowed to roam the paddock and by the Sunday night he had munched his way through all the nettles and brambles.
So now all the deals have been announced it would only be right and proper to review them in a fair and unbiased manner.
Let’s start with Owen Hargreaves, or Cuntyhair as I like to call him. When the news broke that he was joining Citeh I nearly suffered a rectal prolapse. Here was a player that had been willed to fitness by millions of United fans, a man with knees of straw and the mental conviction of a dyslexic on Countdown. Owen had gladly collected his wages for the past three years without contributing anything and then wandered across Manchester, with the aid of a Zimmer frame and a tug boat, to Wastelands. Let’s look at it in the cold light of day though. Cuntyhair’s net contribution at Old Trafford has been minimal, and did we shed any tears when Djemba Djemba Djemba Djemba or Kleberson left? Did we riot when Bellion upped sticks and fucked off? No, we did not, and sadly Cuntyhair has to fall into their category. If he wants to take Sheikh N Vacs money for a few year while tying up their entire physio department good luck to him.
ARTETA, BANYOUN AND SANTOS
As we discovered in last week’s episode, the Lizardman is on his last rites, so in an effort to prolong the inevitable he deemed it the time to change track completely. Professor Yaffle has always scoured the globe for willowy but wizardly teenagers to accentuate his beautiful football but on this year’s “Deadline Day – Sponsored by Sky Sports News” he adopted a new stance. He could have been stood next to Dale Winton in an episode of Supermarket Sweep as his money burned a hole in his pocket. He snaffled up Arteta from the Diet Scousers and this could turn out to be a good deal. Arteta is clearly a talented player that has lost his way, finally succumbing to the dirge played by the Toffeemen. They had dragged him down to their level and maybe the Lizardman can set him back on the straight and narrow. Now imagine a midfield three of Arteta, Benayoun and Wilshere. Now pretend there is a stiff breeze and visualise them all being blown clean out of the Britannia Stadium and right over the top of Alton Towers. Surely what Arsenal needed was a bit of steel to allow the willowy ball players time to work their triangles, a midfield enforcer to protect Spack Wilshere, or possibly a qualified first aider to provide some “on the spot” support to perpetually brittle Dobbin van Horsie. Instead they got the old Eastern European lady Yossi Benayoun. Another invalid to join in the game of musical massage tables in the treatment room. Santos? No idea, never heard of him or seen him, but I imagine he is of curious follicle arrangement but blessed with a magical left foot and a near to tearing point hamstring.
And what about the rest of them:
Meireles is off to re-join Villas Boas at Chelsea. The same manager that considered him surplus to requirements at Porto. It’s a bit like leaving your brolly at home in a light shower, then digging it out to protect you a few weeks later in a meteor shower.
Bellamy is heading back to Merseyside, presumably to find his shoulders. He is the only footballer I have ever seen whose head is wider than his shoulders, with the possible exception of Gervinho. I see Bellamy as the inevitable “Dalglish self-destruction moment” and this signing has signalled the three month warning for Liverpool; before you can say come down the chimney and fill my stockings Kenny will be off to the hills, carrying Jonjo Shelvey on his back.
Peter Crouch is off to Stoke, the best possible way to dispel the myth about them being a long ball team. I imagine Rory Delap is currently undergoing intensive training to get his long throws to the feet of the unfeasibly tall fuckwit. He has a cracking touch for a big man.
Incredibly Arsene has managed to persuade someone to take Bendtner off his hands, and where better for him to go than to the homeless shelter at the Stadium of Light. Steve Bruce is clearly trying to build an army, having conceded that he will never achieve anything there in footballing terms he has now resolved to initiate a military coup on the North East, his army heading for Newcastle before storming the stronghold of Whitby.
Shaun Wright Phillips has gone to QPR, which is slightly less interesting than the news that last week I got a puncture from some glass on the road. Anton Ferdinand is also heading to Loftus Road. I wonder what kind of career he would have had if his surname hadn’t been Ferdinand. If Dean Gaffney hadn’t been in Eastenders he would still be a virgin, sticking felt pens up his bum while stroking the cat.
I heard Joe Cole today on Talksport talking about his transfer to Lille. He described Deadline Day as being “mental” and “doing my head in” and he said his phone was going mad, while he wondered where all these enquires had been all through the summer. To explain “Deadline Day” for Joe’s benefit — he reads the column every week… well, it is read to him by his manager — this is how it transpires;
The season finishes and 19 Premier league managers are pissed off with their performance. They resolve to shake their squad up and make some sweeping changes. They have a list of players that can take their squad to the “next level” and they ask the chairman for some time to discuss the list and some funding to enable the transfers. The chairman immediately goes on holiday to the Maldives and sends the manager a text saying, “fuck off, we are Wigan and there is no way that Messi, Ronaldo or DJ Campbell will be coming.” You can swap Wigan for any of the other 18 teams. The tabloids then poison the minds of the fans by telling them that players such as Defour, Hazard, Forlan etc are in discussion with their clubs. As the summer progresses the list of players gets “edited” and “tailored” until we arrive on deadline day. On this halcyon day a manger can swap Lionel Messi for David N’gog and the fans, drenched in the man juice of Bryan Swanson, are delirious. Suddenly signing Yakubu feels like the “final piece of the jigsaw” and snaring Cameron Jerome gives your team an instant goal threat. I can only liken it to an evening in a night club. At 10:30pm you do a quick circuit of the dance floor, holding your Peroni, making a mental hitlist of the “beautiful people”. You head back to your safe haven and plan a failsafe method to ensure that you will be leaving the club with a trophy. Over the course of the next five hours you douse your vital organs with drinks that are not conducive to helping you complete your mission. At 3:30am, you whirl around the same dance floor, dishevelled and desperate everything suddenly looks different. The pressure on you to not to leave alone is intense and after a nonsensical exchange you stumble out towards the kebab shop with a hipporhinosapig, who has to stop every 2o yards to dig for truffles. At the time you are delighted, congratulating yourself on your great piece of romancing. Six hours later you are trying to remove your own arm with a razor blade as the bushpig that you spent the night with is lay on your limb. Feeling robbed and stupid you run away from the scene of the crime, wiping your tail on your handkerchief vowing never to do anything as stupid ever again. Until January.