Pining for the fjords
January. Christ, I hate it. Returning to work after two weeks annual leave. Hundreds of emails staring back at me with over-bearing red flags by their side. Countless meeting requests and conference calls to respond to. If I had hair on my head, I'd pull it out. I've got hair everywhere else but I have no intention of plucking it, regardless for my initial disdain towards the beginnings of a new year.
Resolutions is another bane. I always half-heartedly promise myself that I will detox. Then I remember why I suggested this the very first time many years ago. I was taking the p*ss out of the people that we're taking it seriously. At some point parody merged with reality and I allowed to be consumed by it all. Thankfully, I also tend to consume plenty of drink and food making any proposed detox redundant as early as the first of January.
At least the end of the month is satisfying. I have a birthday. What happens in between and outside of work is where the greatest of all headaches conquers my cranium and cracks it into a million pieces.
The January Transfer window.
Is there an easier target than aiming a variety of expletives and damning critiques than on this month long c*ck-tease? Once upon a time, I would comment on anything and everything. I'd make videos and craft satirical write-ups and populate the blog with running commentary on what might / might not happen whilst making enemies of every single ITK. But the very essence of the 'insider' community has impregnated itself with so much laughter gas, that the balloon of knowledge floats above all of us and a simple pin will release all the hot air.
It's no fun any more. It was never really any fun. Jim White's head never explodes on deadline day. Every other person is somehow connected to the club they support. Hundreds of football agents share their wealth of knowledge on Twitter and yet somehow always managed to get it wrong. When it isn't an actual football agents it's someone pretending to be on for the sake of social experiments.
Traditionally, January is hardly productive for Tottenham. Opportunistic and desperate. But never decisive and convincing. Yet for some strange spin tingling reason, this particular one (unlucky '13' for some) might surprise rather than sensationalise. No doubt we'll drown in amongst the usual transfer stories. We'll all be keenly watching and waiting on Daniel Levy to back Andre Villas-Boas and sign that midfielder and that a striker. No doubt the tabloids will attempt to take Gareth Bale hostage and drive him to Madrid. Will Moutinho sign? Is the deal dead? Do we relent with deluded hope? Will it, won't it?
What is dead, for certain, is any possibility of knowing what might happen before it happens so you may as well wait for it to happen because only then can you be certain it's happening. By the end of the month you're returning a dead parrot to the pet shop you bought it from.
If we reach the final week, days and nothing has happened...it will be my head that will be doing most of the exploding.