AS Brighton midfielder Moses Caicedo agrees a £115m deal with Chelsea, 1980s football fan Norman Steele explains the true value of this summer’s transfers:
Harry Kane to Bayern Munich: £750,000
If you’re transferring to Germany you’ve f**ked up, let’s be honest. Nobody goes there out of choice. It took a world war to get my granddad to Stuttgart and he didn’t rate it. Keegan cost Hamburg half a million and only went because he’d twatted his knee on Superstars, so add half again and you’re good.
Moses Caicedo to Chelsea: £95,000
You’re not breaking into six figures for this one. First of all he’s from Brighton, who are shit, and he’s going to Chelsea, who are shit, so that’s knocking the price right down. Second he’s from Ecuador, so very much an unknown quantity with our weather. Pop him in digs with a nice family round Dagenham and see if he works out.
Declan Rice to Arsenal: £1,500,000
I’ve got misgivings about pricing him the same as Captain Marvel himself, but fair enough the Robson transfer was early in the decade and prices crept up. But for that much he’d better be able to take his booze or he’ll be buggered forging a telepathic understanding with the back four. They’ll want him on the sauce every night and playing still pissed.
Andre Onana to Manchester United: £20,000
He’s a keeper, for f**k’s sake. They’re simply not worth as much as other players because they can’t play football, that’s why they’re in goal. Who was in goal when you were at school? The lads who got picked last. QED.
Mason Mount to Manchester United: free
You don’t pay when a player’s shite, and Mason was shite at Chelsea. He didn’t even cost them anything because he was in their youth team. United are taking him on as a favour, probably done over a pint and a packet of Bensons after a game. Next stop Celtic.
Jordan Henderson to Al-Ettifaq: £4,250,000
Poor bastard. We’re talking Waddle to Marseille levels for this one, having to give up a nice spot in Liverpool to live in the bloody desert teaching a load of lads who don’t know which end the goal’s at how to play football. The only audience six camels and an oil derrick, and the only prize a cup you’d be ashamed to display. I’d rather retire.
