Molly Lynch: Why you shouldn’t believe hype over footballers’ pay

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To borrow a phrase made famous by the late, great Sir David Frost – no, not that one about the keyhole – This Was the Week That Was Transfer Deadline Day.

For those who are not well versed in the language of lad, this is the final day football clubs are allowed to transfer players to their ranks.

It is a time when loyalty is tested, allegiances are switched, and those poor folk who paid to have their favourite player’s name on the back of the new strip are consumed with bitter regret. Some mams will already be using those Fellaini shirts to dry the pots.

Transfer Deadline Day is also more over-hyped and underwhelming than when Robbie Williams rejoined Take That.

That said, it wasn’t a bad week for Gareth Bale – the Tottenham winger was sold to Real Madrid for a world record transfer fee of £85.3 million.

In lazy journalism quarters (which, before you cry ‘hypocrisy’, I admit I’ve visited) this was an excuse to reignite the debate over whether the stars of the sport are paid too much.

Of course they are. We all know they are. But how else are the likes of Razor Ruddock going to pay off their bar bills if they can’t wade into a pointless debate every now and again?

Gone are the days when li’l Jimmy Bigshorts did eight hours down t’pit for two shillings before sinking a medicine ball into the back of the net 13 times.

What really interests me is what those blokes who kick a bit of leather about a pitch actually do with their ludicrous wages. Surely there is no finer example of ‘more money than sense’ than the nation’s footballers?

Their houses are tack palaces of black, chrome and massive tellies, their jewel-encrusted watches bigger than the average baby’s head. For all their riches these poor saps see being awarded a Nando’s card as having made the big time.

Provided there are no international tournaments dominating their summers these lads quite literally have the world at their feet. But instead of marvelling at the magnificence of Gaudi’s architecture in Barcelona, or plunging into the depths of the Great Barrier Reef, your archetypal footballer jets out to the yacht-congested marina of Marbella – the Bermuda Triangle of taste.

These men deserve our pity, not criticism.

If you disagree I have but four words – Wayne, Rooney, hair and transplant.