It was a typically miserable day in the Shire, barns burning, copious scrumping, and the blight of severe alcoholism and childhood obesity severely affecting the rest of the board room associates, I mean Hobbits. Suddenly, the magical wizard, Tuftalf, appeared to one particularly resented Hobbit, Graham Carr (henceforth in the story to be known as PackyurBaggins). "Hallo", Tuftalf greeted Packyur. "Erm bonjour?" "Eee... HOWAY man pet, I gots a quest for yee" "Je ne comprende pas" "Aye no problem, I am master of dialects... Dutch, is it? I eerrrr appeared one time, errrr to Hobbit, found me Reizeger, Mark Vidooka, many more like this. You errr find me a, how you say, striker?" "Oh oui oui, Rivière?" "Errr no" "Err Amalfitano?" "Colder" "Marveaux?" "Much colder" "Errrrr Steven Fletcher?" "****ing freezing... No I want a decent striker... You must take this band of fat short people some call dwarves (but most call fugly humans), Charnley et al, and journey to take a striker through the rigorous and treacherous path of bids, re-bids, ultimate rejections because the bids weren't realistic and the player thought it was a joke, agents, badgers, contracts, and the all seeing Eye, who seeks one season ticket to bring them all, a thousand years to bind them, a set of pre-printed discount offers to find them all, and in JPF's dreadfort, bind them!)." "Pas de probleme... Rivière?" "FFS! " And so commenced the January transfer window. True story.
Charnley is sitting in his office right now playing 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' online. Either that or he's in his 10th season managing Crawley Town in Division 2 on Football Manager.
