Nothing left unsaid
It’s the start of the football season and there are loads of stories around. Despite this, I can’t be arsed to write anything. Why? Because there’s nothing to write about.
– Will Luka Modric be good at Real Madrid?
– Will Mancini buy someone?
– Will Robin van Persie score loads of goals?
– Will Michu carry on scoring?
– Will QPR actually buy a goalkeeper who can go a game without making a catastrophic error?
– Will Liverpool fans stop being reactionary?
– Will Norwich be adventurous in the transfer market for once?
– Will Martin O’Neill not spend an over-the-top sum of money on a footballer?
– Will Spurs buy Yann M’Vila/Joao Moutinho/Hugo Lloris/some other tosser?
– Will Arsenal score a goal?
– Will Wayne Rooney have his leg amputated?
– Will Neil Warnock blow El-Hadji Diouf’s head off with a gun?
– Will the next Pope shit in the woods?
I DON’T KNOW. And neither do you. Nor do I really care about any of this.
There is nothing to write about. There is nothing being written. It’s all superfluous tat.
The beginning of the season is the worst time of the year. It’s even worse than when no football is happening, because at least when there’s no football on you can’t pretend what’s (not) happening matters.