It’s 2am this morning, and I’m eating porridge. Let it never be said that I don’t live a hedonistic life. As the spoonfuls of Alpen’s finest travel down and warm my innards, my beady eyes are furiously scouring the internet for something, anything of any note.
The main gripe I have with this time of year is how quickly speculation can become tedium. Some folks chose to ignore the transfer window and focus their attentions on nostalgia and pursuits outside of football. Others dive head first into the maelstrom of fabrication with a beaming smile upon their face.
I’m somewhere between the two.
There are aspects of the close-season that provide enjoyment. Rumours, for all their nonsense, can instil a little bit of hope, and I enjoy pondering the plethora of line-ups Arsenal potentially will deploy. It’s all one big soap opera and it provides disposable entertainment if you view it as such.
Yet, there are times it all becomes too much. As each year passes, it becomes all the more tawdry and filled with opportunists. A few stories of supposed incomings here and there is okay by me, but these days it’s practically impossible to click anywhere without being bombarded by fluff, poppycock and hogwash.
The news that is out there today is mostly in the latter camp. The interminable tales regarding members of Gonzalo Higuain’s close family knowing his destination have surfaced again predictably, and there’s a bit about Cesc Fabregas.
I love Cesc, his beardy little face and his imperious football skills. I’d love to see him prancing about The Emirates like a pompous magician again, be it is not going to happen. He will stay at Barcelona and fight for his place. I see him moving nowhere. The idea sells papers and gets clicks.
Even if Cesc appeared on national television defacing a picture of Arsene Wenger and changed his Twitter handle to @FuckYouArsenal, somebody would make mountains out of molehills becuase he may have looked at property in London (It must be a speculators dream that his girlfriend lives in the capital).
Those are the stories that irk me – the ones so obviously cheap attempts to suck in traffic. And because those are the type so readily available, the ones that show nuggets of truth are lost in all the spurious mess.
Elsewhere in the wide and wonderful world of Arsenal, Stuart Little is returning to Zenit St Petersburg. He will be missed by me for the moments he showed his class, and not missed for the far more frequent occasions in which his laziness came to the forefront. Arshavin could have been a legend at Arsenal with the correct application. He has left us some wonderful moments, but a slightly bitter aftertaste to accompany them.
Lastly, Arsenal have been linked to 17-year-old Croatian Tin Jedvaj – a story I’m reporting to you not because of any knowledge of the player himself, or the chances of a deal materialising, but because he has a vaguely perverse name and it made me laugh. It’s just the type of thing I imagine neolithic building site workers would howl at attractive female passers-by:
– “Phwoar! Look at the Tin Jedvag on her!”
On that appallingly juvenile note, I shall put an end to today’s entry. All that remains is to point you toward yesterday’s Armchair Gooner Competition in case you missed it, and to nod subtlety in the direction of the comments in the hope you will contribute to the discussions that take place.
Tomorrow I shall think of something a little more inventive to discuss, but until then, as I always say; thanks for reading, you beautiful bastards.