IT’S been a routine, a ceremony, that I’ve upheld almost every morning since I was a kid. Before the kettle goes on, before the cat gets fed, the most pressing task has always been to check the latest transfer talk.
As a teenager, the overwhelming reason for becoming a paperboy, for getting up at silly o’clock and facing the dark and the cold and the rain, wasn’t the meagre pennies they paid you every Saturday morning. It was the opportunity to read the sports pages of every newspaper as you went about your trade, scrutinising the latest rumours, the transfer titt...