We have entered the blissful annual period, lasting this year to 13 August, of the Premier League close season. The stadiums lie silent, the TV channels turn to darts and synchronised swimming, the hustlers and hookers seek out their summer prey elsewhere and the sale of red-top newspapers plummet as the public finally weary of their endless diet of shock-horror player revelations. The erstwhile Manchester United scorer must for 10 weeks forgo the dubious pleasure of a wet congratulatory kiss from the ample lips of Rio Ferdinand.
The players and managers disperse to all corners of the globe. Thus John Terry cavorts on an Abu Dhabi beach with his curvaceous Toni, Wayne Rooney pays belated attention to his tonsorial challenges and I imagine Harry Redknapp curling up to a Guinness and a pint of whelks in a Whitechapel pub. Tortured Arsene Wenger perhaps plays alfresco chess upon the promenade at Deauville, forgetting the setbacks at the Emirates for a few weeks and Sir Alex Ferguson transfers his grumpiness to jockeys and horses rather than under-performing defenders at Old Trafford.
I wonder what they actually do during the close season, after they have counted their money (a huge task). Do football stars have surprising hobbies and pastimes? I can see Wayne knitting woolly comforters for the elderly ladies he once so much admired: perhaps Sir Alex enjoys taking the Professor Henry Higgins Elocution Course or maybe Didier Drogba avidly reads Kipling on how “to play the game”. It would be unwise to speculate on Ryan Giggs’ spare-time activities – I think I can mention him; it is only Sir Fred whose exploits are protected from the public prints by the High Court.
It is not the case that nothing happens in the close season. Transfers abound and team-building forays occur but the public cannot get too excited about them, however hard the sports writers try. The fans know that some new faces will appear and some familiar ones will go. Paul Scholes, supreme ball passer, but a tackler in the mould of Chopper Harris, bows out as does lanky Edwin van der Sar after sublime Barcelona put 3 past him. Last season’s heroes, Gareth Bale, Jack Wilshere and Andy Carroll can easily morph into next season’s villains, but all this can wait until 13 August.
The close season is also a time for stock-taking. The fans of the relegated Premier League teams, Blackpool, West Ham and Birmingham must wonder what the new season holds. The looming fixtures with the likes of Barnsley and Doncaster on a wet November afternoon frankly do not have the glamour of a clash with titanic Arsenal. A big decision approaches; do they transfer their allegiance to neighbours Blackburn, Spurs or Aston Villa or do they harbour the ardent hope that their club’s stay in the Championship will only be for a year or two? Pragmatism or principle; treason or blind faith!
I imagine the accountants, too, make good use of the close season. The business of football defies the normal laws of economics. A recent survey recorded that three of the top clubs do return profits but Chelsea and Manchester City made large losses and the Premier League collectively lost £445m. Shareholders in football clubs hold trophy assets and only make money on a change of ownership – unfortunate for the holder when the music stops after the parcel has been passed, as it will when clubs must normally break even from 2015 under new FIFA rules. The era when clubs can be endlessly subsidised by a megalomaniacal oligarch or an Arab Croesus is coming to an end.
Meanwhile Premier League soccer stars are laughing loudly all the way to the bank. There must be something supremely comforting about, say, £200k per week (yes, week) hitting your bank account – or more likely your agent’s account in some cosy Caribbean tax haven. For Rooney the figure is said to be £250k per week and Yaya Toure is on £220k. Poor Carlos Tevez has to struggle by on a mere £170k per week – no wonder he looks so surly, as his differentials are mercilessly eroded. I say let them make hay while the sun shines: I know that the likes of Stanley Matthews, Tom Finney, Nat Lofthouse and Jackie Milburn earned a maximum of £20 per week - but other times, other manners. The lifetime of a professional footballer is nasty, brutish and short. Alan Sugar, one-time chairman of Spurs, once harshly remarked that most players would be in prison if they were not on the pitch – so our support is really a kind of social service and we can look forward to the new season with a clear conscience.
For the next 10 weeks there are great sporting events galore and not a tattooed midfielder in sight. Wimbledon will feature the volatile Andy Murray, Adam’s apple a-quivering, somehow not wowing the crowds as equally morose but less talented Tim Henman once did. The Wimbledon ladies will emit their orgasmic screams in a way too indelicate to analyse. A cricket test series against first Sri Lanka and then India should bring victory to an English side much leavened by talented blood from the Transvaal, as long as Matt Prior keeps his temper and away from windows. Ascot and Henley will add their incomparable elegance (though swaggering hedgies and bankers often lower the tone) but the main treat is the Open at Royal St Georges, Sandwich from 14 July. Surely it is time for a Luke Donald, Lee Westwood or Rory McIlroy win and let the foreigners be the gallant runners-up this time.
Inexorably, 13 August and the new Premier League season will creep up on us. Purveyors of meat pies will check their stock; Chief Constables will make sure their forces have sufficient truncheons and tear gas. Season-ticket holders will goggle at the new price scales. News of the World reporters will return to their offices with notebooks laden with scandal, complete with compromising photographs and hacked telephone calls, all recording, with a huge dose of hypocrisy, the lurid summer indiscretions of the rich and famous players.
Whatever sport you most enjoy - participant, travelling fan or TV couch potato – have a great summer!
SMD
12.06.11
Copyright Sidney Donald 2011
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