It’s been a long time since I last woke on Saturday morning with a transfer in hand.
This season I’ve mainly been prodded and prompted to fire off my trade well before now – inspired by some ill-judged knee jerk philosophy or manic mission to avoid a price drop.
It almost never happened.
Last night I was dangerously close to committing a cardinal Fantasy Football sin. Fuelled by three pints of artisan ale (it really doesn’t take much these days), I was wavering, finger poised over an Aguero points hit.
This morning, fuzzy headed and forced into a premature woken state by a bouncing toddler, the near miss has stirred me to ponder the drives and merits behind our transfers over the week.
Presumably still under the influence, it also inspired this little verse…
Saturday night’s transfer is never done,
Sunday morning’s transfer missed naught point one,
Monday’s transfer is driven by spite
Tuesday’s transfer by a goal Monday night
Wednesday’s transfer catches the price rise
Thursday transfer falls for Jose’s lies
But the transfer made on team news day
Is researched and wise in every way
Unless you were drunk and bought Jeffrey Schlupp
Sorry Jeffrey, I just can’t let it lie: I’m still reeling from Gameweek 12’s incident.
Much as I try to usher the Schlupp transfer to the back of my lengthening queue of season misdemeanours, it keeps edging it’s way back to the front to remind me that, had I banked my transfer last time out, I’d now be set up to welcome Sergio to my hangover party.
As it is, my Schlupp slip in Gamweek 12 makes this morning all the more uncomfortable. I’m now one of an army of Fantasy managers wondering whether there’s ever a wrong time to buy Aguero.
I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t just scramble back to the Argentine and slap the armband on him. Plus, I’m genuinely troubled by a points hit and City’s fixtures.
I’ve also got options. The switch from Graziano Pelle to Captain Kane would really pin my colours firmly to the mast. It would scream to the world that I can do without Aguero. That I’m made of sterner stuff, with maverick blood coursing through my veins.
However, I need to remember that I’ve actually got three pints of ale coursing through my veins, and that Sergio can gobble up a points hit with a casual flick of a boot.
I’ve still got just under an hour to conjure some sobered-up inspiration.
In the meantime, I’m seriously considering a re-write of my little poem. Right now Sunday night transfers seem like the way forward.
