
By Darshan Joshi, writing from Sydney
There are many desks, lined up in a fashion resembling some form of office, just two blocks away from the children’s utopia that is Santa’s workshop (where a chubby old man dressed in red and white doing goodness-knows-what with children on his laps has elves and other mythological creatures slave away in his potentially Nike-esque sweatshop(s) every winter). The transfer rumour factory isn’t really a full factory, though. It only comprises of a piece of space large enough to fit sixteen tables, and seated at these slabs of wood are sixteen men and women (preferably eight of each, for reasons that will soon be insinuated) with quite possibly the most enchanting WiFi connection available – sprinkled golden with pixie dust from the nearby ‘giftshop’ no doubt. The transfer rumour factory is the workshop that keeps on giving.
Eight men, and eight women, with the promise of toddlers to come, exiled in the North Pole, a couple of blocks away from an old man who enjoys the company of younglings, rowdily hammering at their poor keyboards the names of randomly picked players and clubs, performing some kind of (black) magical litany that impresses upon the mind of the managers in question the need to shop like a woman at Jimmy Choo. Each day, us normal people, living our normal lives, pick up on the odd even rumour, and in sometimes, quite literally wet ourselves at the hope that Glen Johnson will indeed move to Juventus or Real Madrid.
Glen Johnson. This is the man who was arrested in 2007 because he attempted an elaborately schemed plan to nick a toilet seat from his local B&Q outlet. Of course, at the time he was only earning £30,000-a-week at a Portsmouth side who would reach an FA Cup final the following year, and so couldn’t possibly afford a ceramic plate structured such that it can hold butts of any size without spillage. No need to fret, Glen, soon, you could be on your way to either Turin, or Madrid, depending on where your Spanish lessons would best abet you. Yes, he is learning a bit of Spanish, and I half expect him to soon walk into a B&Q outlet, run up to the information desk and part with the following sentence: ‘¿Puedo ir al lavabo, por favor?’, at which point he would be escorted to the nearest toilet bereft of a seat, just for security purposes.
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