Why Transfers are like Dating

For this to work I’m going to ask that you imagine the guy in the story is the club doing the buying (not in a prostitution kinda way) and the young lady is the ‘transfer target’, got it? Okay.

In a scene familiar up and down the country, we find ourselves in a busy, sweaty nightclub on a Saturday night. A young man stands at the bar, he’s been relatively satisfied with life of late, he’s not ‘pulling up any trees’ but he’s bumping along just fine, mid-table mediocrity you could say. As is human nature however, he yearns for something, more specifically someone, to ‘take him to the next level’, you know ‘really shake things up’.

The ‘backbone’ of his life is in place and well established, a solid job, a dependable car, a decent pad, with this particular chap ‘what you see is what you get’, as the saying goes. After a while though this is not enough, he can only ‘tread water’ for so long, the yearning for a bit of excitement, maybe even some ‘continental flair’ grows ever stronger, it is this yearning that has led him here tonight, to a bar which could be unkindly (if truthfully) described as a glorified cattle market.

Our protagonist is not a bad looking chap, a little rough around the edges perhaps, but he retains a certain charm, this and taking into account the lateness of the hour mean he is not short of options, these options however, whilst plentiful in quantity lack somewhat in terms of quality. As the clock ticks toward closing time a fog of desperation begins to engulf those left unattached. Partnerships that both parties would have turned their respective noses up at earlier in the evening now look ever more appealing, no-one wants to go home alone. People who pride themselves on their rational, logical approach to life are allowing their judgement to be clouded by the site of everyone else coupling up. Desperate people make desperately poor decisions.

It is about now that our man is staring to revise his opinion of his ex-girlfriend (who he has spotted amongst the crowd), was he in fact a little hasty in casting her aside? His mind wanders to the good times they spent together and skips over the bad, there is, he thinks to himself, something to be said for familiarity, when each party knows how the other works, not to mention (and this is the crux of the matter) she is available, she has made that abundantly clear. With every passing moment his decision making worsens and the prospect of a reunion with a previously discarded lover increases.

And then, he spots her. With mere moments to spare, when many have given up and gone home, he spots her. The woman of his dreams, and she is striking in her beauty, long shapely legs, a deep yet pert cleavage, eyes that sparkle a mischievous bright blue and flowing blond locks. He is utterly transfixed, he must have her, at whatever cost, this beauty must be his.

Closing time may be imminent, but the bar is always willing to stay open a little longer for those prepared to open their wallets, the lady of our tale finds herself lavished with the most expensive of champagnes, when attempting to woo a woman of this stature money can be of no object.

The show of wealth (not to mention some good old fashioned charm) is both impressive and effective. Like all good fairytales boy and girl leave the ‘ball’ together.

Our hero can barely believe his luck as the object of desires agrees to spend the night with him, as he pays the taxi driver the sight of an empty wallet concerns him slightly, this is quickly quashed by the promise of what is to come, some things in life are worth stretching yourself for.

The night is even more wonderful than he dared dream, this woman is making him feel things he has never felt before, and judging by her appreciative reaction these new feelings are of the mutual variety. To those who say there is no such thing as ‘the next level’, he scoffs, it is real and he has found the woman who can lead him there. The only slightly sour note is a text message he receives just as he is drifting off into an alcohol and endorphin enhanced slumber.”A renowned man-eater and gold-digger” it says, “just a friendly warning that’s all”, he instantly dismisses it as mere jealousy and closes his eyes, exhausted but wholly content.

The next morning the two lovers awaken, the man’s head is as heavy as his wallet is light, no matter though, one gaze at his new companion will clear any hangover. The hangover however does not clear, quite the opposite in fact, for once he lays eyes on his bedfellow whose wooing took up much of his effort and even more of his money, his stomach turns.

Those long and shapely legs are not quite as they first appeared (a testament to the power of a good stiletto heel), without a ‘wonderbra’ the previous pertness of her cleavage is a distant memory, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes has disappeared now that her coloured contact lenses sit in a glass of water on his bedside table, her blond locks now appear to be the result of hair extensions rather than any Scandinavian genetics. She has an aged look about her, ‘past her sell by date’ some might say, her fake tan has rubbed off all over his bed sheets, they are beyond repair, she smells of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, the reek of shame however is emanating from him. A wave of regret sweeps over him, what has he done?

So in the cold light of day our man (the football club remember) blinded by desperation has over-reached himself financially whilst seducing our young(ish) lady (the transfer target for those still just about with me) only to discover that in his haste he has made a horrible, horrible error.

Basically what I’m saying is buying a footballer can be a bit like going on the pull. I hope you got that.

Alastair wrote this, he’s clearly lonely, so why not say hello to him on twitter.


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