Cash n Grab
Crikey. It's started. The inexorable tide of sky blue cash is washing over the football superpowers and sweeping away the best they have into a place where Lamborghinis land in your lap, and two hundred grand a week is, as the Mayor of London might put it, chicken-feed.
Prepare yourselves, boys and girls, for a lot of nods and winks towards the official line. You know the sort of thing:
a. It's not about the money, it's about a fresh challenge;
b. The manager and the board convinced me about the vision at Manchester City;
c. The (previous) club didn't do enough to keep me. (That's my personal favourite)
Of course (c) has an awful lot to do with what is inherent in (a). By not enough, a player, or at least his agent, usually means that the club couldn't cough up the sort of wages that the Abu Dhabi blokes can. But then unless Bill Gates takes over the Boro soon, I don't think anyone can.
I'm Derek Robson. People call me Robbo. Legend has it I was raised in the furnace and smog of Teesside. Some might say I took the hard road. I like to tell folk I had trials for Middlesbrough, for Hartlepool and for burglary (not guilty). I've always loved sport. My job is to say it as I see it - whether it's in the bar of the Blue Bell or on this blog. You won't find me calling a spade a soil-redistribution implement.
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