Tick followed tock followed tick followed tock followed tick. Bryan Swanson mimes the countdown of his biological clock to a pensive Jim White. After nearly a month in heat, Swanson’s eggs will not survive the night un-fertilized. Jim White, by now the accepted alpha male of the ‘group’, or ‘Clusterfuck’ as is the collective term for Sky Sports pundits, enjoys all the luxuries of his status. Swanson will have to wait.
Jim White turns to Janet (from hair and make-up) and tries to think of something harassment-worthy to joke about. She doesn’t know what a ‘fluffer’ is. Most of the teenagers don’t these days. Janet hurriedly applies the last of the Tipp-Ex to his fringe and scurries off nervously. Raw testosterone does funny things to people.
The Clusterfuck meet biannually in the studio for what scientists call ‘Deadline Day’. 'Scientists’ being Soccer AM’s early audience with a few holidays to Kavos and years of solvent abuse since. It’s a celebratory time, but like many of nature’s miracles it is also plagued with danger. Large swathes of pundits are frequently struck down with severe Gimpism, a fatal species-specific disease, and those that do not embrace these twenty-four hours are unlikely to survive at all.
There are perils within the Clusterfuck too, as pundits fight a continual battle for supremacy. ‘Freeze and nobody gets hurt! shouts David Craig as he spins and aims his fully erect genitalia at members of the crew. It is known amongst other species as peacocking, and within the Clusterfuck as Cockcocking. Jim White is unthreatened by the brazen challenge to his authority, knowing the Location Reporter will soon be sent away to one of the London training grounds. Conflict is avoided, but this remains a symbol of an ever-violent existence. Craig knows rutting risks the loss of a tusk, whilst defeat would see him exiled to Stoke, and so he settles for the smallest of victories. The Clusterfuck breathes a sigh of relief.
Jim White turns his attention instead to a BBC-legal Intern. Sorry, a BBC Legal Intern (they sometimes cross temp). Bright blond hair, mesmerizing blue eyes, almost Iain Dowie-esque in her beauty: Jim White has chosen his mate- as he does every Deadline Day- and begins the ritual.
There is an audible hum of excitement as Jim White rears on his two hind legs and begins to shout mindlessly into his telephone. It is a timeless display of rampant masculinity. ‘Jizz Jizz Jizz! Jizz Jizz!’ shouts Jim, his face orange with passion, his future mate suitably impressed. ‘Jizz Jizz Jizz!’ he howls mindlessly at his sweat-slicked telephone. This is frenzy, this is visceral lust, this is- ‘Jizz!’ he shouts one last time, and slumps exhausted in his chair.
He collects himself and stares menacingly down the camera as if it was the barrel of the bartender’s gun and the Tequila bill was due. The Clusterfuck goes quiet with anticipation, they hang on their leader’s words:
“Sky Sports sources have just confirmed, Everton have withdrawn their bids for the players they were never able to afford.”
Still, he is sated, and the window ‘slams shut’ for another year. The Clusterfuck will return in the Summer. Nature has run its course. Everton remain piss-poor.
This is the Transfer Sahara.
